Through the good graces of a friend, I am invited to a pool party this weekend.

One of this blog's first entries involved last year's pool party and I realize that I have reached, or perhaps already passed, its first year anniversary. Have I changed this past year? Maybe a little. Those thoughts were on my mind when writing yesterday's entry.

The pool party is hosted by a socially-prominent Cincinnati couple. Their house is luxurious, immaculate; well-tended landscaping surrounds an in-ground pool and hot-tub. A baby blue Lincoln -- the classic 1960s model with suicide doors -- sits in the drive. The party is catered "by good friends" and can sometimes be "clothing optional."

I know this couple only through my good friend: She is their neighbor. At last year's party, I had hoped to meet some people and was disappointed; this year, I couldn't care less. I'm not entirely certain I'll even show this year.

The best of these folks would, I'm sure, describe themselves as ambitious and goal-oriented. Feeling ambitious, at least about a career, is something that has eluded me. But I don't know if I feel so awful about that; there is something fulfilling that comes with rewiring old lamps, after all. Or stripping and restaining furniture (next on the project list). And listening to music.

During this summer's brief stint at the opera, I played a peasant followed by a quick-change into a soldier enamored of the Soprano followed by a scene as a party guest. I had two free passes, and my friend used the second ticket to bring one from the socially-prominent couple.

"I'm so frustrated at the sloppy fashions these days," the man whined. "I hate that look where men no longer tuck in their shirts."

Guess who met them after the show wearing an untucked shirt?

I went to the final opera of the season by myself, sitting in the cheapest gallery. To one side, an elderly couple sat. ("These are horrible seats!" exclaimed the woman. We all laughed.) To the other side, three woman came in wearing strapless, floor-length gowns and carrying beaded bags, revealed that not only did they have full body tattoos but that they did not believe in shaving. (And perhaps not in deodorant, as there was a distinct odor.) But to each their own, and I talked a bit to the one next to me. ("We've never been to the opera before.")

To my horror, I spot the socially-prominent couple moving to their seats -- one row ahead. By the look on their faces, not only do they agree that these are terrible seats, but they may well have caught a whiff. And here I am, wearing an untucked shirt, jeans and red converse hi-tops. (I turn away and eagerly engage the elderly couple in conversation. "Wow, so your granddaughter is applying to medical school?")

After the performance starts, I surreptitiously check them out. They are dressed to the nines: Navy blazers with glinting buttons and yellow power ties. They sit unmoving, their mouths set in disapproval. They do not clap, and leave before the curtain falls. ("The performance didn't get such great reviews," someone told me later.)

"What does Hugshyhermit do?"
"He's a lawyer."
"Oh? Really?"

The party invitation shortly follows.

Two weeks ago, a group of us volunteered to weed a local park. It was part of a working nineteenth-century farm and I hiked some of it afterwards, talking to the pigs and the sheep. (The pigs especially seemed to appreciate it, but maybe they just wanted to be fed.)

After a week's incubation, most of us have come down with poison ivy. I've never had it before and didn't correlate it with the outing until we sat in a meeting collectively scratching. The rashes are ugly, oozing things; they could make quite an impression at a socially-prominent pool party.

On his side of the duplex, the living room is the most finished room. The walls, ceiling and floor are painted; the rudimentary furniture has been moved into place. Finishing touches are all that is needed.

On a recent day, he struggles with six cardboard boxes that had been stored in a closet under the stairs, and discovers books -- read, unread and quite possibly never will be read; and magazines (The story of his life).

Three teak bookcases -- $20 each. Trading Post Ad. -- are quickly filled.

Next comes the stereo, from a time when turntables were not quite extinct. Even carefully detailed, it belies its age: It is limited to playing one CD at a time, its songs in linear order. Out, too, come the piles of CDs and a few well-worn LPs that reflect the sudden shift in music of the late 70s: B-52s, Ultravox, The Dumbwaiters, Sham69. A beloved core that remain while a greater collection has been shed over twenty years of moving.

Once the stereo is installed, he chooses to play the first album in chronological order -- from 1978, from high school. The speakers pick up his finger rasping the needle and he sets it to that record's hit.

Today's project waits patiently: A wrought-iron "colonial" lamp dating from the 50s -- $5. Yardsale. It needs rewiring, and the tools, as carefully-placed as any surgeon's, line beside it on the floor.

Time. On. My. Side.
I got it all...
I've heard that pride
Always comes... before a fall...

A year ago, he wanted a boyfriend. He went to parties and flirted. Turned off by people who were aggressively extroverted, he was often described in similar terms. He worked out and thought that might be all it would take.

There's a rumour goin round the town
That you don't want me around
I can't shake off my city blues
Every way I turn I lose

The old socket, from the looks of it, was the source of the failure; it left carbon-like flashes on the inside of the cardboard insulator. He unscrews the wires and the socket from its fitting and discards them to the side. He stretches plastic packages to release new parts. He takes wirecutters and crimps the ends of the chord, unsheathing bright copper.

Love is like oxygen
You get too much, you get too high
Not enough and you're gonna die
Love gets you high

Someone -- a friend -- told him recently that he "gave the appearance" of being open: "You come off as friendly; and you're certainly very funny," that friend had said. "But you're actually stand-offish and closed. Even cold." The words had startled him; but not because it wasn't true, but because someone had revealed it.

Time is no healer
If you're not there
Lone. Lee. Fee. Ver.
Sad words in the air

At first, the part for the new socket doesn't fit into the old base; then he discovers the metal can bend to accomodate. After the new part is screwed in, he bends the old pieces back. He threads the chord through and attaches it to the two fields of the socket.

Some things are better left unsaid
I'm gonna spend my days in bed
I'll walk the streets at night
To be hidden by the city lights, city lights

He has not felt so open to meeting new people lately; not pretending to flirt or pretending to be interested. Instead, he keeps his eyes steady and his mouth frozen; he makes sure of it. Recently, he watched a late night program on television -- one of those Positive Living gurus. The guru wore a designer suit and carried a mike while pacing the stage, empty but for three large and assymmetrically-placed japanese lanterns. "The second step of regaining a soul-full life..." the camera glimpsed a wide-eyed conference, "is intention."

Love is like oxygen
You get too much, you get too high
Not enough and you're gonna die
Love gets you high

Tightening the switch, the screwdriver slips and jabs him in the palm. The plug is easier. A fake candle base slides over the socket. A new shade fits over the bulb. He finds the plug in the floor between the television and the fireplace. With a quarter click of the switch, the bulb shines.

Success!

Visitors will note that I have a little webcounter towards the right-hand bottom of the page. Hoo boy let me tell you, in the early days of creating this blog it was a few hours of rollicking fun choosing the counter design.

In addition to counting the thousands who stop by daily, it also tells me a little more about you.

Only a little -- it's free after all -- and no violations to the Privacy Act or potential threats to identity theft I assure you.

But through it, I discovered that my blog has made it onto here -- a couple of times. It's rather odd; given that both times my mention of a book was in passing.

I'll take the publicity where I can.

Now...I wish my regular visitors from Belgium, the Czech Republic and Singapore would drop me a note and introduce themselves. Ahem.

And Hey, Dad! I recognize that ISP! Isn't there a movie with Alan Alda on? Go check it out!

It wasn't unexpected, but it happened sooner than I had hoped: About twenty-six years sooner.

My Colorado tenants have given their notice. They will be out of the property by the end of the month.

What to do? Keep or sell?

Keep: Take a chance that good tenants will move in.

Sell: If I can't personally use or keep control over it, then it is only a thing that unnecessarily weighs me down.

So I met my friend Dr. Freud out for a drink last night.

He invited me to a bar where someone he knew was to read some poetry. I guess my culture vulture reputation proceeds me enough so that when people hear "Poetry Read" their next thought is to give me a call. And that's fine by me.

"What is this poet like?" I asked Dr. F. "What kind of poetry does he write?"
"I don't know," said Dr. F, slouching over his corona-and-lime. "I met him a couple of weeks ago at a dinner party."
"Oh well, whether it sounds like Dr. Seuss or Kafka, I'm up for finding out."
"I thought you'd say something like that."

The poet slid in toward the front of the room and sat, buddha-like, next to a boom mike and a keyboard. He began playing atmospheric chords and when he spoke he spoke in breathy measurements. Occasionally, he took careful sips from a clear glass. The scene seemed to me to be very much like something from Music From The Hearts of Space, the syndicated program of new-age "ambient" music you sometimes hear late at night on local college radio stations.

I'll attempt to reproduce one of the poems here (apologies to the poet!):

I dreamed I was on a highway.
And everyone around me was me.
There was a young me, driving a beetle.
There was an old me, driving a Lincoln.
There was a rich me, driving a Mercedes.
And there was a poor me, driving a Chevette.
Each face was slightly different.
Each wearing an experience unique to that me.
But the eyes.
The eyes were all the same.
Each captured the exact same
Core of me.
We were not just all driving along.
We were all moving outward.

Any copyright laws broken? Pretty good stuff, I thought.

We stayed for the whole reading. Afterwards, the poet stopped to thank Dr. F for coming and I'm afraid I scared the poor thing. I torpedoed him with questions: Where do you go to read your poetry? How long have you been doing this? Where did you start? Do you go to any workshops?

"I don't know," the poet said, and looking as though he was beginning to sweat.

And the subject of your poems -- how did you come across them? Do you keep a journal?

"I just kinda made it all up," the poet said. "If you'll excuse me."

Oops!

Good thing I didn't ask for his number!

Lesson I already know: Sometimes I can overwhelm folks.
Lesson I already know: Just do it anyway...