Oh Dave! Now

So where do you stand? Should the man put the toilet seat down for the ladies who follow him? Or in the spirit of equality between the sexes, should he just leave it up or down, depending on whether he stood or sat?

Arguments for putting it DOWN:

• Common etiquette in consideration of delicate women folk who always use the toilet sitting down and are dependent on men to make sure the seat is in the down position before the woman can use it.
• ­So during the night, a woman (or man) doesn’t sit and fall in the toilet.
• ­So women don’t have to touch the seat with their fingers to put it down before they use the toilet and potentially infect their privates with whatever germs they got on their fingers.

Arguments for leaving it UP:

• ­So during the night, a man doesn’t piss all over the seat.
• ­If touching the icky toilet seat is a concern of women, consider this—if the seat is down the man has to lift the icky seat with his fingers. He then uses those “contaminated” fingers to hold his penis while he urinates. It’s doubtful that he then washes that penis before sexual activity with a woman, so the woman has less control of avoiding icky-toilet-seat contamination via the man who had to lift the seat.
• ­Penis-crush injuries can be suffered by toddler males trying to lift heavy seats that slip out of their little hands and fall onto their penises.

Most of the arguments above are questionable, at least as a male vs. female conflict. I know men who always sit, even if they’re just urinating. It’s not as simple a decision as women make it out to be. However, I’ll admit that when I use the bathroom in an office or home where the primary users are women, I’ll be polite and considerate and lower the seat when I’m done.

There are options for women to urinate standing up, primarily in public restrooms so they don’t have to sit on dirty and/or contaminated toilet seats. Products developed in Europe include a portable disposable urination funnel called Urinelle. Ellen DeGeneres uses a product, developed by a Dutch woman, called P-Mate! A German company manufactures a female urinal fixture that has been used in European concert facilities and airports.  

There is, however, a somewhat simple solution for the home that works for everyone—install a urinal!! 

We did it in our two-male home. It’s wonderful. In that bathroom we always leave the toilet seat down.  If we just have to pee, we use the urinal. If we want to do more than pee, we use the toilet. It’s that easy, people!

There is also something freeing about a urinal. Splashing and spraying worries that come with peeing into a toilet are gone. All is contained by the urinal wings. A man can focus on release, not only of his bladder but also of anxiety, overwhelm, anger. Whizzzzz—away it all goes. A man is left with his thoughts and can connect with his root, primal nature. Peeing into a urinal is as freeing as peeing outdoors in the woods or in the snow. It’s a simple joy of manhood.

Space-wise, a urinal may seem like a luxury for most homes. Make room—it may be more important to marital bliss than double sinks. And they are not that expensive, sometimes less than a toilet—Home Depot has urinals for under $200, not that much more than their toilets. As you can see from the photos of our urinal, there are stylish designs from which to choose, apart from the basic utilitarian urinals found in most public restrooms. We chose an electric-eye flush rather than the clunky looking knob handle models that would have made our bathroom look like one in a gas station or bar. (The only weird thing is sometimes it flushes on its own, waking us up during the night—we wonder if a ghost has passed in front of the eye causing it to flush. Or do ghosts pee too? Invisible phantom piss…)

If you don’t have the space, money, or chutzpah to install a urinal, then I suggest that whenever someone, man or woman, goes to the bathroom, night or day, they individually take responsibility to check the current position of the seat. If it’s up, and you need to sit, then put it down. If it’s down and the man needs to pee (or the woman needs to clean it), he (or she) raises it and leaves it there when they’re finished. The next person to use the toilet can then decide whether they need to put the seat down or leave it up. It’s the democratic thing to do, oui-oui, ladies?

It breaks my heart that St. Valentine wasn’t executed in a warmer month than February so Valentine’s Day could be celebrated with a street party instead of intimate candlelit dinners for two. San Francisco’s now annual version of the international Love Parade gushes down Market Street at the end of September, on the same weekend as my sweetheart’s birthday.

The Love Parade begins at the brunch hour and thumps and grinds into dusk. For the last two years by the time Eric and I ascended from BART at Powell Street, making our way to a Broadway show or fancy restaurant near Union Square, all we have witnessed are Love Parade leftovers. This is somewhat fitting as the Love Parade caters to people in their late teens and early 20s. That is about the same age group as Romeo and Juliet whose love was impetuous, passionate, plagued by miscommunication and ultimately fatal.

Love Parade celebrants are more likely to die from skin exposure or broken eardrums than from hearts stabbed and poisoned by either love or rejection. Electronic dance music blared from colorfully decorated truck beds masquerading as parade floats. Groups of young women flitted through the tourist mob clad scantily in shiny gold hot pants, tutus, sandals, tie-dye or lamé blouses and tank tops. On their backs were homemade fairy wings. They were high spirited and giggly.

I think celebrating love and peace is a brilliant reason for a parade. It rekindles and re-imagines the Human Be-Ins in the 1960’s that freed men, and especially women, to love the one you’re with, in this moment, and also the one in the next. There is practically nothing more magical than hooking up with a stranger picked out of a crowd, knowing absolutely nothing about them, maybe not even their name. It is all eye contact—instant adoration of souls—and smiles. The first gentle kiss and the first caress blossom amidst the safety of a like-minded throng. Speed soul-mating. This street-cart love is intense and immediately satisfying but can hardly be called a meal.

This past year Eric turned 55 and expressed that he was having difficulty with this milestone, more so than age 50. He felt his youth was getting farther away from his present. In other words, he was finally starting to feel old. Brushing past partying young things in the street doesn’t help.

I hadn’t told him where we were going for this birthday dinner which is traditionally a surprise, one simple way of keeping some mystery in the relationship. We weaved our way around the self-made cupids and other people on the crowded streets surrounding Union Square. It was cold and windy so I led Eric on a zig-zagging route towards our destination to avoid the wind. He ventured a few guesses whenever we turned a corner. “Remember Rue Lapin?” he said, fishing for a clue.  “Yes, that’s the first place I ever took you for your birthday. Is it right up here on this street?”

Then he saw a yellow awning with a single decoration but no name. “Is that Fleur de Lys?”

“I guess it is. I forgot that it was right around here.” 

As we walked past, I said, “Let’s see if they have a table.” And I led him in dumbstruck to claim our reservation. We had been there once before for my 40^th birthday. Having cheered on Chef Hubert Keller on “Top Chef Masters,” I thought it might give Eric a special thrill to celebrate his birthday Fleur-de-Lys style.

Once we had given our coats to the charming hostesses and taken our seats, I excused myself to go to the restroom and wash the swine flu germs from BART off of my hands. As I did so and straightened my windblown hair, I thought that what struck me about the revelers and about young people in general is that they carry magic with them.

For example, when Eric and I visited Venice three years ago for our 10^th anniversary, there was a young American gay couple staying in our bed-and-breakfast who we encountered uneventfully in the breakfast room. The men were cute with black hair, were sensibly well-dressed, and neither too effeminate nor overly masculine. Thoroughly embraceable by all. They indeed carried magic with them, and while they were aware of it, they possessed it like a prized Gucci travel pouch. We saw them around Venice in piazzas and at the Guggenheim being wonderful and curious, oblivious of us except as spectators.

I once traveled with self-contained purpose and interest. At age 21 I criss-crossed the entirety of Venice several times on foot in three days by myself, ignoring the tourists, adventurously finding my own way, my own magical discoveries. Looking back, I see myself as having been more closed off then self-contained. As exemplified by Glinda the good witch in The Wizard of Oz, magic is easier to sustain while living in a bubble.

Back at our table, the young waiters served up a succession of artful food creations. A light musky lemony fava bean puree, scooped up with a tiny silver spoon. A small interlocking stack of perfectly cut French fry timbers that breathed truffle oil vapor when you bit them. My entrée was a row of sliced Muscovy duck breast, each slice topped with a juicy, naked orange segment. It was surrounded on the plate with wedges of roasted sweet potato here, a smooth puff of mashed potatoes there.

Eric was silently entranced by his entrée. He awakened to me and said, “You have to try some filet.” I discreetly slid my bread plate to him; it returned momentarily with a good bit of dark brown juicy beef. Perched on top were a thin slice of truffle and a matching sliver of seared foie gras. I carefully cut off a morsel of each and tasted them separately—each was delicious and cooked perfectly. But when I cut off a morsel of each and grouped them together on my fork, the flavors together were amazing and startling. We finished our entrees reverently with quiet conversation and contentment.

After our entrée plates had been cleared and we were alone again, I looked across the table at Eric. His head was bowed and he looked sad. “Are you okay?” I asked. He looked up and made intimate eye contact.

“You made me cry. This dinner, this amazing place. Thank you, it’s wonderful.”

Tears welled up now in my eyes. “You’re welcome. I wanted it to be special for your 55^th.”

“It is.”

We smiled at one another, eyes moist, faces warm with wine and the emotions of the moment. Our table seemed enveloped in a protective glow, a sacred spot around which the waiters, other diners, and the restaurant circled jubilantly. We were happy, and together we were suspended by the love and caring that we brought to the table, even at our age, especially at our age.

Suddenly from around the corner, two waiters brought out breathtaking plates of dessert, including a candle-lit chocolate mousse for Eric. Our glistening eyes slowly cleared to take in the sugary perfections. The rollercoaster of tastes continued for several more minutes than it should have, but we held on to the end, screaming quietly and joyfully with every bite.

The bill was very special too but no tears were shed. True romantics that we are, Eric put his birthday dinner on his Visa card, because it has a lower interest rate than mine.

Last week’s blog of the TMI Survey was a reaction out of anger against someone I pay for services. It’s someone I only see every few weeks so direct communication of my feelings wasn’t the easiest option. Writing the survey was cathartic and after a fit of giggles at the purge of sophomoric humor and passive-aggressive revenge, the anger was gone and I fell into a calm state of mind. Lying on my bed under the blankets curled up on my side, my head caressed by two fluffy pillows, I opened my eyes to daydream.

I don’t do enough daydreaming anymore.  In every house and apartment I have ever lived in, I have lied in bed or on the sofa and gazed out a window and let my thoughts wander. I partly marveled at how lucky I was to always have an interesting view. My teenage bedroom window on the 2^nd story looked into the top branches and leaves of a maple tree framed by patches of ever changing sky. The bedroom in my first apartment in California looked out over the red Spanish tiles of a dentist’s office. The window framed perfectly a single, tall, swaying palm tree. The 2^nd story bedroom window of the French cottage I shared in Oakland with my former partner looked out over the apartment building roof next door and again my view was of a soaring tree surrounded by usually blue sky. One time I rolled over onto my partner’s side of the bed to see with surprise that his view had no foliage and was an ugly web of electric and telephone wires.

In my current bedroom, I don’t have a window view. From where I lie now, my eyes fall upon two paintings over the fireplace mantle. Each painting, one, my favorite Caillebotte framed print, and the other, a small framed original watercolor by my late friend Tom Young, has a detailed story to it. I don’t dwell on the stories while I daydream. Instead I just use them as a familiar focus to calm my thoughts. Daydreaming is my time to slow down from everything. I take a few easy deep breaths until my breathing calms too.

I notice the sounds inside and outside the room. Air blows out of the furnace vent. Electricity hums with reliable consistency. An owl hoots beyond the walls from a temporary perch in a California pine alongside the house. Then it sounds like a second owl on the north side answers. I am just another living creature alive in the world. The simplicity of it makes me happy and I smile to myself.

“Honey,” my partner Eric says from his side of the bed. “Are you going to sleep or are you going to read?”

I’m slightly startled and only slightly annoyed. “No,” I reply. “I’m daydreaming.” I close my eyes against his innocent intrusion. He’s lying in bed next to me on his back, engaged in his ritual of reading a mystery or suspense novel for ten minutes until he can’t keep his eyes open. There are stacks of books on the floor on his side of the bed, books he has quickly sacrificed to his ritual, at least one a week. On my side of the bed, there is a small stack of books on the nightstand waiting to be picked up.

Eric is perplexed by my daydreaming—he always thinks something is wrong. His family is all about activity that never stops—talking, eating, drinking, emailing, crossword puzzles, and reading-reading-reading. More talking.

I settle back into my daydreaming. It is relatively peaceful in here tonight. The usual mental loops have turned off. My mind is not racing about the next deadline at work. Nor am I dwelling on petty slights that I take too seriously. Nor what groceries need to be replaced. Nor are the music and lyrics of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” or the Wild Beasts’ “We Still Got the Taste Dancin’ on Our Tongues” playing over and over as they frequently do.

Instead I notice how the walls and ceilings look from my current angle. I still like the shades of sandal wood we painted the bedroom a few years back. The big room is not a typical square or rectangle—it is all interesting angles and cutouts—high ceiling down the center but then dropping down dramatically almost to the floor on either side. A plant that we’ve had for years needs water and trimming. Probably more light.

I am suddenly shocked to realize that our fireplace mantle has unintentionally become a shrine of sorts to those who have passed. Four little pine boxes, each put there at a different time, hold the ashes of two special dogs and two special cats. My late father’s small collection of tattered Louis L’Amour westerns is held together by two carved yellow stone bookends, kitschy stallion busts that I inherited from my late friend-poet-artist Tom. I decide that once I finish reading a contemporary novel, I will lose myself in the Old West the way Dad did over and over again.

I reflect without anxiety on all the years behind me now. What a lot of activity there was, building a career and taking home a paycheck. Looking for love and finding it. Alternately fighting to keep hold of it and telling myself I don’t need the drama. Wishing I hadn’t chosen to live so far away from my family—everyone there has grown up and I wasn’t there enough. Yet it is hard for me to imagine living anywhere but where I am.

I pull the blankets closer and almost purr. I am tenderly grateful for my enduring partnership with Eric, a good Midwestern boy, loyal and smart and full of good humor. He snores too loudly—drinks too much soda pop—doesn’t clean up after himself quickly enough. Kisses me good night after he closes his book. Keeps the tea kettle warm for me in the morning. We have an affectionate, high-spirited little dog, a Welsh Corgi, a demanding and dependent child who brightens up our days with her peculiar and predictable habits. I think about some good friends and family and wonder how they are doing tonight and when I will see them again. All of our lives are complex and we live in a complex world, built on simple, individual day-to-day actions. But really, like me here, we are each just another breathing animal needing warmth and to be fed.

I close my eyes and open them again, and remind myself that I am in my early 50s—it’s easy to forget—and should get on top of all the unfinished business that surrounds me. There’s the stack of books full of undiscovered insights and adventures. Several aging magazines with once-important news are losing their luster. But they will have to wait until another day.

I roll onto my back and my daydreaming is over. The clock says it is time to go to sleep. Maybe now, I can.

Naïve. \nä-ˈēv, nī-\

adjective.

1 : marked by unaffected simplicity : unsophisticated, artless, ingenuous
2 : deficient in worldly wisdom or informed judgment; especially : credulous
3 a : self-taught, primitive b : produced by or as if by a self-taught artist <naive murals>

synonyms see natural

Huh. So that’s what “naïve” really means. Funny what you can learn when you open a book, or in this case, search the Merriam-Webster website.

People have told me all my life that they think I am naïve. Sometimes they quickly backpedaled and said they thought my naiveté was really cute and they liked that about me. I think they saw my face go from blissful innocence to killer rage. I thought being called naïve was an insult. I zeroed in on the negative connotations of definition #1, i.e., that I was an airhead, a bimbo, a country bumpkin, a clueless little boy who would get eaten alive in the big bad world and needed to be protected.

The fact is they didn’t know what they were talking about. The word “naïve” is one of those words, like “ironic,” that is frequently misused. Naiveté is not usually a permanent state of being or character. It’s a stage that everyone goes through in experience and education. Or is sometimes a deliberate decision to stay unpolluted by potentially influencing opinions and history in order to discover and experience something for oneself (e.g., teenagers and me).

Allow me the latitude to compose a few paragraphs that will elucidate and illuminate these conceptions further. Ahem.

I will admit that when my energy and enthusiasm is high, I get caught up in the moment and surface impressions. (But inside, trust me, I’m noticing what is really going on.) In social situations I put a simple, pleasant face forward and politely acknowledge each and every person, taking them at face value, assuming the best in all of mankind. I walk with purpose and greet others with a nod and a smile (as if everyone likes me even though I know they don’t). And then someone speaks to me. SCREECH—PANIC—CRASH!

I suddenly become tongue-tied and nervous. If I say anything at all, it comes out mumbled and incoherent. “Yes, a good morning. Take it a good one!” And I turn away.

So that’s one reason I come across as naïve. I’m incapable of spontaneous verbal communication. Therefore, people think I’m a simpleton or stupid. You should have seen the baffled look on the face of my first semester college French teacher (a pretty blonde, voluptuous, bubbly young woman) when she handed back the first exam of the semester—I had gotten the highest score. My score was unexpected. She even said to me after the first couple of weeks that maybe I should transfer out. As far as speaking French and class participation, I was a dolt. When she effusively greeted my entrance to the room with “Bonjour, monsieur! Comment t’allez-vous?” I would stare blankly, grunt, and say nothing in return, unable to hear even the simplest phrase at the time. But once I see something printed, in black and white, it tends to stick with me. I had studied my textbook, practiced writing French, and aced the test. What? She expected me to hear the words in class and imitate the sounds without knowing how the words were spelled and ordered? It doesn’t work that way, not for me.

Similarly, an office friend burst into laughter when I told her I had tried out for “Jeopardy.” She just couldn’t see me on the show, even though when I watch it, I usually know a lot of the answers. And when we took a trip to Paris together, she had the same baffled look on her face as my French teacher did when, after a quick lunch at a Tuileries Garden outdoor café, I casually spoke French to the waiter, settling the bill and asking him for a bottle of water to go, all of which he understood instantly. She hadn’t understood a word of it. Startled, she said, “I didn’t know you could speak French like that.”  

Well, sure, I can do just about anything when I need to. I’m nowhere near fluent in French, civil engineering, bread making, drug use, gardening, or kinky sex. But if the situation arises, after a muddled period of naiveté, I can figure out enough to get by. What I didn’t tell her was that as she babbled on about what Impressionist paintings we would see at the Musée de l’Orangerie, I was forming and practicing in my mind the phrases I would say to the waiter.

In my senior year of high school for the yearbook “hall of fame,” I was voted as the Most Timid and I was told by someone on the yearbook committee that I came in second for the Most Intelligent, out of a class of over 400. That pretty much sums it up—my timidity masks my intelligence and I appear naïve. That’s part of it anyway. There’s more.

The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator is a tool that has helped me to understand how I process information, compared to others. I’ve taken the test a few times and my results typically are I-S-T-J, or Introvert-Sensing-Thinking-Judging. In particular, I think the “I” and the “J” contribute to my being perceived as naïve.

In this model, the Introvert piece means I process information internally rather than being able to converse verbally on the spot, whether in English or in French, without prior study and thought. I get excited about ideas and per the website’s definition of an Introvert, “I sometimes forget to check with the outside world to see if my ideas really fit the experience.”

This happens all the time with everyone. You might get excited about remodeling your kitchen or starting a new love relationship and your imagination runs wild. But once you get into it, you find out that you had been naïve. The reality is very different than what you imagined. Another example is going to a new movie—you’re all excited about seeing “Avatar” because you’ve seen the trailers and heard all the buzz. And then when you actually see it, even if you enjoy it, there is a letdown, and maybe you feel foolish for getting all worked up. Now that you’ve seen it, you’re obviously no longer naïve about the experience of seeing it. (Even if you don’t comprehend or care about what went on behind the scenes to create the movie.)

I get worked up in my mind prior to visiting a city for the first time. Before I ever went to Paris, I had studied a map of the city repeatedly and knew by heart the layout of the city center. I romantically planned to take the Grande Promenade from Notre Dame Cathedral, through the Louvre and the Tuileries, up the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe, over to the Eiffel Tower and back to the Latin Quarter. Of course, I was naïve about the reality that the map didn’t show—the pigeons, traffic, cigarette smoke, dead flowers, and passed-out vagrants as well as the glittering lights, the sculpted façade of Notre Dame, the smell of fresh croissants and bread.

On the other hand, some of my moments of naiveté are my own fault, due to the “J” portion of my personality. I am goal-oriented and get bored with in-depth processing, including conversation. I like to attack a task with purpose, with quick judgment of what needs to get done. I complete it efficiently and successfully without thinking it through entirely before I get started. When I pick up a newspaper, I read the headlines and skip the meat of most articles so I can finish and get on with my day. So I’m informed about what’s happening but don’t ask me to give a speech on the details of an issue. I know I’m not alone in the “uninformed” aspect of naiveté, but that’s more due to our reliance on sound-bites and Twittering than personality type. We have the opportunity with the internet to bury ourselves in pages of detail on any given subject, but who has the time, unless, apparently, it’s about Tiger Woods’ affairs and sex addiction.

So okay, at times I am naïve about certain things but then, if I have enough interest, I’ll read up on it and expand my knowledge, like I did when I figured out how to create a blog here on wordpress.com (there’s a lot of tools I didn’t bother with—just learned the basics). But I suppose in social situations, due to my introverted personality, people will continue to experience me as a deer in the headlights.

Nonetheless, the next time someone says that I’m naïve, my response will be, “No, I’m not. But you obviously are in the ways of Dave.” 

(See, I just have to figure out what to say ahead of time. Let’s hope I can say it without sounding stupid or naïve.)

In all matters of hair and skin, I tend towards the dry. I hereby offer you the telltale signs of a dry constitution.

You can’t open plastic bags at the grocery store.

I have caused scenes in the produce section. If the plastic bags don’t rip, then I’m struggling with getting them open. It helps to find the right end of the bag. I often end up having to blow them open which results in a kazoo sound and odd looks from other shoppers. My partner Eric gets impatient and frequently grabs the bag from me and with a quick flick of his thumb and forefinger parts the plastic. In terms of plastic bags, he has been blessed with oily skin. I have taken to running a finger over wet cucumbers and then using that moisture to get the bag open. Thank God for produce sprinkler systems—in the meat section the only available moisture is blood! No, I won’t lick my finger after putting my hands on a shopping cart.

You can’t open plastic dog poop bags.

Conversely to the grocery store, I have left dog poop on the ground because the damn bag won’t open. We buy biodegradable doggie doo-doo bags at the pet store because we walk our dog in the local park and have to pick up after her. If I don’t run my finger under the faucet and open the bag before leaving the house, I’m frantically blowing on the bag while our corgi Nia is pulling on the leash in order to move on from the scene of her biodegradable expulsion.

You drink a lot of water.

To understand this better, you should read The Case of the Missing Water Glass. I take a bottle of water with me everywhere, even sneaking them in to movie theatres as it’s my civil right to drink decent water without paying $3.25.  I know plastic bottles are an environmental concern but the fact that it’s the backseat of a Prius that is piled with empties to be recycled more than balances out the carbon emissions they cause, right?

Air conditioning gives you nose bleeds so you grease your nostrils.

I prefer to have the car windows open than to have the air conditioning on, whereas Eric has the AC on all the time, even in winter. After an hour in AC, my nose is so dried out, it bleeds when I blow it.

You carry lip balm in your pocket at all times.

For my nostrils, it takes a Q-tip and Neosporin to soften them up. For my lips, I always have a tube of Carmex in my pocket wherever I go.

You slather expensive lotion all over your body.

The harsh winters in Minnesota when I was a kid resulted in chapped calves and fingers. My mom made me put on Corn Huskers lotion every day—awful, goopy stuff even if it does work. When I was in my early 30s, a bad case of poison oak developed into eczema on my arms and legs. It took several years before it all went away, but a dermatologist early on recommended Moisturel ($12-14 for 14 oz.) and it’s the best thing for my dry skin. It’s not heavily stocked in drug stores if they carry it at all so when they have it, I buy several bottles. It’s not greasy, it’s practically fragrance free, and it’s the perfect consistency for a quick, full-body coating after bathing.

You have bottles of lotion everywhere.

So I have Moisturel in the bathroom, in my office at home, in my office at work, in my briefcase, in my gym bag.

And still you have bleeding cracks on your thumbs and fingers.

Which is what happens from washing my hands so much but better than getting the swine flu. I wash after petting the dog, after shaking hands with anyone, before putting groceries away, after opening mail. When I make a meat and cheese sandwich, I wash my hands after getting the meat out so I don’t contaminate the cheese. And then I get cheese on my hands so I have to wash before closing the cheese package so cheese grease doesn’t get on the outside of the package. It’s not compulsive behavior, it’s sensible.

You have a drawer full of tubes of prescription ointments and lotions.

Doctors rely on a lot of guesswork, almost as much as psychics. Dermatology is the worst. I had a patch of scaly, flaky scalp cultured twice, once by my Primary Care Physician and once by a dermatologist. Is it psoriasis? Impetigo? How about seborrheic dermatitis? They never figured it out for certain. Three prescription shampoos later, and it finally started to clear up, slowly, with a little help from putting conditioner directly on it as well. I also have partially-used tubes for what may have been shingles, eczema, fungal infections, and more–it’s hard to keep track. But I always make sure I take some of them with me on trips. You never know when something is going to flare up, especially with the stress and excitement of security checks.

You have no desire to visit supposedly arid states and nations.

I’ve been to England, France, Germany, Netherlands, and Italy several times but never to Spain which my gut instinct perceives as being warm and therefore dry. Same with Florida, Arizona, and New Mexico. I’ve been to Mexico and didn’t encounter too much dust and dryness like it always is in the movies. I get physically uncomfortable watching movies like “Lawrence of Arabia” and “Dune” that take place in the desert—too much sand and wind for my taste. Dries me out just looking at it.

You have an aversion to really salty foods.

Really, really salty food makes me retch. I’ll eat potato chips, pretzels, beef jerky, olives, and anchovies, but a little goes a long way. High doses of salt cause dehydration, my mortal enemy.

You LOVE moist food.

Give me soft, gooey cakes, puddings, and brownies. Spare me crunchy cookies, cardboard scones, biscotti, and crusty fried foods.

You like food and coffee piping hot.

Hot showers and baths definitely make my skin dry out. But for some reason I like my food and coffee to be almost too hot to eat and drink. Maybe the heat causes more saliva production than lukewarm or cold foods.

You crave spicy foods.

I can’t say I like super spicy foods but I do like foods with a kick, which is, I think, because salsa, peppers, and wasabi probably make my mouth water, making it easier to swallow food.

You avoid paperwork.

On a project several years ago, I got really behind in filing, mainly because I was doing the work of two people after someone quit. I sent the regional manager a photo of the filing stack when I requested some clerical help. But I also hate it, especially because the paper dries out my hands. Same with collating reports and opening mail.

Your temp administrative assistant brushes dandruff off of your shoulders.

She would come up behind me while I was working at my computer and sweetly brush off the “flakies.” When I told her sharply, “Please don’t do that,” she got upset. She stopped brushing off my shoulders but for about a week she would hand me documents with her arm outstretched from several feet away, so as not to invade my apparently overly sensitive space requirements.

You are great with chopsticks!

The first time I picked up chopsticks as a teen it was like second-nature. My skin is so dry that they don’t slip like they do in Eric’s hands. I can pick up a single grain of rice and gracefully lift it to my tongue. I should exploit my dry constitution and enter a chopstick competition with cash prizes.

You have a dry sense of humor.

I would have to, to have dreamt up this entire piece. Or to think that anyone would be remotely interested in reading it.

As I emerge from my holiday bubble and start the year twenty-ten (2010), I realize I struggled mightily this year with maintaining the Christmas Spirit (CS). Over a few weeks it came and went and came again with the swiftness of the melody in a rap song. This was apparent during the matinee of the final performance of the San Francisco Symphony Chorus holiday concert that Eric and I attended at wonderful Davies Hall. The tickets for very good orchestra seats were a much appreciated gift from one of Eric’s voice students who sings tenor in the Chorus. The Choral Christmas Spectacular was a big holiday event with bustling crowds of congenial people of all ages dressed up and down for the holidays in mostly festive red and green, or elegant black, silver, gold, and white casual. Symphony concerts tend to attract an over-50 into 70s and 80s crowd anyway, but since it was a matinee, seniors were in abundance and in a joyful friendly mood. I suspect for many it was their one and only major holiday outing so their spirits were high. (Their enthusiasm in turn raised my CS, starting at 10 already, by +5 on a scale of 1-25.)

And why wouldn’t their spirits be high? The Hall and lobbies were decorated spectacularly with white lights, pine garlands, and a dozen 12-feet tall trees, each one decorated by a different school, organization, or club. One was all pink and white bows. Another was ornamented with compact discs that had been decorated with photos, colorful beads, and glitter. Still another had an under-the-sea theme with green and yellow streamers and smiling sea creatures. If crabs, eels, and starfish can smile during the holidays, why can’t we?

Indeed, I magically ended up in the aisle seat about twelve rows from the front and Eric sat to my left one seat in. I was delighted! (CS +5) We got to our seats ten minutes before curtain and we were the first in our row so naturally we had to stand a few times to let people pass to their seats. It gave us a chance to exchange smiles and greetings with women and get whiffs of different perfumes. The straight men shuffled by, their backs and bums to us, without a word, and if they did smile, it was an awkward one. (CS -2) Folks in front of and behind us settled in and removed their best coats, chattering away. Eric charmingly rescued the fallen red boa of the 60-ish woman in front of me—“You don’t want to lose the best part of your outfit,” he complimented. She and her two female companions chuckled and thanked him. (CS +2)

Crowds have always freaked me out, an issue I have been addressing and trying to manage (without drugs, I might add) for the last couple of years. My acupuncturist has also been encouraging and supporting me in “opening up my heart,” a real challenge in a mob situation. At concerts I like to have the lights off, otherwise I can’t perf…—I mean—enjoy the performance. It’s a combination of not wanting to be in the spotlight and being better able to concentrate on the musicians. I had ten minutes to get through before lights out. Inside, I secretly fretted over the appearance of my complex, physical organism. I had straightened my windblown hair in the men’s room before we went to our seats but wondered if since then it had shifted, revealing one of the thinning spots of my scalp. Without a mirror I didn’t dare touch it and possibly make it worse. I took a deep breath and told myself it was what it was, so if people wanted to judge me, what could I do? Same with the bags under my eyes and my dry, flaky skin. Double for the pretty azure shirt I was wearing, not really holiday appropriate but it’s shimmery and brings out the color of my eyes. I had thought about wearing a green shirt and a vintage red holiday tie but the shirt was dusty and old and there hadn’t been time to resuscitate it at the last minute. Not planning my outfits in advance had been a bone of contention in a previous relationship with a fashion plate. (CS -5)

I turned my attention to the program and Eric. Together, a concert tradition, we went over the list of Chorus members to tally how many were current or former students of Eric’s—2 tenors, 3 sopranos, 6 altos, and 3 basses. The music selections looked interesting, some standards but also some unfamiliar pieces from the conductor’s native Sweden. Oh, look, an audience sing-a-long of three carols! “Good King Wenceslas,” “ Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” I like singing carols and Eric’s powerful baritone would both lead me and cover me—fun! (CS +4)  But it also meant they’d turn the lights up so we could read the lyrics. (CS -2)

As the clock approached 2:00 p.m., the Hall began to fill up. I noticed a slender middle-aged bearded man wearing new smooth-finish blue jeans, (CS -1) offset with a nice red shirt and a black shiny vest. A pretty young woman with long straight blond hair came walking up the aisle from the front of the Hall. She had a plastic ID card hanging around her neck—must be a Hall employee. Just as she reached my row, she stopped to greet three females of different heights all dressed in black, all with shoulder-blade length dark brown manes. The tallest and the leader hugged the blond employee and wished her happy holidays. “Thank you so much for the tickets.” She gestured to the shortest and youngest one in their group, her daughter apparently. “Michelle said we may turn her into a culture person yet.” As they ambled timidly and awkwardly down to their seats in the front rows (their black trousers were trailer-park tight), I thought, “Not likely.” (CS -6)

My eyes were drawn to several rows down in front of us. From the side aisle a stocky, cute young man with a blond crew cut (who had been five urinals away from me in the men’s room) greeted and hugged an attractive woman and man, his parents perhaps. Suddenly, not one, not two, but three even better-looking young men, their gym-buffed bodies hiding under dress slacks and shirts, also entered from the side into the row in front of us, several seats away. The bald one wore his hairlessness quite well. Didn’t get a good look at the middle one. The one furthest away from me was a stellar beauty. Full head of black short hair, chiseled animated face, slender muscular torso. I guessed they were gay by their familiarity with one another and their ease with their row mates—or did they just have a lot of CS? Later during the concert their enthusiastic applause and hoots for the Chorus confirmed their sexual orientation in my mind/fantasies—they must know one or several of the male singers, perhaps were even sleeping with one or more of them. (CS +5) Not once during the event did they look towards Eric and me. (CS -4)

Finally the lights went down (CS +2) and the concert began dramatically with an empty stage. From the wings came female voices singing the opening bars to “Veni, Emmanuel,” which they continued as they processed in a single line to risers on the rear of the stage. In their places, the women became silent and then from the other side, male voices took over and they emerged onto the stage and processed to their places. Once the entire Chorus was in place, male and female voices together finished the piece gloriously. Eric and I applauded enthusiastically as the conductor took the stage. Eric’s student had gotten us passes to watch the Chorus warm-up downstairs in a rehearsal room before the performance. Eric was briefly introduced to Chorus Conductor Ragnar Bohlin before the warm-up started. Bohlin, in his quiet but animated manner, charmingly took command of the group and fine-tuned selected phrases of different pieces of the concert and had the singers adjust their technique and breathing.  Watching them onstage, I got teary thinking how fortunate the Bay Area is to have such a powerful, world-class group of singers. (CS +8)

Throughout the concert, my focus sometimes wandered. Between audience unrest and my own, internally-created distractions and criticisms, much of the beautiful music rises and swirls off into the rafters, unheard by human ears, or at least with less concentration than it deserves. Two elderly women in the seats right behind us were having a grand old time.  The woman on the aisle behind me was in her 80s or 90s, was severely hunched and used a walker.  She was dressed in a smart, elegant black pants suit with gold trim—quite classy. Her companion was probably 20 years her junior. Even after the conductor started the concert, they continued to chat energetically, and several people in the area turned around to send glances their way. (CS -3) To their favor, they mostly talked about the music. “Oh, the dream pantomime from Hansel and Gretel is so beautiful.” “Oh, yes, Humperdinck is an exquisite composer, one of my favorites,” the elder cooed. (CS +4) They eventually quieted down and went internal with their enthusiasm.

I sat and listened to the music, watched the conductor, and watched the Chorus members sing, especially the ones I know.  Amongst the ongoing swell of unfamiliar music, I recognized a section of one piece from the rehearsal where the men sang in pronounced nasal voices, producing a quality reminiscent of the shawm, a precursor to the oboe. After that highlight, my mind drifted and I thought about the last rock concert I saw, recalling how easy it had been to stay with what the band and lead singer were doing. Simpler music, lyrics that I know, vocal solos I remember from records.

I returned my attention to the holiday concert when three very young girls from The Crowden School came out and stood on the apron and sang delicate solos on another piece. The first half ended with an interesting and stirring rendition of the Rutter “Gloria”, unfamiliar to me. The lights came up and on a musical high, we made our way to the lobby with confidence, filled with love and joy for mankind. (CS +3) We used the rest room, looked at some of the decorated Christmas trees, and chatted about the first half highlights. But the lobby began to get crowded; folks were snapping photos in front of the trees and lining up at the bars for intermission wine and cocktails. We tried to look at things in the gift shop but it was packed with people in every aisle. I became frustrated and claustrophobic so we went back into the Hall to our seats. As we passed a young straight couple at the bar, the man smirked at me and looked away when I made eye contact. (CS -4)

For the second half of the concert, about a dozen members of the Symphony joined the Chorus, and they began with the more familiar J.S. Bach’s “Gloria” from “Mass in B minor.” Between the instruments, several excellent vocal soloists, and two sing-alongs, the second half went quickly and kept my attention. About the only time I lost track of the concert was to ruminate on how I envied the Chorus—having sung in a church choir I remembered how much work and concentration it took to prepare and perform a concert. My mind as a performer never drifted, I had no choice but to strive to follow every single note. In the audience, I was just another mess of carbon, processing never-ending internal and external stimuli, fighting to stay in the moment. I was brought back to the present yet again when baritone soloist Michael Taylor came downstage for “O Holy Night.” One section of the holiday favorite always brings me to tears—“Fall…on your knees, Hear the angel voices…” and this performance was no exception. (CS +4)

After the final sing-along and an encore the concert was over. Wonderful, the perfect antidote to the holiday blues. (CS=25) I thought, “Okay, I’m ready to start my Christmas shopping”—there were five days left.

Epilogue

The next day we recorded a White House Holiday special on the HGTV channel, about decoration preparations for the Obamas’ first Christmas in the White House. Michelle Obama announced the Christmas themes as “Reflect, Rejoice, Renew,” so a lot of the trees and decorations for the over 30 White House holiday receptions and tours were reused ornaments, crafted from natural sources, and would be recycled. The decorations were spectacular and very creative. However, when I heard later that on Christmas Eve the Obamas flew to spend Christmas Day in Hawaii, I was dumbfounded. What about their first Christmas in the White House? If it had been me, I would have wanted to wake up on Christmas morning in the White House, run around the rooms and marvel again at the decorations and open my stocking and my presents there in the White House, not in Hawaii!! I like the Obamas, am proud of them, but I sincerely hope the President digs real deep on their holiday break and renews the vows and resolutions made during the campaign, and revives them for the new year. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep the Grinch in myself at bay next holiday season. Hawaii—bah humbug!!

Okay, kids, it’s time for another flash of Dave’s mental trench coat.

As I go about my day minding my own business, certain memories flash into consciousness, and not always for an apparent reason. Just out of the blue. I acknowledge the memory and then carry on with my day. Most of these I’ve never told to anyone; there was no reason to. They’re just little “moments of being” to quote Virginia Woolf.

Following are my most frequent Mind Flashes. These are my personal memories—we all have them—and as I’m about to go public with them, it reminds me of another memory: a former boss warning me to keep certain project developments and financial information close to my chest, i.e., don’t share it with other staff members, it was just between him and me.  I worry that by sharing these Flashes, and not keeping them close to my chest, I’ll lose them, they’ll no longer flash into mind. Some of them I wish would stop, and now, maybe they will.

They’re not profound or million-dollar ideas but they are a part of my private mind and soul, some told to me in confidence, never shared, never forgotten. They’re not made up for the sake of “Oh Dave Now.” These are real memories. I have many more memories but these are the ones that pop up uncontrollably.

You are welcome to add yours. Try to keep them short. Put the approximate year in parentheses at the end of each Mind Flash.

I’ve categorized mine by theories as to why my mind won’t let them rest.

A Sweet and Happy Place

My dad picks me and my siblings up from Sunday school on a winter day. He tells us our mom went to the hospital to have a baby (my brother Paul). We get home and I lie on my stomach on the floor in the front porch in the sun, happily drawing in a coloring book. The styrofoam insulation on the porch walls is toasty warm to the touch. (1961)

I’m sitting on the front porch during a thunder storm with my best friend in high school, long before I’ve come out. He’s been talking for several minutes about conflicts he and his new girlfriend are having. I listen calmly and patiently and give him support, advising him not to give up, to try and work it out. Then he says, “Sometimes I don’t know who I love more, you or her.” (1975)

A group of 7 or 8 high school friends are spending the weekend at my straight friend Dan’s cabin in Wisconsin. There has been lots of drinking, playing softball, swimming in the lake, going out to roadhouses to meet girls. Late one afternoon we’re hanging out in the cabin. Dan and I are sitting on the sofa talking while several of the other guys are getting rowdy in the kitchen. His cute cousin Dick is fast asleep, curled up in an easy chair across from us. Dan says, “Sleeping beauty.”  I agree. (1976)

Freak Me Out!

My family is on a month-long car camping trip in Wyoming. We’re nearing the end of a long driving day and my mom is driving and we’re not sure where the turnoff is for a remote mountain campground. We have a Chrysler station wagon and in the back have made a small space next to the cooler and camping equipment that is big enough for one of us to lie down. I am about seven years old and am sitting up looking out the back of the car. My dad is yelling at my mom to turn left and there is general commotion. She stops in the lane of the road to make sure she can safely turn left. I look up and a large pickup truck has just come around a curve behind us and is barreling towards our car. A man is driving, a woman is in the passenger seat. Instinctively, I raise my arms and wave both hands, signaling them to the right of us. The driver obeys and pulls quickly to the right shoulder and ditch of the road and roars past us, just missing me, gravel flying. My dad yells at my mom to never come to a complete stop on a winding mountain road. (1964)

I’m sitting in math class in 8^th grade, in the front row in the chair next to the window. Our pastor’s son, who I’m friends with, sits in the chair to my right. While the teacher is lecturing and writing on the blackboard, my friend nudges me and mouths, “Look.”  His legs are stretched out and he points to his crotch and presses down with his fingers on the firm erection in his pants. (1972)

I’m on a steep winding road in Positano, Italy at dusk, leaning and looking over a cement wall. Below across a short gully is a small gym with its lights on. In a floor-to-ceiling window several young men are undressing in the locker room, some naked, some in jock straps. Two young women come walking up the road and noticing my intent gaze, look in the same direction. I look up at them and smile and the three of us break into laughter as they pass and I go on my way. (1981)

Too Much Information Leads to Mind Worms

A high school buddy tells me that when he moved out of his parents’ house into his own apartment, his dad’s embarrassing parting words were “Remember to clean your butt well when you shower.” He said he replied, “Dad, please, I know that, I’m 18 years old.” (1976)

Whenever the timer goes off on the microwave oven, I think of what Alex Trebek said on Jeopardy once after a contestant correctly answered “microwave oven” to a clue: “Don’t forget the all important stand time.” (2000)

Excuse me? Did you really just say that?

I attended the University of Minnesota–Twin Cities in the late 1970s. I had English classes on the Main Campus and Theatre classes on the West Bank. One cold sunny winter day, all bundled up, I was about to cross the Washington Avenue Bridge West to go to an acting class. The upper deck is for bicycles and pedestrians only–it’s over 1,000 feet long and four car lanes wide. It’s a long trek. As I started onto the bridge, two young men coming towards me were smiling. Just after they passed me, one said to the other, “He’s cute but his legs are so skinny.”  (1978)

My former partner Michael and I walk up a steep narrow stairway to the San Francisco apartment of one of his acquaintances, where a party is well underway. My hair is shoulder length and he has a head full of black ringlets. A female stranger at the top of the stairs announces in a loud voice, “The hippie fags are here.”  (1988)

At a potluck I serve my dad’s trademark appetizer of dill pickles smeared with cream cheese and wrapped in Hormel dried beef, sliced into rounds. A man remarks, “Yum. Prosciutto?”  I smile and lie “yes.” (2004)

My Ego Reminding Me of My Acute but Low-brow Wit and Comic Timing

I have just showered and dressed after high school gym class. I’m walking past a row of occupied toilet stalls. A friend of my older brother walking past me says, “Pugh. Was that you?”  I shake my head and say, “I don’t do that kind of shit.” He laughs. (1974)

My friend Tusa is visiting Michael and me for the weekend. It’s late, we’re tired and getting ready for bed on the 2^nd floor of our cottage apartment. Michael’s already in bed in the master bedroom, and she is reading in bed in the guestroom across the hall from the bathroom where I’m brushing my teeth and peeing. I hear Michael fart loudly. Without missing a beat I call out “Just a minute, I’ll be right there.” We all crack up laughing and Tusa says, “Like he was calling for you.” (1992)

Eric and I are sitting at a round table visiting with Eric’s mother and sister. We’re discussing whether President Clinton should be impeached for having sex with Monica Lewinsky and perhaps several other mistresses in between his presidential meetings. I blurt out innocently, “Whatever it takes to get the job done.” The others burst into laughter, thinking I was referring to a “job” other than presidential duties.  (1998)

Spontaneity is Glorious to Behold

I’m walking around Rome on a chilly November night from piazza to piazza. Two men are walking/strutting towards me. The one on my left uses his right hand to throw the end of his long scarf up over his left shoulder. The end flies up and hits his friend gently across his startled face. All three of us break into laughter. (1981)

I’m standing at a stoplight at the busy corner of 14^th and Broadway in downtown Oakland. A skinny, hunched over old black man in tattered clothing walks up along side of me, the nub of a cigarette in his mouth. He spots a cigarette butt about an inch and a half long in the gutter. He leaps for it and lights it with the nub just as the stoplight turns green. As he starts to cross the street smoking the new butt he says joyously, “Thank you, Jesus, this is my lucky day! Oh, yes, life is good!” He skips across the street. (2009)