Lopaka Lounge

What a day yesterday was.  Ray had reservations for dinner, the mail included birthday cards and family members called.  The highlight of the day was Homer mentioning the occasion on his blog.  I’ve been getting happy birthday’d left and right.  (Thanks for the suggestion on the new comment filter Brian and thanks to you too Homer!  You are a great friend.) 

 The big surprise is what I ultimately got for my birthday.  It was something I didn’t expect.  Something I didn’t have either.

I got sick!

Yes, I’m sick.  It’s official.  I fear that I’m going to be under the weather for a few more days.  Got some sort of crud in the back of my throat accompanied with mild aches, chills and over all malaise.  Feels like there’s a conference going on down there to determine if I should have the flu or a really bad cold.  I’m voting for the latter.  After all, I did have a flu shot this year.  This time around, I’m popping echinacea like crazy and drinking tea.  Where did I put that vitamin C?

We canceled the dinner reservations last night.  There was going to be this whole lunch with co-workers thing today.  Ray works with a woman named Linda who’s birthday is the day before mine.  It’s kind of become the standard to have a dual lunch birthday celebration.  Oh well.  Hey, happy birthday Linda!!

Yesterday morning I made a decision.  It was right when I saw myself in the mirror after getting out of the shower.  I want to find a personal trainer.  I need help. 

Let’s face it, I’m 42–I mean 40.2.  If I don’t start doing something now–right now–I’m going to have a really hard time trying to do it later if at all.  The only trouble is, I live in a rural area.  It’s not like there’s this vast selection of personal trainers. 

Most people just find a trainer and go with them without any thought.  They just want someone to help them along, spot them during workouts and give encouragement when needed.  I want all that, but I have two other prerequisites of a trainer.  A) My trainer must be male, and B) He has to be totally fucking hot. 

I’m a visual (and/or really shallow) person.  I need the eye candy.  I’m the ass who only gets motivated by a carrot on a stick.  It’s just that simple.  I hired a trianer in Chicago for a brief period and he was OK, but more on the lean side.  He’s standing there all tall and trim telling me to push harder and I’m feeling like, “Bite me! You get down here and do this!”

It’s kind of like the time (or times) when I was having a tad bit of personal difficulty in my life.  At the suggestion of a friend, I went to see this therapist.  Upon walking into his office the first thing that stood out was how dark it was.  All the blinds were drawn and the shelf lined walls were brimming with books, paper and other assorted crap.  In the center of the room was a desk piled high with files, a half eaten egg mcmuffin and whatever else couldn’t fit on the shelves.  Behind it sat the corpulent therapist.  He was a classic specimen with ill fitting clothes and greasy hair and my first thought was, “How is this fat fuck supposed to help me get my life in order?”  His answer was medication.  I found someone else. 

When offering professional help, it’s best to exemplify your services.  If you’re in the market to be a personal trainer, you should be an inspiration to your clients.  This rule also applies to dating.  You’re kinda gonna to get what you attract.  I was chatting with a gentleman in a fast food restaurant several years ago.  He was rather heavy set, balding with a big beard and long hair.  In between bites of his taco he lamented how he, “…just couldn’t find a girl”.  At that moment a big glob of taco sauce slopped on his belly blending in with the tear and all the other stains.

So here I am in rural Arizona hoping to find my fitness muse (God I am shallow).  Oh, and before you ask, Ray does not work out with weights.  He’s a totally different body type.  It would be great to work out together but we have different fitness goals.  He just needs to maintain.  I need a complete overhaul. 

I’m not 42 today.  I’m just not.  I’m 40.2.  That’s right, from here on out, I’m going to age like software.  Next year I’ll be 40.3.  That way I can be 40 all the way up to version 50. 

I know, it’s a dumb idea but I’m just not ready to get older and at this point, I’ll do anything it takes to trick myself in to thinking I’m still young and vibrant.  Not that I’m old and dull mind you…

Man, there used to be a time when I was all about the birthday.  I used to have a birthday week.  Then is was a birthday weekend.  Now it’s just a moment of silence.  I kind of don’t feel like celebrating the occasion anymore.

Ray gave me a lovely (much needed) suitcase last night and this morning he surprised me with a gift certificate to the local pond store in town.  More fish for my pond! 

I am very attached to my fish.  I brought them here all the way from Chicago in the back of my car.  You should have seen the poor things when I got here.  Do you think fish get car sick?

I love my Ray for his generous gifts.  He so thoughtful and sure knows how to make a guy feel special on his 40.2nd. 

I’m going to assume this year’s version 40.2 is going to surpass all the great features of 40.1.  The only problem about these new versions is that you don’t find out what’s in them until they happen.  You can only guess, hope or make it happen.  Hey, here’s to making it happen!

A quote from my favorite Shirley Horn song Here’s to Life:

May all your storms be weathered
and all that’s good get better
Here’s to life
Here’s to love
Here’s to you.

I was getting restless this afternoon so on a whim I just got my bike gear and took off for a short ride.  

I love riding my bike and out here, there are plenty of places to go.  There’s something about sailing along a two lane highway through the high desert on a cool Sunday afternoon.  My mind goes into this zone.  It’s just me and the open road. 

While I was driving along a big hawk came flying into my path.  I ducked but could swear the tip of its wings brushed the top of my helmet like we had some sort of camaraderie.  We came that close to each other as if it were in slow motion.  It was fantastic. 

There is one interesting side effect to riding my motorcycle.  It gets me rather charged up–so to speak.  Perhaps it’s the 1100cc engine vibrating between my legs or the fact that I’m wearing leather and going very fast.  Whatever the case may be, I’m all worked up by the time I walk in the door and “Honey I’m home” has a whole new meaning.

Ahh, it’s a guy thing I guess.  Guys are obsessed with sex.  I don’t care what anybody says.  That guy–gay or straight–sitting in a crowded public place “people watching” has an inner dialogue that goes something like this:

I’d fuck you.
…and you.
Hmmm…not you.  Sorry.
You!  Oh yes…right now.  I’d do you.
Ugh!  Hell no!  Not a chance.  And then you woke up.
Uhhhh…maybe…
Hello!  Drop the other half off and let’s talk.

So many of my female friends complain that all guys think about is sex.  Well, duh!  Men are hard wired that way (so to speak).  I’m not going to apologise for my libido.  If men weren’t horn dogs we would have never made it this far. 

In my opinion, people have varying degrees of sexuality and not everybody is either gay or straight.  Some straight men like a little guy on guy action occasionally.  It doesn’t mean they’re gay or even bisexual, it just means they like a little man love now and again.  I, on the other hand, am very gay.  I’m like…off the charts alpha gay.  That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m dry humping every person that comes along–I do have my discretions you know (picky and perpetually horny–kill me now).  It just means I like the company of men.  Doesn’t mean we have to get naked.  It just means that I find satisfaction with what I call fellowship. 

I just know I’m a dirty old man in the making. 

It’s tough to be open about sexuality.  People are so messed up in the head about sex in general.  I personally don’t care what people do in the sack as long as no one gets hurt and everyone involved is honest.  If you have an arrangement with your other half to play with others or engage in acts that involve small household appliances–great!  If you don’t and you’re doing it anyway, well that’s just not too cool–unless you’re totally hot and doing it with me.  I’m kidding!  God!

Fortunately, I have a very understanding partner and it does, as they say, take two to tango…

Ray and I got into LAX at a reasonable time on Thanksgiving Day without incident.  When we got to his mom’s house, he sat and chatted while I took a quick nap.  That afternoon at around 4:30, we all got tidied up and went to the Edendale Grill for a Thanksgiving meal.

Ray’s mom just turned ninety-one.  Ambulatory is not a word that comes to mind if one were to describe her.  I was a bit edgy getting her into the restaurant with her walker until we finally sat down. 

The atmosphere was quite pleasant.  Mom sat on one side of the table while Ray and I sat on the other.  I was getting hungry and started to examine the menu.  It was one of those prix fix menus where you could have this or this or that for an appetizer and so on.  Since it was a special day of eating, I decided to be carnivorous.  I started with a sweet potato soup (yum) and moved on to a pork dish that came with your standard Thanksgiving dinner accessories such as green beans, mashed potatoes and stuffing—the latter being disgusting.

Stuffing is the number one comfort food of all time.  It’s supposed to be soft and pillowy with rivulets of gravy oozing down the sides like a foodgasmic waterfall.  (My mom makes a killer Scottish stuffing.  It’s good for your coat.)  This goop had crunchy nuts in it and a dollop of cranberry sauce on top.  Blek!  There is nothing worse than soft and pillowy with the occasional crunch topped of with the tart, sweet taste of cranberries.  It’s an assaulting cacophony of taste and texture.

I was a bit annoyed by this but knew my desert, pumpkin mousse, would make up for it.  I finished most of the meal and ordered coffee.  There was this annoying straight couple next to us.  She was manipulating him on what he was going to eat by saying things like, “I bet I can guess what you’re going to eat.  You’re going to start off with the salad.”

I heard that and actually felt myself getting gayer.

He, on the other hand, with his loud mouth, talked about his “project” and the fact that he was having struggles with “The I.A.”  (I.A. is short for IATSE which is the labor union representing technicians, artisans and craftspersons in the entertainment industry).  He was a rather interesting sort.  You know that guy who’s not really attractive but has an English accent so he becomes kinda hot until you realize he’s just a typical LA transplant dressed in black spouting out his vapid opinions?  Yeah, he was that guy.

The waitress—who was adorable and very attentive—showed up and produced our desserts.  I picked up my spoon ready to take that first bite when Ray’s mom said, “I’m feeling kind of tired” and proceeded to slump forward in her chair twitching a little bit.  Annoying Ms. Thing next to us then blurts out, “Oh my gosh, is that the dessert—hey is she OK?”  Ray calmly explained that it was pumpkin mousse and yes, his mother was prone to mini seizure and would be fine.  He crouched down next to his mom.  She didn’t appear to be responding and the people in the restaurant started looking over one by one.  Ray asked me to fetch the wheelchair in the trunk.  I was instantly filled with a sense of urgency.  While holding the dessert spoon in my hand my brain went into overdrive:

–Pumpkin mousse?
–Wheelchair.
–Pumpkin mousse?
–Wheelchair!

“Fuck!” I thought, and quickly tried to snag a spoonful of the mousse only to hit my upper lip and get a teeny tiny bit in my mouth.  I got up and made my way out to the valet.  When I came back with the wheelchair, one of the restaurant’s staff informed me the ambulance had been called.  I got back into the dining room and Ray’s mom was still slumped over and out of it.  She now had the full attention of every single person in the room.

A gaggle of emergency personnel came in with a gurney and whisked her away.  Ray paid the bill and left it on the table next to my full serving of pumpkin mousse.  I saw it from across the room sitting there.  Fucking stuffing.

Outside, Ray’s mom woke up and was not too happy.  The ambulance took off for the hospital.  Ray and I followed along in the rental car.  When we got to the emergency room, she did not have the right information in her purse—like her Medicare card, so we had to drive back to her house and get it.  I stayed behind at the house while Ray went to give the hospital the correct information to check her out and bring her home.  The two of them returned at 11 PM.  Thankfully, mom was on her feet and back to normal.  Ray and I went to bed and got up the next morning at 5 AM to fly home.  The flight was without incident.

I can’t say the same for Thanksgiving dinner.