Saturday, October 25, 2008

EL SID

Sorry I haven't posted as of late...life keeps getting in the way (no excuse). To break back into the blog routine, I'm indulging myself by posting something I wrote a few days ago for the extraordinary website, The Judy Garland Experience. And I must thank OBF, Daniel, for his encouragement to post my musings on Sid Luft, Judy Garland's third husband, after he privately read an initial draft. The link to the site is below, but if you want to join, it's by invitation only. This is the link to the blog version of the group: http://thejudygarlandexperience.blogspot.com/

What follows is a slightly modified version of what I posted:

I've been reluctant, until now, to chime in on the subject of Sid Luft, largely because my "take" on him is influenced by a close friendship with him that began in 1979 and then continued unabated when I moved to Los Angeles from Chicago upon graduation from college the following year.

Without reservation, I can say that I loved Sid and I know he felt the same about me. I was with him the morning he died and gave Joe a much-needed respite for an hour or so by watching over Sid, who was gravely ill and barely able to get into a wheelchair. I spent virtually the week after he passed at Sid's home, as the family had asked me to be media spokesperson as calls came infrom all over the world.

While it was an extremely difficult time for all of us close to Sid, I attempted as best I could to help the family and Sid's business associate, John Kimble. I assisted in planning Sid's memorial service at his beloved Rivera Country Club (with hundreds of mourners present), along with helping John assemble video montages celebrating his life.

Because I was friends with Sid – and for a very long time -- I feel compelled to express a somewhat different portrait of Sid than whatis often presented. This isn't being written wearing my usual "hat"of reporter and researcher, but on an admittedly much more personal basis.

When it comes to Sid Luft, I can separate the man from his misdeeds because, for one, he always treated me fairly and honorably, and, most of all, because of his abiding, ever-present love for JudyGarland.

He was a flawed man, to be sure, and made many, many mistakes for which she often the victim; that said, to my mind, Sid Luft lasted the longest than any other heterosexual man in her life and provided her with at least a semblance of constancy, a home life and "family"more than she found in any other such relationship.

Sid proclaimed not long before he died, "Whatever bad things happened, you don't fall out of love with somebody like her. All I know is that if anyone tried to save a woman who was breaking apart, I did. I know that I did the best I could do, and it still wasn't enough."

I know most concede that Sid loved Judy; it was, and is, his sometimes highly questionable (or simply, lousy) business practices (during her life and after) which, rightfully, often came under fire. I am clear-eyed about Sid's failings, bad decisions, lack of financial planning, shoddy products he created or authorized, and his embracing myths he created which became his truth. Yet, for me, his fierce devotion, his passionate love of her, which never wavered, filter the weight of his misdeeds.

In the nearly thirty years I knew him, I never heard him say a harsh or demeaning word about her; instead, he would invariably blame himself, not her, or pinpoint others in her life (which he would derisively call "pop-ups," the ones who would appear and disappear after they extracted what they wanted from her) or, inevitably, her subsequent managers, Freddie Fields and David Begelman.

I don't excuse Sid Luft for his failings, particularly those for which Judy was victim. But rightfully so or not, I filter them witht he belief (biased or not) that he felt himself to be her protector and champion. Did he sometimes -- or often -- fail at the task? Of course.

One of Sid's great failings, I suppose, is that he simply was unable or unwilling, to move on after Judy died, or even, when she was alive and he was out of the picture – both professionally and personally.

Sid briefly acted as manager for his daughter, Lorna Luft, in the early 1970's until she thought better of it, quipping, "You won't be satisfied until you put me in a brunette wing and have me sit on the edge of the stage and sing, `Over the Rainbow'!"

As a result, Sid was dependent upon Judy's earnings; and when he no longer acted as her producer-manager, he took short cuts, sued with abandon (and, in turn, was often sued himself), made bad deals, rushed inferior merchandise to the marketplace and developed the kind of reputation which repelled many top-drawer investors and thus greatly curtained the production and release of legitimate, prestigious ventures. Yet, he loved her, deeply, passionately, his emotion when speaking of her (and their life together) was always real, immediate and powerful.

He was a terrific raconteur, had a great sense of humor and couldrival the political experts on CNBC and CNN with his knowledge on national and global issues, it's equally true that one could not havea conversation with him where the topic didn't come back to Judy Garland, his love for her, his sadness at not being able to do more for her. He could not let go. It was something that helped to undermine his professional standing and also interfered with his personal life; his last wife, Camille, often said (bemusedly), "I know Sid loves me but Judy always comes first and she always will. He is still in love with her…in a way he will never be with me."

From one perspective, that's echoed in a statement I gave to the press when he died: "Judy and Sid had a great love affair. She was the love of his life. He never got over her and he was still in love with her until the day she died."

As someone here recently noted,"Like many women of her generation, Judy expected her partners to handle her business affairs." To that end, Sid did not spare himself on that subject. As he stated a few years before his death:"I didn't want to be her pimp. I got a call from the head of theMorris office, who said, "Sid, what are you doing, interfering with Judy's career? You may be the boyfriend, but don't try to interfere with our management." But she wanted to announce I was her personal manager. And I was not ready for that, because I didn't want to be criticized for invading that portion of her life as a manager. That's a hell of a lot of responsibility. A) We are not married, B) I am traveling with this big star and C) I look like maybe I'm a hanger-on. It sure was a big decision to make. I remember we had an emotional misunderstanding and she was crying. She says, "I know you can do it." It was late in the afternoon, the sun was practically down, and I was looking at the big black cast on the top of the hill, and she was sobbing. She almost wanted to buy me in some form. I said, "I am not a manager. I have been an agent; I'm trying to produce a picture, Judy." She said, "You've got to stay with me, Sid. I cannot do this without you. I want you to be my manager. I want to put you on salary. I want to pay you for being known as my mentor." It was kind of overwhelming. Judy was, what the word, possessive, and she wanted to indulge me. I knew what I was going to run into for myself – a nobody who had produced two crappy pictures and a woman who had a reputation for suicides. Christ, who was going to take a chance with these two?"

Yes, Sid gambled and frittered away lots of (her) money, as well as his salary as her producer-manager. His fondness for the track is legendary. Investments were not made. Taxes were not paid. On the other side of the coin, their expenses were formidable: "We had a cook and a butler, a secretary, two nurses for the children, a secretary, a cook, and a houseman, as well. I rememberone time counting up the people who were on the staff. There were twelve. "

His devotion and protectiveness for her raged on until the end. I was touched at his remark he made not long before his passing: "When she was at Doctor's Hospital [with hepatitis], I was living there, too, because a relativecan rent a room to live in the hospital, and I had a small room that was just like a cell. There was nothing in there. Just a bed and dresser, a mirror and a bathroom. I lived in that small room the endof December '59, January, February of '60, ten or eleven weeks, as long as Judy was in the hospital."

Judy was certainly victim to Sid's excess and sometimes poor business decisions. Yet one might ask how long she would have lived if he hadn't been around -- or had the endurance or personal strength --to "stitch her up," as he would refer to her life-threatening medication-induced incidents.

As [Hollywood historian and friend of Garland] Robert Osborne observed in my book, "Desilu" re Lucille Ball andher marriage to Gary Morton: "It's very hard for a woman in that star category – like it was for Judy Garland and Bette Davis – to find acceptable men to be with, because they need someone around them all the time. If it's somebody equal in stature in business or career, those men don't have the time to be with them all the time. They need keepers, in a certain sense."

I shall never forget one of my last memories of Sid. Although his health had severely declined and he was restricted to a wheelchair, he was determined (and delighted) to attend a special screening of "A Star Is Born" [which he produced] at The Egyptian Theatre in Hollywood. With Joe at his side (providing exemplary 24 hour care without complaint), Sid invited me and a few other close friends to be with him. It was clear that he was in enormous pain, but he refused to acknowledge, or give in, to it.

Joe sat next to Sid, and I was a few seats down the aisle. The audience gave him a standing ovation when it was announced that he was the special guest of the event.

The image of Sid and Joe taking in the film remains vivid. I remember looking over at Joe and seeing his obvious delight. He shared his father's pride in the film, reveled in seeing his mother's performance and was as captivated as the rest of us. I still can see him beaming, the joy in seeing his mother in full bloom.

Most of all, the memory of Sid is indelible. I couldn't help myself but look over at him throughout the screening. The light of the projection lit up his face. He held a Kleenex throughout the picture. For those minutes, it seemed the ravages of old age and frail health disappeared. Perhaps he was aware he would not see the film again. There were moments where his beaming face, his unabashed joy, his great bursts of laughter, belied the reality of the present.

Mostly, what will stay with me always is the image of seeing Sid, atcertain moments of the film, openly sobbing, tears streaming down his face, shaking his head back and forth, putting his face in his hands when the emotion was too much for him. He was so overcome that he remained positioned in his wheelchair next to the aisle for quite some time after the movie ended to regain his composure.

The evening ended on a high note, as dozens of people in the audience came over to Sid in homage, asking him questions about the picture, about Judy, and asking for autographs. The evening was all the more special because it was Sid's last public appearance. I was honored to be part of it and, above all, I am honored to have been his friend and comrade.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

THE ERRANT BLOGGER

Since it's been about six (gulp) weeks since I've posted anything here, I am sheepishly back, contrite, as I am fending off writer's block, fatigue and the sense that so much has happened in the last several weeks, of interest perhaps to no one but myself, I haven't faced the virtual page until now...with the fear, "Have I lost my audience?" Of course, since I only have an audience of eight (a generous count), I truly might be writing for only myself at this point...so if nothing else should cure me of the dreaded writer's block, THAT should...maybe.

MS laid down the gauntlet yesterday and said, bub, if you're not gonna blog then end it, already...with an invite to be her friend on Facebook or Facelift or some such website...sure, I'm in. But I can't let this blog die...especially a slow, quiet demise...so here I am.

Last I wrote here, I was in Los Angeles..I'm going back in two weeks for five days to shop bathroom fixtures, the last frontier of the rehabbing of my house. I'll also visit with old friends and attend yet another Judy reunion...the original reason for my trip! This will be an informal gathering of some old-guard Garland devotees who attended her TV series and concerts, along with relative newbies (such as myself) and some special guests.

CB and I are sort of taking a break this month, but of course she's still on the case, wanting to bop me upside the head sometimes for not always being plugged in at full wattage -- this is my first rodeo, she's a first-rate, top-shelf, highly in demand designer, so her experience coupled with my resounding lack of experience in this arena translates into that she's saved the day on several occasions.

The house is really coming together and it's the little things, as it were, that is making it seem like I'm really in my home instead of living day to day out of a box, or boxes. When the area rugs in the living and dining room came in, that added such warmth and richness to the place...and the chalk board in the kitchen (another ingenious CB touch) was another inspired add-on...so is the gorgeous stained glass lamp in the foyer...so many big 'n small touches which are making the house come alive.

The window treatments arrive in ten days and THAT will really add so much to the coziness to the house...did I mention a boyfriend in my life would add even MORE coziness to the house...oh, where was I?

CB and I have lately coined a phrase, "Happy Mistake!" when something didn't happen we wanted or was expected...and invariably, something better, much better, came along...hence, what was a liability became an asset.

When I returned from L.A., I had three days back in Chicago before I flew to Grand Rapids, Minn. for the annual Judy Garland Festival...pics are on the right to give you some idea of the four-day event, plus the fifth day, which was spent on the glorious, spectacularly clear Great Lakes speed boating with Michael S. (an A-Lister in the Garland orbit and a fellow presenter at this year -- and in year's past), MS, along with the JG Museum's director and myself...it was the perfect way to wind down after the confab and relax before heading home.

Although my video presentation was beset with audio and video glitches, it mattered little to the SRO audience, because, once again, Judy (on video) saved the day...and I tried to get out of the way as much as possible. The audience cheered and applauded each clip...Judy does it to 'em every time. As I mentioned on a live radio interview from Grand Rapids, there is something special when you see Judy in performance (whether from her movies, TV series or television appearances, etc.) in a group...it becomes a shared experience and exponential in its effect.

Garland's sheer joy in communicating, coupled with her sublime talent, unmistakable voice (shall I go on?) create an indelible experience always, but when more than two people get together to watch her on tape or film...it ain't like nothin' else...and, once again, she triumphed in her birthplace of Grand Rapids, Minnesota from the start of the festival until the close...and this phenomenon has been repeated for more than a decade and shows no sign of stopping, attracting hundreds of Judy fans and "Oz" devotees from 'coast to coast' (as they used to say) and from around the world.

As was the case during my first jaunt there in '06, I had a wonderful time and met new friends and reconnected with old pals. Like '06, this year's fest brought some indelible moments...one of them was on the way from the airport in the Twin Cities in the rental car, a four or five hour drive to tiny Grand Rapids...a great guy, a 'local' named Brian, picked us up...and what a cargo!

Compressed together in the wee car was the driver, Margaret Pellgrini, one of the Munchkins from "The Wizard of Oz" (!), her fortright ten year old granddaughter, and myself...so for several hours, watching bugs splat on the windshield, we took in the beautiful countryside of Minnesota...jammed in the backseat of the tiny rental car as a Munchkin and twelve of Judy's original costumes from her classic movies...thank goodness we were in the boonies...if it had been West Hollywood or New York or SF or some such urban arena, the car would surely have been hijacked and I would have been tossed out without a thought...what was expendable? ME!

I got back to L.A. and a week later, flew back East....a friend of a friend invited me as his guest to his amazing, expansive home for a four-day vacation..it was the first time in over a year I had seen one of my best friends, which allowed me the chance to see a part of the country I haven't seen before. It was an ever-so-gay four days of watching vintage movie clips, Merman blasting away on records and video, Judy on tape (but of course) and lots of great conversation, quips, movie references and incredble food. And, the host of the gala, who didn't know me, but knew OF me, and sent me a cuffo (that means 'comped' in Variety lingo...!) r/t air ticket..what a guy.

A few of us went antique shopping in the small town on a Saturday afternoon. A caravan of two cars packed with gay men shopping for antiques -- did they see us coming, or WHAT? One eagle-eyed obsever in our posse found an original "Oz" book from 1902 for only 25 cents! It was an amazing find and though it wasn't in the best shape, it was quite the find, and the richly detailed color plates were intact and stunning (if only I could say the same amount myself - !)

This weekend gathering brought us together with the elder statesmen of the group, a wonderful older gentleman who introduced the two of us back in 1978...it was amazing to hear our older friend speak of being gay in a small town in the 1940's...having few outlets...feeling completely alone...the spectre of being arrested for the most innocent of encounters (and not so innocent)...being a regular at director George Cukor's house on Sunday for the all-male pool parties and so on...for someone to speak off-the-cuff about being gay in America in 1946 and how far we've come (even when sometimes we think we haven't...and, in some ways, to be sure, we haven't), it's a lesson indeed to hear from an elder statesman to give perspective and to remind us younger folk what others before us did in defiance to bring us the freedom we take for granted today.

More later (and soon!) but thanks for coming back to read...I promise to not be tardy again...or at least, so tardy! Next time, I'll write about some personal stuff and not just make this an ever-so-gay travelogue...

Thursday, June 19, 2008

the same, but different

I'm in Los Angeles as I write this; actually, I'm West Hollywood-adjacent...paying by the minute at the Kinko's on Sunset Blvd. I've been in SoCal since Sunday and I return to Chicago on June 22nd..the anniversary of Judy Garland's death in '69 (faggotini factoid, as a dearly departed friend would call it), and then I jaunt to Grand Rapids, Minnesota, the site of the annual Judy Garland Festival. I was an invited participant two years ago there and I've been asked again this year to present another video seminar/Q&A this year.

It's a wonderful, off-the-beaten-track three days in the small town, full of Munchkins (yep, the surviving ones from the 1939 movie!), fans, a few peculiar, fervent fans, Judy's son, Joe Luft, and, in years past, Lorna Luft; Lorna is abroad performing at the moment so she won't be there this year. It's a wonderful time and I've never seen water and sky so blue. Last year, we spent the Monday after the festival ended to go speed boating on the water and visit the town's mogul. It was glorious and a glimpse in an era gone by but still alive in a pocket of a very small town in Minnesota.

Under any criteria, wee Grand Rapids isn't bustling, ain't crowded and the pace is lanquid. I remember when I was there last time, the Festival director and I were waiting for the light to change to cross the town's 'busiest intersection' (I think there are only four roads in the entire town...) and he said, with a straight face, 'my gosh, look at all those cars on the road.' There were only EIGHT. "It's rush hour now. It's going to take me fifteen minutes to get home."

In 2006, the Festival arranged for a huge Hummer stretch limo to pick us up: Joe, The Munchkins, and me. The Hummer was so TALL, a box had to be placed under the car door when they jumped out so they had something to land on. It was like a Japanese clown car -- with little people. Dozens of 'em jumping out of the yellow pimp Hummer and bouncing on the crate box before hitting the red carpet which was unfurled to lead them from the limo into the hotel. I had a grand time that weekend, as they used to say, and I bet this year's festival will be just as fabu, if not more so.

The four-day Festival attracts hundreds of people from the States and abroad, young, old, gay, straight and those occasional in-betweens. I remember after giving my video seminar in '06, one lumberjack type (picture the original "Brawny" man from the vintage paper towel commercials) shuffled up to the desk where Iwas signing books and DVD's and he he said, haltingly, "My wife dragged me here. I don't know much about Judy Garland but there's nobody like her. She's the greatest."

A real-life lumberjack at a Judy Garland Festival? Talk about Dream Date...!

It's funny. After living in L.A. for over 25 years, it's odd to return as a visitor. I'm staying with a great, dear friend who generously is putting me up, and putting up with me, for the week that I'm in town. He's the friend I gave my furniture, bedding, kitchen stuff et al to when I moved; so it's comforting and yet odd at the same time, to see my old furniture and the rest in HIS place, and I'm surrounded by it all. One more visual to show me where my life was and where it is now. Everything in L.A. is the same as it was in January when I left but yet, everything is different. Of course, what's different is me. I spent too much time drifing in L.A. -- there's none of that in Chicago. A friend here astutely remarked, "People live in Chicago because they want to be in Chicago. People live in L.A. because they have an agenda for something else." He painted with a broad brush in that remark, pointedly, but I got what he said.

I don't feel that I belong in L.A. any longer; a few nights ago, I was in my rental car and I thought, I really am missing being home -- home, being Chicago. Maybe it's the fact that I own a home and I'm anchored in Chicago but it's more than that...I feel that L.A. wasn't good for me the last year or so and I probably wasn't much good for it, either. After my breakup with my ex, I was adrift and sad and unsettled and memories were everywhere. I do have sentiments about him as I drive all over town, remembering things we did and places we enjoyed. I actually thought about calling him, but I won't. I admitted to CB (when she asked, intuitive soul that she is) that I had been thinking about him and she wasn't surprised. It was after the 2006 Judy confab that my ex told me he was in love with me, so being in L.A. and the upcoming Judy event both contribute to this, I am sure. The good thing is that I can admit those feelings but I don't have to act upon them.

I have changed a great deal in the last eight months, since my mom got sick. I feel that I lived in sort of a suspended, protracted gay male adolescence that only went away when I had to face the mortality of my only surviving parent (and, thus, my own). You will either rise to the occassion or crumble under the emotion, pressure and newfoundr responsibilities. Even at the most difficult moments in Chicago, I have never once thought that I made a mistake by moving there or keeping the house, fixing it up and not selling it. I have a place where I belong and it has changed me at my core.

I have spent this week seeing old friends, seeing my cardiologist, etc....and it's been great. I miss them all very much but online communication really makes it far less than it would be otherwise. CB is somehow taking time out of her enormously busy schedule (during a high-profile, high-budget production) to shop with me and save me from myself when it comes to me not picking the right thing or the right color; when I got the gay DNA, the design-clothes-color strains were absent. In that sense, I am a gay man trapped in a straight man's psyche..I know what I like when I see it but I could pick it out or coordinate if my life depended upon it.

While I'm here, the painters are at the house and the carpenter is there too (more or less) doing work and supervising. I have a lot to do here but not soooo much that I'm overloaded. My friend, DA -- whom I met in 1980 when I put an ad in The Advocate for a roommate -- is being very generous in putting together a video presentation for the Judy Festival, which involves multiple nights and a lot of clips and editing.

Of course, I am doing some gay things while I'm in L.A. I'm seeing Liza at The Hollywood Bowl on Friday night with the boys and I'm seeing Dr. Harvey tomorrow for a splash of Botox and laser skin peeling on my face; how else can I be on the doorstep of 40 and not go over that cliff?

The other day, I visited an old friend who had way too much work done and not good work. His attractive gray hair was now a montone Just For Men shoepolish black and his rugged face was now so full of facial filler that he looked like a peeled, overripe apple. He had some lip injection too which makes him look like he is perpetually about to sneeze. His handsome late 40's mug is now looking like a pie crust with eyes. I wanna go back to Chicago...!

Saturday, May 31, 2008

posting the last moments of May!

I've been horrible at this blogging thing this month...obviously. My friends have complained, nudged and barked that I dropped the ball here.  And it's true.  I take the licks. I'm sorry for not being constant...and just disappearing. I also am sorry that friends have worried about me, taking my silence here as an indicator that something is amiss, or I'm under the weather..nope, just under the gun.
To summarize (details to come later), Handyman is gone. I had to let him go. His single success was the tile floor in the kitchen, but not much else got done (well) or, most of all, completed. I didn't know this (I was sort of snowballed by my so-called 'Polish brother') but CB keyed into what was really going on not ten minutes after she walked in the door here. She came to Chicago two weeks earlier than we expected, to address a critical time...the installation of the kitchen cabinets. She found that the plumbing wasn't correct, the electric was iffy and Handyman had become my personal Elden. Unfortunately for me, he seemed to have adroitly tapped into a very real, still powerful need in me...to have a brother figure, a mentor, a male figure (non-sexual) in my life to pay me attention, to bond with, to learn from...things I never got from an absentee alcoholic father (whom my mom divorced when I was six) or as an only child.
CB realized, at the moment she closed the door behind her here and assessed the situation (aka the damage), that very little had gotten done (much less completed) and Handyman seems to have milked the situation (and targeted my blind spot) to his advantage. I was duped; I felt more than a little sheepish and taken, but such is life. CB, once again, saved the day, saved the project and saved the kitchen.
Shotcut to the present: the hardwood floors were done three days ago; they look great. The plumbing was fixed (Handyman did it all wrong), the electric work was corrected (at considerable expense) and the painters are next to invade my home. I'm leaving for LA in a couple of weeks for one week to see friends, take care of business on the West Coast, etc.  And to see sorely-missed friends. I've also been invited to speak at a convention at the end of the month; a repeat visit from two years ago. I had a great time in this small town hours from nowhere, and I'm looking forward to the respite again.
The house needs to be painted, much still needs to be done, I need furniture, and a ton more stuff I can't even begin to think about (it's almost midnight). MS has been a dear, dear friend and she is my joy and my life raft when the road gets rougher (it IS, lonelier and tougher...).  
Yet, even at the most difficult times through all of this, I've never regretted moving from LA and taking on this town, this house and this new life in Chicago.
I'm having stirrings about wanting a boyfriend, but, that's something I'm not ready to tackle yet! However, I have had feelings, random or not, of wanting to mate...look out, boys :)

Monday, April 28, 2008

OUT OF CONTROL

So much has happened in the last week or so that I've hit 'overload' more than a few times.  Thank my higher power (and yours, just in case we have the same one) that CB is on the way here from L.A. tomorrow morning; she's doing the 911 thang and helping me through this hot mess aka home rehab. 

She moved heaven and earth aka her jam-packed schedule so she could be here this week, instead of two weeks from now. I said, with a wail in my voice the other day, "If only you were here now..." and, amazing best friend that she is, CB will be at my side...taking over, geting this house in order, ship-shaping the troops, and creating (and maintaining) the schedule calendar so things happen, when they are supposed to happen..or sooner.

This has been a critical week. Crates and crates of kitchen cabinets arrived last week.  I wasn't told by the delivery men until they rang my doorbell that, for insurance reasons, thy would not bring the boxes inside the house. They would drop 'em at the door or bring them into a garage, but that's it. If Handyman hadn't been there...and with his dolly...I would still be sitting outside of a rapidly bowing porch, day after day, with a toilet plunger masquerading as a shotgun, guarding the cardboard boxes. 

Thankfully, Handyman spoke his charming fluent Spanish and ingratiated himself into their hearts and got them to help move the bigger boxes into the house (with his help). He moved the rest himself with the dolly into the living room. 

For my part, I paced and sweated on his behalf and made a pitcher of iced tea. I know my limitations. I, uh, had just gone to the gym earlier that day, anyway; I was all about the Feng Shui. I had to make sure those 108 cardboard boxes were in JUST the right place for the friggin' WEEK it would take before the cabinet installers are here (this Wednesday through Friday).

Kitchen appliances are arriving this weekend. Gone are the Harvest Gold stove, the Avocado Green refrigerator and ancient, probably radiation-emitting microwave circa 1968 from Sears; I'm only slightly exaggerating. I'm still using the Black & Decker under-cabinet coffeemaker that Mom bought in '83...not kidding, she saved everything, including the sales ticket. After it leaves here post-renovation, it's heading to The Smithsonian. (Me, not long after.)

In prepping for the new-fangled kitchen appliances (with three-prong cords!), I accidentally, but most thankfully before the house might have burned down or some such imagined disaster, discovered that the a/c company improperly installed an electric box that wasn't grounded or bonded. Not only is it against code, it could have fried me and burned the house down. Of course, I'm now in a tussle with the company about that while, at the same time, I've had to bring in an electrical contractor to save the day (at $$, of course).  

I feel like I've been suckerpunched...I've lost a sizable amount of money on the bad electrical work, and now I have to spend double that to fix it...plus, prep this old place for new-fangled appliances. My mom barely used one wall a/c, the TV and a lamp on at the same time.  Me, you know I'm gonna have on the computer, four TV, eighteen lights, the microwave, the washer and dryer, four clocks all at once...so I gotta bring the house up to date.

Handyman & ViceGrip have been working uber-hard and (it seems) round the clock to keep on schedule...laying the tile (that's all that's getting laid, alas), grouting, plastering the walls, you name it...the last of the grout is going on tonight and the kitchen drywall will be covered with Magic Marker slashes with diagrams of the cabinets and about-to-arrive appliances so the electricians have caveman-like drawings to guide them at 8AM tomorrow.  And that means, I have to get up at 7:45AM...that's really the worst part of it.

Despite the housebound drama ("I Am a Shut-In!"), I did have escape this weekend.  MS invited me for an encore at The Art Institute to take the Hopper exhibit.  As I've posted earlier, Edward Hopper is my fave American artist (save for CB), and I savored his work on my last jaunt there with MS; however, there is so much to see (and, frankly, MS and I talk so much) that we had the urge, the drive, the need, to see more than the six paintings (kidding!) we saw the first time. The second visit was as powerful as the first, if not more so, and I came away more of a Hopper man than I had even been before...I am now compelled to learn more about the man who creates such moody, introspective, haunting images of solitary, isolated, lonely, perhaps tragic people...or, sunny landscapes which still seem...morose and foreboding. I said to MS during our tour, I bet he is the kind of guy who jumps out of Japanese clown cars and wears a Whoopie cushion...he must be a life-of-the-party guy who spills his sadness and feelings of separateness into his work...now, am I talking about him or myself...?

My elderly neighbors, Catherine and her husband, invited me to their nearby Lutheran church for Mass. It was "Bring a Heathen" -- actually, "Bring a Friend" -- to Church Day, and so they invited me and I was tickled that they asked.  I had never been to a Lutheran service, and I really enjoyed it. I loved the fact that the pastor was married and had a wife and three kids...they were all in the front row, uh, pew, and beamed at Pastor Daddy. It was wonderful to see the connection of church, family and members of the church together. 85-year old hubby-to-Catherine slammed his fist on the table after service during get-acquainted-breakfast after, and said, "We had a lady Pastor and she was a pistol -- but she died in her sleep, and that was that."  As a Catholic, it was wonderful to see a Pastor with a family and so connected with his congregation and his family together; it would be spectacular, IMO, if the Catholic Church followed suit.

This from a staunchly Catholic family (I'm reformed) with an uncle who is a practicing priest and a deceased great uncle who reigned as a cardinal. My uncle had a female "housekeeper" who traveled with him, including holidays at our house, when I was a kid, and when the first one died, my uncle got himself a younger babe, a gal who cooked, cleaned and...whatever...he was a licensed pilot in the air, a hellion on Earth with his souped-up Cadillac that never seemed to go less than 80 MPH...

End of Catholic Church rant...

Phase II...at warp speed...starts tomorrow with CB's arrival...hang on - !

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

I'M HOME

Many changes have occurred in the last two weeks or so since my last post. My social life is on the upswing and for that I'm very grateful. I don't feel so tightly wound as I have been...not that I've had "romance" or "recreation," but I've gone out a few times with friends in the last couple of weeks (in addition to 12-step meetings and outings afterwards).  

After one 12-step meeting, three guys invited me to nearby Crew, a popular gay/straight sports bar in Uptown...I felt like a puppy out of a cage. It was so exhilarating to be out of the house, among my fellow gays and socializing with dozens and dozens of men (and women) of all types.  The enormous screen projecting a basketball game didn't grab my attention for more than a few seconds, but my neck got quite the workout scanning the room and the men.  

As I've said to some L.A. friends, there might be more bona-fide "knockouts" in Los Angeles in terms of looks and muscle, but, that said, I find Chicago/Midwestern men to be infinitely more appealing, interesting, sexy and multi-dimensional. Men in Southern California are so consciously aware of being attractive or wanting to be perceived as attractive, that it becomes a studied landscape instead of a breathing, vital human being. I remember eight years or so ago, when I went to Wales and Scotland for the first time, I found the men to be the most attractive I had ever seen...mostly, because they were so unaware or so unconcerned with their good looks and even the 'lesser gods' among them were magnetic because they didn't have a studied or put-upon sense of self or masculinity; it was the real deal, and from the land of tanning beds, steroids, personal trainers, Botox, facial fillers and hair plugs, it was incredibly refreshing. The same is true for Chicago. Men might not hit the gym every day, they might carry a few extra pounds because of winter hibernation, but their ease within themselves, being comfortable in their own skin, and their 'take it or leave it' attitude, devoid of preening and plucking, gets me hot under the..collar.  Thankfully, I havent' seen a 'murse' aka manpurse anywhere...!

This past Sunday, MS and her hubby and I had brunch with one of my oldest friends, JK, and her lover, MD. I've known JK since high school (!) and we even 'dated' for some time. Since those long-ago years, we both crossed the fence to the other side and shed our straight skins, as it were.  She, unlike me, alas, has the gift for attracting the right person and sustaining long-term relationships (and her partner is a gem and a pip of a gal, as they used to say).  We met a few weeks ago, the three of us, and carried on like magpies, and this recent Sunday brunch at the fabu Wishbone on Lincoln, was all the more so, because I was able to introduce MS and her hubby to JJ and MD...when worlds collide, old and new friends meet and new bonds are formed.  

On Friday, MS is meeting for the first time another friend of mine, GW, here at the house (to catch up on the tornado of renovation afoot).  GW is also stopping by to visit Handyman, as it was she who introduced me to "my Polish brother" when I kick-started the renovation at the end of February; my gosh, it seems like six months ago!  Handyman is also bringing his sheepdog that day (our first introduction) so I can practice having a pet at least for five hours.  From there, MS and I are going to an art exhibit opening which involves my AA sponsor, so it will be yet another case of integrating the various pieces of my new life in Chicago.  

I'm planning a trip to L.A. in mid-May. I'm looking forward to it. I have a couple of appointments and I want to clear out my storage facility and ship boxes of archive materials here.  After all, what is this near-empty basement for, if not to save me $115 a month in storage fees?  I have the ongoing dilemma of what to do with my 12" LP's...I've had some of them since I was a kid, many from in my teens, and while I don't play 'em and really don't need 'em, I can't think of parting with them...at least yet. A dear friend is holding them for me, but I really at some point soon have to ask myself, do I want to pay storage year after  year for things I never open, never use and never will need again, just for sentimental value?  I might be able to sell them, but I'm not sure there is a wide market for 560 Judy Garland albums, MGM movie soundtracks and scratchy LPs of Margaret Whiting, Ella, Doris Day, Billie, and the cast albums of No, No, Nanette, Irene, Good News and a warped copy of Barbra's "Stoney End."  

I'm looking forward to seeing my friends in L.A., of course, and it will be interesting to be there as a visitor and not as a resident. Today, the weather was glorious (there's that word again for Chicago weather!) and it hit a high of 71 degrees!  You sort of get selective amnesia (the way I do when I go on another bad online date after swearing them off four days earlier) and the snow and sleet and frostbite and shoveling sort of blurs into sunlight hitting your face.  At this moment, there is no place I'd rather be than here in Chicago.  I notice subtle changes in me: I've gotten used to the local '773' area code and when I call friends in L.A., I sometimes forget to dial '323' or '818' -- yesterday, for a moment, I forgot the phone number of an old friend I was calling on my cell phone; I had to shut the phone, look up his number on my computer...

This has been the most uprooting, life-changing time of my life, the last six months, but, even at its most rigorously challenging and exhausting moments, I wouldn't change a thing.  For the first time in a very long time, I know I'm where I should be...and where I want to be.  

On Saturday, one of the neighbors invited me to a pancake breakfast social at the local church to be held next weekend. It sounds like fun. And how nice, how flattering, to be asked, to be included. Another neighbor, 85 year-old Catherine, next door, saw me outside the other day walking to my car (with a tile sample in my hand, of course) and put her arm around me and said, "Do you have plans the last Sunday of this month?" (Pat, pat on my back, hug, hug.) "No, I don't think so...what do you have in mind?" "You are my friend, aren't you?" I said, "Um, of course I am...why?" She demurred, "My church is having a 'bring a friend to church day' on that Sunday and I'd like to bring you....will you come?" I said yes.

I'm on the church and pancake circuit...and that's the only kind of circuit party I know these days...and it's just fine with me. Especially when it's all you can eat for five bucks. 


Wednesday, April 2, 2008

FEELIN' LIKE A MULLION

I've been remiss at creating entries here and I apologize. This house rehab is even more grueling, perhaps, than the OTHER kind of rehab...maybe, well, not really. I don't know if I have ever been so consistently weary day after day.  I hit the rumpled bed, wake up after six hours of sleep...and it happens all over again. Six days a week. I'm thinking of offering Handyman double pay if he DOESN'T work on Saturdays.  

I don't mean that. Not only is he doing an incredible job, he continues to be my 'shield' and pitbull from shady contractors and salespeople; he calls me his "Irish brother" and he's teaching me Polish words and I help with some daunting English words he hasn't quite nailed...although I find his accent to be endearing and he certainly has no trouble communicating. He speaks Polish, English, Spanish, German, Greek and two other languages. In direct contrast, it's taken me four days to properly pronounce the Polish word for "fast." (The irony of that is not lost on me...)

Since this IS my first rodeo in terms of renovating a home, as it were, I guess it's more stressful, demanding and tiring than usual. And, perhaps, all the more so, factoring in the added element that I'm reworking the house that my mom lived in for 25 years...well, that can be a kick in the stomach in that, at every turn, I'm confronted with memories of her and the happy years she spent in this house...and me, as a frequent visitor during that time when I trekked from L.A. to Chicago for her birthday and holidays. 

The house, as you can see from pics posted here, is down to the bones. This is bunker living at its most basic. A foxhole is looking like upscale digs to me right now. I've got one bed, one chair, a kitchen table with three chairs and two bedroom dressers for some of my clothes; the rest of my stuff is in the basement. I'm still living in limbo and it's only going to get worse. 

In about three weeks, I'll have to temporarily move out when the hardwood floors will be sanded and treated, plus during the bathroom gutting when there will be no shower or commode.  I'll shower at the gym or depend, um, on the kindness of strangers. But how could that be? I haven't much socialized since this started, nor have I had a date or, well, you know...

My social life has largely tanked since I haven't been out and about to meet, greet or glad hand (...) and I don't expect an uptick for six to eight weeks, when the bulk of the renovations are done. I'm grateful that I have the marvelous MS here in Chicago, the fabu CB long distance, my LA friends via phone and email, my sponsor, my 12-stepping friends and friends here from the old days to bolster me right now. I haven't had the time or energy to cultivate new friendships or relationships, as much as I would like to. It's just the way it is; I can't complain. It's part of the price of admission for a new house and a new life. 

"This, too, shall pass" is my mantra (one of 'em) these days. 

It IS exhausting driving across town pricing windows, tile and doors and getting building supplies here and there, being surrounded by buzz saws (so it sounds) as central a/c is installed for ten straight days, but I know I'd get zero empathy from most anyone working a 'real job' all day (or all night). That said, I'm more tired at the end of the day than I've ever been in my entire life; could it be that being, um, in the ballpark of 40 (that one went over the fence into Peoria, if truth be told and I won't) has impacted my energy level? Egad. I can't go there....

I'm not complaining -- just observing, mind you -- when I say that I am focused entirely on the house right now...my days are spent running errands for Handyman to get building supplies, shopping for doors and tiles and grout and whatnot, getting bids for this and that.  By the time Handyman and ViceGrip, his new assistant (neuBluto is gone, more about that later) leave at 8PM, I barely have time to grab some food someplace down the street (I have no microwave, sink or oven any longer) before CB and I have our long-distance nightly wrap-up of what happened today and what's on the agenda for tomorrow and later in the week, or the scope of the entire project.

The definition for me of friendship in its purest, most loving and generous form, is CB and her taking on this project, particularly long distance (until she arrives in Chicago the first week of May) with her in L.A. and me (and the house!) in Chicago. The time, the hours, the energy, the talent and heart she pours into it on a daily, no, hourly, basis can't be properly expressed. My best friend for 25 years, she and I have seen each other through so much and she has taught me so much about life and friendship. She has been there for me at my worst and has championed me at my best. She loved me when I didn't love myself, and we have a bond that I cherish. I am her greatest champion and she is my greatest inspiration.

When I left L.A. she was the one person I missed the most; yet our friendship is so strong, that the distance has not displaced our friendship.  I do know she has given of herself 200% as the designer in my home renovation, while also in the midst of an enormously high-profile and demanding gig (a big-budget, prestigious production) and has turned down work -- including a TV series -- to create this new home for me.  She is one of the most talented, in-demand designers around and I'm lucky to have her, as my designer, and, above all, as my friend. During the scope of this house rehab, I have met the challenge more often than not (I hope) but I am painfully aware that I have faltered more than a few times -- but she's been there, from start to finish. She is a designer extraordinaire and friend second to none.

I mean to blog every other day, but it's just not in me right now -- even though I am fervently committed to doing so. And then when I don't blog each day or so, the topics I want to cover stack up like delayed planes at Chicago during an ice storm, and I put it off even more because it seems so daunting. I've gone beyond writer's block. I am awash in writer's remorse.

Yesterday, I called my AA sponsor, the inimitable MO. (And he has my m.o., that's for sure). We speak (most) every day and try to see each other for in-person pow-wows about every two weeks. He asked how the house rehab was going, and I blathered on about trying to find an in-stock awning window for the master bath. I stopped and said, OMG, I used to talk about going window shopping. Now, I'm actually going WINDOW shopping! 

I told him I was gleeful when I found an in-stock Pella all-wood, aluminum backed bathroom window for only $139!  Pella, they say, is the best, but it's so pricey. I've become, ouch, One Happy Pella.  And I can't stop singing, "I'm Just a Pella, a Pella With an Umbrella..." -- that vintage Irving Berlin song from the Garland/Astaire MGM musical, "Easter Parade." Clearly, this sleep deprivation has taken its toll.  (Not to mention I haven't had time or energy to go to the gym in two weeks...and I must buff up again for my spring debut in Chicago...)

MO laughed when I passionately told him about snaring the Pella (and canceling the special order at Home Depot for the same window at the cost of $479) and he said, "It's funny what happens when you renovate a house for the first time. You get so involved and detailed about things you knew NOTHING about or had NO interest in six months ago."

So true! 

I had never HEARD the word "mullion" before... and now, I know (thanks to CB), that I don't want too many mullions on my windows in the house. And yet, I've got 'em. 

Several days ago, some guy saw my dating profile online and sent me his number. I called and it turns out, his full-time career is rehabbing houses! We met for coffee and I spent over an hour drilling him (not in the good way, alas) about central a/c, local electricians, the pros and cons of cork floors vs. porcelain tiles for my kitchen. Apparently, he didn't find my line of conversation particularly hot or inviting and I never heard from him again...except when he called to cancel a getting together a few days later -- to come by and see the house on Handyman's day off. I had fleeting fantasies of hot sex on the unfinished floors surrounded by power tools. I guess he was more concerned about splinters or something. That, as they say, was that. 

My dating drought continues unabated. 

Last night, I wearily staggered down to the local coffee shop at the corner for what was a passing resemblance to dinner. It was about 9PM. The lights in the restaurant resembled an X-ray and it wasn't flattering to me, the big-haired, fading "Flo"- type waitress or the alarmingly obese male patron across from me, shoveling down one dinner roll after the next, like he was popping breath mints. I called MS on my cell phone and said, my gosh, it's so empty and bleak and morose in here, I felt like I belonged in Edward Hopper's "Nighthalks." 

The analogy was particularly relevant for us, because MS had invited me to a member's only morning at The Art Institute a few days earlier.  We spent a delightful morning (before the mad crush) sauntering through Hopper's stunning artistic career. I deadpanned to MS, "I didn't realize Hopper had done so many paintings. I thought he had only done two. 'Nighthawks' and the sequel, the second 'Nighthalks' with Elvis, Marilyn, James Dean and Humphrey Bogart."

We soaked in the exhibit (it was pouring outside).  Taking in each painting, I have never seen so many lonely, depressed, displaced and doomed people in one place -- except for AA meetings. 

It was absolutely fascinating and Hopper remains (next to CB) my favorite American artist. MS and I vowed to return and see the exhibit again; it requires more than one visit to properly absorb and appreciate the wealth and breath of his talent. 

Postscript: NeuBluto is out of the house and out of my life, but he had a surprisingly positive effect on my relationship with Handyman. NeuBluto outed me to Handyman, and it's all good.  Not only is Handyman gay-friendly, he wants to introduce me to his gay Polish cousin. I couldn't make this stuff up. And, luckily, I don't have to...

More about THAT later...!




Wednesday, March 26, 2008

STRIP SEARCH

After saying he would locate an experienced, reasonably priced back-up helper sometime this week, my "Polish brother" Handyman today brings in a Romanian stripper (WINDOW stripper) to do some detail work: Stripping, sanding, and restoring the beautiful old oak windows, room entry arches and some spotty hardwood floor areas which have been covered by wall-to-wall carpet for as many years as I've been in that house -- almost three decades.  

Having someone here to pick up the slack in that area allows Handyman to focus on bigger projects, like drywall, leveling the kitchen floor and carpentry repairs. A few minutes after he introduces the new guy to me, Handyman excuses himself to run to Home Depot to get some supplies. Window stripper rather looks like Bluto in the Popeye cartoons -- but grayer, meaner and more fierce. Blubbery Bluto wanted to bop Popeye; NeuBluto would bludgeon him.

NeuBluto sports a volcanic eruption of salt and pepper hair and a furrowed unibrow that starts at each temple (and probably wraps around his entire scalp) and ends at his nose, forming an bushy exclamation point. His bulbous, splotchy nose suggests a propensity for barrooms and barroom brawls. Despite his harrowing demeanor, Bluto is friendly and immediately gets to work, sanding the wood in the kitchen archway leading into the dining room.  

I'm seated at the kitchen table, maybe six feet away from him, my face buried in the computer. In less than five minutes, Bluto bleats, "I got a girlfriend.  She can't keep up with me, if you know what I mean." 

He winks, I cringe. 

"I'm divorced. Twice. I got three kids." He studies me. "The youngest one, the boy, is gay." He pauses. My fingers freeze on the keyboard.  

"I don't know how he turned out gay, my other two kids are straight. I'm straight." He clearly needed to make THAT point. "But it doesn't matter to me if my son is straight or gay.  He's my son and I love him. And I'd fight anyone who tried to make trouble for him."

At this point, I hit the "s" key 35 times without stopping.  I didn't know what to do.  He's sending me a message. But what do I DO with that?  Say something?  Is he fishing? Is it code for "I got a gay son,  I got YOUR number!" 

Then, I'm thinking, it's none of his business, I've known him five minutes, this isn't friendship, he's working for me and...uh-oh, he's gonna tell Handyman. And then what's to become of our "I'm your Polish brother" riff?  Our chatty lunches?  Our male bro' to bro' bonding? 

Will he spook and run?  Will it ruin our working relationship? 

I HAVE AN ENTIRE HOUSE TO REHAB AND WHAT IF HANDYMAN WALKS OUT NOW?

Mind you, at this moment, as Bluto takes a breath, I've played this out -- twice -- in my mind within twenty seconds. 

Just as I'm about to say something in response, Bluto shifts gears. "When I said I'd fight to protect my son if anyone gave him crap for being gay, I mean it. "

I smile.  I'm thinking, this rough-and-tough bulldog is a softie! 

Bluto scrapes the arch wood with even more vigor. "I'm not afraid of a fight, I can tell you that. In fact, I have to go to court next week.  I hit a guy with a baseball bat."

I winced at the visual. I could almost feel the air swirl as the bat grazed my forehead, as I stumble to find something suitable in response that won't get me hit with a bat.

"Uh, why did you hit the guy with a baseball bat?"

"I think he was gay and he was coming on to me."

Clearly, our 'gay son' bonding moment is over and I quietly close the laptop so Bluto can't see my multiple gay.com chatroom conversations. 

I say something idiotic, like, "It's really serious, hitting someone with a baseball bat."

"You got that right. It gets better! Turns out, the guy is a cop."

"I guess it you're going to hit anyone with a baseball bat, a cop would be the last person to do it to, don't you think?"

"Well, yeah, but how could I know? He wasn't wearing a uniform."

"Was he wearing anything?"

Bluto gives me a dirty look and I start dusting my computer top with my fist.

Bluto resumes scraping the wood. "It doesn't look good for me. But, you know, I'd do it again if I had the chance. It wasn't my fault. I was...provoked."

I don't think I had blinked for about five minutes at that point. I nervously looked at my watch, wanting Handyman to COME BACK NOW. He had only been gone twenty minutes. In the dead air of silence, it was just Bluto and myself. I think he heard my beads of sweat hit the computer. I jump up from my chair, asking him, "Would you like a beverage?"

I am NOT getting on this guy's bad side. I'll send a car and a driver for him the morning if that keeps him happy and bat-free in my direction. Better yet, I'll give him double his pay NOT to come back.

"Nah, thanks." He pauses, squinting his eyes. "You're not married, are you?"

I shake my head, no.  

"I didn't think so."

It's only 10:30AM.  





















Sunday, March 23, 2008

THE EX FACTOR

An unexpected package arrived in the mail...from my ex. He sent me a card and my pair of reading glasses (with case) which, he wrote, was found when foraging through luggage I borrowed from him some time ago. It was a nice gesture. I wasn't sure if it was a method of him resuming contact (on some level) since I left L.A. -- or simply that he was returning eyeglasses. I told you I'm great at fabricating drama. I'm also a master at creating subtext when none is there. Or, at least, not the script I'm working over and over in my mind.  

I've been so busy with the home renovation that I didn't respond via email for a few days; in the apex of our romance, I would have replied in five minutes. When I was agonizing over our break-up during much of last year, I would have waited 30 minutes, but likely would have spent half a day writing, rewriting, but finally deleting the email I sent to him (thank God we both have AOL to make THAT feature possible!). Undeterred, I'd start all over again...go from anger, to sentimental, to being pissed off to being contrite to overwriting (ME?) to cutting it down to one sentence. Another two hours spent writing to him saying we shouldn't write to each other.

This time, I delayed replying simply because I was so busy, it slipped my mind. Or I thought about getting back to him when I was driving or shopping or unpacking or packing...someplace where I'd have the thought and then just as quickly forget. I guess it means another step away from being caught up in a past relationship when you don't jump all over it and make it the center of your world...you write back, like a normal person, and say thanks. And that's it...

That said, a few days after I wrote him, I had a very ominous feeling that something was amiss, either with him or his aging, infirm parents. I emailed him and asked if all was OK and he wrote back, saying at the exact time I got a "hit" that he was in trouble, it was true - something had happened in his life and I was on the money about my premonition...and precisely when it happened. Just shows, no matter what...there is that connection between two people who once loved each other.

Funny how life works...I never would have thought in a million years -- more accurately, in the bloom of our relationship -- that I would migrate to Chicago, move into and rehab my mom's house...with my ex also in Chicago at the same time -- and for an added dash of irony, is staying with his current boyfriend...who, by chance, lives in Chicago. It's getting so inbred that I wouldn't be surprised if they rent the about-to-be-empty one-bedroom apartment next door to me. What could be more delightful? 

What matters is, my ex and I wish each other well, we have made peace with each other, admitted our mistakes and have peace in the shared awareness that we were right for each other at a certain time in our lives.  We said goodbye three different times in the last week I was in Los Angeles...the first time, we both cried; the second time, I blubbered; the third time, he sobbed. Sadness, regret, loss, yes...anger, resentment, blaming, no.

No matter how it ended, I'll remember the apple pie we baked, the Halloween pumpkin we carved, puddin' pies, many cozy nights watching episodes of the British '70's comedy series,"Two's Company" (complete with his dead-on "Stritchie"impression), the Sunday afternoon stroll on the beach in Malibu...and how he taught me how to love, and to be loved in return.


Monday, March 17, 2008

MY FIRST TIME

Friday afternoon was spent with Handyman on a jaunt to Home Depot -- my first time! The surreal aspect of all of this -- home rehabbing and learning about drywall and pony walls and pocket doors and 3 ton central a/c systems, 2x4's and and studs (OK, I knew about that last part) is becoming more and more real as I absorb it and, hopefully, learn, and increasingly grasp the words I once only parroted back and now am more and more understanding and absorbing -- connecting the dots -- as it all starts to make sense..as I start to see the whole..."the vision" as designer extraordinarre CB calls it...

Beware of being overcharged! As I felt like an astronaut stepping onto the surface of the moon for the first time, that was my foray into Home Depot. If it wasn't for protective Handyman -- who scanned the receipt and checked off the purchases of lumber, 2x4's et al, I would have been screwed aka overcharged $150! The clerk ran up double the amount of 2x4's we actually had and charged me for "birch" which was not anywhere NEAR my cart.  That was my first lesson. Don't let shell-shock stop you from looking at your receipt.  HD reversed the charges, but still.

Handyman is pushing this huge open cart -- a shopping cart on steroids -- to fit plywood and lumber to build up the drooping kitchen floor. and I'm walking, dazed, down the aisles, looking way up at the so-high ceilings. With my mouth open and eyes as wide as saucers, I felt like a little kid  at the Planetarium. 

He grabs a 2x4, like it's a toothpick and throws it in my hand. Trying not to stagger to the floor under the weight of it, I smile and pretend to be oh-so-casual.

"I got it."
"Are you sure?  I can load these myself on the cart if you want."
"Oh, no, no. I'm your right-hand man today.  I'm enjoying this."
His eyes narrowed.  
"Have you been to Home Depot before?"
"Um, well, no."
His face brightened.  
"This is good for you, then! You learn about your house this way."
"I'm a sponge."
"Okay, hold the 2x4 in your hand tight. I know it can be hard to hold on to, because it's so thick and long."
"I can do this.  Really. I got this part down."
"Hold on to it, right near your chin and look at it all the way down. You want to be able to look at the lumber and tell if it's cut straight.  Look at it."
I peer intently at this piece of lumber, slightly trembling in my hands as I try to balance the unwieldy piece o' wood.
Conversely, Handyman holds his deftly, steadily, like he's swabbing with a Q-Tip.
He says, "Hold it right under your chin.   Can you tell if it's straight?"
I give him a look and smile. 
"Can you?"
"Every time!" 

At that moment, I realized Handyman doesn't have gaydar. It's not part of his life experience and it's not visible to him. I thought, well, maybe he figured it out about me but left it alone, but I guessed wrong...later that day, we were talking about CB. He's spoken with her a few times on the phone about her design plans but he's heard our plethora of phone calls back and forth from L.A. to Chicago.  

Later that day, when I had just gotten off the phone with her, he asked, "The two of you are so close...you speak of her with such affection and the way the two of you talk to each other." In a very good-natured way, he said, "Do you mind if I ask, are you more than friends?"

For that nano-second as I formulated a response (which way should I go with THAT one?), I decided on, "No, no, no.  She's like a SEES-ter to me!  She's my best friend.  We've known each other for almost 25 years."

I told CB about it and she laughed, "Oh, my God!  The way we talk to each other, the two of us sound like an old married couple and that's what he picked up on!"  

Handyman and I continue to bond. When I said I could move the kitchen table (my makeshift office) upstairs into what will become my office now, he said, "No, don't go upstairs.  I like to have you here downstairs near me." It was so sweet. We joke, he lustily sings DEES-co songs (it was that or country, and I opted for vintage disco) on the radio all day (he sang in a Polish choir and he has a great voice so it's no hardship on me), we have our lunch each day here.  

I made Jamaican salmon (for the first time, I might add) in my oven which will be but a memory in a couple of weeks when it's disconnected to make way for the kitchen work and we chat about life, remodeling and his life in Poland and in the Polish army, his wife and kids. As CB says, we've developed this sort of brother relationship...he's the younger one but acting like a big bro' and I'm the ever-so-slightly (AHEM) older one but in the role of the younger sib.  

It's completely non-sexual, and I'm really enjoying this 'guy time'...as one who grew up without a father, it's something I've craved and never had, really. I had a touch of it in my last relationship, but it still was framed within a sexual situation/relationship, and that's not at all what this is with Handyman. Handyman likes teaching me stuff about the house and I can't get enough of his how-to and try-this-and-why-that-won't-work hands on education.  

I'm having a/c guys and electricians and window sales people come to the house to make bids and he steps in and asks the right questions, things I didn't know to ask or he asks from a tougher POV as a handyman-contractor. I said to Handyman, they walk in the door all smiles and spine straight ready to dazzle and close a deal when they see me but when Handyman gets finished with them, asks them the hard questions and pulls the truth out of 'em, they leave, hunched over, broken and glassy-eyed, the fire kicked out of 'em.

He said, "I'm your shield.  I'll take care of you. I know this house means a lot to you because it belonged to your mom and your step-dad. They worked hard all of their lives for this house and you have changed your life and spending your money too on this house. I know this is your first-time and so think of me as your shield. I feel, what's the word, protective."

With all the horror stories out there about contractors and handyman et al, I feel so blessed and relieved. Of course, there is no better than CB, who knows me more than anyone else and is fiercely protective of me too...even at the frustrating moments I create where she wants to hit me upside the head...and rightly so...

CB is pouring her heart and soul into this house for me (hours and hours) and I am overwhelmed at her generosity and caring. She even turned down a prime-time series to come to Chicago to work on my house in May -- if THAT isn't an expression of friendship to the first-degree, I don't know what is!  

Last night, she faxed two sketches of how she envisioned the kitchen. I looked at them and I have to admit, I got verklempt...what it is now (see pic) and what it will transform into is something beyond what I could have imagined. And with CB as the watchdog on every detail and cost of each item, it's financially feasible for me; it wouldn't be otherwise.

As a former apartment/condo renter in Chicago and Los Angeles, I'm someone who has never has experienced a new stove, new toilet, new bathtub or shower. Every oven had someone else's grease in it, every toilet had been, um, broken in, every tub and sink had hairs in the drain that weren't mine. I was thrilled when I got a new coffeemaker or toaster, or cell phone, that was about it for me.  The concept, the emerging reality, that my mom's home, with so many good memories, can hold all of those great years but will be transformed for me...the best combination of old and new...and create a world I have never known before.  

It's part of my Chicago transformation, I guess. A few days ago, I walked down to the neighborhood coffee shop for b'fast.  I called MS as I looked out the big window. It was a bright, sunny day, no snow, 36 degrees. I said to her, "It's glorious outside!"

She sputtered, laughing, and said, "GLORIOUS? My, how you've changed in the six weeks you've been here!"

On Saturday, Handyman and I were taking a lunch break and talking about being overcharged for the supplies. He said, well, you have to always look at every receipt, wherever you buy anything.  Then he said, you hadn't been to Home Depot before, so it was all new to you.

I said, yeah, but I got into it. I want to go back and buy more, um, whatever.

He smiled and said, "You write.  I build.  I'm Home Depot and you're Office Depot."

How could I refute the obvious?  









Wednesday, March 12, 2008

HOME SCHOOLIN'

I've spent another loooong, tiring, mind-bending day focused on home improvement...or is it, homo improvement? The jury is out on that one...

Things that meant nothing to me six months ago are now the cornerstone of my life. Words, concepts, design, related words that I didn't know or understand, not part of my lexicon or orbit, are suddenly real...sometimes, surreal...in my life today.  

What I didn't know and then could mumble, sort of phonetically..."soffit" (all I can think of is that Bette Davis play, "Miss Moffit"), backsplash (that sounds so festive and gay, why hadn't I heard THAT word before?), junction box ("Petticoat Junction," sure, but what's a Junction Box...is that slang for Billie Jo, Betty Joe or Bobbi Jo?), understanding the other meaning of the phrase, "that's prime real estate in this room" (that took me a few rounds before I got that one), why hardwood floors can be stained if they are oak but CAN'T be stained if they are maple; why homes in Chicago after about 1920 were no longer constructed with brick foundations...and the dreaded condition of brick moisture, which sounds like "effervescence" but ISN'T spelled the way a normal person would THINK it should be...and that's just Week One.  We haven't even gotten to the staircase or the second floor with the full bathroom.

Don't get me started on the difference of vinyl windows vs. wood windows and faux wood windows and two-light slider windows and schoolhouse-style windows and why it can be too "woody" to extend hardwood floors into the kitchen area.  I thought I knew about a "woody" as much as any gay man, but, I was wrong...and how do you keep a straight (...) face when someone is asking you to measure and says, "How long is it?"..."How many inches?"..."How far can it go?"..."Is it in deep or can you pull it out?"..."Is it stuck?"..."Do you need a screw down there?"...shall I go ON?

And there's the "single-hung" window vs. the much more popular and versatile "double-hung"...who wouldn't want double-hung any day?

Tomorrow, Handyman is taking me to Home Depot. We're going to buy, um, drywall and plaster. In the old days, I could see getting a dry martini and getting plastered, but now THIS. Honestly, I don't know myself lately...and I like it! Even if I fall into bed so tired I don't even get up to turn off the light down the hall. I went to bed wearing my checkered slippers (CB's fab Christmas present to me) and I was so exhausted I didn't bother to kick 'em off.  I just wore 'em until I got up the next morning.

Today I was bemoaning the sales reps who gave me horrendously (to me, anyway) over-inflated bids for an a/c update for the house and windows to replace the rotting ones, which haven't been replaced since the Magna Carta. The wall a/c in the living room is so old that it uses more electricity than a modern central a/c system would use to cool the entire house!  As I was talking about the window rep and the a/c salesman who came a' callin' today, straight, Polish good guy Handyman said with a grand gesture, "You talk about the window salesman, you talk about the air conditioning salesman...what about me?  What about MY feelings?" 

We broke up laughing and that was the running gag for the rest of the day.  I make coffee for us in the morning (with sugar and half-and-half for him, H&H only for me) and he brings me popcorn shrimp and he eats some other fresh, non-breaded fish and fish parts I won't go near.  Yesterday, for his lunch, he brought a big hunk of fish tail.  He asked me, innocently, "Would you like a piece of my tail?" He paused. "It's very fresh and it's very good for you."

Talk about a perfect straight man...!

 


Tuesday, March 11, 2008

EVERYTHING BUT THE KITCHEN SINK DEPT.

Thanks,  long-time L.A. friend, Tracy, for your comments about the blog...(and thanks to everyone else who posts comments, or who write privately to me about it)...you asked for a picture of the house as it kicks into rehab gear (there's that 'rehab' word again!)...here's one pic I took yesterday.  I'll take more and post 'em as we go along.  Perhaps this shot is a metaphor to my life and my house right now...stripped down to the bare walls...

Saturday, March 8, 2008

FOOTE NOTES

It's Saturday morning at 8:45 as I write this. I'm sitting in the kitchen, looking out the bay window into the frosty, snow-tipped back yard. It started snowing again last night as MS and I made our way home from the third, and final, installment of The Goodman Theater's Horton Foote Festival. MS's strong ties with Chicago's theater community resulted in snaring tickets and great seats for one of the final preview performances of "The Trip to Bountiful." 

The production, in the larger of the two theaters within The Goodman, was first-rate, from the ingenious, spectacular sets and lighting (but still properly low-key and fitting with the tone of the play), to the top-drawer performances of the lead, Lois Smith (who not only plays the aging mother, but inhabits the role from within), a remarkably shaded turn by Hallie Foote (the daughter of the legendary playwright, Horton Foote), and that of every actor in the play, down to the non-speaking parts.  Each made an impression, each created interesting subtext. 

While I had minor quibbles with a few aspects of the play, overall, I enjoyed it tremendously. Mr. Foote has the great ability to flesh out all his characters and make them multi-faceted; no one is a cliche, painted too broadly or one-dimensional -- every one of them is human, flawed, sympathetic (in varying degrees) and all understandable in their actions and motives. 

At the start of the play, the audience sees a single window, framed in a stylized representation of a house...with the theme of the play about a mother wanting desperately to return to her home, the place where she was born...Hence, the title of the play, "The Trip to Bountiful."  

You can run but you can't hide dept...my yesterday was spent on kicking into the first phase of the house renovation...of the home that was my mom's until her passing.  "The Trip to Chicago"? I can't escape!...I was with the handyman all day yesterday until 6:15PM staring the first "official" day of renovation (after a month of prep, more or less)...after meeting with a rep for a window company wanting to sell me 21 windows at a cost that could probably build a hospital in Africa.  

I am doing this home rehab, and could ONLY do this, with the lead of the amazing, generous and supremely talented CB (and, did I mention, gor-gee-ous!) at my side (by phone and later in person) every step of the way.  And, thanks to our mutual, life-long friend, GW, I have a great all-around handyman who is taking a personal, protective interest in getting this neglected house back in shape...especially since this is my first time tackling home renovation. I've never owned more than a cat and a plant (and they're both dead, what does THAT tell you?), and to be suddenly gifted with an aging, two-story, nearly 100 year old house without advance notice AND it needing lots of work..yikes!  Like me, it needs professional help.

It's an enormous undertaking (no pun intended), because I take the responsibility of getting this house in good -- no, great shape -- because it represents 25 years of my mom's life, her life savings and emotional investment as well as my stepfather's lifetime of hard work. It's a great gift to have this bestowed upon me -- and a great responsibility, too. 

When Handyman was leaving here yesterday after an impromptu half-day of sweat-inducing work (pulling up old carpet, etc.) he said, "I'm a simple guy.  I do good work, I work hard, I provide for my wife and kids, I'm honest.  I do what I say I'll do, I show up and finish the job and I never have to turn away and avoid eye contact with someone if they see me on the street, because I tell the truth and do what I say.  Life is very simple if you don't complicate things."

Those words really hit me. I'm a great over-thinker. I can complicate anything and revel in it, often to my detriment.  I can create drama out of where to put a stamp on an envelope to dissecting conversations and relationships that have been over for eons.  Yet, because I'm smart (oftentimes too smart for my own good), I think being intelligent means I'm interesting and complex and multi-layered and all those nice phrases I favor (like "I'm a handful"as if that's necessarily a good thing)...

I got a new sponsor the other day (thanks, MO!) and I couldn't help myself but say that to him after we met for a delightful lunch to find out if we are a good fit as sponsor/sponsee.  He's a great guy, smart, funny, and I can't get anything over on him. Aw, crap...but that's really want, exactly...I don't want to get away with anything in terms of working a good, strong program...but that doesn't stop me from trying...or from giving him that faux warning, "I'm a handful" -- an ex bf of mine ruefully called me a "rich dessert" -- that sounds good, for a second, a variation on "you're a handful," but I don't want to be an event...something that you can only take for a few bites and push away...it's great to be something special -- but I want to be good to go for the day-to-day aspects of a relationships, too.  

In my last relationship -- my most adult, deeply felt romance to date -- I learned many things. One of the most important insights was discovering that the so-called "small moments" are perhaps the ones that are most remembered (when looking back) and can be the most vital, the most important in terms of strengthening the bond, deepening the love and strengthening the relationship from its foundation.  My ex and I did many "big" things together, such as concerts, co-hosting a dinner party to introduce ourselves to friends as a couple, birthday celebrations et al, but I look back on those days together and what really warms my heart and brings me the greatest sense of being loved are the intimate times (and I don't mean sexually)...cooking meals together, making a pie, cuddling and watching a DVD, carving a pumpkin (my first!) for Halloween.  Those are the things romance is made of...and that was a revelation.  It doesn't have to be CinemaScope-sized events...it is the quieter times, the "shorthand" a couple creates in communicating in a lower key when you're alone together and not afraid to be authentic.

MS and I were talking about this last night -- she's happily married for decades to a great guy and it's a perfect fit.  Where do you find THAT?? And they are both smart, funny, complex, attractive, accomplished people...but, maybe the key, they started out as friends.

CB and I were talking about a variation on the "where you find that?" theme a few nights back. We agreed, our society makes it much harder for a single, straight woman over 40.  Guys that age, it seems, more often than not, want a young chick because of the desire, no, perhaps more accurately, the conceit (whether they act upon it or not) to procreate.  And the allure of wanting a fresh, young thing...even if they are Grandpa Walton-esque.  

For a gay man over 40, or more...it's somewhat the same.  The competition is fierce, good men (straight or gay) seem to be in short supply, and the older 'ya get, it feels (true or not) it's the less likely you'll find someone...not just someone you "settle for" or you're pals and companions, or "sisters," but that one person who goes the distance AND gets you hot and you know feels the same way about you.  Is that gonna happen if you're over 40,. 45 or 50?  And, even if a woman looks great "for her age" or passes for a decade younger, attractive, stylin', has more energy and sense of adventure than a 20 year old (as is single CB on all counts and more) is that enough for a guy who's focused on finding a woman who can't be more than 32, preferably 28, to be acceptable candidate -- and, even if he's least 10, 20 (or more) years older? 

I think it's brutal for women out there, especially for bright, successful women who are perceived (and are) independent, financially and otherwise...and in its own way, it's much the same for a single gay man over 40...I've had four dates in the last month (the one with "Junior" I wrote about last week, and two really nice dates with a 29-year old who is attracted to "older men." I had a great time (on many levels) with "Cubby," but, that said, I don't want to be in the constant role of being "Daddy"-- whether it's something spoken or played out or not. I also had a very nice date with someone near my age, a doctor...alas, we didn't have romantic sparks, but I felt very comfortable with him in the sense that we were close to the same age, had accomplished different things in our lives but could relate to each other's experiences.  

I want a level playing field, with someone my age, who shares similar life experience of being around the same age...the same cultural references; I do remember the death of JFK and RFK and I can recall The Beatles on Ed Sullivan...even though my most vivid memory was watching Judy Garland sing "Ol' Man River" on her weekly TV series...an early gay alert, you think? :)

My mom and I never had the "gay" talk until I was 40 or so.  She didn't mention it, so I didn't mention it, or vice versa.  Since we didn't discuss it, I thought, well, she knows but doesn't want to deal with it...so I'll respect her silence and go along with it...and it took the easy way out, even though I didn't see it that way then.  FINALLY, at the REAL doorstep of 40, I tentatively asked my mom when she thought I might be...well, you know.

She smiled, gave me a look I shall never forget, and said, "Well, my first inkling was when you were about 12.  I came home from work early one day and you were dancing around the house lip-syncing to Judy Garland singing 'Never Will I Marry.'"


Tuesday, March 4, 2008

WE'RE ALL FRIENDS OF DOROTHY

Forget Sunday in the Park with George.  I had Sunday in Chicago in Oz Park with my great galpal, MS!...What better way to spend a leisurely afternoon, as the weather "warms" up (a piping hot 36 degrees, where's my thong?) and many slowly-defrosting Chicagoans take to the outdoors to thaw out and socialize.  Oz Park (in Chicago's historic and bustling Lincoln Park area) envelopes you as you take it in...even though we had to leap through puddles (I swear they were six feet deep) to get close to first-rate artist renderings of The Tin Man, The Cowardly Lion, The Scarecrow and Dorothy (complete with Toto and picnic basket, of course).

Who isn't in love with "The Wizard of Oz," or at least feel it's a special part of their childhood?  

One of the glorious moments in strolling through Oz Park was seeing dozens of children (and their parents), blissfully ignoring the sprinkle of rain and puddles, frolicking (I don't use that word often, but it certainly fits here) with such joy and abandon in the Oz-themed playground. I was worried about getting my butch lace-up (supposedly) water-proof work boots wet in those deep puddles.  Well, that's what happens when you get older.  One day it's splashing in puddles, the next you fret about damp shoes...when did I become my grandmother?

As a pair of Judy Garland devotees (talk about getting in deep!), Oz Park is a particular treat for MS and myself to share together, all the more so because MS is knee-deep in its history and splendor and got to play tour guide on this day for my first time in the park. 

As she explained, in the early 1990s, the Oz Park Advisory Council and the Lincoln Park Chamber of Commerce commissioned artist John Kearney to create a Tiny Man sculpture, which was installed in October of 1995; The Cowardly Lion followed in May, 2001, with the 7 ft./800 lb. cast bronze Scarecrow joining the others in June of 2005.  In Spring, 2007, Dorothy and Toto were unveiled in Oz Park, to much acclaim and fanfare, marching bands included.

Thanks to MS for generously providing several of her great shots from Dorothy's debut in Oz Park last year.  Additional thanks, my dear MS, for a great day, a memorable afternoon and her kind of delicious, factoid-filled tour I probably wouldn't get at The Smithsonian. 

I didn't want the day to end at Oz Park -- keep in mind, I was rocket-fueled by a caffeine-spiked White Chocolate Low-Fat Mocha the size of a water pitcher from the nearby neighborhood Starbucks -- MS then took me on a guided tour of the "new" (for me) Lincoln Avenue..I never knew so many faux Irish people had so many Irish-named bars! And all on one block...although a matinee live performance was underway, we silently made our way into the gloriously restored Biograph Theatre (back in my day, it was known as the place where Dillinger got shot), now billed and fabulously reborn as The Victory Gardens Theater.  

The manager welcomed us in and invited us to look around the grand lobby...and bar area, where a large-screen monitor broadcasts the live performance.  The theatre brought back a lot of warm memories for me...when I was in high school, The Biograph was known then as THE place for revivals of great old movies...and with the added bonus of great prints, rare gems not often seen...and, often, with top-flight stars and directors present for Q&A with the audience.  

I shall never forget an evening at the Biograph in '74, I believe, where the legendary director, Vincente Minnelli, introduced his MGM masterpieces, "Meet Me In St. Louis" and "The Clock"and spoke to the audience about his love affair and marriage to Judy Garland, the star of both films and the filmmaking process in Hollywood's Golden Age. I came away with many fragmented memories of that night now so long ago, but what remains is Vincente's great affection for Judy Garland, his enormous respect for her talent...and his still-potent love (perhaps even adoration) for her, which had not diminished over decades.  

I'm falling in love more and more with Chicago each day...and if the temperature keeps rising, so will my passion for this city. What I find here, which I didn't find much of in L.A., is a sense of community.  People look out for each other here in a way I didn't find in Los Angeles; with good friends, yes, of course, but not in general.  One of my neighbors cheerfully describes Chicago as "the biggest small town in the world"...and I think he might just be right.

(ALL THE OZ PARK PHOTOS ON THIS BLOG ARE COURTESY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER, THE DIVINE "MS"...THANKS FOR SHARING THESE GREAT SHOTS, MY DEAR FRIEND!)








Sunday, March 2, 2008

A BLOGGY DAY

It's, as they used to say, a "trip" for me to get responses to my blog entries.  Some from people I know, others from those I haven't met.  Thank you for taking the time to read the blog -- and for posting comments.  It's terrifying, to lay nekked, as it were, in this blog....but it's an adventure that I'm enjoying -- and one where I'm clearly learning as I go along.  It's interesting that two of the comments posted re my last entry are from women friends dear to me for many years, one I've known since high school, who lives in Chicago; we've resumed our friendship for the steady course and not just shotgun-style, from back in the days when I'd visit Chicago to see my mom for a week or two at a time. And to get a comment from my dearest galpal, CB...my best friend since 1983...and also from MS, my new, fabu Chi-town friend and old kindred spirit.  I'm blessed to have them in my life.  Later this afternoon, MS (Kate Hepburn incarnate)invited me to join her for a romp through Oz Park...what more perfect for a crisp Sunday afternoon?

A few days ago, I also ventured out further in the blog waters by sending a group email to about 15 friends to let them know that I had started a blog.  Of course, I forgot to include the blog address (sending mixed messages...or just my latent fear? LOL), so I had to resend the info to everyone. 

I've been told that blog readers don't have a lot of time...and that my posts are perhaps a tad (!)  too long...I was gently advised that I could have cut my last marathon post into thirds...and that every post doesn't have to be a blog entry of epic proportions!  

Before I head to church this morning, I wanted to make mention of two first-rate blogs...they are highlighted in the "Blog Cabin" box, but if you haven't checked 'em out, I know you're in for a treat.  Blue Dog Stew, from my LA pal, Blue Doggie, is a forum for his sharply observed and very well-written musings, usually focusing on current political and social issues.  Blue Doggy is an enormously intelligent, compassionate and extremely passionate man when it comes to politics, law and the inequities of our society and his blog is one of the best.  He takes an unexpected, delightful turn from the kind of topic he usually focuses his high-beams on in his most recent blog entry called "Tooth or Dare," a highly amusing post on his recent foray into being the victim of cosmetic dentistry.

If you haven't hit upon Marc Olmsted: Trash Whisperer yet (link in Blog Cabin), it's blog gold. Marc, a friend from my L.A. days for many years, is the inspiration for my blog and, I'm sure, for many others.  

He's a first-rate writer, and his observations about L.A. life,  his writing career, his family, relationships, sobriety, dating, and on and on, are always thought-provoking, often provocative and invariably on-target.  His blog is the standard to which I aspire...and, even this early on in my blogging career, I am in awe of how he produces great stuff for his blog every day.  He's given me encouragement, advice and praise and criticism every step of the way with my fledging blog, and for that I am most grateful.  

I defy you to read his blog just once...you'll find yourself going back for more each day.  At least, that's how it is with me.  If anyone should get a book contract for writings derived from his blog, it's Marc Olmsted.

Heading off to church (and not a moment too soon)...happy Sunday to all.  

Thursday, February 28, 2008

WHAT A WEEK AND IT'S ONLY THURSDAY

I've been silent here for several days, which wasn't my intention at the outset. My plan was to post every other day, if not daily. The first entries shot out of me like a bullet. Not so, this time. Since my last post, I've begun two posts -- but stopped mid-stream -- twice.  

The first recounted a wonderful evening with my new fabu galpal, MS, who invited me to be her guest at The Goodman Theater.  It was a swell time...opening night of two one-act plays -- the second of three installments of The Horton Foote Festival. I indulged myself by taking a cab downtown; I was like a saucer-eyed kid, taking in the breathtaking sights as we coasted down Lake Shore Drive to The Goodman. The night was made all the more special because of the presence of the playwright, a dapper, sharp-eyed 91 years old. The formidable Mr. Foote is the recipient of an Academy Award (for his screenplay adaptation of "To Kill a Mockingbird") two Pulitzer Prizes, with an impressive list of credentials spanning decades.  

As a writer, it was a particular honor for me to be in his presence, and see his work come alive on stage. The two one-acts (set in a small Texas town in the 1930's) each hitting different notes, were both beautifully performed and produced.  It was one of those wonderful nights in the THE-a-TAH. Yet, for whatever reason, earlier this week, I couldn't pull the words out of me to write about it.  The dreaded writer's block.

Last night, I had one of those horrific online dates. I started to write earlier today about it, but hesitated because I declared last week that I would most likely NOT write about my dating experiences; that said, I can't help myself.  

First of all, I have renewed my commitment to only date age-appropriate men. That's not difficult because I'm only interested in dating men my own age, five years or so on either side. Apart from eye candy moments, I'm only attracted to men 40 and up. "Junior" is, um,  30 and I'm...so not 30. But I went along with it, because he approached me and pursued me and so I thought, I'm game, if it's not an issue with HIM, it won't be with me.  Okay, I'll be Daddy Date for the night. 

Maybe it's a generational thing, but I cannot date someone who sends 20 text messages in one day instead of doing the normal, old-fashioned, but much more efficient and time-saving method of JUST PICK UP THE PHONE AND CALL ME ALREADY! Text messaging irritates me.  Despite that annoyance, I decided to not be an old fogey about it and let it go.  

When he opened the door to his apartment, he lunged toward me without warning and tried to plant a big, wet one on me. I pulled back before I suffocated and looked around to see a panoramic view of dirty dishes, soiled clothes and half-open containers of crusty take-out food. I quickly suggested we leave to have dinner. He mentioned his roommate was out of town and he would have been able to use his car to drive us to the restaurant, but it was in the shop.  On the way down the stairs, he made a crack about his roomie having a Jetta, "the gayest car on the planet. It's such a cliche!"  

As we walked outside to the street, I clicked my remote to unlock my car.  I looked at him and said with gritted teeth,"That's mine over there -- the blue Jetta."

The evening went downhill from there. The restaurant he recommended served the worst Mexican food I have ever endured, and that's saying a lot. I ate four bites of a wad of congealed rice and greasy dark chicken and pushed the plate away in self-defense.  

He wolfed down his food and knocked back a double margarita.  His first.

"I had a rough night last night.  I went out drinkin' with some friends after work and we got so wasted that I wound up sleeping on someone's sofa because I was too drunk to go home."

He paused.

"You think I would have learned from the night before! I got so trashed I don't know how I got home."

He drained the last drop of his double.

"Aren't you going to have one?"

"I told you on the phone, and it was also in my profile, that I don't drink and that I'm in recovery."

He frowned.  "So does that mean you don't drink, ever?"

"Ah, no."

"Bummer."

The endless evening -- which in actuality clocked in at less than 90 minutes door-to-door -- was capped by a late-night visit to the grocery store. I thought I had brushed off the lousy date pretty well, all things considered. I told myself, just chalk it up to one of those bad nights, it will be a funny story sometime, maybe, and it was good that I went on that date, no matter how it turned out, because it got me out of my comfort zone. It wasn't a disaster, I told myself, it was an ADVENTURE. Uh-huh. But when I got home and started to unpack the groceries, I realized that I perhaps not tossed it off as adroitly as I thought I had. The evidence was compelling. And expensive.  

There were three frozen pepperoni and sausage deep dish pizzas, a large bag of double-stuff Oreos, two EIGHT-packs of 100 Grand candy bars, two big bags of Doritos (buy one, get one free!), ice cream bars, a twelve-pack of Coke (not Diet, but regular...what better to wash down the sixteen candy bars and ice cream?), four frozen entrees of family-size lasagna and a very pricey bag of coffee.  $20 for a lousy dinner, but $82 for comfort food.  It better snow again, so I can shovel to work off all these empty calories, or it's back to 45 minutes a day on the Stair-Master.  I'm sure I'll be able to fit back into my jeans in a few days. I'm wearing sweat pants now.

I've said before that losing a parent is life-changing.  It shows you whether you've got the stuff to handle just about anything that might be thrown your way.  And that's true here. The date is already ancient history to me (although I'm writing this with a Coke on one side and an open bag of Doritos on the other) because it ain't nothin' compared to real, important problems.

Yesterday morning, I saw an ambulance outside my front window.  I felt like nosy neighbor Gladys Kravitz, pulling back the curtain and peering outside. In about an hour, one of my elderly (but robust) neighbors, a wonderful woman, 85 years old, was to come over and go through my mom's personal belongings with me. She had offered, and I gratefully accepted, because I knew from earlier attempts myself, it was too difficult and emotional for me to do it alone.  

A few minutes after spotting the ambulance, the phone rang.  It was Catherine, the neighbor, who haltingly explained the woman who lived downstairs in her building -- a tenant and friend for over 30 years -- died in her sleep.  She, of course, had to postpone coming over to go through my mom's effects.

She and her husband were friends of my mom for nearly 25 years. They were at my side the entire time of her illness and were there, with me, when my mom took her last breath, here at the house.  They wouldn't leave my side until the very end,  nearly three in the morning.  When I was deciding whether to move back to Chicago, she hugged me and said "We're adopting you now, we'll take care of you...we hope you'll stay and live here."  

When she told me about the woman dying in her sleep, I could hear her fight back tears. "I don't know if I can take this.  Losing my two best friends, your mother and now her, in three months. It's too much."

I spoke to her husband today and he had a different tone in his voice. It was the first time he sounded like an old man, not the vital, robust guy who took on the world.  

"There was no warning.  She died in her sleep. We're the same age.  Your mother died, now her.  Catherine and I were walking home today from our volunteer work and we saw a dead bird on the sidewalk." His voice broke. "Everything around us is dying."

Catherine told me later that her husband wouldn't leave the bird there, exposed and prey to other animals.  He went home, got a small box and tenderly put the little bird in it and buried it in his backyard.

I was surprised when Catherine asked if I wanted her to come over this afternoon to help me sort through my mom's stuff. I asked if she was up to it and she said it would be good for her, it would bring back some happy memories of their friendship together.  

It was more difficult for me than I expected. In my mom's bedroom closet, she found a box of all the letters and cards I had sent to my mom over the years, from grade school on...and the envelopes with her handwriting on each one. I was astounded to find all of my report cards from grade school through high school, my college transcripts, honor roll ribbons, diplomas, things I hadn't seen in years, but there they were, lovingly preserved and carefully documented. I held back tears as much as I could but, funny thing, I was kind of okay until I found her sewing kit.  That was it for me.  I remembered all those years when I was a kid and came home with a torn button or tear on my pants and she'd give me one of those 'boys-will-be-boys' looks and say 'Bring me the sewing kit'...and she'd fix it in a flash. I sat on the floor, holding the green sewing box, seeing the spools of thread and thimbles that had been there since I was a kid.  

They say it's the small things that can get you.  Ain't that the truth.