More!

A recent tv show had a story about a young boy with a rare disorder which leaves him in a constant state of extreme hunger. No matter how much he eats, it is not enough; he is still ravenously hungry. His parents have to lock the refrigerator and the kitchen cupboards and watch him constantly. Were he left unchecked, he would quite literally eat himself to death. His condition reminded me of a documentary I'd seen several years ago on an experiment in which laboratory scientists located and destroyed the area in a dog's brain which tells it when it had drunk enough water. As a result, the dog's thirst could never be quenched. I found both cases heart-wrenching; perhaps even more so in the case of the dog, whose condition was deliberately caused.

And yet I find I have a not totally dissimilar condition in my attitudes toward life. My hunger for life itself can never be satisfied, my thirst for it never quenched. No matter how many places I have traveled, they are never enough. I see photos of exotic lands, and remote mountains and valleys and islands and quaint villages, and I want to be there. Even many of the places I have already been I want to be there again--thus one reason for my planned trip to Europe next year.

I am not satisfied with all the wonderful experiences I have had in my life: I want the ones I've already had again, and I want more of them. Infinitely more. I cannot be content with the fact that I have been blessed throughout my life with people I have loved and who have loved me. I want them and their love now. I want to love and be loved, to hold and be held by those people without limit, without horizons. I still love my parents and Aunt Thyra and Uncle Buck and Ray deeply and intently. My love hasn't diminished in the slightest, but they are no longer here to receive and reciprocate it--and I have reached the age where it is all but impossible that I could ever again find an equivalent for them.

I want to read all the books I have always wanted to read and all the books I've never even heard of that I know I would love. I cannot write enough of my own books--no matter how many I write, I want to write more.

There is so very much that I want to know that I will never know...and again, to understand on a rational level that no one can ever know everything, just as no one can travel to all those exotic places I long to see, or read all the books in even one small library, does not lessen by one iota my desire to want these things.

Every day on the street I see countless people who are older than I, or more physically or mentally or socially challenged than I, and I always give sincere thanks for my own relative good fortune. But it is never enough. Despite acknowledgement that I am relatively very well off, I want more. I want to be 21 again and be able to do all those things which the years, having given me and soothed me into believing would be mine forever, have steadily been taking away. I am confused, and saddened, and angered by it. Logic, history, my own mind...reality...dictate clearly and calmly that I must simply accept the fact that I had all these things once, and they were wonderful, but they are gone. How can I possibly refuse to accept that fact? I don't know, but I do not accept it. I want them back. I want them now, and I want more!

Once again, I do consider myself a logical person. I know that all these things are impossible. I know the things and people that I have lost neither will nor can come back. I know the terror with which I watch myself becoming less and less who I have always been is utterly pointless. But in my constant battle between logic and emotion, between my heart and my head, emotion and my heart win each battle. I know full well that logic and reality will inevitably win the war. But that doesn't mean I intend to stop fighting until that moment comes.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

The Illusionist

I'm always intrigued by a really good magician. How can they possibly do what they appear to do? I recently saw Chris Angel, I think it was, drop a playing card into a fish tank, then reach in to retrieve it...from the side of the tank, through the glass! I know there had to be some trick to it; that it went against all the laws of physics. But he did it. He somehow convinced those watching that it was real.

I take pride in being something of an illusionist myself, though most of the tricks I perform are done for an audience of one: me. But on that level I am, if I may say so, on a par with the very best of them. I can firmly and utterly convince myself that what I want to believe is real. And just as David Copperfield can walk through the Great Wall of China and others make elephants and tigers disappear at will, I can make what I want to disappear...well, disappear.

I do not like the fact that I am growing old. Therefore, I am not growing old, no matter what all the mirrors and store windows and other reflective surfaces may tell me. And while I should be ashamed of myself for saying so, I simply do not relate to anyone my own age....or 20 years younger. (My friends who are "of a certain age" are, of course, the exception. But I am much younger than they despite what our birth certificates might say.)

There are certain downsides to being an illusionist with an audience of one. For one thing, I find myself as uncomfortable among those euphemistically called "seniors" as I am among most heterosexuals. (It doesn't take much figuring to see that I'm fairly well outnumbered on all counts.) I live in a subsidized senior citizens complex (only, I tell myself, because I could not afford a regular apartment elsewhere), but I have absolutely nothing...nothing!...in common with the others who live here. Some of them are very nice people, rather like my grandparents' friends. But when I look at them, they are all old, and I simply will not allow myself to consider that when they look at me, they see someone no different from themselves.

Please understand, for all my apparent obsession on aging, I'm not really unhappy. Do I wish I were much younger? Of course. Do I wish many things about me and my life were different? Again, of course I do. But they are not, and the gnashing of teeth and rending of garments does little but leave you naked and in need of a dentist. I do enjoy life. Just not the way I would really like to. So I fill the gap between what I wish was and what is with harmless self-delusions, rather like filling in the chinks in an old log cabin with newspapers and old rags to keep out the chill.

So I walk down the street and I see so very many beautiful young men, some singly, some in groups, some in obviously-in-love pairs, and they are laughing and full of the joy of, well, being young. And I, in my mind and heart and soul, am truly one of them. But I cannot, dare not, extend this illusion to the point where I think they might possibly accept me as one of them. I do ache for their youth and beauty, but I am not like the pathetic character in Thomas Mann's "Death in Venice," who tries to make himself into something he was not. I do know my limitations. I am pummeled by them, but not shattered or destroyed.

What, then, is the point of all this self delusion? Do I really think I am not growing older by the day? Of course not. Do I really think I can triumph over reality? Of course not. Then if not, why in the world do I do it?

I do it first and foremost because there is no real harm in it, for myself or for others. I consider my gentle delusions as something like a thick quilt on a cold winter's night, comforting and warm. We each have the right to take our comfort where and how we can find it. I would far rather have my illusions to keep me warm than to shiver in the increasingly cold wind of reality coming through the chinks in the wall.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Tall Ships

frequently feel nostalgia for my Navy days...a gentle longing I certainly did not share while I was actually in the service. So when my friend Gary had the chance to get discount tickets for an hour-long cruise aboard a 4-masted schooner venturing out far-too-short a distance from Chicago's Navy Pier, I jumped at it. (I should issue the disclaimer here that the days of sailing ships had largely passed when I was in the Navy. It was long ago, but not that long!)

Navy Pier is Chicago's largest tourist attraction, and probably a dozen tour boats of varying sizes...some quite large...ply their trade from the pier. The Windy, to my knowledge, is the only sailing ship in that fleet.

We spent more time waiting to board than the tour itself lasted, and before we were allowed aboard we had to receive some rather basic safety instructions unique to sailing vessels (i.e. be careful not to be hit by a swinging boom).

It is the nature of commercial ventures of this sort to get the crowd in the mood, and the cautionary information was delivered by a very nice woman in a pirate's costume (about half the crew was similarly attired...the other half wore company-logo'd polo shirts). There was lots of "Everybody say 'Yes, captain!' or 'Aye-aye, sir!'" jollity which was responded to with the anticipated enthusiasm by most of the crowd. And as usual, I just stood there.

When time came to board, another young woman waited to take photos of everyone boarding. These photos would be printed during the tour and be available for a mere $20.00 when the ship returned to the pier. I declined to have my picture taken at all, therefore I am sure earning a mental "curmudgeonly old fart" badge in the mind of the photographer and crew. But the fact is, as you should know by now, I loathe having my picture taken under any circumstances. I probably would have refused if I were still 20 years old. Just me.

So we boarded and climbed the ladder to the aft deck (ooooohh! Navy talk!) where we took a park-bench seat which backed against the rail. The ship shortly got underway, using it's engines to get us away from the dock and past the breakwater, where the crew and passenger volunteers--really, I'm sure, unneeded--hoisted the sails and the engines were turned off.

I tried getting up and standing by the rail overlooking the forward end of the ship but was asked by the captain, who stood about 8 feet behind me and to my left to please return to my seat.

The Chicago skyline, seen from the lake, is absolutely magnificent. However, my inability to turn my head more than 15 degrees in either direction meant that in order to look to either side, I had to turn my whole body one way or the other...not an easy chore while seated on a narrow-slatted park bench.

The same nice lady who had given the precautions speech stood with most of the passengers on the main deck, giving a running commentary about the various sights along the lakefront and the history of the lakefront itself (a fascinating story to be told in a blog someday). Many of the passengers were, of course, tourists unfamiliar with the city, and I'm sure they were impressed. I've heard the stories before, and I'm still impressed each time.

Still, it was another hot and muggy Chicago summer day (there've been a lot of those this year), and being out on the water, with the gentle rise and fall of the ship and the cool breeze was well worth the cost of the trip.

I just wish I could enthusiastically "Aye-Aye, Captain" and eagerly smile for the camera like everybody else.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Comparing Minorities

Being in a minority ain’t easy. Nearly every religion, nationality, and race has been persecuted at one time or another, depending on where and when they lived. But the three minorities who have consistently had the worst time of it throughout history are almost surely blacks, Jews, and homosexuals. A "My People Have Suffered Most" contest, would be pointless. Persecution is persecution, bigotry is bigotry. In overall western culture, the Jews of course have the definite edge: they’ve been systematically harassed, persecuted, and hounded for more than two thousand years, culminating in the incomprehensible horrors of the years between 1933 and 1945.

The general scale of suffering of blacks is relatively recent, mostly starting when the first slave boats started plying their trade between Africa and the New World. Their persecution, even in the deep south of the U.S., did not include the types of mass pogroms Jews have suffered over the years. And, interestingly, blacks as a minority were spared the atrocities of WWII. That did not make the plight of the individual black man, woman, or child any less egregious.

Which brings us to homosexuals. Persecution of homosexuals pretty much goes back at least as far as persecution of the Jews, though it was always on an "individual" basis. Gays were regularly put to death for being gay, but seldom if ever in large numbers at any given time with the exception of World War II, in which more than 100,000 homosexuals died alongside the six million Jews in the concentration camps.

Gays, however, have always had one very distinct "advantage" over strict Orthodox Jews and 99.5 percent of all blacks: You can’t readily pick a homosexual out of a still photograph. The ability to be able to hide, to pretend to be something they were not, has always spared individual gays and lesbians, but at a terrible price in their dignity and self image.

And, in turn, both Jews and blacks have one huge advantage over gays and lesbians: every Jewish child, every black child, is born and raised by those exactly like him or her. They have a priceless built-in network of comfort and protection not afforded gays who, from the instant they realize that they are not like Mom and Dad and Cousin Bill and Great Grandpa Oaks, realize they are alone in their families.

A Jewish child called a "Kike", or a black child called a "nigger" or any child of any racial, religious or ethnic minority suffering the epithets hurled against their minority, can run home to the arms of Mommy and Daddy, who will comfort them and assure them that they are loved.

A gay child taunted by calls of "Faggot" or "Queer" has no such option. He or she has no one and nowhere to turn for comfort, for reassurance, for understanding.

I will never forget a popular TV show of the 60s..."The White Shadow," I think it was called, about a high school basketball team. At one point, daring bravely to go where no TV show had gone before, they did a story in which a new kid joined the team, and everyone began to whisper that the kid might possibly be...you know... "one of those."

The coach, stalwart role model for American youth that he was, called the team together to crush the rumors. He began his speech with these truly dumbfounding words: "I’ve never met a homosexual, but…". I switched channels, and never watched the show again.

Things are slowly getting better for all minorities, largely through the incredibly simple fact of exposure of one group to the other. I grew up in an insular world: Aunt Jemima and Stepp’n Fetchit, and the Gold Dust Twins, of pickanninies and nigger-baby licorice candy. I wasn’t racist...I simply never thought of those things as being insulting and degrading because the way things were was simply the way things were. Blacks never mixed socially with whites; Jews kept a very, very low profile and seldom if ever mentioned their religion to non-Jews. Gays simply hid, gathered whenever and wherever they could , and prayed that no one would ever discover their "shameful" secret.

Stupidity, hatred, intolerance, and bigotry are still very much alive and well, and show not the slightest indication that they will be disappearing any time soon. But at least now people recognize them when they see them. And that’s progress.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Running

While putting together my forthcoming book of my past blogs, I came across several written originally as part of a journal kept following the death of my mother in September of 1970. (1970?? Was there ever such a year as 1970?) It was, as I'm sure you can appreciate, one of the worst times of my life. It was as if I had mentally stepped on a land mine. I quit my job, bought a 21-foot Winnebago motor home, and took off in a futile attempt to run away from reality.

I've done major-league running away twice in my life, the first shortly after I turned 30 and ran from Chicago to Los Angeles like a citizen of Pompeii fleeing the eruption--the ash fall in this case being shattered pieces of my psyche. You would think after that experience, I'd have learned my lesson and not repeated it after my mom's death. But there is no rationalizing with a devastated mind and heart.

I did not handle turning 30 well. I'd been in a relationship for several years by that time, but while I am a firm believer in monogamy, it didn't work out that way. Norm, my partner, traveled a great deal, sometimes gone two weeks out of a month...occasionally three. And, learning the hard way that he was not monogamous while away, I began to stray myself. It reached the point where I couldn't handle the duplicity, or live up to my own moral standards. I broke up with Norm, which hurt him deeply, and added mountains of guilt to my other problems. Finally, I determined that the only way out of the labyrinth was to pick up the pieces of me and get as far away from the situation as I could.

Of course I soon learned, after having done so, the very simple fact that no matter where you go, there you are. And if the problems are within yourself, there's no way to get away from them.

So I spent several years with rolls of Scotch tape and Elmer's Glue putting the pieces of me back together, stumbling through various relationships, always hoping that the next one would be Mr. Right. He never was.

And then Mom died, and I was off again. I was also in a disastrous relationship at the same time as she was dying, but I simply did not have the time to deal with it then. So maybe my buying the Winnebago and taking off was partly to distance myself from the relationship as well. And, of course, it didn't work.

Thinking on the subject now I suppose there was a third running away, though of a different sort. With the Grim Reaper striding through the gay community in Los Angeles, cutting down friends and acquaintances with a terrifying relentlessness I began to realize that I could well be next. I was still in a several-year on-again, off-again relationship with Ray--thanks to his alcoholism--, but in the off-again periods I'd be out there in the bars. It occurred to me that to run from Los Angeles might be a good idea. If I could take Ray somewhere far, far away from the bar scene, perhaps he could stop drinking. And since I would have no need to look for...well, you know...elsewhere, we might actually find the kind of life I wanted so badly for the both of us.

I think you know me well enough by now to see this as yet another classic example of my refusal to acknowledge the existence of reality. But I sold my home in L.A., moved to Pence, Wisconsin--which could have a mileage marker just outside of town saying "Pence, 2 miles. End of the Earth, 1 mile"--and the rest you can fairly well guess. I brought Ray with me to Pence and we came, when he was sober, as close to the idyllic life I had hoped for. But he could never stay sober for more than three months, and got in trouble with the law. A judge gave him the choice of returning to L.A. or going to jail. He reluctantly chose to return to L.A. where, within two years, he was dead of AIDS.

Life is not fair. Where we get the idea that it should be is a mystery. Life is, and we deal with it the best we can. One thing we cannot do is run from it.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net

Housewives of the Jersey Shore

Ah, I've done it again. I began this blog by heading off in one direction and then wandering off in another. There is a connection, but it might be a little hard to tell at first. See if you can connect the dots.

Let's start at the beginning:

My cat, Spirit, seems to enjoy staring at walls. He does it a lot, and with such concentration I would give anything to know what he sees or thinks he sees there, or what his motivations might be. Usually this is done relatively calmly, as though pondering some weighty philosophical issue. But frequently he will race madly around the apartment and dash to a corner where, screeching to a halt with his face no
more than three inches from where the two walls meet, he will stare up at God-knows what and "me-owl" at the top of his considerably powerful lungs, then suddenly break off the stare, spin around and dash off into another room at full tilt.

To say one doesn't understand cats is rather redundant. But I fear the same can be said of an awful lot of people as well. I never cease to be amazed at how many of them, too, seem to spend so much time staring...figuratively if not literally...at walls and often making a great do-do about nothing. Well, let's modify that to "nothing that I can even remotely understand."

I freely admit that I probably watch too much TV. My pattern/routine/rut is such that after spending most of the day writing, I stop at 5:30 for the evening news and then spend between 6:00 and 10:00 wandering across the vast TV landscape trying to find something to catch and hold my interest. I guess in that regard, I might have something in common with Sprit and walls. But I at least try to defend myself by saying I prefer programs which involve at least a smidgen of involvement on my part. And I'll also admit that the "smidgen" occasionally dominates...I'm not above, if the programming landscape is particularly barren, watching an episode of "Cops" and I rather like "Hell's Kitchen" and "Top Chef" on the grounds that they are interestingly informative even though I neither cook nor eat much.

But I convince myself that those programs are profound when compared to the likes of the wildly if inexplicably popular "Jersey Shore" and "Housewives of Name-a-City". While I have never watched a single episode of either program and would have to be forced at gun point to do so, their ubiquitous trailers are inescapable. Both programs seem to delight in glorifying stupifyingly unwarranted vanity, infuriating arrogance and the glories of utter idiocy. And while I have to admit that "Jersey Shore" does provide some attractive eye candy--Warning: digression follows!--beauty only goes so far.

(Digression: the men--or, if you're so inclined, the women--on "Jersey Shore" remind me of an exchange overheard many years ago in an L.A. bar: "Take a look at that guy! He's incredible!" "Yeah, but I'll bet he doesn't have a brain in his head." "That's okay. I didn't come here to f**k brains!")

But while with "Jersey Shore" one can turn the sound down and just concentrate on the eye candy, from what I've been able to tell, the only conceivable attraction of "The Housewives of Name-a-City" is to see what obscene amounts of money can do to people who otherwise have absolutely no reason to exist. As I said, I've only seen the trailers for the show, but as I race to change the channel, my overwhelming desire is to slap those obnoxious, disgusting poseurs silly and hand them a one-way ticket to Darfur.

And to yank us all back to the point where this blog began, let me tie a neat bow with the observation that whatever Spirit sees by staring at the walls has to be better than "The Housewives of Jersey Shore."

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Role Models

My parents belonged to the Moose Club, and when, on a Saturday night, they were unable to find a baby sitter for me, they would take me along. I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about these forays, since there was very little for kids to do. I’d spend most of my time in the large reception room, doing what, I cannot remember. There were never very many other kids there, if any at all.

The large main room, where the adults gathered, had a bar and a dance floor with a constantly-playing juke box, and it always seemed to be crowded. I’d wander in only occasionally to ask my folks to get me a Coke or just out of sheer boredom.

Now, I was probably nine or ten at the time and already was well aware that I was fascinated by young men and desperately wanted to be like them. And one night there were two young men at the club. They may have been college boys or, since WWII was raging at the time, perhaps in the military: I can’t recall. What I can recall is that suddenly the dance floor had cleared and there, in the middle, were the two young men…dancing together! Not slow dancing, of course…jitterbugging. Everyone stood around clapping and laughing. I'm sure it was, to them, the equivalent of a truck driver dressing up as a woman at Halloween: really, really funny, you know? If anyone had thought for a nanosecond that the young men were dancing together because they really wanted to dance together, they would without question been ejected from the club and risked being seriously beaten.

But to me…!…I had never seen anything more wonderful in my entire life. Two men! Dancing together!

Children have and need role models. Most little boys want, at one time or another, to grow up to be a fireman, or a policeman, or a soldier or sailor….uniforms somehow seem to fascinate boys, probably because they represent authority, something every child subconsciously wants to have.

But when it comes to specific individuals children can look up to and aspire to be—a sports star or actor or singer or someone in public life, until recently gay children have been completely denied role models—someone they knew was like them. To be identified as openly gay was the kiss of death for any public figure.

When I was a child, the only time homosexuals were even mentioned was derogatorily, in a context of utter scorn or contempt. The only time they were portrayed on screen—and even then never specifically identified as being homosexual, but, then, they didn’t have to be—were as effeminate, prissy queens whose only purpose was for comic effect. (Sort of the equivalent of the few black actors allowed on screen…Stepp’n Fetchit-type visual jokes.)

As late as the 1950s homosexuality was classified as a mental illness. Yet it seems to have occurred to no one that telling a gay child that to be gay was to be beneath contempt may very well have created exactly the mental problems they were accused of having.

The slow but steady emergence of actors, singers, politicians, and even a very few sports stars (interestingly almost all lesbian) from the closet speaks well for the progress we have made. And yet that the same people who now accept us once scorned us leaves a bitter aftertaste.

But we’ll get over it.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

A Chat with My Muse

You rang?

Yes! I just realized it's Saturday! Where the devil did the week go? I've got to do a blog for Monday already.

Relax. No hurry. You've got all day tomorrow.

Oh, yeah. We know how that goes. I get up at 6 a.m., have a cup of coffee, pet the cat, and the next thing I know the late-night local news is on. And I still haven't done a blog for Monday.

So, write one.

That's why I called. You're my muse. What should I write about?

Whatever you've been writing blogs about for the last four years.

Yeah, well that's sort of the problem. Obviously you haven't noticed that I'm sitting here up to my neck in almost 500 already-written blogs trying sort them out and arrange them for my book on blogs. I'm getting mind-freeze. I need a new one for Monday, but I can't figure out a subject to write one on.

You mean you "can't figure out on what subject to write."

Oh, great! You who couldn't pick a transitive verb out of a pile of predicate nominatives are giving me English lessons?

Could YOU pick a transitive verb out of a pile of predicate nominatives?

No, but that's not the point. Read my lips: I need to write a blog for Monday.

Childhood memories?

Done that. Lots.

How about jobs you've held?

Ditto.

Pets? Family? Friends? Past loves? What you had for breakfast?

Been there. Done that.

How about a nice, projectile-vomiting rant against something that ticks you off? You never seem to run out of ideas for those.

True, but I do way too many of those as it is.

Kittens? Puppies? Bunny rabbits?

Uh, not today. I'm in a hurry.

Okay, how about this conversation?

Nah. The reader'd never buy it. I'll just have to keep on thinking.

Okay. While you're doing that, I'll go have a beer.

Gee, yeah, you do that. Sorry to have bothered you!

Hey, no problem. I do what I can.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Spam Addicts Unite!

I'm forming a group--Spam Addicts Anonymous--for those like me who are powerless to resist going through their spam folders quickly scanning just the first few words of each message, looking for that rush of utter incomprehension or outrage. I've tried to resist. Really, I have, but I can't do it. If you have the same tragic problem, perhaps we could hire a meeting room somewhere. I'll bring the bread and mayonnaise.

But anyway, here we are again. If you're really sick of reading these things, as I should be, it's okay to skip them. I'll be posting another blog Monday and I promise I won't even use the word "Sp.." Each entry below is exactly as received. (Oh, Lord, I do need help!)

Claudia Medrano "hi - hi, how are you" (Why, I'm just fine, Claudia! Thanks for asking. Just sitting here practicing my capital letters and punctuation. You should try them sometime. Oh, and who the hell are you, anyway? ...Never mind, I don't want to know.)

"Don't miss your piece of the $20 billion oil spill compensation." (Wow, that's great! I live in an apartment building in Chicago, so please sign me up for my piece immediately. And congratulations on bringing the fine art of ambulance chasing to a new, all-time low.)

Aliza Kimber - "Tired of wasting uncountable $ to grow yourPenis but result not what you expect? our ma....." (Oh, yes, Aliza! Yes! I've spent uncountable $ to grow myPenis. It's so good to know that if I spend even more on your wonderful product, my dreams will at last be realized!)

"Get On Down To Bone Town - Want to party with hot chicks and get laid in a video game? Play BoneTown, the video game..." (What a great-sounding game! Fun for the whole family! And there's nothing I want more than to party with hot chicks and get laid in a video game, other than, perhaps, removing my fingernails with a pair of pliers.)

"Does my story sound to familar?" (Well, I have no intention of reading it, but I'd say "Definitely" would be a good guess.)

"FW: finish - starting_[[=%{%$.,your]{%~@$%own@,$;.{;$_=business~..$%..." (Well, jeez, if it's going to be that complicated, I think I'll just pass.)

Zuzarte, Zena "24-07-2010 Hello, my name is Peter Chen Wong from Hong Kong and I have a business that I want to..." (No, your name is not Peter Chen Wong. You just said your name is Zena Zuzarte. I often wonder how incredibly stupid can one person be, and appreciate your supplying the answer.)

Marvalous Kipkalya "HI, DEAREST I CRIED FOR YOU" (Thanks, "Marvalous", but after seeing this piece of crap in my Spam folder, I cried for myself.)

"russian woman date -108188AAD711 Do you want me again? "I love you madly I want! http://www.bloody-bastards..." (I think the "bloody-bastards fairly well says it all.)

"3 reasons - NOT MADE IN CHINA! Renown Duplicates does not manufacture or sell any replications from China...." (No, I understand you have a state of the art manufacturing facility in the back of a one-car garage somewhere outside of Tiajuana.)

"View Your Credit Score Now - This message contains information about: View Your Credit Score Now." (I hate to admit it, but this one is brilliant. Note...it doesn't say you can actually see your credit score: it says you can go to a site called "View Your Credit Score Now," where you will undoubtedly learn how, for a mere $675...)

"!!! Cheap Vigara, Cilias, Levtira..." (Hey, you gotta give 'em credit for truth in advertising. They didn't say they were selling Viagra, Cialis, or Levitra, and they start off with the operative word, "Cheap", and I don't think they mean "inexpensive.")

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

The Trouble with Procrastination

I've always been a firm believer in never putting off until tomorrow what one can put off until the day after. Unfortunately, like so much of my life, it doesn't work. So that's why, with a new blog due for tomorrow (with luck, the one you're reading now) I am sitting in Norm's rapidly-being-emptied-out condo, watching his thirty-nine years of possessions and memories and treasures being carted off to be put up for sale in a thrift shop--albeit a very worthy thrift shop. I knew full well I was going to be spending the better part of my day here, and should have gotten a nice, crisp new blog done yesterday. But yesterday I was very, very busy doing...uh...let's see...oh, yes...other things...instead.

There are still enough things left at the moment of my writing to be able to still see Norm here...his favorite chair, his dining room set, a Japanese wall screen I was unable to take off the wall because I couldn't lift my head high enough to see what I was doing. (And I'll bet you thought you were going to get through one blog without hearing me bewail my cruel fate, didn't you? Wrong.)

Anyway, when I talked to the people at the Brown Elephant, a subsidiary of Howard Brown Hospital, I told them they would need at least a 24 foot trailer to get it all. They showed up with a 14 foot trailer, which is the biggest they have. Oh, well, not my problem.

I've been rather surprised, considering that I'm--or rather, Norm is, by proxy--giving them more than $10,000 dollars in furniture, artwork, etc., that there are things they will not take: mattresses and pillows, which I sort of expected, but any...that's any...medical supplies, including walkers and never-once-used shower and bathtub chairs with the price tags still affixed? Or two perfectly good dehumidifiers ("microbes, you know")? Or any actual medications though they are in unopened boxes exactly as received from the pharmacies that were supplying him? And people are dying in third world countries because they do not have these things available to them.

I was truly surprised to learn they would not accept filing cabinets...the one in Norm's bedroom is practically brand new...on the basis that "filing cabinets don't sell." Excuse me? That rather ticked me off. If I'm giving you thousands of dollars worth of things, you'd think you could make an exception.

They also would not take a perfectly good, large 7-drawer dresser because the finish on the top was marred by Norm's having kept plants and sometimes spilled water on it. It isn't warped...just bleached in spots. Has no one heard of the word "Refinish?" Anybody willing to do it could do it easily. But no.

I now, when they have gone, will need to find someone else to come in and haul away what they refused to take.

I'd always heard that beggars can't be choosers, but since these people aren't exactly beggars (just beneficiaries of someone else's kindness) I guess they're exempt from the rule.

But shortly, within another couple of hours, if that, the condo will be all but empty and all traces of Norm's existence here will be gone. Then comes the selling of the condo, and the final financial accounting of all the money that's come in since Norm's death is balanced against the outstanding bills. (He was in and out of a nursing home several times during his last year, and when he would be taken from the nursing home to the hospital, his bills there would continue. When he left the last time, in early January, the nursing home billed him for "holding a room" for him, though they removed all his belongings and put them in plastic bags in a storage room. Yet they billed him just under $5,000 for "holding a room." The lawyer for the estate is having a little talk with them on that one.

But it will all be over at some point, and I will have written the blog you are reading now and many more. Though I would hope I might be able to write one or two of them in advance of when I have to have them. (I'm not holding my breath.)

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

You're probably much too young to remember one of the top songs from 1944, Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer's "Accentuate the Positive," but my mind's radio was playing it when I woke up this morning. (You've got to Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate-the Positive, E-lim-I-nate the negative; Latch on to the affirmative--don't mess with Mr. In-Between.)

Like dreams, which are the mind's way of dealing with things that went on the previous day, I suspect my mental radio chose this particular song in response to a comment a friend made at coffee yesterday. He said that a mutual friend had largely stopped reading my blogs because they tended to be pretty much negative, and I had to admit he had a point.

Why do I bitch and moan and complain and grumble so much here? I mean, I honestly consider myself to be a pretty positive guy. I like puppies and kittens and small children. (Aha! And the moment I wrote that sentence, I heard my mind add "until the bigots and hate mongers get to them." Maybe I am a little too negative.)

I know it's probably difficult for other people to understand--and obviously difficult for me to convey--how I can let negativity carry me away as often as it does. I wish it were easier for me to explain why: that it is simply because I believe so strongly in good and positive things that those things which are not good and positive...those things that are not as I so want them to be...bother me far more than they should. I simply cannot comprehend how easy it seems to be for so many people to totally ignore common courtesy, or respect for the rights and beliefs of others; how they can blithely deny others all the things which they expect or demand for themselves. And that frustrates and angers me.

It is one of the wonders of our species that we are able to conceive, mentally, what we are incapable of executing physically. I'm not talking just about physical science here--we can conceive the idea of levitation without being able to achieve it, for example--but also about ideals. I have just talked about respecting the rights of others to believe what they choose to believe, and I firmly believe it. But that doesn't mean I don't hold people like Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck, and the legions of other garbage-spewers and hate mongers in utter and total contempt. Yeah, they've got a right to be unmitigated assholes, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. And I don't.

There is a great difference between saying, "Here's what I believe and why I believe it, and I hope you might consider it, too," and "Here's what I believe, and you'd damned well better believe it, too, or I'll do my best to make your life a living hell." One of the reasons I most vehemently object to people like Ms. Palin, Limbaugh and Beck is their total refusal to even consider the possibility of compromise, to acknowledge that views other than their own might conceivably have some merit.

I truly, deeply, and sincerely believe that if everyone saw things the way I see them, the world would be a much better place. But it amazes me...who chooses to largely ignore those aspects of reality I do not like...to realize that Palin/Limbaugh/Beck & Company are even more dismissive of reality than I. I'd love for you to think the way I do, and for you to seriously consider my suggestions, but I do not demand it as P/L/B & Co. do, and I do not assume the right to tell you what to do or believe. They do.

So I find myself painted into yet another corner between what I want to be and what is. While I so desperately would like to always "Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate-the Positive," and "E-lim-I-nate the negative;" and while I truly do try to "Latch on to the affirmative," I'm afraid the reality is that we're pretty much stuck with Mr. In-Between.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

"One Ringy-Dingy,...."

I've never been much of a phone talker since my teenage years--I don't do all that much talking off the phone, either, but that's another story. So when I moved back to Chicago, I decided not to have a land-line phone at all, and instead bought a cell phone for which I could simply buy blocks of minutes rather than signing up with some service and incurring a monthly fee. It's worked out very well. Until my friend Norm died and I began using my phone more to deal with things related to settling his estate, I would buy a block of 500 minutes for $50 and it would last me up to four months.

Lately, with all the estate-related calls, I've gone to buying in blocks of 1,000 minutes for $100. When my minutes are running low, I will get a recorded message advising me that: "Your minutes are about to expire. Please renew now for continued service." It then advises me that I can purchase more minutes with my credit card by simply punching in *233 on the phone.

So when I heard the message last week, I punched *233 and went through the usual "For so-and-so, press such-and-such. Enter your 437-digit phone number, birth date, mother's maiden name, name of your first pet, etc." routine, and just as I entered the last digit, the call was cut off. Assuming my order had not gone through, I went through the entire routine again.

An hour or so later, I made a call and, as I waited for the phone to ring on the other end, got the "Your minutes are about to expire. Please renew now for continued service." That hadn't happened before, but I figured there was just some delay in the processing.

When I got the message yet again after another call that evening, I went on-line to see if my debit card reflected the transaction. The total charge, with tax, is $109.75 and sure enough, there it was, right at the top. And directly under that was another identical charge for $109.75, which meant I had purchased not 1,000 minutes but 2,000 minutes of phone time. That's 33.3333333 hours! That would last me at least until June of 2046.

So I decided I'd better try to get hold of someone at T-Mobile, from whom I buy my minutes, and will not bore you with the obstacle course involved in getting through to a corporation that doesn't want to be bothered dealing with real people. You may have experienced a similar situation at some point in your life.

At any rate, using my friend Gary's cell phone, I finally got through to a pleasant young lady who introduced herself as "Sally." (I didn't know "Sally" was a common name for women in Pakistan, which her accent indicated.) At any rate, as I was trying to explain my problem--that I wanted first of all to start using the phone minutes I'd paid for and that I wanted to remove one of the $109.75 charges--she informed me several times that she could not understand me. I apologized and said I had a slight speech impediment. She couldn't understand that, either.

But finally, she checked my records and informed me that my last purchase had been four months ago. When I asked why, then, my bank showed not one but two transactions two days before, she transferred me to another department which, after going through the entire story once again, transferred me to another department. A nice young man who introduced himself as "Ted," and who I suspect may possibly have been an American, said he would look into it and call me back at the number he had on his records. .... Uh, excuse me? I pointed out that since my phone was not working, I doubted that he could call me back on it. "Oh."

Finally, in order to get my phone working again until all this was straightened out, I gave him my credit card information so he could bill me $109.75, and reinstate my phone service immediately. As to the two previous $109.75 already on my bank statement...well, what's money? I haven't heard back from Ted yet, but I'm blocking out three hours of time to be spent trying to iron it out with my bank.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Perspectives Redux

I've been so busy putting my forthcoming book of blogs together, I realized last night I hadn't had time to write one for today. So while I really don't like to cannibalize previous blogs here, I did come across one that rang a few bells I think could bear re-ringing. So, with your kind permission....

My friend Gary and I recently went down to Navy Pier to see the annual Flower Show. It’s a big event and attracts busloads of tourists. Navy Pier is, I understand, Chicago’s premier tourist attraction, jutting a half mile out into Lake Michigan. The south side of the pier is lined with cruise boats of varying sizes and impressiveness for excursions along Chicago’s spectacular shoreline and past the amazing architecture lining the Chicago River. On the north side of the pier, tour busses disgorge their passengers.

One or more of the tour busses brought a large number of severely handicapped children and teenagers. Gary and I were having lunch at one of the open-to-the-concourse restaurants, and I was just in the middle of bitching for the ten thousandth time about how incredibly brave I am to put up with the terrible burdens of not being able to open my mouth wide enough to eat a hamburger, or tilt my head back far enough to drain a can of soda, or having to wait for the waiter to bring my coffee before I could begin to eat, since I can’t swallow anything solid without being able to flush it down with liquid, and watching other people do with ease what I can no longer do, and…when a group of the handicapped kids came by, many in wheelchairs, with their surely-candidates-for-sainthood counselors and attendants.

And I was immediately once again thoroughly ashamed of myself for my unmitigated gall in assuming that the sun and moon revolve around me, and for focusing almost entirely on my own petty problems. We all know that old saw: “I had no shoes and I complained until I saw a man who had no feet,” yet like so many absolute truisms, I—like most people spared true physical and mental challenges do—tend to totally ignore it until something like seeing someone with real problems hits us in the gut. I try not to pity these people: pity is, I feel, a form of condescension, and I have no right to condescend to anyone. For some of them to get through a single day takes far more courage than I will ever possess. But I am truly sad for them.

When I lived in northern Wisconsin, I would frequently see a man with his young daughter, who was probably just entering her early teens. I don’t know what condition afflicted her, but while she could walk, she was severely physically and mentally limited. Yet her father was infinitely patient, and loving, and always had a smile. My heart ached for him, and her.

And I’ve often told the story of the middle-aged man who delivered newspapers to my mother’s work. He was, as the condescending euphemism puts it, “slow.” Yet he functioned, and held down a job, and would never, ever accept money from anyone, other than the price of the newspaper…and even then, he would not take the money unless the person offering took the paper. He was, Mom found out, the sole support of both himself and his own mother. One day, one of Mom’s co-workers was having a birthday, and had brought a cake. Everyone was in the coffee room when the paper man arrived, and they insisted he come join them for cake and coffee. He was truly delighted, and at one point he said, happily: “This is just like a party!” And I still can’t think of that without wanting to cry.

Life is a party. And most of us have far more presents than we ever acknowledge. We ignore that fact at the risk of losing our humanity.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

"Ain't Nobody Here but Us Chickens!"

I always liked the joke about the fox sneaking into the henhouse with dinner in mind. The farmer, hearing squawking, runs toward the henhouse with his rifle. Panicked, the fox yells: "Ain't nobody here but us chickens!"

The popular tv show, NCIS, is now in its seventh season, and I'm pretty sure, what with reruns and all, I have seen every single episode. And I was thinking this morning of the fascinating fact that only one...count 'em, ONE...episode in all those seven years has even admitted the existence of homosexuals--though fully ten percent of the population is in fact gay or lesbian. In fact, I don't think that other than that single episode, I have even heard the word "homosexual" or "gay" uttered on the program. (Hundreds of thousands of words of dialog in seven years, and not one of them being "homosexual" or "gay"? It seems I am not the only one who refuses to accept reality.)

In the single show where...um...(squirm)...that subject came up involved an out-of-uniform sailor being seen coming out of a....a gay bar! That was surely the first incident in the annals of the U.S. Navy that something like that had ever happened. The sailor therefore, it was implied, had to be guilty of the unspeakable crime against nature of being gay. Of course it turned out that he wasn't gay at all, you silly! He had gone into the bar to rescue his brother, who was gay. Whew! I was really worried there for a moment! I was, however, rather shocked that he wasn't booted out of the service anyway. Hey, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, if you get my drift.

I can't really can't blame the producers of the program for tiptoeing up to an issue then immediately scurrying back for cover. I suppose I should give them credit for even have gotten within cannon shot of such a "sensitive" issue. Had they approached the subject objectively, the U.S. Military, the only branch of the United States government allowed to freely practice blatant discrimination against its own citizens, and upon whose good graces NCIS depends for cooperation and tacit support, would without question withdraw all cooperation from the show. What is truly, truly pathetic is the fact that they did not have the courage to face a serious issue which to this day destroys the lives of so many decent, loyal American men and women who want to serve their country without having to hide who they are--and that our government is still complicit, in its silence, in perpetrating this fundamental injustice.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell will be overturned, and within six months of its demise, the sky not having fallen, and the moral fiber of our military not having crumbled, no one will give the fact of gays and lesbians serving openly a second thought--except those who suffered because of it. And I can with equal certainty assure you that vast numbers of those who most strongly now oppose its repeal will, if asked, swear that they had been against the policy all along. Right.

But that homophobia, covert or overt, is still rampant in our truly bizarre, Puritan-based society is clearly evident (for those who bother to give it a single thought--and few do: why should they? They're heterosexual; they don't need to) in all aspects of television...probably the single strongest influence on our culture. Have you ever noticed the fact that all adult males not clearly in a situation in which they are dating--women, of course--must wear wedding rings? Advertising agencies provide them for any actor not already sporting one. Any commercial featuring an adult male not wearing a wedding ring must, at some point, include a shot with one or more adoring females. You doubt me? Look!

The first program of any non "reality" television program will go to great lengths to establish that each of the lead characters is heterosexual. This seems far more important for the male characters than the female, but then women don't really matter all that much anyway. I will guarantee you there will be a mention of a girlfriend or a former wife within the first ten minutes, whether it has anything whatsoever to do with the plot or not. Sexual orientation--read "heterosexuality"--cannot simply be ignored as a factor. To avoid the slightest question in the mind of some southern Baptist preacher whose wife might buy the sponsor's product that a character might...might...be "one of those people" and therefore not worthy of their advertising dollar, it has to be established immediately that their concerns are baseless. ("Faggots? Queers? Fairies? Perverts? Degenerates? Not on our show!")

Ain't nobody here but us chickens!

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

On Meeting Myself

I know, I know...it’s always “me”, isn’t it? … Well, yes, I guess it is, but you are very kind in indulging me.

At dinner the other night with friends, while trying with great effort and limited success to force my head up high enough to make eye contact with the incredibly attractive waiter taking my order, I suddenly flashed on what might happen were I to be able to sit down with myself at the age of 21, and I pondered the scenario with no little bemusement and considerably mixed feelings.

There’s little doubt that the meeting would be traumatic for both of us: the then-me would be horrified and saddened, the now-me overcome with longing to be the then-me again and also, I suspect, somewhat angry and frustrated for the then-me being so unaware of his incredible good fortune. Physically, I’m not sure he’d even recognize me, just as I do not recognize me when I accidentally spot myself in a reflective surface.

What, the then-me would wonder with an understandable sadness and sense of horror, could have happened to turn his smooth-skinned youth into the Portrait of Dorian Gray? Of course, he wouldn't have a clue about the cancer and radiation and chemotherapy that were still many years in his future, and had given very little thought to the simple fact that there is no way to avoid the inevitable natural physical consequences of the accumulation of years. I doubt that any of us would be fully prepared to encounter our even-10-years-in-the-future selves.

What might we possibly say to one another? The now-me would be much more understanding and considerably less altruistic than the then-me, of course, having at least partially learned a great many life-lessons in the interim between us. I’m not quite sure whether the then-me would be happy with everything I’ve done, or disappointed that I hadn’t done more--quite probably, being only 21, the latter. I'm sure he would find me a little to hardened, a little too bitter, and not very much fun.

I know he would want to know everything, and the dilemma, as in all issues dealing with time travel, would be that I couldn't really tell him, since it is impossible to know the future without changing it, and despite the automatic assumption that the changes would be positive, the fact is that they could just as easily not be. Now-me would realize that while I know then-me will live to be as old as I am (following me on this?), there is no guarantee that this would be true were I to change his future.

Warn him against the many specific dangers and traumas and sadness that lay ahead? Advise him to walk, not run, from situations and people he will encounter on his journey from then to now? It would spare him incalculable pain, but at what cost, if it would only put him in the path of different but perhaps worse pain?

I think I'd prefer to just reassure him of the good things that lay ahead and not mention the bad: the happy experiences he will have, the wonderful people he will meet, the love and joy he will share, the friends he will meet (without, again, mentioning specifics), the books he will write. I would hope our meeting might help make him a little more positive and hopeful of the journey between then and now.

Basically, I would want for then-me is what I want for now-me, and for you: if not complete happiness, then contentment.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

The Silent Clock

They say even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and my mother's grandfather clock has been right twice a day for the past six months. I can't remember exactly when my dad bought it for Mom; probably for Christmas, and I'd hazard a guess to say it was the Christmas of 1955, while I was in the Navy. It's a thing of beauty, manufactured by the Hanson Clock Manufacturing Company of Rockford, Illinois, my home town.

Bought when my folks lived at 2012 Hutchins Avenue, it subsequently moved to my mom's family home at 1720 School Street, where it remained until, after Dad's death, Mom moved it with her to be near me in Los Angeles. It graced her living room for less than a year before she herself died, and I brought it to my own home on Troost in North Hollywood, and from there to my house on Kurt Street in Lakeview Terrace, and from there to my two homes in Pence, Wisconsin, and to three (count 'em, three) successive apartments in Chicago.

And each time I moved it, I would have to remove the pendulum and then could never get it back on right and would have to call in a clock man. When I brought it to the first of my Chicago apartments, I had the clock man remove the works, take them to his shop, and renovate it. In the move a key piece at the top of the pendulum was broken off, and the clock man soldered on a jury-rigged replacement. When I moved from that apartment to the one across the hall I for some reason did not restart it immediately, which was probably a good thing, since I was forced to move (one of the joys of living in city-owned housing) yet again.

So last week, fairly confident I may be here for awhile, I called a clock man to come get it to work. I did not even try to put the pendulum back on myself, partly because of my inability to move my head far enough in any direction to be of any good.

I assumed I was calling the same man I'd had do the work the last time, but I was mistaken. The first man had a set house-call fee of, I think, $175 per hour or so. This new clock man advised me, upon arrival, that his house-call fee was $350 per hour. Upon attempting to replace the pendulum he noted that the once broken piece was broken again. He then, on inspection, advised me that the clock was in need of more than $1,000 in repairs. (It is a very old clock, after all, and the old saw "they don't make 'em the way they used to" truly applies. The repair would be very time and labor intensive.)

I told him I simply wasn't prepared at the moment to expend that kind of money--feeling terribly guilty even as I said it. He agreed to put the pendulum back on even with the broken part to see if it might work. It did, but he advised me that it could stop at any time.

So I am on borrowed time, as it were. And while it may sound odd to say, I find a continuity in its ticking now just as it has ticked the countless hours of countless days of more than fifty years. There is comfort in hearing it softly chime every fifteen minutes, the sound cushioned by and echoing all the years that have gone before.

And when it does stop again, I will find the money for the repairs. There is no way I could not. And even though it would, even stopped, be right twice a day, I vastly prefer to hear it talk to me every second, gently reminding me of family and friends now gone who once heard the same ticking, the same soft chiming. It's yet another bridge between now and then, and between them and me.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Different Lives

With the rare exceptions of when I've been out of town, every single morning for the past four years I have had exactly the same breakfast: a glass of V8 juice, a chocolate covered donut, and a cup of coffee. The rationale behind this is not my love for chocolate covered donuts, which has, after roughly 1,460 donuts, begun to wane, or V8 juice, which I still enjoy, or coffee, which to be honest I have never really cared all that much for, but my need to take in as many calories a day as I possibly can. Also, the fact that I no longer derive any pleasure whatsoever from eating, which I reluctantly view as simply a physical necessity, has something to do with it.

So I am making a major change in my life: I'm giving up on the donuts. Each one has 350 calories, but I will substitute yet another can of Nutri-Drink liquid, which also has 350 calories. That will bring me up to 3 cans per day, or over half my total caloric intake. (Oh, dear Lord...here comes that longing for a bologna sandwich again! Multi-grain bread slathered in mayonnaise, two thick slabs of bologna with a slice of cheese, some mustard, and a large lettuce leaf! You have no idea how much I miss eating!!)

Anyway, back to the point, which is that I am about to make a minor life change, and that each of us lives several different lives in the span of our existence. This all came to me as the result of sorting through 575+ blog entries preparatory to publishing two e-books on blogs, and realizing just how many different stages we pass through on our journey through life.

Though you and I have different backgrounds and experiences, there are enough similarities to allow us to relate. Our infancy-through-high-school stage is, in effect, a separate state of existence, totally separated from what comes after. One's college years--for me, at least--are both unique and wonderful, providing a world of fond memories. But it, also, is as separate from what came before as it is from what follows. What followed for me (well, it was actually sandwiched between my sophomore and junior years of college), was my brief but distinctly different life in the military. It was a totally unique world which, thanks to the letters I wrote my parents and kept, provide a vivid, day-by-day living memory.

After college/the military for most people, as it did for me, comes the world of 9-5 work, which for most is the longest and, depending on the individual and the type of work done, either one of the most interesting or dull phases of life.

For me, the diagnosis of tongue cancer triggered the most dramatic and traumatic era in my life, and changed it forever. I am still dealing with its aftermath, which will be with me for the rest of my life.
But this type of interruption is fortunately the exception to the lives of most other people.

For most, the next major stage is retirement, which is also totally different from any of those that went before and, like each of them except infancy-through-high-school is largely what you make of it.

Within each stage there are little satellite stages--romance, relationships, social life, etc. Yet while each stage segues with varying degrees of disruption to the daily flow of our lives, upon close examination each stage is totally separated from the others, and we lead largely-different lives in each. Unfortunately, appreciation does not keep up with the change from stage to stage, and we are almost always unable to fully appreciate any specific stage until we have moved on to the next (or the one after that).

Stepping out of one's self and looking back in as an objective stranger takes some doing, but it is well worth the effort, since it invariably demonstrates that we are not quite as ordinary or dull as we frequently assume ourselves to be.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

If Only

My favorite painting at the Art Institute of Chicago is Edward Albright’s The Door, subtitled That Which I Should Have Done I Did Not Do. I identify with it in some strange way, probably because I frequently find myself looking back on the closed doors of my life and saying: “If only I could go back and change things…do or say something I should have but didn’t; not do or say something I shouldn’t have but did; take an opportunity not taken; follow path A instead of path B.”

We all have closed doors in our past we wish we could reopen, to change what lies behind them. Yet we never think that if we could go back and change just one thing, from that point in time on, all bets are off. For for you cannot change the past without changing everything that then follows. Tossing one small snowball of change onto the steep snow-covered slopes of time could trigger an avalanche which would inexorably sweep away everything that followed. And one problem resolved would open up an infinite number of new and different problems.

I used to wonder, after I moved from Los Angeles to the Great North Woods of northern Wisconsin and bemoaned my subsequent lack of…uh, let’s say ‘social contacts’… what would have happened had I stayed in L.A. Then I realized that had I done so, I could quite probably had a contact which would have resulted in my contracting AIDS, which is more a game of Russian roulette in large cities than in rural communities.

So many things I’ve said to people that I wish I either had not said or said differently. So many situations to which I wish I had reacted differently. But if I had, how might that have changed my then-future (but-now-present)? Escaping one unpleasant situation undoubtedly would have opened the door to countless other unpleasant situations I could not possibly foresee.

There are things, however, I would risk a subsequent unknown future to have changed. The most recent was when I did not have my cat Crickett put to death when she developed a cancerous tumor. Instead, seeing no evidence that she was in pain, I let her live far longer than I should have. And before Crickett there was my dog Duchess, whose death was solely due to my stupidity in not recognizing the clear signs of diabetes which killed her. How could I have done that? How could I not have seen she was seriously ill?

But the greatest regret of my life--the one single thing I wish with all my heart and soul I could change, would be to let my mother die several months before she did. I think I may have spoken of this before, but when she was diagnosed with lung cancer after being a smoker all her life, she and I agreed that if it reached the point where nothing more could be done, I would instruct the doctors to let her go. But I did not. “We’ll try this,” the doctors would say, and I’d let them. When it didn’t help, they’d say “We’ll try this,” and I’d let them. And mom, out of her love for me, said nothing to me, though she told a friend that she just wanted to die with dignity. She did not. She died a withered doll hooked up to tubes and machines which only prolonged her suffering, of which she never spoke, and all because I would not…could not…let her go. I still cry when I think of it, and will never forgive myself for that selfishness.

And ten years from now, we will all look back at regrets for things which will have happened between now and then, and there will be no way we can come back and change them, either.

So what is the answer? There is none. All we can do is, as we hopefully already have been doing, is the very best we can. We cannot see the long-term results of our actions, but perhaps we can give them just a bit more thought before we take them, and hope for the best. I wish us luck.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Books and Blogs

Of the millions of things I do not and never will understand is how I can possibly have built such a gothic palace of egocentrism with no evidence of a foundation. The walls of my palace are largely constructed from my desperate (a tad melodramatic a word, I know, but I am give to the melodramatic) need for acknowledgement of my existence by others. It is the driving force behind all my writing, and specifically behind these blogs.

And, by the way, I should point out that I consider there to be a vast difference between "ego" and "egocentrism." Ego implies an inner sense of superiority; egocentrism refers to being focused on one's self. I'd much rather be thought of as an egocentric than an egotist--though I'm sure you may have a differing view.

So, as I sat here sitting here amidst more than 575 accumulated blogs, fearful, as I always am, that my words may get buried in the sands of time and lost forever, I began to wonder how I might keep them above the surface of the sands for a bit longer. I approached Jay Hartman, the editor of Untreed Reads, a publishing house devoted to producing e-books, and asked if he might be interested in doing a book comprised entirely of blogs--my blogs, of course; we can't lose sight of that egocentrism for a single moment. I did point out the minor problem that, whereas not one of my print books exceeded 110,000 words, my accumulated blogs come in at around 450,000 words. Even with a lot of judicious trimming, that's still an enormous number of words. And Jay was kind enough to tell me not to be bothered with word count (you'd never hear that from a print-book publisher), This can be an 800 pound gorilla to print publishers whose production expenses go up with every 8-or-16-page folio added to a book...not to mention the necessary rise in price of the finished book. E-books, having no physical restrictions, therefore have considerably more flexibility in word length.

Jay suggested there be two books; one focusing on the writer, and one on writing. My Dorien Grey and Me blog site is subtitled "Volleys from a Loose Cannon," and that is basically exactly what they are. The firing off of various brain synapses in all directions.

I've found that for all their randomness when just fired off every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, they tend to sort themselves out into patterns not discernible when viewed as a jumble. So the first book will be divided into somewhat manageable categories: the basic facts of life, major influencing milestones-- emotional and physical--family and friends, etc.

And since Jay wants to emphasize the personal (not a problem with me--egocentrism, remember), I've reluctantly had to leave out some of my favorite posts...mostly my spittle-lipped rages against internet spam and the general stupidities, bigotries, and idiocies which threaten to destroy us all. I've also had to sacrifice some of my pontificatory--yes, I just made it up, but I like it, so I'll use it--screeds; a real shame, since I think I do "pompous" rather well, when I put my mind to it.

So I've been spending the past several days, and will be spending the next several, going through each and every blog like a chicken farmer candling eggs, assigning each to the carton into which I feel it would best fit, and with great reluctance eliminating others.

But for all the work involved, I've been pleased--egocentrism aside--to find several of which I am really rather proud and which say pretty much what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it.

I hope when the books are pieced together they come off not so much as a Frankenstein's monster of unrelated pieces, but as more of a completed jigsaw puzzle with a discernible picture with which the reader can identify. But that determination will have to be made by the reader...and really I hope you might be one of them.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

Twelve Minutes

It started when I took a temp job at one of the mega-retailers--Target/Kmart/Walmart/Costco--and had to be at work at 5:30 a.m. It was my first day, and I got there at around 5:15. But I was so tired I had to lay down. I found a cot with a yellow blanket and laid down and fell asleep. Suddenly realizing I was going to be late, I fought to wake up but could not open my eyes. No matter how I tried, they wouldn't open! Finally I managed to pry them open and saw it was 5:27. I got out of bed, having no idea where I was supposed to go to report for work, remembered that I hadn't put on my shoes when I got out of bed, and hurried back to get them, panicked that I was going to be late.

And the dream ended and I was reality-awake, listening to the plaintive meowlings of my cat, Spirit, from the other side of my bedroom door. It was 6:30...very late for me...and I realized Spirit had been carrying on every couple of minutes since he first woke me at around 5:30. This, too, was unusual, but not unheard of.

I got up, opened the door on my way to the bathroom, something I seldom do, and thus breaking the morning's routine, which begins with a rub/pet/writhe ritual with Spirit. He, like me, is a creature of habit and expects a vigorous rub/pet/writhe the instant the door is opened. Frustrated by my inexplicable refusal to conform to his expectations, he walked impatiently directly--and I do mean directly--in front of me, necessitating me to, in effect, wade through a cat with every step. When I got to the bathroom, he showed his displeasure by wrapping his paws around my bare leg and nipping at my calf, forcing me to shake him off like a wet dog shaking off water.

Returned to the bedroom, once again wading through Spirit every step of the way, and sat on the edge of the bed so that Spirit could flop down on the floor barely within reach to be petted, moving closer only when he realized that I would not otherwise be able to perform my duties adequately. Spirit does not merely lie calmly there to be petted; he writhes around, flopping around like a just-landed fish, stretching out to his full three-foot-plus extended-paw-to-extended-paw length to make sure that I don't miss a spot. In mid-writhe he will stretch his front paws out while raising his rear-end off the floor for a vigorous rub.

And all this time I was struggling to recover from the strangeness of the dream, feeling the same odd detached-from-reality sensations as the dream had engendered. (I know, I know...I'm always detached from reality, but you know what I mean.)

At last our rub/pet/writhe session over--at least as far as I'm concerned--I got up to go to the kitchen to make coffee, once again having to semi-shuffle to avoid stepping directly on Spirit. I got to the living room to find huge chunks of my large spider plant--which I've had and carefully nurtured for a number of years--scattered around the room. Picking up one large piece by the torn-out roots, I swatted Spirit with the tendrils/leaves/whatever-they're-called which, of course, he barely felt but sent him scurrying, shocked that I would so viciously attack him for absolutely no reason. (Cats raise the concept of short-term memory to new heights.)

I then tried--vainly, I fear--to put the torn out sections back into the pot, and got a broom and dustpan to pick up the other pieces and bits of dirt.

I looked at the clock. It was 6:42. I had been awake all of twelve minutes. With that much fun and frolic in the first twelve minutes, I can hardly wait to see what the rest of the day may have in store.

Well, at least I don't have to worry about today's blog.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.

A Seat on the Bus

Returning home one evening last week, I boarded a crowded bus and was just standing there, wedged in among the other standing passengers, when a young lady seated in front of me got up and offered me her seat. I was at once touched by her totally gratuitous kindness, and at the same time heartsick and humiliated to think how I must appear to other people. I thanked her sincerely, but declined her offer, explaining that I am only old on the outside. That I could even speak the word "old" in any sentence referring to myself was a milestone in my life, and not a pleasant one.

But, thanks to increasing evidence presented by young ladies on busses, I am, to my horror, turning into J. Alfred Prufrock. I am also increasingly and painfully aware of how aging changes not so much the way I look at the world, but the way the world looks at me. I am no longer indistinguishable from those around me, and those who have not yet reached that stage of existence cannot comprehend how devastating that knowledge is. In any given group of people, I am increasingly the oldest; sometimes by far, and am subtly but definitely being pushed to the outside of the circle.

In the gay community, of which I have been a card-carrying member for literally all my life, if you are a gay male, once you pass 40 you are less and less welcome as a player in that comforting and exhilarating game of sexual tag you’ve been part of for so long. By the time you are 50, the pool of potential partners has all but dried up. By the time you are 60, you are invisible to anyone under 30-or at best only a shadowy presence easily ignored. Your circle of gay friends tends to narrow to others your same age or older: no one younger wishes to join the circle.

And the terrible irony is that the young simply cannot comprehend that those invisible old men sitting in a coffee shop were once exactly like them, and that if they are very very lucky to live long enough, they too will one day sitting with their peers at a similar table.

Some time ago, I wrote a short poem on this subject:

Whenever I hear a young gay man
scorning an older man,
I hear the future laughing.

Although I use the gay community as an example only because I have absolutely no knowledge of how it is for older heterosexuals, I suspect it’s pretty much the same for older, unmarried straights. We are all human, after all (and please, do write that down somewhere to remember when you have doubts).

Age is the price we must pay for the gift of living long enough. It very often is not pleasant, especially for those like myself who cling so tightly to the past and to memories of who we always were until now. So, much as I hate not being who I was, and resent being made to feel unwanted and unworthy, I’ll readily take it over the only viable alternative.

My one word of advice to you, no matter what your age: truly appreciate and be grateful for everything and whatever you have this very moment. I may not always show it myself, but I assure you I am.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@att.net.