Favorites (Change of Pace Edition)

Favorite snack: Unsalted Dry Roasted Peanuts (Does not raise the guilt flag for me).

Favorite singer: K. D. Lang. (Such a glorious voice that sounds as good live, if not better, than on her CDs).

Favorite guilty pleasure: I allow myself 1 pint of ice cream every two months or so (usually Haagen Dazs Dulce de Leche).

Favorite "Library reading material": Car and Driver.

Favorite soft drink: Diet Pepsi.

Favorite bread: Sara Lee Honey Whole Wheat (For BLTs, though, any squishy white bread, toasted).

Favorite Soap Opera: The Young and the Restless (I remember seeing the first episodes one summer when I was a young lad of 10 or 11. My new cable provider does not have SoapNet, so I am currently going through withdrawl).

Favorite Reality Show: Duh, Project Runway.

Favorite Dream Car: Oldsmobile Cutlass 442 convertible.

Favorite Candy: M&M Peanut (I used to be able to eat a 1 pound bag in one sitting).

Favorite Movie: The Sound of Music (followed closely by Cabaret. What is it with gays and musicals?).

Favorite Actress: Meryl Streep, 'nuff said.

Favorite Writer: David Sedaris (I get him like no other, and many do not get him).

Favorite Game Show: Password (The old one, not the new one).

I know, I know, another throw-away post. But, my brain does not need any more stress right now than this. When I'm fully moved in, and Spring break is over, I will devote more time to the blog. Plus, my favorite aunt-sister is visiting next month for my birthday. And it's a monumental birthday. The big 5-ohhhh. New Orleans is calling.

The Parents Visit the New Abode

My dad and stepmother visited to drop off some stuff to my new place. I think the curiosity was killing them. My only scary moment was when my dad went in the 2nd bedroom/computer room and there was a stack of dirty VCR tapes and a boxed set of Queer as Folk sitting in view. No need to get his homophobia in an uproar, so I swept them off to an out-of-view hidey place. Silly explanations avoided. Most comments included "cozy", "cute", and "old".

Kitchen stuff has been unpacked and I started on the oven. Ugh, gross. The racks were solid black, sticky with a tar-like texture. One treatment of Easy-Off will lead to another, although chrome is showing up on about 50% of them. What did the prior tenant cook in the oven, I wonder? My only clue is the dried beans and Adobo left in the cabinets.

Still many boxes unpacked. I fear the 2nd bedroom will never house a bed. One, because it's seriously small. And, two, because it will house containers that will never be unpacked, because there is no room. Down-sizing has it's risks, afterall.

I still have no regrets. I will make it work. Even if the washing machine drain does not drain as fast as the washing machine evacuates water. Small steps, I say to myself. The next step is buying a real, adult bed. For the last 6 years or so, I've slept on blow-up beds. In the last 6 months or so, my back has been screaming for another solution. Even on week-ends, I have to get up at 7am or so, my internal, spinal alarm sounding before I want to get up.

More to come.........

Yeah, Yeah, So Sue Me

I'm now sitting amongst a mountain range of boxes. Figuratively, the Andes of box mountains. I have moved from my suburban-sprawl apartment to a tiny home that's literally 5 minutes from work. I've been wanting to do this for at least a year, but circumstances had conspired to prevent that until now. Having moved so many times over the years, I had become reluctant to box everything up and moving again, but enough was enough.

I have lived in major metropolitan areas before, where commutes were the norm. Living now in the panhandle of Florida, where the congestion is smaller in comparison, did not diminish my disdain for the wasted time in transit. Driving from Gulf Breeze into Pensacola every day drained the everlasting life out of me. Three years of crossing the Three-Mile Bridge will do that to you. The smallest fender bender will increase the commute 2-fold, because that bridge has no pull-off area (traffic control in 1960 did not figure in for extra pull-off zones).

Now, I'm 5 minutes from work. I just have to deal with having only 671 square feet of living space and 800 square feet of stuff. But, it's a sweet old house. Built in the 40's or 50's, it has it's original hardwood floors (chilly on the feet during this cooler than normal winter), a nice deck out back, and a real yard (I haven't mowed grass since I was 16).

But, I'm only 2 blocks from the waterfront park that stretches all around Navy Point, and I don't have to hear any neighbors flushing their damn toilet.

Life is looking up, the rent is $150/month cheaper, and I'm within walking distance to a bar with the best Philly Steak sandwich in town.

The only downside is that the area has the highest per-capita rate of mullets-per-thousand around. My first foray to the local Wally-World had me shaking my head in dis-belief. From suburban yuppies to lower middle class blue-collar is a wake-up call.

And that wake-up call is asking me what demographic do I really fit in. As I meet my neighbors, I'll know more. I already met my neighbor, Linda, who has a perpetual Garage Sale going on. She is a font of info on all the neighbors.

This should be interesting.

Yes, A New Post is Coming.....

A new post is coming. My last post brought up a lot of memories, good and bad. I kinda sat back and reviewed where I was in life. Which might......and I say might.....lead in a new direction for my blog.

If anyone still gives a shit.......................

Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Part II

After arriving in Germany, I learned many things.

I learned that most single guys in the military would rather hang in the dorm drinking beer on week-ends. And listening to "Dark Side of the Moon" over and over on their latest electronic score at the Base Exchange. And becoming morose over the fact that they couldn't be doing this back in Arkansas. Then, drinking more beer. And, I'll admit, the beer was damn good. But hey, you're in Europe, get out of the freakin' dorm!

I learned that there were many of us that wanted to experience this opportunity we were given. Frankfurt 30 minutes away, Munich 2-1/2 hours, Paris 3, Amsterdam 4. All in the comfort of a fast efficient train, where you could drink that great beer while cruising alongside the Rhein River, by Medieval castles, or through multi-colored tulip fields that went on forever.

There was a group of us that became a family during our tenure there. There were about 30 of us who regularly traveled, sometimes 12 at a time, sometimes 4. We all had jobs that sent us all over Europe, so when we could arrange to get together and travel, we did it with gusto. My first purchase at the Base Exchange wasn't the newest Infinity speakers or a big-screen TV, it was a 35mm camera with all the gadgets.

This family was composed of many individuals. We all just naturally gravitated together. About half were gay. One quarter straight couples. The rest single heteros. And we all got along famously. We had fabulous parties off-base. We visited the best restaurants in town and learned the language. Us gays were welcomed and welcoming, unlike our bosses on base.

The lesbians in our family were fairly stereotypical, in that most had short hair, never wore dresses, and played on the softball team. They were also the cream of the crop in their job fields, winning many Airman/NCO of the Quarter awards (as did I) and were admired for their professionalism. But, there were a few who felt threatened by them. Some were insecure when turned down for a date or a quick romp in the hay. One of my friends was also gang-raped, and all was made hush-hush. If she would have pressed charges, her sexuality would have been exposed. Unfortunately, her secret was exposed in another heinous way.

This was all before "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" was instituted by Bill Clinton. The Commanders had many tools at their disposal to ferret out the homosexuals and send them packing. One that they used to great advantage was the piss test. If the base security found out you went to Amsterdam for the week-end, you were invited to the pee party. Which is why my group would keep the trips to Amsterdam quiet. Not that we were big hash-hounds or anything, but every once in awhile we might partake at a party.

So, one day a lesbian friend of mine was called to the Base Commander's office. She had won an NCO of the Quarter award previously and she thought that she might be up for NCO of the Year. And didn't know what was to befall her and her lover.

It seems an acquaintance of hers on the softball team got busted in a random piss test. In those days, and maybe even today, when you were caught in that way, you were interrogated. Long and hard. She was pressured for hours and was told that they would go "easy" on her if she gave them some names. Names of dopers, homosexuals, or anyone doing something against the Code of Military Conduct. And she broke. And gave the names of every gay she could think of (but not the dopers since she was straight). Which snared 3 of my best friends in the world. And changed forever how I felt about being in the military and serving my country.

(To be continued)

Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Don't Pass Go

Back in the 80's, I spent 5 years in the employ of Uncle Sam in the United States Air Force. It was a time of discovery, a time of travel, and a time when I found out how much I was valued by my country. Those 5 years were the best years of my life and the worst.

I was what many would call a "late bloomer" in high school. Or some would call just confused. Very likely, I was just ignorant. Ignorant to the feelings I had towards those I should be attracted to, and to those I really gravitated to. I tended to veer toward the fringe, even though they were considered the outcasts. I played football and tennis, but felt more comfortable with the Drama Geeks. I felt more comfortable with the geeks, but was accepted with the "in crowd" because I was masculine, the token "Yankee", and could hang with any crowd. I sang in the church youth choir and smoked weed with my mother and stepfather. Not to mention that this was in the heart of Mississippi in the 1970's. There were not many role models parading around the town square with rainbow flags or ass-less chaps. Or if there were, they disappeared before anyone could see them. I certainly didn't see them. Or even know they existed. This was before Ellen, Three's Company, and Will and Grace. By a decade or three.

By the time I enlisted in the Air Force, I had been with one girl and one man. The girl was my high school sweetheart and we were together almost all four years of high school. Only there was no sex, just some sweaty panting in the back of my Vega station wagon and lots of making out (Thank God, she was just looking for a way out of her 500 pound mom's house). The man was a friend of my aunt's. We hooked up after a long night of partying and we were the only ones still awake at 6am, playing card and footsy. Must have been some good speed or something. I blamed it on the drugs, but it felt so right. So, I entered the military not really knowing my sexuality, so I wasn't really enlisting under false pretenses. I was "uncommitted", "Independant", "Bipartisan". Or so I thought. And I really didn't give it much thought.

And then I was stationed in Europe. And things changed. Slowly, but change happened.

(To Be Continued)

The Nightmare Returns

Thursday morning found me waking up covered in sweat and breathing heavily. My heart was pumping oceans of blood every second. I haven't had this dream in years, but it instills fear in me like no other. Several happenings over the course of the week conspired to re-form the old nightmare in my subconscious mind.

Wednesday night found me watching my must-see program, Top Chef. The episode airing this week is always my favorite of the series, Restaurant Wars. Those who have opened a brand new restaurant on little sleep, with high pressure bosses, in the shortest period of time possible, can attest to what goes on. Many, many hours. Alcohol flowing at the end of the long night reviewing what went right and what went horribly wrong. Lists on top of lists of what is still undone. All leading up to that moment when the doors open and customers stream in to a sparkling clean and perfectly set dining room filled with shaky employees and managers chewing Pepto tabs by the handful. It all comes back to me every time.

Last Friday was another encounter with my ex-boss. He called our store at 4:45 pm wanting to know if someone would bring four cases of glasses to them. The guy taking the call turned and looked at me while saying, "Let me call you back". They do this to me every time. "It's on your way home". "They're a big customer". "Maybe you'll get a free meal out of it". BIG SIGH. Even though all I wanted to do was go home and fix a giant cocktail, I agreed.

Tuesday at work, one of our customers, an Italian "Grille" owner, came in and was talking about what a hard time he was having with his staff. His restaurant was just recently opened and his servers didn't know the menu, and were lazy and unprofessional. Even though he had spent a "whole two days" training them.

Which all led to my nightmare....

I was a cocky, experienced server who was recruited to help open this new Italian restaurant. In my head, I knew that I knew more than the owner, and we were butting heads over assorted matters. I was also arguing with the manager, who I knew that I knew more than. It became too much and I walked out in a huff, flinging my bistro apron in the air with a flourish.

The morning of the opening, I get a frantic phone call from the owner begging me to come back. The other servers he hired were worthless and he needed someone with experience to help him out. For some reason I agreed to and showed up one hour before opening. The manager was frantically trying to catch me up on the menu and steps of service. Everyone was running around with horrified looks on their faces and a line was forming outside the doors.

When the doors were opened, customers streamed into the restaurant and proceeded to fill every table. And there was no table chart. I looked down and realized that I had no apron. Worse yet was every server's worst nightmare. I HAD NO PENS!!!

Which was when I woke up, thankful in the knowledge that it was only a dream.