For the first time in awhile, I've had some time to myself: Perfect for working on the ole homestead. Today I pulled up the carpet in the living room.

As I pulled up the padding, I found carmel-colored southern pine. My duplex was built in 1929, so this would have been considered cheap wood for back then, but by today's standards and my tastes, it's beautiful. Wow, this will look great!

But as I pulled up the rest of the padding and started work on removing the tacking strips, enthusiasm turned to disappointment. Termites.

Oh, they're not active now. But the damage is done. The softer wood between grains has been eaten away in about a third of the room's planks. I'm bummed about it. I've always preferred hardwood floors. Argh!

Since I have decided that I'm not going to stay here in Dayton for longer than I have to, I'm leaning towards patching the damage with woodfill, then painting it a gloss polyurethane. Give it a cottage country feel. The two choices are a light Taffy-colored brown or an off-white grey.

I'm taking a break before vacuuming the floor and then getting ready to go out. My friend C is driving up and then we're going to see these guys. Dr. Freud, Speech Guy and Art Historian Guy may join. Hope everyone gets along.

Post-script Sunday 5/2/04
My dog Grace does not share my enthusiasm for wood floors and has been morosely sniffing around the Living Room today. On carpets, she does this thing where she scoots along on her back, pushing pulling with her legs, and making a RrrRRaaaooww noise. She scoots, then stops. Looking at me upside down, her tail hits the floor like a whip. It must feel really good.

I saved a couple of the remnants for her, but I can tell it's just not the same.

Tonight I drove to Cincinnati for the casting call for extras in this summer's Opera season. An extra doesn't sing (which you'll be happy to (not) hear!); we participate on stage in crowd scenes. I filled out an application, got my measurements taken and stood in front of a scrim with a measured grid for a polaroid. There were probably 100 of us crowded into a window-less rehearsal room on bleachers surrounding a concert grand piano. The Director clapped his hands for silence and spoke to us about the upcoming performances and expectations: "You provide the scenery," he told us.

Last year, I was dating Costume Designer, a grad student who was interning at the opera. Of the three people I've made an attempt to date in the last two years, I liked him the most. Seemed like he liked me, too -- ha ha ha! laugh laughing laughter hanging out. Towards what would be the end of our dating, he got me the gig as an extra and I was in a party scene for La Traviata last summer, yukking it up with the seamy side of Paris circa 1850. I knew nothing about opera and I had a blast!

As for Costume Designer? We didn't have a bust out fight or anything; it just slipped away. He told me he didn't like me as much as I liked him. We hung out a couple of times "as friends", but just between you and me Bloggies, that was a waste of time. I was a little sad, but not too torn up. I had always been honest with him and if that wasn't good enough, then so be it.

Well, he was there tonight.

"Costume Designer! How are you!" and we hugged and chatted a bit.

It wasn't as weird as I thought it would be. As I sat listening to the Director's schpiel, CD was in the background with a clipboard, pointing to polaroids of people and matching them to polaroids of costumes. I didn't feel sad or angry or anything. I think that was good.

Right? Or...?

I didn't know!

Not that Oldsmobiles were ever my favorite cars; nonetheless there are memories and I'm sorry to see 'em go.

In High School, it seems like everyone had a Cutlass Supreme. My junior year, I dated a girl -- a *real* girl -- who drove one. I thought they were classy: Those little rear coupe windows with the curve; the whale-toothed grill.

Her father had a hobby of fixing up classic cars; their yard was filled with cars from the 1950s. He owned a two-toned red and white 1954 Oldsmobile sedan -- the kind with the port holes; also a black 1959 Cadillac DeVille -- the kind with the killer torpedo fins. The neighbors would complain because some were up on blocks.

We kept in touch awhile after I skedaddled: She became a biker chick. I remember the first summer back from college, she wore Jordache Jeans with fringe down the sides. We went to biker bars and they were the friendliest people. The drinks were always free. (Probably because I was with her -- she looked like Joan Jett or Jo from "The Facts Of Life".) One of her new friends gave me a ride on his Chopper. It scared me shitless.

My mom says she's developed medical problems -- the liver -- and is now a recluse. She lives with her parents and her dad now has a pole barn on the property with the cars inside. Mom sees him in the '59 Caddy.

In college, I owned a 1977 Olds 98 that I bought for $1200. It was a yacht and just like the Chrysler in the B-52's song, it sat about 100. (Actually, 13.) It was a rustbucket and practically never started. Once the engine took hold, though, you tapped the accelerator and man it zoomed. Nothing in it worked -- try driving in pouring rain with the windows stuck down and the wipers shorted out. Still, it went 0 to 95 in, like 10 seconds. hee hee.

In today's meetings, I made this the topic of discussion. Everyone knew -- it was announced a year or two ago, they said.

It seemed like everyone had an Oldsmobile story. Oh well. I drive a Honda Civic now.


And just for grins and chuckles, take this quiz... (Whodda thunk I'd be a truck. Dozens of self-help books lay piled around my house and I learn about myself from Quizilla.)


YOU ARE A TRUCK!!!


What kind of car are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I saw a movie tonight that really struck a chord. Its Canadian Filmmaker created a movie with a definite French edge: This and its prequel's way of looking at life, including liberated sexual mores.

Before the film began, I met in person someone I'd been chatting with on-line. As with any future friend, we had an intense conversation over dinner and drinks. I liked this guy; I will call him Speech Guy. In the middle of dinner, he went to call his boyfriend and tell him he had met someone over the internet. His boyfriend came down, and I met him too -- I will call him Art Historian Guy. Intelligent, cute, funny.

Whooa! He only just told his boyfriend he had met someone over the internet? I don't know what to think about that.

Whlllliiilililililililillliiip flash backward. Hugshyhermit sits at his laptop -- Blogging of course! -- and has the chat room up, too. Hugshyhermit periodically taps through all the occupants seeing if there's anyone fabulous in the fabulous hometown chatroom. One does -- it is Speech Guy. He is smiling and has an open, pleasant face -- he looks friendly. Hugshyhermit clicks on "See Entire Profile" to find out more.

SG likes live music, long hikes and bikes in the woods, alternative films and fixing up old houses. He likes fine wine and cheap beer and opera and he is teaching himself about vegetarianism. He is relatively new in town and he and his partner are looking for friends. Well well! "Hi how are you," I type out, "I liked your profile," and we start up a conversation. We chat for a few times, then he calls when I give him my number, "My partner and I would like to meet you." And that brings us forward to the present.

Your guess is as good as mine. If it could be somehow interpreted that I'm sending a mixed message, I put that to rest as soon as possible. I tell them where I'm at (so 1970s). And Where I'm At is that I'm shutting down physically.

Is there a word that means the opposite of "Impotency"? Impotency is where the mind is willing, but the body isn't. I seem to have the opposite -- my body seems to work, but the mind doesn't: I might as well have a novacaine drip because I don't feel a thing.

In the past month or so since I've noticed this condition, everything is the opposite of what it should be. If I talk with someone new, just by talking rules out the possibility of anything physical -- a gate comes crashing down. Surprisingly, who have emerged are some new friends -- a drawbridge tentatively falls into place.

The last guy I picked up was celebrating his 22nd birthday. He had just returned from traveling around the country as the Publicist for his friend, a "famous" circuit party DJ. Circuit Parties are highly overrated, said this kid, lighting a cigarette, I wouldn't have gone if I didn't have VIP passes for everything.

I said: "This might not go down in the books as the greatest sex you ever had, but I enjoyed myself and hope you did too. Thanks for spending time with me."

Aren't I a sweetie?

Barbarians at the Gate.