so while everybody else is oohing and aahing

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i'm thinking about the breathtaking, spectacularly choreographed war these fuckers are gonna throw for us one of these days.

it's a sickness

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the other day a co-worker was lamenting over some horrific occurrence she had recently endured, and, rather than commiserate, my first thought was, "lucky bitch--this happened to me, i'd have blog-fodder for weeks."

[and look--i still managed to get a post out of it]

thanks a lot, rss

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ever seen a picture where some guy's sitting there smiling for the camera, completely oblivious to the fact that one of his balls is dangling outta one leg of his shorts for all the world to see? well, now i know how he feels.

yesterday i published a post, came back later and decided it was lame, reworked it, re-published it, decided it was still lame (i mean, nobody really needs a discourse from me on levels of anonymity on the internet, do they?), and took it back to "draft" mode.

it's gone, right?

wrong--it may have disappeared from my actual blog but it's still out there all over the place; hell, i got a comment on it this morning.

and how can this be, you ask? well, unless you're as internet-dumb as i was up until about an hour ago, it's no mystery: it's all due to the magic of rss.

yeah, yeah, yeah, i know i should keep up with developments, but the truth is, i don't. i still read my blogs the old-fashioned way--i click over to each one every day, see if there's something new, and if not i move on to the next one. and while i was vaguely aware of rss and how it enabled folks to subscribe to various sites--and while i knew my blog was rss-subscribable--i hadn't really given much thought to the implications behind this technology.

until today, that is--when judi tried to comment on a post after i thought i had taken it down--and i decided it was time to set up a google reader account, subscribe to my own blog and see it the way many of you do.

and holy shit, was that a shock--seems that when you're rss-enabled and hit "publish," it really thinks you mean it, and you can't take it back.

see, i've always assumed that, unlike commenting, as an actual blogger i had an infinite number of do-overs; hell, i don't even really ever start to edit a piece until i've published it and read it over in finished form--that's when shit starts popping out at me that needs to be fixed. and then, compulsive perfectionist that i am, i'll go back and edit, re-publish, re-read and repeat the process indefinitely until i'm satisfied.

and now i'm thinking this must annoy the living fuck outta my subscribers if every time i re-publish a post it shows up on their rss as an update.

but the bigger problem to me is: i can't tell you how many times i've dashed something off and published it impulsively (i.e., drunkenly), only to read it over when better judgment returns and take it back to "draft" status--usually early in the a.m.--before anybody might possibly ever read it but me.

yeah--or so i thought until today.

what i found out scrolling through the rss-feed of my blog was, there's all kinds of shit out there that i never intended for anybody to see--including, for instance, this post (which i had taken down because it was too long day's journey into night for even this blog). but hell, it's out there, everybody's read it, so it's going back into the blog--along with yesterday's half-ass submission.

i haven't gone back any further yet to see what other atrocities from my past await me (i'm a little afraid to, actually--i'll pour a stiff one and do it tonight).

and please turn away while i tuck my balls back in, willya?

degrees of anonymity

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[i know this post is so 2005, but hey--i was late to the party.]

i got some really great, thought-provoking comments to my last post--which (as such things tend to go around here) leads me to this one.

in an increasingly un-private world, the web is one of the few places left where one can still run, hide and completely reinvent oneself--and this is especially true in the blogosphere. from the get-go, everybody has to make a decision: how out-there do they wanna be?

four basic choices:

1. totally anonymous. this blogger keeps his* real and blog-world completely separate; due to the total freedom from inhibition afforded by such anonymity, such blogs are often very controversial for one reason or another.

2. partially anonymous. while his true identity is kept outta the blogosphere, this blogger lets select friends from his real world (and select people he meets online) in on the secret.

i generally find that the most interesting blogs fall into the following categories:

3. partially out-there. this blogger writes as himself--his face and at least some elements of his identity are known to all--but is selective as to what parts of his life he's willing to share with his readers.

4. totally out-there. this guy is open to an extraordinary degree, and lets the chips fall where they may--such blogs, at their best, combine all the best elements of a controversial type-1 blog with a quality of authenticity that the former can't even approach. i know very few blogs of this type (that are readable, anyway).

and then--as in every continuum--there's all kinds of degrees in between, bloggers evolve and things change all the time.

i of course am a type 2. i considered going the type-1 route in the interests of being even more open, but decided against it for a couple reasons: first, because i thought that sharing the blog with certain friends might deepen and enhance those relationships; and second, because i knew that having a few people from my real life looking over my shoulder would be a surefire way to keep me honest. and so far, both have worked out pretty well.

and while, as noblesavage pointed out in his comment, it's true that many blogs are nothing more than glossy sales brochures for their authors, i've always been an underseller. even in the recent posts about the little house, in which i'm ostensibly blowing my own horn, in retrospect they seem more self-deprecating than anything else--but then, i guess that's being authentic to my nature (ok, my sober nature).

once i'm done with this blog, i'd like to be able to look back at it in my dotage and (a) see a tangible improvement in the quality of the writing and storytelling over the course of its life; and (b) recognize those posts in which i talk about myself as being reasonably accurate, well-rounded explorations of my views, character and feelings as i see them--the good and the bad--rather than just some glorified presentation of how i wish my life had been.

that's not asking too much, is it?

[update: for the record, this post has been reworked since its publication yesterday (yeah, i do reserve that right). trust me, i spared you from lameness.]

_________________
* sorry if i offended any womyn--you know i mean you too.

story of marcus

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truth be told, i haven't thought about marcus in awhile--there's pain wrapped up in that particular recollection--but recent events in the gay blogosphere (plus a few cocktails) have brought it all back, and prompted me to tell his story tonight.

see, marcus was a young friend of mine who died a few years ago.

we met in one of the various "men 4 older men" aol chatrooms in maybe 2003. back then, i was fairly new to the whole online thing and would lurk in one chatroom or another while i did other things and wait for people to come to me. and while i never participated in the chat in any of these rooms (most of the time it was boring as hell), i'd keep an eye out for flurries of interest.

and increasingly, i came to notice the presence of this pale, cute, overly-skinny 16-year-old english kid (as per his profile and picture--for the life of me i can no longer remember his screen name) who started to dominate the chatrooms through his sheer audacity and quick wit. he'd come in, guys would hit on him, he'd dispatch 'em left and right with quick, cruel indifference--it was fun to watch.

and then one night he IM'd me--something like: "i've seen you around forever--why haven't you ever hit me up?"

i thought a second, fired back, and the game was on.

i love power-IM'ing as much as i love anything in life--that quick back-and-forth is perfectly suited to my skills and sensibilities, and i'm good at it; in fact, you'll seldom find me happier than when i'm shitfaced and have three or four simultaneous shotgun-chats going, each of 'em thinking they've got my full attention (what can i say, it's my idea of the perfect video game).

and marcus--even though he was young, he was up to the challenge like no one i've ever met, regardless of age; his mind was so facile and quick (my god, we had some great chats--i only wish i'd saved 'em). and thus, we became fast friends.

and after awhile, it became more personal--he gradually dropped the clever, hard-shell persona and let me in on what was really happening in his life--the pace slowed, and the IM's became emails.

and that's when i started to care.

over time, in torturous bits and pieces, he told me about his life--he lived in an upscale neighborhood in kent, outside of london. his father was indifferent, his mother was preoccupied with his two younger siblings, and he himself was sick--really sick. marcus wasn't sure if he was gay or not, but apparently the decision had been made for him--a teacher at his school had started molesting him when he was 12, and now he was not only HIV+ but had full-blown AIDS.

and it wasn't like his was of the drug-resistant variety--it was more like, he wouldn't take his fucking meds when he was supposed to. and he did other stupid, impulsive, self-destructive things he'd describe to me in detail--because, like any kid, he thought he'd live forever. which, of course, enraged me--i would rail and lecture him and demand that he stay home and not go to raves and quit fucking around.

and this went on for awhile, and of course he didn't listen--and he got sicker and sicker.

and i got more and more worried--hell, i even entertained idle fantasies of flying over there and slapping sense into him. but it never came to that.

because, in late august 2005, marcus died.  and his death affected me in a way i'd never been affected before.

see, here's the deal with me: i have what are in the pop-psych vernacular referred to as "intimacy issues." for whatever reason, it's somehow easier for me to get close to someone who's safely half a world away than focus on the real flesh-and-blood relationships in my life--and i guess i'd gotten closer to marcus than i'd realized. and when he ceased to exist, it wasn't simple grief i felt; it was more of a new (for me, anyway) hybrid emotion composed of loss and anger--and lots of it.

because marcus didn't die the way you think--unless, of course, you're way ahead of me already.

no, he died when one of his friends emailed me with the bombshell that "marcus" was in actuality a 20-year-old transgendered female who resided not in london, but in seattle--and i, among several others, had been very effectively played for over two years.

later when i calmed down, i emailed "marcus" and asked him/her why he/she had felt the need to carry out and maintain such an elaborate charade for so long. and i never got a satisfactory answer; what i did get was an apology and a light-hearted request to let bygones be bygones, and to allow our friendship to continue.

and even though i sensed the pain and the need behind her breezy tone--by then i knew her well, even though i didn't--i had to decline; i couldn't get past the betrayal of trust (or, truth be told, my bruised ego).

the irony, of course, was that had she been upfront in the beginning, we could have been such great friends then and now--regardless of external gender, she was still the sharp, sweet, quick-witted soul i had been so taken by and had come to care so much about.

and even three years later, i sometimes think back on those chats (and the dark, intimate pain of those emails)--and i wonder how he/she is faring in this world.

* * * * *

so what brought this post on, you ask?

because apparently this wasn't an isolated incident--you want a fascinating study in human pathology, go read joe's, father tony's and will's (7/27/08) recent accounts and recollections of nicky cooper, the young, handsome forest ranger/firefighter/adoptive father who sucked in untold multitudes via "his" sensitively-written, ethereally beautiful blog. seriously--it's more than a little mind-blowing.

and it makes me wonder just how many more nickys and marcuses there are out there.

[and in closing: even though i know that at times mkf may seem too good to be true to you mere mortals, trust me--all this is real (like, if even a monkey with a typewriter was making this shit up he couldn't come up with something better).]

one for my baby

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so the other night v and i are tivoing through a week's worth of final jeopardies, and the following question comes up:

In 1906 he launched Conjurer's Monthly,
a magazine that he pretty much wrote & edited himself

we look at each other in mild surprise because they're usually tougher than this--i mean, is there more than one early-twentieth-century magician you can come up with?--but it makes me turn to v and ask, "have i ever told you my favorite limerick?"

turns out i haven't, so i do--which then leads to my next-favorite. he says, "you gotta blog these," so, for v--and for you--i present the following (runner-up first):

there was a young man from degrasse
whose balls were made out of brass
when he clanged them together, they played 'stormy weather'
and lightning shot out of his ass

and now, the best limerick i have ever heard:

there once was a teacher named sweeney
whose girl was a terrible meany
the hatch on her snatch had a catch with a latch
she could only be screwed by houdini

some days it's drunken ranting, other days it's architectural digest, today it's limericks, tomorrow--who knows? because i sure as hell don't.

tryin' to get the feeling again

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[if you can't stomach all the introspective crap that is about to follow, feel free to scroll down to the pictures]

this is a totally self-indulgent post (but then again, what blogpost isn't?), because the last one got me thinking about things i've avoided for awhile.

my memories of that little house of horrors are not fond ones--by the time it was done and sold (which occasion shoulda been cause for great exultation, triumph and satisfaction--and woulda been for anybody normal), i was so exhausted after four years of juggling finances and working 90-hour weeks that, within two months of my "success," i was in cedars-sinai with spinal meningitis, fighting for my life.

and i've spent so much time beating myself up over everything that went wrong with that project--and for it taking so long--that i lost sight of all the stuff that went right.

so yesterday i went back through and looked at the pictures, and thought about what i--a guy working a full-time day job, with limited money and construction smarts (and no plumbing, electrical, stonemasonry, foundation-leveling or finish-carpentry experience whatsoever)--had managed to figure out on his own and accomplish almost single-handedly.

and with the perspective four years and fresh eyes have given me, i gotta admit that i was fuckin' fearless and amazing back then--i thought i could do anything, and i pretty much did.

so, the reason for this post? well, there are two reasons, actually.

one is to show the folks who faithfully come here a side of me they haven't seen up to now (i.e., the competent, creative, non-falling-down-drunk side)--because i know some of you wonder.

the other reason is to remind myself of what i was not so very long ago--because i need to get that back.

see, i haven't handled my success too well--i recovered from the aforementioned illness, but i've never even come close to bouncing back all the way--and, frankly, the booze ain't helping.

and the thing is, i've got another house to finish--one that's been waiting for me, and that i've been living in virtually like a hobo for years now. and it's not because i don't have the money, the time or the vision to finish it; it's because (a) i haven't been able to work up enough feeling to care; and (b) the mere prospect of picking up a saw or hammer again fills me with dread.

and that's just not like me; i used to love to rip into shit and make it better--hell, the whole reason i went to architecture school in the first place was so that i could buy houses, remodel 'em to my taste and move on to the next one, each time having left the world a little nicer in my wake.

so why is it that when i worked so hard and sacrificed so much to achieve that goal--and then actually pulled it off--everything fell apart afterwards?

i dunno--all i know is, i need get back to that state of mind, because time is fleeting and i'm tired of living like this.

so enjoy the following slide show--or not; it's just a tiny little house somewhere that really doesn't matter much in the overall scheme of things (and as always, the pictures enlarge nicely if you click on 'em).


and when i said "tiny little house," i wasn't kidding--we're talking an 850 square-foot, two-bedroom, 1-bath cabin. to add the necessary second bathroom, i tore out a huge masonry fireplace and a laundry closet at the back of the living room. the original bath and kitchen got carved up in order to give the second bedroom a closet it didn't have before, and to add an entertainment center, new fireplace and new laundry closet.

i spent a lot of time on this plan--i agonized over the utilization of every square foot of the limited space i had. my goal was: if it can't be big, it'll be the nicest little house anybody's ever seen.

until that finally happened, however, it pretty much looked like this:



i wish i could maintain a neat, orderly jobsite like bob vila and the guys on this old house, but that's not how i roll.

it eventually cleaned up nice, though


i'm not crazy about the fireplace.  sheathed in this really nice limestone i salvaged from a tear-down in bel-air, it was my first attempt at stonemasonry [which was stupid, seeing as how since it was the focal point of the goddam house, i shoulda saved it for later when i had developed some skills. oh, well--live and learn).


is it obvious i watched a lot of frazier in the 90's?

this entertainment center was designed and installed when most of us were still watching tube tv's; i'm sure by now the new owner has--with finesse fully equal to the sensitivity with which he modified the outside--taken a chainsaw and hacked out sufficient space for his 48" flat-screen.



the reason all the casework in the house is birch has less to do with my affinity for birch [actually, i prefer maple] than the fact that i came across a bunch of birch kitchen-cabinet doors for a buck apiece in the bargain bin at IKEA--and thus are weighty design decisions made.



as for the countertops, i couldn't afford slab stone, so i found 2x2 squares of this really beautiful (and really cheap) azul limestone and end-glued the squares together with color-matched adhesive to make my own slabs. they ended up costing only a couple hundred bucks and looked like a million (and took forever, which probably in the long run more than negated my savings--i've never been too good with the whole "time is money" concept).

another "before" shot...


so that you may more fully appreciate the "after" shot:



the floors were bleached, whitewashed pine--because pine had the virtue of being cheap, came in huge tongue-&-groove planks and was thus easy to install, and--being soft--easy for a newbie like me to sand and finish.

and, my god, were they gorgeous when they were done--until that first beverly hills real-estate agent clacked across the living room in her 5" manolos and left a trail of little divots in her wake. which was when i understood why you don't see more pine floors in houses these days (by the end of that first open house, they had become "distressed" pine floors--they still looked good, though).


this skylight was existing, but was originally just one big ugly hole with wire-mesh glass. and those arched windows were a pain in the ass (getting straight lines right is hard enough when you're an amateur--don't even get me started on curves).



the sliding door that divided the public/private spaces was a nice touch (or woulda been had it not ended up weighing 200 pounds, thus requiring hulk hogan to open and close--again, live and learn).



this is the only shot i have of the master bedroom--those niches eventually got finished with creamy limestone (but i don't think i ever did get all those little goddam puck lights to work at the same time).

now onto the bathrooms--and the exhibitionistic stonework.

people often ask me why it took me four years to get this tiny little house done. while there are all sorts of reasons (some of 'em actually good), the following four pictures are illustrative of one of the bad ones: namely, my tendency to get caught up in time-eating details that, while nice and everything, ultimately didn't matter to anybody but me.



case in point: the picture above is a progress shot of the floor in bath 1. anybody else woulda slapped down some 12" ceramic tile in there and been done with it, but not in my house--i was determined to do something special.

which "specialness" entailed (a) devising an intricate, one-off pattern, (b) measuring, cutting and dry-fitting each individual piece of the perfect creamy limestone i'd spent two weeks selecting, (c) numbering each tile (d) photographing the floor, (e) taking the whole thing up, (f) mortaring, and then (g) laying it all down again with the picture as my guide and hoping it all worked out. i cannot even begin to tell you what a time-consuming, motherfucking pain in the ass this turned out to be.

which was undoubtedly why i elected to do it again--this time with scrap stone from the fireplace and some tumbled pavers somebody'd given me--in the little bathroom:


and it didn't stop with the floors--intoxicated with my new self-taught stonemasonry skills, i next turned to the shower in bath 2:


actually, there's a pretty good reason for not going with simple squares in this shower--that part of the house was still just a little crooked, and this random pattern i devised effectively hid that fact (and yeah, each piece had to be cut individually--but so what? hell, it's only time and money).

and while there was no practical reason to do the same thing in bath 1, it sure turned out purty:



the following picture actually made me smile.  because by the time i got around to finishing bath 2, i was dead broke--this countertop was cobbled together from scrap left over from the kitchen

 

and that stylish little stainless-steel sink? that was a mixing bowl from my pantry.

* * * * *

so there you have it--i ever figure out a way to separate my resourcefulness and ingenuity from my neurotic self-destructive compulsions, you better look out world, that's all i'm sayin.