Cambridge resident parking permit: the line of epic

Cambridge resident parking permit: the line of epic

Getting older doesn’t bother me, but, man, oh fucking man, the longer you inhabit the planet the more memories you collect and the more flashbacks you have. Tonight was a night with a flash back and a half.

I got to say this, although I am not sure it will evoke the deja vu, I was essentially a late bloomer sexually. It’s weird, but I don’t recall ever having any sexual thoughts of my own from before say 16. I probably did, but none stand out in the way that other folks have told me about masturbating or climbing the ropes in gym class. I know I didn’t wank it (or whatever the female equivalent is, because we don’t got much to jerk).

The oddest part of that statement is it could not have been physical, my late blooming. Little, annoying overachiever that I was back in elementary school, I busted out all over beginning at about eight and a half.

Yeah, I was fucking clueless, seriously and completely unaware of anything even remotely related to the parts of the anatomy below the waist. I had been told nothing, and I, as yet, understood very little of the physical specifics of what I read in books.

I don’t know who was more surprised my mother or me when the beautiful blossoming of feminity, better known as being on the rag, overcame me at nine. I thought I had wiped all wrong and/or had cancer because of the blood. My mother just seemed shocked. She gave me a cursory explanation of it being OK and normal and expect it every month, but she offered none, not one word, of the nitty gritty details and their relation to sex.

I guess thankfully, she called the school nurse, who roughed out the rest of the female body beautiful. But, the abstract of “intercourse” was still unacknowledged.

My cluelessness persisted years beyond that initial encounter at nine. Although, I was a precocious reader and pieced together some of the basic information. In addition, I babysat my two cousins whose parents were far more modern in their child rearing. One of them filled in the parts I missed, despite being eight years younger, thanks to his parental teaching.

So intellectually, I was at sea. And, physically I’m not sure why–repression, awkwardness, childishness, a whole lot of things?–I didn’t feel anything. All of my fantasies were romantic, sentimental single kisses and Busby Berkeley dance numbers.

Then, in high school, unsure about the fuss, not looking to go any further than kissing and possibly fondling, I went to the movies with two of the more sexually adventurous kids I knew. (So sexually adventurous, in fact, that in adulthood it became pretty reliable rumor that Judy had done some prostitution and Mark was into rough-trade, leather sex at gay bars around NYC.) They were way out of my fucking league, and I was well aware of that.

We got high, as was the custom back in suburban land in the late 70s/early 80s, and saw The Shining. I can to this day remember the stoned immobility I felt and sheer terror while seeing that flick for the first time. Jack Nicholson could have been coming after me.

Afterwards, when I could breathe again and move again, we went out for ice cream. As we sat in the car, Judy and Mark cornered me.

“What are you?” they wanted to know. I wasn’t entirely clear what they were driving at, but I had a general grasp of it being sexual. I also knew that they had both swung on both sides of the gender fence (Although in retrospect there’s a high probability Judy lied about that. A lot of people hated her as being too weird, and while gay men seemed OK within our theater fag crowd, no one seemed to be copping to anything from the island of Lesbos.)

I stammered that I was heterosexual self-conciously, feeling guilty that I was so mundane and middle class in my appetites. They underscored these feelings by informing me that I was boring and a baby. In my memory they said, “Hetero, please, no one is that anymore.”

A couple years later, I had sussed out a lot of what folks had been talking about that I had missed. It took going away to college, but once I knew what sex was, I slipped back into being a tad precocious and over-achieving. I take pride in doing stuff well, and if it’s fun, I might even try harder.

All of this text is far too much exposition as prologue to the flashback.

The time is tonight, well I guess last night now or maybe this morning. I am 40 years old. I am sitting in a car with two friends, one a man and one a woman. Thank-fucking-god, I am not stoned, since many, many years ago that became about as fun to me as getting smacked across the face with a crowbar. Instead of a movie, we were all at a comedy show.

The question comes up, have I ever had any girl on girl action. I offer the same truth I did back then, a good 20 years ago and more. I’m straight. Now, however, I am confident; the answer is not a voice of repression, fear or lack of experience. It’s only one of personal preference. I like boys. A lot.

The questioner persists, as Mark and Judy had. Haven’t I been curious, haven’t I at least kissed a girl, and if not, why not?

Years ago, I wish I had told Mark and Judy to fuck off, because they made me feel worse about myself and sexuality than years of middle-class, suburban, Catholic upbringing. No one wants to feel as though they are bad or wrong or missing something in the realm of their sexuality. Life is too damn hard already.

Tonight, though, I’m just amused. Apart from feeling comfortable that I don’t want to experiment with chicks, I’m horny as hell. I know what I want, but it’s 3,000 miles away and it ain’t no chick, that’s for damn sure.

Maybe my compromise is a long-haired guy who often gets called ma’am when approached from the back. (He does have some great hair.)

If even one person shows up at the polls today with the threat of bombs and shit, I guess that person is (a) a better citizen than me and (b) Bush gets something potentially worthwhile to brag on.

I do always vote, but I can’t be sure I would with visions of gunplay and all. I mean, hell, I’ve barely left the house because of snow (actually more because of cold). And, I still feel in my bones that my side could have collectively done better in getting GW Bush the fuck out of office.

I hope it doesn’t devolve into suicide explosions or into some of the Afghanistan-village kind of deal with chicks getting stoned by the pious for getting all voting and uppity.

I don’t know if it’s just that stuff in the past always seems weird to the future generation, but I’ve wasted some time today downloading video archives in the public domain.

In addition to learning a lot from health and hygiene movies from the ’50s and ’60s, I’ve decided that sex in the past wasn’t that hot. In fact, it’s hard to imagine that the people who created and acted in the stag movie, let alone watched,“Coed Secrets” ever had a sexually related orgasm ever. Really ever.

I defy anyone not to giggle non-erotically when the tickling with long, aloe vera leaves commences.

It does make me happy I didn’t go to a women’s college, though.

Between the videos on the archive being public domain or under Creative Common copyright, I do believe there are some video ideas percolating in my brain. (Goddamn, I want my Powerbook back.)

Apart from my hobbyist’s interest (of course) in weblog-related firing and work discipline, this story caught my eye.

Maybe it’s because in one of my most fabulous workplace fantasies, which doesn’t involve sex or other bad things, I’m hired by the company in question. As I have poured over their job listings and considered myself living the Silicon Valley life, I’ve especially relished the symmetry of my landing a job there. Afterall, they were instrumental in a huge misunderstanding in my life that’s helped push the California dream toward reality.

Of course, that fantasy also makes me shiver a bit, when I consider that of all the potential places in the world to work, those guys are probably quite capable of checking out this little pile of literary and creative excrement.

That realization is one that makes me flip flop on taking this site down. (I’m kind of banking on most people recognizing humorous writing and all and taking that for what it’s worth. Despite what the critics might believe and the stupid rantings here might suggest, I’m really all up in the mens sana in corpore sano thang, thanks for asking.)

It’s encouraging, since according to the follow-up here, the employer seems to have talked with the guy but not acted Draconian. I guess if you are reinventing the whole concept of information technology and how it works, you probably know a bit about the hyperbolic, truth versus fiction, opinion over reality kind of nature of the WWW beast.

By the way, I decided not to link directly to the guy’s site or the sites showing archives of the items at issue. I figure, what the hell, the guy’s clearly excited about his new gig but is trying to chill, why add to the links and ranking and all.

Although, I suppose I could have done what the cool kids will all soon be doing soon and tagging with search engines in mind.

If you have no where to go and you know this may very well be your last New England winter, shoveling is kind of fun.

The effects of a practical joke by this douchebag still linger.

The anxiety of trying to put my house in order, literally and figuratively, sucks enough. I knew when I started making plans that I had months of work ahead of me.

But, every single time I go to a comedy club in Boston now, someone asks if I’m back in town, or if I’m moving or why haven’t I moved yet.

The answer is I never said I was leaving instantly. But that dinkweed did.

In case anyone cares, I’m trying to home in on an actual day of departure from this godforsaken snowscape. (By the way, “home” is not a typo in that sentence; I looked it up. The sound of the sentence in my ear was driving me crazy, because my ear wanted an ‘N’ there, but home it is.)

When I talk to folks, they hear hesitation in my voice and seem to interpret it as lack of resolve in going West. But, damnit, I’m going. I got to try something different or call the game over and stock up on booze, pills and razorblades.

The vocal hesitation is more rising panic than lack of resolve. When undertaking big projects, I tend to pile everything up into one, giant ball of everything that needs to be done and then hyperventilate at the enormity. I then repeatedly tell myself that it can’t be done, no matter what I do.

Somewhere, as I am gripped by every neurotic thought of failure that I can possibly conceive, lightness and clarity enter, and I realize that, yah, I probably can do whatever it is. About that time, I can chunk off the smaller pieces and so, baby steps begin.

That’s about where I am right now.

After months of getting seemingly incongruous or unnecessary things done, I feel like forward motion is not just possible but rolling along. With my home repairs almost all done, for example, I can picture someone else willing to pay rent. With my resume all shiny and formatted, I can envision gainful employment.

Soooooo, the date keeps changing, but with unemployment to end sooner rather than later, I’m focusing on an actual target. I wanted to be in my car and on the road or in California by my and M.’s birthdays in early March. Mostly just because that would be cool.

Now, however, because I want to plan a kickass show and maybe a kickass bon voyage party for myself, I’m thinking I will be here the first week in March. Quite possibly, there will be a show Thursday, March 3 (Happy Birthday to M.) and a party that night or Friday night.

Then, I jump in my car that weekend and me, my iPod mini and my GPS navigator experience manifestdestiny. I’ll have turned 41, and America’s highways will be my playground.