sex scandal secrecy subversity storytelling scarcity sublimity

What the hell are you rambling about, Hugshyhermit?
Why, these are the "seven S's of successful marketing", as told to me by my friend, Colorado C.

You may recall C and I had a plan to see Madonna when she opens her American tour in Las Vegas this summer. As we researched all aspects Madonna/Vegas, we learned it would coincide with the Vegas Circuitparty, which only sweetened the pot for my friend C.

Here's how it all started: Colorado C called me up.

"You have to sign up for Madonna's fan club! They're making tickets to the tour available at special rates ahead of the general public!"
"Oh c'mon, C! Me, a grown man, joining a Fan Club? Madonna's Fan Club?!"
"You have to! It will be so much fun! Otherwise we'll never get tickets!"

And so, $38 later, I am an ICON -- the name of the Material Girl's Fan Club members.

True to C's word, I begin receiving a steady barrage of e-mails: VIP Tickets available for ICON members ONLY!

On the appointed day and a few minutes before the appointed hour when the ICON tickets will be released, C and I call each other up and simultaneously log on to the ticket sales menu. We both agree that a Madonna concert is only worth it to see up close, so we will purchase the most expensive tickets, for Vegas, Opening Night: $300 each.

"It's saying it's not open yet! What time do you have?"
"It's letting me in! I'm choosing two $300 tickets!.... OK... It's saying nothing's available!"
"Try again, too many people are hitting the servers!"
"No, it's saying it's sold out!"
"Try the $150 tickets!"
"Those are gone, too! Do the $90 ones...!"
"None! What should we do?"
"Let's go for Chicago!"

...and Toronto and L.A. and Washington D.C. Gone. Sold Out. All in under five or so minutes.

That same day, I leave for my lunch date with St. Bernard and have a good laugh with him over it -- St. Bernard doesn't like Madonna... or Brittney or Christina or Mandy or Jessica. Upon my return, there are two breathless voicemails from C. He's purchased a Ticketmaster ticket for the concert in Boston. I call him back:

"Log on to ticketmaster.com! There are still other available tickets!"
"It's telling me it's sold out."
"It can't be, I have one right here -- Row 22!"
"I'm telling you, it's saying it's sold out!"
"I'll release this ticket, see what it does -- there, I'm releasing it!"
"Oh my god, it's letting me in! I have two minutes to complete the sale!"

And so, bloggies, it appears I purchased the last ticket to the Madonna concert in Boston (Worcester Centre, actually) in June. Jealous?

Even if you aren't, we have discovered a group that are: Our $38 ICON memberships give us access into an exclusive, Madonna-only chat room. C has discovered this is almost 100% populated with gay guys over 30 (with a few -- as in two -- straight women under 20). C logs on a regular basis to trumpet that we have seats, 20 or so rows from the stage.

My two forrays into the ICON chat room haven't been so much fun. While I do enjoy some -- if not many -- of Our Lady of Bay City's songs, I've never seen her live, nor do I follow the clothing designers she's currently wearing. I don't own a copy of Sex or Mr. Peabody's Apples; I have not memorized the lines from her many under-rated movies, nor do I know the name of her hairdresser let alone who she's currently hanging with. Much of the public discussions are constructed entirely using Madonna song lyrics.

The two teens -- both named Sharon -- are the only two who talk to me. The Sharons have taken pity and help me when I flounder on Madonna trivia. (Question: Which song took Madonna only twenty minutes to write? Answer: Into The Groove.)

If you're experienced with all things Madonna -- like my friend C -- then the world is your oyster. C privately chats with people from all over the world and they exchange naughty pictures. You can even call each other up, international long distance, and talk dirty with each other. C is thoroughly enjoying himself.

C is organizing an ICON party pre-Worcester show. It might be fun -- certainly, funny -- and you'll read all about it here.

sex scandal secrecy subversity storytelling scarcity sublimity

...Indeed.

EXT. WOODED TRAIL. POV of H, walking DOG, pans up to see figure in the distance, approaching.

Guy: No expectations.

H: None.

H hands DOG LEASH to Guy.

THE END.

PUKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Time for me to log onto the Brittney Spears Chat or something.

H: I don't believe people who say they believe in love at first sight.

DOG looks directly into camera, sniffs, and wags its tail

EXT. Wooded path. Sun through the trees.

Guy 2: Didn't you ever get that feeling?

H: Maybe I get that feeling all the time.

EXT. Extreme CU. Fern or undergrowth or something organically interesting.

H. (V.O.): Maybe we can be friends.

Guy 3: Are we done? I'm missing Survivor: Allstars

DOG is sniffing.

EXT. PAN of landscape. Any landscape

Guy 4: I'm late for Service.

Guy 5: I was supposed to be in a meeting a half hour ago.

POV of H, following behind DOG.

INT. CLUB. Neon, shadowy figures, back and under-lighting, techno music.

Guy 6: I don't want to own anyone. It's about equality.

Guy 7: No one is going to tell me what to do.

Guy 8: I'm looking for someone who's 6 feet tall, with blond hair, green eyes, a toned body and an 8 inch dick.

Bartender (matching that description -- at least as near as we can see): Do you believe in love at first sight?

EXT. WOODED PATH with DOG.

Guy 9: We'd been together nine years and things were getting boring. We agreed to bring others into the relationship.

DOG sits down, as if to listen.

Guy 9: We had a threeway and the next thing I knew, he had left me.

Guy 10: He ran off with the third guy.

Guy 11: I thought we were monogamous!

INT. CLUB. H sits down at bar, flags bartender.

Bartender: Something to warm you up?

Guy 9 (wearing an "ironic" shirt saying UNEMPLOYED): Did it hurt falling from heaven?

Guy 10 (shirt says ADDICT): Pinch me, I must be dreaming.

Guy 11(shirt says 3 RESTRAINING ORDERS): What are you doing for the rest of your life?

H (to bartender): Something to make me believe.

Note to readers: Feeling nauseous yet? OK, I'm sure this is enough to make anyone spew
chunks. But I also cranked it out in not a lot of time -- quantity, not quality. A start, maybe I can take it somewhere later. TO BE CONT'd...

Unbelievable news from the banks of the Greater Miami River.

(If you can't open the link, you'll have to register -- a new feature added since I placed it in a link to the right -- but fake info in the blanks seems to work -- it worked for me! Then you can read this and many other, interesting, home-grown articles.)

Here's the synopsis: Dayton is the best place to live in Ohio (rolling on floor laughing) AND is the 41st best American city over-all to call home (laughing so hard I'm crying).

New York City ranked 40th. One ahead.

The ranking considers cost of living, crime, employment opportunities and culture.

I have to go pee now...

More Existentialism
Look what I found today: Some fun, huh?

I'm already forming an idea that involves a man walking a dog with a montage of men. The environment and the man and dog remains the same, but each cut to their companion will be a different guy. Has this been done?

Longshot HUGSHYHERMIT walks a DOG along a wooded trail. Another MAN walks along -- we see his back, and not his face.

H (V.O.): Parents teach you that you can have anything you want in life: Only your imagination limits the possibilities.

Close-up, track shot, DOG walking, sniffing, doing dog things.

But life instead is learning that there are limits.

Close-up DOG cont'd, dog strains on collar and chain.

And learning to accept them.

Close-up H, expressionless

Guy: You believe in love at first sight?


TO BE CONTINUED...

... well, plastic, actually.

After the last few weeks, I needed a couple of days' vacation. I took my sweet time driving back roads, following rivers and passing through small river towns to get to the factory that makes these. A cluster of brick county buildings.

The folks there met me, and gave me a tour and a demo. Hydraulic presses stamp the plastic sheets with the design. There was an overpoweringly unpleasant smell: Some kind of cleaner?

I chose a design called Gothic for the Dining Room; I hope it will give the appearance of a trellice.

They had posted a "workers bill of rights" that included, among other things, the right to be free from "chemical or physical restraint". Wonder if being knocked out with that smell would qualify.

More later.

Yesterday was one of the first warm days and, for around here, it was surprisingly dry. All pale yellow and still; brown, with last year's leaves crackling in the wind and crunching under foot. The hint of green only around dark creek banks.

Grace and I drove over to Hills and Dales Park; sun roof back, windows down and heads out side. The park adjoins the snootiest suburb of Dayton, Oakwood. You have to wonder where all this money comes from -- inheritance? It's money from a different era -- most of the spreads pre-date 1970 -- and we're not talking standard McMansions; these are palatial. French Chateaux and English Manors line curving brick lanes. Tennis Courts and poolhouses.

I used to have this idea I would one day live in a house like that. But now I think What it must be like to clean! or Property taxes must be outrageous! I'm happy enough with 1000 square feet and a fenced back yard.

Grace and I brought along Saint Bernard. Saint Bernard is a 24 year old guy who has chatted with me on-line for several months and who wanted to meet. I call him Saint Bernard because he's a huge guy -- 6'-6" tall, he says -- and his head is block-shaped, like a large canine. There's a chain of clothing stores at outlet malls called Big Dog; he could be their spokesperson.

We met last week for the first time and it went okay. He came off older than 24, and we had things to talk about. We planned on going to a movie yesterday, but instead he wanted to "hang out". I don't know what "hanging out" meant, but I did not want to fool around with him. He's just coming out and has made a big deal about sex meaning more than just fooling around. So when he got here, I said It's a sunny day, let's go on a walk!

He may be disappointed I didn't make a pass at him. He said he's decided to stop being shy and has met seven people in the last week. Seven. Wow. He likes em older -- doesn't that make me feel great! -- but most of his seven are around thirty years old. "Straight up!"

Hills and Dales Park is no mountain climb; its a benignly wooded area next to a golf course. We hadn't gone very far, and I noticed SB sweating. (I stopped short of typing 'panting' but look I just did anyway.) Walking did not suit him -- at 24 years old! He mentioned that he has lost 90 pounds in the last year (since he's accepted being gay) and is down to 220. 220 lbs! 90 lbs! 24 years old! Maybe I am hung up on statistics.

We had more fun hanging out on my front porch after the walk, talking and laughing. A lot of people -- and I don't think I'm one of them -- are drawn to the sounds of socializing; my tenant popped out with her kitten and promptly killed the mood. Eventually someone called (one of his seven, no doubt), and off SB went. We made plans to go to a movie later in the week.

I also had a date with Psychotherapist. An Ivy League grad, and very, very shy. I decided to get some free therapy in an oblique way "So, I have this friend..."

No. We discussed my obsession with self-help books, and I explained that it began in 1996-97, the period when I actually *was* in Therapy and thinking I could do a better job of it myself. Hmmmm.

You decide.

Psychotherapist detailed for me the phenomenon known as "transference." I already knew -- or thought I knew -- that this is where the patient hinders the healing process by focusing their emotions on their therapist. (It's bad because patients fall in love -- or think they fall in love -- with their therapists.)

But apparently it is so much more than that. In an "ideal"(?) Psychotherapy relationship, the Therapist observes how the Patient responds and relates to the Therapist, and thus can start investigating the true nature of a problem.

Think I'll stick with my self-help books.

Anyhow, I cut my date short. We had met, ironically, at a new bar in the warehouse district called Therapy. (ha ha!) Minimalist; everything painted in tones of deafening white. Ultraviolet light gave the feel of a moonscape or of a full lunar eclipse, and muted even raucous laughter. Clear drinks were served with glass swizzle sticks. We sat conversing on metal and molded plastic stools, then moved to low, orange-colored banquettes along the walls. The staff wore black, as did many of the clientele. I could imagine posing with my sister and her friends somewhere in L.A. (But we're in Dayton, and I give this place less than a year.)

The next morning, an e-mail (written at 3 a.m.) was waiting: Psychotherapist apologizing for being so boring.

Augh! Enough with the Transference!

Hills and Dales Park was a new spot for Grace, and she lunged and plunged around and off the path and into piles of things -- so obedient to her human companion, yanked about behind her. But in a moment, she brought herself up and poised, head still. Her nose quivered an inch above a tiny globe, shining in the silence. "What's that, Grace?" and her tale flagged once to acknowledge.

A golf ball: A Callaway 2.

"Good girl!" and we now have a souvenir of the day. A grain of sand floats in a jar. A measure of light holds on a twig. They create chords in a diminished key.