The one that started it all

Nearly an entire month wasn't the intentional time span between my last post and this one. The idea was to start a series of entries about all the dudes that got me here. Starting with a late entry on Halloween night -- remembering the Halloween night 20 years ago that got everything really going -- was just the hook. Now I've got to type a while here to get my groove back.

But it shouldn't be especially difficult. But let's get it going with a little recap of my current situation.

Finished the big Halloween project for SCENE and moved straight into a Thanksgiving idea that went surprisingly well.

I read Andy Cohen's first book and fell in love with the idea of meeting him in person and taking him out to dinner.

I read Augusten Burroughs' You Better Not Cry and fell in love with the idea of sitting down with him to write a story together.

I worked a ton more hours than necessary and spent a lot of time wasting time when I wasn't working.

I got a little more Yakima recovery and chaired a few meetings and hooked up with another guy that's way too young for me to have any hope for a relationship that's based in anything other than sexual compatibility.

I slept late on some of my off days and I got far too little sleep on the nights when I knew I needed to get up early.

I caught up on all the most recent episodes of "Dynasty" and "Riverdale" and "How to Get Away with Murder," and I watched a few more episodes of the third season of "Falcon Crest."

I started Judith Krantz's Princess Daisy and put it down for a few days. I picked back up All the President's Men, but I still couldn't get much deeper into the text. I started reading The Stranger Beside Me and got copies of a few books from the library that I fully intend to read, if only I'm able to stay focused on at least one of them for a while.

I realized that I'm overpaying for the North Front Street studio and toyed with the idea of finding another place when the lease runs out in January, but I don't see myself living anywhere else in Yakima.

I pitched a December idea -- non-SCENE this time -- to my executive editor and she liked it (now I've got another writing project to work on tomorrow and Monday).

I put off paying some bills and I really don't feel like devoting an entire day off to organizing and submitting payments for them Monday, but it needs to be done.

I wondered (more than a few times... but this is really nothing new) if moving to the Pacific Northwest was really such a great idea.

I spent Thanksgiving in the newsroom and I wrote a few articles, some of them I'm even a little proud to have my byline on.

And now I'm back at North Town Coffeehouse in downtown Yakima, another Saturday night sitting here at my laptop, contemplating the writing project and paying bills and what book I'm going to start or pick back up when I head back home and realizing that I didn't eat anything substantial all day and I probably need to stop putting off an hour or two of step work to get the fourth completed and yet again thinking: well, my time off only started a few hours ago and I've got the whole weekend to worry about all that.

So where were we? Oh, yeah! The dudes in my life. All those relationships -- whether they lasted minutes, months or never even really happened at all.

Who was the first...?

I write that question in total jest because I remember him.

Distinctly.

The way he talked and what he smelled like and how he tasted and the fact that he didn't want to kiss and he had this whole idea that he wasn't gay so it didn't count. And I kinda pursued him, but he kinda pursued me. And I really think we were both just looking for someone to belong with and someone to get intimate with and someone to explore with and we ended up finding each other.

1. Chris

I'll give you his last initial ("B"), but I'll let him have his anonymity -- ya know, just in case somebody ever actually reads this blog and knows who he is. The people who were around me back then -- all of us were 15 or 16 at the time -- certainly wouldn't let me forget it.

They mostly hated him, in fact. Especially Shannon and Bijal. I remember them running into the library when I was shelving books one Saturday afternoon, both of them out of breath and desperate to tell me there was no way they could see me with him. They'd been to one of Magnet's soccer games that morning and they saw him in action (not as one of the players, of course -- Chris was one of the cheerleaders) and they heard him cheer and talk and watched him move and they were absolutely terrified that their beloved Miles actually may end up hooking up with him because he definitely was gay -- there wasn't any doubt about that after seeing him in his natural habitat -- and I could do a whole lot better than what I'd told them I was interested in going for. But the truth was, Chris was the only other outwardly and apparently and potentially gay dude at school and he was decent looking and he had a kinda nice body and I was 16-years-old and all my friends were dating and dammit I wanted to hook up with somebody like everyone else.

I didn't listen to Shannon and Bijal. Nor did I listen to Whitney Burke, who hated him even more than the others but grudgingly helped facilitate matters.

I don't know how long after the day Shannon and Bijal came into the library to warn me that I ended up hooking up with Chris, but not terribly long.

And it happened three times.

The first time was at my place (one of the good things about being a struggling gay kid in the 90s was that you could have a dude sleep over and parents wouldn't assume any hanky-panky would be going on after the bedroom door closed for the night). So Chris spent the night and he'd brought a porno over and I ended up going down on him and it all happened pretty quickly and I don't remember feeling especially sexy or romantic or like I was creating an everlasting memory. But I do remember feeling vindicated and as if I'd gotten something that I earned, even though there was no reciprocity and I didn't ask for any because I figured I was lucky enough just to have had a few minutes of physical human contact -- naked -- with another person.

Chris and I hooked up twice more that I remember. Very similar scenario, but it played out in two different locations both times. Once, in his car in the parking lot of Captain Shreve High School. I don't remember the time of year, but I'm pretty sure it was close to Thanksgiving or Christmas because it was cold and I feel like we were on holiday from school at the time and both had curfews and had to be home because neither of us planned to spend the night with the other that night. The other time was at Whitney's dad's house out on the lake while he and her step-mom were out of town and we were all in the process of making that big, sprawling house one of our regular sanctuaries for high school and our first year of college (NOTE: this location will re-appear at least once that I remember).

After that third time, Chris dropped out of my life. We stayed in the same school, but we didn't ever have any classes together because we were each had different programs and curricula and we definitely moved in different circles.

In fact, now that I think about it, I don't remember ever running into Chris at any parties or other events, even as my social life began to get a little elevated and overtake my scholastic ambitions.

Our paths crossed only once more and only online.

We both had returned to Shreveport. Me, from Lafayette and him, from Houston or Dallas or wherever all the closeted gay boys went after Magnet. We were both in a chat room or on a dating website (gay.com or Adam4Adam or Manhunt or one of the other early incarnations that would eventually beget Grindr and Scruff and Hornet) and we talked for a while and may have had a few sexually-laced words in memory of the stuff we'd done a few times in high school. But nothing ever came of that.

Besides, I'm pretty sure Chris would've ended up being a bottom. And though I didn't know it at the time we hooked up my junior year in high school (in fact, I had absolutely no strong knowledge of the way gay sex worked other than the oral experimentation I'd done with him and what straight pornography allowed for comparison), my interest in Chris was soon to be eclipsed by the second guy on my list, the one who REALLY started it all and set in motion a pattern and disposition that I'm still struggling to get beyond.

More than Shannon or Bijal or Whitney or J.C. -- who I sat beside and confided in for the two-hour Humanities block our junior year -- of Karley or Brooke or any of their boyfriends, the second name on my list REALLY disliked Chris.

But it took me a while to figure out why that was. I mean, this other guy was dating another friend of mine. And though I thought he was cute, he was a grade below us and I didn't think to give him the time of day at first. And though I picked him up and drove him home from school every day, it never really occurred to me to wonder about some of the questions he asked and some of the frank dialogue we shared.

And by the time I did, it was too late.

By that time, I was already in love with him.

It was twenty years ago today...

...but it wasn't Sgt. Pepper, or Dr. Pepper, that taught this man to play.

Instead, it was a jewel case for my copy of the Footloose soundtrack and a couple of high school friends in for Halloween weekend during our freshman semester in college. And an 8-ball of cocaine -- which I was surprised wasn't anywhere close to the size of an actual billiards 8-ball. And half a dozen two-inched lines of fine, white powder expertly scratched across the photo of a head-phoned Kevin Bacon sporting a hip-clasped Walkman and rolled up sleeves.

I'd seen it done in movies and on TV so many times I didn't have to ask very many questions, even though I was a total virgin when it came to anything more than Boone's Strawberry Hill. Hell, at that point, I didn't even smoke grass or allow it in my presence. But for whatever reason, I'd decided to allow Halloween Night 1997 to be the night that I jumped right past every available gateway drug and straight into the hard stuff.

We did a few lines from Casey's stash and then we finished donning our Rocky Horror garb to head out to a midnight showing at LSU-S. A few more lines in the car and a few more at an "after-party" of sorts (really, just this seedy drug house inhabited -- I think -- by a dude that had an on-again/off-again relationship with another friend of ours).

I guess I kinda liked the coke. I mean, I didn't mind the post-snort drip down the back of my throat and I felt like I was talking a lot more than usual (and I already talked a lot before), but I didn't feel like I was really doing anything all that different from what sophisticated people like doctors and attorneys did when nobody was watching. I mean, it was okay to experiment a little.

Right?

I mean, it wasn't like I could become addicted to something the very first time I tried it, right?

I mean... right? Well...sort of. But only sort of.

For instance, I didn't instantly start doing cocaine all the time.

But the vodka sours felt a little glamorous when I tried them out and decided they'd be my college drink of choice, so there was something about the nightlife I'd been turned onto.

But it was another two years before I ever even tried my first hit from a joint... although, there were a few other behaviors linking the two events that were a little less wholesome than that of the image I'd spent two decades cultivating.

And these behaviors I mention, they were mostly of a singular and sexual nature, to be honest; which was where I was wanting to head with this hashtag and my stories of the men in my life that got me here: nearly 40 years old, still single and sitting in this coffeehouse night-after-night typing away on my keyboard (some of it for my blog and some of it for my eyes only), thinking maybe I'll write the great American novel or maybe I'll just be a "writer/blogger/journalist" without any substantial publishing credits to his name, turn 40 and still be single.

Who knows, and -- really -- does it even matter?  Remaining single, I mean.

After all, my picker's been broken for so long, I'm not totally certain it can even be repaired.

But how did it get that way?

Well, it all started -- and I shit you not on this -- with the son of a preacher man.

But that's a story best told next time. It's one that deserves a post of its own.

A little will-he-won't-he blog situation

In theory, taking time off from work – not for any particular reason other than the fact that you have to use it or lose it – to spend mornings sleeping late, afternoons writing at the coffeehouse across the street and late nights cruising the dating apps for a hookup sounds like something ideal. In reality – like most things in life – it's a little different. Not bad at all, just not what you envision in those final working days leading up to the staycation when all you can think about is everything you're going to do with the time. 

But here I am, a Monday night at North Town because this is where I come to pop in my earbuds and write. And what have I accomplished with this full week of days away from deadlines? 

A late start on Friday followed by some intense shopping with Brennan where I managed not to find anything I was looking for in the way of seventies couture, but he managed to find an armful of cheap and attractive selections to add to his fall wardrobe, along with a stack of pretty good titles at one of the local Goodwill. The night was salvaged when I made some last-ditch efforts at Walmart and Walgreens and found exactly what I was seeking to complete the look of a masquerade party guest at that house Tom Cruise infiltrates in the middle of Kubrick's final film. 

Another late start on Saturday followed by another failed shopping excursion for the blue iris I wanted for the 3:30 p.m. photo shoot scheduled with Jake to round out the last selection in the Halloween series I spent most of the month working to complete. That was followed by a trip to the Yakima Valley Libraries book sale from which I walked with all the trash I need to carry me into the cold winter months ahead (a little Jackie Collins, Harold Robbins and Judith Krantz – along with one of Wally Lamb's books I haven't read, but mostly just so I wouldn't feel like a total waste of brain potential for only selecting junk food for my mind).  

I psyched myself up for the Studio 54 party at The Seasons until it was time to shave my balls and scour my skin just in case the night ended on a lucky note – it didn't – and then I walked my fully decked out ass over to the spot only to find that it failed my expectations and was filled with an assortment of folks I didn't know. With every intention of returning later (and the hope the situation would drastically return in time for my return), I left to meet up with Shawn and Molly at a party in Selah – where, incidentally, I knew several people and had a good time.  

But instead of returning to disco dancing – and because I'd mildly injured my left foot/heel/ankle at some point in the night – I just went home. It was still early, and Molly – as she often does – inspired me to write a little so I figured I'd salvage what night remained by pounding out a load of words on my keyboard for a while. Instead of writing – or even reading any of the Andy Cohen book I keep thinking I can't wait to get back to – I picked up a few episodes of "My Favorite Murder," hung a thick, dark blanket over the window, and decided to sleep late another day. And all this time, the notion swam through my head of this great conversation I'd had with Molly last week where we discussed our lists of the men in our lives and I reflected peacefully on the fact that I'd loved each of mine – even if only for a very brief time – and I thought the notion would make a fine trajectory on my blog for a while. But even as I sit here at North Town on a Monday night and the next two days still free from work and deadlines, I'm not sure whether I'll actually follow through on that list of the many men from my own life. Maybe, though. 

Where was I? Sunday? I slept late again and hung out a little with Brennan. We ran into two chicks we know from the program and hung out with them a while to talk about recovery and relapse and all the things on our minds that we don't always acknowledge or talk about in meetings. And then I completed a little more work on my fourth step, went to a meeting and came home for another night on the podcasts.  

Another day of sleeping late again today. But Brennan drove to Seattle and all the normal people worked today, so I went to the library to focus – which worked – and I came home to call my sponsor and watch "The September Issue." I did manage to pop off a few work-related emails on the podcast idea Kaitlin and I are playing around with and the project I'm wanting to put together for the coming family holidays. I dressed Mary Louise with a pink scarf and took her for a walk and then walked across the cold and windy street in downtown Yakima to my favorite spot in town outside of my apartment to write.  

So far, so good. 

But what about the story (stories, really) of the men in my life? All the loves that should have been or could have been or would have been? I wonder if that's worth exploring here.  

It's not like I have so many readers that I'm likely to raise any eyebrows. But who knows. 

I'll see what happens next.  

Writing's always good. No matter how shitty the product may be at any given time.

Because Tuesdays are my Monday

By the time I make it here to my blog, it's ten minutes after 10 o'clock on a Tuesday night that looks more like a Monday because Tuesdays function as my Mondays ever week.

It's one of the many indicators why my blog posts have all been a little -- okay, more than a little -- filled with self will run riot for the past several months. Also, why they're sporadic and sort of senseless most of the time.

By the time I get around to doing them, I feel used up and worn out. But I have this compulsion to write, so I do some of it here. Also, this is typically the kind of shit I don't necessarily put out there on social media for all the world to read and review.

There was a period in my life when I thought I'd have the first novel completed by the time I was 21. Then it was 25. Then 30. Now, I'm just hoping I can keep blogging regularly until I'm 40 and not have a hatred for this thing I love so much.

I still need to do it, but I sure miss loving to write.

The second step is all about believing in something

I believe in a lot of things.

Love, honesty, integrity and faith are a few. 

I also believe there are times when one needs to take control of the steering wheel after spending too much time driving around with the cruise control set on the road of life. Because there are plenty of other times when one's just sort of playing with things at odd intervals and not really steering the car toward anything in particular. 

I feel like I've been operating with a loose steering wheel since I came to Yakima. 

And I believe it's time to steer the wheel in a different direction. 

When the pain of remaining the same becomes greater than your fear of change, you might find it's time to drive the wheel to a new point on the compass. 

Exploring new options -- it's not a bad thing, it's the way things ought to be.

Long, cold nights during October's full moon

I started dating when I was 16-years-old. 

That means I've been dating for six years more than half my life. 

At what point does this perfect person actually show up? I mean, I've gotten rid of the list and I've stopped looking, but every single time I think about giving someone interesting my number and a little of my time it turns into another disaster.

Enough with all that. 

I'm just going to read and go to bed.

Sunday night at North Town

Tuesday's child is supposedly full of grace.

I was born on a Tuesday, but my entry to the world was anything but graceful.

Allow me to explain...

In addition to being a Tuesday, my birth also was on the 13th of that particular month, so the number should tell you a little something about the progression of my life in the days that followed.

It happened in a Catholic hospital. My birth, I mean. Schumpert Medical Center was its name, but it's since been bought and sold and is now part of a giant medical conglomerate that owns and operates huge portions of the south, including my home town: Shreveport, Louisiana.

Mom said she didn't even know she was in labor. She went in to see her doctor for her scheduled check at his office and he told her she was about to have her baby. She went to the hospital and the nurses called her husband — Dad — and he went to meet her, but she said they didn't have the big birthing rooms in the very, very, very late 1970s so dad wasn't allowed in with her while she was pushing.

She also said had I been her first, I would've been her last because she thought she was having a telephone pole. I had a really big head, she said — some things haven't changed all that much.

So she pushed and they gave her some gas to ease the pain of expelling a telephone pole from her body and at 11:47 a.m. on February 13, 1979, I was born.

The funny part — the part that really puts the whole grace thing into perspective — happened a few days later when Mom and Dad got ready to take me home, to the house at 3737 Parkway Drive.

When parents left the Catholic hospital with newborns in those days, little baby boys were wrapped in blue blankets and little baby girls were wrapped in pink blankets for their first car trips in the outside world.

As fate would have it, though, the nuns were all out of baby boy blue blankets on this particular day and they put into my mother's arms a telephone pole swathed in pink.

Those darn nuns are so resourceful.

Well, Dad apparently hit the roof (as he sometimes did), raising his already loud voice in that way he was known to raise it when angry and he shouted that no goddamn son of his was getting taken out of that hospital in a goddamn pink blanket.

Oh, Dad...

So what's this have to do with grace?

To this very day — nearly 39 years later — when my mother regales me with the story of my birth and the pink blanket debacle, she always asks "...do you think that had anything to do with it?"

Yeah, Mom. It was the pink blanket.

Totally.

But it kinda makes sense. That's how my grace happens, at least.

The first step is admitting there's a problem

Days in Yakima: 237 too many.

Currently reading: Lots of things I can't concentrate on finishing.

Level of happiness: Inordinately low.

Highlights from the day: Making a decision to get out of here as soon as possible.

*       *       *

I've given it all the shot I care to give it, and I no longer care to be here. I don't necessarily want to go home. But I definitely want to be anywhere but here.

Yakima sucks.

Highs and lows and middles of the road

Days in Yakima: 235

Currently reading: No progress on Weird Washington last night, but I read a bit more in Carrie Fisher's The Princess Diarist. I downloaded a few other titles. Maybe I'll get to them.

Level of happiness: Less content than I felt last night. Less than happy, to be honest.

Highlights from the day: If this were rehab and this was the time for highs and lows, I'd say most of the day was a low. I guess the high would've been the meeting and talking to my sponsor after.

*       *       *

What would you do if you knew your time was up? 

If you knew you would be dead within the year? Maybe tomorrow. Maybe September 5, 2018. But definitely within the year. 

Live life differently? Travel? Finally write the book? Quit your job? Go back to Paris? Spend the winter in London? Get to Egypt to see the Pyramids? Take a yacht to Fiji? Get your affairs in order?

Me?

I'd probably spend all the time I could with everyone I love. I'd make all the necessary apologies and see everyone I possibly could.

Probably fall in love. Maybe make plans to get married.

For whatever reason, tonight I'm thinking about everything that matters in life. Everything that REALLY matters. 

I don't know why I'm writing about this tonight, especially because I'm not ready to talk about my reasons for writing about this tonight.

Not yet.

Not now, at least. 

For now, I just kinda want to eat and detach and not be lost in my thoughts. 

Especially when there's a lot that I really can't do much about.

Nothing much tonight

Days in Yakima: 234

Currently reading: Finished Frankenstein. Still reading Weird Washington. Thinking about a non-horror book as well. I don't want to shoot my wad all at once and be fully over the horror genre before October its.

Level of happiness: I'm not unhappy. But I miss home. I miss my mom. I'm looking forward to experiencing an autumn in the Pacific Northwest, but I'm over this smoke from all the fires and I wish I were looking forward to a long Thanksgiving with my mom.

Highlights from the day: Sleeping late. Attending a noon meeting. Working on a little more of my step. Eating an early dinner. Finishing Frankenstein. Considering what I'm moving onto next.

*       *       *

Seems like the real drive to get and be creative (and to really get in there and write) always comes on the tail-end of my weekend. I'm considering getting up early in the morning and doing all this in reverse order, but we'll see what happens.

Blah, blah, blah

Days in Yakima: 233

Currently reading: Mostly Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, but a little Weird Washington mixed in.

Level of happiness: Happily content with the day.

Highlights from the day: Working on my step with Brennan at North Town Coffee. On the phone with my sponsor. A long conversation with Melinda. Conchita's voice message. And now, relaxing on the couch and maybe writing a little.

*       *       *

A little step work is all the rejuvenation I need. And probably at just the right time because even I think these blog posts have gotten increasingly boring. No personality and not really much creativity. Formulaic and sour.

My head's filling up with ideas for stories I want to write. The creative fiction sort, not the ones that suck me dry at work. The only creativity I get to exert at work is after I've been otherwise sucked dry by the time-consuming slave labor that comes along with stroking egos and spending way too much time filling in the blanks. A little resentful? Maybe just a little, but the resentment was earned on this one. Justifiable resentments, in other words. But are those even things? These are the things my sponsor will make me pray about.

I didn't watch a movie last night, and I was prepared to fully focus my blog on horror movies for a while. For whatever reason, though, at the end of the day when I sit down to type out another post, I don't feel the creative juices really flowing. Oh, I've got all sorts of ideas and all these thoughts about what I'd like to do here, but the energy level is nil (a little less than zero, actually).

I keep hoping that if I stick with daily posting, writing something away from the crap I'm told to, the energy soon will come and I'll start pounding out some stuff that's really meaningful. It just hasn't happened yet.

So, what am I thinking about? That Timothy Hutton — from Ordinary People all the way to the fairly recent past — is a really sexy guy and probably would be a lot of fun to make out with. I mean, I'm watching The Dark Half (which doesn't count towards the movie endeavor because I've already seen it a time or two and I've blogged about it before), so he's right there for me to look at and have these sort of random thoughts about.

I deleted my Grindr, so maybe I need to download it again. It could be that these odd and slightly out of context thoughts are because none of my sexual energy is really channeled anywhere lately. Or it could be that I ought to re-channel that energy into my creative writing. But then again, there's that whole energy level thing.

Well, it's nearly 9:30 p.m. Labor Day and I haven't spent all that much time laboring today, unless one counts working through quite a bit on my step and having something of a breakthrough that had me calling my sponsor — that's something that hasn't happened in a long time.

Maybe I'll eat and stay up late and read Frankenstein and watch movies. Maybe I'll open a blank document here and get something actually typed out that I'll feel good about. That's something that hasn't happened in a long time either.

Reading, watching Twin Peaks and stuff

Days in Yakima: 232

Currently reading: Another graphic novel under my belt last night. Through the Woods by Emily Carroll. Pretty good, but when it comes to measuring up to my gold standard for graphic novels, Fun Home, and blending in elements of horror and suspense, it's got to be pretty remarkable. Moving onto Frankenstein. I never actually finished it in high school, and I've never actually seen the movie either (of the monsters, it's always been my least favorite; however, I liked what I saw in the first episode of Penny Dreadful, so I'm giving it a go). I also have a copy of Weird Washington, and I'm ready to get into it.

Level of happiness: Better than a C+, but not great. I spent most of the day on my couch, which is always a good time when it happens.

Highlights from the day: Finishing Twin Peaks, spending time with Mary Louise and planning out what I'm not going to do tomorrow. Oh, and I heard from a couple of readers who praised my work. That's always a nice stroke to the ego.

*       *       *

Now's about the time I need to start watching and reviewing a movie every day. It's not like I don't have five different apps with titles to choose from.

Wishing I had plans to attend a barbecue tomorrow. Also wish I hadn't made plans with anyone for anything. The idea of another day on the couch is really appealing.

Possible movies for tonight (in looking at Hulu): Ravenwolf Towers, Hallow's Eve, At the Devil's Door, The Boy, Why Horror?, The Gift, Late Night Double Feature, The Roost, Sleepy Hollow, Vampires, The Haunting in Connecticut, Boogeyman, Fear of the Dark, Dark Summer, Inner Demons, The Pact and The Levenger Tapes.

Every one is a title I haven't seen.

Battery's low. Gotta post and charge.

Saturday night in Yakima

Days in Yakima: 231

Currently reading: After finishing Fiend last night, I tore through Neil Gaiman's Forbideen Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire. I still have All the President's Men, The Princess Diarist and Voice of the Heart waiting, but I'm sticking with my horror kick for a bit. I have healthy stack of classic Gothic stories, some graphic novels in hardback and the next tome in my Stephen King endeavor, The Tommyknockers. There's a nice, long weekend ahead of me. I plan to enjoy it as much as possible, but I've also got the assigned reading (and writing) from my new sponsor, so there's that.

Level of happiness: A little hard to register today. For now, I'm really just tired. I'm thinking I'll be in bed very soon after I post this.

Highlights from the day: Finishing work. Mostly because the times I'm moved by the writing I do there are few and far between these days.

*       *       *

Well, the marketing is done.

And the blanket's over the window to blot out the hot sun first thing in the morning.

I've got the stacks of books and virtually no responsibilities (and very little I've obligated myself to) for the long, Labor Day weekend ahead.

If only I could get rid of all this sneezing and the swelling my face is doing. 

I blame this excessive smoke hanging over the Yakima Valley and not promising to get away any time soon. I think all I really need is a good night's sleep.

A C+ of a day

Days in Yakima: 230

Currently reading: Finished Peter Stenson's Fiend, and now I want to compile a full blog post about it, but that will likely come later. Just a Goodreads review for now. I also have the other titles I haven't yet finished, and there's a new stack from Yakima Valley Libraries that's piled on one of my end tables. Since I'm at the start of a horror streak — and September 1 begins the season of reading such material — it seems likely that most of my next selections will be from the supernatural realm. I've kind of got a yen to plow through some of those classics, the foundations of horror as the fall sets in.

Level of happiness: No more than a C+ today. Not great. Not terrible. Mostly unremarkable.

Highlights from the day: Getting to leave work a little early. Talking to Ms. Sarah Erickson about gratitude meditation. Laughing with her. Venting to Ryan A. after the meeting. Then to Brennan. Finishing Fiend. Eating a late supper. Finding a horror movie to watch before bed. Preparing to go through this stack of books from the library. Thinking about the coming 3-day weekend.

*       *       *

Nothing more substantial to write tonight. But at least I managed to get a post in for the first day of September.

The plan is to spend the next 58 days on Dracula and Frankenstein, H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King, all those 80s horror flicks I never got around to renting during my youth and all the new stuff that'll be hitting theaters in the coming weeks.

Let's see if I stick to it.

More than half, but less than a year

Days in Yakima: 225

Currently reading: Barbara Taylor Bradford's Voice of the Heart (but I've only gotten through about five chapters since I picked it up in February), Crystal Lake Memories: A Complete History of Friday the 13th (but I've only made it to Part 2 since I downloaded my copy from Amazon), All the President's Men (another one I keep picking up and putting down), The Tommyknockers (the next title in my Stephen King-in-chronological-order endeavor), and Fiend, a book by Peter Stenson (I started it today and I'm really digging it so far).

Level of happiness: On a scale of 1 to 10, about a 6. I'm content, but I still hate pretty much everything about Yakima — including my job and most of the people I encounter daily. Luckily, I've recently found meetings that I really like — NA in Yakima is where it's at — and they've been better than anything else that's happened here so far.

Highlights from the day: Finishing all my laundry before 10 a.m. Going to two libraries to grab copies of books I want to read. Shopping for healthier groceries. Contemplating a late-night run. Starting Fiend. Shaving off my mustache. Cooking a chicken, broccoli and rice casserole. Attending a meeting. Talking to my sponsor. Texting snarky observations to Brennan — he's a pretty decent dude. Feeling grateful fall is nearly here. The day's meditation on taking care of myself.

*       *       *

Rhode Island School of Design invited John Waters to give a speech to a recent graduating class. His words were published in a great little book, Make Trouble, and I'm kind of living my life with a few of these notions running through my brain daily.

Incidentally, my buddy Brennan is a huge fan of John Waters and I just re-watched This Filthy World because I suggested he see it for the first time.

Waters' speech is layered with wisdom I can't stop thinking about.

"Somehow I've been able to make a living doing what I love best for fifty years without ever having to get a real job."

I doubt I have another 50 years in me, but this is definitely my current aspiration.

"Ask for the world and pay no mind if you are initially turned down."

And I am about to do just that. A swift change is in the works for me professionally, one way or another. I'm kind of sick of being a yes-man who gets stepped on constantly. If I make a request for a change at work and I'm turned down, no problem. I'll just do something else, but I'll continue writing regardless.

"REMEMBER: you must participate in the creative world you want to become part of."

Which is why I surround myself with horror and trash and just the right mix of high-brow and low-brow art.

And porn.

"Watch people in the streets." "Spy, be nosy, eavesdrop."

Which is where my best ideas continue to come from.

"Go out in the world and fuck it up beautifully," Waters said.

And later:

"Make me nervous."

Make John Waters nervous? Shock him? Give the Prince of Puke, the People's Pervert, something to really marvel over?

I don't know if I'll ever get there, but I'm certainly going to give it a shot.

Now, about this eclipse...

As underwhelming as it was (I wanted moments of total darkness, all animals losing their minds and a possible simultaneous comet strike/alien invasion in the style of an 80s horror flick), my experience — with a cool, new friend — was memorable.

The morning also reminded me my favorite time of year is nearly here. Although the temperatures remain a bit hot, a brief cold snap and the slowly shortening days are proof Halloween is imminent.

Nothing like a major astrological event to push me toward getting busy on a few horror-ensconced endeavors to ring in the season of the witch properly.

On Wednesdays we wear pink

Well, sometimes. Today, it was a lot of red plaid and a skinny red tie, but I thought about the pink.

Another day. Another run. A few more people on Facebook that I unfollowed because they get on my nerves and they're basically idiots. Rude as hell, I know, but at least it's honest. Besides, I don't think you know who you are. And if you do, feel free to do the same. I probably don't really care for the association outside the parameters of the fake social media world anyway.

Toying with the idea of changing the name of my blog to Sex in the Valley and giving it a little more of a Carrie Bradshaw feel. The one from the first few seasons, though. The way the show was originally written, not the way it turned out.

Of course, to write about sex in the valley, one ought to be having sex in the valley and I'm in a bit of a dry spell when it comes to all that (see all previous posts leading up to tonight for a little evidence).

Besides, wouldn't focusing on a single aspect of my life right now - especially one as boring and filled with all the sex I'm not having - lock me into something I'm not sure I have the commitment for?

It's been a long day and this post has no real point.

Just rambling.

Time for a shower and bed.

And another thing

This blog is my happy place because I can write whatever I want and I don't have to worry about re-reading and proofing and slimming down and making sure it's fit for public consumption. 

For my writing, it's the one place that's completely mine and nobody can say a word about it. So the next time I'm thinking about deleting someone from my Facebook feed because they post yet another piece of crap that reminds me they're an idiot and has me wondering what the connection was that ever made us social media friends in the first place... I can just come here.

Which reminds me of something I read last night in All the President's Men - a book I'm sure I'll continue to pick up and put down at my leisure for a while.

The invariable question, asked only half-mockingly of reporters by editors at the Post (and then up the hierarchal line of editors) was "What have you done for me today?" Yesterday was for the history books, not newspapers.

It speaks to me because this is my daily life as a reporter. When I really just want to be a writer and try to succeed at being a journalist and I feel frustrated and lost and wish I could write more creatively and with a little more time and freedom, I just remind myself I'm on a path toward something.

Whether it's what I wanted when I begin, I guess I won't know until I get there. 

And then I probably won't be sure it was what I wanted in the first place.

Lindsey and that damn list

Summers in Yakima — much like everything else in the Pacific Northwest — are nothing like down south.

Of course, it took the arrival of the warmer months to get me to a place where I was more comfortable being out and about a little more. But I'm constantly seeing all these little things that are so much different from the barometrically heavy months I enjoyed (and bitched about) for 37 years.

Seeing all the differences and experiencing these long periods of nostalgia, constantly comparing and contrasting and finding everything I liked better about Louisiana has only gotten me so far.

And it reminded me of something a very good friend of mine told me about how she ended up getting married.

I interviewed Lindsey Higgins — née Feritta — last summer when I was doing a story on dating apps. She was one of the long-term success stories I spoke with in the course of my research and she said some things that really stuck with me.

Namely, "get rid of the list, Miles."

Lindsey explained that it wasn't until she finally got rid of the list she had in her head of what the perfect man and the perfect relationship looked like that she found her universe opened up to other possibilities.

And for Lindsey, ultimately, true love.

I've been doing the same thing with Yakima, keeping a list in my head of everything it should be. But when I got rid of my list for the city I live in, it's had me starting to think about that other list I've got in my head - the list that's probably kept me far too single and far too selective for entirely too long.

I thought about all the cliches I'm always offering people, the dumb opinions that came from somewhere at some point and have absolutely no basis in fact.

The perfect guy for me is a total top. 

He's got to be hot and masculine as hell and know how to change a tire. 

I don't believe in versatility - it's a total scam.

Just how long have I been telling myself these things and saying these things and believing these things? And are any of them really even true?

Makes me think about how many fun and interesting and sexy and intelligent and entirely worthy guys I've just let fall by the wayside instead of giving them the time of day.

So, of course, this post comes after I attended a party over the weekend and was approached by a guy who initiated a great conversation and really intrigued me and led me to slapping my number down on a table beside him in the hopes that he'd call at some point and maybe ask me out.

And then I went home, found his profile on Grindr and read that his sexual position doesn't exactly make him compatible for that list I have in my head.

And I was disappointed.

And then I was angry.

Totally unfair, man. I mean, here's this dude who is a little younger than I'd prefer and a little bottom-ier than I've always told myself I'd prefer, but does any of that shit really need to matter? Aren't there about 100 other qualities that make much more difference than this image — probably totally manifested from prolonged exposure to pornography — I've built up in my head and tell myself I absolutely must adhere to?

I mean, those notions have gotten me this far, and I'd like to believe I'm right at that place in my life where I'm sort of open to the idea of something more long-term and substantial.

Maybe I need to really get rid of that list and just see what happens.

I mean, it couldn't hurt.

In defense of Knots Landing

On Friday, Christopher Rice (@chrisricewriter) started a mini-tweet storm (in my 80s-obsessed brain, that is) that really got to me.

He wrote:

"IS IT POSSIBLE FOR ME TO EXPRESS LOVE FOR 'DYNASTY' AND 'THE COLBYS' WITHOUT 'KNOTT'S LANDING' FANS TRYING TO FORCE THEIR AGENDA ON ME?" 

And, "WASN'T 'KNOTT'S LANDING' ABOUT A CUL-DE-SAC? HOW IS THAT TRASHY NIGHTTIME SOAP FODDER? WHERE ARE THE RICH JACKASSES MAKING BAD CHOICES????" 

He ended this with, "Fine. I'll stop yelling. But stop trying force cul-de-sac soap operas on me, interwebs." 

I read through some of the conversation below his tweets (many replies containing other incorrect variations on the spelling of Knots Landing) and I considered potential responses of my own.

Of course, there was an initial moment when my first idea was to respond "...*Knots Landing, Chris," but I really like the guy (and I've never engaged his account with anything more than liking or retweeting some of his jewels — and he's often got some good ones).

Now, here's what I know about Christopher Rice, the writer.

He's that rare gay who is educated, well spoken and usually on the same page I am regarding our current political and social climate. When I read his first novel, A Density of Souls, it blew me away. I tore right through it, and I read it at just the right time in my life. It hadn't been out long when I'd gotten out of my first rehab and snagged a copy.

I tore right through it. Here, the son of a woman who'd written some of the most popular paranormal fiction of my lifetime (of the vampire books, I only read the first, but The Witching Hour and Lasher are two titles I really loved), had burst onto the scene of the literary world with this book that felt very close to the life I'd lived up to that point.

I remember staring at his photo (he was a hottie then and he's a hottie now plus, he's smart; if you don't believe me, just Google him or follow him on social media or check out his podcast, it's all worth it) and thinking he'd be the kind of guy I would really like to take out to dinner, to drink a bottle (or two) of wine with and discuss the writers and authors that inspired us. He was, after all, close to my age, and he was actually getting published as a writer (and writing about the same subjects I wanted to write about).

I identified with the characters and remember thinking he'd written the perfect climax — all set in the middle of a cataclysmic hurricane that nearly destroys his home town (and this was years before Katrina and Rita, but I suppose it was always something of a fear in the back of residents' minds).

I passed the book around to friends and later read his second, The Snow Garden. And I've read some of his other work since then. It's all been good stuff, but his first continues to resonate as one of those titles that stays on my top ten list of favorite books I've ever read. It's also one that I'll never re-read because it holds such a special place in my heart to this very day. Kind of like To Kill a Mockingbird (and why I'll never read the sequel) by Harper Lee, I Know This Much Is True by Wally Lamb and Michael Cunningham's The Hours.

The book was just the right amount of dirty and had the sort of gay romance a college guy in his very early twenties envisions himself enjoying at some point.

And another thing. At its heart, A Density of Souls was a soap opera, a book that falls into a specific genre that's not really a genre at all because it's pretty much just general fiction, but there are all these elements that make it the best kind of melodrama. Multiple, layered characters with secrets and an intricate plot that unfolds with pitch perfect timing.

I guess I always assumed that Rice grew up watching the same types of TV shows I did. The stuff that was on when there were only a handful of networks and cable didn't totally proliferate the country so everyone tended to watch the same stuff. I figured he was a fan of 90210 when it came out, saw the first few seasons of The Real World when it was something of an anomaly on a network that otherwise played music videos and plowed through those initial seasons of Melrose Place when everybody you knew was watching it but nobody was talking about it.

On that same note, I assumed Rice also had an appreciation for the larger-than-life epics of television in the 80s.

Admittedly, his tweets don't discount such an appreciation. However, they do disparage the one show that I still think is one of the greatest ever to grace the airwaves during the prime time hours.

As someone who has officially seen every single episode of the three main staples — Dallas, Dynasty and Knots Landing — I can finally write a blog post that gives a fair estimation of all that makes shows like these so great, so memorable and so very important... if for no one other than a gay dude in his late 30s who grew up in worlds that are (somewhat) a reflection of the worlds these shows portrayed.
Now, Rice is right. Dynasty and The Colbys were much more what people think about when they think about these shows. They were glitzy over-the-top prime time serials about characters that were much more caricatures dealing in plots that required regular suspension of disbelief. In other words, junk food for the brain. The kind of escapist entertainment they were fully intended to be.

But they may never have happened if not for the popularity of the granddaddy of them all, Dallas.

And Dallas never would have happened if the creators of the show hadn't come up with their original idea: Knots Landing (which would subsequently spin off from Dallas). And to be fair, none of these shows would have ever existed if not for their ancestor Peyton Place (which, of course, owes itself to the successful movie based on the successful book written by Grace Metalious). But going back through the history of nighttime soap operas is an entirely different topic for another blog post.
My point to this one is to argue with Christopher Rice the merits of Knots Landing and why it remains the best of the genre.

Now, I didn't watch any of this stuff when it was originally on. Like most fads, I was late to the game and only found out how much I liked it well after the shows completed their runs.

In a lot of ways, it all goes back to two people who were extremely important in my formative years. My sister and a girl named Bijal Patel.

My sister is ten years older than me and a true teenager of the 1980s. As a little gay kid growing up in the south, I worshiped her. I'd watch her get ready for Friday and Saturday nights out clubbing with her friends, getting glammed up with tons of mascara and preppy party clothes with long white gloves and stiletto heels. After she'd leave, I'd lay in her bedroom and listen to her Duran Duran and Oingo Boingo albums and imagine what it was going to be like when I was old enough to don a tuxedo like Simon Le Bon and go a little lighter than Nick Rhodes with the eyeliner and dance the night away at one of the clubs in town.

Everything my sister did, I wanted to do as well. And that often included her reading selections. So when she brought home copies of The Shining and Cycle of the Werewolf, I made my first attempts at Stephen King before I was in second grade. And one night when she climbed on the couch in the living room with my mother, my brother and me and opened her copy of The Clan of the Cave Bear and mentioned a few bits about the risque material she was totally involved in, I wanted to read that kind of thing, too.

"Ayla is pregnant with Broud's baby," I remember my sister saying as she found her place in the book.

"What in the world are you reading, Missy?" my mom asked.

It wasn't a horror novel, so I wasn't especially interested, but I was intrigued.

Fast forward a few years to my middle school days.

I was gay and effeminate and fat and pretty much ostracized by everyone, so I escaped into the world of books more than ever before. Because our last names were close alphabetically, this brilliant and pretty and personable chick was often seated beside me, and she was a reader, too.

Bijal introduced me to the world of Jackie Collins (Chances, which I re-read recently, was the first time I ever read about a gay character and learned about anal sex) and Judith Krantz (Scruples was the first time I ever learned about blowjobs and remember an oral sex scene between two men that sounded like something that would be a lot of fun). More importantly, Bijal became my friend. I missed her over the summers, but I always had my books. We finished eighth grade, planned to see each other when we began high school and I went home to spend a lazy summer on the couch.

One morning, I was hit with this commercial for this TV show that was about to begin running in syndication every weekday morning on TNT.

"Fourteen years of family, friends, neighbors you never wanted to leave. Now, TNT takes you back to the cul-de-sac," I listened to the description, saw images of the characters — including a very young Alec Baldwin — and made a decision to get up every morning in time to watch it from the beginning. I mean, it looked like something that was right up my alley when it came to content and subject matter and it seemed like something I'd like to spend my summer enjoying.

And I did.

By the time school was ready to start that fall, I'd seen the first three seasons and I programmed my VCR to begin recording at 9:55 a.m. and to end at 11:05 a.m. Monday through Friday.

By the time classes began, I was hooked.

In the beginning, it was mostly vignettes and not especially soapy. There were the issue of Sid being accused of attempted rape, Kenny sleeping around on Ginger, Gary's alcoholism, Diana's high school problems, Richard's inability to effectively just be a man and Karen's constant drive to always do the right thing.

But there was just enough to keep me watching. Sid's little sister, Abby, showed up as a recent divorcee and began trying to snag all the men in the neighborhood. She got Gary involved with a stolen parts ring at Knots Landing motors and Sid (kind of a surprise to me) drove off a cliff and died. And this candle was ignited between Abby and Gary, an affair beginning that threatened to ruin Gary's marriage to Val (who reminded me a lot of my mom for some reason), and I absolutely couldn't stop watching.

That was the same summer my parents noticed my interest in a specific type of entertainment and introduced me to movies like A Summer Place and Splendor in the Grass and Valley of the Dolls. It was the same summer I started reading a lot less horror and a lot more "trash." It was the summer I started to realize that I was gay and began the initial stages of accepting it for myself. It was that kind of special time when my senses were first waking up and everything began moving at a more rapid pace and I started to find my footing with the kind of guy I wanted to become.

Maybe that's part of the reason Knots Landing became so special to me: time, place and circumstances all added up to make something of its type really grow on me.

But it was the quality of the show, the brilliance of its pacing, the writing, the acting and the way it unfolded in what I still think was a mostly realistic way that made it one of my favorites (and something that I'll probably defend to my dying breath, even if it means butting heads with a guy like Christopher Rice).

Knots may not have had the high level of camp that Dynasty did. The characters were far too grounded in reality to get to that point.

It may not have had the wealth of its progenitor, but it had members of the Ewing family so it didn't need it.

There may not have been the Gothic decadence of the Tuscany Valley and a crazy woman living upstairs and there was never a single, high profile movie star who moved into the neighborhood (Abby and Greg, the two villainous mainstays, didn't need to compete with people like Alexis Colby or Angela Channing).

Knots Landing wasn't about big costume budgets or breathtaking and explosive season finales (although most of them were) or evening gowns and gala jewelry or the jet-setting elite driving viewership. It was, like that TNT commercial promised before I started watching, about family and friends. These were people who reminded me of my parents and the parents of my friends. They dealt with the kind of trouble that real families dealt with.

The coolest thing about Knots was that it wasn't especially plot-driven. Unlike most other television series, it was driven by its characters.

When Sid died at the start of the third season, it really felt like losing a friend's dad. When Gary's marriage to Val was destroyed by his affair with Abby, it was just as awkward and uncomfortable as it would've been to experience it in real life. The way the show dealt with the insidiousness of addiction — especially Karen's dependence on prescription medication and Olivia's problems related to her drug use — was totally believable and realistic. Greg's dissolve from slippery politician to morally questionable mogul was presented in such a way and over the course of several years so as to appear a natural progression. And there's the way Jill Bennett came on the scene as a potential antagonist to the marriage of Karen and Mack and slowly turned into one of the most evil characters in the show's entire run.

There are countless ways I could extol the virtues of this show, but I think this blog post is already (unnecessarily) long enough.

Besides, I still have the remainder of the Dallas reboot, all of the Melrose reboot, seven seasons of Falcon Crest, all but the first year of Revenge, Paper Dolls, Pasadena, Profit, The Americans, the last season of Flamingo Road and a few of these new shows I keep hearing about.

I guess I have a little more viewing to make a final, official ranking.

But I'm sure Knots Landing will remain at the top.

A few thoughts on Joe McGinniss, Fatal Vision and Dr. Jeffrey MacDonald

"With some stories, that's just the way it is. If you are going to be a non-fiction writer you must be willing to go where the story leads you, even if it isn't where you want it to be. And, as the occasion demands, you must be willing to publish unpleasant truths—rather than pleasant untruths—about your subject." - Joe McGinniss

I haven't blogged about books in a while.

The latest title I can add to my list of accomplishments is Joe McGinniss' true crime masterpiece, Fatal Vision, and it's resonating with me on multiple levels.

I think when most readers finish it, they're immediately inclined to take a stance and say whether or not they believe MacDonald was guilty. The evidence is stacked against him. And though there are still a few lingering questions, I have to say it definitely appears the jury got it right. I'm just not so sure that McGinniss did.

Of course, it's really easy to criticize. I admire the time and dedication McGinniss committed to completing his research and writing the book, but I'm not so sure I would have presented the final information the way he did.

Like I wrote, it's easy to criticize. I wasn't there. I didn't know MacDonald. I didn't attend the trial. I wasn't brought into the inner sanctum to see things transpire the way he did. But to me, the most interesting information is what McGinniss wrote about after the guilty verdict was rendered. It was the everything he uncovered - and all that he didn't include as he told the story earlier - that was the most illuminating on the character of MacDonald and what led the journalist to form the conclusions he did.

I really admire him for giving his readers everything he'd found and not holding anything back. However, I'm not so sure I would have told my readers what conclusion I reached. I think it may have been more effective for others to postulate a few possibilities for what may have happened in the early hours of Feb. 17, 1970 at that small apartment on Fort Bragg. That way, readers could form their own conclusions based on all the facts presented.

Of course, McGinniss came under fire, endured legal action and wrote two additional afterwards with later editions of the book describing some of the fallout that came later. I wonder if he regrets using the tactics he did. I think he had to write everything from the perspective that he did, describing the controversy that swirled around publication the way he did, because he had to defend what he'd done. He also had to explain himself. But, as a journalist, I wonder what he really thought about it.

I could think of several questions I'd like to ask him over a cup of coffee, picking his brain to find out where he stood on everything later. Unfortunately, I'll never have that chance, so I can only speculate.

Most journalists will never be lucky enough to be invited into another person's life to gather information and explore and write about their perceptions. And even fewer are lucky enough to have a story as interesting as the MacDonald case.

Is it a pipe dream to hope that if the opportunity ever were to present itself to me that I'd be able to write something with content that never could be accused of bias?

Probably not.

My profession is under fire. Maybe more now more than ever before. And a chance like the MacDonald case are few and far between. I'm not sure something like that will come along for a writer and journalist living and working in Yakima.

Not this week, at least.

Still, it's a nice thought. If something like that were to fall into my lap, I'd jump out and grab it in a heartbeat.

Although this wasn't the best true crime story I've ever read (that superlative belongs to Thomas Thompson's Blood and Money) and it wasn't the most disturbing (I don't think anything will ever come close to Helter Skelter), Fatal Vision was brilliant.

It was well researched, well written, interesting and thoroughly engrossing.

The only reason it took me so long to read is that I put it down shortly after beginning it in favor a few other titles that caught my interest.

It's long, but it's well worth the time it takes to read.

Also, I'm encouraging all the other readers I know to pick up a copy. I'm curious to know what conclusions they'll come to.

Did Jeff do it?

If so, why?

And do you think Joe McGinniss broke the agreement he had with MacDonald, or was he well within his rights based on their contract?

I definitely don't think he had any obligation to MacDonald to allow him to read the book first, but it may have been interesting to go to him and say, "Hey Jeff... there's this stuff I found, and I'm wondering what you have to say about it..."

Let the hot (yeah, Jeff was a good looking guy at the time), narcissistic doctor explain the amphetamines and some of the inconsistencies in the stories he told.

It might make for even more interesting reading in an already engrossing book.

Of course, it also would have added a few hundred more pages.

More on the topic of kidney stones and other inconveniences

 Kidney stones and I go way back.

The first inklings I ever had - although I didn't realize the significance at the time - was a weird, burning pain I kept getting somewhere to the right of my belly button. It started sometime around 2001 or 2002.

Of course, I was drinking and partying all the time so I never really paid attention to it. The second time I was in rehab, I remember getting called for repeated urinalyses every morning for a while, finding out that labs were finding blood in my urine and then getting sent to the ER only to be diagnosed with prostatitis.

The doctor was a schlub and really didn't do much to get to the bottom of what was going on, but it got me in the door with a referral and I eventually discovered that the blood in my urine and the pain in my side were likely related. Unfortunately, it wasn't until around 2009 when the pain returned one night with such a vengeance that I went to the emergency room and found out I had a kidney stone that I knew what was really going on.

Turned out I never had prostatitis. I also never really did much to treat the stone and I eventually passed it (I named her Opal, since she's the stone for the month of October).

That degree of pain remained at bay for the next few years, but I did experience intermittent stones that I'd pee out without knowing I had another one. What usually happened is I would have a dull ache in my lower back for a day or two. I'd start running a low-grade fever and generally feeling like shit and then - Surprise - a big stone would pop out mid-stream (and a couple times get stuck right where I didn't want it stuck) and clink against the porcelain bowl.

When I got the Yakima post and headed this way, my health wasn't really on my mind. For six days, I was only focused on not dying on the way to the Pacific Northwest as I drove through what everybody said was the worst winter they'd seen in years.

I ate fast food. I drank a ton of Red Bull. I spent hours at a time seated upright in my car. And the trip that was only supposed to last three-and-a-half days max took all week.

I got to Yakima very late on a Saturday night.

The first thing I did after unloading my car was check Grindr (first time I realized I'd moved to the land of the uncircumcised penises). Immediately after, I ran to the McDonald's behind my place for the number three (we're old friends, that Quarter Pounder and I).

The following morning was the first real sign that I needed to start paying closer attention to my body.

I blogged about it once before, but let me reiterate: I peed brown!

Not like a really dark colored urine. No! Actual brown. Thick and hot and pretty much the consistency of coffee.

But I didn't do anything about it. I mean, I'd just moved here and I was starting this great new job the next day and I was eager to hurry up and get started on my new life.

So, I drank a ton of water and my urine normalized. And I ignored it.

Then the pain started again.

It was one night during that first week. When I was still sleeping on the floor and waiting for furniture. It was that same excruciating burn on my right side, a couple inches to the side of my bellybutton. Hot and frightening. So bad that I broke out in sweat and got nauseated and wanted to vomit and had to get up and walk around and smoke cigarettes and drink water and remind myself that it was only a stone and it would eventually go away. And after about an hour, it did go away.

But it kept happening.

Always overnight. Always for an hour or two at a time. And not always on my right side. It started hitting my left side, too and I was hoping it was something that could wait until I had a chance to go to the doctor because I'd just started this great new job and things were hectic and I couldn't possibly take any time off.

So I waited. Because that's what I do: I wait until the last possible moment and then I go do something about it.

The X-rays showed that I had multiple, bilateral kidney stones. There were seven in my right kidney and three in my left - and these weren't counting the three fat ones that I peed out at North Town Coffee the very night of the day when I had the X-ray taken (funny how things work out like that).

When the doctor said surgery and explained the way it would go down, I was more than willing to jump at it and hurry up to get it done.

July 6 was the first procedure, but they were only able to attack three of the stones in my right kidney. The doctor said they zapped me 3,000 times (not a record - just the maximum number of times they can hit you in one kidney), and they stuck a stent in my right side and I spent the next few days recovering from the experience and dealing with the stent and waiting for them to order the next procedure: July 25.

That was Tuesday and I'm a few days out and still peeing out little pieces of pulverized stone, but the stent's gone and the pain is far less intense than it was.

Next step, what does the doctor say I need to do to prevent this from happening again?

And wait to find out just how much I'm going to have to pay out of pocket for this little medical setback.

Kidney stones and stuff

Ruminating. Again.

I've started about 100 blog posts since I arrived in Yakima 193 days ago, but I've only published eight. I don't know why this is the spot I keep forgetting to cultivate. It's the one place on this planet that is totally mine, and I created it all those years ago because I can pretty much write whatever I want and I don't have to worry about whether it offends anyone.

Which is why I cracked open my laptop and clicked the link to bring me to my page for a new post.

193 days in Yakima... 199 days since I kissed Barbara goodbye and backed from her driveway with Mary Louise in the passenger seat and everything I owned crammed into the trunk. 

Nothing more substantial than this for tonight. 

Just thinking that I need to get my ass in gear and use this space that I created for what it was intended.

If not for the multiple stones pulverized in both kidneys and waiting to pass through my bladder at any given moment, I might feel like writing a little more.

Hell, it might even be good. 

But I'll wait until tomorrow.

For now, this simple acknowledgement will have to suffice.

54 days and still counting

It's a shame that I reach this point at the end of the day and I have absolutely no yen to write. Where the hell did that zest go? Up until only a few weeks ago, it was more of a compulsion than a sentence.

Right here and right now, I feel like I'm in a spot where I just can't muster the stamina.

I need to do something pretty drastic to try and get it back.

And I shouldn't be counting these days, besides. I ought to be enjoying the moments, but these moments haven't exactly been worth savoring since I got here.

More tasks for Ruthie's list (another 21):

22. Arrested Development (at this point, "I've made a huge mistake" seems appropriate).
23. The writings of Raymond Carver.
24. Then watch Short Cuts.
25. Then a few other films from Robert Altman. I suggest Nashville and Gosford Park.
26. Watch Psycho, but do it from the perspective that you know nothing of the story and you'll see what a genius Alfred Hitchcock was.
27. Other great examples of Hitchcock's virtuosity: The Birds, Rear Window, Strangers on a Train, North by Northwest, Rope and Shadow of a Doubt.
28. Another trash classic: The Carpetbaggers, by Harold Robbins.
29. Lace, the 1984 miniseries. Now, I'm always a book-first proponent, but this is the one case where I'll make the exception. Seriously, this is about 4 to 5 hours of your life that is definitely well spent.
30. Read Teresa Carpenter's piece in The Village Voice on Dorothy Stratten, "Death of a Playmate." It's one of the reasons I wanted to become a journalist.
31. Then watch the Bob Fosse movie Star 80.
32. Three great books by Sidney Sheldon: The Other Side of Midnight, If Tomorrow Comes and Master of the Game
33. John Irving's The World According to Garp
34. Then watch the movie (if for nothing more than John Lithgow's performance).
35. Gay classics you should read: Giovanni's Room (James Baldwin), The City and the Pillar (Gore Vidal) and And the Band Played On (Randy Shilts) - one of the books that made me want to be a journalist.
36. Gay classics you should watch: Beautiful Thing, Milk, Brokeback Mountain, But I'm a Cheerleader, Parting Glances, and Weekend.
37. Check out Pedro Almodovar, especially Matador, Bad Habits, Bad Education, All About My Mother and Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.
38. Watch All About Eve, which may be one of the truly best pictures ever to win the award.
39. And American Beauty (I saw it four times in the theater).
40. Binge the following: Parks and Recreation (for the Snake Juice episode), The Mary Tyler Moore Show (for the one about the death of Chuckles the Clown), Rhoda (for the one with Rhoda's wedding), and Nurse Jackie (when you get to the final episode, you'll realize just how perfectly written the show was, and you'll wonder whether the final scene was planned when the pilot was written - from start to finish, a really good depiction of the nature of addiction).
41.Really listen to the words from Foster the People's Pumped Up Kicks. If you haven't yet, you're about to get a different perspective.
42. Now, this was a rough one for me. Read War and Remembrance right after you finish The Winds of War. From just before the invasion of Poland to the release of prisoners in concentration camps. It's a BIG, sweeping story with an American naval family at its center. Each member of the family is sort of strategically placed around the world as war rages in Europe. I guarantee you'll fall in love with the same character I did: Natalie.

That's all for tonight. I think I hear some Jackie Collins trash calling my name.