Thursday, October 07, 2004
Late Night Pager Duty
Part I: Traveling Around the World...
From: The Statesman's Yearbook: The Politics, Cultures and Economies of the World 2002, Barry Turner, ed.
From the safety of our desktops and office cubicles, we shall travel around the world visiting interesting-sounding and obscure countries. 25 well-spent cents from the booksale. This evening's selection is:
Comoros
Union des Iles Comores
Key Facts
The Comoros consist of 3 islands in the Indian Ocean between the african mainland and Madagascar with a total area of 1,862 sq. km. (719 sq. miles). The present state became French protectorates at the end of the 19th century and were proclaimed colonies in 1912. With neighbouring Mayotte they were administratively attached to Madagascar from 1914 until 1947 when the 4 islands became a French Overseas Territory, achieving internal self-government in Dec. 1961. In referendums held on each island on 22 Dec. 1974, the 3 western islands voted overwhelmingly for independence, while Mayotte voted to remain French. Recent years have been marked by political disruption. In 1997 the islands of Anjouan and Moheli attempted to secede from the federation.
Under the Constitution approved by referendum on 1 Oct. 1978 (amended 1983), the Comoros were a Federal Islamic Republic. Mayotte had the right to join when it so chose. At a referendum on 7 June 1992, 74.25% of votes cast were in favour of a new constitution. The electorate was 213,000; turn-out was 63.51%. Under the 1992 constitution the President is Head of State, directly elected for a 5-year term (renewable once).
Part II: My Dream Last Night
I came from visiting my mom, ill and in the hospital. She kissed me goodbye in a waiting room. When I returned home, I was carrying suitcases.
Where I lived was not my current home; it was an old townhouse in some larger city, with extremely high ceilings and extremely narrow halls. I had four room-mates, both couples: The guys looked like a couple I met earlier this year; and the women were my current next-door neighbors, "The Ladies". They were all standing around in the poorly-lit kitchen when I came in and put my baggage down.
A young couple came over to me. They both had pencil-thin beards edging the jawline and white and purple tattoos on their faces. One of them put his arm over my shoulder and stuck out his pierced tongue.
My room was the end of the hall with a closed door. When I opened it, about five or six women were having sex on my bed, with an audience of more women standing around watching and looking bored. Oh dear, I thought. I caught the attention of the nearest woman.
From: The Statesman's Yearbook: The Politics, Cultures and Economies of the World 2002, Barry Turner, ed.
From the safety of our desktops and office cubicles, we shall travel around the world visiting interesting-sounding and obscure countries. 25 well-spent cents from the booksale. This evening's selection is:
Comoros
Union des Iles Comores
| capital | Moroni |
| Population estimate | 714,000 (2000) |
| Births | 26,100 (1996) |
| Deaths | 5,900 (1996) |
Key Facts
The Comoros consist of 3 islands in the Indian Ocean between the african mainland and Madagascar with a total area of 1,862 sq. km. (719 sq. miles). The present state became French protectorates at the end of the 19th century and were proclaimed colonies in 1912. With neighbouring Mayotte they were administratively attached to Madagascar from 1914 until 1947 when the 4 islands became a French Overseas Territory, achieving internal self-government in Dec. 1961. In referendums held on each island on 22 Dec. 1974, the 3 western islands voted overwhelmingly for independence, while Mayotte voted to remain French. Recent years have been marked by political disruption. In 1997 the islands of Anjouan and Moheli attempted to secede from the federation.
Under the Constitution approved by referendum on 1 Oct. 1978 (amended 1983), the Comoros were a Federal Islamic Republic. Mayotte had the right to join when it so chose. At a referendum on 7 June 1992, 74.25% of votes cast were in favour of a new constitution. The electorate was 213,000; turn-out was 63.51%. Under the 1992 constitution the President is Head of State, directly elected for a 5-year term (renewable once).
Part II: My Dream Last Night
I came from visiting my mom, ill and in the hospital. She kissed me goodbye in a waiting room. When I returned home, I was carrying suitcases.
Where I lived was not my current home; it was an old townhouse in some larger city, with extremely high ceilings and extremely narrow halls. I had four room-mates, both couples: The guys looked like a couple I met earlier this year; and the women were my current next-door neighbors, "The Ladies". They were all standing around in the poorly-lit kitchen when I came in and put my baggage down.
- "How is your mom, little man?" asked one of The Ladies, eating a grape off the stove.
"Hopefully she'll be doing better."
- "I hope you don't mind, we're having a party."
A young couple came over to me. They both had pencil-thin beards edging the jawline and white and purple tattoos on their faces. One of them put his arm over my shoulder and stuck out his pierced tongue.
- "We'd really like to do you," he grinned.
"I'll have to take a rain-check, I'm pretty tired." And they drew back, perplexed, as I excused myself.
My room was the end of the hall with a closed door. When I opened it, about five or six women were having sex on my bed, with an audience of more women standing around watching and looking bored. Oh dear, I thought. I caught the attention of the nearest woman.
- "Uuhhhmm. This is my room. Does this really have to go on in here?"
- "What do you expect? It's your choice to live here!"
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Straight Guys: Another Break From My Senses
If you haven't stopped by here before, one of my hobbies is fixing up old houses and turning them into rentals. I'm no real estate magnate, but I own a few. My current project is renovating the duplex I live in.
Anticipating that last weekend might be one of the year's last for warm weather, I decided to tackle one of the outdoor projects: Painting the Garage. It's been shaking paint loose like a wet dog.
I began with the sun just above tree-level and with my breath still visible. Scrape and brush, a clorox rinse, a layer of primer, and then the top-coat. Kinda like going to the hairdresser.
While I painted, I thought about straight guys. Oh no, not in the way you readers might think!
On one side of me are my ex-tenants, "The Ladies," but on the other side live a family with one child. They keep their house and yard neat as a pin, and drive neat-as-a-pin black Chevrolets: A SUV for her, a truck for him.
They keep to themselves, and I don't mind neighbors like that at all. The girl rides her bike up and down or plays hopscotch, but always by herself. The wife might be pretty, but she wears a grim expression when I see her striding from the SUV -- and that's the only time I seen her. She looks like she's always ready to lose her temper.
I see the husband the most. He quietly does the yard work and keeps their cars clean. He focuses on the duty at hand and when he says anything, he only says "hey." When I first bought the place, I introduced myself. He has a kind face, but I got the impression by the look in his eyes that he's terribly shy. It was sort of a pleading look.
They had a Husky. The dog was always outside by himself. He stayed in a pre-molded plastic house, and he pined day and night. I would see him sitting at the entrance of his little house, facing the rear porch and making the most mournful noises. It was upsetting at first, it was such a lonesome whine, but after awhile I got used to it.
Then one morning a few weeks ago I realized it was quiet and saw a new tree planted in their backyard. With the tree was a granite boulder with a plaque engraved big enough for me to see that it had the dog's name and dates. As it sunk in, the husband came into my line of sight, carrying a bag of mulch. He was planting flowers around the tree and boulder.
A few days later I noticed him again, huddled over something and when he turned, I saw he cradled a puppy -- a little Husky. I watched while they wandered around the yard, the puppy jerking its head everywhere and yawning. It was very cute.
So when I started the garage, I noticed him standing there, holding his little dog.
Hubby was there, too, behind her, working the garden beds. He wasn't looking up. "Bad dog!" Something to work her temper out on.
The day continued. At some point, my tenant's son came down the driveway. "Hey, hugshyhermit, stop making so much noise, hee hawww guffaww." He's been 'visiting' for the last ten months. "Finally. You're painting the garage. I was getting worried."
Hee haw guffaw, and he stood talking in the driveway while I painted. He told me about the Bengals and the Browns, gave reports on all his Florida relatives and his take on the debates. He talked about the Dave Matthews moveon dot org event he went to. We talked about bars and drinking and getting into fights. While he was there, I must have completed an entire side of the garage.
The Ladies next door love to speculate. Do you think maybe this and what about that. Why do you think he's always talking to you? He says he wants a girlfriend but he never goes out. Have you seen how carefully he takes care of the yard?
Speculation is human nature. But I don't think my tenant's son is gay. I think he's an overweight, unemployed 30-year-old who lives with his mother. And if he were? He'd still be an overweight, unemployed 30-year-old living with his mother. As nice as he seems to be, that's a hot potato I'd pass on.
And the guy next door? Late in the day, I heard someone pull-starting a gadget, like a lawn mower. Looking up, the husband was trying to start one of those hand-held blowers, the machines that shoots leaves around. His wife was gone and he stood there looking right at me. It looked like he wanted to start a conversation.
After a few minutes, he got the machine started and its sound modulated as he paced around. Faintly over the buzz, I heard a door slam and his daughter yelling. "Dinner!" But he didn't stop. He didn't stop for a long time.
I think a lot of straight guys are lonely. I think life forces them to be isolated that way, even if they're following the rules. Maybe especially if they're following the rules. I think the rules for them stink.
I'm glad I'm gay. Gay people can make up rules as we go along.
My garage sparkles like after a trip to the dentist.
Anticipating that last weekend might be one of the year's last for warm weather, I decided to tackle one of the outdoor projects: Painting the Garage. It's been shaking paint loose like a wet dog.
I began with the sun just above tree-level and with my breath still visible. Scrape and brush, a clorox rinse, a layer of primer, and then the top-coat. Kinda like going to the hairdresser.
While I painted, I thought about straight guys. Oh no, not in the way you readers might think!
On one side of me are my ex-tenants, "The Ladies," but on the other side live a family with one child. They keep their house and yard neat as a pin, and drive neat-as-a-pin black Chevrolets: A SUV for her, a truck for him.
They keep to themselves, and I don't mind neighbors like that at all. The girl rides her bike up and down or plays hopscotch, but always by herself. The wife might be pretty, but she wears a grim expression when I see her striding from the SUV -- and that's the only time I seen her. She looks like she's always ready to lose her temper.
I see the husband the most. He quietly does the yard work and keeps their cars clean. He focuses on the duty at hand and when he says anything, he only says "hey." When I first bought the place, I introduced myself. He has a kind face, but I got the impression by the look in his eyes that he's terribly shy. It was sort of a pleading look.
They had a Husky. The dog was always outside by himself. He stayed in a pre-molded plastic house, and he pined day and night. I would see him sitting at the entrance of his little house, facing the rear porch and making the most mournful noises. It was upsetting at first, it was such a lonesome whine, but after awhile I got used to it.
Then one morning a few weeks ago I realized it was quiet and saw a new tree planted in their backyard. With the tree was a granite boulder with a plaque engraved big enough for me to see that it had the dog's name and dates. As it sunk in, the husband came into my line of sight, carrying a bag of mulch. He was planting flowers around the tree and boulder.
A few days later I noticed him again, huddled over something and when he turned, I saw he cradled a puppy -- a little Husky. I watched while they wandered around the yard, the puppy jerking its head everywhere and yawning. It was very cute.
So when I started the garage, I noticed him standing there, holding his little dog.
- "Hey," I said.
"Hey," he nodded back.
- "No!"
- "No! Bad dog!"
Hubby was there, too, behind her, working the garden beds. He wasn't looking up. "Bad dog!" Something to work her temper out on.
The day continued. At some point, my tenant's son came down the driveway. "Hey, hugshyhermit, stop making so much noise, hee hawww guffaww." He's been 'visiting' for the last ten months. "Finally. You're painting the garage. I was getting worried."
Hee haw guffaw, and he stood talking in the driveway while I painted. He told me about the Bengals and the Browns, gave reports on all his Florida relatives and his take on the debates. He talked about the Dave Matthews moveon dot org event he went to. We talked about bars and drinking and getting into fights. While he was there, I must have completed an entire side of the garage.
The Ladies next door love to speculate. Do you think maybe this and what about that. Why do you think he's always talking to you? He says he wants a girlfriend but he never goes out. Have you seen how carefully he takes care of the yard?
Speculation is human nature. But I don't think my tenant's son is gay. I think he's an overweight, unemployed 30-year-old who lives with his mother. And if he were? He'd still be an overweight, unemployed 30-year-old living with his mother. As nice as he seems to be, that's a hot potato I'd pass on.
And the guy next door? Late in the day, I heard someone pull-starting a gadget, like a lawn mower. Looking up, the husband was trying to start one of those hand-held blowers, the machines that shoots leaves around. His wife was gone and he stood there looking right at me. It looked like he wanted to start a conversation.
- "Hey," he said.
"Oh, hey," I said back.
After a few minutes, he got the machine started and its sound modulated as he paced around. Faintly over the buzz, I heard a door slam and his daughter yelling. "Dinner!" But he didn't stop. He didn't stop for a long time.
I think a lot of straight guys are lonely. I think life forces them to be isolated that way, even if they're following the rules. Maybe especially if they're following the rules. I think the rules for them stink.
I'm glad I'm gay. Gay people can make up rules as we go along.
My garage sparkles like after a trip to the dentist.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Book Sale: A Break From My Senses
My non-boyfriend HD and I went on a non-date to the Public Library's annual booksale last weekend. In the main room of the downtown convention center, where just a few weeks ago our Vice Prez spoke to a veterans' group, long wide rows were piled high with CDs, Videos, computer games and books books books!
I planned to buy nothing, but that plan lasted less than five seconds. I took up a cardboard box and stopped four hours later only when it seemed in danger of breaking and my blood-sugar dropped dangerously low. If there was an organization to the sale, who knew what it was -- books were randomly piled everywhere, and that was part of the fun. I arrived with $40 and left with 25 cents. Such is my Battleground Ohio.
"Bad" was certainly what I was expecting when, back at home, I started going through the spoils. But reading its first paragraph, the first book doesn't fit at all:
The other, called Bachelor Blues, seems better suited for reading with Alka-Seltzer:
Moving on, here were some other finds. The Subterraneans, by Jack Kerouac, in a vintage drugstore pulp-paperback (Her passion knew no bounds!). I have a feeling this book is worth more than the quarter I paid for it.
Earlier this year, a friend mailed me some books on writing, one of them being essays by W. Somerset Maugham. I found one of the books he edited: Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. Sold! And here's a great line about women guarding their innocence from the second page:
That same friend had mailed me Education of a Wandering Man a semi-autobiography by Louis L'Amour. In addition to picking up one of L'Amour's westerns -- Tucker -- I came across one of the books he said influenced him: The Education of Henry Adams.
"Henry Who?" you might ask as I did, but apparently HA turned out a few bestsellers a hundred years ago and was the grandson and great-grandson of the presidents. Here's what he says in describing his grandmother:
If the book sale was any judge, the other seller (at least to public libraries) is Mysteries: Mysteries that are part of a series with a character who has a quirky specialty. As we sifted past The Tabby Sneezed Twice and Murder and Mocha-Latte (introducing Sister Molly Ignacious), I invented a new series...
†A Note on Political Correctness 10/5/04: This is a blog, so I don't transcribe a conversation verbatim. Not all gay authors (or authors who happen to be gay) have all their main characters dying of AIDS. Why, some have their characters commit suicide in self-loathing or get beaten to death by a mob. We were also focusing on 1980s/1990s gay literature when death-by-disease seemed to be "the" theme -- as maybe it *should* have been.
HD and I talked about the author Michael Cunningham (The Hours, Flesh & Blood, A Home at the End of the World). (I bet he'd describe himself as an author who happens to be gay.) In his novels, only one of the major characters dies from AIDS. HD and I disagreed on the general impact of his novels. HD thinks Cunningham is a real downer; I think he affirms life even if there is death.
As we were talking, someone had been eavesdropping. (You'd be surprised -- or maybe not -- at how often this happens.) A woman -- a stranger -- appeared in front of us, tightly clutching a book that she then pushed in to me. "Here!" She said, grinning, and then rushing off.
Tales of Coming Out (or maybe it was Coming Out Stories) or something like that. 1980s copyright. "Thanks!" HD and I opened a few pages: Bashings, religious extremism, shame and disinheritance, Death-by-disease, attempted suicide.
*sigh*
I planned to buy nothing, but that plan lasted less than five seconds. I took up a cardboard box and stopped four hours later only when it seemed in danger of breaking and my blood-sugar dropped dangerously low. If there was an organization to the sale, who knew what it was -- books were randomly piled everywhere, and that was part of the fun. I arrived with $40 and left with 25 cents. Such is my Battleground Ohio.
- "Maybe I'll find some inspiration for writing," I said to HD as we started at the top of one row.
"I've found that being miserable is very inspiring," said HD.
"True. Emotional pain has a way of opening the creative outlet. But so many 'gay' authors -- or authors who happen to be gay -- already write depressing books."
"I know," said HD, "Everyone always dies from AIDS."†
- "It would be nice to write something with a happy ending."
"But that would be totally unrealistic!"
"Bad" was certainly what I was expecting when, back at home, I started going through the spoils. But reading its first paragraph, the first book doesn't fit at all:
This is the story of a car I had, a car I dreamed of having, a car I wanted even before I knew what kind of car I wanted, a car I started wondering about because my big sister, Helen, asked me what I'd drive if I could drive.Well...I'm hooked. The book is The Beetle and Me: A Love Story, by Karen Romano Young. With that awful title and its big orangey-pink heart on the front cover, it looks more a case of the publisher not wanting or knowing how to market it and choosing "Romance" as a way to bludgeon it into a genre. Don't judge a book by its cover...
The other, called Bachelor Blues, seems better suited for reading with Alka-Seltzer:
The sound of shattering glass and the spine-tingling crash of some unidentified falling object pulled Cole Richardson out of the deep all-encompassing concentration he had focused on his computer monitor.Uuuuuggggghh. (Author name omitted to protect the innocent.) Its summary?
Single mom Lark St. Clair was starting a new life for herself and her daughter, Molly. Cole was a confirmed bachelor and for good reasons. But the more the handsome loner claimed he didn't need the girls next door, the more he realized he was lying to himself. For how could any man with a heart ignore a little darlin' like Molly, and how long could he resist a woman as desireable as Lark?UUuuuuugggggghhhhh. Sorry. I can't control myself.
Moving on, here were some other finds. The Subterraneans, by Jack Kerouac, in a vintage drugstore pulp-paperback (Her passion knew no bounds!). I have a feeling this book is worth more than the quarter I paid for it.
Earlier this year, a friend mailed me some books on writing, one of them being essays by W. Somerset Maugham. I found one of the books he edited: Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. Sold! And here's a great line about women guarding their innocence from the second page:
...[T]his guard of prudence is always readiest to go on duty where there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly deserts those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing, dying, and spreading every net in their power; and constantly attends at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the other sex have a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose, of success) they never venture to attack.Hee hee, great stuff, whether in 1750 or 2000.
That same friend had mailed me Education of a Wandering Man a semi-autobiography by Louis L'Amour. In addition to picking up one of L'Amour's westerns -- Tucker -- I came across one of the books he said influenced him: The Education of Henry Adams.
"Henry Who?" you might ask as I did, but apparently HA turned out a few bestsellers a hundred years ago and was the grandson and great-grandson of the presidents. Here's what he says in describing his grandmother:
Louisa was charming, like a Romney portrait, but among her many charms that of being a New England woman was not one. The defect was serious. Her future mother-in-law, Abigail, a famous New England woman whose authority over her turbulent husband, the second President, was hardly so great as that which she exercised over her son, the sixth to be, was troubled by the fear that Louisa might not be made of stuff stern enough, or brought up in conditions severe enough, to suit a New England climate, or to make an efficient wife for her paragon son, and Abigail was right on that point...Talk about "rules" for a "romance"! And a page later:
Then it was that the little Henry, her grandson, first remembered her... sitting in her panelled room, at breakfast, with her heavy silver teapot and sugar-bowl and cream-jug, which still exist somewhere as an heirloom. By that time she was seventy years old or more, and thoroughly weary of being beaten about a stormy world. To the boy she seemed singularly peaceful, a vision of silver gray, presiding over her old President and her Queen Anne mahogany; an exotic, like Sevres china; an object of deference to every one, and of great affection to her son Charles; but hardly more Bostonian than she had been fifty years before, on her wedding-day, in the shadow of the Tower of London.And we're only on page 18!
If the book sale was any judge, the other seller (at least to public libraries) is Mysteries: Mysteries that are part of a series with a character who has a quirky specialty. As we sifted past The Tabby Sneezed Twice and Murder and Mocha-Latte (introducing Sister Molly Ignacious), I invented a new series...
A is for Architrave.That's for starters. I envision a series: B is for Balustrade, C is for Column, etc.
The story begins when our hero, Ian Arthurholt, the host of television's popular "Old Is New Again" home-restoration show quits rather than yield to network demands to cut costs (and workmanship), and their attention to his personal life. (Shame on you, PBS!) Ian intends to live a quiet life fixing up 'distressed' mansions in edgy urban neighborhoods, renting them below-cost to deserving single mothers or disenfranchised teenagers.
When power couple Chrysler Overdrive and Rookwood Van Briggle hire Ian to consult on the restoration of their poolhouse, Ian senses something uncomfortably smarmy in the works -- but what? When "Rookie" is found dead with a circular saw in his back, the police suspiciously eye Ian.
Ian turns to P.J. Saloon, a tough-talking ex-Marine who asked and told. Together with Ian's black lab, they untangle a series of deceptions that lead straight to the hallowed halls of our nation's capital!
†A Note on Political Correctness 10/5/04: This is a blog, so I don't transcribe a conversation verbatim. Not all gay authors (or authors who happen to be gay) have all their main characters dying of AIDS. Why, some have their characters commit suicide in self-loathing or get beaten to death by a mob. We were also focusing on 1980s/1990s gay literature when death-by-disease seemed to be "the" theme -- as maybe it *should* have been.
HD and I talked about the author Michael Cunningham (The Hours, Flesh & Blood, A Home at the End of the World). (I bet he'd describe himself as an author who happens to be gay.) In his novels, only one of the major characters dies from AIDS. HD and I disagreed on the general impact of his novels. HD thinks Cunningham is a real downer; I think he affirms life even if there is death.
As we were talking, someone had been eavesdropping. (You'd be surprised -- or maybe not -- at how often this happens.) A woman -- a stranger -- appeared in front of us, tightly clutching a book that she then pushed in to me. "Here!" She said, grinning, and then rushing off.
Tales of Coming Out (or maybe it was Coming Out Stories) or something like that. 1980s copyright. "Thanks!" HD and I opened a few pages: Bashings, religious extremism, shame and disinheritance, Death-by-disease, attempted suicide.
*sigh*