The Last Dance.

I have a DJ SuperCub gig for New Year’s Eve night. I just cemented the deal last night, but I will be doing my regular Friday night gig on Wednesday but for a little longer and there will be balloons dropping and champagne instead of some cheap swill. The drunk woman will probably still be sitting on the urinal in the men’s room.

I haven’t mentioned this to anyone outside of Earl but the Wednesday night gig will probably be my last at the bar I’ve been spinning at for the past year or so. Earl and I have a *lot* of plans for the next several weekends and quite frankly I don’t think my style fits the crowd at the club anymore. So I’m in search of a new gig come 2009, more likely in the way of guest appearances. Earl and I will still continue hosting the semi-monthly bear nights and I’ll still make CDs for the bar because I enjoy that very much.


“LAST EXIT BEFORE USA” the sign proudly proclaimed. “2.5 km to Buffalo USA” the next one so generously reminded us.

Sigh. It’s time to cross the border. Good-bye Canada. We’ll see you very soon.

“United States.” I refuse to say I’m an American because that would imply that all other countries on the North and South American continents don’t have that right when technically they are Americans too, just not in the generally accepted sense. Nevertheless…
“How long have you been in Canada?”
“24 hours.”
“Where have you been?”
I wanted to tell him that I had driven to Winnipeg and back but he probably wouldn’t have believed me.
“Why were you in Oakville?”
“Visiting my sister and her husband for the holiday. Happy holidays.”
“Your sister is Canadian?”
“Not yet. Her husband is a Canadian though. He plays hockey.”
Hockey doesn’t impress a U.S. Customs Agent. Silly boy.
“What did you take into Canada?”
“My mother.”
“Where is she?”
“In Oakville with my sister and her husband the hockey player. She’s spending time with her grandchildren.”
He tries to discreetly wave my passport over a reader, but my passport isn’t chipped. He has to slide it. I’m old fashioned.
“Where do you live?”
I give him the name of our little town. It’s near the little city. I refrain from saying my favorite name for the little city. It rhymes with “hit bowl”.
“What do you do?”
“I work for a telephone company.”
“How do you know each other?”
“We are LOVERS!” I proudly proclaim.
Customs man just got a teensy bit more woofy.
“What do you do?”
“I work for a telephone company.” Is it rerun season? Oh, he’s talking to Earl.
“Who is the car registered to?”
Earl leans over, “it’s my company car, it’s a leasing company.”
“Are you bringing anything you purchased back to the U.S.?”
“No. We just ate food and drank a little.”
“Roll down the back window so I can see in.”
Thank goodness for automatic windows.
“Thank you, have a nice day.”

Welcome to “The Land of the Free.”



I think it’s ironic that my sister has lived in many countries and prefers the U.S. whereas we live in the U.S. but personally I’d rather live in Canada or Ireland.

I prefer metric, she orders her deli meat by the slice because she feels like she’s buying drugs when ordering by the gram.

I could legally marry my partner in Ontario, she married her husband in the same place, though they could have married in N.Y. We don’t have that luxury.

Yet she lives in Canada and we live in the U.S. Sigh.


A Dozen.

It was twelve years ago tonight that Earl and I stood on a pier at Penn’s Landing in Philadelphia. On that night we were accompanied by his brother Rick and girlfriend (now wife) Helen. Rick and Helen watched as Earl and I exchanged our handwritten vows on the cold night. Few were on Penn’s Landing. A ship of Marine’s rode by and waved.

It was beginning of the rest of my life.

I can’t imagine my life without Earl. Twelve years ago we promised each other we’d be there ’til death do us part. No clergy, no laws, no approval from any other. Just Earl and I with our two witnesses.

I married my best friend that night.

Here we are on the Navy Pier in Chicago, August 2003.

RIP Eartha Kitt.

Eartha Kitt, best known as one of the actresses to play “Catwoman” on Batman and Robin passed on yesterday. She was 81 years old. Despite attempts from others, Eartha was the most cat-like woman ever known.

She is perhaps best known to gay club goers from the 80s and 90s for “Where Is My Man”, a song that not-surprisingly would be played on weekends on my old radio station. I wonder how that got there.

RIP, Eartha. Meow.

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One More Christmas Cat.

Earl and I are just back from my father’s house for Christmas dinner. We had an enjoyable time.

My father has two cats, both around 11 years old or so. They are sisters and as different as night and day. Pita is, well, a Pain In The Ass, but she means well and can be somewhat cordial when she’s not hissing at you. Cali on the other hand is on the shy side and while a part of her wants to be in your lap, the other part of her wants no part of anything human. She’s usually found under a piece of furniture or hiding in the sawdust in my father’s workshop. Perhaps she gets dizzy from the wallpaper.

I convinced Cali to make a rare appearance in a picture with me today. She was not amused.


Once Upon A Time.

Even back in 1968 I was the life of the party. Last night my uncle showed me the Christmas card my parents sent out for Christmas 1968.


Christmas Thrill.

Christmas Thrill., originally uploaded by iMachias.

Tom has apparently had his fill of Christmas treats for the day. He seems content to be backed up against the radiator sleeping instead of meowing out some ho ho ho.