Life Is Such A Sweet Insanity.

When I started this blog back in 2001 it was in an effort to improve my writing skills. I like to write for the most part and though I don’t think I’m really that good at it I still get enjoyment from expressing myself by typing my thoughts. I’ve never been one to care about the number of people reading my blog. I love hearing the comments from others and meeting people through our cyber connections but I don’t feel the need to come up with gimmicks to get people to visit here often. If you stop by, you’re welcomed with open arms. If you’re not here, that’s fine as well, I’m not taking a billboard out to advertise myself nor will I make this whole affair “new and improved”.

I like to think that my writings here are a fairly honest, though rather edited snapshot of what is going on in my life. What you read here is true to my personality. I am pretty open about how I live my life as a gay man and I’m brutally honest about my belief structure. If I have an opinion, you’ll probably hear it.

There are some subjects that I choose not to talk about in these parts though. There are two reasons for this. First of all, back when I first started using the internet back in 1984 (and yes, I said 1984 as in the ‘Here Comes The Rain Again’ era), I was taught that you should never write something down unless you wouldn’t mind it appearing on the front page of the New York Times. I apply that principle to all electronic communication: blogs, e-mails, website comments, everything. To delete is futile, once it is typed it is forever, it will be saved somewhere, someday and might come back to haunt you when you run for Governor of Alaska or something.

The other reason that I don’t write about certain subjects on here is simple; I don’t want to have to answer uncomfortable questions at a family reunion or office party. I have no regrets and little to hide, but I really don’t want to face this type of dialog:

Them: “So, on the weekends, you…?”, as their voice trails off whilst putting potato salad on the paper plate. It’s a long lost in-law who stumbled upon my blog a month or so ago.
Me: “Usually on the weekends, but once in a while during the week”, I reply, being brutally honest and making the curious uncomfortable. I start to blush.
Them: “Earl does too?”
Me: “Not so much.”
Them: “In public?” Another scoop of potato salad, the interrogator lost in the moment.
Me: “Once in a great while. I like making a scene”, I beam.
Them: “Where do you get …”
I nervously glance around the food tent and quickly interrupt, “Online, but sometimes Lowe’s or Home Depot. Lowe’s has camouflage.”
Them: “Are there pictures?”
Me: “Undoubtedly someone in the crowd has taken pictures. Check Flickr.”

I remarked to Earl yesterday that my little bout of writer’s block seems to have become unclogged and I was ready to start writing about life again.

He replied that he didn’t know I was stopped up.

I am desperately trying to be excited about the impending holiday season but I’m not really having any success at the exercise. It’s not that I don’t like the holidays; I enjoy getting together with relatives and doing that sort of thing. I guess I’m just not feeling any joyous feelings or something, probably because it has become way too commercialised.

One of the local radio stations switched to non-stop Christmas music the moment they turned the porch light off to discourage any further trick or treating activity. Since then they have been “ChristMix”. Personally I find the first of November to be entirely too early for a non-stop litany of Christmas music. I’ve never enjoyed non-stop Christmas music on a station, let alone starting so early in the season. It irks me to the point that I won’t even scan the radio dial anymore, I just play it safe and avoid the radio all together. Perhaps I could consider that a Christmas gift – traditional radio proving that it has truly turned into a steaming pile of crap and we should listen to the music of our choice via iPod or some reasonable derivative. And while I’m on the subject of holiday music, and I know I have mentioned this before, but when did “My Favorite Things” from the Sound of Music as sung by Babs become a Christmas song? Is it because she sings “bright coloured packages tied up in string?” It is not a holiday song, so please just knock it off.

I think another reason that I’ve become rather soured on the holidays is because of the crap of “Happy Holidays” versus “Merry Christmas” versus whatever that started a few years ago. When I saw a mimeographed 8×11 sheet of paper that simply said “MERRY CHRISTMAS” in bolded helvetica taped to the windows at Sears a few years ago, in an effort of the retailer to try to save themselves from sort of weird boycott, I figured society had completely lost it’s mind and everyone had lost sight of what the season is suppose to be about.

Then I decided that I had no idea of what the holiday is suppose to be about. After all, Christmas is where it is on the calendar because the Christians decided to compete with the Pagan celebration of Winter Solstice. Going to church creeps me out for a number of reasons and quite frankly why should I celebrate the prime holiday of a religion that is trying harder and harder to impose it’s values on me and make me believe that I am a mistake or damned to eternal hell because I am honest about who I am? (Admittedly, it’s the more extreme members of society that are the cranky ones.) No thank you.

So here’s the deal. I’m not listening to holiday music. I’m not drinking egg nog. I will be relatively festive and I’ll buy presents for those that I truly want to buy presents for and on December 21 Earl and I will have a beautiful Winter Solstice Feast to celebrate the shortest day of the year and the rebirth of Mother Earth.

The big guy is out of town on business tonight. The house feels lonely.

I am off to help a friend with his computer. Full on geek mode with a beer or two on the side. To fully prepare I’m not like other geeks, I don’t watch episodes of Xena, I crank up “Remember” by BT. Every available mix, loaded to an iPhone. Brian Transeau, he has initials too, a classically trained musician that took his art and gift to the electronic world. I know a boy that could have done that but Fredonia State crushed his dreams and threw them away.

“Can you do me a favor?” There is a sucker born every minute. I agreed to three hours of on-call to help a friend out on Saturday. It’s o.k., I like my co-workers and know that they have my back. I have their back too, and many other backs.

I love my world. I love my existence. Sometimes it’s hectic and other times it’s not. Typing incoherently seems to relieving some stress that I’m feeling. Electronic communication is a beautiful thing. Just don’t abuse it. I am able to keep in touch with the ones I love, even though they are miles away.

I was told late last night that I looked tired. Personally I thought I was holding up pretty well but since I’ve been told this by a couple of people over the past week I guess there must be some truth to the observation. I must be tired.

Why is it that I’m awake at 3:21 a.m.?

This week of on-call has been relatively tame. I haven’t had a lot of middle of the night crises; the work has been steady but not crazy. Sleeping with the pager on never really allows me to let my guard down enough to sleep through the night soundly, though. I end up sleeping in this quasi-alert sleep that creates completely incoherent dreams. I just woke up from dreaming that it was the 1940s and I was coordinating the renovation of a very old office building. The doors were too big for the rooms they were in and would swing too far into the room. From there it gets weird, I was looking for wall tile that sung when touched. Musical walls for the bathroom. Bizarre.

I think part of the reason for my insomnia is frustration. I’m not one for the eat-sleep-work-repeat way of life, I need to get out and experience whatever I can. This week has been more about the regimented order of things. I suppose I’ll be ready for some adventure come Monday morning when on-call is over for a month. It’s a shame that I’ll be too tired to do anything about it.

I had been in my cubicle for approximately 23 seconds when I was informed that the telecommunications service for an entire section of the city was down and more importantly, I needed to print out my time sheet immediately so that it could be sent to payroll by noon.

It was 9 a.m.

Still charged from the weekend and not really feeling the moment, I let out a low, rumbly growl that came from somewhere deep inside this bear. Everyone that was talking to me scattered and went back to their desks.

I am not a morning person. I am not a Monday person. When I was in a managerial role at a previous job, everyone that reported to me knew the golden rule: give me five minutes to get my bearings before bombarding me with the business of the day. I can handle the stress, I can handle fires, I can handle the crisis; just let me make sure my caboose is on the track so I can head in the right direction.

Now they know.