do i dare speak the L word?

Why is that one such a tongue twister , it seems to have more weight  than any other word in my limited vocabulary or in the world , think about it ;and why is that ? i can say i love my mom , i love my job , i love my house .But when it goes along with feelings deep from that  place..... i have trouble accessing, it is a very large scary and tough thing to get from there to my mouth .
Have i said it to much ? Does it add shackles that i am not aware or afraid of? ITS JUST A WORD ; one we all crave and enjoy and want professed to us but sure hard to say or better , admit. I find my self in that place again in my life and it feels amazing when i say it then the terror and the critic come out . Cant i just sit back and enjoy the rapture?....im learning i promise . My therapist say i deserve that and that everyone i have chosen in the past is getting closer to The ONE ...well i hope so i aint getting and younger or prettier .BUT I DO WANT TO THINK IM GETTING BETTER AT THE SELECTION PROCESS ,and gaining some wisdom.  I  never could get that melon thumping to get a good one down mom tried to tech me but still i try .So for today I will bask in the googley eyed i love yous and just say thank you and be grateful that once again some thinks that im a good catch and i will put my best foot and heart forward today . I LOVE YOU

This sucks but makes me very happy

Little did I know I could get so excited over a vacuum cleaner…
So after digging dirt of the present bag of  the orange Hoover beetle, as I call her , I finally decided to follow Oprah’s guidelines to prosperity and throw out the old slivers of soap in the shower and go but vacuum cleaners bags when the one is about to explode.
So off  I went to Starks the 78 year old Portland institution for such appliances. Could they have really been making a living selling those for 78 years ? Wow.. So I walk in the door and am stunned at the showroom there must have been 300 models to choose from,,, really? But I was just there to buy a bag ; REMEMBER. So as I tried not to look at the Dyson spaceships, a very cute sales-boy moseyed over to me and asked if I needed help so I chimed right in , yes I need a Hoover a80 bag. He made a face  as if privy to some inside info , how I liked that particular vacuum . And I responded that it kinda sucked , but not very well , it didn’t really suck up Nigel hair very well off cheap Berber carpet. He nodded and asked if it was time to end my obvious frustration and I said maybe …Did I get sucked in that fast? The answer is yes … after a few requirements I gave him he trotted me over to the canister section and pointed to a bright violet colored futuristic looking machine. I immediately thought its so pretty and he so read me.
That kid in 30 seconds had dog hair on the floor had it plugged in and was putting the self-propelled lighted thing in my hand to try .
Wow this really sucked well and it was so quiet …. Not like that cheap embarrassingly loud piece of crap at home that didn’t suck worth a damm . The domestic Goddess kicked in  and convinced
Me  that if I just had that fine machine I would love to vacuum my house and  guess what happened next , yes your right that cute boy loaded into my backseat. But I promise there is more to come about this exquisite machine I cant get over it

Channeling MJ

so i had a dream last night that a friend came up to me and passed me a note at a party , i kinda think my friend is cute so i was very curious as to the note so i went to the bathroom to read it in privacy. when i locked the door and unfolded it i was very surprised as to the contents .... it said " i know this sounds strange to you Michael , but i know you admired M Jacksons creative brilliance and i have acquired is direct number in the Afterlife  and he told me you could call him". Wow i thought and i guess with his money it was not a surprise that he had a toll free number. I folded it back up and tucked it safely in my bag and went back out into the party . I winked and thanked my friend for the special note, and he responded by saying; "call him". After a few days i found the note in my pocket and i wondered just what would happen if i dialed the number..... so of coarse you know what i did next ....So to my surprise someone answered its was a lovely lady that sounded like she was from the south, she asked who i was calling for and i responded its michael for michael and she said "of coarse it is"
she said can i put u on hold for a moment and i said yes maaaam , then all of a sudden i heard "escapade" by his sister and i thought wow is this for real???? then a voice came on the line and said , "hello michael its MJ im running out the door to a nail appointment but i have a minute how can i help you? i said i wanted him to share with me his creative brilliance and he said" thank you , i will send you as much as u want and to call or channel him anytime for advice" . i thanked with all my heart and said i was so flattered that he would take the time to speak with me. "is there anything else  i can help you with?" i thought quickly hmmmmmmmm  fashion advice...NO child rearing? NO hairstyle tips? NO plastic surgeons telephone number HELL NO .
"no i said just your talent and creativity that so many admire and will miss" he giggled and said; "dont worry  there are many brilliant people in the world they just need for you to encourage them , i must run now thank you for calling ...." . "Thank you and pick purple polish it would be a good color for you " i stated , and he said "well you would know! chat soon .....BYE "

Confession

It all started when I was a young and inquisitive child; I have always been intrigued with the unusual, mysterious and inexplicable, which explains my life-long quest for the spiritual. 

My dad liked all kinds of music, and my mother, who had a master's degree in music, always played the piano in our house. Music was a joy, and and a way to communicate and express love and bring folks together.

Through years of Catholic school and church there was one component that actually spoke to me, and that was the music. My mother was the church organist and I got to sit in the choir loft, on the bench next to my mother as she played. 

As I grew into a awkward adolescent, music became my best friend and an escape from the odd world around me. I spent all of my allowance on 45s and later cassettes and 8-tracks. Music became a huge part of my life and has remained that way. 

I love all types of music. I listen mostly to ambient, but love dance music, and always loved any black diva I heard, starting in the '80s drag and disco era, but that's a whole other story! I seriously think it's something from my former life. 

But my secret passion is gospel music! It makes me smile and lifts my spirits. They sing about God and that’s OK; its a celebration of faith. Yolanda Adams' music has gotten me through a lot. Thanks Yolanda! I love you! 

If you haven't heard her, check her out on itunes, or here. 

AIRPORT GOODBYES

SO WHAT IS IT ?

So what is it about those airport goodbyes, when you both don’t know what to say, and have that puppy dog look in your eyes and you want to  say I love you and u cant ,,, is he ready to hear that am I ready to say that.?  It’s all ok when u kiss them good bye and you get up to leave and u walk 20 steps and u turn around and they are not within the reach out and touch them  comfort zone anymore and we lose it. The distance is now in place and the dreaded missing and terror sets in. We try to fight the tears as we board the plane and walk past the front cabin all weepy and everyone wonders if you’re going to a funeral or are you just a crybaby. U sit as fast as u can and put your things down so u can get to that first text message they have already sent from the gate. We fire them back n fourth until the last moment before your about to get in to trouble from the pretty girl in the uniform. As she gets closer to your isle and your heart races because you know what’s coming; as u look up half embarrassed and half dazed, she looks down at u over her glasses and says the dreaded….. With a concerned look on her face “its time” she says in a firm but gentle voice and you know it has to stop until u land at the other end.  As the  screen of the phone goes blank so does your heart , u tuck it away,  take a deep breath  and try to figure out what you are going to do for the next 4 hours besides obsess. Then you’re over stimulated mind starts all the questions, are they crying? , are they glad I’m gone? , will they miss me? will they forget about me? , will I see them again? Oh my god...SHUT UP…..thinks about the carrot, about the carrot, the carrot. What exactly is that????Make it up quick before you start getting misty again and the wing of the plane starts to look good from 10 f. when will I see him again? its only 3 weeks . Oh my god will I make it? LIKE A MOVIE RIGHT?, then suddenly your taxiing down the runway and u want to wail but the girl in the seat next to u already thinks urn going to have to be sedated . . u apologize to her for being a freak and YOU make up some  truly romantic story about why your blotting your eyes with a scarf that u have pulled from around your neck . She smiles with compassion and remains silent. As usual I get a little unnerved as the plane quickly lifts off the ground and I am truly disconnected from the ground and from u; and suddenly as we start to glide upward into the heavens I realize that I am starting to breathe again and I will be OK. Trapped in my seat I start to wonder what you are doing and hope that your heart feels the same way mine does.  A fullness and a huge sense of gratitude  fills my entire body,  grateful for you and the time you have given me to spend with you , all the things I learned and observed ,and  that I have the ability to feel the way I feel , and that I have not denied myself those  feelings. I feel at peace when I realize what has happened the last 2 weeks and happy that I feel joy and excitement about the future, I stare out the window at the snowy mountains and I go into a blissful daze.

BIRTHDAY REFLECTIONS

As I sit this morning having coffee , i was reflecting on this years birthday and had to chuckle at the unexpected adventures the universe tosses us , ....The arabic world is not as it seems , they are the most loving , kind ,generous..... give u the french
3 cheeks kiss , all family and good friends do 4 kiss . You may only use tounge if shrouded in darkness i am told . I am learning some basic fundamental arabic words to comunicate and be polite , and I am teaching them things like hoocie mama, and okie dokie, and some spanish, hola, senora , and everyone here says bonjour, everyone is walking around with french bread baguettes and susan says then u stick it in watever is available .... I said excuse me ? She meant to carry items . If they don't like something they say no fonky donkey in broken english ,like bad donkey....well ok . Last night I learned to dance the classic mans wedding dance ,for what im not sure but they were drinking...and im clearly gay. I was told to keep my terrma (ass) still, while i do the dance ,, trying to add that flair to a rather boring dance. The next day We are riding in the car  looking at the terre  and sand and goats and an occasional mosque and olive tree ,and listening to the BeeGees go shorty , bday  song OMG on my birthday, there were gifts and a cake later ,, it was an amazing birthday

wanted to share this poem with my frends

"Portrait of a Friend"

I can't give solutions to all of life's problems, doubts,
or fears. But I can listen to you, and together we will
search for answers.

I can't change your past with all it's heartache and pain,
nor the future with its untold stories.
But I can be there now when you need me to care.

I can't keep your feet from stumbling.
I can only offer my hand that you may grasp it and not fall.

Your joys, triumphs, successes, and happiness are not mine;
Yet I can share in your laughter.

Your decisions in life are not mine to make, nor to judge;
I can only support you, encourage you,
and help you when you ask.

I can't prevent you from falling away from friendship,
from your values, from me.
I can only pray for you, talk to you and wait for you.

I can't give you boundaries which I have determined for you,
But I can give you the room to change, room to grow,
room to be yourself.

I can't keep your heart from breaking and hurting,
But I can cry with you and help you pick up the pieces
and put them back in place.

I can't tell you who you are.
I can only love you and be your friend

Mood Indigo (or purple, or red, or...)

Mr. Nice Guy lives in an expensive high rise full of old people and middle eastern kids. Laundry facilities are in the basement, and there are security cams everywhere and lots of comings and goings, so I never imagined this happening; Someone dug through the dryer, MY dryer, plucked out all my pretty panties from amongst the dishtowels and bluejeans, and spirited them away. 

I have two questions: 

• How did they know I had fabulous underwear to begin with? Do I look like the type? Maybe that’s a good thing? 
• What is an old lady or 20-something boy from Dubai doing with them?! Ew, Im not sure I want to picture either scenario.

Once I was over the shock and grief, I turned my attention to getting replacements. My favorite pair was a blue number with white banding, and since I hadn't bought them, I always wondered where they came from,  so they had added mystique. They were American Apparel, and as I pondered their parentage, I suddenly remembered there was a store fairy close to my house. Pouting about the expense of a new undergarment wardrobe, I threw on some jeans—with no underwear of course—and swung on over to the AA store.  

A cute, young, obviously gay boy announced to me that he would be my service agent. My imagination went wild. My service agent? Oh really? And to what do I owe this honor? Is it because I have no underwear on? I snapped out of my fantasy and explained my situation. I wanted blue undies with binding. My personal little vixen, er service agent, sauntered towards the back of the store, and as I followed I noticed that despite working in a store surrounded by underwear, he wasn’t wearing any either. 

When I finally looked up, we were standing in front of a whole wall full of the exact underwear I wanted, in every color of the rainbow, each one glowing and pristine in a perfect little see-through pouch. I suddenly had an epiphany that would change my thinking about underwear for the rest of my life: I WILL NOW HAVE MOOD PANTIES!—Like mood rings—red for feisty, blue for serene, purple for cocky, green for money, pink for—well you know—and so on. As I stand there nekkid each morning, I can decide what color reflects my mood and have the panties to match. 

Sensing my needs, my service agent handed me a basket and I piled it high. He asked if I wanted to try them on—sound of car crash—Excuse me? Isn’t that against the law? I guess not in a store with a service boy…. Nonetheless, I declined. He seemed disappointed, and sulked while he rang me up, but I just dashed home with my entire spectrum of undies, eager to figure out which mood I would be in for dinner. 

Check out the rainbow of possibilities

Sophia Loren with meat balls

Just as you thought the travel adventures were over —they have only just begun!

I had good plane-seat juju and got a whole center row to myself. Across the aisle on one side was a large man totally decked out in one of those African tribal muumuus with fish and giraffes printed on it in bright colors. In my own non-pc mind, I named him Zulu. In front of him there seemed to be a sourish, overweight lesbian with a bad haircut who wasn't happy about something, or everything.

In stark contrast, on the other side of the aisle was a stunning French woman of a certain age who could have been Sofia Loren's sister, perfectly tailored and accessorized with lots of diamonds, an elegant scarf, and perfectly made up and coiffed. Every time I looked in her direction she was touching up her makeup. She never peed. The. Whole. Nine. Hour. Flight. 

We were served an elegant French-Moroccan lunch of lamb meatballs, sauce and couscous. There was also some kind of freaky salad of shredded unidentifiable veggies with a poached egg on top and a baguette of course, with lots of butter and for desserts,  applesauce AND crème Brulé.  It was all nice and everything, but I'm SO over couscous. I just left the land of couscous. I’m gonna get a whopper and a Dr. Pepper when I get off this plane.

As soon as we started to eat, the turbulence kicked in, and suddenly we were eating on a rollercoaster. The food slid back in forth and it became a game, trying to sip between dips and navigate food to my mouth without poking my eye out with the plastic fork. 

I looked around to assess the morale of my fellow passengers; Zulu had mixed all the food on the tray into one slop-like mixture that looked like something Linda Blair had concocted. He was busy frantically shoveling it in like it was his last meal, all except for the meatballs and some of the sauce/applesauce/cous-cousveggie glop which he decided to save for later. He asked me to stick it in the overhead compartment, which was easier for me to access. Several hours later all was calm and I was happily watching The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Suddenly, the lesbian, who had been watching some violent movie, abruptly stood up in the half-dark aisle and said, "WHAT THE FUCK?!” 

It seemed that the sauce from the meatballs, had somehow lost its top and was oozing out of the overhead, directly onto her bad haircut.  OMG it was all I could not to run and hide. Thank god she had not seen ME put the meatballs over her head, and had no one in particular to blame for the glop attack. Zulu and I stifled our laughter until she had huffed to the front of the plane, returning some time later with wet hair and an even more sour expression on her face. 

Zulu went to ask for more meatballs and returned with a sexy French boy flight attendant who cleaned out the overhead bin over the very grumpy lesbian. I was so grateful it was not in MY overhead bin with new white Prada bags. I popped a sleeping pill and awoke just in time for landing. I had seen enough drama for one flight!

En route: Tunisia to Paris to Houston to Portland

It's official; I have now traveled so much that I've memorized my passport number. The night before I left Tunis I slept well in Hotel Pasha, but now know why cars have horns; for Arabic countries, where horns are a constant all-day, all-night sound. 

Ate a great breakfast of tomato, cucumber and eggs with baguette. They do not mess around with their coffee here; one cup and you're ready to belly dance! I felt right at home having breakfast in a restaurant full of French women, but if I say 'bonjour' one more time I’m gonna scream and I still have a night in Paris to go. Checked out of the hotel and porters carried everything. The young receptionist told me, in broken English, that my hair looked nice. It should have. I worked that Tunis blow dryer for all it was worth so I could have big hair for Paris. 

On the plane I made friends with an Arabic man, and he invited me to stay with his family if I came back to Djerba. Scrunched into the small plane, bumping wildly in turbulence, he drew me a fantastic picture of a cowboy on a horse, and said, "For a souvenir, a cowboy for the cowboy." and then he laughed.

Got to paris tired, went to the luggage carousel and was the last person standing there as the conveyor beeped then stopped, the sign that delivery was finished. I freaked—Paris with no luggage! I found baggage services, where a very sweet girl calmly smiled and asked, "Are you missing a bag?" With my passport and luggage receipt in hand she made a call and my bag arrived in fifteen minutes. Apparently it had been heading to Houston without me ….

I spent the night in Paris at the Hilton which was lovely. I couldn't help thinking it must be nice to be Paris Hilton, at the Hilton, in Paris. Tried to stay up late so I would sleep on the plane the next day, but woke up at 6 a.m., showered, ran down to breakfast, made it through checkout, got to the airport and passed through security like a wiz. 

I’m getting pretty good at international traveling, and as I walked through the concourse congratulating myself on my skills, reflecting on how easy and painless it had all been and how sweet and helpful people were, I suddenly came face-to-face with duty-free heaven; Prada!, Chanel!, Cartier!, Van Cleef and Arpels! Without warning—I swear—I was sucked in to the Prada store, and a voice whispered in my ear, "You should treat yourself to something niiiice…." A salesgirl miraculously appeared, and in broken English, complimented me on my jacket, a quilted one from Zara. "It is Chanel?" This girl was gooood! Buying a gift for someone? Wife? Self? Yes? I swear she said, "Fabulous!" and trotted me right over to the men’s section. Five minutes later I was the owner of a new belt and a pair of flip flops—yes Prada flip flops!  

Waiting for one more flight, I made a new friend from San Francisco, Tammy, a Japanese lady, and we shared trip stories for a few, and then she ran off to her gate. I am homesick. I miss my bed and my Nigel, and I am looking forward to the summer at home with my friends, and not having all my stuff in one suitcase like a hobo. Life is good, the sun is shining in Paris, and people really are wonderful the world over.

Tuna in Tunis, Tunisia (say it 10 times fast...)

In Tunisia ,,,,,rode a camel on the beach today. His name? Omar Sharif! His owner is Ramsey, a Muslim hot daddy. Ate fresh-caught tuna, yes, Tuna in Tunisia, and tons of local olives. Taught the Muslim men how to say okey-dokey. Having an amazing trip but miss all my friends and my pup, and yes taking lots of photos that I'll post SOON!

Just Visiting!

Day two of my trip, visiting my wonderful sister and her family in Houston.

Their neighborhood bears a striking resemblance to a place called Stepford; 

The houses are white.

The SUVs (is there anything else?) are white.

The people are white.

I got here Wednesday and someone came to blow the leaves off their driveway. Now it's Friday and they've come again. Wouldn't want those pesky leaves to accumulate now, would we?

In this community, called Champion's Forest;

The children are perfect.

The yards are perfect.

The hair is perfect.

The boobs are perfect.

Uncle Nice Guy is playing gay nanny to his two adorable nieces. He drives the white Texas Tahoe that gets what?, eight miles to the gallon?, to pick them up at soccer practice. To his 44-year-old brain it's all just so confusing; private school carpool, baton twirling camp, the whole suburban scene, but they're great kids.

Yesterday one of the girls came home traumatized because her friend's mom looked 'all horrible and weird.' My sister did some discreet asking around, to discover that the woman, still in her forties, had merely had an extreme facelift. No, it wasn't the swelling and bruising that scared my niece—that had already receded—it was the end product. Oh well...

Tonight, while sister and her husband have a date night, my nieces and I have big plans; I'll teach them to bake chocolate chip cookies and we'll settle in to watch Beverly Hills Chihuahua. They're too young for The Stepford Wives. 

Update: Project Runway has been substituted. Nothing like a little gay TV. Hope the neighborhood association doesn't find out. 

Unexpected events

Mr. Nice Guy is off on an exotic working vacation to Paris and Tunisia... volcano willing!
Honey, silica ash clouds are SUCH a drag. But volcanos are kinda hot...

The Ring and I

I love to travel, but recently, at the airport and on the plane I kept noticing everyone's wedding rings, which kinda made me sad. I have several rings from past relationships, and I remember the pride of wearing one; that little symbol that says; 'Someone values and adores me—or better yet—puts up with me.'

Just as I was getting to the edge of weepy, I pulled myself together, thinking, 'No, rings are just a stupid symbol!,' but that didn't make me feel better for long, so I started to ponder what I could do about the rang thang. My ideas were as varied as my moods, from sincere to wickedly playful, and back again.

I could pull out one of my old rings and wear it. They are all beautiful, and rich with the meaning and memories of someone special who gave them to me. But those bonds are broken now.

My inner Scarlett O'Hara whispered in my ear; instead of wearing those old rings Honey, you're gonna melt them down, have a tiara made from them and wear it to parties, kinda like your own set of antlers or hunting trophy.

I could melt them down into a little stautette, with a jeweled collar and leash. Kinda like an Oscar but  it will be a 'Mister' for best supporting husband in a dramatic role. Then I can give a speech and thank the academy of exs for all brutal lessons about life and love they have given me. OK, a bit bitter...

My brain was spinning. I could sell the lot on ebay, then buy my own, more gorgeous than the rest, and wear it proudly until someone suitable replaces it.' And if anyone says, 'Nice ring! You're so lucky to be loved.' the answer will be, "Yes, I am!" meaning that I still want to hear wedding bells, but until then I will share my abundance of love with friends and family, and first and foremost, with myself.

Meanwhile, I bought myself a string of fresh-water pearls, each born of agitation, imperfect but glowing, a lovely reminder of the beauty of life and love.

Roller Coaster

Life is supposed to be like a rollercoaster, sometimes you scream and hold on for dear life, sometimes you put your hands up, but the best way to ride is open your eyes, lean into the curbs and smile when you go by the camera.

One week up, one week down; it's just part of being human. I'm so glad I chant. I am much more compassionate to my fellow humans, and less affected by life's hardships and drama.

cheers 

Mood Indigo

Usually Mr. Nice guy is a ball of energy, and as optimistic as a dog sitting expectantly at the cookie jar, but today I must admit to being a bit on the blue end of the spectrum. So nice of Portland to mirror my mood by cooking up a gloomy-gus-of-a-day, with stormy skies and constant drizzle.

I've been in this town for exactly one year now, and although I've made some great friends and love it here, it doesn't quite feel like home yet. And then I realized that it's also just a year since my father died unexpectedly. No wonder the blue funk is sitting on my head!

I'll get up and out, and this will pass, but meanwhile, if you're willing, it would be so nice to hear a few words from anyone passing by my little cyber-neighborhood. Leaving a little comment would really go a long way towards cheering me up.

The Invisible Man

Yesterday I got up early, slugged down a stiff cup of java and went into a housework tizzy. Ripping the sheets off the bed, I piled them into the giant rolling trash can I use as a hamper, plopped my trusty dog on top, and began the trek 18 floors down to the basement laundry room.

My ill-considered outfit consisted of a do-rag chapeau, a wrinkled pink tee-shirt and some sweats. We arrived without incident, I loaded the washers and dashed for the elevator, hoping it would magically float directly to my floor uninterrupted, but noooo. My personal demons had a special surprise in store.

We got as far as the first floor and there was a little 'ding.' The doors opened, and there he was; a stunningly handsome vision of loveliness, a god just down from Olympus for the day. And there I was, in excruciating contrast; Cinderfella before his magic transformation, in his do-rag and sweats. And did I mention the rumpled pink tee-shirt?

I wanted to run. I wanted an escape hatch to open. He pushed 16 which was going to make for a long ride. I couldn't look at him so I stared at the buttons, wishing there was a Willy Wonka button that would take us on a wild ride up, over, down and around, and he and I would end up trapped and naked in a heap with the Pomeranian and the trash can...

No such luck. My mind was racing. I remembered those childhood wishes for superpowers, and thought how great it would be to have the power of invisibility at my fingertips for just such occasions, or even better, a fairy godfather to go 'poof' with her wand and transform the tee-shirt into a sparkling ballgown, my do-rag into a french twist, all reflecting my true inner beauty. Until that magic day, I have vowed to get dressed to do laundry, just in case my prince shows up with a glass slipper.

The secret powers of small fluffy dogs

I knew I wanted a small, cute, easy-traveling, black dog. Ha! little did I know when Nigel showed up in my xmas stocking, what was in store for me and the world.

He has become the favorite dog I've ever had. Sorry to all those dogs that came before, but the truth hurts. You should have thought of that before you chewed up my Gucci flip flops, Honey!

Nigel is sweet and well-behaved. He's a great snuggler and listens very well. But a very different talent emerged as soon as he was old enough to venture out with me.

Suddenly, men began appearing out of nowhere, squealing about how cute he was. Now that he has grown up and figured out how to really milk all that luxuriant fluffyness for attention, he is an unstoppable man magnet! With so much adorableness on a leash no one is immune; I now have the perfect ice breaker. And If there is any question in men's minds about whether I am gay or not, the small, black, overly-groomed Pomeranian speaks volumes, no?

What kind of dog is that? What's his name? What's YOUR name? Oh, suddenly there is so much to talk about! I can explain where his name came from, ask if they have a dog...

Nigel gets yogurt for breakfast, prefers veggies over meat, and has six kinds of treats. He is totally loved and spoiled, just in case you hadn't already figured that out. So for now he is my best friend, until till Mr. Right shows up, and when he does, he'd better not be allergic to dogs!

I Have a (gay) Dream...

I moved to Portland, looked around, and realized that something was missing. Something really important to me; Can someone tell me where exactly is the gay neighborhood?

Didn't think so.

'Cause there doesn't seem to be one. I dearly miss my sense of belonging to a bigger swarm of humanity I can relate to. So I'm starting this blog, but it's not about lil' ol' me.

It's about US.

It's FOR us.

You and me and as many Mister Nice Guys as we can gather. If this blog was a game show, you'd be the contestants, the audience AND ol' what's-his-name. I'd just be Vanna, straining mightily to look intelligent, holding up those big letters so's everyone can see them.

It's an attempt to make an online neighborhood and community, to share some realness, some joy, and occasionally even some righteous indignation (did I mention all my underwear was stolen out of the laundry room last week? Sick bastard! More about that later, with pix of my elegant solution)

I'm thinking, wouldn't it be great to tell you about places I've discovered around town, hear about your own favorites, rant about common problems, howl at the moon, and even plan some picnics or meet-ups when the weather gets a bit nicer?

I'm a list-maker, and I started a list of all the topics I'd love to talk with y'all about but I got carried away, REALLY carried away, and it's got over 200 topics on it already with more flying into my head every few minutes.

But enough about me, and my plans. PLEASE CHIME IN! Introduce yourselves.

How about starting by posting a comment telling me what your favorite place to go on a romantic date in Portland is. I'll tell you mine. Promise. And I'll introduce my sure-fire secret weapon for meeting and chatting up cute strangers.

Stay tuned! xoxo for now.