How'd the Math Test Go?

There were 50 questions on the math test. I felt pretty confident up to about 28. The rest of the questions I didn't even attempt because I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. I'll find out my score in 24 hours. I wish I would have memorized how to figure the length of the hypotenuse of a right triangle. I think there's probably a formula for that, and if I'd known it I could have answered 3 or 4 more questions.

It's All Coming Back To Me Now.

I'm studying for a math placement test. I have to get a certain score (470, I think) in order to pass out of remedial math and into something called Applicable Math, which, if I can get into it, will be the only required math class for my degree. If I have to take remedial math, I'll still have to take Applicable Math.

I checked out an SAT prep book from the library, and I've been studying monomials and binomials, equations, and the rest. The test is tomorrow, and I haven't even gotten to geometry yet.

The thing I hate about math is that people who like math say how beautiful and logical it is, how, unlike life, it's rational and perfect and orderly. But it's not. Granted, if you follow the rules, it all unfolds exactly like you expect. But the rules don't make sense. Like, why does a negative number multiplied by a negative number equal a positive number? Negative 3 times negative 3 should equal negative 9, not positive 9. Math is all "because I said so, that's why," and that's why I hate it.

The last math class I had was Algebra II in 1977, and I know enough math to figure that that was a very long time ago. I got good grades in math in high school, but I struggled and studied and fretted and cried. Everything else in high school was easy. Math nearly did me in. I knew I had to get A's to keep my 4.0. If I didn't have a perfect GPA and graduate as valedictorian, I wouldn't get the scholarship money I needed to get me the hell out of Greencastle, Indiana. My parents helped as much as they could, but they weren't rich. I still have my final exam from Algebra II. I was right on the border between an A and a B all the way up to the final. If I got below an A- on the exam, my final grade would be a B+. It felt like my whole life hinged on that final. In a way, it did.

I'm not going to completely re-learn algebra and geometry in three days, so I need to relax and do the best I can. If I end up in remedial math, so be it. I'd rather be in remedial math than struggle in a class that is beyond my capability. I have a hunch I'll be taking advantage of the free tutoring.

Back.

The retreat was like a dream of what life could be. Rise at 9 or 10, walk up to the big house for coffee. (Tim and I worked and slept in the caretaker's house about a 1/8 mile away from the big main house, where the rest of the group stayed.) Maybe somebody would be in the kitchen making a pie, and we'd chat a bit, wake up, then back to the caretaker's house to work for a couple hours. Lunch around 1, informal, but usually a group would end up eating together at a big table outside. After lunch, a long work session until dinner at 8 or 9.

We all ate dinner together in a big, low-ceilinged dining room with heavy beams and a wrought iron chandelier with candles. (The house was built in the mid-1800s and expanded in the 1920s. It was huge but unassuming, a little rundown, and very comfy.) We ate like kings. Each artist was responsible for preparing one meal, so of course everyone was showing off, making our most impressive, delicious dishes. After dinner, a couple hours of wine-fueled, free-wheeling conversation about art and politics around the table. Then Tim and I made our way back through the pitch black night to the caretakers house for a little marijuana and 2 or 3 more hours of work until we were so tired we couldn't keep our eyes open and we wandered off to bed.

We re-wrote the show pretty much top to bottom. We kept all the original songs and most of the text, but re-arranged everything and wrote three completely new songs, along with new verses and other changes to the existing songs. We did an unbelievable amount of work in such a short time -- really only five full working days. It's always a surprise and a miracle to me -- though it shouldn't be -- how quickly the work gets done when there are no other pressures, no distractions, none of the daily discomforts that derail the process.

The weather was perfect: 70s and low 80s during the day, sunny and breezy, 50s at night. We must have been at a fairly high elevation for it to be so cool and lovely, but the views of the mountains made it seem like we were low. There was no internet access, or I would have looked that up. I also had no cell phone access. It was a little eerie to be so cut off for a week, but I was glad for it.

I got back late Saturday night, and yesterday I attended an orientation event for students "older than 25." It started at noon, and I left my house in plenty of time, but I couldn't find it. I walked around for an hour, getting more and more lost -- for some reason I always get completely turned around on campus -- and finally called J at home and asked him to look up the location. It turned out to be in the basement of the building I had gone to in the first place. Since it was Sunday, none of the usual offices were open, places where I could have gone for information. I was almost in tears, it was so hot and I'd been walking around for an hour in the blazing sun, in bad walking shoes. I was so overheated I felt sick and almost panicky.

The orientation session was great. It was a diverse group, mostly much younger than I. Even people in their thirties look like teenagers to me, so I felt like an old man even among the older students. There was a talk on how to study effectively, which was enlightening, and a session on staying sane. (U.T. offers free individual and group therapy!)

Dropping Off the Face of the Earth for a Week.

This afternoon, I will fly to New York. I'll spend the weekend with Tim, and then we'll drive (he'll drive) up to Western Massachusetts on Monday morning. They tell me there's only dialup internet where we're staying. I didn't even know they still made that.

So I doubt I'll be blogging till I get back, which is good because I shouldn't be blogging anyway -- Tim and I have 5 days to do about 5 months worth of work -- but I would be tempted to write a little something if I had wireless there.

Eleven artists will be there. We'll work on our own all day, come together for dinner, and then commune in the evenings. We'll share the household chores, and each of us is responsible for preparing one meal for the group. I told Tim I would do both our meals (with his help), since he's not really a cook and it comes naturally to me.

They asked us to send a shopping list in advance. I planned two meals and wrote up my list. I had a little paroxysm of self-consciousness when I saw it written out. It seemed like simple fare when I thought up the menus (roasted Portobello sandwiches with red pepper and arugula, baba ganoush, cucumber salad with lemon and mint, etc.), but the grocery list looks like super-homo food snob in the kitchen. I wonder what everyone else will make.

Lost My Book, Almost My Bike.

I just got back from the library, my neighborhood branch. I've been reading all these Lizzie Borden books, and there were two I wanted to take with me to the writing retreat. One is the conspiracy theory: Lizzie's secret illegitimate brother did it. It's not due till after I get back. The other is called Forty Whacks, and it's my favorite. It's a sober telling of the events, more or less proving that Lizzie couldn't have done it because she didn't have time ... but neither did anyone else. It was due today and I've already renewed it once, so it was really due today.

Anyway -- and I've done this before -- I planned to return it and check it out again. They've done this for me several times, provided there isn't a "hold" on the book (meaning, someone else is waiting for it). Not today. Since the book came from another branch, I would have to take it to that branch, turn it in, wait till it's back on the shelf, and then check it out again. But I'm leaving tomorrow. I pleaded with the man, but no dice. Then I called the branch that the book came from and pleaded with the woman there. By this time, the book was already checked back in, so it was too late to just keep it and pay the two bucks for returning it a week late. That's what I should have done. Damn.

I've gotten in the bad habit of leaving my bike unlocked at the library if I'm only running in for a minute or two. It seemed like a waste of time and energy to spend on this activity which supports an attitude that my neighborhood is full of thieves waiting to pounce on an unlocked bike. I guess I want to feel safe in my neighborhood, even if I'm kidding myself. On my way out of the library, a man was walking quickly and purposefully toward my bike. When he saw me, he flinched, and then he said, "Hey man, do you have fifty cents?" I said I didn't, and he said, "Oh man, I was just getting ready to sit here and wait for whoever owned that bike to come out so I could ask him if he had any change..." and he told me a story about somebody giving him a burrito that was too spicy so he needed a Dr. Pepper.

I think this is the same guy who wanders the neighborhood scanning people's yards for whatever's not nailed down. J caught him "borrowing" some tools from our next door neighbor a few weeks ago. If it's not the same guy, they could be twins. They're both wiry and tattooed and good at making up implausible stories quickly.

Lizard in the Closet.

On the inside of my closet door, there is a row of hooks where I hang shirts and pants that I've worn that are clean enough to wear again. When I opened the door a few minutes ago, a shirt fell off its hook onto the floor and behind it was a baby gecko about two inches long. It froze in the light for a few seconds, and then it scurried behind the other clothes hanging there. Now I can't find it. Maybe it dropped to the floor and ran away. I hope I don't put my hand in the pocket of my jeans next week and find it there dead. I found a dead baby snake behind the garbage can in the kitchen last week.

Speaking of not knowing how things will play out, my new friendship with the Gardener is something like a science experiment. If you like science. I am mightily attracted to him, and I get the idea he's into me too. I think neither of us is accustomed to concealing such information -- and I get the idea we have similar opinions about "how men are." But possibly we also have similar feelings about the ethics of sex, and our better judgment tells us to practice some self-control. Not that a friendship can't begin with sex, but does it need to? (Most of the people I've had sex with I've never seen again.) So we say to each other, "What would it be like if we kept our paws off each other?" This experiment fits nicely with my Buddhist meditation practice, which is all about just sitting with the urge to do something, not scratching the itch, practicing not reacting.

The experiment doesn't sit at all with my philosophy that pleasure is good and that one should enjoy it where one finds it.

It's tricky -- at least mentally, for me -- because recently, well, in the last decade or so, I've tried to let myself be more physically affectionate with my friends. I was not raised by touchy-feely people. When I became an adult, sex was the only setting where touching was easy, and, inversely, touching of any kind felt sexual.

As usual, life is complex.

So, what do I make of my desire to touch the Gardener? I want to allow myself to give in to my feelings of affection, to touch him because we're friends and it's good to touch your friends, but I know that the urge has an erotic component, which I am trying to control. (Who ever said that the human capacity for self-reflection was an evolutionary advancement? I don't buy it. I say it's been nothing but trouble since day one. If we were dogs, we could just fuck, and everybody would be happy.)

The Times, They Are, etc.

I'm suffering with a bit of whiplash this week. After a few years of having my life to myself, I've been wrenched back into the real world. Willingly.

On Friday I fly to New York where I'll spend two days with my friend and collaborator Tim preparing for a week-long retreat in the Berkshires where we will re-write and expand our Lizzie Borden musical. It's been 13 years since we visited this piece, and just as long since Tim and I have worked together, so there's some inertia to overcome. And I suppose it's been that long, too, since I have done work that hasn't been self-generated.

I've been reading books about Lizzie for the last couple weeks and making notes. There are a lot of books. This is the stuff I live for. Every time I do theater work, I remember that it is what I always wanted to do, from as far back as I can remember.

When I get back from the retreat, I'll have about a week before school starts.

I canceled my subscription to the Austin American-Statesman today, reluctantly. I will miss the minutia of local politics. Not only do I enjoy that stuff, I believe that it's my duty as a responsible citizen to know it. I mean that. But I will have to find other ways to stay informed. The daily paper takes me at least an hour to read, and I can't see that I will have an hour every morning to read the paper once I start school. Especially since I plan to take an 8 a.m. Spanish class 4 days a week.

And I applied for a part-time cooking job at a neighborhood cafe. I hope they'll hire me to cook on Saturday and Sunday, so I can pay my credit card bills. My financial aid should cover everything but.

Musical Education.

I had this idea the other day -- no doubt while I was stoned -- that I should work up a set of my theater songs to play live, so I dragged everything out of the storage closet to get out the box of old cassette tapes (of course it was at the very bottom of the stack of boxes at the very back of the closet) and listen to my old work. Now of course I'm all nostalgic and self-congratulatory.

I have a substantial body of work, which is not surprising since I'm 46 and I've been doing this since I was in my early twenties, but when you're 46 and you've been doing this since your early twenties and you're not famous or at least "making a living at it," there's a lot of pressure to conclude that you haven't accomplished a damn thing. Trying to explain that you have been successful despite the fact that your dream of stardom didn't come true is like trying to tell people that you don't consider your divorce to be the failure of your marriage. (And, in my case, the two are exactly the same.)

The story I tell is that theater school ruined theater for me and art school ruined art, so when I started playing in bands and writing songs I willfully avoiding studying music so as not to ruin that. And, as we do of all those stories we tell, I've often wondered whether this was a true story or just a good story. Turns out it is true.

Listening to this old work -- a lot of it is very rough work tapes and demos, just me in my bedroom with a 4-track cassette porta-studio, my thrift store electric guitar and a toy Casio; it's refreshing to see how naive I was, how willing to let my collaborators see how unschooled I was, and how much I loved that distortion pedal -- I can trace my career from those first songs, when I just jumped in and started doing it, all the way to Y'all and beyond, when I had become a fine songwriter, I would even say a first-rate songwriter. And I think the real success is that every bit of the work, good and bad, was genuine. My scheme took decades, but it worked.

In this box is a rehearsal tape of a Tiny Mythic Theatre Company production of Lorca's Blood Wedding from 1989. It was right after I broke up with my first long-term boyfriend -- six years, an apartment in Brooklyn, three cats and a dog, and he was the one who pulled me into music, playing with a band he was forming with a lesbian couple who were moving to New York from Baltimore. The sequence leading up to my work on Blood Wedding led to my decision to leave that relationship. (The director asked us to write the music, since we had worked together on two of the company's productions the previous season. My partner didn't want to do it -- the time commitment of a theater production was grueling -- so I decided to do it alone. Finding a separate life for myself after being part of a couple for so many years was exhilarating. I wanted to be single again. I left him.)

The task was more challenging by far than anything I had done. Lorca's play contained all these "songs," or sections written in verse with no music. It was like being handed the lyrics for a full-length musical and being asked to set them to music. I like to think of Tiny Mythic Theatre Company as my informal MFA program in music for theater. I worked with them on several productions in the late 80s and early 90s, writing and performing music. How often does a songwriter with barely any experience get to see all his first efforts put on a stage straightaway? It was a rare gift.

After Blood Wedding, Tim Maner (one of the founding directors of the company and subsequently of HERE Arts Center) came to me with the idea of turning the Lizzie Borden story into a rock musical. The first incarnation of Lizzie Borden was a one-act, 5 songs, it was wild and loud and the audience loved it as much as we loved creating it. I think it was while we were working on Lizzie Borden that I was at Tim's apartment and saw a copy of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein sitting on a table. I said, "That's my favorite book!" Tim said, "Really? I think it would make a great musical."

Frankenstein kicked our asses, and after Lizzie Borden I hope we get a chance to revisit it. It was too big for us, and it didn't come together, but listening to the songs on tape this week -- we made a soundtrack recording, faithfully documenting every brilliant and dreadful moment -- I still think it's some of our best work. It's easier to see the flaws now, and it would be easier to fix them. At the time, we never questioned our ability to stage a musical with some 18 songs, a cast of 20 or so (mostly non-musical theater performers), with pop rock songs whose lyrics were all taken verbatim from a Romantic novel. We just plowed ahead. It was an inspired process, but it didn't show in the finished production. Half the audience walked out at intermission every night. It broke our hearts.

I think the next thing I did with Tim after that was Las Sirenas, a performance based on the Odyssey, film noir dialogue, and 70s pop music. Most of the songs in it were appropriated pop songs, but I did write an ABBAesque disco song for the girl-groupish Sirens to sing. And then -- or do I have the order reversed? -- Tim did A, a sprawling environmental theater work based on The Scarlet Letter. For that, I wrote a sort of Brechtian ballad about bulimia and a song about transcendence through S/M sung by a full gospel choir.

Red Curry.

In our CSA box we got a bunch of lemon grass, another big bag of okra, 6 or 8 red potatoes, one small eggplant, a lot of basil, two onions, and the usual squash, cucumbers, and assortment of chilies. Since A left some ginger here, and we have all these Thai chilies from the garden, I decided to make a red curry.

I got very good at curries when I worked at Greens. It takes a while and makes our unair-conditioned kitchen very hot, but it's rewarding. I roast most of the vegetables first, which boosts the flavor. (Like the potatoes and carrots and eggplant, cut them in bite-sized pieces, toss with olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper, and roast on a baking sheet in a 400 degree oven until they're tender. Do them in separate pans to get each vegetable perfectly done.)

Our blender died. We have a hand blender, but it's not quite strong enough to really pulverize the lemon grass and ginger, so the curry sauce is a little fibrous, but it tastes delicious.

The sauce is easy. Sautee some sliced onions and chili peppers with a pinch of salt -- I used three small Thai chilies for the whole batch and it turned out about medium hot. (If I had red bells peppers I would have sauteed some with the onions, for more flavor and a nice red color.) Add some broth or water and blend until smooth. Cut up some ginger, garlic, and lemon grass into chunks and blend with water or stock until very smooth. Add it to the pan with some coconut milk (I'd say 2 or 3 parts broth to one part coconut milk) and simmer until the flavors come together. Taste it frequently. Add some paprika to make it redder.

I sliced and added the okra about two minutes before I turned off the sauce, just long enough to make it tender. Then I added the roasted veggies to the hot sauce to heat them through. It's ready now, but J is gone for the afternoon, so it'll sit all day, and tonight we'll eat it over rice topped with some chopped basil.

It's Still Raining in Texas.

1. It's still raining in Texas.

2. I spent two months rent on my new glasses, or I should say lenses, because I still have my old frames. I should just put a big scratch on them now so I can relax.

3. Cucumbers, poblanos, and jalapeños. That's what loves to grow in our garden. Apparently that's what loves to grow in the CSA farm garden, too. And the jalapeños are super wicked hot. I chopped up a roasted one the other day and put a bit of it on a sandwich, and I burned my lip so bad I had to hold an ice cube on it for 15 minutes before I could finish eating.

4. It's still raining in Texas.

5. Lizzie Borden didn't do it. Maybe. I always thought she did, but I'm reading a couple new books that make me doubt my certainty.

6. J and I saw Hairspray this week. It's great. Go see it. Marijuana helps.

7. It's still-- A break in the rain! I'm going to ride my bike to the coffeeshop.

Happy Ending.

I realized that I forgot to post the final chapter in the story of losing $40 at Whole Foods. (It's not "Who Shot JR?" but hopefully someone will find it mildly interesting.)

Not that I tie up every loose end here, or even try, but Whole Foods needs the good press. It's endlessly complex isn't it, the American sport of building up and tearing down successful people? There's plenty to find fault with at Whole Foods, but I mean, please, John Mackay has almost single-handedly changed the landscape of American grocery shopping (I would argue, mostly for the better). Is it really such a shock that he's ambitious and a little crazy?

Anyway, I had told the customer service person that the transaction in question had taken place on a Tuesday. They went through all their receipts from Tuesday and didn't find any cashier's drawer that was over $40, or over at all.

But it wasn't a Tuesday, it was a Monday. I remembered that the super-gregarious cashier had asked me, "Did you do anything fun over the weekend?" which would be an odd Tuesday question. So it had been 3 days until I noticed that I never got the cash. I called back and asked them to look through their Monday receipts. They did, and they found it!

I drove over to the store and they handed me 40 bucks. I had given up on recovering it, so it was like a bonus. Like visiting your grandmother and she passes you a five when she kisses you goodbye.

I Love You, Tomorrow.

J is coming home tomorrow. Praise the lord and get this child out of my house!

A Trip to Target.

I have to admit that I just got back from shopping in a big chain store, and it did wonders for my state of mind.

I bought a shower curtain. That's all. It was $10. It's nylon, but woven fabric instead of a sheet of plastic. The main thing is that it's washable. The mold in our bathroom has been fruitful with all this rain and humidity. I don't know if it will be this way every year; in fact, I doubt it -- "This is not typical!" -- but I got really sick of wiping the mold off the shower curtain.

The sun was out when I woke up today. When I was driving to Target, the sun was still out and it was raining. That was a nice change. Now, another thunderstorm. I am not complaining about the rain any more. I was bitching to Z the other day, and he said, "You know, the only people complaining about this weather are people who've never endured a Texas summer." In other words, "I'll give you something to complain about." No more.

After I found my shower curtain, I wandered around the store for an hour or so, enjoying the air conditioning and the pretty colors. I contemplated towels, gazed longingly at the bright orange plastic bowls and cups, fingered an Isaac Mizrahi quilted bedspread. I picked up a box grater, put it down, picked up another one, put it down. I shopped for t-shirts and underwear, marveling that they could be so white, so pure and clean. I found the styles I wanted, in my size, held them for a moment, then put them back. A handsome man in the camping department cruised me. And then I bought my shower curtain and came home.

I love Target. I'm sorry, I know it's a sin, but I just do.

Towels.

When I went to the bathroom first thing this morning, I noticed there were several hand towels on the towel hooks, and the only bath towel in sight was mine, which struck me as strange because, since J has been gone, there have always been lots of bath towels all over the bathroom. For a while there, it seemed like there were towels everywhere, and I had a hard time keeping track of which one was mine. I think A's girlfriend uses two towels when she showers, and I don't know who else is taking showers here.

I like a fresh towel every couple of days, especially in summer when I take 2 or 3 showers every day, so I put my old towel in the hamper. When I opened the cabinet to get out a new towel, there was only one left. I've been washing towels every few days, which I don't mind at all because I'm using lots of them and I might as well wash them all, but there were no towels to wash. Where did all the towels go?

A and his friends went out of town from Friday until late Saturday night, and they left a basket of dirty laundry on the porch. (Why?) In the basket were two of our towels. We have about 7 or 8 towels all together. Most of them are mismatched, old thrift store towels.

When A got up, I said to him, "What happened to all the towels?" He said, "Towels?" I said, "There are only a couple of towels in the bathroom." He said, "Hm. Maybe we took them swimming. I thought we got towels at ____'s house. Let me check." A few minutes later, when I went to the bathroom again, there were three more towels in my hamper, not including the ones that had been in the basket on the porch. The basket is not there anymore. We're still short of couple of towels.

We also have about 5 pint beer glasses, which we use for everything: iced coffee, water, ... beer. Friday night, there was only one on the shelf, and one dirty in the sink. I found 3 more in J's room (where A is staying).

I realize I am now officially a crotchety old man complaining about "kids today." Some of their behavior can be attributed to their youth I'm sure. But there are bad guests of all ages. How to be a good guest is something I learned because for many years I was so frequently a guest. I certainly didn't know at 20 what I know now. (Most important rule: Wash the dishes. All the dishes. Second most important rule: If you move anything, move it back. Third: Your clothes belong in your suitcase. Even the dirty ones. Especially the dirty ones. Fourth: be quiet. I would have thought that Don't have parties and Don't bring your uninvited girlfriend wouldn't even have to be on the list, but I guess they're not as obvious as I assumed.)

I hope I was a little better at human interaction than A and his friends when I was their age, but I wouldn't bet on it. I have a couple former roommates who I'm sure have unflattering stories to tell.

So what do I do? I think what needs to be done is that this boy needs to be slapped, but I'm not gonna be the one to do it. What I'm trying to do is ride it out, stay cheerful, and try to be a gracious host regardless. I feel more like a put-upon mom than a host. This experience makes me glad I never had kids, and makes me want to call my dad and forgive him for everything.

One of Those Days.

I sometimes say -- jokingly, because actually it was the fact that I couldn't get by on what I was making at the job that I hated -- that I left San Francisco because it rained every day for a month and a half. It really did -- that part is true.

It hasn't rained every day for a month and a half here in Austin, but damn near. And for a lot longer than a month and a half. It seems like it's been raining since March. Everything smells like mildew. There's mold growing everywhere. The garden is as over it as I am.

Today I had orientation at U.T. That's why I'm so aware of the rain, because I walked around in it all day. Somehow in all the confusion about my financial aid, I missed the earlier orientation session, so this was a makeup session. I can't register for my classes until August 23, but I had a great meeting with an academic adviser who strongly recommended I major in American Studies, which is an interdisciplinary major. I might just.

I'd been thinking about majoring in English, or something they have here called Rhetoric and Writing. But American Studies is broader and less concerned with theory, and I like that. As far as credits toward my degree, I'm in pretty much the same boat no matter what major I choose. There's a handful of general requirements I have to fulfill, and the rest will be courses in my major.

Right after I walked out the door this morning, I turned around to go back for something (I can't remember what), but I couldn't get my door unlocked. The deadbolt was stuck. I tried for a minute, but it wouldn't budge, so I gave up and left. When I got home this afternoon, I went in J's door in front (same key). I tried my lock from the inside but it was still just as stuck and while trying to get it unstuck I broke my key off in the lock.

Browsing through the course schedule on line, it looks like pretty much every class I want or need is full already. Nice.

Ouch.

Tuesday evening I went to Whole Foods and bought one red onion, a bunch of cilantro, a 6-pack of Real Ale, and a small container of kalamata olives. The total was about $20. I used my debit card to pay, and I asked for $40 cash back. I don't often do cash back, but I was completely out of cash.

The cashier was very friendly, in fact I wondered if she wasn't pushing it a little hard -- "Did you do anything fun over the weekend?" After the transaction was complete, she noticed that I had brought my own bags; it was too late to deduct my bag refund, and she apologized for that.

Last night, when I took out my wallet to pay for my beer at the bar, I realized I didn't have any cash. The cashier at Whole Foods had not given me the $40. Or the receipt.

I went to the customer service desk at Whole Foods today and told them what happened. I guessed it was a long shot, especially after two days, but I thought maybe the cashier, when her drawer came up $40 over, would have put it aside, she would have told someone.

It didn't happen. $20 for one red onion, a bunch of cilantro, a 6-pack of Real Ale, and a small container of kalamata olives hurts. $60 hurts a lot.

Pussy.

I could write a book about gay men and how they feel about vaginas.

I have never had sex with a woman, but I think my experience is unusual among "gay" men. I don't think I have one gay friend who hasn't had some significant sexual experience with women. And not because they were closeted and oppressed and forced into it, but because they wanted to and enjoyed it. (A good friend of mine from years ago, we're not in touch any more, but he used to go on and on about cunnilingus, how much he loved it. He eventually fell in love with and married a woman.) Then, at some point in their lives, they veered toward same-sex relationships. I think, even in more open, urban communities, there's a great deal of pressure to pick one. Bisexuality is confusing, even to liberals.

So I think I might be an anomaly, a gay man who has never had any sexual attraction to a woman. I did make out once with a woman friend in a bar when we were both sloppy drunk. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't sexy.

My first roommate in New York was a woman, a fellow student at Parsons. She would get naked at the drop of a hat. She walked around the apartment naked all the time. She had big breasts and narrow hips. You might be chatting and she would get up, walk into the bathroom which was just off the kitchen, leave the door open, sit down on the toilet and pee, wipe herself, and get up, never missing a beat in the conversation.

I think she was the first woman I saw naked from the waist down. She had lots of blond hair on the inside of her thighs that I remember thinking she really should get rid of. (I was only 20. Where did I get such ideas about women's body hair?)

But we were in art school, so it wasn't long before I was seeing lots of naked women modeling for my drawing and painting classes. Mostly women models, I think because I had mostly male teachers. My painting teacher, who was a woman, had models of both sexes in her classes, but the rest of my teachers, all male, had only women models.

One time, in painting class, the model was in a pose that had her legs splayed and I noticed the little white string from her tampon dangling in her crotch. It took me a while to figure out what it was. I grew up in a family that didn't talk much about bodies and their natural processes.

My good friend M in San Francisco hates the word "pussy." I'm not sure if she finds that particular word offensive and she wouldn't mind if you called it something else, or if she'd rather one didn't bring up the subject at all. I think it's a funny word because it means "cat." Straight men say it a lot, mostly to each other, and without irony. Straight men get very serious about pussy. I myself can't say it without smiling (and probably blushing) a little. Just saying the word brings out my lisp.

I hate when gay men have that "Ew, yuck!" reaction to the mention of a vagina. It feels ugly and hateful. But I have to admit, though I'm fascinated, I have never wanted to get very close to one. It's partly a visceral reaction to something that is so "other." It's like contemplating the genitals of a giraffe. Interesting, but there's something deep within me that says, "no."

Perhaps vaginas make me feel inadequate. They want something I don't have to give.

For a long time, in my 20s, I was plagued by the notion that male homosexuality might be caused by fear of women. I still wonder sometimes. A big part of my sexual interaction with men is guided by my familiarity with their bodies, and I can't imagine what it must be like to have sex with someone whose body is so different.

What My Bathroom Smells Like.

Sorry to go on so about this, but, besides a lot of reading and thinking, it's the only thing going on in my life this week.

I decided, being a little stir-crazy after spending the whole rainy day in my room, that I would go out for a couple beers. Wednesdays there's live music at my favorite bar, and it's hit or miss as far as quality of the bands, but I need to get out of the house.

I wanted to brush my teeth before leaving -- I had rice with shredded zucchini and pesto for dinner -- but A was in the bathroom. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Still in there.

Half an hour later, someone emerges and closes the door behind him. I didn't see who it was, I just heard the door open and close and saw a shadow pass my bedroom door. Two minutes later, someone else emerges. I go in to brush my teeth, and the bathroom smells like pussy. And not faintly.

Right now, any attempt to convey my feelings about this will make me look foolish or misogynistic -- both of which I'm sure I am at times -- so I'll just let it be for tonight.

Hospitality II.

There's a party in my house. A, his girlfriend, and a least 4 of their friends are here, hanging out in the front room (J's room).

One thing's for sure, I am learning a lot this week. I was feeling really quibbley about things like schmutz on the kitchen table, lights left on, too much a/c use, unrinsed beer bottles in the recycling bin, inordinate toilet paper consumption, etc., but I had a change of heart. I realized, "A is J's guest. I should treat him like a guest. Is it really such a big deal that he brought his girlfriend?"

So I relaxed. I washed their towels with mine. I cleaned up after them in the kitchen. It felt good.

But the situation continues to test me. I am struggling to treat A like a guest, but does a guest invite a group of people over to his host's home for a party? He's not acting like a guest, but more like a sublettor. And a sublettor pays rent. But that makes it an issue about money and property, so I reject that line of inquiry.

I try to separate the money issue from the consumption issue. I bristle at the excessive use of electricity because I know our utility bill will be high. But it's also important to me that ours is a low-impact household. J and I both make a great effort to follow certain guidelines about consumption. J is often better at it than I am, and he keeps me on my toes. We reduce, reuse, recycle, and compost religiously. Is it less than gracious to insist that guests follow our rules? I hate telling people what to do.

To use the bathroom, they have to walk through the kitchen and past my bedroom door. I don't like how it feels to look up and see a stranger walking through my home.

My home. Mine, mine, mine. I don't believe that this corner of a run-down old house is mine, not in any real sense. I've been in too many fucked-up situations with landlords to get very comfortable in a rented apartment. Maybe that's why, in the end, it's hard for me to take any firm stand in this situation. I'm paying rent, but really we're all just squatters. I might be here longer than A and his girlfriend and their friends, but that doesn't mean it's not going to end at some point. We all get kicked out sooner or later.

Coffee, Iced Coffee, Beer.

I'm not a real Austinite yet, because I don't carry a water bottle around with me wherever I go.

I make a pot of coffee in the morning, which yields 3 mugs of strong coffee to drink while I read the paper. Sometimes J will have a cup, but not often. If he has a cup, then I make another pot, because I have to have at least 3 cups or I'm not done. I put what's left in the fridge for iced coffee later.

Usually in the afternoon, I have at least one tall glass of iced coffee. I like iced tea, but I like it sweetened whereas coffee I drink unsweetened. But I can't drink it black. I have to have some milk or half and half. So it's a choice between sugar and fat, isn't it? Also, when I have an iced tea, I only want another and another. One iced coffee is enough.

Around 6 or 7, I want a beer. I want to sit on the porch and drink a cold beer. Now, one beer definitely makes me want another, but that's an urge I usually fight off or I'd be out cold every night by 9.

I hardly ever drink water. And I hardly ever feel thirsty. Every once in a while, I feel suddenly, extremely thirsty, but that happens very seldom.