Monthly Archives: April 2008

Couldn’t sleep again.  My mental alarm clock went off at 4:30 AM.  This time I was fixated on one thing–we’re out of half and half.  I just can’t drink my coffee without half and half.  Don’t give me that “whitener” shit either.  I want Half. And. Half.

I finally got up and, to reduce my carbon footprint, rode my bike to the gas station on hwy 92.  It was kind of chilly outside.  It was really chilly going 70 MPH.  I got home and put my jammies back on as if the trip to the store never happened.  I already had the whole bed head thing going on.  Helmet head, bed head.  Like, who’s going to know?

I’m a bit sore this morning.  I worked out with my trainer last night.  I now realize that the best remedy for the “don’t feel like working out” blues is to–work out.  One session and I was already back into the groove.  It really helps to get you motivated…and there was a totally hot guy working out with his buddy.   He had nice arms.   Sigh…  You know, contrary to popular belief, it’s not easy being horny all the time. 

But someone’s got to do it.

So I made another appointment for Thursday.  I have six sessions left.  I think part of getting mentally into working out is to look at it as pampering myself.  I’m doing something good that will make me look and feel great.  I need to be as excited about a workout as I would getting a massage.  Do you think I’ll eventually believe that if I just keep repeating it?

I better get ready for work.  I’m not too happy about going to work since I moved offices last week.  I had to let go of the dream that I would get the vacant window office.  The thought of losing it puts a lump in my throat.  I moved into the office next to the server room.  Those of you who work with computers know what that means; it’s freezing and noisy.  This office has no windows,  hard tile flooring and those full-spectrum fluorescent lights so it’s really shiny and white–just like in nature.  It’s cold and bright and has those big metal shelves with miscellaneous computer equipment all around.  

The decision to move was sort of a knee-jerk reaction to my old office where every time I made the slightest sound, I felt like I was disturbing my disturbed officemate who is easily disturbed.  There is one redeeming thing about this whole move.  I like my new officemate.  He’s smart and helpful and I can learn a lot from him.  He’s one of the only people I could share space with but, alas, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in a brightly lit hermetically sealed box–and I can’t see the sun.  I fear that whoever does get the coveted window office will inevitably keep the blinds closed.  It’s one of the many phenomenons I don’t understand.  Sit next to a window and close the blinds blocking out all sunlight.  It’s like blasting the air conditioner to 65 degrees.  If it was 65 degrees outside, you’d have the heater on.   Makes no sense. 

God, just blogging about the whole office thing has made me depressed and whiny.   I just have to suck it up and shut the fuck up…which is something I’m totally not good at. 

When Ray and I were in Chicago two weeks ago, I visited my friend Stephen.  He lived across the street from us in our old neighborhood.  I had Stephen take a photo of me standing in front of what used to me my house. 

I have fond memories of that place.  It was in good structural condition when we bought it in 1999 but it needed some major overhauling. 

We spent a lot of time fixing up the house and yard (and then sold it).

See the finished product for yourself.  Photos of our old home.

So…While we were in Chicago clearing out Aunt Leona’s old house, I found an 18k white gold ring that just happen to fit me prefectly.  Who knew?  I think it’s from the 30’s.  I’m happy to have a nice little memento to remember her by. 

I have had the Lopaka Lounge site for almost a decade.  At first it was dedicated solely to my in-house multimedia design studio with an online portfolio and contact info.  After the dot-com bust, the real lounge in my basement became kind of a private karaoke club and the site was used to post the song list and random party photos.  When we moved to Bisbee, it evolved into a photo keep-in-touch site so that friends and family could get up to the minute photos of me, Ray and Bisbee.  It was all pretty safe and family oriented…

Until now.

When I started blogging, I took the advice of every writer I knew–be honest.  Don’t sugar coat it.  Write what you feel, what you know.  The only problem is that I forgot about the legacy of my site.  People used to come here to see cute pictures of the latest karaoke bash or progress of the current year’s garden.  Now, they see text.  Honest text.  Text about what I really think and feel. 

1. I’m not very Christian or Christ-like
2. I’m a pervert
3. I say fuck a lot
4. Did I mention I say fuck a lot?
5. Fuck

I think a lot of my posts are rather cringeworthy to the ear of someone like my mother or a member of our church in Chicago.  Blogging is like coming out of the closet.  If you tell a friend you’re gay and they blow you off then they weren’t your friend in the first place.  If you write honestly about what you think and feel and a friend or family member blows you off then fuck ’em.  Love me or leave me.  Just don’t preach at me.

Well, I’ve gone and done it again.  I got myself off schedule.  I think the play and the website deadline threw me off. Combine that with the washing machine fiasco and a recent trip to Chicago (I’m writing this on my return fight) and you have a cluster fuck.  It’s not so bad really.  I just feel out of balance schedule-wise.  The thing that’s bothering me most is the lack of gym attendance.  I was doing so well.  Now it feels like I have to start all over again.  I hate that.

After years of wondering why the bod thing is so difficult for me I’m starting to realize that it has nothing to do with my physical well being at all.

It’s all in my head.

My brain to be exact.  My brain keeps me from getting what I want  I don’t think I’m letting myself realize the goals I want to achieve.  Note the word, realize.  I think people with nice gym bodies get them fixed in their heads first.  They develop a picture of what they want to look like in their mind and then utilize the physical act of weight training, cardio, or whatever to make it happen. 

Of course while I’m writing this, a hunky tall built black man is sitting across the aisle from me bobbing his head up and down to his iPod.  I just want to crawl into his lap, pop the earbud out of his head and scream, “HOW THE HELL DO YOU DO IT!?!?  DO YOU JUST WORK OUT ALL DAY LONG??  WHAT’S THE SECRET?!?”

I think I’ll refrain from doing that.

It is so hard for me to close my eyes and imagine me with the body I want.  I can look at someone else and want their body but when I try to hold a mental picture of my own self with a nice bod, I just can’t make it stick.  The image just morphs back into skinny flabby me.  It’s not that I want to be some big muscle god.  That’s too much of a commitment and quite frankly, I have other stuff to do.  I just want a little bulk—a little shape…maybe even a ripple.  Just one.  I want to take my shirt off when we have friends over for a swim and not feel inferior.

Let me tell you folks, that whole body image problem is not necessarily a female thing.  I see the hunk on the magazine cover in the checkout of the grocery store and get all bummed out feeling that I don’t measure up.  It’s frustrating being a middle aged gay man in this world—especially living with someone who does has a very nice body.

I’m pathetic.  I just have to keep trying I guess.  I have never really failed at anything I’ve ever put my mind to–in fact, I have been quite successful everything…except this.  That’s what makes it so annoying.  Why is it so hard?  It’s like a giant obstruction.  A mental block of sorts.  I need to change that picture in my head.

My ears are popping. The plane is descending. Tucson is just about 20 minutes away. Hopefully, things will get back on track schedule-wise and I’ll be able to find new mental wallpaper to inspire me.

Side note:  I got home and there was a little card from my trainer in the mail reminding me that I have not been to the gym for a while.   Maybe it’s a sign. 

I was all set to go singing last night but my stomach started to feel worse and worse as the evening went on.  I finally asked Ray to drive me back home from Bisbee where I moaned in agony all night long on a heating pad.  It felt like a giant claw was clintching my back.  There was no barfing or anything like that.  Just hard cramps in my tummy and my back.  I lay in bed most of today.  I finally had to make myself get up. 

Man do I feel like shit. 

I was so looking forward to a relaxing Sunday outside.  Instead I got to lay in bed all day.   Last weekend was the flood, this weekend a stomach bug.  And I’m supposed to be flying back from Chicago next weekend?

You know that kind of morning where you wake up early and it’s really sunny?  There’s a bright green hue appearing on all the mesquite trees and a hint of little blue flowers on the rosemary?  I’m having one of them right now.  It’s going to be in the mid 70’s today and 82 tomorrow!  It’s Spring! And you know what that means?

I’m perpetually horny.

I mean, I’m already perpetually horny (what man isn’t?) but in Springtime, it’s like a four alarm fire.  Emergency–emergency!  Beep beep beep! Pull down your pants and put your hands up–my shorts. 

And yes, of course, it’s one of my most favorite seasons.  Ray likes it too!  It’s a little bit difficult in public places though.  My tounge goes a  waggin’ at every single upright and ambulatory man within eyesight.  My eyeballs sniffing them up and down like a bloodhound. 

 “I want that one!  Ohhh, and that one. Yes! Yes! I totally want that one! Please? Can I?”

It’s a strange kind of sexual energy.  I just have an urgent desire to jump every man I see (within reason, I do have standards).  Hey, what can I say really?  I’m a highly sexual being living in a world where showing Janet Jackson’s boob on TV for a split second is punishable by monetary fee.  That’s just laughable.  It’s also embarrassing.  The rest of the world is not as prude.  A boob is a boob is a boob. 

As a child, most people saw lots of boob.  The very first thing they saw was a giant boob being shoved in their face that they sucked milk from.  My God! That happened a few times a day.  For months–years.  How traumatic.  Perhaps there is a public fear that Ms. Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction my trigger a widespread post traumatic boob episode. 

A boobisode?

I think according to whatever board regulates (in their own feeble minds) what’s moral or immoral, I would be off the charts on the latter.  That’s something that perplexes me.  I don’t feel immoral.  I don’t hurt anyone.  Why should someone judge what I do in the privacy of a public restroom–just kidding–the privacy of my own home?  Get the fuck out of my house. 

In the long run, the truth–and we all know this–is that everybody is a little bit freaky.  Everyone is sexual.  How could we not be? 

In the words of George Michael, “Sex is natural, sex is good.  Not everybody does it, but everybody should.”  That coming from Mister Public Restroom himself. 

I don’t care what people do sexually as long as it doesn’t involve hamsters and duct tape.  If a 19 year old gets it on with a 17 year old, who gives a shit?  Hell, I did it with a thirty-something PE teacher when I was 14.  Did he molest me?  No.  How could I be molested when I totally wanted it?  I was a 14 year old budding homosexual with a very robust sex drive and an all grown up PE teacher with a killer bod, tight shorts and furry legs wants to get it on with me?  Hell yeah!  But I wasn’t a consenting adult.  The age of consent in immeasurable.  That line of 18 year-old-ness is so blurry.  Not that I’m into guys that young.  I’m still into the hunky mature PE teacher types in tight shorts. 

We all have a sex drive.  Most people are stuck with the parking brake on. 

<<insert sound of tires screeching away into the distance>>