Forgiveness

Main Entry: for·give
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): for·gave \-ˈgāv\; for·giv·en \-ˈgi-vən\; for·giv·ing
Etymology: Middle English, from Old English forgifan, from for- + gifan to give
Date: before 12th century transitive verb
1 a: to give up resentment of or claim to requital for b: to grant relief from payment of
2: to cease to feel resentment against (an offender) : pardon intransitive verb: to grant forgiveness

According to Merriam-Webster.com, the word forgive wasn't introduced into the English language until nearly the 12th century. Perhaps our predecessors were unconditionally loving and had no use for the term or perhaps the opposite was true or perhaps there was just another term for this meaning. Could you imagine a world without forgiveness? Perish the thought!

Lately I've been having some run-ins with a few men I've dated this year. Wednesday after yoga I bumped into the gentleman who I had the greatest romantic interest in and connection with since "him."

Things between us started out very strong, we had a wonderful connection. He was charming, easy to talk to, highly intelligent and philosophical. I was falling for him hook, line and sinker as it were. However, things between us didn't end up going so swimmingly. Suffice to say our romance abruptly ended due to what I considered to be a bit of an existential conundrum.

So I was leaving the gym, and as I turned the corner for the home stretch to the exit, there he was, marching in place on an elliptical. We haven't spoken nor seen one another since early March. Therefore this moment where he was moving in place held a bit of poetic irony since I truly believe neither of us had moved beyond our previous transcendental idealistic stalemate, if you will. We were both still firmly rooted in the moment of how things appeared to us which was so completely juxtaposed to one another in addition to being contrary to how each of us felt toward the other person. It's a bit complicated (because we made it so), and I digress ...

Upon first noticing him, I felt a warming in my chest. Of course I was a bit conflicted as I'm sure he was too when I said "hey" to him. I know in my heart of hearts he's a very good human being. His equally brief reaction to me spoke volumes. He reciprocated the short salutation, and out of half politeness and half really wanting to know about him in the present I asked him how he was doing. He simply said, "I'm good," but in a tone that likely contradicted how he was feeling toward me in that moment. Then he asked me how I was. "I'm fine," I replied and continued to make my way toward the door. I had just gotten the first of my two earphones in when he called me back over sternly by name while facing the opposite direction.

I stopped dead in my tracks, turned back around and re-approached. I took some comfort in his discomfort as we were both in the same boat during that moment.

"Do you want your shirt back," he asked.

"Oh, yeah, that's right," I recalled. "Um, yes, that'd be nice."

"What's the best way to get it to you?"

I pondered for a few moments, not exactly sure what would be in either of our best interests "Well, I'm fairly flexible the rest of this week. I could certainly meet you at the Vivace inside your building when it's convenient."

Since he took the initiative to make the gesture, the least I could do is make it easy for him. I know we both suffered as a result of what transpired. Besides, moving forward means letting go and getting beyond the past.

"Do you still have my phone number or email?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm sure I do," I replied.

"I know I'll be busy tomorrow, but Friday is good. So get in touch with me and let me know."

"OK, I'll be in touch," I remarked and then continued on my way.

We agreed to meet up this morning. I took a mid-morning break, arriving at the cafe early to relax and get some more reading time in. Right at 10:30 a.m. on the dot he entered, his presence very pronounced by the nicely laundered red with white stripes button down shirt he carried in on a hanger, sleeves pinned neatly across the front.

I immediately looked up from my book and marked my page. I then set it down on the table and removed my reading glasses, placing them on the cover. He smiled and asked me what I was reading as he scanned the cover, asking whether it was a book about dog racing. I corrected him by explaining that a race car driver is one of the main characters, but the main character/narrator is a dog who is also a philosopher. Altogether he seemed much more disarmed than we likely both were during our initial run in the day before last, and he smiled at my explanation of my book.

He handed me my shirt back, which I immediately removed from the wire hanger and made a few attempts to fold neatly to stow in my bag. We spent the subsequent few minutes making small talk. I could sense a genuine interest on both our parts to really want to check in with the other person. Imagine that, we still genuinely like each other.

We spent the subsequent hour getting on one another's wave length about what occurred. Really, and quite simply, I was really on the market for a straight forward apology. I have to give this man a lot of credit for his bravery. To say the very least, it is quite challenging to face someone who raised hell with you for hurting their feelings. Apparently I reciprocated the pain with an older blog post about the situation. No need to go back there, but he immediately brought to my attention how scathing my blog post was about him. All I can say for myself is my words reflected what I thought of him in that situation at that time.

In the end, I know neither of us intentionally set out to hurt the other person. Given our conversation this morning, it was plainly obvious we do genuinely like and care for each other as the people we are.

Harking back to another earlier blog post, the three things we as people need most in our lives is love, understanding and forgiveness. I strongly subscribe to all three of those ideals, I'm a big fan, huge. Sometimes in life, bad sets of circumstances arise to evoke positive changes. It's how the human spirit champions such obstacles, and more often than not these are obstacles we place before ourselves. Further, the best heroes, the kind we can all relate to more often than not, are those who have the odds stacked against them.

So what next? Only time will tell inevitably. For starters, we acknowledged how much we enjoy one another as people. That's a good place to start. Seems to me we both got jipped during our first go of it. We agreed we'd both like to continue a friendly dialogue as well as to maintain topics relating exclusively to the present. Perhaps there will come a time when we can reflect on our "sordid" past with hearty laughter. Until then, we'll just forgive and let go.

Two people who want to work on a friendship so more deserve to have one than those who just luck out by happenstance. I look forward to a new beginning as friends ...

It's a Small World, for Fat People: The Right to be Fat?

My dear snow invited me along for a picnic at Coulon Park today with her darling four year old daughter Lily. While we were sitting on a small floating island eating the delicious lunch Snow packed for us, Lily noticed a posted sign for people to not feed the ducks. Being the curious young mind she is, of course to her this begged the question why, so she asked me.

Just then I noticed a very obese man walking along the lake shore, so I used him as an example. I explained to Lily that ducks naturally find food in the wild and if people fed them they would get too fat. Then I pointed to the obese man and declared that someone had overfed him. Snow chuckled beneath her breath and smiled, well knowing my initial explanation sufficed.

This later brought Snow and I to the topic of obesity. She said she had heard of groups that fight for the equal treatment of obese people. What the fuck?!

While people are born with baby fat, people aren't necessarily born to be obese. Being morbidly fat is a choice. People have control over diet and exercise which has a direct correlation to body fat.

The common complaints obese people have range from being discriminated against in the workplace to being charged for two seats on an airplane. OK, I've been squeezed in next to a mildly obese person on an airplane, and there is nothing more miserable. I'm sorry, but if a person can't fit in just one seat, they should have to pay for two. Space is real estate and real estate costs money. Maybe that will help inspire obese folk to curb calories and take in a little activity.

In fact, Snow recently heard Disneyland is retrofitting the park's 'Small World' ride to accommodate fuller figured humans. Perhaps they ought to change the name to 'It's a Fat World.'

Curiosity further drove me to search the web to see what organizations exist to enable obesity. Top of the list on Google is the Council on Size & Weight Discrimination. What a wide load of crap! There's even a blog about this subject simply called Big Fat Blog.

While I think it's highly inappropriate for anyone to discriminate against and judge anyone else, I don't agree with special treatment of people who make unhealthy lifestyle choices.

Art Attack

What an amazingly full weekend! Snow and I bummed around at the second Friday artwalk in Belltown, which was really fun. We saw some nice work, I met one of the cutest French bulldogs names Oliver and we nibbled on delicious miniature cupcakes at a very fabulous gallery space.

After a glass of sparkling and another glass of still white wine, we needed a bit of repose and some caffeine. Snow and I sat out on the sidewalk at one of Belltown's few cafes and had iced coffee and iced tea.

So many beautiful men strutted past us. We didn't want to be obvious about directing the other person's attention to a hot piece of man in plain sight, therefore we developed a code phrase.

Snow and I have a love for Star Wars and anything that pokes fun at the original epic film. During the attack on the Death Star scene, one of the the red squadron pilots is referred to as Porkins. The funny thing is, if you pay close attention to the movie, this dude is also pretty fat!

Pork of course has other connotations, such as fucking. So now when we see a hot guy we'd like the other person to check out, we calmly and politely say, "Have you seen Porkins lately?"

After artwalk, my pal Scotty guilted me into having a drink with him as his plans fell through with the guy he first met and slept with the night before.

We met at 611, which has a great bar. Then went across the street to get Scotty a slice or two (of pizza) at Mama's, one of my local faves. While there we ran into Richard and Manny, soon to be my new South Lake Union neighbors.

Scotty and I ended up at Purr, which I generally can't stand. However, I ran into an old friend and colleague I hadn't seen in about four years. We'll call him Jimmy. I had once hired him for a long term contract and then about six months into it placed myself on contract within the same group in a slightly subordinating role. In other words, at one time he reported to me and then I became somewhat subservient to him. It was good seeing him. Jimmy remarked the last time we saw one another was at Manray, which wasn't true.

Methinks he was referring to a time we bumped into one another in line there at the bar. He was a bit more than tipsy and ended up giving me a bit of a smacker on the lips. I didn't mind, but I was partnered at the time and didn't reciprocate. The following Monday at work he made an apology.

Saturday I slept in and then picked up my pal Brent on Beacon Hill for a little brunch in Georgetown. We ate at the Hangar Cafe, which was surprisingly good. They serve crepes and sandwiches as well as they have a full espresso bar. The restaurant itself was a single family home that had been converted. We sat in the front yard, which had been turned into a patio seating area. From there I could almost see my little red house on the hill through the trees ...

Afterward, we returned to Brent's, sat in the sun and had a beer or two until his partner Doug arrived home. We then met up with our friends Matt, Kevin and their new foster child Max out on their boat in Seward Park. Max is great, but he's seven and a total sponge, meaning he hears, remembers and repeats everything you say.

My big oops was when I heard him ask, "Matt, what's a sausage party?" I was having a candid conversation with Kevin about how I would like to join the one in progress several boats away. Hopefully he'll never know anything other than the innocent meaning of these words.

After a couple hours on the lake, Brent, Doug and I ventured back into Georgetown for a bite at Stellar Pizza, which was delicious as always. We then toured through all the open studios, shops and galleries for the neighborhood's Second Saturday Art Attack. Many of the places we ventured into offered beer, wine and light nibbles. I stuck with beer, which I had been drinking since two that afternoon.

My favorite was an a-board sign pointing to a small show inside a very funky storage space which read, "Who Arted?" Cute. Along the way I spoke with several artists. Georgetown seems to attract people who are genuine, kind and sociable. However, there was another group of gays also wandering around the hood. We said hello to them and they completely ignored us. They were fairly homely too.

In Seattle, if a gay man says hello to another, it means he wants action. So is the perception. Either that or people in this town just don't know how to be friendly and talk to one another. Maybe it's a combination of both.

Later that night we found ourselves at the Elite, a pub style bar down the block from my Capitol Hill bachelor pad. We had a drink and then from there went to Purr. At this point I was seriously ready to slip into a coma. I managed to catch a seventh wind when Doug introduced me to his friend and band mate, whom I conversed with for nearly three hours.

What feeling(s) does this evoke?

A fellow writer sent me this music video a while back. I'd love to gauge others' reactions to it. Please feel free to comment or send a reactionary email to: urbanperspective@gmail.com. Cheers

FUCK YELLOW CAB OF SEATTLE

It's 2:00 a.m. I just got back in from a very long 48 hours, nearly half of which I spent working. Had a two day business conference. Then an after party, which didn't go late, but clearly I did by American standards. So here I sit, three beers and an entire 10 inch cheese pizza later, still pissed off about my last two Yellow Cab experiences.

My drivers were fine. The cars were clean. I reached my destinations safely and punctually. But when I arrived at my destination however, the cab driver gave me a total that was $2 more than what the meter read. The first driver declared a $2 fuel surcharge. The other didn't. No where is this "charge" posted. Either way I think they're full of shit, so I didn't tip either of those fucking thieving bastards.

Let me tell you something. I am the 20% tip guy. You have to really grate my nuts for me to not tip even close to 20%. But $2 is nearly a half gallon of gas. I was only going 8 blocks, in both cases. So not only am I being charged handsomely for service, but I'm also more than paying for these guys to fill up their gas guzzlers. I'm pretty sure these cab drivers and/or companies are taking advantage of over speculated oil futures and basically charging themselves a 50% tip. It's not the money so much as it is the principle. FUCKERS!

Here I am, trying to be a responsible party goer by cabbing it. From now on I'm driving drunk or bumming rides from total strangers. I think they call that hitch hiking. Or better yet, I'll get drunk, commandeer someone else's ride, then smash it into the side of a Yellow Cab and flee the scene undiscovered. Surcharge that, motherfuckers.

Social Media Conundrum

Digital (online, virtual) ethnography (a.k.a. netnography or webnography) - is it a study involving the culture of people or the culture of machines or both? You decide ...

I'm gonna be a SLUT!

It's official, I'm going to be a SLUT (South Lake Union tenant). For nearly two years, since the end of my seven year relationship, I've been harboring myself like a fugative in what I refer to as my "temporary exile," a.k.a. the maxi pad on Capitol Hill. While I'm still not quite ready to settle back down into a place of my own, I'll be one step closer, living in an incredibly unique one bedroom loft apartment in one of Seattle's most up and coming in-city neighborhoods.

Finding Inspiration

My dear Snow, an incredibly gifted, freelance illustrator, has been yearning to find the time to stay with her craft of painting. I'm finding myself with a similar and yet slightly different dillemma.

I very much want to stay with my craft of writing, and I suppose to some extent I have through my blog. Time isn't as much the issue as is inspiration, focus and creative gusto these days.

Pounding away on this Underwood No. 5 (is that like Chanel No. 5 for writers?) is such a romantic notion. Have you ever tried to type on one of these machines though? Not only are they ergonomically hateful, but they are just plain uncivilized. People must've had very strong fingers back in the day.

Still, I imagine myself in a small, secluded cabin along the Pacific Northwest coastline with ample time for reflection and energy to create masterful works on one of these beautiful antiques.

Is America Going Bankrupt?

In the spirit of observing America's independence from England, it is important for us to reflect on the reasons why we as colonists became separatists in the first place. Was it not because of taxation without representation? Funny how history repeats itself as you'll learn via the following 60 Minutes reel:

Summer in the City @ 1st Thursday Artwalk

Snow and I ventured down to Pioneer Square for July's First Thursday Artwalk. Neither of us had been in quite some time.

We felt fortunate the weather held out. It's always a crap shoot prior to the 4th of July. People were out en masse, dressed for warmer weather. We started our tour by attempting to find parking, which we finally did after lapping around many blocks and shelling out $12. Of course on our way wandering on foot down 1st Ave we passed by a couple garages for half the amount we paid. Now we know better.

We started our tour in the pedestrian alley of Occidental where white trade show tents housed painters and jewelers selling their artwork and crafts. Snow remarked how nerve wracking it must be for these artists to have people candidly walk by, commenting and critiquing their work.

Both Snow and I were slightly intoxicated by the creative energy and buzz all around us. Not to mention the myriad of beautiful folks strolling from gallery to gallery, some dressed as artfully as the fine pieces on display.

Inside the second formal gallery we ventured into, where we saw some of the most spectacular pieces, both our eyes also ran across an incredibly gorgeous gentleman. He wasn't wearing a ring. Yes, that's the first thing I look at. But he wasn't alone either, and he wasn't with a man. Still, he was fun to admire from afar nonetheless.

We then found ourselves across the walkway at Cafe Umbrio where we lounged at a sidewalk cafe table for a spell. That's when we noticed Arien, a fellow I dated for several weeks this spring. He was with another fellow, but from what we could tell they weren't together in the romantic sense.

Snow and I remained incognito. We watched them walk into a gallery on a perpendicular street, then walk out and toward the waterfront. Suddenly they appeared again a half block closer from where we spotted them out front of the gallery at the end of Occidental, but didn't see them walk back the same way. We deducted they must have walked all the way back around the block. They were standing out in front of a Starbucks, not hard to do in Seattle as there's practically two on every block. Then they started coming our way.

It's not that I have a big problem with Arien. He's a very sweet guy, but also another one of those deaf guys who wasn't able to hear the fact I thought he and I were better off as friends. I extended a lunch invite not too long ago, which he made a production out of. So, I'd rather not engage him if he can't just be a cool cat and chat me up casually.

Arien and his friend walked right in front of our table. I had my head turned slightly and didn't notice. That was acting. Thank you. Snow remarked that he looked right at us, but he too didn't notice us either. Bravo. Encore.

We then got up and toured one more gallery space right at closing time. Shortly after we headed back toward the car and to grab a bite along the way. We stumbled upon the best Thai place I've been to in a while. It was very tastefully minimalist, they played classic jazz tunes and the joint was adjacent to where we parked. We dined on the most delicious little spring rolls and chicken phad thai, which was more than enough for two. We got out of there for $17 including tax and tip. What a bargain! That more than made up for being extorted on parking.

Snow and I had such a wonderful time we vowed to do artwalk every month from now on.

The Douchiest Phone Message In History

My San Francisco BFF sent me this the other day. Here's the back story. A girl named Olga was out with her friends in San Francisco's Marina district (known for being a popular hang out for douches), and she talked to this guy named Dmitri for all of two minutes. Then she gave him her card and said “give me a call.”

These are the two messages he left her. Listen to the whole thing, it just keeps getting better and better. You've gotta hear it to believe it:


http://view.break.com/527579 - Watch more free videos

Swallow My Pride

A priest walks into a gay bar with a dyke, a fag and a straight chick. No, this isn't the beginning of some joke, but rather the start of my Friday night out in San Francisco. Seriously. Any trip I can come back from saying the aforementioned is a great one, which I plan to get a lot of mileage out of in the coming days. The significance of this date is that exactly 39 years ago in New York City (on Friday, June 27, 1969) the Stonewall Riots ignited the LGBT liberation movement.

Our Pride adventure in The City (what many Californians have nicknamed San Francico) actually started on Thursday, which wasn't necessarily off to a good start. The City of Seattle towed my car. Apparently the utility work on my block started a day early. I heeded the signage correctly, but the city fucked up. So I missed my carpool, but still made my flight in more than plenty of time as it was delayed due to poor visibility as Northern California was a blaze with wild fires.

Caught up with Hicks, a friend of a friend, inside SeaTac's sleek newer Concourse A. Ironically, I found him in the African Lounge, ironic because he's black.

Upon arrival, I turned on my phone only to be receiving a call from the plane pulling in right behind mine. It was my dear friend Rach, who I've known since my college "daze." We were meeting up in The City and both staying with my BFF Grace on Russian Hill.

No sooner had we put our things down in Grace's flat, we were whisked off to North Beach via cab to get a drink or several. We started at a very swanky bar, a place I had been to once before but can't recall the name. While there, a very muscular, athletic gentleman about our age approached. He's an acquaintence of Grace's who was very interested in having people notice his well developed bod as he drew attention to it by casually flexing from time to time. He was pretty sexy right up until those moments. Next.

Don't know what it is about the corner of Grant and Green in North Beach, but two out of two times I've been on that exact same corner adjacent to this quaint Irish pub, months apart, I've gotten completely stoned.

The time before this last it was Grace and my dear friend (and former co-worker) Macho Pacho (that's Grace's nickname for her). Pacho and her band performed at the pub last October. I had just stopped through The City for the night on my way to my other home away from home in coastal Mexico.

This time we were walking by these three big dudes and the smell of ganga in the air was extremely pungent. As we passed, I commented how good something smelled. We then invited ourselves to partake. They were more than happy to share. I suppose this stands to good reason.

Man, they had the fattest spliff I've ever seen. I swear it was nearly an inch in diameter. OK, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but it was pretty fucking huge! And one toke got me pretty fucking stupid-baked. It's sometimes very fun to regress ...

From what I recall we ate some wood fired pizza at what first appeared to be a very charming Neapolitan pizza restaurant right on Columbus that was clearly open for late night dining. The waiters must have been faux Argentinians because they thought they were Mexicans who thought they were British and acted like snooty French men. We sat out on the sidewalk and even if you offered me $1 million, I wouldn't be able to recall what we talked about. I do recall a lot of laughs, but that's par for the course with these gals.

Grace had to run into the office early Friday morning. I don't know how she did it. Rach and I accompanied her to Peet's on Polk Street for some fresh morning brew. Lord knows we all needed it. So Rach and I went on walk about, strolling down Embarcadero on the water's edge until we hit Market Street. Along the way Rach made contact with our good friend Alice, who I had just seen about a month prior during my last visit with Grace in The City. We agreed to meet her and her girlfriend for lunch at Chow in the Castro.

We hopped a streetcar on Market Street, which would could have easily beat to our destination by just strolling at a casual pace. It was one tourist experience I hadn't ever indulged during my dozens of visits to The City over the years. Now I know why. Impractical when you have limited time, places to be and people to see.

Chow was delicious as was our waiter. Afterward, Rach and I returned to Russian Hill in time to meet Grace's friend, Priest Ralph de Bricassart.

The four of us started at a rooftop bar in the Mission, which offered skyline views and was fantastic except for the cold wind whipping up from the bay. Our next stop was surely for Rach, the Lexington, a dyke bar on the edge of the Castro. Some of her gal pals from San Diego were there. They came up as a band to play a few sets for the Dyke March the following night.

Our next stop was Moby Dick's, which was surely for yours truly. The men were out in full force for Friday night of Pride weekend in The City. Funny enough, I recognized quite a few men from Seattle, but we of course kept to ourselves and didn't bother saying hi to one another. It's the gay Seattle way, the prude misunderstanding that if you say hi to another gay man it means you want to fuck. Whatever happened to being able to just be genuinely friendly? Oh well ...

Apparently during our time at Moby Dick's, Priest Ralph de Bricassart engaged Grace in a very unholy conversation, more than insinuating (emphasis on the "sin") his romantic interest in her. Talk about an existential quandary, one that my dear Grace wanted nothing to do with.

We fled to Escape from New York Pizza on Castro. I love their pizza! Delicious, perfectly crispy thin crust and very flavorful. My mouth is watering just thinking about it, which is why I indulged in their pizza three times over the weekend. Mmm ... I digress.

After pizza, the priest, the dyke and the straight chick got into a cab and I ventured back to Moby Dick's. That's where I met Doug, a very tall, robust gentleman in his late 30s with slightly slivered hair and a gorgeous smile. Clearly I'm a sucker for that, but that came a bit later in the evening, pardon the vague innuendos.

Doug and his three pals, one couple and one ex boyfriend, were a breath of fresh air. They were welcoming, talkative and genuinely nice. Very un-Seattle I have to say. They invited me out on the sidewalk for a toke and then Doug bought us a round of drinks. We stayed at Moby's for one more and then headed down to a much smaller, quieter bar called the Men's Room, just down the block.

Not long after our arrival to the Men's Room, we were sitting at the bar when the gentleman next to me stood up on the bar stool, hefted his glass up high and announced the death of his father, asking everyone to join in his toast. It was the sort of moment you'd see on the silver screen, but rarely in person. I was so stunned I stood to my feet, placed my hand on his back and asked whether he was serious. He said he had just moments prior received word from his brother in San Luis Obispo, the town where I attended university. He also explained that his dad was very ill and this had been a long time coming. He was glad that his father is at peace now.

The night was winding down, and Doug extended an invitation to his place by Almo Square Park. The park is famous for the row of colorful Victorian "Painted Lady" homes often seen with the San Francisco skyline in the background on films and TV.

Suffice to say my time spent with Doug was the most amazing 12 hour relationship I've ever had! The conversation was great, the intimacy spectacular and he treated me like a complete gentleman. We slept in until nearly noon, and then he took me to breakfast at his favorite greasy spoon. It was delicious and the perfect elixer after a night of tying one on with Father Tom and friends. Afterward, Doug drove me back across town to Russian Hill in his convertible Audi with the top down.

Meanwhile, the girls (Rach and Grace) were enjoying Bloody Mary's at The Cliff House. We had planned to see an art exhibition, but that didn't actually come to fruition. A few years prior, the three of us went to go see "The Universe Within," which is that Chinese exhibit of human cadavers. It was housed at San Francisco's Masonic Temple, and it was definitely not the type of exhibit one should experience hung over. Enough said.

The three of us had an appointment with some other dykes and tapas in the Mission that evening and then we were invited to walk in the Dyke March. At the tapas table, I had Grace to my right and a scruffy dyke to my left. She had a bigger goatee than me! I can't recall her name, but she was very nice to converse with. She said she loved Seattle and had been up recently to film a documentary about bearded ladies. Oh, of course.

We went by foot from the restaurant to the start of the march at Dolores park. I have seen enough dyke breasts (a.k.a. yams in socks) for a lifetime. What was great to experience was the festive atmosphere. People in the row houses and apartments that lined the streets of the march hosted parties. One of the parties consisted of what appeared to be several breeder families, whose children were hanging out of the windows giving peace signs and waving little rainbow flags in support.

Grace and I grabbed a couple of ice cold Sapporros from a sidewalk vendor and drank them out of paper bags during the march. By the end of it all we had all we could handle, so the two of us left Rach to her fellow dykes and devices while we grabbed a cab back to Russian Hill.

Despite having gone to bed at a very respectable hour, 10ish, morning still came a bit early. We had to get Rach to the airport and then had a brunch with Grace's friends at none other than their favorite Polk Street haunt, Bar Johnny, which I lovingly refer to as the Regal Beagle. They offered a phenomenal brunch.

I had poached eggs with lox, sweet potato hash browns, mixed greens and bottomless mimosas. Grace shared her brioche with me, which was absolutely one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted. They clearly slice their own fresh brioche loaves and then throw the slices on the grill with some butter. Simple yet mildly sweet and deliciously savory.

After our bubble-filled brunch, the gang (I think there were like eight of us) went with Grace's friend Alysha, whose birthday it was, back to her amazing apartment for a little smoke out. That seemed to be a theme that wove its way through the weekend. Along the way half our group stopped in for a glass of wine at the most charming cafe on the corner of Hyde & Jackson. After the smoke out, we returned to the same corner cafe with the intention of taking the trolly over the hill near the Wharf.

Trolly after trolly passed us by as they were filled to capacity with tourists. So we settled for taking over the sidewalk tables at this gorgeous corner cafe, where we had several rounds in the sun before a chilling fog rolled in. Then it was off to the Bell Tower, where Grace had originally met Priest Ralph de Bricassart. Incidentally, he met us for brunch, but left early to play a round of golf. He was leaving early the next morning to do some fundraising in Portland, Oregon, but was to return to The City a few days later. He ended up cutting his West coast trip short, having to head back to New York to attend a funeral.

I managed to get myself to the airport, drunk as a skunk, all the while wearing my Swallow My Pride t-shirt. I left some DVD's at Grace's and lost a ring through security. Otherwise I returned to Seattle without so much as a scratch, thankfully.

My plane touched down before midnight, and it was still Pride weekend on Capitol Hill. So instead of driving home, I parked near the Cuff. That turned out to be dead, so I walked over to Madison Pub, which was even more so. Decided to have a beer there anyway, which turned into two, which turned into a flirty conversation with a muscle cub, which turned into smooching in an open parking lot among just a few other things ...

Although I always have a grand time in The City, it's good to be home.

A League of His Own

I feel funky. Maybe it's the week. Maybe it's the weed. Maybe it's the dweeb. This afternoon Luke, this guy I dated for the last couple months, tells me he thinks I'm out of his league. That was a first. He said he felt inferior and thought I must think he's a bore. That's about the saddest thing I've heard in quite a while. Almost as sad as, "I can't be the man you need me to be," famous near last words from an old flame ...

Is it me or is there something seriously wrong with someone who would say such things? Let us not overlook the fact this way of thinking is purely unilateral, which comes from a completely self absorbed place.

Well, truth be told he was too insecure and emotionally immature for us to be a good fit. Instead of just being direct and straight forward, he would often hint around about how he was feeling. Can't tell you how much that drives me up a wall. I'm not a mind reader, and I would never assume to ever just know how someone else is feeling. Perhaps over time, a long, long time, I might gain some insight.

Luke had many great qualities. We had a nice little connection. Even today, despite not having seen one another for a couple weeks, we chatted across a cafe table for a couple hours. We made a lot of small talk, and then broached the elephant in the room; what went wrong.

I suppose what baffles me the most is that he had the vulnerability, the humility, the balls to articulate how he feels lesser than me. I really liked him, and I'm very expressive, so I showered him with praise. From day one he deflected my compliments, almost couldn't take one to save his life. Translation: very poor self esteem.

OK, we would all be remiss to not admit our insecurities. Everyone has them. Some clearly more than others. I mean, c'mon, I'm the guy who farts into the phone with some of his best gal pals on the receiving end. Guess sometimes others see in us only what they want to see and overlook understanding who we really are.

On some level I would say this is unfortunate. Though one should never curse their bad luck until they're absolutely certain it's not good luck.

We walked out to our cars together and hugged a couple times prior to parting ways. We agreed we could still continue on as friends. What amused me the most were his parting words, "This isn't goodbye, just see you later ..." Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps he'll just remain in a league of his own.

Adios, amigo.

My Nude Neighbors

My apartment faces directly into the living room of the Canadian breeder couple who live in the building across the street. I'm deducting their national origin based on the oversized flag they have displayed on a post in their living room. They moved in a few months ago, and have a tendency to rearrange their furniture on a weekly basis. They also have a tendency to walk around bare ass naked with their window coverings pulled wide open.

Between their living room and bedroom windows is a smaller window into the alcove that houses their shitter. My kitchen window looks directly into it. On the thankfully rare occasion, I've been washing dishes only to look up and see the guy wiping his butt. The odd thing about it, in addition to him doing so shamlessly in an open window that directly faces my 100+ unit building, is that he stands up to wipe while watching himself do so. Yeah, it's gross.

However, I will say the guy is otherwise physically attractive. Tall, lean, muscular, beautiful skin. He also has a HUGE dick. Once he was standing, smoking a cigarette in the buff right at their living room window on a bright, sunny weekend morning. His member was taking an elongated bow while he sure seemed to be standing proud. I can only imagine he was having a post fuck smoke.

Yes, I have also seen them fuck, but nothing quite prepared me for what I witnessed this morning. The guy was going down on his woman like he had just returned home from Auschwitz and hadn't eaten a scrap of food in weeks and months. At first I thought he was just on his knees with his head in her lap while she was sitting up on their living room futon. No, it couldn't have been that innocent, not with them. They were moving and grooving almost violently. I thought at one point she was going to unbirth him and her voracious vagina was going to swallow him up whole.

"Nah, don't bother drawing your shades. The whole neighborhood just loves watching you pig out in your woman's trough."

Straight nasty. Rude.

So that's how my morning started. Then I attended to a suit and tie business affair at an office tower a few streets down the hill from me. This was a most welcome change of scenery.

Quote of the Week!

Um, have we met? I've only sat on your face four times this week! - Anonymous

What Gays Have Been Reduced To

Holy shit! You've gotta read this. A gem of an excerpt I recently ran across on Craigslist:

YOUR AVERAGE GAY MAN - 30 (Seattle)

Reply to: pers-718157208@craigslist.org
Date: 1969-12-31, 4:33PM PST

I'm your average gay man. I'm emotionally shut down, but have an uncanny ability to have empty, casual sex whenever the mood strikes. I'm self absorbed and judgemental, but deep down, like most of you, I'm very insecure. I lack emotional maturity and assume the role of victim in life.

In addition to being checked out, I also like to play head games. I expect you to guess what I'm thinking and how I'm feeling most of the time. If you guess incorrectly, I'll get upset and become withdrawn. When that happens, I'll need your unending devotion. I'm a bit needy.

Otherwise, I'm entirely physically attractive and always present myself very well. You can think of me as somewhat of a wolf in sheep's clothing. I promise the sex will be killer because that's about all I'm good at. Well, aside from being aloof and passive aggressive. Sure, it'd be easier just to be direct and up front, but where's the drama in that?

Don't worry, if I suddenly lose interest in you, I'll just sever all ties and you'll never hear from me again.

Any takers?

Location: Seattle
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Hmmm ... well that pretty much about sums up every guy I've dated over the past couple years. Whoever wrote that is a genius!

OK, I'll admit it. I wrote it and posted it to Craigslist as somewhat of a joke and some what of a way to express my disdain for dating. I actually received responses. None was more creepy than this fugly fifty something guy who thought I sounded really interesting. OMFG.

Seattle: Colder than Siberia

Colder than Siberia? Must be a reference to my last couple break ups. Joking aside, Seattle is generally known for being soggy, not frigid. Though I once saw it snow in the Cascade foothills around North Bend in June back in the early '90s.

Truth be told, Seattlites are never satisfied with their weather. It's either too wet, too cold or too hot. We're not even talking extreme weather and a place where as soon as temps hit 60, people are walking around in shorts and short sleeve shirts. Seattleites are just a bunch of whiney pussies.

Well, if global warming is really occurring, it's sure not yet making a stop on its world tour here in Seattle.

Bliss (Mutluluk)

My buddy Scotty and I went to go see "It's Hard to be Nice" at the Seattle International Film Festival last night. However, we were instead destined to see a substitute screening of "Bliss." Apparently the film we originally intended to see was stuck in customs.

There are definitely no accidents in life. Bliss was an amazing independent foreign film out of Turkey. It reminded me quite a bit of White White Black Stork, the play I saw a couple months ago, performed at ACT by a talented Uzbekistani theatre group. The connection between this film and that play I saw had to do with strict cultural traditions that condemn people for their very human mistakes.

In Bliss, the main character was condemned for a sinful act that wasn't even her fault. She was raped, and was SO horrified by what had happened to her, she was unable to verbally recount the crime. Her village as well as her own family condemned her for something that was clearly out of her control. This survivor of rape had no rights, no voice and no recourse except to repent for a sin that didn't even belong to her. She was expected to pray for forgiveness and then end her own life by hanging herself. Thankfully she couldn't go through with it.

Miraculously, a relative took her away to the big city of Istanbul. Still within the same national boarders, the city offered a little more forgiveness than her small, archaic rural village. The twist was that her rescuer was also intent on assassinating her.

This poignant film explores the disconnect between extreme fundamenalist religion and issues in contemporary society. Bliss, based on a novel, was an outstanding film with high production values, depth and soul. This film was dark and light, sorrowful and joyful; a cinematic buffet of emotion and feeling. Definitely a masterful movie that inspires one to appreciate freedom of expression, something many of us spoiled rotten Americans commonly take for granted.

Doughnuts & Ghosts

Where do I find myself on a perfectly gorgeous late spring evening in Seattle? An intense hour of yoga followed by camping out at a beautiful, park side cafe a few blocks from my Capitol Hill bachelor pad with a hearty thirst for some comforting chamomile tea and the written word.

Not sure whether it's the cloudy weather, but I've been struggling with self motivation professionally as well as creatively in recent days. Though lately I've been leaning more toward having some gusto for the creative, so at least something gives.

Today is the first Friday in June, which also marks National Doughnut Day. Really. According to sources I found online, this day honors the women who served doughnuts to soldiers on the front lines of World War I. Apparently the very name for this beloved American edible was derived from the men of the armed services as these fried morsels were often cooked up in their helmets. The American troops of that era were referred to as "doughboys." Clearly the name stuck as well as this sweet treat. Though where does the "nut" in doughnut come from? Perhaps back in the day they thought it was nuts to be frying up dough in the trenches under the shower of enemy shells and small arms fire.

My dearest Snow and I observed this day by meeting up in the mid afternoon at Top Pot Doughnuts on Fifth Avenue in Belltown to enjoy a hot beverage, one of their artfully tasty, doughy treats and friendly conversation. Though admittedly I don't believe either of us were fully aware of the real significance this alleged holiday marks when we cemented our plans to meet. Oh well.

I told Snow of my recent dating woes, specifically about the wookie, who I really liked. However, over the past week or so he has taken a turn toward inexplicable insecurity. I'm not quite sure where this started coming from. Snow believes he really likes me and is just afraid of getting hurt, so he's acting out of fear. Hmmm, that sounds all too familiar. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what drove him, my catalyst for leaving my seven year relationship, to employ the "push me pull you" bit, which eventually disintegrated one of the greatest loves I've ever known in my life. I'm certainly not venturing down that road again.

Last night, aboard friends' boat, the Red Herring, on Seattle's Lake Union, my dear friend Bay Bay informed me he had had a run in with him last Saturday night. Bay Bay and his partner were just exiting one of Capitol Hill's few remaining gay watering holes when they ran into him out on the sidewalk. He approached them both in a very excited manner, exclaiming their names and giving them both big hugs, as though they were dear old friends who had at long last been reunited. He says to Bay Bay, "I sense that you're holding back." To which Bay Bay replied, "You're very intuitive." I'm also told he looked like a big, drunken mess.

Just the weekend before, another one of my friends ran into him, out at the bars (perhaps the bars have become more than just a mere pass time for him). At first I was told my name didn't come up in conversation, and then later that he had referred to me by my full first name, something he once did to express endearment.

Both Snow and Bay Bay believe he's communicating with me through my friends, and this feels safe for him. All I know, as Snow also observed, he seems to keep popping up, especially as of late. Perhaps it's coincidence. Seattle is still a pretty small town. Maybe, just maybe, we'll come full circle someday soon.

I'm still in the same place I was the last couple times I wrote about this topic, wanting only to make peace with him and that which suddenly tore our love apart, which was seemingly too short lived. Despite knowing I deserve so much more from a lover than what he became incapable of, traces of him still linger on my mind and in my heart.

Snow opined that he's afraid to face me because I am the one person who knows and can see all his weaknesses. She asked me what I would do if by chance he were to actually come around and want to make a genuine go of it. I hate to admit it, but this is a question I asked myself as recently as this morning. Would I be willing to take another chance? Would I be willing to take the ultimate risk for what may or may not be? I'm not sure. What I do know is when things unraveled with him, part of me died inside. It took me months and months to rebound from that. Nearly a year and a half later, I'm still not the same person with respect to how I live and love. Though that might have changed regardless. Who's to say. Doh! I must be nuts for even having these notions. Or perhaps better yet I may just be human.

With every passing day I fall deeper into myself, hopefully getting that much closer to being more like the person I always knew myself to be. I wear these romantic wounds and their subsequent scars like a badge of honor. Just like fashion, love is for the brave. Love is truly the only thing in life worth fighting for. What else would humankind have to live for? What else is there beyond our hearts' greatest desires?!

Snow also reminded me of another love of romance past, my ex of seven years. Snow's hubby ran into him several weeks (if not months) ago while out on patrol. My ex readily confessed that he missed the way things used to be; missed our home, our dearly departed dog and me ... I miss him and much of our old lives too, but he left me long before I physically left him. Apparently my friend Scotty also ran into him just this past Sunday. The first thing he told Scotty was about the fact we broke up as though it had just happened yesterday and not nearly two years ago.

Sometimes I too long for the good ol' days, when life was more comforting, more predictable. Then again, it's the journey and surprises one finds along one's path that maintains a youthful spirit and a profound appreciation for life's many gifts as well as one's achievements.

After I left the busy cafe, I took an evening stroll down Broadway. It was a mostly clear night with a sliver of moon similing at me from high above. The air smelled fresh and clean after a day of showers intermittently rolled over the city. I noticed a certain calmness to Seattle tonight, which kept me at ease as well as feeling a strong sense of home.

Now that I am back home and in for the evening, I'm going to crawl into my nicely made bed with freshly washed linens. Then I'm going to pull the covers up over me, shut my eyes and allow myself to dream of all the wonderful things to come ...

Good night.

Erection Killers

I've met a few guys in recent weeks who actually don't annoy me and who I actually like as well as find attractive. Well initially anyway. It's funny how one can go from having all kinds of items on their romantic interest wish list, to just hoping the people one meets won't be annoying fucks. OK, that's kind of taking things to the extreme, but you get my point.

In relation to the four men I've been actively dating over the past couple months or so, I recently let two go becuase they just didn't know how to listen. I know they're not deaf.

Despite fair warning, both faux deaf guys began applying an obsene amount of pressure in the early "getting to know you" stages. In fact, we'll call him faux deaf guy number two who bought me a ticket to a family outting on the Duck Tour. OK, anyone who knows me knows I despise that fugly white barge on wheels, which turns Seattlites going about their everyday lives into zoo exhibits. But it wasn't the activity so much as it was him pressing me to meet his family, barely more than a month into us seeing one another, after clearly letting him know I wasn't comfortable with this. I think most people would feel similarly. Too much too soon.

When faux deaf guy number two finally admitted to me he doesn't drive was also part of the tipping point. Duplicity equals b'bye. We broke up in email, which was oddly pleasant. Actually, I think faux deaf guy number one and I broke up in email as well. How very nonconfrontationally Seattle. Gotta love this isolated little passive aggressive Northwestern oasis of ours.

So now I'm left with the prickly pear and the wookie. A little fur is sexy, but too much makes manscaping a must. As for shaving body hair, please do so only if you're a competitive swimmer or cyclist. Being with a guy who shaves his body is like sleeping next to a cactus. I like being poked, but in the more conventional sense of the slang use of this word.

Then there was the "cocky" guy I met for the first time Tuesday night. Horrible self esteem party of one, your table is ready in the losers section. Good luck with all that. Please don't let me know how it turns out. Poor chump bastard. When in doubt, act gentlemanly. Why do so many guys think they'll get somewhere by acting like total douche bags?

The one common theme I've noticed is that most of these men expect something to develop despite not putting the effort into it. I don't mean elaborate nights out on the town at five star restaurants sipping 100 point wines, though I wouldn't be opposed to that either. No, I mean basic effort, like being able to simply hold and carry on an engaging, intelligent conversation. A little friendliness and humor can go a long way. Really. Yeah, it's that simple.

Speaking of conversations, the wookie critiqued my conversational style the other night. His idea of me rudely interruputing him was when I attempted to further engage him in his own topic of conversation by asking deeper questions. What an asshole. Five words: like it or leave it. Better yet, two words (brevity is king): fuck off.

What inspired this post? Foremost, these jokers who call themselves men. Secondly, a conversation with none other than my dearest Grace earlier today. She had a date last night with a guy who claims to never date.

Their first date was supposed to be late last week. He texted in the late afternoon the day of the tentative date to firm it up. She, like I would certainly have done, had already made other plans. Sorry, no man is worth waiting around for. If any man can prove me wrong about this, I will literally eat my own words on the heaviest weight paper stock with an "I told you so" chaser.

Last night Grace finally got together with this guy for a first date. They dined at a little Neapolitan joint in The City and then ended up back at her place. They shared a kiss on her chaise with no real sparks. A while later he tells her he doesn't really date and then said, "Will you go out with me?" To which Grace replied, "We just went out."

Of course I couldn't resist the opportunity to get some more mileage out of this one, so I emailed her the following:

Yes or No

I like you. Will you go with me?

Are you kidding me?! Even high school was a bit too mature for the use of the aforementioned phrase. I have the utmost confidence in Darwin's theory since so many "men" are living proof that man evolved from apes.

A good man is hard to find and a hard man might be all I'm up for right now ...