Ponderings and Musings

It’s 6:29 a.m. I’m on the brink of cowering in fear under the sheets and blankets, knowing that any second the alarm is going to go off, signaling the fact that I need to get out of bed. Being the freak geek that I am, the alarm clock is set to the atomic standard, so it’s right in sync with the local NPR station. The alarm goes off just as their joyous news music kicks in and “This in NPR News, I’m Jean Cochran…” blares out of the 15 year old device.

I’ve been semi-awake for the past 29 minutes as Earl got out of bed at 6:00, stirring Tom, who has been pawing at my face and making noises that sound like he’s been strangled; it’s his way of saying that he’s hungry.

“Shut up! Stop making noise! Leave for work! Don’t you have a breakfast meeting?” my brain screams as I muster all my energy to make an effort to be civil in the morning as I say, “Good morning sweetheart.” I even manage a weak smile. Truth of the matter is, it’s not Earl’s fault that I have to get up and go to work at this ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m. I could easily abandon this lunacy and get a real job as a greeter in a 24 hour Wal*Mart Supercenter, but no, I go for the challenge of a normal workday.

Still trying to be civil, I stumble into the bathroom to do my thing, which makes Tom utter more strangling noises. I tell him “I’m using my litterbox”, trying to use familiar terms for His Impatientness, but he doesn’t care. There’s kibble to be poured.

After putzing around the house and catching up on e-mail and whatnot for a half hour or so, I find the sanctity of the shower. The water is like magic as it washes away the waking crankies. While I won’t be truly awake until after lunchtime, at least I feel like I’m able to make an effort now.

As I was looking at old pictures the other night, I came across this photo from sometime between 1978 and 1980.. It was taken at the local airport where my dad was taking flight lessons at the time. All the guys pictured in this photo had had their weekly flight lesson with the local instructor (in the yellow shirt) as they worked toward their private pilot’s license. A little young for a flight lesson, but always eager to fly, I had sat in the pilot’s seat of the Cessna 150 pictured and had flown the plane with the flight instructor riding along and making sure I kept the plane in the air. He didn’t touch the wheel at all and helped me handle the plane when the stall warning horn went off on take-off.

We didn’t crash.

I vividly remember this picture being taken and feeling for the first time in my life that I was just one of the guys.

The human memory is an amazing thing. It really is if you think about it. They say that every thought, every experience, every scent, every feeling is stored away neatly in that abyss we affectionally call “gray matter”. It’s all just a matter of accessing what we’ve tucked neatly away; it’s all categorized, indexed and stored, waiting for something to trigger it’s retrieval so that we can relive a fleeting moment, recall a past experience or tell an ancedote to party guests.

For me, there’s a certain era of pop music that triggers some very happy memories from my childhood. One of the songs of the era is “One Of These Nights” by the Eagles. Not only was I fascinated by the backing vocals of the song, but it seems we always heard it on the AM radio that would play away in the family car.

The year was 1975. It was fall and after the change back to standard time but still early enough in the season that it wasn’t terribly cold outside for a Sunday night in Upstate New York. The four of us, my mom and dad and my sister and I had piled into my dad’s ’71 Heavy Chevy in the driveway of 233 Ridge Ave., the home of my maternal grandparents. Notice I said “my dad’s” ’71 Heavy Chevy. Even though it was the family car it really was his car, a proud symbol of a hard working man in his late 20s, having already been married almost 10 years with two young kids in tow. My mom couldn’t even drive the car as she couldn’t drive a stick (though she did conquer it a year or so later). We drove through the suburban streets of Syracuse, aimed for I-81 north and started the 45 minute journey home. As sort of an established family rule I sat behind my mom, Jennifer was situated behind dad. Not a lot was spoken but we all seemed very content. Like so many Sunday night drives of the same route before, we followed Route 81 with 62 WHEN playing on the radio as I watched the lights of jets landing at Hancock Airport.

About half way home as we crossed the “Brewerton Bridge” I would get a little antsy, the lights of the jets long forgotten and the straight section of 81 near Cicero, framed by powerlines, left behind as we rolled along the concrete highway. For some reason those powerlines fascinated me. I amused myself by making hand gestures in the darkness of the backseat, oddly giddy with the fact that I couldn’t see the gestures I was making because it was so dark. Darkness fascinated me. Dad would turn on the highbeams and the blue “BRIGHTS” light would illuminate on the dash. Mom would cough a little bit, a by-product of the whooping cough she had as a child. Jenn and I would play a now forgotten game and giggle a little. It’s funny but I don’t remember fighting a lot with my sister. I would roll down the back window just an inch or two and smell the autumn air. I thought I was being so clever, rolling down the window and not ever asking permission. It was like nobody even noticed. They’d never know if I just rolled the window a little bit for fresh air.

For some reason I can recall those trips as if they were yesterday. Jennifer would fall asleep around the Parish exit, just as dad lit his one cigarette for the trip home. Mom would cough a little as dad cracked his window open just a bit to let the smoke out.

As I think back on those trips I remember being so happy. Not that I’m unhappy today; quite the contrary. But I can look back at myself at that time and see so many beginnings of what I am today. I’m still amused by rides in the dark. I always turn the dashlights down very low so that I can make gestures in the dark. I’m fascinated by the powerlines that still stand along I-81 near Cicero. I watch jets land at Syracuse Airport. I play little games in the car with Earl.

And “One Of These Nights” plays on the radio.

This is the one picture I could find of dad’s Heavy Chevy when it was still intact. (That’s me in the white hat doing the odd pose). The Heavy Chevy left our family on February 22, 1978 when Mom, Jennifer and I were driving home from grandma and grandpa’s. A truck that was over clearance regulations had wedged itself under a bridge near I-81 milepost 109. It was snowing. We were stopped, the second to last vehicle in a line of traffic waiting for the truck to be moved so traffic could pass under the bridge. Being on a curve and a downhill, a tractor trailer came around the corner and unaware of the traffic snarl, backended the line of cars. About five minutes prior to the accident, Mom had asked me to move from the center of the back seat over to the passenger side. When I did, I had put on my seatbelt. Had I not moved, I would have been seriously injured as the tractor trailer and Pinto behind us rammed into the back of the car, folding the roof like a sardine can. My sister hit the windshield. My mother had a huge cut across her head where the roof had folded up and hit her. I was rammed into the front seat. We all survived. But the Heavy Chevy didn’t, it was done.

Dad opted for a new ’78 Impala Sport Coupe after the Heavy Chevy. It had a 350 in it, it was two door and it was a great car. New memories were made in the Impala, gestures were made in the dark and Jenn fell asleep near the Parish exit.

And “One Of These Nights” played on 62 WHEN.

For a Monday with very little sleep behind it, I must say that I’m a little hyper today. I haven’t had any tea or soda (yet) and I don’t drink coffee, but I’m running around the office with a pep in my step and ready to take on the world.

Well, I’m not in the mood to take on the world but I fake it well. I wonder if I’m driving my co-workers crazy. I did refrain from pinching the freshly shaven cheeks of a normally bearded co-worker. I thought that might have been crossing a boundary of some sort. I do find many bearded men very hot, but not in the workplace. Well, they’re hot in the workplace but I don’t talk about it because it would make everyone involved blush and then it’d be awkward and goodness knows it all is already awkward and I sure don’t need to help it along with more, uh, awk.

Earl and I have had a change of plans for tonight which sort of presents a “clean slate” ripe for activities and I’m in the mood to do something. Anything. You know, I’ve never been to the movies on a Monday night before, maybe we could do that! I’ve been dying for popcorn.

With this last bout of on-call behind me, I’m eager to get out and do something, anything, that doesn’t involve sitting in front of a computer and listen to customers inquire about the “beep, beep, beep that goes in my phone.” When I inquired about what kind of beep she was referring to, she got haughty when I accused her of not knowing what a busy signal was. I wanted to show her what the click of a hang-up was, but come to find out she got one of those newfangled push-button phones and she didn’t realize she it would make noise when she pushed the buttons.

Oy.

Oh, and while I’m thinking of it, I have to say Happy Birthday to Terry. {insert smiling face and waving hand here} Oh, a belated happy birthday to Karl.

I think that’s the first shout out I’ve ever done in my five years of blogging. Maybe not. I guess I don’t really care whether it is or not. I’m too busy planning this week’s social calendar.

Here it is Sunday evening. Earl is out playing poker with his buddies and I’m sitting in front of the computer. After a fairly quiet on-call day yesterday, today has kept me rather busy. That’s kind of odd for a Sunday, usually Sunday is the quiet day.

I’ve learned a lot of computer skills today as I’ve been messing around with web pages and such. We’ve cleaned and organized the house. I didn’t conquer the doorbell installation, but we did some other projects that needed to be done so I feel like we’ve accomplished something.

I know that I’m ready to get out and enjoy some social activity. After being on call for a week and thinking about little outside of work, I’m ready to get out and do something. Last night Earl and I went to a local steakhouse for supper but unfortunately all I could think about was the pager on my belt and how I would tactfully take care of work while sitting in a restaurant.

I guess I’m feeling antsy today. I’m ready for the clouds to clear, the summer breezes to start up and the pager to be shut off.

Very soon, very soon….

I’m on call this weekend, so that means I’m going to be busying myself around the house for the next couple of days. There are a boatload of projects just waiting to be done; rounding up the dust bunnies and getting them back into their pen, baleing the hay and making a lawn again, rearranging flowers, installing the doorbell so that Avon can call, the list goes on and on.

I must say that I’m quite proud of myself having just ridden the vacuum cleaner around the downstairs in record time, sucking up everything that wasn’t nailed down. I went crazy and didn’t even saddle it up, I rode bareback.

If I’m going to be at home all weekend, I might as well look my best, so I trimmed my beard up (to the huge relief of Earl), put on deoderant and brushed my teeth after supper. Just for kicks I’ll brush them before bed too, even though I probably won’t eat anything in between. Just for kicks.

I’m curious to see if my blog entry on Sunday night will talk about how productive I was this weekend.

I think I need a nap.

Last night I did something I haven’t done in a really long time. I wrote a letter to the editor of our local paper. I also wrote a letter to our local state Assemblywoman.

I’ve taken the approach that if we’re going to live here for a while, we might as well contribute to the area and make it a better place.

The reason for my two letters is related to my “road geek”-ness. An expressway was completed in our area a couple of years ago. This expressway connects the two cities and was long overdue. In addition, it passes by a decommissioned Air Force base that has been converted into a business and technology park. Local government is doing everything they can to attract businesses and industry back to our area.

When the expressway was built, it basically replaced a two-lane state route and retained the same route number. The area is also home to one of the shortest interstates in the country, which provides access from the Thruway to a busy interchange.

Businesses looking to build or relocate look at a map and look for good access. Seeing an interstate shield guarantees to the prospective builder that it would be locating on a “prime” roadway. This approach has been used in New York’s Southern Tier with the redesignation of NY Route 17 as Interstate 86.

I proposed that we redesignate our local expressway with the number from that short interstate route, Interstate 790.

To many, it’s not a big deal. But to key players in industry and technology, it could be a make or break proposition for locating to this area. Let’s see if my idea catches on.

New York State has such a bug up it’s butt. I mean really. I try hard to remain “Empire State Proud”, but sometimes it can be difficult.

There’s just so many things you *can’t* do in New York State under penalty of law.

Have you crossed into New York from another state recently? Get ready to read really quick if you do, because you’ll have to deal with the following restrictions posted on small road signs at the state line:

1. BUCKLE UP! – NEW YORK LAW – SEAT BELT USED REQUIRED.
Personally, I think a seat belt law is stupid. On the other hand, not wearing your seat belt is dumb too, but there shouldn’t be a law stating that I must wear my seat belt else I get stopped and ticketed. Common sense shouldn’t be legislated.

2. STATE LAW – USE OF HAND-HELD MOBILE PHONE BY DRIVER PROHIBITED.
Another dumb one. See a cop? Throw the cell phone on the seat next to you after a polite, “Please hold” and the charge can easily be avoided. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I think people yakking on the cell phone while driving are among the dumbest people around, but again, don’t legislate common sense.

3. STATE SPEED LIMIT 55
Don’t even get me started on this. Yes, on rural freeways (we call them expressways), the speed limit is 65. But nobody drives 65, they drive 75-80 instead because the speed limit is posted too low. Then there’s four-lane divided highways with a cross street every 10 miles or so that are only at 55 MPH because there’s a cross street on there. Dumb. Respect the drivers with a sensible speed limit and the drivers will respect a sensible speed limit.

4. WINDSHIELD WIPERS USE REQUIRED WHEN LIGHTS ARE ON.
More common sense legislation. At least we haven’t adopted the dumb Pennsylvania law where you must turn your lights on in a work zone. That one really bugs me because I don’t see a need for it.

A couple of other chestnuts that really get me irked:
– The little flippy thing on a gas pump nozzle that holds the nozzle in the “on” position has been removed at many gas stations. Apparently there’s some law that says it’s illegal to have them. I don’t know how people survive in other states, what with getting doused with gas from other people at the filling station pulling a running gas nozzle out of their tank and wildly throwing gas all over the place. Having just returned from vacation, I can’t tell you how excited I was because I was able to fill my tank, wash my windshield and do a couple of laps around the Jeep yelling “neener, neener, neener” all at the same time just because I could.

– Taxes, taxes, taxes. The fine citizens of Oneida County, New York pay 8.5% sales tax on just about everything (except unprepared food) for the stellar weather, high gas prices and the right to drive slow. Our local power company merged with a big conglomerate and now we pay lots more for electricity. Nothing peps up the blood in the wintertime like a $550 per month lights and heating bill.

So why do we still live here? Well, Earl and I are working on that. In the meantime, I’ll bitch about it.

Do you want to hear something crazy? Let me tell you… I hate talking on the telephone. And I work in telecommunications.

Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?

There’s just something about talking on the telephone that grates on my nerves. I don’t know if it’s the frustration I feel by not being able to see the face of the person I’m talking to or what, but I really don’t like the sound of the tinny voice on the other end of the receiver.

It’s not because they have a tinny voice, mind you, but the audio quality of a telephone conversation really bites. You’d think with all these leaps in technology over the past 100 years or so, we’d have progressed beyond the tin-can and a string sound that we still have today.

Analog, digital, wireless, landline, VoIP, they all sound the same to me. Like a two tin cans and a string.

Maybe I’m a little frustrated because I basically talk on the telephone for a living. Perhaps it’s because I’m asked unbelievable telephone troubleshooting questions at work. “I’d like to move my telephone to the other side of the room, could you let more wire through the wall?” “How do I press ‘0’ with a rotary phone?” “The power’s out, how come my cordless phone doesn’t work?” It goes on and on.

I seem to get into positions of employment that occasionally frustrate me. One job I worked as a radio commercial copy writer. I hate advertising. I despise it. But then a salesperson would jot three words of what the business is about and I was suppose to write 60 seconds of an exciting, engaging, commercial, “make it pop.” One guy handed me a piece of paper that said “memorials, President’s Day Sale.” What the hell was I suppose to do with that?

“This weekend we’re celebrating the birthdays of two fine presidents: Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. They’re both dead and gone, and you will be too someday, better put a downpayment on your headstone during their President’s Day Sale. With Prune Valley Memorials, your headstone will be stylin’ and will last longer than theirs ever did. Make a statement and make it pop when you’re six feet under.”

I do tacky well.

I’d continue this post, but I just got a, wait for it, phone call as I’m on call this week. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?

Usually when I sit down to write in my blog I start babbling on about one of the many thoughts that are roaming around my head at that particular moment. I like to think of my brain as a container of the organized chaos I call “my thoughts” and sitting down to blog is like plucking a floating piece of paper amongst a ticker-tape parade and writing a little story about it. But I’ve been thinking about this blog entry for a couple of days and I thought I’d see what happened if I tried to put it to words.

I’m not writing about anything earth shattering or wildly perverse or anything like that. I guess I’m just sort of babbling about how I blog and why I blog. I like to think of “Life is such a sweet insanity” as a snapshot of the real me, and as varied as my blog can be, I’m sure you’d be delighted to see how varied my moods and whatever else makes me tick can be.

I’ve been asked why I blog before, in fact, I was most recently asked when we were in Phoenix chatting with another gay couple at a dinner. I write in my blog for my own amusement. I like to make others chuckle and try to make strides to being a gay male Erma Bombeck when it comes to humor. I’m not wildly political, though certain topics do get me stirred up enough to bark out my feelings on the subject. Even though I’m a gay man, I’m not all that vocal about gay issues, though I am totally open about my sexual orientation. I like to think that by just being myself on my blog, I’m doing my own little gay activism but just being a guy that likes another guy and talks about our somewhat ho-hum adventures together.

When I first came out I was very preoccupied with “being gay”, making sure I had the right haircut, making sure I wore the right clothes, went to the best bars and parties and ate nothing but fu-fu food. This went on for a couple of years, but then I met a woman at work who worked with employees with AIDS at the second largest computer manufacturer at the time, Digital Equipment Corporation, and she said that being gay was only a big deal because the gay person made it a big deal. You know, I agreed with her and it was about then that I decided that being gay was no big deal at all and I was just going to be me.

Fast forward 20 years and here we are today. I don’t eat in the fu-fu restaurants unless I have to, as I’m more content to be slugging a brewski and eating me some barbecue. Why nibble on salmon when you can have a cheeseburger smothered in cheese, onions and bacon with a side of fries and ‘slaw? My clothes come from places like Gander Mountain, a myriad of online shops or horrors of horrors, from Target or K-mart. When it comes to political activism, well, I’m more involved with state transportation issues than with anything related to gay rights. I figure that I have been and always will be gay, no one is going to stop me from being me and I don’t care what others think about that. By the way, I will say that anyone thinking that a gay person made the choice to be gay is completely clueless on the issue – I knew when I was in first grade.

Does everything go in my blog? Not at all. While quite open about what I discuss here, there are things that I keep to myself. I learned back in the late 1980s that you don’t put anything in e-mail (and now on the internet) that you wouldn’t mind reading on the front page of the New York Times. Besides, if I meet a someone familiar with this blog in person, I want to have something to talk about instead of reciting old blog entries and trying to pass that off as conversation.

So there it is, I’ve rambled another lunch hour away on my blog. I hope you enjoyed that little piece of ticker tape.