A Flamer...Really? How vintage!

Well, it has been a VERY busy Spring, and now finally, summer! I am sorry I so praised the rain in my last piece to my brethren of the Eastern Seaboard. I had no idea the gods followed my blog!

Anyway, I have been very busy the past few months, that all prevented me from getting a new blog up. I was busy doing a number of Sebastian things, and referring to my title, busy being a "flamer." I was cast in my first play, Terence McNally's "The Ritz." I played a chubby chaser, something I am not. I was in my second play, "The Women," an all-,ale, all-drag staged reading of the play. I played a little girl; something I might be. The former production closed after mismanagement and insanity. That is all I will say in regards to that. While the second one was met with much success...at least among the audience and my ego.

I have also been quite the urban gardener. There are a plethora of tomato plants on the unfinished roof deck, at least 6 containers on the stoop. I even recall France with two types of Lavender (probably Lavande, it's cousin), a dalia, begonias, and a pot with geraniums, trimmed with white Impatience. The trash-picked wall planter I found two years ago now hangs above the address plate outside and window boxes are ready to be installed on the windows. I have an herb garden in the alleyway. Thanks to a friend's mother all of these herbs and tomatoes were given to me because the woman had simply purchased too many!

I also turned 30. I think of this as being a VERY gay activity because 30 to gay men means a great deal! Now we have to try extra hard to get men in their 40s to buy us drinks. So far I have been assertive...very much more than usual! There is actually a picture of me on websites geared towards gay men in their 40s. It reveals unto them I am not 24, and it's Clinique and lots of olive oil that has made my skin so youthful.

This turning 30 also caused me to quit smoking. I am on the patch. It sucks. I still want cigarettes, but far less frequently. Yes, some of you cynics may be shocked I quit (Shiva the Destroyer you know who you are) & pissed at me. They try to tell me as a writer I must smoke in front of my MacBook. But I can't! I hate being dependent on something like that at this age. I have made it 30 years making crazy, sometimes ill-thought, yet almost always rewarding decisions, and smoking cigarettes to me was the worst of these. I really don't like what it does to teeth. I wondered why I would bleach my teeth, or try to, and it would not look any different...the smoking of course! The other reason is that a very witty, very cute, very sexy, very smart guy told me it was gross, and unsexy. I threw the cigarettes in the next trash can on Locust St., & he went and got them laughing. So I started the patch the following Sunday.

Yet, it worked. Never tell me I am not sexy, that implies so much to small, vulnerable Sebby. (Now...if only they made a patch for wine, haha!)

I also broke up with my boyfriend. Now, ye cynics, I know David lives in France. I knew it was long distance. However, it was a relationship. We spoke almost every day via gchat with camera. I broke up with him because well, I don't think he had a concrete concept of what my moving to France would entail.

In terms of gay remedies for sad events...I changed the ticket to one bound for Miami. If there is a place all gays go to when they want nothing but eye candy, mohitos, and lunch on Lincoln Road it is Miami. I normally say NYC...but the Northeastern Seaboard has SOOO betrayed me this year in terms of rain, that I will not honor it by visiting its unnamed capitol for one minute this summer!

Not for all the blonde heiresses on the Eastern Seaboard, thank you very much Uncle Dwight.

What else? Oh...I finally bought curtains for my room, or bought a rod and clips in order to use a piece of fabric I love. This is nice. Both because I can walk around naked and that the neighbors can walk around freely on their deck...clothed, not worrying about me naked. Sex...if it should happen in there is also well-shielded.

Speaking of windows and sex...oh well, never mind.

So, in sum, thus far it has been a TRULY gay-ass summer! It has been GAYER that CHRISTMAS! Then...it happened! I was walking home from Lady Lauren O'Quigley's home; she is not an heiress, just a peer. To supplement her small income from her estate in Bellmar she stars in the ongoing telenovella "Los Amores Perros de Lauren." Well, I was walking home. I was happy that night. I was a little giddy over someone cute, the patch, the pot, the red wine, the gay function of helping Lady Lauren decorate her new abode, thinking about Miami, happy Lady Lauren noticed the gym "is working," going home to my new bedding (thank you Metro Source, I love my new bedding via your pay check), my curtains, my dog, the porn I had added to my favorites on x-tube, how much fun gay pride had been a few days before, and well...just how lovely life is, how wonderful, supportive, my family and friends are to me. How, even though I don't have it all figured out yet I do after a fashion...namely, that I keep going. Despite set backs. Despite the fact half this country - well, hopefully less - doesn't think I should be allowed to get registered at Bed, Bath, & Beyond I will make myself into everything I want to be!

Then...wearing the shirt and shorts I could not wear a few weeks ago I stopped briefly to look at my family-church. It does not count to me, really. I am a happy Atheist-Episcopalian but knowing my ancestor helped build it over 100 yrs ago made me smile. My pause was brief, only a moment. Then as I began to walk again I heard it. I didn't know where it came from. I heard it before I looked west, to my right, to see the white van that it came from.

The guy in the van shouted, "You're a fuckin' flamer you faggot? You know that!" I was shocked. Not how you might think though. My first thought was, "What the fuck is this? 1995? if he had called me a pillow biter, an ass pirate, a disco-dancin-cake-eatin-friend of Dorothy a la Cluelsess & Christian it couldn't have been more fucking vintage. I stood there. The car whizzed by and then I kept walking.

I picked up my pace. I walked home as if I had left Sugar on the front step or the stove or shower on. I was not really afraid they would come back, but it was my mother who called me when Matthew Shepard died...so, yeah, I was a little afraid they might have come back. But I was really just shocked. How could me matter to someone so much? I mean...those of you that know me know I do not lie about my ego. So, yes, I want me to matter to those of you I love, trust, entertain, kiss, write to, understand, but why should I matter to a stranger? Why should the fact I sleep and fall in love exclusively with men bother someone I don't know from Adam?

Granted...I think sex is hysterical. If I am not horny I, generally, when thinking of sex find it funny that I ended up thinking that having sex with men is perfectly normal. It is perfectly ironic, in that of course as the only bastard child of a schizophrenic adopted by his grandparents born deaf in the left ear unable to swim I would end up gay. It is terrific irony...it makes me giggle more than I care to admit! If I would one day wake up ugly (and egoless) I would be no less shocked.

Oddly enough, I do not think the man was calling me a flamer, or a faggot because I am homosexual. I was wearing a long-sleeved tee from the museum, an abstract painting on my chest, a pair of jean shorts, and black, low chucks. My hair is abnormally long and fell across my eye because of the humidity that was about to break into rain and...it did render me quite feminine. But no; he called me a flamer because in his mind that is the lowest form of a male. He doesn't care about the ethical, societal, or even religious ramifications of sex between men. To him that, all of what we find sacred about our intimate lives, our gay identities, means nothing. So, if he believes that is nothing, noting important, and that is what I am built on it does not matter what he or anyone says to me.

Therefore, his calling me what he did does not have any impact on my outlook, or self-image. Instead it makes me realize I must continue to be who I am, act like I wish, befriend whom I befriend, and do so knowing it doesn't matter what anyone calls me. If he doesn't believe in my core, how can he insult me?

Included is a picture of the baby tomatoes currently ripening on the roof. I think next year I am going to build beds on large plastic sheets (to protect the roof) and skip the idea of a deck, just a little sitting area.
Yeah, I'm a flamer. In fact, I am even going to grow pansies.

Blossom and Spring Rain...

(That's Mom in the rain, in Lyon! Pictures of me soon...I only JUST figured out how to do this...duh!)
I have many odd obsessions: plants, although I have luck with only the heartiest; old lamps with glass shades, you don't have to worry about the fabric yellowing; the flatware, dishes, glasses, and napkins MUST match when I eat or I go crazy, the serving pieces can vary, and if I can't find a matching piece of cutlery I take the odd pieces to save face in front of my guests. Guests that ostensibly don't care! In terms of glassware, white wine MUST be in a wine glass, but unless I am drinking red at the dinner table it can go into a tumbler. All other beverages MUST go in a tumbler, except a set of oversized, low based flutes, which I prefer for orange juice. A coffee cup...must ONLY be used for coffee! Trashpicking, an honored Philadelphia tradition, even a friend's mother on Rittenhouse did it, is another obsession. And well, there are many others but I will end my list here. These are things that people might not - generally, care a whit for - but the other thing I adore that other people might not care for is rain. More specifically, I hate when people complain about the rain. The rain to me has always been so cleansing. We have had much rain this May, and people complain about...it all the time. Either they do not have a proper rain coat - I thank the GODS I found the ideal one seven years ago and am pleased to say Banana Republic has yet to let me down - or they do not connect rain with cleansing, and rain with spring, with the beginning of life after the pall of winter. My mother frequently starts a grey-cast day with a disgruntled, "Rain today." I feel sorry for people who do not love the rain. I wish to take a walk with them under an umbrella.
Rain, furthermore is the best mood setter. I think it is the most elegant music. I have had many fond memories of rain as it makes glissandos on an awning, sipping wine overlooking Umbria, gently reverbating on the clay tiles of a Swiss hostel, whispering onto the leaves of a tree in Central Park, the sight of mom laughing underneath a rainy, laughy umbrella in Lyon, the drops glistening briefly before drowning into a summery, sun-shower Lake of Zurich, sipping wine on Walnut Street, the beats it delivers against the windows of a little apartment at 160th and Broadway as I read, wrote, or sat with the window open, next to my doomed ivy plants, drinking coffee, and rain goes so well with music! Ironically, when I was once in London it only rained once, and for only fifteen minutes. I was the most disappointed student-tourist in London.
I remember a warm spring day where my father cleaned his van (it was the 80s, okay?) and we had planned a picnic meal in the backyard after I "helped" Daddy. Mom and Daddy wanted to cancel it until I suggested we eat in the van with the sliding door open and the rain pouring down outside.
Then the Spring I was coming out. It was the first wave of that journey, I was in high school and a gay friend recommended Tori Amos. He recommended her as a coming out album, not as a rain accompaniment. Now of course, I can't stand her, except for that album Boys For Pele which I listened to on repeat for the better part of a Spring Break. A Spring Break stained with the blood of a friend who killed himself; shot himself. After the funeral it rained; to me a God I then believed in was extinguishing the fires of hell for his tormented soul. Another Spring where music and rain came together so perfectly was the spring when my father was dying. I came to then embrace the rain, I needed to amplify its silent, murmuring soundtrack against the soulful voice of Billie Holiday whose pain and strength complimented both the sad times as well as the precipitation. I cannot, actually, listen to a Billie Holiday album in full, at one time, her songs so are linked to the last of my father's springs.
Yet, I finally think I have found my perfect rain soundtrack. One that sings the best things to me (not only French, as she does) but an intimate chanteuse whose voice was once described as barely being able to reach the second storey of a dollhouse. Blossom Dearie, her real name, (1924 to 2009) just passed away in the beginning of February. Her voice, truly, is a delicate strain of singing. Her voice is as delicate as a glass of champagne, little bubbles floating to the top amidst swells of gentle mucis. While the other singers I mentioned above, Billie and Tori, complement the rain in their strength, their bold oddness, their passion and power Blossom complements the rain by a voice that with each word wants to touch your soul. She is, or sad to say she was, primarily known as a cabaret performer. Therefore, her voice also lends itself to her comedic songs, such as "I'm Hip," "I Want to Be Bad," and a few others. Her comedic songs however are not what lend themselves to Spring rain. It is her love songs. As so many classic, songbook pieces are love songs they often speak of Spring, "It Might As Well Be Spring," is a superfluous, iconic example, but I am not being so...naive as to name only that. In "I Walk A Little Faster", she breaks your heart by singing, "Thinking you'll be there, I walk a little faster." She doesn't sing about Spring, per se; however, the tempo, the slow beat, her delicate fingers falling onto the piano, as she sings "searching for a face I can't divine as yet," conjures up images of someone walking in the rain. Their umbrella is overhead, open. They see someone perhaps smile in their direction, the umbrella'd walker sees this and hopes that he or she is the "love around the corner." So they "walk a little faster," but it's not them. In her own life she married once, an accomplished jazz musician, but tragically the Belgian-born jazzman died not long after their marriage. You can hear her pain, but her sadness speaks of having known, and lost love.
I have heard the song before, but with Blossom's cover of this sad, yet hopeful song it makes you truly sympathize with, and understand the plight of a single person. A single person who knows that looking won't help, but not looking won't help either. In the song her voice is as delicate as those champagne bubbles; a glissando of uncertainty and melancholy hope that "love is around the corner." "Thinking you'll be there, I walk a little faster."
Blosson Dearie was never an overtly famous singer. She was a very private, yet not unfriendly person from what I have learned. I am torn about her legacy, because while I do not want her memory exploited, I do not want her to be largely ignored or forgotten. But, listening to her now, as the rain beats down against the window panes, as Sugar stands with her nose pointed into the rain, not sure to venture outside or crawl into bed, I have decided that Blossom Dearie is something I will share only with people as sympathetic as I am. Namely people that love the sound of the rain, tapping on a dollhouse roof.

Thank You Perez For Not Being My Gay Voice!

I avoid television, I have made this perfectly clear via my online social groups and when friends talk about the latest reality TV show! However...I heard Anderson Cooper was doing a piece on a Greek Island where the importance of legumes in a healthy diet was discussed. As many of my friends know I have been on a bean, low-carb, virtually meatless diet. It has worked by the way, my skinny jeans are almost baggy...well, wishful thinking, Ok. Anyway I found Gloria Venderbilt's son on CNN.com, found the episode and waited to see the piece on Greek beans. Before that however an ugly head was reared. Namely Perez Hilton's. Someone chose him to be the judge, a judge, on the Miss America Pageant.

As a child I remember the Miss America Pageant on TV, it was in September, not April, and it was not a time nor a place to air political grievances. I do not think in my childhood the Misses of the States were questioned about their stance on Oliver North, nor the first Iraq War, nor anything of importance. I recall a lot of calls for "peace," plates spinning, ventriloquism, swimsuits, an end to world hunger, and the like. However, Miss California when questioned by Perez was not asked about her stance on fur, her stance on global warming or the like; she was asked about gay marriage. Before I even heard the response I put my head in my hands.

She is inarticulate as she claimed she believes in "opposite marriage," meaning when opposite sexes get married. She is unaware of the issues, as her response about having the choice to vote yes or no for gay marriage seemed to imply that we have the choice in this country to actually get married. In sum, she is a conservative and believes in the so-called "Biblical view of marriage." She said she did not wish to offend anybody, which is always a hallmark of someone setting out to offend you or at least rock the boat, before or during her answer.

Her response was what I expected, sadly. Her response was however received by the audience with an overwhelming swell of applause. They - to facebook it - gave her a profound thumbs up. Perez did not. Then, of course, it became or has become a battle between the uncrowned Miss California and the...crowned Perez. While she responded against gay marriage with a polite, if predictable air, Perez was up to his old tricks again calling her a "Bitch."

Really...a bitch? Is he aware that the audience behind him seemed to support Miss California in her support of Proposition 8? Is he aware that "our candidates," both Barack and Hillary when pressed about the issue did not support gay marriage out right? Is he aware that the term MARRIAGE is really what is scaring these people off from allowing same-sex unions? I repeat this over and over and over again, but now I am putting it into words! To my homosexual and lesbian comrades: STOP SAYING MARRIAGE, START SAYING CIVIL UNION! A MARRIAGE IS SOMETHING THAT TAKES PLACE IN A CHURCH. CHRISTIANS AND CONSERVATIVES ARE AFRAID THAT BY ALLOWING GAY MARRIAGE CHURCHES THAT OPPOSE GAY MARRIAGE WILL HAVE TO - UNDER THREAT OF PROSECUTION - MARRY GAY COUPLES! Ahem, that's all I have to say about the MARRIAGE debacle!

In terms of Miss California: this is a free country; you have your right to express your freedom of speech; in a way I appreciate your honesty. As we are a pluralistic society we can agree to disagree. She is - despite being uncrowned - the darling of the conservative forces, and we can thank Perez Hilton for that! She will doubtlessly get a great job working for a Christian or otherwise Conservative coalition.
In terms of Perez: we know you support same-sex marriage; we know you hate conservatives; we know that you are a celebrity who really likes to goad and irritate people that do not share your views. As we are a pluralistic society, endowed with the very freedom of speech that allows you to have your blog, YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO CALL THE WOMAN A BITCH IN YOUR VIDEO BLOG!

While Miss California will be celebrated by the Conservatives in this country Perez, your uncalled for, insulting remark will also make you a darling of the Conservatives too. You know why? Because by rearing your...pink-dyed head you make us look bad. You make me look bad, you make gay CIVIL UNIONS LOOK BAD, you make my gay friends look bad, you make US look bad, you make the states that allow same-sex unions look bad, and you make liberal - or at least gay-friendly - people look bad too! Thank you Perez for that remark, for condemning Miss California's freedom of speech by calling her a bitch, surely this makes you a gay hero...not! In sum, I encourage, request, and hope the gay people reading this blog will stop visiting your website and realize that freedom of speech -whether we support that particular issue or not - is what allowed the strives we as gay people have made to take place. So Perez, I always thought you were terrible but after this last incident I want to thank you for confirming that you are not my gay voice!

How Mr. Bush Ruined the Twenties

Okay, when I had to write up the Inauguration of President Obama I decided to take a rosy attitude. I didn't tear down Mr. Bush, didn't bring up the manifold injustices of his reign. Nor did I talk about how - on a personal level - he ruined my twenties. I was approaching twenty-two when he got elected. My roommate and I watched in horror as he won, well...took the election. My roommate was less optimistic than I was, he went to bed irritated, as I patiently hoped for a coup d'etat on TV. We thought this was our "Where were you when JFK got shot," moment. We walked around depressed students that had hoped the Clintons would be followed by another Democratic powerhouse. The city stood still, in a way liberal New York didn't know that they were practicing for a greater tragedy to come.
Matt woke me that morning in September. At first when he said, "Wake-up there's a plane in the World Trade Center," I went back to sleep. I thought it was a dream or a ruse to get me out of bed. Then, when, he put my glasses on my face, lit cigarettes with a match and told me to watch the TV I knew he wasn't joking. He wasn't watching a movie either. The second plane hit. I was still seeking hope, thought it was a rescue plane, a preposterous idea in retrospect. Where would they have landed?
Of course that was the moment, the "Where were you when JFK was shot moment?" In a sobering conversation with an Israeli visitor to the dorms where I lived that day he asked us what could we really expect? Pressure was mounting. People from Europe to China were tired of us, hated Bush and Americans weren't getting it.
The wars that came, the collapse of the housing market, Wall Street and the like have not been - in comparison - as shocking as Bush and Towers. Granted I was stuck in a subway a year or two later when the power gave out in the city. Yet, even this I cannot attribute to Bush. Had he been behind it something far greater, more devastating, would have coincided with it. Perhaps all gay bars and art galleries would have become army recruiting stations or headquarters for Republican Party watchdog groups. Although the power outage experience was symbolic, foreboding, yet at the same time a testament to New Yorkers who had already been put through so much. We all gathered in Times Square, with flashlights and candles to see the brightest corner of the world as dark as night. Our candles glittered. Hope against the blackness that had descended...
But back to my twenties, and those in my generation, we have all had to struggle. Work for less pay, or more hours and the same pay. Made to take positions that won't, can't offer advancement due to the economy. Jobs have been sent overseas, which makes me wonder at comfortable individuals who fail to realize that those building blocks of our economy do indeed affect their positions. Salary, hours, bonuses, benefits, etc. As a job seeker now it is hard to find something that doesn't blatantly say their wages are terrible or is a total scam. Corporate jobs seem the scariest, as it is an exciting time for them, big companies. They know they can easily lock you into a low-paying contract position now, more so than ever, and keep you there until the economy picks-up. I remember an article in the New York Times, the Sunday Magazine and this was about seven or eight years ago. It showed a robber baron, complete with top hat, tuxedo, pocketwatch, maybe a monocle over one eye, you get it. He was an evil Vaudevillian, a rich, cigar-smoking tycoon. He was busy harassing a factory-working, tramp type of character, a tenement dweller most likely. I cant remember the full article but it basically said the rich seemed to be getting richer. Unchecked salaries, bonuses and the like, the very things that banking houses are now being scrutinized about, would keep getting higher while what Benjamin Franklin described as the "Middling Classes" might someday face being wiped out entirely.
And we all have Mr. Bush to thank. Thanks for ruining my (and maybe your) twenties. Thanks for the wars that drove the country's finances out of control. Thanks for taking contract positions and professional positions that imposed more work that salary. Thanks for my republican boss that did barely any work, often shoveling it onto us to go on vacation, who was blatantly ant-gay, in a state without workplace protection against such behavior. Thanks Mr. Bush, Bushy to be sweet, for the lives lost, the fortunes and spindly savings ruined, people worrying about their homes, and anything else I am forgetting. On that note I am going to press my black suits, learn how to make a perfect martini and shred documents. Because if you do know of any robber barons or tycoons please tell them all about me. Tell them I would make a perfect butler, valet, or gentleman's gentleman.

Panhandled!

Ok. Sunday was perhaps not the best day in terms of my looking respectable. The day went something like this. Woke up at Lance's place. Had black coffee (on ode to The Berlin Stories, FYI), then set out into the world. Notice I did not mention that I showered. It was a lovely day in the city, as it went to 50 degrees and I thought "Bloody Mary." I contemplated the idea of having one out, but given my budget and my love of the Bloody Mary I decided to pick up some mixer and some vodka on my way home instead to share with mom. However, as I left the wine & spirits shop on 12th & Chestnut what did I see whiz past me? Yup! The bus home. I waited ten minutes and when I received a phone call from Ms. L. Quigley I had a stroke of genius. Why not walk down to her place of work and have a BM there? Brilliant! She was quite game, given that her shop was fairly empty. Given the shop's location in Old City I decided a nice walk through Washington Square and Independence Hall was also in order. I got to her shop. We poured Bloody Mary. We chatted. The phrase, "Your hair looks greasy AWOL," was mentioned. I freaked out and attempted to do my hair is a manner that would make greasy hair attractive. Then I went back to my Bloody Mary. Then she had a customer. Not just any customer, the other ladies that came in were solo or shopping with her mother in one case. This was a customer with a bevy of children and husband. Given my well...I won't say fear of children but my...yeah, well fear, I went outside to sit on the shop's "stoop."
Nothing happened of note, except to say that my Loomstate jacket did garner a compliment from a hipster and his girlfriend. Then a late-model Volvo pulled into the spot in front of the shop. Within the car was an older man, bespectacled, grey hair and bear, mid-60s, and a woman in her 80s I suspected. The woman, her bob carefully dyed brown, beheld me, smiled as the man parallel parked, no easy job in Old City. They studied the sign above the car, regarding the parking zone for what seemed like an eternity. Then they carefully emerged. I thought from the flourish of activity involved when exiting the car that the man was going to help the woman out from her passenger seat. However, the man had difficulty in walking and produced an elegant cane, made of a knobby, amber-stained wood, a small bag, a slightly larger bag and a book from the back seat while the woman struggled to get out of the car. I wanted to help her but noticed the older man did not offer her a hand. Now, in dealing with my mother, an older woman, I know that little exercises like getting out of a car, walking up steps and the like are sometimes best left to them. It maintains dexterity and builds confidence, seriously, my mother moves sofas. (Shut up, yes I know that episode of the Golden Girls!) So I didn't help her thinking the man believed this too.
Our city - as I am sure you know - is the home of A&E's Traffic Wars. Our Parking Authority Folk (surely the proper name) are notorious. Some carry machetes! So the man reviewed the sign after he emerged with all of his gear, even though he had studied it carefully from the car's interior. He looked at me, then walked a few feet as the older woman began to walk north. She smiled at me again. He turned around, uh-oh, I thought, he wants advice on parking in Philadelphia. There was no hole to jump into, getting up and running into the shop behind me would also prove strange so I sat there. "Excuse me, could you tell me if I'm okay to park here? I never can tell sometimes," he said. The sun was shining and it was in my eye. I squinted and ran my fingers through my greasy hair, which in my defense was collapsed hair product, not grease. "Sir, I was raised in Philadelphia and went to college in New York. I've never even had my license." (Yes, I know I should get it and I will this year! I promise.) "But I think you should be fine," I said this as I got up to check out the sign, a complicated affair, as it had a second sign underneath that said you had to use a large meter nearby for two-hour ticketed parking. This confused me. I kept looking. There had to be something more. Sure enough it said this was only enforced Monday through Saturday, as it was Sunday, or Bloody Mary Day he was in the clear. Like a good chap, sent by Scrooge to purchase a Christmas Turkey, I pointed this out. "You're fine," I said. He thanked me, the woman had stopped her struggled walk up Third Street, she was only one storefront facade or so away from us and she smiled at me again. He with cane, her without they carried on up Third Street.
Then they stopped. Oh no, they had forgotten something. I wanted to stand up and help them but realized the older gent was intent on his independence. He carefully placed his cane on the front window, the bottom of the cane deposited into the gap between hood and glass as he supported himself on the car handle. "I'm such a kindhearted soul," he said. "That I didn't lock the door behind me." I laughed, said he wasn't in the neighborhood for that. Then the woman was on my side, her hands, as knobby as her companion's cane struggled with her bag. She withdrew twenty-dollars from her purse. I began to realize she was indeed handing it to me! It came to me like some sort of communion. "This is for you, young man." She smiled, she patted my head. She put her ancient fingers to her mouth, "Shhh, I don't want him to know." I didn't know what to say. Yes, as a writer and house cleaner I am consistently broke yet I didn't want to take the money. I didn't want to not accept it either. These are tough times. My hair was greasy. The woman wanted me to buy some shampoo at least. The man turned now, the lady was directly behind him now. "Thank you," I said. "I don't know what to say, thank you." I was flabbergasted, the twenty was in my left hand. When he saw it he laughed. "Ah, they don't make them like her anymore," he said to me. Then to her, "You didn't go to Church today, that was your good deed for the day." I had to make some explanation as to why I accepted the money. "I, well, I'm a writer, so it is appreciated." They smiled at me once again, they believed me, perhaps they were writers or artists or collectors themselves. Perhaps the man was a professor, there was something academic about his nattiness. "Have a wonderful day," he said before he began walking up Third Street out of my life forever.
I slipped the donation into my pocket, into the Loomstate jacket that the hipster had complimented me on. I sat there. I was giddy from the Bloody Mary and not-quite-sure how to deal with the notion that I had been panhandled on the street. I say panhandled because yes I was given money. Yet I had not "Stepped into that line of work," it was put onto me.
A few minutes later the young blonde, husband and bevy of children (TWO little boys mind you!!!) left the store. I was free to renter. The twenty in my jacket pocket I withdrew it. "Did you see what happened? Out there," I turned around to see what Lauren's vantage point was from her desk. No, she would not have seen any thing, except perhaps the man's head (he was quite tall) as he approached me. The sign he worried about was not within her field of vision at all, I noted. "What are you talking about? Why do you have a twenty in my face," she asked. "Thanks," I replied, feeling like a panhandler. "I guess you think I'm too broke to have a twenty." Which is partially true, the rest of my cash was in the bank and in a dresser drawer; not in abundance. "No, but why are you waving it around?" I told her the story. I went into the mirror. "God...I'm a panhandler! In this jacket," I screamed. "Calm down, you're not a panhandler. You just need to wash your hair," she assured me.
I went to the window of the store. I replayed the scene in my mind. Then, I looked out to their car. They were totally within their rights to be parked there. I smiled. Then I noticed something. They had forgotten to put up their disabled tag, and they were parked in front of the low, blue meter for the disabled. "When do you close," I asked Lauren. At six, less than an hour away. "Good they forgot to put up their disabled tag. I'd have to give back the money if they get a ticket and come looking for me." Although I fantasized with Lauren about becoming a panhandler, maybe even enlisting a friend to begin a panhandling company, clearly I would not be successful at it.

Thank God for Middle Names

The woman asked me to complete an online security check, criminal background, that sort of thing. I was a little surprised as the woman had yet to formally offer me a position writing for her. Of course I mentally went over my background, just in case I had indeed robbed a bank or committed check fraud. Nope, nothing. It wasn't until I pressed "send" that something DID pop into my head!
A few years ago I was busy googling my name, hoping to find it via my electronic articles which had just begun to appear. I did find me under the name I use, my middle name, Sebastian. I was much-teased by friends when I introduced myself as they considered it a pretentious idea. After reading this, however, you will see WHY it's a good thing I am known by my middle name! Upon finding my name on google I was thrilled! Had there been champagne lying around I might have cracked it open. "I'm a writer," I beamed. "And if someone doesn't believe me here I am, with a headshot below my name!" Quite happy at my find I began to google other long-lost friends, relations, school mates from grade school through high school and college. I found a few things, but for the most part I only found similar names on genealogy websites, a reference to someone's ancestor, a town in Europe where their family name originated, etc. Then I thought, "Why not google your first name, see if there are any other Anthony Fortinos in the world?" I thought I would get a massive amount of Anthony Fortinos from Italy. I didn't find any overseas though, because their Anthony is Antonio. I found an Anthony Fortino in - of all places - Upstate New York, Oswego to be exact. I say of all places because a great-uncle did indeed move there, and I spent many childhood summers in Syracuse. I know his children however, or at least know of them, and neither of them are named Anthony. Intrigued by this other Anthony Fortino, I imagined emailing him, just because we have the same name. I dreamt of a friendship established, of being asked to share the story at dinner parties. I imagined adding him to my myspace and facebook, sending him Christmas cards and birthday greetings, just so I could write our names in both the return and mailing addresses. I know my family name is relatively rare, so we were probably distantly related. Then (and yes this was all before I clicked on his information) my heart swelled! Not knowing anything about him I thought what if, what if he's gay? What if, what if we could have a sign in front of our house someday that said Anthony Fortino 2 (squared, you see)? "Hysterical," I thought. "We'd constantly be opening each other's mail!" (Of course all legal documents, bank statements and the like come addressed to me with my first name.) Then, the final ridiculousness, what if we had adopted a child someday together? Could we possibly name him Anthony Fortino as well? A house with three Anthony Fortinos! That would be amazing!
These were all moot points however. When I clicked on the link pertaining to him what did I find? This young man, this Anthony Fortino, this possible distant relation, this possible lover, this possible Anthony Fortino of the sign in front of the house who would open my mail and raise a child named Anthony Fortino with me was on trial for murder! Yup! Apparently he was involved with a murder in Oswego. I won't divulge all the details, as I don't really know them. Coming back to the criminal background check request I googled him again. Time has of course changed things, including my namesake's personal life. Whereas a few years ago when I stumbled upon him he had just been arrested, now however he had been put on trial and sentenced twenty-five years to LIFE! Instead of an article on the subject there was now an excerpt from a local, Oswego news station. I got to hear what it would be like to be sentenced twenty-five years to life, by a judge. I laughed, I reflected on my own life, and how my friends' teasing me for being pretentious and using my middle name had been a good idea after all. I posted the video on facebook and imagined friends say, "We always knew you'd come to a bad end!" Of course I am disappointed we didn't end up becoming friends. Sad there is no laughing at dinner parties when asked to repeat the history of our friendship and how we met.
Then...I remembered the lady and the background check. Having a momentary lapse of reason - i.e., our addresses and social security numbers and dates of birth are not the same and the fact that I am not IN prison - I emailed her straight away.
"Please, please realize I am not the Anthony Fortino of Oswego, New York currently serving twenty-five years to life for murder!" She responded within five minutes. "LOL, will keep that in mind! We look forward to getting your first piece!"

Animals on TV

Animals frighten me. There I said it. No. Not animals in the zoo, not my doggie, while I am oddly petrified of cats I do not run for cover if I see a stray cat run past me on the street. What I mean...are the animals that are personified with certain human traits. A few weeks ago I was sitting in front of the TV, with my laptop, looking for jobs and writing. A commercial came on, that I am sure amused half the viewers. It was a lizard or a tree frog, a reptile of some kind. She was tending her apartment. If you do not remember the scenario she said something to the effect of: 'You can take the girl out of the Amazon but not the...' Yeah. You've seen it, claims her apartment SMELLS like a RAINFOREST. I found her story to be unbelievable! What reason would a happy, Amazon born reptile willingly leave her native jungle to live in a large city? Can we assume her husband got a good job in the city? (Pardon me if this sounds sexist, but the majority of these commercials do still pretend that all woman stay home while hubby is off at the office.) Can we assume they were paid to relocate to the city? Furthermore, what if they did not peacefully leave their abode in the Amazon? For I believe that they didn't peacefully move! No way, clearly they HAD to relocate because their darling Amazonian grove was most likely uprooted for the benefit of logging, or some other thrash and burn technique used to clear rain forests.
Yet...do we hear her story? No. We simply hear that she happily uses Glade air freshener. I am SURE her rainforest hideaway was land cleared by Glade, and she and her husband were awarded a good job and home in the city. They were exploited! You can't fool me!
Another commercial, which I frankly can't watch, involves a pair of giraffes of their wedding day. Preposterous! They are decked out in the typical wedding clothes, white gown & tuxedo. (I fail to notice every time if the lady is wearing a vail, do you know the COST of a vail long enough for a giraffe? ABSURD!) They have been re-imagined as bipedal creatures though, with their two front legs as hands, so that they can hold bibles, presumably exchange rings and - of course - receive some cough drops. Come on a Christian Wedding? Giraffes are no doubt a part of an Animistic religion, where they worship trees, nature and ancestors. The groom - apparently - has a case of a scratchy throat. He can't say 'I Do.' The giraffe of course takes the cough drop from (I think) the best man. It miraculously cures his throat. He is able to enter the bonds of Holy Matrimony. What if there was something behind the giraffe's lack of speech? How do we know they are entering into matrimony happily? Maybe this was a defense mechanism! Maybe the groom suddenly realized he wasn't over that awkward night! The camping night with his fiance and her brother, when he went down on his future brother-in-law! Maybe he was forced into marriage because he's only seventeen, and frankly he wants a paternity test. Maybe he found out how much the wedding cost and doesn't want to enter a union in that much debt!
Then again...maybe this commercial irritates me because (and I have looked) I found no pictures online of a giraffe in a wedding dress. This saddened me! Clearly this means the designers of the ad never got to use a real model to draw off of! So the wedding gown on said giraffe is NOT correct in terms of draping and proportions! See how they make us into willing children? Then again...maybe this commercial irritates me because I would like to see a giraffe dressed for a wedding. Maybe next time Vera Wang should design a gown. Dunhill, whose tobacco and clothing products doubtlessly got to Africa during the British Empire should (in support of Africa becoming a part of the global economy) design and donate a tuxedo.
Cats on TV bother me especially. I am startled whilst buried in my computer and hear a commercial for cat-food or litter because the meowing almost always opens the ad. However, there is one in the newspaper, the Sunday circulars, that I find MORE disturbing. Cats...with paws over their crotches. Cats...with another paw over their mouths. They are clearly upset about having to use the littler box, lest the results of said visit perfume the laundry room where the litter box is kept. Anyone who has lived with a cat knows that cats don't give a shit about their litter box smelling like...shit. Furthermore, what about the people who create their ads? Don't they know there is a certain litter box that hooks up to your toilet or other pipes in your home? This allows most of the offensive mess to be taken care of by the sewer. Yet the ad people, in their ivory towers, they continue to tell cat owners, "Sure, let them defecate, repeatedly! Then take their dirty little paws out from the litter box to carry germs all over your house. Sounds completely healthy. We've run tests! No fecal matter comes along with Mittens!" Indeed...
There were commercials aired a few years ago that involved dogs. They are forever sketched onto my memory, although in shattered images. It is a blur as to whether they tormented me during a long stay at home while I was living in New York, or if they were indeed running up there. It was for a local lottery. It showed dogs in all manner of human trappings. The dogs were dressed, in beds and on sofas, drinking coffee, brandishing remotes, if I recall correctly. The dogs mouths mouthed the words of the campaign, which was well and good. Barking with subtitles may have sent me running in the streets. These facts - the trappings, the talking - were mere trifles in comparison to what came next.
Hands. I refuse to remember if the dogs had human or dog-puppet hands. The sad thing is I am sure they were human hands! There, yes, they were HUMAN HANDS!!! These dogs didn't look like they were remarkably trained...they looked as if they came from the dog pound on the 'Island of Doctor Moreau!'
Another favorite is a roughly 2 yr old ad from the anti-drug council. It shows a suburban teenage girl just home from school. She heads to the refrigerator. Her dog hops up on the counter. He begins to speak to her. He really wishes she would stop smoking weed. God, if Sugar and I were in the same situation I might have a heart attack! No one would think the dog spoke, they would think I died of a marijuana drug overdose. If given the gift of gab Sugar would use the time instead to tell me to wake her up before I...masturbate so that she can leave the room. We have had MANY awkward mornings...afternoons...evenings...you get the point! Well, the drug-council dog's lips move, thanks to computer animation more developed I guess than the dogs with arms, very believably. Much more believably that the earlier lottery commercials. Now, the commentator on youtube.com says that if your dog is talking to you you're most likely smoking something other than weed. Nahhh, I've seen crackheads, they look nothing like the girl, Lindsey, in the ad. A crackhead would accept the dog speaking, and answer back, or else become violent with it. The question I ask, is if this dog is smart enough to tell Lindsey not to smoke...shouldn't he just go and tell her parents? The ones most likely on his ownership papers, who pay his bills? Talking to stoned Lindsey is not I feel the most intelligent choice he could be making. Please, let's give more credit to our animals than making them the subject of advertisers across the nation! Our animals don't deserve to look stupid when humanized...