I'm fascinated with Blogs. I check other people's blogs out, and read their entries. Breaking hearts, sleepless nights, anger and jealousy, newfound loves, growing intimacy -- it's all recorded. I haven't yet grown tired of it yet. I have bookmarked a few blogs, just for their outlook: I have a teenaged girl blog -- she talks about cute boyz and new clothes; the blog for a British Curate who is my age and has his sermons posted; one for a teenaged boy who I think must have Attention Deficit Disorder or something; a late 20something addict in recovery; a 50ish year old dead-head musician; and most recently, the blog for some poet singer songwriter who lives in LA and must be at least peripherally in The Biz. I like the voyeuristic aspect, but I'm reassured that we are all the same folk with the same base needs and issues on this here sphere.

A couple of days ago, I received an e-mail from the guy who used to organize "group events" when I lived here in Dayton. The group had a cheesy name (Boys Organized For Fun - BOFF) and you had to interview and sign a waiver in order to join. He wanted to know if I was interested in participating in an event like one from a year ago involving the same "victim". I wrote back "maybe" and I said So you still see that guy, huh? Between you and me and the blog-post: I got some pleasure that the "victim" enjoyed himself, but bondage by itself does nothing for me. If you want details, there's not much to tell: Some guy was tied (I believe the politically-correct term is "restrained") to a specially-made bench with a spandex hood with a nose-hole only and a headset to "sensorally-deprive" him. And then we "tortured" him (under any other circumstance it really would be called tickling) with a variety of found objects -- the polartek gloves seem to be the big hit of the evening, along with the feather duster and the riding crop.

S wrote back to say that yes, he's still seeing that guy, in fact on a regular basis, and that he's very happy and they're considering moving in together. Well, well, cynical ones, who says Love Doesn't Exist?

Today's Dream
It's a sunny morning and I sit in my car at the valley intersection of Reading and Dorchester. The windows are slightly down and the sunroof is open. Joan Sutherland and Pavoratti are singing a selection from "La Traviata". When the light turns green, I move through the intersection, turn right onto the ramp entering 71S and start to pick up speed. I pass the yellow Merging Traffic Ahead sign, and the overpasses above and ramp next to me begin to converge. As I'm coming up level with the highway, a moderate number of cars move along, but everything looks safe in the mirrors as I sail in to join the regular lanes. A slight lavendar haze surrounds the downtown skyline coming into view, and I turn to check the blindspot.

It's only a moment -- a split-second -- but I turn back to see traffic suddenly stopping. The semi directly in front of me has its rear door open, and I can see the sides of its narrow interior shake as it thunders hard to slow. The rear lights contain a design of magnified red spots; and I watch powerless as the black enamel hitch in its rear bumper cruises thickly towards me. It disappears dead-on into the front end of the Civic, and with a crack of plastic and glass, my car flies apart like a bag of chips that's just been opened: the grill and lights pop and shatter; the hood folds and bounces up; the car starts to swing sideways like a tilt-a-whirl. I'm being propelled into the steering wheel and corner post. In all directions, brakes send up a distress squeal.

August reports are filed and discussed. It's been a full day and it's time to go.