On Poetry again

I used to be a poet once before, but then, as now, I was shy about it, though pretty damned industrious. I winnowed my stuff down to the three most important words. All of the poetry in me equaled three words.

I even went to a class or two and read my shit scrabbled on the back of napkin of all things to a predictably motley collection of poets who like me had just died and died and died when they realized that people like Eliot or Frost or Walt fucking Whitman happened once and they aren’t us.

In any case all three of those worthies are dead and buried which leaves you with me. And I’m impoverished in every way that counts. I’m not sad about that or down in the mouth or anything else which might smell like defeat.

I acknowledge. I move on. It’s just that, and please note that I’m not complaining, I’m not quite sure how to begin.

In any case, they didn’t like it or me, my fellow dead smelling poets. I couldn’t tell whether I was too serious or not nearly serious enough. I couldn’t really tell whether I was mocking them or aping them (an unfortunate, but entirely serviceable term). In any case I was drummed out in short order and they even took away my fucking pencil.

I didn’t get the girl. I didn’t gain friends or influence people. Sure, I read some and talked a little, but that is all ash now. Plath certainly said it better just a few short breathes before she stuck her fucking head in the oven, but a bright spot (I think I’m verging on pun here, which is a finely realized form of poetry) is that ash is before everything else, before you get sad thinking about it and ruin your make up, before it blows away, before we smear it on our foreheads in place of rubbing blue mud on our bellies I guess, ash is first and foremost, evidence of fire. Think of that. They should have seen me burn.

Rounding things out. Wind doesn’t begin or end. Conversations falter and are put off but are never over. The wind is phatic in nature. People can talk about anything.

So, now, probably ten years later, I’m a poet again. I think the other poets have died and gone away or are in any case hiding unrecognizably inside fat but still apparently fuckable soccer moms. Though I don’t talk about it much, I know that I beat my part of them into a bloody fucking pulp as a sort of extended dance which is most easily and serviceably misunderstood as a sort of extended misunderstanding – them of me, I of them, all of us of poetry, which I’ve come to understand and will argue about if provoked, is after all not a thing in itself, but an intrinsic quality of the kind of language we use everyday, not without thought, but in place of thought, where thoughts will go when we have them, like shoe stretchers to be a little sillier then I intended when I sat down to tell you this very important fact, and if you’ve been paying attention, you will note, that makes this poetry.

Affordance: I Don’t Intend To Be Difficult

I’m a joiner. I like to fit in like a dove tail or other connective method of joining two things together which used to be separate. I’m still as large and noble as Patagonia. I’m not as expansive as Whitman, whom I admire without liking or really understanding, or as specific and entrenched as Frost whom I understand and admire and love dearly though not exclusively.

Speaking of love, I’d suggest a kiss, but I’m feeling rather stern and scratchy from not talking much lately. Were I to clear my throat in preparation for this kiss which is not likely to occur, most people, I’m talking the average sort of Joes and Janes who respond to surveys or who are caught like deer in headlights when you point the fucking camera in their face for all the world (or at least those who have sprung for cable) to see. I don’t like to stereotype but I believe firmly and whole heartedly to the extent that particular organ in my wind wracked body still functions in its abecedarian way as a pump and the locus or moment arm ( two terms about which I’m admittedly fuzzy) of all human motives ( and only humans have motives in the purest sense of the word in addition to opposable thumbs which everyone knows or the whole flex palmed thing which we use everyday without really thinking about unless it hurts us somehow) that in order to explain one thing it is necessary to understand something else.

This, some may recognize, is a page from my father’s very good book about how in order to do any job well one must purchase a new tool -- something strange and exotic, perhaps even archaic, like a hand drill or an auger. I’m still too young to really know what one would do with such a tool which I use metaphorically but my father meant in a concrete manner. He would build something with it. Rough-hewn, perhaps, but definite, something to point to, too heavy to lift perhaps and definitely prone to knocking against your shin.

In any case, I’m more of a gardener and less a carpenter. Tools are sort of beside the point in my principal occupation, which is, to state it simply, love, which I’ll define later, after turning over every rock in my garden searching for that which is plain and obvious, as the definitive transaction of the human condition. It is the thing.

Is this working for you? I meant working in the broadest sense of the term like the way lungs work when they are properly outfitted like wings in your chest, but you can define it however you must.

I don’t intend to be difficult but it is plain for all to see that we, by which I mean just you and I dear, are starting to reconsider that kiss.

Bounce

We haven’t talked about this enough you know. Not swept under the carpet or parked in the car port or docked in the porta-potty. It’s distasteful to use it and not speak of it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for taboos ( I nearly wrote tattoos) but, and this, as it turns out, is a pretty big but, is a different matter all together ( I almost wrote horse of a different color but that always gets me thinking of marching to the beat of a different drummer which leads me into the whole punk wrock[sic, man it’s sick, as in perverse] thing and then, and only then, do I get tempted to kick some body’s ( oeuvre) fucking head in) But I digress.

To return to my point which I had hardly got started on before I forced me to traipse down the fucking garden path, I think the time has come for us all, and I do mean all of us, wall flowers, lurkers, and shiny bright stars -- all, to begin looking inside and I don’t mean via our navels either which are commonly called belly buttons and bellies often have a sort of rubber-like quality that comes from the constant, brutal and short starvation/satiation cycle that we , who are first and foremost ( I almost wrote foremast which I seem to recall is a very specific part of a ship), children of and parents of and stewards of a sort of dream remembered dimly and bouncy, bouncing, bounced – which as you will no doubt recall is a fairly distinctive quality of your average rubber ball.

The Secret Life of Rubber Balls

A little warm up. The hang dog expression I wore merely masked a belly ache. Merely is a funny word as it reminds me of the sea, which is anything but. My ass is dragon. My wagon is dragging. This drags on things. Drag is merely a property of objects that occurs to you when you throw them hard at something, like a window, but they don’t fly straight or true and, in fact, lose their impetus before they fulfill their special purpose --a purpose, in part, defined by your impetus.

What moves you? Some inner force, like the bounce bound up in a rubber ball? The child doesn’t make the ball bounce once -- not once or twice, the bounce doesn’t a child make. Never. In fact, not ever.

And I’m not reserving this for mere children, who are anything but. It’s impetus and purpose, symbolic action and the raw stuff like when you slap your hand hard down on a flat surface like a table or the fat part of your thigh and the air escaping from between your palm and the aforementioned flat surface makes a nice twacking sound that anyone in their right mind would recognize immediately as merely a bid for your very limited attention.

Out with the old, in with the old

This is the next to last day at my old job. I'm on holiday till Jan. 3 then I show up at my new job, then, for reasons beyond my ken, (or is it kin?) I show back up here for one day in early February to sign off on my termination paper work. After that I'm done.

Except that I've agreed, despite my better judgement, to put together a publication for my old job as a consultant, i.e. they pay me a flat fee rather than a salary. The money will be good, but I 'm not going to get that grand sense of closure I was hoping for. I won't pack up my office now till I'm done with the publication. And I'm likely to be involved, despite my better judgment again, with actually getting the publication printed and distributed.

I'm doing it for the money, bacause it's going to be a colorful slick magaziney thing which is fun to put together, and hopefully, to reinforce what a good and capable person I am to my old bosses. Again for reasons beyond my ken.

However, I wish I wasn't. I should have said No. I'm too accomodating. too good and decent of a person. I need to work on my self serving skills. That should be my News Year's Resolution to be more selfish and miserly with my time and energy. To think about me more. To take care of myself better. me, myself and I, me me me me me me.

And you, gentle reader should think about me more too. Include me in your prayers. Chat me up to your friends and loved ones., Introduce me to hot women as that 'way cool stud who blogs sporadically." Send me presents. Whatever you can do for me. Now there's a fine fucking christmas sentiment for you; Do something good for me! That is all.

Tora! Tora! Tora!

Imagine a highly trained and motivated soldier whose post consists of a bunker to hide in if the enemy forces attack in overwelming numbers, a machine gun emplacement to kill the enemy with if the soldier is likely to be able to fight them off, and a klaxon, controlled remotely by someone unknown and unseen located far away at HQ, set atop a tall poll to warn him of the enemy's approach. There is nothing else.

Imagine that each time this nameless faceless superior sounds the klaxon the soldier has been trained to drop whatever he is doing and cast around for the enemy. Once he spots the enemy, he is to utilize his superior training in threat analysis to determine whether he should man his machine gun and fight off the attackers or else lock himself in his impenetrable bunker and wait for them to pass if they are too powerful for his machine gun.

Imagine that although the soldier doesn't like action and dreads the sound of the klaxon he is loyal enough, soldier enough, and adult enough to perform his duty each and every time the klaxon rings . . no matter what.

Now imagine that one day the klaxon, which formerly rang only occasionally and when the enemy was on the verge of attacking begins to ring daily . . . sometimes twice or three times a day. And that it has begun to ring when no enemy is in sight. Each time it rings the poor loyal soldier runs around and around, becoming more agitated and upset, because since he can not find the enemy, he doesn't know whether to flee to his bunker or to man his machine gun. The soldier's training and sense of duty tells him he must react appropriately each and every time the klaxon rings but the environment, his senses and the context in which the klaxon has begun to ring signals no action. his training doesn't cover what to do when the klaxon rings bereft of the presence of the enemy.

This is me lately. This has been going on in my head. I hear the klaxon go off at random times. The enemy is near. The redcoats are coming, whatever. But there is no danger. No threat. No nothing. But the klaxon keeps ringing. And I've been trained to be sensative to the klaxon and to react to it. Trained by a lifetime of experience, knowing my instincts in general are pretty good, that my perception is clear and my intel formidable.. . in other words the the nameless faceless klaxon ringer only rings it when danger is nigh. Except there is no enemy, no danger and nothing to be done about it.

I think they're called panic or anxiety attacks. They happen just about every night when I try to go to sleep. Usually once more somewhere between 2-4am --I sleep in fits and starts on the best nights so I always have a period of wakefullness around then. And sometimes my private silent klaxon rings in the middle of the day. They last about 5-10 minutes at most. And there is seemingly nothing I can do about it.

That is all, soldiers. Pass around the valium.

Ten Minute Cycle

So, I've decided to leave my cushy job as a university administrator for a less cushy but better compensated job as a corporate administrator. I submitted my letter of resignation yesterday. Now I'm on this constant ten minute manic-depressive cycle. somewhere between minutes five and six I have a 27 second panic attack. Luckily, each and every symptom, save my sweaty palms, are invisible to the outside world. No one knows I'm desparately afraid I've screwed up and will have to go back to work in the grocery store that I worked in prior to getting my degrees and getting this job. It's either this job or bag boy for me. Nothing in between

Rationally, I've made the right decision. This will be a good line on my resume. I've stagnated a bit here as there are no real challenges and certainly no mentors. But I've been pretty comfy here too. I've made a few friends. And I could be here forever, entombed in my relatively nice office.

I've turned into an adult as far as salaries go too. I actually conducted a successful negotiation for a higher rate. I had a plan and carried it through. They offered one salary, then what they considered a comprimise offer followed by offering me what I asked for in the first place. It won't actually make me rich, but I won't be living paycheck to paycheck anymore either. And I've just inceased my price tag.

I got a lot of good help from the university career management center. Becuase I'm an alum I can access the services. mostly what they did was moral support. "Yes, your resume is Ok." "No, your cover letters don't suck." that kind of thing. But they did give me some valuable ammunition for the negotiation phase too. For that I'm thankful. All told, they provided me with a valuable service.

I've got to go back to my cycle now.

See you folks

My surreal Interview Process

So it looks as if I'm going to get a juicy new job offer soon. I had my third interview (informal lunch with Chief Techy of the Rapidly Growing Highly Abstract Product/Service Firm with Tendrils reaching out everywhere. )

Here is how a summary of how the process went

I hit the send button on the email containing my fifty billionth resume and rapidly customized cover letter. (position: writer-editor-trainer)

Five minutes later I get a glowing reply from the project manager looking to hire me

Two days later I get an interview with him. I go to this crappy warehouse.


Him: Wow. You're qualified. What can you tell me about yourself?
Me: Err .. . I think I'm barely qualified if you'll only give me a chance
Him: Ok
Me: Ok, what?
Him: well you're qualified, you make me all happy inside and you'll be working here in this crappy warehouse.
Him: What are your salary requirements?
Me: (thinking:Well they just feed me table scraps now so any salary whatsoever would be fine) Saying: They told me not to name a salary
Him: Who is they?
Me: Err. . People who I talked to about interviewing techniques
Him: I believe in being forthright.
Me: I believe in listening to people who know about stuff like this but I'll do a five minute solilique on why money is not important to me and I just want to be well liked so you don't think I'm not being forthright
Him: Well Ok then, you convinced me. On to the second interview. We're going to be looking at dozens of people so it may be a while till you get that call
Me: (bowing and scraping) thank you Sahib, thank you
Him: might be a year or two till they call your non forthright ass, even though I have man love for you.
Me: (bowing and scraping) thank you Sahib, thank you

Five minutes later the phone rings

him2: Hey I just talked to the original him and he said you could be running this company in a week and he wants you to be a sperm donor because his sperm is obviously inferior to yours why don't you drop by in five minutes and talk with myself and Him3
Me: well I'm at work now and its late in the afternoon , how about tomorrow morning?
Him2: Ok how about midnight, that's morning?
Me: how about noon?
Him2: how about the crack of dawn?
Me: how about 8 am?
Him2: aww ok

The next day, I'm 2o minutes late. The tunnels were backed up, I got off at the wrong exit and I got lost trying to find the place. Just when I decide to just turn around and go home I find the place, It is a nice office space in a nice office park

I walk in dejected and embarrassed at being late to an interview

Nice lady at desk: Dean!!!
Me: uhm yeah I'm here to see Him2
Nice Lady at desk: Oh I just knew you'd be here! We all told Him2 how bad traffic was and he said to keep an eye out for the second coming
Me: any luck with that?
Nice lady at desk: (leading me back to him2) You're here now to save us, silly, that's all that matters.
Him2: Thanks for stopping by.
Me: Sorry I'm late. This clearly demonstrates how unfit I am to be employed here
Him2: On the contrary, it merely shows what an incredible human being you are. Let me go get Him3, our far-seeing-abstract-product-creating-muckety-muck, he's dying to meet you.
Him3: So the original him told us that you can walk on water and are a supra genius is there anything you care to add to that?
Me: (drooling a little bit, eyes glazed over) wha??
Him2 and Him3:(in unison) How inspiring. I think you're turning us gay or if you don't swing that way maybe you'd like to date our daughters?
Me: ( a little scared now) This isn't by any chance Stepford county?
Him2 and Him3: ( guffawing)
Me: ( giggling a little out of nervousness)

DELETED: 2o minute love fest I'd rather not recall

Him2 and Him3: Well clearly you're way over qualified and seem to have an intuitive grasp of our business and our abstract product. When can we start learning at the feet of the master?
Me: I have no idea what you're talking about or what you folks do here. I read your product description and it all seems to be crazy talk
Him2/Him3: Pshaw, you're too modest. . . What were you thinking about in terms of salary?
Me: They told me not say, but around $XXXX would be fine.
Him2/him3: Well we were thinking about a minimum of $XXXX over that
Me: (kicking myself for naming a salary despite good advice to the contrary)What I meant to say was that anything below that would be an insult . . .
Him2/him3: Him4 gets back into town next week. We'll call you then. Could you provide us with references
Me: ok here you go.

After I get back to my office
Reference1: Him2 just called me and I told him you're great and he agreed
Reference2: Him2 just called me and I told him you're great and he heartily agreed
Reference3: Him2 just called me and told me how great you are and I couldn't get a word in edge wise.

The next day

Him4: Hey, I'm coming over immediately to take you to lunch
Me: uhm ok
Him4: ( arrives at my office) wow, nice office. So I understand you can walk on water and that you invented the world as we know it
Me: actually I have no idea what you're company does and I'm just barely competent here. I expect to be uncovered as a fraud any second. I tried to tell Hims 1,2 and 3 that repeatedly.
Him4: well our company does gobbly-gook that no one understands and we need you to help us. We'll hire you in at this rate and after five minutes evaluate for a raise. I think it likely you'll be vice president in a week or two.
Me: But I love my job at the university and the manicured campus
Him4: But look. I have this big bag of money and I'll make you king of the world.
Me: But what about my PhD program?
Him4: I'll pay for it!
Me: But I don't want to work in that crappy space that the original him works in.
Him4: No problem. You can just visit him occasionally but actually work in the nice office park
Me: But wouldn't he be my boss?
Him4: In his dreams, I don't know who you'll report too but I do know once you come on board everyone in the company is going to love you and want you. Maybe we can clone you.
Me: But I'm stupid and lazy.
Him4: Ok, Ok I'll pay you $XXXX more and of course there is gobbly gook stock options.
Me: (smile and nod)


So, now I'm waiting for the offer to show up in the mail. Him4 as much as told me that he expected me to use it to try and negotiate a higher salary here and wants to help me along. He also knows I have a nice long Christmas break coming up and couldn't possibly start till the middle of January.

Who knew interviewing was so easy?

So in a moment of desperation and as part of my seemingly endless job search, I applied for the position of mystery customer. As you might guess this is not a serious career move for me. The work is done on a per job basis. They contract you to say, stay over night in a mid range hotel, order room service and a movie, and go down to the restaurant for drinks. All of which is paid for by the hotel. Your task is to get everyone's name, complain about two things, and fill out a four page questionnaire. So I did that.

I was allowed to bring a guest and one small pet if I so chose. I brought Lori along for moral support but left Mister G (AKA chick-a-noonie, little buddy, little bastard, fatty fatty, Orca and bowling pin) behind becuase of the trouble involved in stuffing his fat ass in a carrying case two sizes too small for him and dealing with any riotous behavior he was likely to treat us to in the confines of a hotel room where simply tossing him out the door was not an option.

I wasn't so woried about getting peoples names or the details of the questionnaire down, but I was a bit worried about finding things to complain about. Lori even suggested we bring some cat hair to spread on the bed linens in case everything was just so perfect.

Perfection didn't turn out to be a problem. Some part of me suspects that everything was so crappy as some kind of mystery customer counter intelligence effort, even though I know that's ridiculous.

A short run down of possible issues to complain about( we just picked the first couple as being an asshole to hired help is taboo for someone who spent 13 years in retail): First room: smelled like smoke despite no smoking signs everywhere, burn marks in carpet, burn mark in no smoking sign, hair ( and not little buddie's) on bed linens; Room service: took a looooong time to answer phone. Chicken breast was raw (pink and translucent, not just under done) in middle;Second room;(after they moved us out of first one) smells like fruity deodorizer sprayed over smoke, heat doesn't work, toilet doesn't work; restaurant; bartender disappears never to return after serving first crappy drink ( juice and vodka, how hard can that be?) had to track down someone to pay tab.

There's more but you get the idea. If we'd been paying for any of this (over $300 bucks worth of semi-fine hotel experience) we'd have been pissed. As it was the stay wasn't worth the pittance you get paid for being a mystery customer.

One funny thing did happen.

I was heading back up to the first room after searching the unsuccessfully for a vending machine that had cheese-its in it ( don't ask) and I happened to ride up in the elevator with this older lady who was dressed in standard business attire. I was dressed in my mystery customer best: black trench; jeans; and black 'sissy combat lite type' boots. She was in the elevator before I got there. As I entered, as is the custom, she politely asked me which floor I wanted. I politely responded. As fate would have it it turns out to be the same floor as she was on. Just as the door closed we heard someone issue forth this long hardy laugh that would likely have been a belly laugh except for one thing.

I could tell by the peculiar character of the laugh -- buzzing and mechanical -- that the mirthful but unseen person had at one time smoked and smoked and smoked so much that they burned their voice box ( or those portions of the speech organs that reside in the throat) down to a tiny black cinder which had to be surgically removed. Subsequently, this dedicated smokers was issued an electric razor which when turned on and pressed against the hole in their neck where their voice box used to be allows them to speak. However whatever quality their voices used to possess was gone and replaced with the voice of the electric razor. Also, this set up makes it impossible to really belly laugh. The unseen person whose laugh the nice lady and I heard did their level best in putting forth the best substitution for a belly laugh. It was loud, long, drawn out and chock full of as much gusto as the little electric razor could transmit. And then the elevator doors closed.

It was a little spooky really. The lady noticed, and we exchanged amused looks.

Me: (perfect dead pan delivery, thinking how clever and funny and quick I am) I hope the movie isn't starting.
She: Movie?
Me: You know that scary movie that is always just about to start in real life . . .

That got me a sort of curt nod. The nice lady became visibly nervous and I, being quite empathetic at the oddest times, became visibly nervous as well. I couldn't help it. I could tell that she didn't get the humor ( pathetic though it was) in the remark and took it at face value. I can't blame her for being nervous, for all she knew I was going to sort of kick start the scary movie right then and there between floors 5 and 6. I guess I sort of looked the part. So she avoided eye contact and sort of shrunk into the corner of the elevator, looking for all the world like a victim. I sort of went stone still and tried unsuccessfully to look passive and relaxed, but she was freaking me out.

We got to our floor and she exited first, and hastily. I followed slowly. Then it dawned on me. I wasn't absolutely sure which room I was in. It wasn't written on the keycard and the hotel clerk, following hotel policy according to my inside mystery customer knowledge, hadn't said aloud the room number, but had instead written it on the little folder the key card used to be in. I didn't consciously note the number before I left on my fruitless search for cheese-its. So as I followed the nervous lady down the hallway I began to look at the numbers on the identical doors to see if any of them rang a bell. 818, I consider it for a moment, that didn't seem right, 820 -- Nah it didn't end in zero. 822 -- 822 was the, by now, very nervous lady's room. She stood in front of the door searching her purse for her keycard, giving me ample time to pull out my butcher knife and, perhaps, gives a little monologue before chopping her into little tiny bits suitable for tossing off the balcony. Instead, I passed her on the far side of the hallway trying not to look like a loser. 824 . . . That shook something loose, my room was 814! Eureka! I forgot all about the lady in my releif at not being lost and roomles. I must have had a happy little grin on my face, as I turned around to head quickly back to my room. The lady gave a little squeak, and painfully fumbling with the keycard and the latch bolted into the room it what looked like a full blown panic.

I was happy that was over.

and the movie hadn't started after all.

The election results are in and 'Dubya' will be your president for another four years.
Look for:

• an increase in pointless,or at least duplicitedly pointed, American aggression in the name of safety and security.
• A eroding of the economic security of the middle class and a subsequent dropping out of the middle class.
• An accompanying rise in the new middle class also known as the working poor.
• A more divisive America combined with even less attention being paid to those of us on the losing side.
• An increase in the growing gap between the rich (the winners! yea!) and everyone else ( the losers, boo!).
• decreased engagement in education both public and private
• An erosion of our civil liberties in the name of security.
• Flag waving and war mongering marketed as patriotism.
• A sharp jump in Haliburton stock.
• Bush to exact revenge of some kind on those that opposed him.

A truly sad day in America. I'm embarassed for us. We've re-elected a goon and a bully, not by mistake or default or due to screwy ballot counting seemingly, but on purpose. Half you seem to want to be ruled by such a man. You long for a dictator, you got one. What were you thinking? It was fear and ignorance. That is the only possible explanation, unless you just like to be on the winning side. The side of the sly, greased down, smiling bastards.

Bush lied about the war and half of you don't care. He fumbled the war once we were embroiled in it and half of you don't care. He has hypnotized us with half founded fears and half of you don't notice.

Americans by and large side with the bully, with the stupid, with the charming, with the vapid. Might makes right. Money equals power equals virtue. A few simple vocabulay words like 'values, 'terror' and 'security' ,oft repeated, though devoid of meaning seem to have a narcotic effect on half of you. We are a nation of mean-spirited sheep, isolationsts sheep, reactive elitist sheep.

Look for the election (should we even need to have one, perhaps Bush will simply appoint his successor, why not?) to be more expensive intrusive and divisive in four more years. We Americans, it seems, no longer have much in common with each other. How can we stand as one people? I can't even talk to half of you. We lack a common vocabulary and mutual respect. America is united no more.

The likes of me should be put on reservations or internment camps, we don't beleong in America proper any longer. Not as citizens anyway. Possibly we should separate folks into citizens and the service class. That makes sense.

One funny thing though. I saw Ted Kennedy on TV last night and was struck by the physical similarities between he and Bush -- over sized head, somewhat exaggerated features, virtually the same hair --and I thought, that is what you get when you set out to breed politicians. Ponnochios that look good on TV.

I'm going to be obnoxious for Halloween

I'm pretty busy at work today but I didn't want to lose my momentum (heh) on the blog, so I decided to talk about my Halloween Costume specifically, and my big Halloween weekend in general. First the general stuff. I've got three, count 'em, three Halloween events planned for this weekend.

First, on Friday, tonight, there is a Halloween parade scheduled in the mildly boho district of Norfolk --Ghent if you care. We'll be attending, but not participating in that. There are a few lame bands (acoustic folk and 'beach music' Ach!!!) playing and I'll hang out and listen to them until the need to burn cars or kick something over becomes too acute. Then we'll hit a few bars probably.

Second there is a theme park near here (Busch Gardens Williamsburg) that puts on some sort of Halloween themed thing. We'll attend that on Saturday evening I think. It depends on my mood I suppose. I like roller coasters and stuff, but Lori doesn't. But I do like wondering around and looking at the gardens and what not. I wish I lived in a carefully manicured world with French fry stands every hundred feet.

Finally, on Sunday one of my nieces is DJing at a sort of gay bar; it is not totally gay, only two nights a week, but still gay enough to be called a gay bar. This is the costume event. My brother and his wife ( papa and momma smurf I think) will attend as will Lori and I. I'm dressing in some tight whitish pants, a shiny black shirt open at the chest to expose my rug ( all natural baby . . and gross of course) , an obnoxious plaid blazer. White shoes, a white belt, tinted sun glasses and slicked back ( or spiked up) hair (depending on what I can make it do) will complete my ensemble. Oh, I may go to K Mart and get some cheap but fragrant cologne to douse myself with. In short, I'll look pretty much as I do everyday.

When people ask me what or who I am I plan to say things like:

I'm 'it,' baby!
I'm a roller coaster of love, sweet heart!
I'm your daddy's nightmare and your momma's wet dream , toots!
I'm what you've been searching for, hot 'n tot!
I'm 90 seconds in paradise, cupcake!

. . . and other similar witticisms. Experience tells me that as I drink more I'll be able to come up with even funnier (to me) and more obnoxious ( to them) little quips. I'll accompany these remarks with snapping fingers, the pistol gesture and perhaps a little jig as the alcohol takes hold. I might even grab my insubstantial crotch if I'm so inspired.

Lori is going to wear something extremely slutty and she promises to tease her hair up really high. I'm sure she'll look fabulous.

How humiliating will it be for me to get beat up at a gay bar?