A friend of mine likes to talk about cars, and about the commitment we’re making when we obtain them. He’s probably not the first to put vehicles in this perspective, but recently he's been having some automotive difficulties and he's been philosophical about it.
For example, he says, renting a car – a convertible, say – is very fun. You can pick out the coolest model at the agency that day, and for a very small fee, you can use it all weekend. Take it around, show it off to your friends and laugh about how you wish you could afford one like that in real life. You can speed down a deserted highway with the top down, steering with your knees and your hands up in the air, screaming at the top of your lungs. You gun the engine at stop lights and pull into parking spaces just a little too fast.
Because there’s no commitment. You’re not particularly careful when you drive it because it’s not yours. You make sure you leave it almost as clean as when you got it, and you turn it in at the end of the weekend. But you don’t even have to look back as you leave the lot.
If you lease a car, though, you can get most of the benefits of renting, but with some trade-offs in terms of obligation. You can still afford a car much more exciting than your resources would normally allow, but there are some upkeep requirements. Oil must be changed and you have to wash it and generally keep it in good working order. If it breaks down, most problems are not going to be your responsibility depending on the lease agreement, but you do have to keep it running well.
And when the lease agreement is up, you can walk away like nothing ever happened. But you’ve had time to develop some feelings for the car – maybe you’ll miss the way it drove, or be glad to be rid of that window that never properly sealed. It wasn’t just a car, it was your car, albeit for just a short while. And the next person to drive it will feel how you wore it in.
When we buy a car, he cautioned me, we take full ownership responsibility. Yes, yes, it’s wonderful to drive it off the lot and hold that steering wheel in your hands and know that this car - this car - is yours and no one else’s. at first, maybe, we treat it like a rental until that day someone dings it with their car door, and it sinks in: no else is going to fix this.
From then on, it's an investment. But the warranty is good for a few years. If something turns out to be very wrong with it, we can get it fixed for next to nothing. But it’s still ours, flaws and all.
Generally, in this case, we also have fewer options. Because we’re going to pay for it, maintain it, and rely on it, we have to be more selective. No racy thing will do for most of us, because the fuel bills would bankrupt us or spare parts are just too expensive.
So we limit our options, usually, and spend our money wisely. And in return, the car is there for us, day and night, to take us where we have to go. Sometimes little things that are simple to address pop up and get resolved, and usually the car remains reliable for a generation.
After a few years, repairs can get a bit expensive, especially if we skimp on routine maintenance. It’s usually something we expect, though, and by this time the car has been reliable for so long that we don’t mind. It’s a good car, it’s been there for us, it’s taken abuse and never complained. Fixing it up is almost like giving back - rewarding in a way that could never be achieved with a rented or leased vehicle.
But sometimes something bad happens for no apparent reason, and there’s no one but you to address the problem. You're no wrencher, and you're stuck. Perhaps the onboard computer starts acting up and the car won’t start. The mechanic – expensive by himself - can’t diagnose the problem until you find out it’s too costly to fix. So it sits in your garage silently gathering dust for months while you get used to taking the bus and your resentment against it builds. Until one day you sell it, relieved but a little sad.
My friend’s car isn’t running so well, and that’s disappointing because he really likes it. I don't blame him, it’s a beautiful, fun car from a great year.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Almost Ready
Chained to my desk, as I am, performing mindless tasks for hours, my mind drifts. And it's been drifting back to Brokeback Mountain over and over again.
It is wonderful that the film has become a commercial success. It is wonderful that the film has achieved critical acclaim. It is wonderful that the film has won Golden Globes and is a contender for an oscar. How wonderful.
But for those who haven't seen it, I can't tell you that the film, itself, is wonderful. It is pleading, desperate, lonely, sad, and tragic. It is very subtle and superbly executed. And it is haunting. As a gay man I can identify with both men, as I have known them in real life and I have known them through the stories of friends, and I have known them in my own fears.
It has been over three weeks since I saw the film. I cried then, and I still have to hold back when I think of it. I forget that Ennis and Jack are fictional, and I want to reach out to make things better - to rip open time and set things right.
But that's not the point of the story, either. It is about love. How wonderful it is to have, and how it rips us apart to deny.
I can't bring myself to see it again. But I will. And I'm almost ready.
It is wonderful that the film has become a commercial success. It is wonderful that the film has achieved critical acclaim. It is wonderful that the film has won Golden Globes and is a contender for an oscar. How wonderful.
But for those who haven't seen it, I can't tell you that the film, itself, is wonderful. It is pleading, desperate, lonely, sad, and tragic. It is very subtle and superbly executed. And it is haunting. As a gay man I can identify with both men, as I have known them in real life and I have known them through the stories of friends, and I have known them in my own fears.
It has been over three weeks since I saw the film. I cried then, and I still have to hold back when I think of it. I forget that Ennis and Jack are fictional, and I want to reach out to make things better - to rip open time and set things right.
But that's not the point of the story, either. It is about love. How wonderful it is to have, and how it rips us apart to deny.
I can't bring myself to see it again. But I will. And I'm almost ready.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Untimely Offers
A few too many years ago when I was in college, I wore my hair very long. It poured off my head in long, gently coiling blond tresses that were the envy of coeds everywhere. My hair also bought me entry into the seedy underworld of Hippy Long-Hairs. I never ever shaved by youthful beard, instead just trimming to the shortest length possible. And I padded about campus in my Birkenstocks, with a tie-died shirt and ratty jeans. But I was not a hippy.
I was trying, see, and I was even fooling people. But the key to uncovering my deception was in that same hair I wore like a Subversive’s Badge: it was meticulously managed. I spent incredible amounts of money on the proper salon shampoos, and picked (never brushed!) it out daily.
But some people didn’t see through my simple facade, and I got offers for all sorts of drugs on the street. Naturally, in my Birks and tie-dyes, I looked like someone who would want them, but I always declined.
When I wanted any of what they were selling, I went to someone I knew and trusted.
Years later, I was mid-morning napping at home on a sunny weekday when a pretty young blond woman knocked at the door. I had pulled on some shorts but wore nothing else, and my hair by this point was no more than an inch and a half long anywhere on my head. When I opened the door, she asked to use the phone for a cab, so I let her in, listened to her call – clearly with a cab company – and prepared to escort her back outside.
She hesitated, and wanted to know if I “dated.” Not being part of the “dating” scene, I was naïve and said I wasn’t sure what she was asking. Suffice it to say, she wanted to perform a service in return for money. Before I finally ejected her from the house, she told me she was high on a number of drugs, showed me her breasts (they looked OK), and tried to convince me that I should “date” her just this once because, hey, she slept with women sometimes, too.
She really was very lovely, though. When it comes to women, I have to admit she was my type. Still, if I’d wanted some of what she was selling, I had female friends I knew and trusted that I probably could have turned to.
But that story’s now an anecdote from several years ago.
Yesterday, I stood waiting in the financial district for Head Chef to pick me up from work. Dressed in an untucked aloha shirt wrinkled from 12 hours at the office and my hair now no more than a quarter of an inch long, I slumped against a planter and played Tetris on my cell phone.
People came and went through the darkness and most of them looked like me to some degree. Just off work, they were dressed for business, but loosened, disheveled, and relaxed but hastening to get home before bedtime. My blocks fell into neat little rows, disappearing as they should until something unexpected happened.
“Wanna blowjob,” he mumbled as he shuffled passed. I was taken by surprise, and looked up at the man that had just passed me, then looked around, then back to him. He looked over his shoulder at me and lingered as he prepared to cross the street, and I stared back in shock. He had a 45 year old Anglo Rasta look to him, a couple of dreads in his hair and a beard a few days old. He looked away and crossed the street.
No, no, I was sure he had offered fellacio, this was not one of my moments of hearing the wrong thing. And so I looked at myself through the eye of a third person, and wondered what about me now - bearded, disheveled in my business aloha - had made this man think I’d want what he offered. I could think of nothing. No pink triangles, no limp wrist, and no look of desperation. I was just a man at the end of a long day playing Tetris.
Maybe there’s a correlation between Tetris and paying for BJs, but I doubt it.
A few minutes later, someone I know and trust showed up and I got in the car and kissed him hello as he pulled away from the curb. I told him the story of what had just happened, and Head Chef laughed out loud at the incident. “Only you,” he assured me. “That could only happen to you.”
I doubt that. And yet, I do get some unusual offers.
I was trying, see, and I was even fooling people. But the key to uncovering my deception was in that same hair I wore like a Subversive’s Badge: it was meticulously managed. I spent incredible amounts of money on the proper salon shampoos, and picked (never brushed!) it out daily.
But some people didn’t see through my simple facade, and I got offers for all sorts of drugs on the street. Naturally, in my Birks and tie-dyes, I looked like someone who would want them, but I always declined.
When I wanted any of what they were selling, I went to someone I knew and trusted.
Years later, I was mid-morning napping at home on a sunny weekday when a pretty young blond woman knocked at the door. I had pulled on some shorts but wore nothing else, and my hair by this point was no more than an inch and a half long anywhere on my head. When I opened the door, she asked to use the phone for a cab, so I let her in, listened to her call – clearly with a cab company – and prepared to escort her back outside.
She hesitated, and wanted to know if I “dated.” Not being part of the “dating” scene, I was naïve and said I wasn’t sure what she was asking. Suffice it to say, she wanted to perform a service in return for money. Before I finally ejected her from the house, she told me she was high on a number of drugs, showed me her breasts (they looked OK), and tried to convince me that I should “date” her just this once because, hey, she slept with women sometimes, too.
She really was very lovely, though. When it comes to women, I have to admit she was my type. Still, if I’d wanted some of what she was selling, I had female friends I knew and trusted that I probably could have turned to.
But that story’s now an anecdote from several years ago.
Yesterday, I stood waiting in the financial district for Head Chef to pick me up from work. Dressed in an untucked aloha shirt wrinkled from 12 hours at the office and my hair now no more than a quarter of an inch long, I slumped against a planter and played Tetris on my cell phone.
People came and went through the darkness and most of them looked like me to some degree. Just off work, they were dressed for business, but loosened, disheveled, and relaxed but hastening to get home before bedtime. My blocks fell into neat little rows, disappearing as they should until something unexpected happened.
“Wanna blowjob,” he mumbled as he shuffled passed. I was taken by surprise, and looked up at the man that had just passed me, then looked around, then back to him. He looked over his shoulder at me and lingered as he prepared to cross the street, and I stared back in shock. He had a 45 year old Anglo Rasta look to him, a couple of dreads in his hair and a beard a few days old. He looked away and crossed the street.
No, no, I was sure he had offered fellacio, this was not one of my moments of hearing the wrong thing. And so I looked at myself through the eye of a third person, and wondered what about me now - bearded, disheveled in my business aloha - had made this man think I’d want what he offered. I could think of nothing. No pink triangles, no limp wrist, and no look of desperation. I was just a man at the end of a long day playing Tetris.
Maybe there’s a correlation between Tetris and paying for BJs, but I doubt it.
A few minutes later, someone I know and trust showed up and I got in the car and kissed him hello as he pulled away from the curb. I told him the story of what had just happened, and Head Chef laughed out loud at the incident. “Only you,” he assured me. “That could only happen to you.”
I doubt that. And yet, I do get some unusual offers.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Lament of The Resource Node
All work and no play makes Chef a very dull boy, indeed.
I have worked every single day since January 3rd, only once working less than 10 hrs. Most days have been 13 to 15 hour days. I’m tired and bored.
My dishes aren’t done, my laundry isn’t washed, and my trash just moves from point to point in the house, rather than being taken out. My poor dog has resorted to self-petting.
But I labor on. I iron my shirt and go to work, skip dinner, and eat quickly before bed. I read reports that I am working more than 451 of the 475 Resource Nodes currently operating within my Western Profit Unit. I am unimpressed.
But I am certainly not flattered or honored, either. Pshaw.
Nor am I resentful. I, the worker, am disassociated from my work. I do it because I must, not because I care or despite the fact that I hate it. I am an efficient Resource Node. I provide high quality output.
And it will end, and I will have a brief respite. Then perhaps I will be redistributed to where Resource Nodes are in short supply.
I am tired, though. Tired of being a Resource Node. Tired of being so busy that I’m bored. My mother once said that “bored people are boring.”
At least it’s not as bad as last year.
I have worked every single day since January 3rd, only once working less than 10 hrs. Most days have been 13 to 15 hour days. I’m tired and bored.
My dishes aren’t done, my laundry isn’t washed, and my trash just moves from point to point in the house, rather than being taken out. My poor dog has resorted to self-petting.
But I labor on. I iron my shirt and go to work, skip dinner, and eat quickly before bed. I read reports that I am working more than 451 of the 475 Resource Nodes currently operating within my Western Profit Unit. I am unimpressed.
But I am certainly not flattered or honored, either. Pshaw.
Nor am I resentful. I, the worker, am disassociated from my work. I do it because I must, not because I care or despite the fact that I hate it. I am an efficient Resource Node. I provide high quality output.
And it will end, and I will have a brief respite. Then perhaps I will be redistributed to where Resource Nodes are in short supply.
I am tired, though. Tired of being a Resource Node. Tired of being so busy that I’m bored. My mother once said that “bored people are boring.”
At least it’s not as bad as last year.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Anthropomorphic Moment
Recently, in the midst of laughing at something a witty houseguest had said, I dismissed my devoted hound. She had pushed her nose up into my face to try to say hi and to express how much she adored me but I was too wrapped up in my People Things to be bothered at that particular moment.
Rebuffed, she walked directly to the couch and began rubbing her head against the cushions. Not to scratch an itch, mind you – no, this was slow and methodical. Her ears and eyes weren't bothering her, and it was then that I realized she had made a truly remarkable breakthrough.
She is a self-petting dog.
This could change everything. And it goes way beyond the age-old cat vs. dog dispute. Friturier - an avowed dog hater - has already acknowledged a special affinity for Bella. Witnesses can attest that he pulled her lanky, 55 pound body into his lap one golden afternoon. Indeed, that little conflict is kaput. And yet there is much more to it than simply winning over a fussy cat person.
For if Bella, a mere hound of 7 years, can take responsibility for her own happiness, then we all can. If her basic need for a scratch behind the ears isn’t met, then she scratches behind her own ears. She does not suffer, and she does not complain. Yes, she certainly does still prefer to sit at my side being hugged with one hand and scratched with the other. Doubtlessly, she still prefers to stretch across the couch with her head in my lap.
And when we play fetch together she looks me in the eyes in a way that says, “this is not about the toy. It’s about fetching it with you.” You can’t fake that, and I know that nothing replaces that for her.
But she understands that sometimes those things can’t be done. And she’s OK with it, and she’s taking care of things on her own, thank you very much. She’s self-petting. And that’s no replacement for the real thing, but it’ll do. It’ll do for the moment.
Now I’m not a big fan of pet people claiming “Everything I Ever Needed To Know I Learned From My Dog” but I’ve got to give this one to Bella.
I think more of us could be self-petting dogs. Codependents, nosey neighbors, road ragers, bitter schoolteachers, presidents, Christians, kingpins, and kingpin Christian presidents could all take a lesson from Bella. Yes, yes, yes, you want it your way. But is it your turn? And can you see to your needs on your own for a bit? Just for a little while so that the rest of us can finish what we’re doing? We haven’t forgotten you and you’ll get what you need, but just not right this second.
If they would just go rub their heads against the couch cushions for a moment they might realize just how self-sufficient they really are.
Rebuffed, she walked directly to the couch and began rubbing her head against the cushions. Not to scratch an itch, mind you – no, this was slow and methodical. Her ears and eyes weren't bothering her, and it was then that I realized she had made a truly remarkable breakthrough.
She is a self-petting dog.
This could change everything. And it goes way beyond the age-old cat vs. dog dispute. Friturier - an avowed dog hater - has already acknowledged a special affinity for Bella. Witnesses can attest that he pulled her lanky, 55 pound body into his lap one golden afternoon. Indeed, that little conflict is kaput. And yet there is much more to it than simply winning over a fussy cat person.
For if Bella, a mere hound of 7 years, can take responsibility for her own happiness, then we all can. If her basic need for a scratch behind the ears isn’t met, then she scratches behind her own ears. She does not suffer, and she does not complain. Yes, she certainly does still prefer to sit at my side being hugged with one hand and scratched with the other. Doubtlessly, she still prefers to stretch across the couch with her head in my lap.
And when we play fetch together she looks me in the eyes in a way that says, “this is not about the toy. It’s about fetching it with you.” You can’t fake that, and I know that nothing replaces that for her.
But she understands that sometimes those things can’t be done. And she’s OK with it, and she’s taking care of things on her own, thank you very much. She’s self-petting. And that’s no replacement for the real thing, but it’ll do. It’ll do for the moment.
Now I’m not a big fan of pet people claiming “Everything I Ever Needed To Know I Learned From My Dog” but I’ve got to give this one to Bella.
I think more of us could be self-petting dogs. Codependents, nosey neighbors, road ragers, bitter schoolteachers, presidents, Christians, kingpins, and kingpin Christian presidents could all take a lesson from Bella. Yes, yes, yes, you want it your way. But is it your turn? And can you see to your needs on your own for a bit? Just for a little while so that the rest of us can finish what we’re doing? We haven’t forgotten you and you’ll get what you need, but just not right this second.
If they would just go rub their heads against the couch cushions for a moment they might realize just how self-sufficient they really are.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Someone Else's Wisdom
I’ve been trying to find something to say to you. The little update you could read, and know what’s going on… And nothing. So much to say, but nothing sayable.
I was thinking today about a movie I never saw, or rather, a quote I almost didn’t hear. But I caught it one day while walking through the room while my sister watched Parenthood. It was something sage, something wise spoken by Grandma, not even aware of the wisdom she shared.
I was thinking today about a movie I never saw, or rather, a quote I almost didn’t hear. But I caught it one day while walking through the room while my sister watched Parenthood. It was something sage, something wise spoken by Grandma, not even aware of the wisdom she shared.
[Gil has been complaining about his complicated life; Grandma wanders into the room]I think of Grandma’s wisdom sometimes when I feel like Gil.
Grandma: You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster.
Gil: Oh?
Grandma: Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride!
Gil: What a great story.
Grandma: I always wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it.
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