if you've ever told a lie and then watched it take on a life of its own, this post is for you

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like i've said earlier, i was a pretty good kid (especially compared to, say, my mother's best friend reba's sociopathic son alan, whom, although i avoided him like the plague, i thanked god for daily since with each new atrocity he committed i just looked better and better. but i digress).

my biggest flaw (other than this), was a tendency to carelessness--being depressed, i didn't give a shit, which meant i didn't pay attention to what i was doing about half the time.

and this was ok for the most part--i mean, i broke things and ran into walls a lot, but i made it through life more or less intact, no harm no foul.

until i got my driver's license, and it became a bigger problem.

the first accident was fairly simple and straightforward: we're in my mom's car (the sweetest little 350/4-barrel cutlass coupe you'd ever wanna see), i've had my license for about a month, my best friend david's riding shotgun, my little brother's in the back seat and (this being texas and all) we're looking for a gun shop. so intent am i in my search, in fact, that as soon as the light turns green i hit the gas and commence my left turn--right into the path of an oncoming car which, unfortunately, has right-of-way. WHAM!

what killed me about this accident (nobody was hurt, btw) was my mother's attitude throughout the whole thing: even though i had carelessly fucked up her flawless little car, all she cared about was that we were ok. and even in the ensuing weeks of hardship when we were without the car while it was being repaired--and were thus totally at the mercy of friends and neighbors for transportation--she never once gave me shit about it.

we eventually got the cutlass back, it was almost as good as before, and life went on.

soon thereafter, i got my own car, which i proceeded in fairly short order to wreck twice--i won't go into the details because they're not particularly interesting or germane to the story at hand; suffice it to say that, by the time the following events took place, i had a well-earned reputation among friends, family and insurance company as a wild card behind the wheel.

fast-forward several months: it's two in the morning and i suddenly need to talk to david about something, i don't remember what. calling him's outta the question--it would've awakened the whole household--so i naturally head over there.

and given the choice, i always grab my mom's keys--it's a much sweeter ride than mine. i haul ass around the loop--nobody on the road but me--and turn off onto arlington toward david's house. next thing i know, something happens and the car flips over, lands on its roof--WHAM!

i somehow manage to kick my way out, stand up and look back at the car--upside-down, roof crushed almost flat, wheels still turning slowly, headlights shining through the smoke--and then, adrenaline coursing through my 16-year-old veins, run at top speed all the way to david's house, pound breathlessly on his window and tell him what's happened. we get his mom up, drive back over to the accident scene--by now, a crowd has gathered--and await the arrival of the tow truck.

david and his mom drive me home--longest drive of my life, lemme tell ya--and ask me if i want 'em to come in and help me tell my mom. i say "no," walk in and face the music alone.

"ma, wake up--i just had an accident; i wrecked your car again."

"oh, my god, honey--what happened, are you ok?"

"yeah, i'm all right. i dunno what happened. i just...passed out for a second, and next thing i knew, i was upside down."

and she hugged me, counted all my fingers and toes and made sure i was ok. i told her it wouldn't be so bad this time; at least she'd have the use of my car while hers was being fixed. and for the moment, everything was ok.

except everything wasn't ok, because every word of the story i told my mother was a god damn lie.

here's the careless, stupid, teen-aged truth of what really happened that night: i turned off the loop onto arlington, reached for the radio to change stations and, in the process of so doing, dropped my cigarette. and, rather than doing the intelligent thing and coming to a stop to look for it, i continued rolling along while bent over blindly groping around on the floorboard for it like a fucking idiot. next thing i know, WHAM!--i run up on the curb. then, as i'm frantically trying to drag my head back out from under the dashboard, straighten up and figure out what's happening while simultaneously fumbling for the brake pedal, the right front bumper hits a guywire holding up a telephone pole, the rear wheels drive the car forward up the wire, and--just as my foot finds the brake--the car flips over onto the street.

wham.

the next day, guilt-ridden, i wake up determined to tell my mother the truth, only to find out that i've already been booked into mother frances hospital for a week of tests to determine the cause of my "blackout;" seems that, between (a) our insurance company, who, having already paid out three claims on my behalf in less than a year, is threatening to deny the current claim and cut off our insurance unless i'm thoroughly tested; and (b) my mother, who is frantic to find out what's wrong with her baby, we're gonna get to the bottom of my problem one way or the other.

so yeah, i ended up spending a week in the hospital being poked, prodded and invaded for no good goddam reason.

and the tests--costly, lengthy, excruciating and totally unnecessary--turned up nothing abnormal, of course, but they served to (a) assuage my mother's concerns for my well-being; and (b) force the insurance company's hand--they paid off after all.

eventually, we got the cutlass back. but this time, it was kinda like something that had gotten buried and resurrected in stephen king's pet sematary: although it looked the same, it was scary/dangerous to drive and we traded it shortly thereafter, to my mother's everlasting regret.

she loved that goddam car.

* * * * *

28 years later:

i pull into her driveway, walk next door to where i know she and my sister are having a christmas-eve drink with the neighbors, ring the doorbell and, to her astonished "honey, my god, i thought you were flying in tomorrow," i smile, toss her the keys to her new car and say, "nah, i decided to drive instead--merry christmas, ma."

i can only hope that, in that place up there where eternal karmic records are kept, this at least counts for something.

anybody else have the feeling bush is up to something?

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maybe it's just me, but i've had this unease i haven't been able to shake lately.

and while god knows there's plenty out there for everyday folks to feel uneasy about--the price of oil, the tanking economy, the almost perceptible decline of western civilization from day to day--all that's been factored into my personal financial equation for some time now (and yours too, if you have half a brain), so that doesn't explain it.

nah, what it comes down to is this: with his poll numbers almost down to nixonian lows, no victory in iraq in sight, afghanistan going to hell, our trade-deficit at all-time lows, our budget and debt at all-time highs, his almost palpable desperation for some kind of legacy, and time running out--and knowing what i know about him--i can't help but think that georgie is determined not to go out without one last, wild shot at being one of the "great" presidents.

and i may be worrying over nothing--we may be talking about something as innocuous as cheney brokering a deal with the pakistanis so that our illustrious leader can be photographed in an army uniform waving bin laden's head on a bloody pike in front of a "mission really accomplished" banner before his term is over.

or it may be something a lot more interesting--and that's what's got me uneasy.

[oh, and georgie: if i'm wrong about this, i will abjectly, profusely and publicly apologize at around noon on january 20 of next year--but not a minute before.]

semi-sober update: good god--i just realized that, except for the references to (a) the decline of western civilization and (b) prudent financial planning (neither of which seem to concern them in the least), the above post could have been written by a goddam democrat.

i need another drink.

brace yourself for cuteness

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there was a time when i had no patience for bloggers who foisted snapshots of their pets off on their readers as some kind of lame-ass substitute for actual content; this, of course, was (a) before i had my own blog; and (b) before i checked the memory card from an old digital camera last night and found these pictures.


understand: i've never been a cat person, and i sure as hell wasn't one that day in april 2001 when i went down to the garage to grab some tool or other, and heard--so faint i almost missed it--this weird little squeaking noise i couldn't isolate. i finally figured out it was coming from behind the dryer, went and grabbed a flashlight whose beam revealed this tiny little ball of mewing black fur; apparently the neighborhood stray had finally had her kittens, and had left one behind for me.


after fishing it outta there--eyes still closed, couldn't have been more than a few hours old--rather than heading over to the jobsite as i'd intended, i rushed instead to petco, got an eyedropper, formula and some quick instruction, and became a full-time wet nurse to the most demanding, ungrateful and adorable little kitten who'd ever lived.


at the time, i was working full-time and remodeling two houses, so i had no time for this foolishness; the idea was to keep her until she was weaned from the bottle and then find her a more suitable environment, but somehow that never happened.

today, she's as cranky and unlovable as her owner, but back then . . . *sigh*


[and in addition to being inexpressibly cute, the following picture finally solves the age-old mystery of how the roofing tar got on the eames ottoman.]

i know i promised you a car-accident story

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but something came up today which takes precedence: a chance for me to experience commonality with other gay bloggers--which, god knows, almost never happens.

but we all have to come out sooner or later--at least, that's what kelly stern thinks--and i think he's right. and, in commemoration of pride month, he wants gay bloggers to post his annual gay pride photo and tell their own coming-out stories.

so here's mine (and apologies for the length--this is really a two-part story, but i couldn't tell one without the other):

[i've told people i came out at 34 for so long that, like hillary in bosnia, i believed it myself--until in the course of writing this post i did the math and realized that all of the events i'm about to set forth took place while i was still 33; guess i'll have to change my story.]

it was long past time to go. i was determined to leave austin--end up on one coast or the other and it really didn't matter which--i just wanted to get as far away as possible from the state in which i'd grown up. i did some research, sent out the requisite portfolios and got interest from two firms--one in new haven, connecticut, and the other in san diego.

i flipped a coin, and within two weeks had quit my job, given up my apartment, put everything i owned into storage and and was on my way west. i had no fallback; if the firm in san diego didn't want me i had no idea what i'd do but i figured something would turn up. it really didn't matter--it was time to start my life, i couldn't wait any longer, and it wasn't gonna happen in texas.

as soon as i hit san diego--it was a thursday evening--i found a motel, checked in, and the first call i made was to the gay and lesbian center (i still remember how i had to nut up just to ask directory assistance for the number, and how surprised i was when she gave it to me without sneering). i called and asked the guy who answered if they had any kind of coming-out group, and he said, "yeah, and it starts in 15 minutes--you better hurry."

that wasn't really what i wanted to hear, but i was damned if i was gonna wait another week. so i headed over, parked, walked into the center, went to the closed door to which they directed me--the meeting had already started--took a deep breath, opened it, and as i stepped into a large room full of guys sitting in a big circle (who all looked up, of course), i said, in a small, quiet voice, "gee, i hope i'm not too late."

to which somebody replied, "hey, it's never too late," everybody laughed, and i was welcomed into a room full of gay men just like me.

i can't begin to tell you what an amazing time i had that night--listening to their stories, telling them mine, feeling total acceptance for the first time ever. and afterwards, i was invited to their usual post-meeting gathering at a nearby diner. when we finally parted company that night, many hugs and phone numbers were exchanged, and i said i'd see 'em next week.

and the following day, my interview went equally well. amazing firm--they loved me, i loved them, they were ready to make me an offer the following tuesday pending a final interview with a partner who happened to be out of town until then. i promised to be back bright and early tuesday morning.

i tell you, by friday at noon, i was on cloud nine--a gorgeous new city, a world-class firm who wanted me, and an open, friendly, accepting gay community who loved me for me. what more could i ask for, right?

i never saw any of those people again.

[i'm sorry if i'm dashing everyone's expectations of a nice, sweet, easy coming-out story, but if that's what you were really expecting then all i can say is, you're obviously new here.]

because, having a weekend to kill, i decided to use that time to drive up to los angeles, where my four best friends from architecture school had ended up, and hang with them for a couple days.

long story short: by the end of the weekend they were begging me to pick l.a. instead of san diego and, overcome by nostalgia for all the good times we used to have, i picked up the sunday times, circled some ads, called four firms on monday morning and allowed myself to be seduced by the guy who told me my first project would be assisting with the remodel of johnny carson's old malibu beach house for a celebrity couple.

and thus the die was cast.

what i didn't know at the time was, (a) my new boss would turn out to be another demanding autocratic asshole just like the one i'd fled in austin, (b) the celebrity couple would turn out to be high-maintenance mental-patient nutcases (welcome to hollywood, mike), (c) the friends i'd moved to los angeles to be with, would--every one--abandon the city and move back to texas within a year, and, finally (d) the l.a. gay and lesbian center would have no coming-out group (a problem i'd tackle later, but that's another post entirely).

basically what i'd done was take a big step backwards from san diego--even though i was in a new place, i had fallen back in with old friends from an old life--people who still knew me as straight--and i didn't have the tools to break that perception.

the next six months were a blur--i was sleeping on rick and laura's couch for much of that time until i could afford my own place, working my ass off, dodging the high-maintenance celebrity couple's incessantly whining phone calls as best i could and basically not being gay in the least.

none of that shit mattered, though--the thing was, the fuse had been lit, and it was only a matter of time before it blew. the flashpoint came over memorial day weekend, during the rally.

the rally: an annual event among my crowd that takes place even unto this day--basically a glorified but incredibly elaborate scavenger hunt. the host (who changes each year) comes up with a theme, writes scripts and plants clues in various locations for six to eight teams. it starts on saturday morning of each memorial day weekend, and ends up that night at a party location disclosed only when you solve the last clue (and while the rally's fun, it's also deadly serious--these folks play for blood). two days of drunken debauchery follow the event.

the whole thing had started in austin but moved to california when most of the originators did, and people came from all over every year to participate. this was the first time i had ever done it, however, and i found myself in a foursome with this really hot--and openly gay--guy named john, who had moved from austin to san francisco a year earlier.

our team came in third that year, but i didn't care--by saturday night, i was totally smitten. we partied that night and laid out in the sun on redondo beach all day sunday. that night, john and laura (one-half of the couple i then lived with) announced they were going up to west hollywood for the evening to have dinner with one of john's friends, and asked me if i wanted to go (like there was a question).

we had a great time, at a little gay mexican restaurant on santa monica blvd. called la fabula (long gone, unfortunately). it was such a heady experience--every time some guy would smile at me, john would kick me under the table, catch my eye and grin.

later, when we got back to the party house, people were winding down after two drunken days, knowing they had to fly home tomorrow, crawling into their sleeping bags (which were all over the place; we're talking 35 people in a two-bedroom condo). laura stayed up with us for a little while, then retired, leaving us alone. john and i talked and talked, and i finally said, "look, i know we have to go to bed, but i also know you're going home to san francisco tomorrow, and i really don't want this to end."

and he looked back at me, and said, "it doesn't have to end, mike. come to bed with me."

to which i replied, "i can't do that--there's people everywhere; what would they think?"

and to which he replied, "that's your problem, not mine. invitation's open." and then he smiled, walked off, stripped down to his skivvies and crawled into his sleeping bag.

and there it was--as stark a sophie's choice as i'd ever faced in my life: deny myself and do what's safe as i'd always done; or, for the first time in my life, do what i want and deal with the consequences.

and, you know what? what had happened in san diego made the choice easy.

the next morning--memorial day, bright and early--the sun is shining, i open one eye and the first thing i see is a sea of feet and ankles surrounding our sleeping bag. then i realize what had awakened me is not all the feet but all the half-whispering: "who's that in there with john--oh my god, is that MIKE?" "is he GAY?" "holy SHIT, did you know mike was gay?" "get over here, look at this!" "i didn't know mike was gay, did you know he was GAY?" "MIKE?! that can't be mike!" "oh my god look at them this is so fucking COOL."

john saved the moment--he sat up, barked, "get the fuck away and let us get up!"

the room cleared.

john got up to head for the shower, asked me if i wanted to join him; i declined, dressed and went out to face my friends.

who totally and completely accepted me--hell, were finally grateful for an explanation as to why i had isolated myself while we were all in architecture school (which, if you don't know, is about as fucking gay as it gets).

so it turns out super-straight mike was gay, and everything was still ok--how 'bout that?

on the way back to l.a., and full of my new-found freedom, i euphorically confessed to laura my feelings for john.

to which she replied, "mike, honey, i love john, but i gotta tell you the truth: every rally, he cuts one from the herd--this year, it was you. sorry, but don't count on a callback."

oh.

but hey, two lessons are better than one, right?