Excited In Denver

One of the things I like about having a laptop is the ability to pop a squat, sit down and write wherever I want.

As I write this, I’m sitting in a airport bar in Denver waiting for my connection to Tucson. Ah - Arizona!

Who’da thunk it? I’m going to the desert and I’m as psyched as I could possibly be. I spent years telling Jamie to get the hell out of the desert, and instead I end up on my way TO the desert.

I’ve never been to AZ so I’m excited for that reason. I love the new and unknown.

I haven’t seen my best friend in almost a year. Excited about that too.

There will be some time spent in CA. Kind of exciting also.

The Daytime Emmys are being held for the first time in LA this year, and I’m "on the list." It’s been a few years since I’ve gone, so also an exciting prospect.

My depression has finally started to lift, and I feel like my old self again. (I almost reverted to my old "tell a bitch off" self last night, which would have jeopardized my chances of getting back some of my possessions.... Excited about getting that part of myself back. Sometimes bitches NEED to be told off.

I’m going to do some writing that has long since been overdue. Exciting, but daunting.
Yeah, I have a lot to be excited about.

I’m turning back into the Kevin who is excited about life again. I like that a lot.

I just spent a great two weeks in Maine, working at Friendly’s, and seeing my friends there who I miss terribly.

A long cry from where I was just a few months ago.

I don’t care who understands me. I’ve spent too much of the past year trying to shape other people’s opinion of myself, when the only person who can begin to know me as well as I know myself is Jamie ... who I’m going to see again in like 5 hours. (SO excited about that!)

So ... to all of you out there who don’t get me - SCREW YOU!

I get me. And I’m finally coming back to a place where that’s good enough for me.

And THAT might be the most exciting part of the whole journey.

Irony & Trailer Parks: The PA Trip

It’s ironic, that in my staunch effort to not end up looking like someone who lives in a trailer, I actually ended up IN a trailer.

Huh?

Rewind.

Broken tooth.

So my accident two weeks ago, left me with a broken front tooth. It wasn’t one of the two front, front teeth, but the tooth right next to those. And it was a decent enough sized chunk that I looked like a white trash hillbilly. My friend Skylar’s reaction upon being the first to see it was a scream of "Oh my GOD! You look like trailer trash!"

That was it. Enough said. I was on a bus a few days later to PA to go see my father’s dentist and get rid of the white trash look.

I arrived on a Saturday evening, and ran around with my dad to run some errands. My dad’s been taking an interest in helping his friend Mike, with his local touring musical productions where they use some karaoke equipment. Last time I was home he’d mentioned going to a karaoke night with me (I always go when I’m home.. .or anywhere really.)

At 9:30 Saturday night, after smoking a bowl and drinking a bottle of wine, I grabbed my Dad and off to karaoke we went. I’d left a few messages for different friends to come out and join the fun, and Scott, a friend of mine from Junior High School, who I hadn’t seen in probably 15 years came by.

I paid the door cover, and bought our first pitcher of beer. This was a big deal. I’ve never gone out with my father before. And it was to karaoke - my favorite passtime.

Scott showed up after my Dad and I had been hanging out for about 30 minutes, and I’d finally put my first song in. Shortly after that, Steve, an ex-flame of mine from Lancaster called to find out where I was. It was his birthday, he was out with friends and they were going to stop by. It’d been about 5 or 6 years since the last time I’d seen Steve, and we were both amazed at the improvement in appearance we’d both undergone. I glossed over the introduction to my father as "This is an old friend of mine Steve... you’ve met a thousand times."

In truth, my fathers first time meeting Steve, was when he looked out his living room picture window early one morning years ago, and saw him wrestling around and making out with his son in the front yard. It was a mixture of passion in the moment, and my attempt to show some acknowledgement that I was gay and that it wasn’t likely to change.

Thankfully Steve looked very little like he used to and it had been enough years, so my father wasn’t placing him. "What would I remember him from?" he asked me, as Steve and I smirked across the table at each other.

"I forget dad, that was a lifetime ago."

The evening continued with a drunk (and rather robust) friend of Steve’s giving me a lapdance in front of my father, and then moving next towards his lap. I immediately shot her a look and said "Don’t even think about it!"

My father stayed long enough to see me sing Mississippi Squirrel Revival first, and my old standard (Sweet Transvestite) ... It felt good to let my Dad see me do something (albeit as silly a thing as it is) that’s something I do so much in my life. I found it amusing when he told me later, that while telling a friend about the evening, he was surprised to discover that they had never heard of the Squirrel song, but knew what Sweet Transvestite was from immediately. My father’s exact words were "A Rocky Horror movie of some kind?"

After my Dad left, Steve and I played footsie under the table, kissed once or twice and flirted a bit before saying goodnight. I told him I’d love to see him again while I was home, he said that’d be great. I left, pretty wasted, and with the feeling I’d probably not see Steve again during my visit.

I didn’t.

Sunday was a lazy day ... I spent much of it in bed, and woke up in time for a home grilled steak dinner. Back to sleep for a bit.

Monday was another lazy day. A call to the family dentist got me a 3:30 appointment on Tuesday. I decided that was enough energy for a Monday and decided it was entertainment time. I have a new TV obsession - Nip/Tuck. I downloaded the first episode a few weeks ago and have been hooked ever since. Monday I finished Season One, and started Season Two. I HIGHLY reccomend this to anyone whose looking for a new show to catch up on. AMAZING.
Tuesday it was time to be productive. I was running out of the little bit of weed I had with me, and PA isn’t nearly as bearable

I had been up most of Monday night, so I decided to make breakfast for my Dad around 6:30. He retired over a year ago, but his job keeps asking him back for a few months at a time, since they still haven’t replaced him. So I decided he should start his day off with some French Toast.
I walked the mile to the local H&R Block around noon to go and file my taxes I ended up leaving with a check that day, and another one a few days later.

That afternoon it was time to go to the dentist and get the tooth looked at. Nobody was really sure without seeing it what course of action was going to be necessary to fix it, with as little time and pain as possible.

Fortunately there was enough of the tooth left to apply a bond, which although was painful sincde the tooth was still numb, fixed the aesthetic problem perfectly. Let’s face it, I ran to the dentist because of how it LOOKED, and we got that fixed. He warned me not to chew any apples anytime soon... like forever. He mumbled something about being careful with bread too, but I’m told myself that one was a joke.

I got home that night, tired from my long day, and with a prescription of tylenol with codine. (Mmmmm, codine!) :) I was determined to spend some of my tax money and have a good time though. I called Jenny Penny, who agreed to come out to karaoke if I found a ride, and if we went to ‘The Lodge’. (The Tally Ho, the local gay bar was also having karaoke that night, but I really didn’t care about the venue, I just wanted to sing.)

Scott picked me up, and after a brief stop at his coffee shop (he runs it with his family) we headed to meet Jenny Penny

She was waiting for us in the parking lot and the three of us headed inside, where we outnumbered the rest of the patrons who’d come out to sing that night. Jenn and I have pretty much the same view on this type of situation.

More time for us to sing.

And sing we did. The karaoke book was great so the three of us put in song after song after song. The karaoke DJ for the night was a hottie ... and a drunk hottie no less. He kept dancing up on me while I was up at the mic, and gave me MUCH LOVE when I sang my ‘one-hit-wonder’ song. (If you don’t know what it is by now, then you probably have never been out with me.) :)

Jenn decided to call it a night at midnight, and Scott and I decided to head over to the Tally Ho and see if it was any more lively there.

Lively it was. The place was packed with both young hotties and old scaries. Almost immediately after entering the bar I ran into David, a friend of mine from my PA visits over the years who had recently moved to NYC and gotten gayer then gay. (When we met he was 16 and I was 22 ... He was a punk rockin homo back then, now a few years later it was interesting to see what kind of queer he’d grown into.)

I kept swigging back beer after beer and eventually came to the stumbling realization that I was quickly on my way to getting shitfaced.

It’s important to know that this was one of the first nights in months where I actually FELT like my social self again. I was enjoying being out, looking cute, and making eyes at my hometown gay boys. I was beginning to feel like my old self again. And my old self did love to drink.

As it was nearing the end of the night, I decided to accompany my karaoke slip (my usual) with a $10 and asked that the DJ try to squeeze me in.

I sang next.

I was on my cell with Jamie when they called me up to sing, and I decided that he was going to be a part of the performance.

I rocked the fuckin house at the Tally Ho that night. When it came to the part of the song where I usually grab a nearby hottie to use as a prop, I found a cute blonde standing on the dance floor, and did my usual schtick with him.

"I’ve been makin’ a man ... with blonde hair and a tan ... and he’s good for relieving my..."

Not-so-subtle push of the boy down to my crotch area.

"...tension."

The crowd cheered a bit, and I finished strong. It was a good song.

It’s at this point where the night begins to get hazy. I felt great after singing, and I started walking around chatting, while Scott talked up some girl he ran into that he knew.

I remember that I met a boy.

I think it was in the bathroom.

I know we made out in the bar. I remember the kisses. They were good. I remember he was cute. Close to my height I think. But no specifics. Hair or eye color? Couldn’t tell ya. His name?

Not a fucking clue. Just the kisses.

The bar did last call and Scott and his friend decided they wanted to go to a diner. I remember persuading my faceless kisser to join us. I remember getting in his car and making out some more. The drive to the diner is hazy. I remember sitting out in the parking lot, making out some more. I’m told Scott called my cell phone and I told them we’d be right in.

And that’s all I remember of the night.

I’m told I spent an hour in the parking lot, then came into the diner crying and alone.

I woke up the next morning in pain. Hungover and tooth aching. Thankfully the doctor had perscribed some good pain killers for me. I took some and went back to sleep till that evening.
It was a lazy TV night again both of the next two nights. I hung around my family home, chatted online and and made a discovery.

For a long time now, I’ve been annoyed by one question that almost everyone seems to ask me.

"Are you on myspace?"

UGH!

"No, I’m on Friendster!" I would always say. "They’re just a ripoff and a stupid one at that."
Let it be known I’m now a bit of a MySpace junkie. (http://www.myspace.com/eclecticlibra)

The transformation came about when my best friend told me that an old friend of his from his high school days had tracked him down on MySpace. I think often about people from my past who I don’t speak with anymore. People I’d like to see again. Talk to again. Have things I’d like to say to.

So I started searching away. I found bunches of people right away, and received replies from a few of them over the next few days.

It wasn’t until Thursday night when the real old connections started happening though. And they happened online, though not on MySpace.

Ray and "Lucky". Two people from my past I thought I’d never speak to again. Ray I hadn’t seen in 6 years. Lucky closer to 8.

I’ll tell the Ray story first, as it’s one of those stories from my life I really feel should end up in my memoirs one day.

Flash back about 6 years ago (maybe 7, they all run together after a while) and I was living in New York City, but had gone home to PA to spend a few months with my family. My Dad had gotten sick and my Mom needed a little help around the house.

I’d met a few local guys around my age online, and Ray was one of them. Another of them was Chad who had actually grown up in the next neighborhood and who I used to pick on as a child (he was one of the only ones around easier to make fun of then me - and I took my opportunities where I could find them)

Chad had grown up and become a little raver boy queer, and we’d begun hanging out. The memory on this is a bit hazy, but Ray and I were friends, and we’d fool around occasionally. I was interested, but not sure what was going to come of it.

The specifics are hazy too, but I remember that it was a summer Friday afternoon, and that for some reason Chad and Ray and I were arriving at my house. Chad and Ray were making up an excuse to ditch me, saying they were going their separate ways, but my intuition told me that something else was going on.

A few minutes later I called Ray’s cell phone, and he assured me this was not the case. Ray was sweet. A liar but sweet. Chad was not sweet, he was a troublemaker. So he took the phone from Ray and proceeded to gloat then hang up on me.

Not really an especically memorable moment, you might think. It was though. I’d been emotionally fragile during this time. My Dad being sick, my career was just beginning to go down the toilet, and I’d just gotten cheated on by my last boyfriend. I was sick of people telling me things that I wasn’t sure I could trust. And I was angry at the people who caused this distrust.

These feelings swirled around inside of me, and sitting in my childhood bedroom, crying, I had my first panic attack.

It felt like a ton of bricks had been dropped on my chest. Try as I might I couldn’t catch my breathe.

As I sucked for air, I reached for the phone.

"Joy" (I’ll blog-name her) was a very dear friend of mine, who was a few years older.

Joy was an actress also. At the time of this particular breakdown Joy was out in LA shooting her recurring role on 90210. I was known to call Joy’s 800-voice-mail-pager thingy at crazy hours of the night, drunk and sobbing about my cheating boyfriend, or the next boy who’d hurt me, or any one of a number of things that would have me drunk and crying in the middle of the night. (It wasn’t so pretty back then!) :) This certainly was an important enough excuse to disturb her
I thought as I speed dialed her.

The phone rang two minutes later.

"Hello?" I choked out.

"OK, you’re having a panic attack." She got right into it. "I’ve had a million of them ... it’s your body reacting to emotional stress, and you can control it. Are you home alone?"

"No...my...my dad’s here."

"Kevin, put your dad on the phone."

Bear in mind, this girl was probably about to walk out and shoot a scene with Tori Spelling, but God love her she was there on the phone to help me through a tough time. (In the end, it was my dependence on that, that caused the seperation in our friendship.) I look back and hope I returned that to her in her times of need. I wasn’t her number one call, but I was on the list.

This was an amazing girl who helped me through so much, and I wish I knew her today.
Joy and my Dad talked for a few minutes. My father returned with the phone, and a pill that he handed to me.

"Hello?’... I said, still breathing hysterically.

"OK, I LOVE that your father has Xanax in the house." Joy said, not missing a beat.

She proceeded to talk me through my first panic attack ever, and I never spoke to Ray again.

Till this Thursday night in PA when I emailed a hottie I saw on Manhunt. (I was just looking!!! :)
I get a return email from the hottie and we trade AIM screen names.

IS THIS KEVIN? The IM read.

IRONY 1: The Manhunt hottie was Ray.
IRONY 2: He was also the boy I used as my karaoke prop at the Tally Ho a few nights earlier.

It really is like rain...

...on your wedding day.

While talking to Ray, an IM comes up from Manhunt, which I still had opened. I start typing while waiting for the picture to come up.

As I’m typing the picture comes up on my screen.

"LUCKY!" HOLY FUCK!

I’d met Lucky the Christmas before meeting Ray when I was home for the holidays. He was 16 at the time, and I was in my very early twenties. (I can’t actually remember and math isn’t my strong suit.) From the very first moment I saw him, I was captivated by his mischievious smile. He was a smart ass, crude and more then a little cocky sometimes. But he was clever, charming and had a real heart that I got to know a bit during our friendship. Lucky's always been good people.

I’m pretty sure he always knew I had a crush on him ... but nothing ever came of it. There was the age difference. I was pretty damn chunky at the time. I had little to no idea who I was then. And at that point, neither one of us had really lived a lot of life.

Weird, the things that youo remember. I remember the last time I saw him was in my kitchen. He was wearing my silver shirt, and black pleather jacket and getting ready to leave to move to Michigan. For many years I had a picture of him that we’d taken that day... and I’d look at it often and think of him. Many good memories.

So ... there I am on Manhunt. It’s early Friday morning (daylight was just starting to happen) and I’m talking to two people that I haven’t talked to or thought about in a very long time.
Lucky and I start reminiscing and talking about the good old days. During conversation I mention that I ran out of weed days ago, and haven’t been able to find any in PA.

Apparently, if you want to find weed in PA, you talk to Lucky.

After talking on and off all day, he picked me up at my house at 10 that night and delivered me the first ounce of weed I’ve ever bought. (My ex, Cameron, used to buy by the ounce, and I’ve bought FOR him before... so maybe that counts... )

But this was my first and I was excited. He pulled in the driveway, and got out... I was wearing an outfit to show off how much weight I’d lost since last I saw him.

Everywhere I go I get comments about how much weight I have lost ... and asking what kind of crack I’m smoking. "None...anymore." I always say with a smile. "Why, you got some?"

I made sure to be on the phone when he got there, being a lame ass poser that I am sometimes. As he got out of the car, I noticed he looked exactly the same as he always did. There was a bit
more confidence with him (he was never insecure, it just seems more solid now) that comes with age... but everything else about him was the same. Including his smile. A lot about our friendship flooded back that night as he reminded me of story after story ... I’d forgotten he came to NYC to visit me... that I’d taken him to a cheesy theme restaurant (Mars 2112) which he still says is his favorite restaurant. He reminded me of all these stories, which I hadn’t thought about in years. And with every story, I remembered how big the crush I had on him was. And as he’d tell every story with that playfulness he always possessed, I realized he was just one of those people. Hopefully this reconnection will stick, and we’ll be friends for years to come. But I think he’ll always be that friend for me... that friend that a part of you will always have deeper feelings for... but that never becomes anything other then friendship. I think many of us have those in our lives... I have before. I’ve been that before. Ha. I liked being it better... but not much.

"So, what are we doing tonight?" I ask. "Staying in, or going out?"

"Wanna go out?" he asked.

"You know I do!"

I changed quickly (I just needed a different shirt) and slipped past my growling Dad (he chose that night to get weird about my friends... maybe he remembered Lucky).

We drove around Lancaster hotboxing his car, and eventually ended up at the Tally Ho, where we strutted our stuff, and continued to catch up over drinks.

We jetted, and as we left I was thinking how easily we’d kind of slipped into each others groove. At this point in the evening, I was remembering my crush on him, and wondering what his thoughts were on the me I’d become.

"Wanna come spend the night at my house?" He asked.

Now let me point out, whether the chance had been there or not, I wouldn’t have slept with him that night. That’s the thing about having friends like that... you never sleep with them - unless you’re sure.

On the 30 minute drive to his place, I told him about the tooth injury that had brought me home and how I couldn’t walk around NYC looking like someone out of a trailer.

"I live in a trailer! Shut up!" he snapped back.

I started giggling uncontrollably, and he clearly was amused by my amusement. It was a funny moment. We ended up at the trailer, where I met his roommate. She was a groovy chick and I loved her instantly. We smoked a bunch and I began to feel like a retard... (I hate when I get stupid stoned when I wanna be witty stoned)

After smoking we had the munchies, so it was off to a truck stop. Yeah, I said a truckstop. It was hillarious. The three of us walking in sitting down with all these big burly truckers, stoned off our asses. Good times.

I ate. A lot. What, is now a blur. But it was yummy.

We went back and smoked some more. Talked some more. Laughed some more.

"Do you want me to sleep out here and you take my bed, or do you want to sleep out here?" He asked me as we all sat there stoned.

That was it then. He was letting me know we weren’t sleeping in the same bed. Egotistical fuck.
(Only with him, could that statement be made with affection.)

Oddly, I was relieved. I like having a crush on him. We’re not compatible to date. And he’s a friend I’d like to have around for a while. I’ll be the one who goes out and fucks up the bitches who break his heart... Well on my butch days anyway.

I laid there on the couch trying to fall asleep, thinking about the night, and realizing that I’d had a great night and I could feel the depression just washing away. Maybe it was the visits to the past... or seeing what relevance those from the past have in the present. I was stoned. I was happy. And I was in a trailer.

It’s like 10 thousand spoons, when all ya need is a knife...

The Break-Up

Often times I find days going by where I don’t write anything in my blog. As seems to happen often in my life, days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months. And before you know it, time has once again passed you by.

It’s not that the past few months have been uneventful. Far from it. But when you’re the poster-child for adult-ADHD (I know, poster child for an adult disease. An oxymoron for a real-life moron!) sometimes too much to write about is worse then having nothing to write about at all. I find that heartbreak often tends to motivate me to write. Many a breakup have caused me to sit down at the computer and start drilling away at the keyboard.

And it’s today, after a particularly sad breakup that I sit down to finally write what’s in my heart today, and a little bit about the journey that brought me here.

We want love to be perfect, and it just sadly never is. Sometimes it’s imperfections are glaringly obvious, and sometimes they just nag away at us, somewhere below the surface.

The last time I felt actual love in my heart for a boy was "Shane." The relationship started off almost like a fairy tale (more a Grim Fairy’s Tale then a Grimm’s Fairy Tale). The torrid summer love affair with the boy from Italy. In typical Libra fashion, I fell in love and I fell hard. We exchanged rings, in one of the most magical moments of my entire life, and committed ourselves to each other and then sang duets from Moulin Rouge. Silly, cheesy, ridiculous ... I loved every minute of it. And I felt every minute of it.

Am I naive for getting swept up in the moment? Was it the rose-colored glasses that ultimately doomed the relationship? Did I make a mistake by not fighting harder to be SURE my decisions were correct there?

I have so many questions but no answers. I know that by the time "Shane" returned to Italy, I’d already begun to shutdown emotionally.

It was the beginning of November, when I got the first job I interviewed for, at horror-themed restaurant Jekyll & Hyde.

Immediately I picked up on what was a wonderful work dynamic. The servers all seemed to genuinely support each other, which in my few years working in restaurants has been quite rare. I found myself loving not only the co-workers, but the work atmosphere, the management
team and eventually most everything about the job.

But I was still empty in so many other ways. I was depressed often, miserable at where I was living, and had few friends that I actually spent any time with. (At first it was circumstance, but later I began to chose being alone). In November, I felt my emotions numbing more. The waking hours were for working, or engaging in some form of dubochery. I didn’t have friends, but there were people I partied with. I’d learned a tough lesson in October about trusting the wrong person, and was beginning to associate my new social patterns with that event.

It was the night before Thanksgiving when I made another mistake. There was a cute 19-year old server at work who I was fairly certain was gay, but hadn’t actually spoken much to. (We’ll call him "Scrappy-Doo" or "Scrappy" for the blog. I can only offer as an explanation that if you knew him, you’d understand the comparison.) "Scrappy" and I had our first real conversation after leaving work the night before Thanksgiving. On the walk to the subway the talk turned to "dubochery" (the chemical form, not the sexual form - though really one is often the road to the other) We ended up "partying", sharing stories and eventually sitting naked together. (Obla dee, obla dah!) I’d decided while we were getting on the subway to my "dwelling" that I wasn’t going to develop any sort of fake feelings for some 19 year old kid just to fill the emptiness I was aware was growing inside of me.

"Can I ask you a question?" He said, looking up at me doe-eyed, in the middle of our interesting (to say the least) evening. "Would you ever consider dating me?"

A mixture of feelings swirled around inside me as I pondered the question. I was lonely. I didn’t feel attractive. I had no idea what I wanted to do next with my life. I wanted someone to just make me feel good for a little while since I didn’t seem to be able to accomplish it on my own. And here was this cute (the eyes are dreamy - and the butt - to die for!) 19 year old, who wanted to know if I was interested in HIM.

I told him that yes, there were many things about him that I would find attractive in a potential boyfriend. There is a certain appeal to someone who might not be as jaded and bitter as those of us old queens, who have already "been-there/done-that" at least a thousand times. "Scrappy" was also energetic, funny, charismatic and I felt good spending time with him that night. Once again, in order to feel good, and relieve pain in the present, I made a choice that I knew would probably not bode well for me in the future. I allowed myself to play "I have a boyfriend" for the night with "Scrappy."

Around 1am he actually called his mother and asked her if I could join them for Thanksgiving dinner. We discussed that I would have to meet his friends. We threw hypothetical "relationship questions" at each other, and I felt as though I was certainly not embarking on the "Luke & Laura" of gay relationships, but that perhaps this might be the start of something that might be nice. A boy to date. To smile with, and go to movies and shoot pool, and do stupid gay things. Someone to spend some time learning about, and getting to know ... and who knows?

Clothes were shed. Conversation turned to sex and dating. Relationships were discussed, secrets were shared.... Many factors were at play, but the mistake I’d promised not to make was made.

I’d opened up to someone and made myself vulnerable, and all but invited the rejection that was
soon to follow.

It wasn’t his fault anymore then mine. A lack of total sobriety contributed to both of our mistakes... as did probably a loneliness from both sides. I remember one specific moment though, when little "Scrappy" was lying on my chest ... and for just a moment enjoyed one of those beautiful moments, where you’re not just holding "him" ... you’re holding each other. It was over almost as quickly as the evening was, but it was a wonderful, albeit fleeting moment.

Thanksgiving morning I spent sleeping, not having dinner at the "Doo’s". When I sensed sobriety was changing the mood, I let "Scrappy" off the hook, and said I’d rather spend Thanksgiving catching up on my sleep for work that evening. I found out later my sister was in town and was only a short walk away, watching the Macy’s parade. I spent the day doing what, then, was my favorite of all activities. Sleeping. "Scrappy" and I both worked that evening. Those who came in early were treated to a Thanksgiving dinner. Once again, I traded mine for an extra 30 minutes of sleep. "Scrappy" and I worked on the same floor that evening, but barely spoke to each other. There was no great love lost ... but I’d felt some of my pride was. I wondered if it wasn’t more then just pride, but not until a few months later realized that this event was kind of the last emotional straw for me. I ran dry soon after that.

December was perhaps one of the roughest months I’ve had in my 29 years. I’ve been working on a blog entry for 3 weeks now, about all of the feelings and emotions that came out of what happened that month. It was a tough month, full of loss in so many ways. Loss that eventually led to a loss of self that I find myself still trying to recover.

Work was extremely understanding during my rough December. Towards the beginning of January, I thought that the pain was diminishing. In actuality I think I was just numbing myself more. By "numbing" I mean so many things. Certainly I was self-medicating a lot during December and January. By January, I found myself hurting less but also feeling very little of anything. Nothing chemical, paternal, emotional or sexual would stimulate any real feeling in me. I was spending even more time alone.

Towards the end of January, I began rebelling against the instinct to isolate myself. A mid-January work Christmas party was the beginning of another chapter. A new friend, a kiss and a key started to change my perspective on things. I still didn’t "feel" much, but I was building up a determination to make change.

Friends helped with that change. In different ways, and many of those friends were friends from work. The job that I loved and was fighting so hard to keep had provided me much of the only "happiness" that I’ve had the past few months.

Ironically, in the past week and change, there had started to be an upswing. I found myself feeling hurt and stupid regarding one choice but for the first time in months, my strength seemed to be coming back. I didn’t stop, or let myself sink further into depression. I kept on with what I needed to do, worked a hell week at the restaurant, while balancing other responsibilities and refocusing myself for my next step. These events are all ironic, because as things were finally looking up - the breakup was just around the corner.

Tuesday night, a ridiculous accident (that I was sadly completely sober for) ended up costing me a large chunk of one of my front teeth. I was mortified but immediately began trying to problem solve. I called friends for dentist refferals, scoured the internet and worked to get my weekend shifts at the restaurant covered so that I could escape to PA and hope that my dad would foot my dental bill, so that I could show my face in public anytime in the forseeable future.

This morning was a rough morning of fighting to get into see a dentist, getting an evaluation on the damage of my tooth, dealing with the pain, playing phone tag with my father and trying to find shift coverage for a few days. By noon, I was exhausted and in pain and decided too take a nap.

I set my alarm for 2:30 in order to make a 4pm sales meeting. When I awoke a few minutes early (2:19) I had a text message. The message was sent at 1, reminding me not to miss the sales meeting - at 2.

In the end, what was honestly a pretty understandable mistake (I’m missing HALF A FRONT FUCKING TOOTH AND AM TAKING PAIN KILLERS TILL I CAN SEE A GODDAMN DENTIST, FOR FUCKS SAKE) ended up causing my breakup ... the loss of the one thing I’ve truly loved during this long cold winter - my job at Jekyll & Hyde.

There’s so much more to be written about the past few months, and I plan to do a lot of it. I’m retreating to PA, to get my tooth fixed, and spend some time taking care of unresolved family issues. Neither sounds like a great time, but both are necessary in order for me to move on to what comes next.

What DOES come next?

I feel like what I need right now is something strong and solid. I need to be able to count on something. I need to find a way to find myself again. And then perhaps find happiness.

Thankfully even my life has a few constants. I have the best friend in the entire world. That’s a pretty great constant and I think some time spent with him might be just what the doctor ordered. It may be another form of self-medicating, but certainly a much healthier one.

Besides, just as a broken tooth requires attention and care to relieve the pain, so does a broken heart. And whether it's a whirlwind romance with a foreigner, a one-night-relationship with a cute 19 year old, or a 4 month relationship with a job you loved, when it comes right down to it - breaking up IS hard to do.

My Trip To Maine, Part One! :)

I love the holidays in New York City, and it seems this year I'm going to be spending a good deal of them right here. (Hopefully to a bigger place, with lots of space in the next week.)

But it's been an eventful past few weeks.

After losing the job at the Diner, getting injured, and spending the better part of two weeks in bed retreating from the world, I decided it was time to take charge again.

It was a beautiful Monday morning in my head, as I showered at 10 in the morning, and then called Friendly's, back in Maine.

"Kevin?" I said, to the miserably depressed by his job, middle-aged gay man who'd run the store during most of my tenure there. "It's Kevin Benham. I'm going to be in Maine for a few days, and was wondering if you had any shifts for me?"

"You betcha, Kev!" he responded in his borderline-psychotically forced toned. "When ya gettin here?"

And thus began my quest. I planned to leave Wedsneday night, arrive Thursday and stay until Monday morning. That left me three days to search for a job before taking off. I'd applied at two places the previous week. One of them was Jekyll and Hyde, a horror themed restaurant here in Manhattan. They'd called back on Monday, and invited me for a final interview Wedsenday.

Being a "put all my eggs in one basket" kind of guy, I decided to take it easy the next few days. That decision paid off when before getting on a bus to Portland that week, I had my final interview and was hired on the spot. Training would start the following Tuesday... it couldn't have worked out any better.

I left New York, looking forward to a weekend away. I have commented lately to friends how it's odd to me, that while Portland was the place I lived the shortest amount of time, it feels most like my "home retreat" when I want to get away from my daily life. Weird, huh?

I took a 10:00pm bus to Boston, which got me in to Beantown around 1:30 in the morning. My bus to Portland wasn't until 6:50, so I had plenty of time to kill.

It was on my walk outside for some nicotine, I made the horrifying realization that I'd left my cigarettes on the bus!

CURSES! I shook my fist in the air! But there was nothing to be done. I asked a security guard where the nearest place to purchase some cancer sticks was, and he directed me to a 7-11.

Now it's important to know that my knowledge of Boston is strictly the 2 or 3 blocks surrounding South Station, from a few layovers cigarettes on the New York to Portland tour.

While walking I was befriended by a random stranger. Now I realize that I'm a sucker, but clearly I must also be wearing a sign that alerts other of this, because they can always spot me from a mile away. This one's name was Tim, and he was a mildly suicidal, manic depressive "straight" boy from Wooster, Mass who somehow got into Boston for a concert, but didn't have the fare to get home. We walked, talked and smoked pot for a few hours, while he serenaded me with songs I've never heard of, but probably should have. Around 6am we split up (I gave him his bus fare, natch!) and traded emails. I was off on a bus to Portland, which would get me in at 8am, and I would go directly to Friendly's, to be at work by 9.

As it turned out when I got there, someone was late so I was thrown in almost immediately. I checked into the connecting Howard Johnson, with a Friendly's discount (got me a suite for $25 for 3 of my 4 nights there).

That day I was reunited with Kristy, (one of the "treasures" I discovered in Maine, that makes Portland so much a second home) and later witnessed her have an emotional breakdown. I'd been a shitty friend recently, and had hoped to make that up to her while on this trip.

Thursday night I ended up meeting up with Kimmy first. We headed to Margarita's to meet up with April where I had a few drinks and a yummy taco salad. After saying goodbye to Kimmy, April and I headed to a new nearby Latin club where my friend Jules had just started working. I was actually surprised to see how much I really missed Jules. I'd decided he wasn't a very good person shortly before I left, but perhaps I've become a little less judgemental since being back in New York. If we care about people, perhaps their mistakes should just be that and not so signifigant if they don't affect that friendship.

April dropped me off at the hotel, where Adam was just arriving. We grabbed some brews and hung in my hotel room for a while. Jon stopped by to round out the group, but it ended up being just Adam and I who headed back out later in search of a good karaoke night.

Now a Thursday night karaoke night in Portland used to be a no-brainer. "Somewhere Else," the local gay bar, had the best karaoke night in Portland on Thursdays. I spent many a Thursday (and Tuesday when they also did it) drinkin baby pitchers down like shots while warbling out "Sweet Transvestite" for the same old crowd. The karaoke guy even had my own copy of the disk in his collection. (Larry's, my boyeeeeeeeeeeee!) LOL - Anyway, I'd heard a few months ago that "Somewhere Else" had closed it's doors.

We decided to drive by, just to check it out and were surprised to see a ton of homos standing outside. And the sound of karaoke coming from the bar.

I had died, and gone to heaven. And not the cheesy chelsea gay club, real heaven. Gone was the dingy, but charming "Somewhere Else," and in it's place was "Spring Street," a gorgeous martini bar, that would rival some of NYC's own such places.

My trip to heaven was complete when I saw Larry, standing behind the now black laquer DJ stand. KARAOKE NIGHT WAS ON!..

Cold.

It strikes me that when it gets cold, it doesn’t really sneak up on you anymore. One day it’s nice and sunny and the perfect temperature - summer easing into fall - and the next motherfuckin’ day it is cold. Bitter cold.
Such is the way with the fickle New York City weather, and such is the way with life.

I’d forgotten about New York City and it’s many changing seasons. I’d finally grown accustomed to the year-round warmth in Florida, when I went and settled in to two years in Maine, where snow was a part of your every day life for sometimes half the damn year.

But New York ... it’s different here. The seasons come and go, in full force, but New Yorkers remain the same. They don’t slow down to panic about the chilly temperatures, they throw on a scarf, grab their metrocard and go on with their lives.

It was such a warm summer... an even warmer September. I had job security (with the exception of a little month here) and I was just doin’ everything I could to really meld the person I thought I’d become with the New York City life I once had.

Wednesday, I made the decision that (with the exception of pot) it's time for me to give up on the other drugs for a while. They stopped being fun when I found using a substance to be a way of actually looking for substance...

I say this not as an addict, or as recovered party boy (Oh no, this boy WILL party again!), but I say this as somebody who for the past few months has been hanging with "Tina" and "Gina" and sometimes the occasional CRACK a little more then nescesarry ... Yup, that’s right boys and girls. I’ve smoked my fair share of crack in the past few weeks too... And yet still, somehow not a crackhead? Hmm... puzzling when I should so easily be able to place myself into a stereotype, or a character or at least a fucking demographic. But no ... that would just be too simple.

Why!? Why am I doing all these things, and spending so much money on them, when I could be having fun in so many other ways? When I could be instead trying to build a path towards my next goal. I’ve not done too poorly at achieving them... why am I going to stop now and rest on my baggies?

I don’t know still... In the past few days since I’ve lost my job (I called in too many times, cause I was sick ... both physically and mentally) I’ve had a lot of time to reflect...

But fuck that right? I didn’t chose to reflect. I chose to sleep. I chose to dream.

And dreaming is something right? No, not too much when the only dreams you have take place in the same 8X6 room you’re calling "home" as you debate where you not only SHOULD be in your life, but in fact where you actually WANT to be?

The truth is, that sitting here on the steps of my building (I’m now technically a resident, I guess that’s something) I remember the past few months, the tenants would gather late at night and chit chat, gossip and maybe have a smoke or two. I remember the months behind me, and how I had a piece of a puzzle, but had just stopped looking for the other pieces.

It’s time to step forward and show some character. It’s time to start doing things for me.

Surviving will be the first order of business, since I’ll need to fight the depression that’s taking hold, and get out there and find another job. One that I won’t screw up this time.

And there are lots of thoughts of screwing up ... of playing when I should be sleeping... of partying when I could be writing ... Enough memories and stories to write 10 plays, novels or screenplays with. There’s at least a full television series in there all about the afterhours scene in Florida. I started envisioning that even back then.

I’ve got the experiences... and I’ll have plenty more to come... but right now it’s time to work. To work for money, to work for sanity.

To take all the experiences that life has given me and to make my mark in the world, so that the REAL experiences I have left, are colored with achievement and success, not sex and drugs.
Luck has played a huge part in my life over the years. Good and bad... many of the things that happen to me in life seem so chance that luck (or that Bitchy Lady Fate) seem to be the driving force in causing them to happen.

In terms of my strength and longitude though, life has been pretty good to me. My body somehow recovers from all the "goodies" I’ve ingested over the years. The stronger nature in me always wins out in the end. The verdict’s never guilty. The test always comes back negative. And I always end up on my feet again. Luck I guess. But it does run out eventually, and maybe it’s time to stop hoping there’s just one more tissue in the box.

I noticed some of the other tenants in my building getting supplies together while summer was still here. Preparing for a winter that was coming ... Me, I chose to enjoy the warmth while it lasted, and now I find myself paying the piper. Scrambling to get ready for a winter that’s on an express train to here. The cold weather is here ... and the cold city is embracing it. And me?

What of me?

Well, I’ve just got to throw on my scarf, grab my metrocard and go on with my life.

Thought Stew

My new job is an interesting mix of the familiar and the new.

Familiar because it's a diner (actually "THE Diner"), and therefore much like Denny's and Friendly's, the two places where I first learned the fine art of waiting tables.

OK, perhaps not such a fine art at either of those places, but they were both certainly diners.

Then I moved on to "Blockheads" the tex-mex joint with the $3 frozen margaritas. Still, not exactly fine dining. But then again, I always knew that a stuffy restaurant with linen napkins and a matre'd was not exactly my kind of joint.

"The Diner" is a neat place, because it's in the heart of a very popular neighborhood, and has all the comforts of a traditional diner, but while still providing a higher level of service then your average corner greasy spoon.

The other night I learned how to do proper wine service (something I hope I'm not called upon to do that often, as things like that absolutely petrify me for some reason) and I'm currently in the process of memorizing our rather intricate menu (who knew that burgers and fries could be so complicated) as well as our wine list and a bunch of other factoids I'm expected to have a firm grasp on before a mandatory test all waitstaff will be taking next week.

I've been trying to keep up on the writing too ... there's much of it to be done. Not just the bill paying kind, but I'm also trying to push myself more towards the work that needs to be done for some projects I've been working around in my head for some time now.

I find myself once again reaching complacency... workin the jobs ... playin on free nights... and sleeping as much as possible so I can do it all again.

But there's more to life ... at least there's more to mine. I know that there is because I dream about it. I dream about the successes I've had and of the ones I still have ahead of me. But dreaming, contrary to popular belief, is just not enough.

Work. Concentration. Focus. Discipline. These are also key components in realizing your potential. And these are all things that I find myself trying to cultivate internally. It's not enough to just want these things ... I need to make them happen.

My biggest problems was never my ability to dream big ... or even the talent to bring my creations to fruition. Instead, my downfall has always been my inability to stay driven and focused enough to follow through.

I know this ... and therefore it's time to start acting on that knowledge.

It's time to heed those wise words that followed the end of every episode of GI Joe ... "Now you know. And knowing is half the battle!"

The Begginning Of The End ... Of My Twenties!

29. The last year of my twenties.

God, how has it all flown by so quickly?

I say that as though it's all been a big blur of events that have just been too fabulous to enjoy. This, of course, is not the case. In fact there have been many moments in my life that have seemed to go on forever. Moments that I've wished would just hurry up and end so that I could go on with my life. Moments when I've felt more an old man in my 60's then a young one in his 20's. But when it comes down to it, the realization that in one more year I'll be entering my 30's seems just unfathomable to me.

So many questions flood through my mind. Have I done everything I wanted to do with my life up until this point? (No, of course not!) Does getting older mean getting more responsible? (Only time will tell I suppose.) Is who I am really affected so much by a number? A year? A chronological fact?

I was depressed in the days leading up to my actual birthday. I'd tried to throw a last minute party the preceeding Saturday, which almost no one could attend. I usually tend to try to put so much focus on celebrating my birthday that I sometimes forget to do any real soul searching or personal growth that might actually help make the passing of a year more of a positive thing.

My birthday fell on a Tuesday this year, and as midnight rolled around that Monday night, I was on the phone with Jamie chatting away. He was the first to wish me a Happy Birthday, and a four hour conversation proceeded. Somehow between midnight and 4am, when I finally got off the phone, my entire perspective on my birthday had changed. I'd thought a lot about how far i'd come since my last birthday.

Last year I had been living in Maine, and I came up to New York and celebrated with some friends at the Duplex. My friend Kristina had asked me "So when are you finally moving back to the city?"

"Soon." I had replied.

"Oh please. You've been saying that for years!" I remember my friend Samara teasing.

And it was in that moment that I realized there wasn't anything holding me back anymore. That it was time to move forward. I realized that night that I wanted to be living in New York again before my next birthday rolled around.

So, as I turn age 29, the final year of my 20's I find myself perhaps not everywhere I thought I would be by now. But I'm getting there. I'm taking the steps and doing the work. In my time, certainly. Baby steps somedays, and great leaps and bounds other days. But i'm taking those steps.

In the year that's passed since my 28'th birthday, I've achieved a lot for myself. For the last year of my 20's I expect to achieve a lot more, and perhaps to sew any remaining wild oats and gear up for something that I find to be almost as exciting as it is terrifying: my 30's.

I'm not ready for them yet, but I've got a whole year to get ready!

Bring it on!