A Few Quick Observations

If you haven't seen Slumdog Millionaire, you should. This is a deeply moving film about hope and love against a backdrop of violence and unimaginable poverty. It's a fable and a metaphor for our time.

Late-breaking Square Dance Bulletin - Tim and I went to the DC Lambda Squares' community dance last night. It's theme was 50th Birthday Party. So I wore some original 50s gear that I acquired when the club danced at the Hillwood Museum and Gardens. I looked pretty good, and those fifty-year-old clothes were pretty spiffy.

Tim and I went to the Corcoran today, the last day of the Richard Avedon show. You missed it, if you missed it. Avedon captured the souls of the great ones for a couple of generations. Their ghosts come to life in this exhibition. As Tim said, "Beware of cameramen who want to take your portrait." The result isn't always a pretty picture. Why didn't Avedon ever take a picture of Annie Liebovitz? And if he did, why wasn't it hanging on the wall of the Corcoran... life's little mysteries? And why wasn't Avedon's image of Rudolph Nureyev's jewels pictured in the exhibit's catalogue? And why was Yeoman 3rd Class B. Murphy Stovie absent from the same book with his fabulous grin and his happy right hand? Does the Corcoran host a vast right-wing conspiracy that is out to censor homoerotic or gay-themed content from exhibition catalogues? Hmmmm.

Then it was on to the OAS to see an exhibition of art about the Desaparecidos. These were victims of the military dictatorships of Uruguay, Chile, Argentina, Guatemala, and El Salavador. The words somber and depressing pretty much sum it up, but the bones, the images, the stories are a grim reminder that when the state has absolute power, freedom is extinguished in violent and ugly ways. These regimes were not attempting to rehabilitate their critics. They were exterminating them. Of course, it makes me wonder who has disappeared in our own war on terror?

Finally, we ended up at the Katzen Arts Center at American University. We saw a disturbing exhibition of the work of Evri Kwong, Just Pretend Everything is Okay. Kwong's work is a polemic about our drugged out, consumerist, racist, mysogynist, violent culture. His paintings, his Sharpie doodles, are biting and satirical indictments of cultural values gone bad.

Well, after that downer, we headed back to Rockville for some hot sex, a nap, and two episodes of The Office. That was this month's attempt at culture.

Now the Real Work Begins

I'm listening to NPR thinking about yesterday's events. As Senator Feinstein said, it is a day that is "etched in the stone of history." President Obama told us that we were all in it together, and the real work begins.

We have put such a weight on our President's shoulders, and somehow we need to take some of that burden back. I want to get past my cynicism of the last 40 years and do exactly that. I need to believe that what I do will make an important difference, no matter how small that effort or difference may seem to me. 300,000,000 people each doing a small thing adds up to a very big thing. Small gestures add up to real substance. A dream, a thought, a purpose becomes real amplified through a personal commitment to change multiplied in the lives of millions of people.

I'm excited by the prospect of change. Scared that America's economy is going to get much worse before it gets better. Worried about the bad guys, foreign and domestic. Heartened by the change in national tone. Yes we can rebuild America one small act at a time. We'll get through this, too.

I Got Holes

Tim and I were in York, Pennsylvania for a Challenge-1 Square Dance Concepts weekend. We ate at the Farmer's Market on Saturday. It was a gay man's paradise.

"We Specialize in Holes" Photo by Tim Walton,
©2008 by Tim Walton, All Rights Reserved

My Dream House

Sometimes I wake up from a dream, and it is so vivid that it doesn't rapidly fade with consciousness. Early this morning, I dreamed of the house that I lived in as a child. It is an old remodeled farmhouse, and when I lived there was right at the edge of Moscow, Idaho. Today, that house sits well inside the town, next to the junior high school.

In my dream, the house's rear façade is covered with a thick blue-green stucco that's similar in color to the painted wood shake exterior of the house of my youth. The stucco rounds the angles of the house. I walk to the side. The stucco doesn't extend to this side of the house, and the clapboard siding has been painted white. I sit down on the grass and peer through an open door.

A child is running through the house. A woman follows the child, and they cross a short distance to an older farmhouse, the house the woman lives in. The child is one of my grandchildren, although I have no idea which one. The woman is my mother-in-law, but in my dream looks very different than I remember, but I know who she is. I'm well within the range of vision of the child and the woman, but they don't see me, and I remain sitting, taking in the scene.

Another woman comes bounding along the side of the house, on her way to the older farmhouse. She is vibrant, smiling, and happy, skipping down a path. She is my former wife. She, too, doesn't see me, although I'm clearly in the scene. I take all of this in, and I'm also happy and moved by this domestic picture.

Several things stand out in this dream. The first striking element is the stucco wall. It's presented to me in the dream from a low angle against a deep blue sky. The wall extends above the lower edge of the roof. Between the utility room and the shed, the roof has a curious cupola, for what purpose I don't know. The wall is solid and stolid, a protection against the outside. Curiously, it's only in the back of the house.

I see the child through an open door in the side of the house, which has angles and walls that don't exist when the dreaming ends. Yet, I clearly recognize this dream house as my own. The light plays in the shadows of the doorway and hall, and I can feel the life in this house. That life is also in the shadows, not unhappy, but full of concerns.

My mother-in-law represents those concerns as she follows the running child. She's dressed in black, and her face is strained with a weary anxiety. She is tired. Her house, Grandma's House, is a pure figment of my dream. I don't see all of it, only a corner along a path between the two houses. Her house remains hidden by a small grove of tall bushes, maybe lilacs or mountain ash.

My former wife skips along a path, happy. I hope so, from the fullness of my heart. She's an antidote to the shadows. Maybe she's rushing to catch up with the other two. I don't know. But she's radiantly happy, and her smile fills her face, as I have rarely seen it.

Finally, I sit quietly on the grass in the midst of this scene. It only lasts a moment, then it's gone and I wake up. Nobody sees me. I'm invisible to all.

This dream has so much going on. The stucco wall is on the side of the house facing Grandma's house. The wall sets the two structures apart. In the waking world, the path went to a pasture, and a barn across the draw. Where Grandma's house stands was a vegetable garden.

The child (my mother-in-law's great-grandchild) is innocence in the shadows, then running free in the sunlight. My mother-in-law, who in life always had a smile and a love for even me, the black sheep in the family, is troubled and vexed in her own dream home. She died two years ago about this time, and is buried in the Freeze Cemetery. She and my former wife were at odds with each other shortly before her death, and maybe her face reflects that sadness and weight.

My former wife is happy again. She's rediscovered herself. When we were married she was sad. When we divorced she was angry, and the anger simmered for a long time. But now, she's happy again, skipping after her grandchild, on her way to her mother's house, and I sit there, marveling, taking in this holy transformation of a family life so close to me, but untouchable, and invisible. This is my dream house.

A Flurry of Activity!

The New Year has picked up its pace, although the old year never really slowed down that much, either. Perry and I went shopping on Friday morning. We first went to the Container Store, because he wanted some magnets. Neodymium magnets. Really strong magnets. These magnets have an exceedingly strong magnetic force. They can cause irreparable damage to floppy disks.

From the Container Store, we ventured to Borders in White Flint. Oh, I love the joys and sights of Rockville Pike! Perry was looking for a calendar. I picked up a "calendar" that contains a recipe for every day of the year. Ron is already thumbing through it.

Saturday night, I made one of those recipes, Spanish Tortilla, for the Montgomery County Gay Men's Community potluck. It was held at a friend of Ron's, so we decided to go. Well, the house was about 7500 square feet or more, and fitted by what appeared to be a decorator from hell. The theme upstairs was Victorian, and downstairs an American diner. Let's say it was over the top, and not one personal touch in any part of the house that I could see: prints, no originals. I guessed no one lived here, they were just part of the display.

The food was good, although Ron and I disagree on how good. Ron's and my contributions were both finished by the boys. One of the hosts, John, made a meat and bean dish that was very tasty, and a cake from cornmeal that was very good, although Ron thought the icing was too sweet. Honey, I hate to break the news, but icing is supposed to be too sweet!

I also enjoyed the company. I had a nice conversation with Duane. I really need to be more social. I get shy (I know that's hard to believe) and stand around without talking to anyone. This time, I struck up a very "deep" conversation with Duane about the nature of belief. Duane wondered why one needs to believe anything. And my lame answer is because it provides a purpose-driven life. I'll have to think about that.

In the meantime, I've been working on my contact database throughout. It's not very exciting, but it contributes to my purpose-driven existence. Yeah, right!

On Sunday, January 4, Ron and I attended a party. It was a nudist event. Great food, and for once an occasion where I was not seeing iceberg-sized behemoths of jiggly flesh. Most of the men, while not gym-toned, had not gone completely to the dinner buffet for refills, year after year. What a relief for my sore eyes. I thoroughly enjoyed the company, and all that encompassed, as well as the buffet the host had set out.

Again, in this situation, I have to force my self to talk with the other guys. They proved very friendly. Two men from Alabama struck up a conversation with me, and I felt a lot like Scarlett O'Hara (even though, I know [rolling my eyes] that she's from Georgia). One of the guys roots for Auburn, and the other for University of Alabama. Seriously, gay men talking about football! Frankly, my geography gets mixed up anywhere South of the Mason-Dixon Line. I think I could grow to enjoy the company of some Southern Gentlemen.

So yesterday, I went to the doctor to clear up a nagging sinus infection that has dogged me since Portugal, and to figure out what's causing the really annoying pain in my right knee that has dogged me since Christmas. Some days have been miserable, and that's saying a lot from me.

I like my doctor. He's a DO who has been a very good doctor for me. His assistant cleaned the wax out of my ears. I've been very stuffed up, and my ears had clogged when I tried to clean them a week ago. I had been walking around in an echoey fog. The tinnitus is still pretty loud, but I can hear better; the fog is gone. She got a lot of gunk out! The doctor came in and gave me a pep talk. He's kind of hot with curly hair and a two-day growth with that lab coat! He told me to get off the Sudafed^® and start the Nasonex^®. He also prescribed some clarithromycin for the sinuses and meloxicam for the knee. Better living through chemistry, although NSAIDs do scare me.

In the afternoon, I went over to Tim's house. He had a plumbing emergency going on. I provided him with some plumber information, but I think he went with someone else. He had some lame, vague reason about wanting this plumber or that plumber. I hugely enjoy Tim's company, even if he is preoccupied with plumbing. (I'll do some plumbing!)

Last night, Ron and I enjoyed a PBS special about India. Like the nation, the special is a production, and will continue for many nights hence. I don't care much for the narrator (the story sometimes seems all about him), but the scope of the story and the images of a great and enduring nation are compelling.

At the end, I went to bed.

Scan It!

Ron and I were in Giant Foods during rush hour, and Ron was flying through the place, wanting to get to checkout before the hordes descended. I, on the other hand was dawdling, with a hand-held scanner, zapping each item Ron put in the cart. Wow! A new toy! I was having fun!

Here's the drill. When you enter the store, you scan your shopping card at the scanner stand and pick up a scanner. Then, as you shop, you scan the UPC code on each item you put in your cart. I was bagging as we went along. For produce, you weigh the item, print out a label, stick the label on your bag of produce, and scan the label. It sounds a little complicated, but it really isn't.

And it's fun to use that scanner gun, shooting up those UPC codes, and watching the cost of your purchases mount up on its bright and happy screen. The scanner also contains store specials that you can look through, then purchase. Nothing like advertising right at your fingertips, right when you are most likely to make a purchase!

At checkout, a "checkout" UPC code is displayed where you normally would unload your groceries. You zap the checkout code and scan your shopper card, and voila, your itemized list appears on the checkout screen. At that point, you simply pay and leave the store. Our wait in the checkout line lasted all of 45 seconds.

I think as I continue to use the hand-held scanner, the process will go a lot faster. The scanner is actually much more sensitive about picking up UPC codes than the scanner at the checkout counters. And think of all the labor costs this is going to save Giant shareholders! Giant can probably lay off some checkers, oh, the perils of technology.

Of course, the new technology does nothing for the lamentable quality and diversity in the Giant grocery offerings. For some reason, yesterday, the produce was completely sucky. Produce bags were hard to find. The parsley was limp (kind of like me without my blue pill). Parsnips were not to be found. Some of the bliss potatoes were rotting in their boxes.

Technology, like the hand-held scanner, may be a shining jewel in Giant's crown, but the crown is otherwise rapidly losing its luster.

2009 Is Not So Bad

Other than I have a sinus infection and a strained ligament, not too bad at all. It could be much worse. I might be living in the Gaza Strip, for example, or shoveling snow in Moscow, Idaho. Indeed, a sinus infection and a gimp leg seem like small peanuts compared to the $6.9 trillion meltdown on Wall Street. The fallout wasn't quite so bad on Bucknell Terrace, only one foreclosure so far. Not bad, indeed.

And I'm not being snarky, either. Believe me, I'm grateful that I'm only dealing with the small things, and I hope the Big Things never get around to arriving in my neighborhood. But that's probably hoping for too much. The economic wrecking ball is in full swing, and one of these days it will land in Wheaton with a very unwelcome thud, probably atop a couple of chicken restaurants and several clothing boutiques that were just hanging on, and then... no credit, no customers, just the ugly wreckage of bankruptcy and unemployment. But for now, it's not so bad.

My hope for 2009 is that we can all hang on, somehow. Whatever we have to do, we'll do it, and hang on, and maybe 2009 won't be so bad after all. Check back here for updates....

My Interaction with my Internet Hosting Company's Technical Support

Note:This interchange is a little loopy. I've concluded that the only reason my Internet Hosting Company has tech support is to aggravate its customers.

Thank you for contacting support. Please be prepared to answer your Security Question when we begin chatting. To enhance our security protocols, we'll need you to provide the answer to your Security Question at the beginning of our conversation. If you have not yet set your Security Question and Answer, please log into your account now to set it up. Thank you. Please hold for the next available operator to respond.

You are now chatting with 'Preston Sanders'

Preston Sanders: Hi Happy. My name is Preston, how are you today?

Happy: Hi Preston. I'm having a browser issue with cookies in my PHP scripts.

Preston Sanders: To protect your account from unauthorized changes, can you please verify for me the answer to the Security Question:

Preston Sanders: What is your mother's maiden name?

Happy: B*****t

Preston Sanders: Thank you for the authentication.

Preston Sanders: What exactly seems to be the issue?

Happy: I have some scripts that work okay in Google's Chrome browser, but the scripts do not work in IE7, Safari, or FireFox. I'm using PHP scripts and the $_COOKIE variable. I can read the variable in Chrome, but not in the other browsers.

Preston Sanders: I apologize for any inconvenience this has caused you.

Preston Sanders: There may be an issue with the browser or version of the browser you are using. Please contact any system Administrator regarding this issue.

Preston Sanders: We can do nothing in this regard as you are experiencing this issue on your local machine.

Preston Sanders: Are you the owner of this hosting account?

Preston Sanders: Do you have access to the e-mail address a*****t@happydoodle.*** ?

Happy: Yes, I own the account and I do have access to the e-mail account.

Preston Sanders: Okay.

Preston Sanders: Is there anything else I can assist you with today?

Happy: I'm not sure that I've actually yet been assisted. I'm wondering, for example, is my site configuration correct so that cookies work properly for the different browsers.

Preston Sanders: It should work fine with all the browsers. You can check it on other computers.

Happy: I've checked it on other computers, and it doesn't work on them, either; however, it works for the Chrome browser, but not for the other browsers. I think it is some kind of a PHP problem with reading the $_COOKIE variable, because I can look at the cookies in those various browsers, and the cookie has been properly set, but I can't read the cookie on those browsers, except for the Chrome browser.

Preston Sanders: Could you please provide me the exact URL where you are receiving the error?

Happy: I'm not receiving an http error; the script simply is not working correctly:

Happy: http://www.happydoodle.org/login.php user=***** password=*******

Happy: The script should display http://www.happydoodle.org/profile.php with menu options, but instead, the script display a login url (which is the intended behavior IF the login cookie is not set).

Preston Sanders: Can you please provide the username and password to login at http://www.happydoodle.org/login.php ?

Happy: user=***** password=*******

Preston Sanders: May I place you on hold for 2 to 3 minutes while I review your account?

Happy: Sure.

~~ Two Minute Interlude ~~

Preston Sanders: Thank you for holding.

Preston Sanders: I have checked it and it looks like there is an issue with your scripts. Hence, please contact any Web master and update your scripts.

Preston Sanders: We don't assist our customers with coding issues. I'm sorry and would like to apologize for that.

Happy: I'm the "webmaster" for this particular site. Any suggestions about where to seek some assistance for this issue?

Preston Sanders: I'm sorry, you need to correct this issue on your own. We don't have any issues on our servers.

Preston Sanders: Is there anything else I can assist you with today?

Happy: Evidently not.

Preston Sanders: Thank you for chatting with us. Please feel free to contact us at any time. We are available 24x7.

Preston Sanders: Bye!

It's a Good Day

I'm up "early" this Sunday morning. The fried potatoes are cooking in the cast iron skillet, and I'm waiting for my Sweetie to join me for breakfast (hmmm, think I'll have some fried potatoes). I'm listening to Weekend Edition, and life is good.

I've been consumed the last couple of weeks with creating a contact database in PHP and MySQL. I'm almost done with it (oh, maybe another two weeks...). It has completely taken over my brain. Ron has been kind with me as I prattle on about obscure PHP syntax (I just LOVE that word!) and the hidden logic of nested IF statements. He's so patient with me. That's why I cook him fried potatoes. He deserves it.

We went to see Milk yesterday. It's a very poignant and inspiring story. A friend of ours told me he didn't like the film because it was too preachy and too gay. Too gay? It's about the early gay movement and about a historical gay personality who became much larger than life. Too gay? Excuse me! We don't call films with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt as being too straight. I'm outraged! Absolutely outraged!

I just turned the potatoes. They look fabulous! The secret is to cook them on medium-low heat until they brown, about 10 minutes, without turning or stirring them. Just go and write in your blog! I use a cast-iron skillet and spray it with pan spray. I also get good results with a non-stick skillet.

Well, gotta go and set the table! Peace and Love from Bucknell Terrace!

Less Than a Week

2008 had so much promise a year ago. I was getting ready for a Caribbean trip, and I was planning on a family reunion in Yellowstone Park, and a trip to Portugal with my sister.

Along the way, my brother suffered a very serious illness, and my Mom a collapsed lung. My brother is making slow progress, and my Mom is on oxygen, but both of them are in good spirits and reasonably good health, considering. I talked with them on Christmas day, and they both sounded good.

Then there was the remarkable story of Barack Obama. I hardly knew anything about him last January. I'm looking forward to his Presidency, because I'm convinced we will see needed change in our society. His election was a defining achievement for our age. I never would have imagined a Black man being elected President. Maybe the promise of a color-blind society is not empty.

Oh, and the pot o' money suddenly got smaller. Where does all the money go? What a mess. When Grace and I were in Portugal, we were in the middle of Nowhere Portugal, and the Multibanco rejected our credit cards. Outa gas. Outa cash! It took a feverish visit with a bank officer to get the cash. Even though I didn't speak Portuguese, he clearly understood me. On the cruise, I heard whispers about the economy. But when we got home, the panic was on full bore, and has been ever since.

So I'm quietly hopeful, and holding onto my wallet as I head into 2010. I'm predicting:

• A head of state will become gravely ill and die in office.
• A famous actress will get a very public divorce.
• A little-known NASCAR driver will make a come-from-behind move and win the big race at a renown 500.
• A religious personality will make an important and thoughtful pronouncement concerning same-sex marriage.
• An American politician often in the spotlight will be involved in a sensational sex scandal.
• A major car company will go bankrupt.
• A "sleeper" film that nobody heard of will win an Oscar^®
• I will clean up the upstairs office.
• Barack Obama will become the next President of the United States.
• Happy and Lucky will have a fabulous year.

Come back next year and see which of these predictions come true. If you are 100% correct, well, you MAY or may not win a prize!

A Merry Christmas

Well, of course! We had a Merry Christmas.

iPod = What I've Been Missing and Didn't Know It

For years, I've been observing other humans walking around with things stuck in their ears, and I just didn't get it. Some were in a trance state, others would chuckle from time to time, and then there were those whose bodies would be wracked with spasms. Why would I want that?

When Ron and I were in Mississippi, Alex gave me an iPod Nano. Yesterday, I got around to loading it (here's where it gets a little icky) with square dance music. Woo Hoo! I put on those tunes, summon seven phantoms, and I'm dancin'! We have a (smaller than optimal) space in our living room where I can singlehandedly square dance some singing calls. I can see the other dancers in my head, and the phantoms, so far, have been very cooperative, extremely talented dancers.

My next attempt will be to download Ira Flatow or Ira Glass.

T'Was Too Daze Before Christmas

Yesterday, I was in the mall getting a haircut. The crowds were thin, and I think any merriment in evidence was simply putting a rosy glow on the coal that's being delivered this Christmas. This is a glum Christmas for merchants and shoppers, two days before Christmas.

I was listening a to a financial show on the radio. A listener called in and mentioned that she was paying off her credit card debt. One of the panelists said that she needed to be spending instead, that if we didn't all spend, we'd end up in even a deeper recession. So, let me think.... I should keep on accumulating credit card debt at a 22% interest rate; it's patriotic. I'm so confused!

This is a weird economic time. Lawmakers talk about regulation, but the horse has already left the barn. Consumers want relief, but don't want the consequences of declining equity value. It's a great time to buy into the stock market, but people are afraid to buy for fear of an even larger slide.

Christmas isn't so jolly. Shoppers and merchants are in a funk. St. Nick only needs four reindeer this year. Rudolph has been laid off, and the elves are trying to renegotiate their labor contract. No bailout or bridge loan for the North Pole unless Christmas proves its viability. Santa told me that he's trying to take the bah out of humbug, but it's a tall order this year.

Back to the Mason-Dixon Line

Mississippi is the Deep South. Maryland is a Southern Sympathizer, and if you are from Allentown, you're a Damn Yankee, at least that's the way it was explained to me.

Ron and I have mixed feelings about these visits back home. I sometimes wonder if they don't cause more anxiety than they alleviate. Mom was sleeping when we left for the airport. I'm grateful for modern chemistry and the drugs it makes possible. We had a pleasant goodbye.

So it's back to Wheaton and Doodle Today.

Ole Missis

I'm typing this from a Fairfield Inn Marriott in Southaven, Mississippi. We got in yesterday, and spent yesterday evening and today at Ron's Mom's place. She lives in a subdivision with street names like Dickens Place Drive, Bloombury Street, and Pemberton Cove. She lives on a culdesac lined with faux-grande brick manses with long driveways all on three-quarter acre "estates."

With vague unease I walk these streets, thinking that some creepy, gothic horror is about to be unearthed, enacted by a Baptist Stepford Wife only doing her Christian duty to that gay guy walking the dog for that elderly Jewish lady down the street.

And what goes on at the house at 4430 bodes ill, too. Mom is in her mid-80s, and has been having problems with her short-term memory, probably caused by TIAs (silent strokes). The memory difficulties cause her considerable anxiety, and she can be very unpleasant. Mom also suffers from paranoia, and makes some pretty dreadful accusations. She taxes everyone's patience. She consumes everyone's emotional reserves.

Alex, the woman who is Mom's caregiver is on 24/7 every day of the year. The strain is evident on Alex, but also on Mom, who does not have a clear idea of the toll that her constant questions, and her anxiousness takes on Alex and Ron. Both Alex and Ron explain things over and over to Mom, but within minutes, Mom is questioning them about it again. Without ceasing. All the time.

Mom's Ole Missis' state of mind could happen to any of us. I can see her struggle, and I see Alex's struggle too. Impatience can trump compassion. This isn't like a caregiver dealing with a child, because children learn. Instead, Mom is in her long decline, and it's not sunset, it's a darkening fog.

Down the River

Ron and I are headed down the river today. We're headed to the South, Graceland, and Ron's Mother. All four are great works of nature. I'm never quite sure what to pack, but you can be sure, it's all going to be carry on. I won't be taking my swim suit.

House Rules

I was still reading the Economist when Ron got home last night. He had been on a hot date with a new friend. I had gone to dinner with some friends. We spent a few minutes catching up with each other's day, and had an interesting conversation about gay relationships in general, and ours, in particular.

The guys at dinner asked me about my relationship with Ron. I always hate that question, because, inevitably, the word "open" comes up. Ron and I have a non-monogamous relationship, but we are committed to each other and to our relationship. So, yes, our relationship is open to the possibilities of us being involved in the lives of other men, but we have committed ourselves over the years to remain and thrive in a relationship with each other.

Gay men have many ways to fashion their lives with each other. I think most of us want to be in some kind of an important relationship with others, whether it be boyfriends, partners, fuckbuddies, or soulmates - with or without benefits and sexual access. That is, we are free to make the kind of relationships we want, but we still can get blindsided by jealousy, cultural prejudice, and fear.

Every relationship forges its own rules. On the basis of my own non-scientific and anecdotal polling, most relationships pay some lip service to monogamy. Some couples are monogamous, through and through.

Some Miscellaneous House Rules

• You can have sex only with me and no one else.
• You can have sex with other guys, but don't let me find out about it.
• You can have sex with other guys, but only once per guy.
• You can have sex with other guys, but only if you're out of town without me.
• You can have sex with other guys, but you can't fall in love with them.
• You can have sex with other guys, but only if it's in a three-way with me.
• You can have sex with other guys, but not in our home.
• You can have sex with other guys, but not in our bed.
• You can have sex with other guys, but not with anyone we both know.

You can probably add a few rules of your own. These rules all attempt to do two things: they try to limit long-term sexual contacts outside the relationship, and they try to reduce the risk of emotional connections outside the relationship. Of course, the peril of sex outside the relationship is that it promotes emotional connection.

The house rules have other purposes, too. They provide a cover of monogamy for a coupled relationship, because they provide plausible deniability about the persons in the relationship having sexual affairs outside. Culturally, it's easier to admit to gay monogamy than other kinds of relationships. I think that's what the clamor for same-sex marriage is all about among gay men. All of us want to be respectable, and respectable relationships don't openly engage in scandalous sexual affairs.

Also, with rules in hand, persons in the relationship can tamp down jealousy, or at least keep it in check. As long as you keep your affairs out of my field of vision, I won't go looking for trouble. I won't ask, and you'd better not tell. I can't be jealous of the other guys you sleep with, because I know you won't see them again.

The rules also address the fear the couples may feel about the permanence and stability of their relationships. The rules make it difficult to have a significant friendship outside the primary relationship so that the men in the relationship feel closer together, more secure.

So how did Ron and I end up in our family? It became evident during our conversation that we have a very different set of house rules. Here's how we handle commitment.

Our House Rules

• Always love your man, whatever that means.
• Trust him, unconditionally.
• Respect his personal life.
• Tell him about the guys with whom you're involved, and expect him to do the same.
• Let him fall in love with someone else, even if it hurts.
• Assert your claim to his heart.
• Tell him, occasionally, that you need a hot sex date with him, just because you feel horny.

Ron and I have remained with each other because he let me be who I am. He let me love whomever I chose to love. He risks losing me, because that was the only way he could have me. Of course, now he can't get rid of me. Our relationship is still wide open. It's wide open to all kinds of possibilities, sex, risks, fulfillment, and love. It's also a committed relationship between Ron and me. That's our house rules.

Bronski Buzzkill

I'm reading another (old) anthology, Flashpoint: Gay Male Sexual Writing, edited by Michael Bronski. Bronski is one of my favorite gay social critics. His introduction writes about the nuances of the categories of sexual literature - smut, porn, and erotica. All have become value-laden terms, and he uses "sexual writing," instead.

Bronski focuses on sexual writing as an opening to understanding our own sexual fantasies, longings, and behavior. He challenges the reader to get beyond the jerk-off nature of the porn tale, and test how the writing resonates in our own minds and cultural context. Bronski is simply one of the best social commentators

And that's the buzzkill. I'm reading a hot story, but carefully thinking about its characters. Is that me on that bed? Am I really making a shopping list while we're having sex? Why am I enjoying this scene? And if I think about sexual writing, I lose my erection, because thought requires a lot of blood in my brain, and something in my physiology has to fail when I think and analyze my sexual behavior, played out on a page.

Sexual writing gives me a palpable thrill, until I think about it. Some of the writing is very good, and most is not. A strange paradox for me is that the trashy, steamy stuff, written simply to get me off without thinking is more satisfying than the more literary sexual writing (I do have a brain!). I want sex to take me into the realm of suspended thinking, a place of hormonally crazed action and pleasure. And if I have to think about that, I get a headache.

I Have a New Toy

I'm forgetful. In fact, you can ask me something, give me a date, or tell me your name, and within about 15 seconds, it's history. Nothing registers anymore. Oh, I mean, I can still function (like a rutabaga), but it requires real power lifting for me to retain brand new information. Something has to be repeated at least six or eight times, and even then, it's about a fifty-fifty chance of retention.

But, no more! I am now the grateful owner of the Olympus NV-3200PC Digital Voice Recorder! This is a little gadget, smaller than a small cell phone that can record up to 54 hours of the stuff that I'm always going to forget. Plus, it has the added bonus of recording my greatest thoughts, and also profound insights that I want to memorialize in this blog. I'm expecting great results from this technological helper brain. You should see a marked increase in the quality, if not quantity of my blog entries. I think you'll be impressed, and will probably want to go to Radio Shack and purchase one for yourself.

Ron already cringes when he notices that I have it in hand. I tend to harass him with my new toys. The unit has very high quality playback fidelity. I'm sure I'll think of all kinds of interesting uses for it. When I have this stuck in my pocket, I have new confidence, yes, I'll remember that factoid. It won't escape me anymore.

What I Do in Retirement

Retirement is not a destination: it's a very expensive journey that lasts a long time. I do not sit on my front porch, because I don't have a front porch, although I do have a rocking chair. I waste a lot of time on my computer, just because I can. I think that's okay. I used to waste a lot of time on my computer at work, too, just because I had too. Old habits are hard to break.

I took up the gym when I retired. I hate the gym, but it allows me to eat just about whatever I want to stick in my mouth, and I've actually trimmed some pounds off, although my bad posture (from sitting in a chair in front of my computer) certainly doesn't show an incredible result. I figure, I'm ahead just going to the gym, burning my 600 calories, then clearing out. But now, I have time to hate the gym. That's cool.

Last night, I had a square dance emergency. For those of you snickering out there, such emergencies really do occur, and on a fairly regular basis, too. I originally had dinner plans, but the workshop I dance with only had six dancers, so I scrapped my dinner plans, picked up my friend Michael, and we narrowly averted the dance disaster. Square dance is just that important.

You might guess that retirement affords more opportunities for gentlemen callers. Your surmise is correct. In spades. I'm not particularly proud of that, I'm just noting another element of my retired life. It's one of the less retiring aspects of retirement. It requires a calendar, advanced scheduling techniques, a modicum of wit, and adeptness with java browser technologies.