Making friends in high places

I love to travel. Sometimes you meet truly unforgetable people. I certainly have. I’m normally quite shy. But put me on an airplane or train and I make friends easily. Ok, ok, fill me with enough alcohol I make friends easily, airplanes and trains have nothing to do with it. But I digress.

She caught my eye while I was self medicating waiting in the BA lounge at JFK. I had arrived at the airport at 9:00pm for my 10:30pm flight. But the flight had been delayed 2 hours which meant I had put a serious dent in the stock at The Wine Bar time to read my magazine. I hate all flights over an hour long and the NY-London one is seven hours and a bore. I prefer to sleep the entire flight if possible and usually take a sleeping pill melatonin as soon as I board. But I had forgotten to bring any with me this time so Plan B was to drink enough to pass out read until sleepy.

I saw her enter the lounge and was immediately intrigued. I pegged her age at about 60. Her hair was tightly permed and her lipstick was just a red gash hastily applied. She was in full cowgirl drag. She was wearing a flared denim skirt, matching vest, short white boots, and a cowboy hat hung from her neck, down her back. Something about her looked terribly familiar. She looked around nervously and then hurried out the door.

Finally the boarding call for BA0182 was announced. I swallowed my umpteenth glass of wine soda and lurched headed toward the gate. They were already boarding first class when I arrived so I handed the agent my ticket and sloshed sauntered onto the plane. The cabin was empty except for one other man. Just before takeoff one more passenger entered. It was my friend from the lounge. She asked the flight attendant where to sit. Since the cabin was basically empty she was told to take any seat she wanted. She chose the seat next to me.

“This is my first time on an ‘aer-oh-plane’. I’m so nervous. Can I set here? ” she drawled. “Sure. Have a seat” I slurred told her. She stowed her cowboy hat in the overhead bin and her purse under the seat. Our flight attendant asked for our drink orders before takeoff. “Whiskey. Tall. Straight up” she answered. It was then that I noticed her headlights accessories. Sure I had seen the diamonds in her ears, on her fingers, and around her wrist. But I had missed the large diamond studs stuck on either side of her vest centered over each nipple like pasties. I admired her balls sense of style.

Once we were in the air our drinks arrived. She took a huge gulp and then grimaced. “Honey, I ordered whiskey. This ain’t whiskey” she told the attendant. Her drink was whisked away and another brought in its place. The same thing happened. I asked her if I could taste it and discovered the problem. “She wants bourbon” I explained. She was told that scotch whiskey was the only kind served on BA. “Forget that, Sister” she exclaimed. And then tossed back the scotch and fumbled for her purse. She pulled out a super sized Maalox bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured out three fingers of fine Kentucky bourbon. I like a crafty alchoholic gal that plans ahead.

I learned she was from Oklahoma. Her husband had died and it was only then that she discovered he had squirreled away over a million dollars. “That son of a bitch always said we were broke. Now I’m going to spend his last dime” she told me. We laughed and drank for most of the flight. Finally it dawned on me who she looked like. Her outfit and sass was pure Rangerette. I could hardly believe she had never heard of them so I offered to demonstrate one of their signature moves.

The demonstration did not go well. I fell, breaking my collar bone. And the rest of the flight is a bit of a blur.

I do remember the look of horror love on BC’s face when he arrived outside of Customs at Heathrow to pick me up. He stared and slowly shook his head when he caught sight of me...grinning, arm in a sling, wearing a cowboy hat askew, a diamond studded denim vest, being pushed in a wheelchair by my new best friend, Susie, Wanda, Brenda whatshername.

Clueless in Al-Khobar

Sometimes I can be so dumb.

One of the things I hated the most about living in Saudi Arabia was going to the grocery store. Parking at Al-Khobar’s Tamimi Safeway was almost impossible. The parking lot was always overflowing with drivers. It took forever to navigate the traffic and find a parking spot.

After I moved I happened to read that the Tamimi parking lot was the kingdom’s hottest cruising spot for gays.

Who knew? I assumed they were there for Pepsi.

The interview

I called a professional pet sitter yesterday. Sam doesn’t do well in kennels. Since I can’t take him with me I have to get someone to look after him. The cousins have offered to come by daily to feed and walk him. But I will feel better if someone is with him full time. I am such a good parent.

The sitter and I discussed fees and arrangements. Before I entrust my dog and my home to this stranger I asked her to come over for a face-to-face. She agreed and we scheduled her visit for this morning. She just left.

She is a friendly sort and she and Sam got along famously. She’s been doing this for five years and brought references. I was impressed.

Then as she was scratching Sam’s ears she said “I just love puppies. How old is he? Three? Four?” Suddenly I began to have serious doubts about her. Jeez, what was wrong with her eyesight? Sam’s muzzle is as grey as my hair. “Um, he’s thirteen” I replied. “Well he’s in great shape for thirteen” she said. I swear I saw Sam grin. He’s such a sucker for flattery.

We walked around outdoors and talked while I watched her interact with Sam. Good rapport. We discussed Sam's diet and exercise routine. The puppy remark kept nagging me though. Just how smart is she? The conversation eventually turned to my trip. I told her I was off to spend my birthday with friends. “Oh, how old will you be?” she asked. Hmm, another black mark. I was losing confidence fast. “I will be fifty four” I grumbled. “Wow, I would have said you were in your forties” she enthused.

*blink* *blink* how I misjudged her, the woman is obviously a genius.

“You’re hired.” I said. I swear I saw Sam snicker.

going home

I now have my airline tickets and my tickets to Avenue Q and Spamalot. I am almost as excited about going to New York as I am about the rest of the trip to Baku and St. Petersburg. I haven’t been back to the old neighborhood in years and I plan to take a quick walk around.

When BC and I moved to New York we found our apartment in Chelsea on W. 21st between 9th and 10th. Chelsea wasn’t the uber-trendy gayborhood it is today. It was a gritty working-class neighborhood that happened to be more affordable than Greenwich Village. We paid $400 a month for our 2 bedroom apartment. Chelsea Piers was nothing but run down warehouses and parking for trucks that served up anonymous sex after hours *ahem* or so I’ve been told. Chelsea was also home to the sleazy Everard Baths, The Glory Hole, The Spike, and The Ramp.

Our block had it’s assortment of memorable characters. Creepy Anthony Perkins lived a few doors down. He could often be seen riding his bicycle while he cruised the streets. No one can convince me he wasn’t really Norman Bates. Our building was also home to Joe, the manager of the old Limelight on 7th Ave.; Patti, the head of Psychiatric Nursing at NJ State Hospital; and Harlow, the stripper. We were all friends. The building’s Sunday pot luck brunches were good times.

From daybreak to dusk the stoop of the building next door was home to Ricky, a really sweet mentally retarded kid. Ricky always had a friendly word when ever I walked by. More than a dozen years after I left NY I happened to pass Ricky on my way to visit Patti. I hadn’t seen him once in all that time. He looked up, smiled at me, and said “Hi Ray. You been on vacation?”

Chelsea Piers may now be an entertainment complex. The Everard Baths, The Glory Hole, The Spike, and The Ramp may have given way to Splash, Barracuda, The Break, and G. But I’d like to think that Ricky is still there and exactly the same.

overheard at the mall

Teen Girl 1: She’s not inviting you to her party.
Teen Girl 2: I could lick walls and care less.

Jenny 1990-2005

As we all know, opinions are like elbows – everyone has one or two. And my opinion is that Michael Shiavo has the right to decide whether or not to withdraw the life support from poor Terri. Why should my opinion carry any weight at all? Well, I know a thing or two about caring for a loved one in a persistent vegetative state. I have been doing it for years.

I met Jenny in 1990 and it was love at first sight. She was breathtaking and I think my heart actually skipped a beat. I knew in an instant that she was the only one for me and that I must have her forever. Well meaning friends tried to stop our romance. They warned me she was bad and had a terrible reputation. “She's British, so you won’t be able to trust her. She will only break your heart, steal your money, and one day will leave you stranded” they said. But I wouldn’t listen. I promised before God to be her loving and faithful partner in sickness and health until death did us part.

How proud I was of her! Heads turned when we went out together. I laughed when I saw the lust in other men’s eyes as they leered at her curves. “I know you all want her but she’s mine, all mine” I silently replied. Our first months together were such happy ones.

And then things changed. She grew fickle. Stopped taking me to work preferring to spend days and then weeks away from home. Returning only after I threw fistfuls of dollars at her. Year after year she was unfaithful. Others told me to cut my losses and get rid of her. How could I? I loved her.

One day I found her lifeless on the garage floor. I called in professionals, experts in their field. “Surely she will improve. You can make her better, can’t you?” I wailed. They shook their heads and told me that she had flat lined. There was no electrical response. She would never be well. “It’s a genetic defect” they said.

I decided to keep her at home where I could look after her. I would talk to her and stroke her gently. I kept hoping for a miracle cure while paying those experts for physical therapy and transfusions. There was never a response.

In time I took a mistress like Michael Shiavo. She isn’t as beautiful as Jenny and I will never love her as much. But she is dependable. She is faithful and always there for me. She is Japanese and her name is Lottie.

Last week I decided to stop the life support. It was time to let Jenny go. Jeb Bush, Congress, and the Pope couldn’t change my mind. I knew best. I made the phone call and I sold her for parts.

It's now officially spring

Ah, spring is finally here. It wasn’t the flowering of my daffodils that signaled its return. It wasn’t the new buds on the poplars or arrival of robins at my bird feeders either. No, spring was announced by the return of Scary Jeanette.

My cousin Tom told me about Scary Jeanette (hereafter called SJ) when BC and I announced plans to buy the old Jenkins farm and build our house. He said that she lived on the place next to ours and was well, colorful. The local kids gave her the sobriquet SJ because of her appearance and strange behavior. SJ’s wiry iron grey hair has never met a brush it liked and refuses to be confined in her bun. Her housedress is always covered by a stained apron. She wears the same ratty cardigan sweater year-round and her baggy stockings are rolled to the knees.

SJ walks our back roads collecting cans to supplement her social security checks. She talks to her self and occasionally yells and shakes her fist at passing drivers.

I met her my first year here. I walked down to the gate to pick up the mail and had the shit scared out of me when she popped out of the bushes by the road.

Me: Jesus! You scared me!
SJ: Glad to meet cha Jesus.
Me: No, no my name is Ray.
SJ: Jesus Ray. That's some kinda name ya got. Got any cans?
Me: Er, no. But I’ll start saving them for you.
SJ: 'kay, gotta push off. Later, Jesus Ray.
Me: *backing slowly up the drive* Yeah, see you later…and the name’s Ray…just Ray.

Almost every day that spring the intercom in the house would squawk with the message from the gate speaker “Hey, Jesus Ray, got any cans?” When summer arrived SJ’s visits fell off until the cooler autumn weather brought her back. Then she disappeared entirely with winter. The next year the cycle repeated.

Yesterday while I was in the kitchen drinking my second cup of coffee and daydreaming the intercom buzzed and I heard: “Hey, Jesus Ray…”

I’ve got to drag that sack of cans up from the basement. It’s time for spring cleaning.

A promise is a promise

I met my good friend Ed in high school. We I didn’t start out as friends though. He was openly gay and I was in the closet. Firmly in the closet. Ed was the most flamboyant gay person I had ever met. The fact that he was so nelly wasn’t what bothered me though. What bothered me was the way he looked at me. I suspected he knew my secret. No, not suspected, I knew he knew and it scared me. So like any good high school jerk I treated him like shit.

Fast forward 2 years. I visit my first gay bar, meet BC, and come charging out of the closet. Then one night at the bar I turn around and there was Ed. He looked at me and smiled. It wasn’t a smug smile. It was the smile you’d give a friend you hadn’t seen for some time. I was so ashamed. We hugged, grabbed drinks, and then went to a quiet corner to talk. I blathered out an apology for being so mean to him. He shushed me. “You just weren’t ready. I knew you’d figure it out eventually. So, who are you fucking?” And with that we became fast friends.

Ed lived with BC and I several times over the years. Whenever he had a breakup or couldn’t pay his rent he would call and ask if his room was ready. It always was. BC and I adored him.

Ed was probably the most creative person I’ve ever known. He started his career as a display artist at Woodward and Lothrop in DC. Later he morphed into a dress designer, interior decorator, set designer, and artist. And he excelled at them all. He decorated most of our homes and several of my favorite paintings are his.

In 1985 he called me in Paris with the news that he had AIDS. It was the call we learned to dread from our friends. “Well then, come home” I said. I sent him an airline ticket and he joined us in Paris. While he was with us he declined rapidly. He didn’t respond to his AZT. After a few months he left and moved home to his mother in Phoenix.

As his conditioned worsened I flew to see him many times. Not once did I ever hear him complain even when the CMV had robbed him of his eyesight. Eventually we were to discuss death and his last wishes. He planned on cremation. He asked me to scatter his ashes. “I don’t want to wind up in an urn somewhere. I want you to scatter me where I was happiest” he instructed. “So, you want me to pour you in the back room at The Eagle” I teased. He said he couldn’t decide between Rothko Chapel Park in Houston and Rock Creek Park in DC. Later he would decide to have his ashes divided. Half would go to me to be scattered in Houston. The other half would be sent to his old boyfriend in DC for scattering there. I promised to carry out his request.

In 1987 I got the call I dreaded. Ed was gone. BC and I flew to Phoenix, picked up his ashes, took them to Houston and scattered half there. We flew on to Washington and gave the boyfriend the other half. We offered to go with him when he went to Rock Creek Park. He told us he wanted to go alone. We understood, so we went home.

Two years later I was told that Ed’s boyfriend had a change of heart. He had bought an urn for his portion of the ashes and was keeping it on a bookshelf. I was furious. I called him and told him that was not what Ed wanted. I berated him to no avail.

Six months passed and the urn mysteriously disappeared. And if I know anything about it...I’m not talking.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Six degrees of Elizabeth Taylor

Other than being famous for our beauty and big diamonds fond of fried chicken Elizabeth and I share another connection. We were both born in London to American parents and have dual citizenship. My father was an oil & gas attorney and was sent to London to assist with a case. My pregnant mother insisted on going with him. I decided to make a premature arrival and was born at Queen Charlotte’s Hospital.

I carry both passports. I have to use my US passport to enter and leave the US. But most times when I’m in Europe I use my UK passport so I can go through the EU lines at passport control. It’s faster.

On two occasions I have been really glad to have dual citizenship. The first time was during the Vietnam War. I could have moved to the UK to avoid the draft. But I met BC so I didn’t. The second time was last November when Dubyah got reelected. No explanation necessary.

I guess there is another reason I should be happy to have two passports. You never know when Sydney Bristow might need a sidekick. A couple of wigs, a few pair of glasses and I’m ready.

Lastly, there is always the chance I could become a Dame.

Sing it Randy

Saint Patrick’s Day is tomorrow. To those of you inclined to publicly celebrate the occasion I will miss you. I won’t be there. I’ll be under the bed with sweaty palms and a racing heart mumbling incoherently. I used to love Saint Patrick’s Day. But not any more. The memory just... will…not…go…away.

Years ago BC and I found ourselves in JR’s in Dallas on Saint Patrick’s Day. It was early afternoon and the joint was filled with the usual S & M stand and model crowd. Only it was rowdier than usual due to the occasion. I was sporting quite a buzz and having a great time.

I was talking and laughing with the bartender. BC was standing next to me. I heard him burst into laughter and say “Kiss my lover. He loves the Irish.” I turned, looking for the person he had just offered me to. Only there was no one there. “Who the hell are you talking to?” BC just stood there grinning like an idiot.

Then it happened.

I felt a tug on my pants leg. A persistent tug. I looked down to see a little person. A real little person, a dwarf. She was dressed in a leprechaun outfit complete with beard, hat, and curly toed shoes. And she was drunk. Very, very drunk.

“Kizz me. I’m Irish” she slurred.

I have one phobia. A single irrational fear. And it is dwarfs. Maybe it is because I’m so tall. Their yin freaks out my yang. I still squirm during the Wizard of Oz. The movie, Freaks, gave me nightmares for months. It may be dumb and it’s not PC. But there it is, fuck it. And BC knew it. Bastard.

I smiled weakly. “No, that’s OK” I replied.

“Bend over an’ kizz me you tall SOB” she persisted.

“No. Really. I…uh…don’t kiss…er,women.” I whimpered. Icy sweat formed on my upper lip, between my shoulder blades, and began rolling down my spine.

“‘f you don’t bend over ’m comin’ up there then” she snarled and proceeded to climb the rungs of the barstool on my other side.

“Get me the fuck out of here” I hissed to BC.

“Kiss the sweet leprechaun first” he smirked. Bastard.

Before I could run away the dwarf grabbed my face and kissed me. With tongue. Then a flashbulb popped. BC had paid the photographer to take a picture. That photo appeared in the next copy of TWIT, the Texas gay rag. The look on my face is one of wild eyed abject terror. *shudder* BC didn’t get any that night or on any succeeding Saint Patrick’s Day. Bastard.

So all of you have a great time tomorrow. Go out. Drink your green beer. I’ll be counting dust bunnies.

Short people got no reason
Short people got no reason
Short people got no reason
To live

They got little hands
Little eyes
They walk around
Tellin’ great big lies
They got little noses
And tiny little teeth
They wear platform shoes
On their nasty little feet

Well, I don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
`round here

Reality bites me

I really like to work out but I hate doing leg exercises. Saturday I decided that I had slacked off enough on my leg routine. I increased the weights and upped my number of sets and reps from six to ten each. I did squats, dead lifts, leg extensions, leg/hamstring curls, lunges, and standing/seated calf raises. I felt really good about myself when I finished. That was Saturday.

Sunday morning when I swung my legs off the bed and tried to stand up I almost buckled. And I did shout in pain. Sam must have thought I was calling him because he leapt off the bed and jumped up on me causing me to really shriek as I stumbled and fought to maintain my balance. Pulling on my sweats was agony. Then I made the mistake of trying to walk downstairs. It seemed like hours before I made it to the bottom. I would take one step down, stop, squeal like a little girl, grip the banister tighter, pant, take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and then move to the next step. Downstairs I shuffled around like an old lady and cursed with each jolt of pain. I soaked in the hot tub and that only helped a little. Finally in the afternoon I resorted to drugs and alcohol. God bless Soma, Darvocet, and 1997 Ridge Montebello Cabernet Sauvignon! With Mothers’ little helpers I made it through the day.

This morning things are only marginally better. I will try not to hit the wine before noon. But I’m making no promises. This sorry state of affairs has caused me to reevaluate. Do I really need push my workouts? Isn’t it time I eased up a bit? After all, I am going to turn 54 in 36 days. I do want to stay in shape for health reasons. But it’s not like I want to hunt for another husband. I don’t need to look that good. So maybe it’s time to settle for Pilates. Oh, and Waiter…from now on I will be ordering desert.

old friends

“Here I sit alone this chilly September morning, with
the rain just beginning to rattle on the roof, and the writing
of his name has sent my heart back to the happy hopeful
past when one was capable of everything because one had
not yet tried anything. The years have taught me some sharp
and some sweet lessons – none wiser than this, to keep the
old friends. Every year adds its value to a friendship as to a
tree, with no effort and no merit of ours. The lichens upon
the bark, which the dandyfiers of Nature would scrape away,
even the dead limbs here and there, are dear and sacred to us.
Every year adds its compound interest of association and
enlarges the circle of shelter and shade. It is good to plant
them early, for we have not the faith to do it when we are
old. I write it sadly and with tears in my eyes. Later friends
drink our lees, but the old ones drank the clear wine at the
brim of our cups. Who knew us when we were witty? who
when we were wise? who when we were green?”
J. R. Lowell

God bless the Doodys

My friends S & P just found these at their local Baku supermarket. BC and I discovered them years ago when we lived in London. But I never knew there was an official Family and National Week
and a guide book.

The bad seed

My friend Pat is my oldest gay friend. I met him the summer I came out. You may know someone like Pat. He has the face of an angel and the soul of serial killer. He is one of those people that you do not want to piss off because he will get you. BC nicknamed him Rhoda Penmark.

Years ago Pat and his boyfriend Richard had a nasty break up. Richard packed up his suitcases to leave and then went to gas up his car. He came back, picked up his bags, and drove off. When he unpacked his bags at his new apartment he found that Pat had opened each suitcase while he was gone and had peed on all his clothes. Pat said that if Richard wanted to leave then he needed to learn how to do his own laundry.

One summer I flew to Vegas to visit Pat. He was the dance captain of the Folies Bergere show at the Tropicana. He and another dancer had the hots for the new boy in the show. The Folies showroom had a raked stage and in front of the whole length of the stage was a pool with dancing fountains. Twice while I was there Pat managed to accidentally shove, bump, or nudge his rival into the fountain during the show. Pat said the dancer couldn’t swim any better than he could dance.

After he decided to quit dancing he went to beauty school and became a hairdresser. One time he had a customer that was boring him to tears. The lady babbled on and on and he couldn’t get her to shut up. So when he curled her bangs he accidentally pressed the hot curling iron to her forehead. Pat said he didn’t charge her for the facial.

We talked last night.
Ray: It was a very long time ago but I actually remember when you were nice.
Pat: Yeah, well it was also a very long time ago but I actually remember when you were cute.

Where is Jeffrey Dahmer when I need him? On second thought Pat would probably take him out in the first round.

March madness

This is almost enough to get me to go to Fort Lauderdale.

I missed you

It is amazing how dependant I am on the internet. I won’t get into what that says about my life or my lack of one. Tuesday I had a virus disable my antivirus software and attack my operating system. So I had to take the PC to the shop to have the virus removed. The probable same day service I was quoted turned into two days. Two days without a PC. Two days of hell. Two days of absolute nerve jangling withdrawal. Two days of boredom.

Normally I would not have been bothered. I would have simply used the laptop until the PC had been repaired. But my laptop was stolen at Heathrow Airport last June and I never got around to replacing it. I had to find something else to occupy my time. Oh sure, I had the TV and I do have cable. But it is not the same. I had my iPod, but that wasn’t enough. I felt denied. And I don’t do that often or well. I looked for things to do around the house. I did them. That took an hour. I found myself going back into my office and staring at the empty space where the PC should have been.

I was torn between the desire to drive into Nashville to the nearest internet café and the urge to stay around the house and wait for the call to pick up the PC. I was sure the minute I headed down the drive the repair shop would call. So I stayed home and willed the phone to ring. But it didn’t until late yesterday afternoon.

This morning God is in his heaven and all is right with the world again. I have internet. And as soon as I finish this I am going online to buy a spare PC and another laptop. Prince Charles got it right. One must have an heir and a spare.