If things had been different than they are right now, I’d be at Burning Man, possibly wearing a fringed afghan and dancing in the desert with, you know, 40,000 people.

Possibly doing experimental drugs.

Oh, c’mon…I just want to make my Mom’s heart race a little faster in case she happens to check in with the blog every now and then. Mom, c’mon. You know I don’t ever do that kind of thing. You know. Although that one time, I mixed M&Ms and Skittles together to see how they would all taste. Texture-wise, it was rather irritating. I foresee no imminent mergers between those two name brands.

In last week’s post, I promised to edit fiction naked with glow sticks in my twinkling-lights gazebo outside on the back deck.

Mission accomplished.

For the last two hours, I have been doing a version of nudity I call “Minnesota Naked.” I’m not an official nudist, but who doesn’t like to hang out in the buff watching Scrubs reruns? The weather this week is perfect: chilly during the day and even colder at nights. Constant refreshing breezes, no humidity, dazzling sunlight during the golden days. At night, a forest of crickets surround me, and even the harsh alley light becomes mood lighting through the mosquito netting of this nylon gazebo.

I can’t quite see my breath, but it’s a little chilly, here, Lars.

So I’m naked head to toe, wearing my favorite green-quilted, flannel shirt/jacket. Unbuttoned. Minnesota Naked.

(Gosh, aren’t blogs fun for sharing all kinds of great information you might never want to know? Mom, quit reading now.)

I broke open the glow sticks that I mysteriously acquired somewhere in my life. I have no memory of how these things ended up in my basement. I don’t strike me as a glow stick type o guy, but I keep running into them on a shelf, always surprising me. Where did they come from? These glow sticks may have moved into the house with me, ten years ago. Honestly, I may have been planning to go to Burning Man for the sole purpose of finally using the damn things and getting them out of my house.

This is how I know my age: I wanted to rock out the gazebo with their goofy light (imagine I’m nakedly making that ‘raise the roof’ motion right now). But before I could do that tonight, I had to get my reading glasses so I could make out the tiny instructions on the back of the packaging. I held the 6 point font up to the nearest lit candle and squinted real hard.

When that wasn’t entirely successful, I moved the package further and closer, wondering if the problem is that I need bifocals.

Yeah, that’s just how the 19-year-olds do it. You know, when they’re raving.

The package explained that you just bend the things and then shake them. (Two enclosed.)

Okay.

Seemed simple enough.

And yet, it was not.

I bent the first one in half and nothing happened. I shook it. (Again, I beg you to remember that I am naked at this point and flapping a dead glow stick over my head while my extra flab wobbles in a chilly Minnesota August night. Green flannel. Please make a mental note of that image. Thank you.)

I shook it, shook it, bent it in two other places. I was sure I was following the instructions just right, and kept bending it directly over my nearby pile of clothes, my arms quivering with effort. I started to wonder what would happen to my pants if the plastic rod burst and spit that green gunk all over. What about my hands - is this stuff toxic? It didn’t dawn on me for a full three minutes that after a full decade on a basement shelf, the stupid thing might just be defective.

I reread the instructions.

There were two glow sticks in the package, so I tried the other one.

On the first crack, it instantly lit up a bright green and I experienced a modicum of long-distance, Burning Man energy. I was happy today, all night and all afternoon editing, writing, rewording. I crafted some new lines, edited some stuff I already like. I emailed people I like. I spent time on the phone with people I loved. Earlier, I made a cucumber sauce for the first time, talked through the simple four-step procedure by my good friend, Ron. An hour ago, I ate a bowl of naked raisin bran and the crickets are chirping their nightly joy.

It’s a good night to be a Minnesotian.

The glow stick looks like a nuclear rod from Homer Simpson’s power plant and I keep watching it to see if it does anything else, but true to its very simple mission, I guess it just glows.

I missed Burning Man, but it’s okay.

Gives me more time to practice with glow sticks before next year.

A morning dream, this was

I heard a car door slam at one point, saw sunlight, so it wasn’t

a scary 3:00 a.m. dream.

In the dream, my right hand was a lobster claw

and both hands had been wrangled off: hacked or yanked,

jagged stumps remained.

I moaned the zombie moan and waved my arms towards

the bastard who stole my claw.

Through narrow hallways we lumbered after a couple. She screamed, her name

was Emily.

At some point, I turned traitor

and spoke

coherently.

We were were chasing people, eating them, but I wasn’t into it.

I told this one couple, mother and son,

“Run. Seriously.”

I whispered this because I don’t know what zombies do to creatures like me,

disloyal to our species,

helping humans get away and only

faux-biting their luscious, tender skin,

so smooth and tender, and wet when it breaks like

biting into an ear of corn.

Maybe

being a zombie isn’t so bad.

Anyone seen Emily?

I hate zombies.

Their slow-stumbling movements, their brainy fixation, their dragging entrails. Euuuuch. But worst of all is their lack of ill-will. Zombies may kill you and chew out your skull, but don’t take it personally because everything looks like gooey cheese fries from their perspective. I hate that. At least with a vampire or werewolf there’s…I dunno…evil banter or malicious intention or something. They CHOOSE and stalk their victims, whereas zombies pretty sluggishly drag themselves towards the closest brains.

I don’t want to die by fiends who use their low-level cognitive functioning to think to themselves, ‘he doesn’t look like he can run very fast.’

I have given this some consideration.

Once a year, I’ll rent a zombie movie to re-horrify myself. And here’s the thing, a commonality between the zombies and the people who die in those movies: they love irony. As soon as a living person says, “my worst fear is to be eaten by zombies naked in a creepy masoleum,” BAM. The movie starts configuring itself to make it come true, like a birthday cake wish. You always mistreated a coworker? BAM. He’s one of the angry rovers who’ll end up gnawing your leg, just like you used to GNAW on him when he was alive. Get it? Get it?

Even a little tiny irony, like, ‘I’ll watch the front gate for zombies; I have good eyes.” That’s a COME EAT MY EYEBALLS kind of invitation. “What a great night to be alive!” is tempting Zombie Irony. Oh you’ll come back “alive,” but what kind of life?

I share this because last night I expressed Zombie Irony and I didn’t regret it. I honestly thought to myself, ‘Wow. This would be a good night to die.’I was definitely tempting fate.

And what makes it worse is that I think after all the Dairy Queen Thin Mint Blizzards I’ve eaten this summer, my brains might taste minty and fresh.

But I couldn’t help myself.

For the past 10 weeks or so, I’ve been co-facilitating a group of new warriors, something we call a Primary Integration Training. When a guy completes the NWTA, he has the opportunity to go through the Primary Integration Training (PIT) which is a way to keep that big bonfire of emotional release from the weekend and transform it into the kind of ongoing fire that transforms the rest of his life. We talk about emotions, boundaries, how to find your inner king. We do exercises that push mens’ comfort zones and dare - DARE men to say the uncomfortable truths about themselves, and their lives.

One of these weeks, each man touched the shoulder of another man in our circle to reveal who he trusted the least. Another week, I watched one man tell another with compassion, “It bugs me that you’re always smiling.” Scary to say, scary to hear. It’s scary, hard work.

And yet those difficult things to say out loud: “I’m afraid” “I’m angry” “This makes me sad” often get transformed into something else: warm, melty love and sometimes a newer level of inner acceptance and outward trust. I watched one man show us how FURIOUS he was with a world that had such FUCKING HYPOCRISY, his fists clenched and his eyes darting around the room as if to blame someone present. A few minutes later, he was weeping and being held, beaming unconditional love from those same eyes that had just expressed his rage.

We played, too. One night we gleefully ate ice cream sundaes with our bare hands, laughing like kids, feeling joy.

Last night, we three facilitators said ‘goodbye.’

The two amazing co-leaders and I have been discussing the group’s evolution for weeks during our private meetings: they get it. They’re stronger now. They’re coming together. At some point during our 10 weeks together, one of us leaders has commented something like, “You know who’s amazing? Did you notice so-and-so tonight?” about each man in our group.

We witnessed their risk-taking, their triumphs, the things that they THOUGHT weren’t triumphs but really, truly were. (Most men learn that being vulnerable in front of other men is a weakness…what a surprise to discover it’s the gateway to power.)

Recently, our facilitator conversations have taken a slight turn towards melancholy: they don’t need us anymore. We’re done. They might THINK they need us, but they don’t. It’s an odd satisfaction and longing to love men who do not need you. We might always be welcome to visit this circle…but they have ALL the talent and gifts they need without us. And they’re beginning to believe that subtle and immensely important fact.

Last night, Chad, Hunter, and I hosted a BBQ at my home. Hunter brought the wild excess of vegetables from his backyard including skunk turnip, which has a real vegetable name, but even after hearing it four times I refused to hear anything but ’skunk turnip’ because I am so tickled by that name. Chad was our Happy Chef, grilling our burgers and he set up the dinner so efficiently that I was able to sit in the yard and discuss Eckhart Tolle. I had blown up balloons and wrote ‘WELCOME KINGS’ with sidewalk chalk in front of my house. (Plus, not to brag or anything, but I scrubbed out the toilet, which really, that was quite an achievement for me.)
We ate in the backyard as the sun set and laughed, shared stories. Any remaining boundary between ‘facilitators’ and students had fallen away. We are equals.

The evening’s only formal activity included putting each man in the center of my living room in a chair - the Hot Seat - and each of us telling him what we most love and cherish about this individual in the center.

“I love your courage.”

“The way you make me feel welcome.”

“Your gift for me is that your peacefulness, it touches me.”

With each man, I blessed the thing that my heart said to bless, which was often a quality that might go unappreciated. I blessed one man’s gorgeous anger. Another man’s bitter grief. I blessed one man for being “glue,” even though it was hard for me to articulate what that meant, but the word kept popping to mind. I blessed one man’s love for his wife and his daughter because week after week, he kept showing up and asking himself, ‘how do I take this stuff and make THEIR lives better?’

It’s humbling to see such powerful men. Since May I have sat with them in a circle and watched them be strong, eager, soft and so full of ridiculous, overwhelming love. For life. For themselves. For each other.

And then it was my turn; I sat in the Hot Seat.

Despite the fact that only blessings were permitted, it was actually harder than it might sound. I have witnessed this phenomenon before in myself and others. If the agreement were that each man offered pointed criticism, I might handle that better and say, “Yeah, I agree. I should work on that.” But to sit still and watch a man’s eyes as he pours out his love…to not make a joke, to say only ‘thank you…’ it’s harder than one might imagine.

Luckily, I had assistance.

One of the men had brought his dog, a dog I have only seen twice but now love. I have threatened to steal this dog even though dog-napping is really NOT warrior-like behavior. The dog has a sweet temperament and when I saw her quietly licking green bean stubs off the paper plates in my backyard (hoping nobody would notice), I thought, “I think she and I could be best friends.” If I wasn’t absolutely convinced her owner would notice the empty leash when he left last night, I may have been tempted to hide her in the bath tub and say, “Gee, I dunno. Are you sure you BROUGHT a dog tonight?”

As I sat in the Hot Seat, this adorable woofer sauntered over and plopped down next to me, so I scratched her head, her ears.

The men around me spoke in turn, soft, warm voices, speaking their love for me in different textures, and colors, almost physically tangible expressions. In the moments when it was hard for me to drink in this much love, I scratched my dog friend as if she were grounding me to the earth, preventing my electrocution from all this power.

And that’s when the Zombie Irony raced through my minty brain: Tonight is a good night to die.

I don’t want to die. I’m not looking for it, particularly. I’d really like to see watch Season 3 of My Name is Earl on DVD and that doesn’t come out until mid-September. Ooo - and then there’s October, my favorite month. So honestly, I have stuff to live for.

But being so loved by such strong men in my own living room. Seeing the joy and love through the eyes of my friends’ Hunter and Chad. To scratch an adoring dog and think ‘this is my incredible life.’ Well…it’s hard to not think. ‘Wow. I hope my life ends on a night like tonight, while I am wealthy with joy.’ (And this joy was BEFORE the chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting.)

I’m not sure if it’s the Zombie Irony or that I have just always thought it might be dangerous to feel happiness.

Maybe that’s why I’m afraid of zombies. They do the things we all have to do: stagger through the day, respond to physical body demands, chase life. But that’s only going through the motions, imitating life.

I don’t want to be a zombie; I want to live.

Last night was a night of joy with a tinge of sadness.

It was a night for being fully alive.

We forgot to eat.

Mary-Scott showed up Saturday night with Chipotle Grill burritos and we were so excited to spend the evening together (”Holy crap - can you believe that mid-season finale of BSG?”) that we just forgot. We basked in Saturday’s glorious end, stunning gold in the sky, happy greens in trees and shiny grass. The iron gazebo with its bound mosquito netting was flapping sexily in the chilly, last-sun breeze. A fat bumble bee humped its way through the gazebo space on its way to wherever bees go when it’s too dark to fly.

Mary-Scott is an old friend and I do not mean to imply she’s old as a person. I just meant we’ve known each other for ten years. But honestly, she’s pretty old. Old enough she has gray streaks down her dark hair and young enough that her gray streaks of hair look sultry on her, like Life put highlights in her hair intentionally, this beloved daughter.

We laughed and drank wine; giggling over Cylon conspiracy theories and every once in a while blushing while we talked about the outside world’s events, mildly embarrassed to be caught so deeply intrigued with our imagined friends in Battlestar Galactica. We eagerly gobbled our chips and guac, but forgot about the main course. The two lumpy, aluminum-wrapped burritos squatted on the kitchen counter for a few hours like robot slugs.

One thing I love about Mary-Scott is that she reminds me of the revised image of Betty Crocker, the Human Resources-looking version. Mary-Scott is Betty Crocker’s more world-savvy, raven-haired sister who said, “Fuck this baking empire. I wanna rule the world.” Mary-Scott understands people and her eyes gleam with intelligence. She is smarter than me by far but she never makes me feel stupid about that, which is how I know she is gifted with people.

During the food-forgetting-hours we weren’t exclusively laughing. We shared some heartfelt stuff. I told her about some recent struggles that left me just a little bit broken. Just a little. Mary-Scott loves me in a way that is easy for me to take in, given that I am sometimes prickly. We get each other that way.

On another topic, a few months ago when I shyly told her about a story I was writing, she got very excited. Instantly supportive. On Saturday night I gave her a few pages to read with the same shy reticence and she said, “Do you mind if I read them here? Read it now?”

It’s funny how the universe works.

I was feeling rather shitty around sharing this writing with a friend who ultimately did not want to read it, though he said he did. And while no harm was intended by this friend, nevertheless I got emotionally kicked in the stomach, so I was handing this to Mary-Scott with sore, bruised ribs.

She asked, “Can I read it here?”

I handed over the pages and stumbled away to my den to hide because I didn’t want to watch her read. But secretly I did want to watch her read because some days end up being harder than others and a friend who wants to read my writing - REALLY wants to read it and isn’t just being polite - makes me think to myself, ‘Even if I’m a shitty writer, at least I’m good at picking friends.’

So she read it on my back porch and then we both came back to the gazebo like an awkward peace conference was beginning and someone’s hand grenade had just dropped and rolled across the floor. The sky was perfectly balanced between day and dark, those forty seconds before night wins.

We talked about writing, about stories, life stories, about the names of things, about archetypes and mythology. She really is an old friend, someone I trust to say, ‘you are so full of shit, you motherfucker,’ and also the one who can honestly say, ‘Hey. Knock it off. I’ve seen you be amazing. I actually know you are amazing.’ And you believe this, well, I believe it, because old friends of mine aren’t very good at lying anymore. She liked what she read.

She really liked it.

The conversation turned to the apocalypse or the possible apocalypses from environmental disaster, political disasters, religion, and possibly some undiscovered Asiatic bug that wipes out most of the population like a TBS special movie. (Just possibly, that wasn’t the best segue - my fiction and The Apocalypse. I will keep working on the writing skills.) We talked about food shortages, and what you’d when the electrical power went out forever.

And just as the white, twinkling lights adorning the gazebo began to dominate the nightscape, Mary-Scott said in a charming smile, “Quite frankly, I think I would thrive in an apocalyptic situation.”

The spooky thing is that she’s right.

If there’s a disaster, everyone go to Mary-Scott’s house. She’ll be protecting her territory with ferocity and she’ll actually be fair, making sure we all pull through this. She is protective and compassionate. I’ll be in her basement scarfing down the last known bag of Cheetos.

The storm came almost without warning, two stiff breezes and then suddenly, we were standing, trying to catch the remaining Chipotle chips as they scattered across the deck, the yard. The wind was suddenly muscular.

I love strong weather, a big storm. But as the host, I had to defer to my guest’s comfort and would go inside immediately if she were nervous at all.

“Oh god.” She said, “This is going to be incredible. We’re NOT going inside, right?”

During most of the storm, we stayed under the gazebo, Mary-Scott’s silver highlights reflecting in the lightning, as if she herself was a force of nature. Actually, we held down the metal gazebo a few times, when it could have easily taken flight across the back yard or at least toppled a few feet. The wind was fierce, lightning dazzling, but eventually the rain was sideways so we gave up and came inside to watch the storm from the glowing comfort of my sun room. The gazebo would have to fend for itself.

We lit candles - a necessity since the power had gone out ten minutes into the storm.

We talked, had a little more wine, a little quieter talk, deeper, softer, going even further. Rain poured from the sky. And with an old friend, it’s easier to flip from hilarious to ‘oh yeah…this is really sad, by the way,’ and the transition is comforting instead of awkward.

When the rain abated (Dad, if you’re reading my blog, check out the word ‘abated,’ I totally used it in a sentence. Sorry everyone else - Dad was also my high school English teacher and I thought this might make him proud. I’m still trying to work in a blog reference to The Bridge of San Luis Rey.)

When the rain abated, we ventured back and reclaimed the gazebo. The entire neighborhood was still soaked in darkness, not a single light visible.

Blackout.

We lit candles in the gazebo and when the occasionally strong wind blew them out, we relit them. My next door neighbor’s granddaughter, Grace, calls my gazebo with its twinkling white lights, potted trees, and candles ‘The Fairie House,’ and hell, it’s pretty damn accurate.

Unfortunately, Mary-Scott and I have decided we are now officially hungry, despite the fact that it’s 10:20 p.m. Maybe it’s the red wine or the adrenaline of the evening storm, the thrill of hanging out in pitch black, but we don’t want to end the night.

I grabbed a cookie sheet and turned on the propane grill. Dragged it to sit under the gazebo, next to us. This could work as a giant toaster oven, right?

While our fat burritos warmed, we wandered around my dark house with my flashlight leading the way. I always feel like I’m part of the Scooby Doo gang whenever there’s a blackout.

“Wow,” she said. “I’m impressed you knew where your flashlight was. I have no idea where to find mine.”

This casts a bit of doubt on her ability to be the Mel Gibson apocalypse/savior character in our nightmarish future. What if she doesn’t barter well for the last bag of Cheetos?

Our burritos were thoroughly warmed and even a little extra warmed on one side, sticking to the cookie pan as I pried them off, but hey, it’s Chipotle. My neighbor’s dog, Bella, could lick it and I’d still eat it. Sure, I’d wipe it off with a napkin or something, but it’s still Chipotle.

We munched our burritos and I left the propane grill burning, our warmth and camp fire.

And as we ate, we told stories. Ghost stories. True stories, not so much embellishments of this girl who was a hitchhiker and this guy took her to his prom and then it turns out she was dead and there was his tuxedo coat - folded right on top of her grave! No, these ghost stories were odder because they were true, unexplained events. I told her stories that I said were ‘too weird’ to write on this blog (and hell, I’ve written about crying in public, my own funeral, sadness, my shadows, so you know it’s gotta be freaky shit).

“I do NOT want to hear a ghost story,” Mary-Scott would complain while pulling out a cigarette.

Earlier in the evening, she dipped her head to me with a cigarette dangling off her lip, the lighter spark imminent. “You do know I HATE smokers, right?”

I did not know that.

“Oh, yeah. I hate smokers.” She said. “I know…I am one. But still, I hate it myself, so lemme know.”

Mary-Scott leaned in closer and lit her cigarette. “Go ahead. Tell the damn ghost story.”

We talked like this for another hour or two, relighting candles as needed, talking in shushed voices, pondering the afterlife, this life, and the glue of the universe. The lights still had not come on.

“Seriously.” I said. “Was that not the Best Chiptole you have EVER eaten? I mean…was that not amazing?”

“Oh yeah.” she agreed vehemently. “That was way better than normal. It was crunchy.”

I shut down my gas-generated campfire, and we hopped in my car and drove to Super America on 60^th and Portland because after the spooky stories of life and its unexplained anecdotes, I think we needed to see lights and maybe some parents yelling at their kids in public. Which at this Super America, is entirely feasible at 1:00 a.m. on a now-Sunday morning.

She got an apple turnover and I got a doughnut with shiny chocolate icing - a classic Homer.

We drove around looking at unlit neighborhoods, pointing in silence at homes that had lights, and then wondering aloud. I felt like we were 12 and had stayed up past midnight, like this was a big deal. As a kid, I had no idea that I would get familiar with all the hours of the night, each one with its own gift and its own grief-filled memory. I’m not so young either.

When I am with Mary-Scott, I can be 12 and 67. I am energetic like I’m 23, and slightly more reserved, like I was at 35. (I have reached that stage of accepting 40 that I now discuss the previous decade as ‘my 30s.’) It’s like this with all my old friends. We are the age we choose in the moment, and it always seems to fit. Ann understands this. So does Perry. Alesia is almost there with me.

We got back to my dark house and she looked into its empty windows.

“Yeah, I’d come in,” she said, “but actually I want to leave. I don’t want to be in your creepy, dark house anymore. I want to be back in my own, well-lighted home. You know, with the people who survive the apocalypse. But I’ll stay if you want.”

I laughed. “No, I honestly don’t mind. Go.”

“Good.” She said with obvious relief.

She turned her back and headed towards her car. “You know where to go during the apocalypse.”

Leave your back door open, Mary-Scott.

I had my mouth full of biscuits and gravvy when a man in his 60s approached my breakfast table.

“I don’t get it.” he said.

I kept chewing and the cynical part of me wondered if he was, I dunno, about to ask me for money or something. Instantly I knew he didn’t work at the Curran’s Family Restaurant. He was a tall man, beach ball stomach, wearing a bright red collared shirt with a few breakfast stains on it. Wild white hair, big, square, nerd-glasses, and a crooked, skeptical smile. Clearly, he hadn’t shaved in four or five days.

Holy crap - it was Future Me!

(Well, if I have a growth spurt by about 6 more inches that is.)

“I don’t get it.” he said again and pointed to my chest.

I swallowed the biscuits and gravvy. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your shirt.” he said. “What does it mean?”

Oh. Right.

I was wearing a slogan T-shirt from my friend Brett. I rarely wear slogan T’s but I love this slogan and I love the story of the shirt. Brett ordered this shirt as a gift almost a year and a half ago…and months and months later…it still had not arrived. He eventually gave up on it ever turning up, which disappointed Brett because he thought the shirt was perfect for me. He had ordered it online from an non-for-profit organization that apparently forgot to pay their web domain service; it didn’t seem that the shirt could be re-ordered.

For a year, Brett kept silent, waiting, wondering, waiting, wondering…all this wonderful ‘gift energy’ building up in anticipation. Should he confess about the shirt that I *almost* received or was there reason to keep hope? After about 15 months, Brett broke down and we discussed the almost-cool-gift. A month later, the shirt arrived.

The T-shirt is white and has two orange and one purple square of sponge paint. The words read: Warrior Walkabout: I cannot lose what was never mine

“It means,” I said, taking a breath wondering how to explain this shirt, “You can’t own this life. You don’t own things, you don’t own love, you don’t own history. You walk with them, walk through them, but you never actually own them.”

He shrugged and said something like, “Okay, buddy.”

Walked away shaking his head. Clearly he didn’t buy a word of it.

Who can blame him?

I sounded like a woo-woo crazy. Maybe he was waiting for me to break out crystals and magic gourds.

I left the experience feeling a little unsettled. I believed what I said…but sometimes my beliefs are rattled by strangers or my own inability to express myself. I think I know things that are true…but I can’t translate that into words. I don’t expect everyone to automatically buy into my kaleidoscope vision, but Future Me had agitated me and I spent the rest of my eggs pondering my concept of ‘ownership’ and what I thought I owned in this life.

After breakfast I headed over to a nursery to pick up some morning glories. I had tried growing from seeds, but those stubborn seeds resisted my attempts, refusing sunlight’s and water’s wake-up-call, nestled comfortably in their dirt quilts. I had even tried coaxing them out by sanding down their exterior, as recommended on the packet, but I guess I didn’t own them either:  seeds will be seeds.

While walking up and down the nursery (which I sometimes like to pretend is my own giant garden), I passed a man singing to the flowers.

He was probably the same age as Future Me in the restaurant. He had shocking white hair, almost neon, and as I think about this now, he also had on a red shirt. Huh. He was singing loudly - cheerfully - as he walked down a row of plants in hanging baskets, touching leaves lightly and strolling around. I imagined his wife was doing the plant-shopping and he was just hanging out with plant buddies.

His singing cheered me.

I glanced at the hanging baskets and they were varied -mutts of the plant world - a combination of odd things living together in pots. I saw a bunch of purple flowers, each bloom containing what appeared to be a midnight-blue ink stain at its center, adding drama.

Now THAT was a man who knew what he did not own. Yet he sang to the flowers as if they were his, as if he were comfortably in his backyard instead of surrounded by hurried Thursday gardeners eager to take advantage of the 20% off trellis’ sale. I started humming.

I found the morning glories, seeds with the balls to get out of bed. I said, “Come home with me.”

Next aisle over from them were cheerful daisies, bobbing a little too high in their starter pots and I got the feeling that if they grew any taller, they wouldn’t be welcome at the nursery - they were like puppies at the pound that ‘grew too old’ to get adopted.

So I left with the morning glories and the daisies, wandering towards the trellis section. 20% off until Saturday, you know.

On the way back, awkwardly carrying my wooden trellis, I passed him again, the plant singer. He was humming at a bunch of green things in pots and I laughed to myself because he seemed to be fertilizing them with his own unique voice. Maybe he wasn’t even shopping. Maybe he wasn’t even there to OWN these plants, but just to visit them. It hadn’t dawned on me that someone might actually visit a store to just *be* there as opposed to go in with the goal of owning something new.

I grinned as I walked passed him and almost stopped to tell him that I loved hearing him sing to the plants. I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I kept going.

Then I thought…wait a minute…embarrass him or me?
What if THIS was Future Me? What if this was a version of me that also could be true?

Shouldn’t I stop and say hello and ask myself how that whole awkward unemployed thing worked out back in 2008? Maybe i could ask myself when the next time I am going to have sex. You know, so I could make sure to shower ahead of time.

I back-tracked and told him, “I heard you singing a while ago to those plants.”

He laughed sheepishly.

“You have a beautiful voice. It made me happy to hear you sing.”

That sheepish quality morphed to a proud smile.

“I love to sing. Always have.” he said with jocularity. “Ever since I was this high.”

(For full effect, please put your hand flat out, palm down, at roughly your mid-thigh.)

“I don’t know why. I just sing because I’m happy!” he grinned.

Sitting here typing, I really hope that this was indeed Future Me because he had a radiant, gorgeous smile.

We chatted for a moment or two about singing and what makes a person happy. Never exchanged names. I didn’t want to hear that his name was Frank or Charlie. Sure, it would be fine if he was named Steve or something, it was more fun to meet a time-traveling version of myself at Bachmans’ 20% trellis sale.

We parted.

“Don’t forget to sing.” he called to me after I was a few feet away from him. “You’ve got to sing!”

“Yes, I may have to.” I yelled back and gave Future Me my best Present Me smile.

I stopped to see the name of the mutt-plants to whom he was singing and the only name visible in the aisle was ‘Shade Tolerant Perennials.’ It made me a little sad, that name, because it sounded generic or ‘lesser than.’ They didn’t even get their own pretty flower name. Maybe it’s because their cousins in Aisle 3 (one aisle over) were named, ‘Sun Loving Perennials.’ I immediately pictured those plants on Spring Break in Florida, shirtless and popular, standing up in red convertibles screaming down the highway, drunk and carefree.

Their shade tolerant cousins had to work three jobs to bloom just as well. They probably worked at JC Penny over Spring Break. It was comforting to me that someone took the time to sing to them.

I walked into the parking lot carrying the daisies and morning glories I did not own but have been entrusted to my care, balancing a large wooden frame over my right shoulder.

I started to sing. Loud enough to for the Thursday Gardener five cars away to notice and smile awkwardly.

Maybe next time, I will be ready to sing a duet with Future Me.

About a month ago I bought some booze from the crumbly liquor store near my house.

Yeah, booze. This isn’t an upscale shop where the Dockers Gentry debate vintage years with a pinot noir dangling in each hand. Nope, people buy booze here. Root beer schnapps. Cheap gin. Hey Buddy, is that the largest size vodka you have in stock?

So I went there to buy some booze and ice. I paid for the ice but drove home without it. You know how those fat square coolers squat on the sidewalk in front of the store? I forgot to grab a bag.

I rarely purchase a bag of ice. In my mind it’s this goofy, luxury item. I can make ‘em in my own damn freezer for free, so why buy it? Why pay for frosty, glass doughnuts or broken puzzle shapes?

(I know, I know…I have issues with ice. I’ll do some work around it.)

It bugged me that I forgot the ice, but it’s like…what…$1.79? I would pay that much for a soda at the gas station and wouldn’t even remember the purchase, belching it out a half hour later.

But the ice.

The day after I forgot the bag, I thought, ‘I’ll just swing over there and explain I forgot to pick it up and they’ll be cool with it.’ But that just seemed petty to me, so I told myself to forget about it.

A week later, I thought, ‘I’ll just swing over there and explain I bought ice here a week ago and I’d like to pick it up now.’

I couldn’t seem to help it. I felt like there was a creepy little cheering squad grimly chanting in my skull: what about the ice…what about the ice…

And I started thinking about how ‘MINE’-oriented I easily become. That’s MINE. Do you have what’s MINE? When do I get it back? Those MINE pigeons in Finding Nemo got nothing on me. This ridiculous bag of ice was a metaphor for all my graspy encounters where I focus on MY STUFF. If I may quote this familiar Christmas sage: “I only want my fair share. I only want what’s coming to me.”

I tried to let the ice be a metaphor for all the places I think ’small’ in my life. Where do I put my attention on $1.79 issues while my life’s $50 bills are scattering in the wind? What gets ignored while I’m slow-cruising the liquor store in my brain?

Or maybe ice is a different metaphor: where am I fretting over life’s melting problems instead of sculpting myself into something greater? When I focus on what’s dissolving in my hands, I forget to clap them. Celebrate. Who has time to celebrate when gosh, things are melting all around me?

And when I looked a little further, I noticed that I was even nurturing a slight grudge against the liquor store! How is this THEIR fault? Damn, that’s a bit on the quirky side of full-on crazy. And yet it seems to reinforce a comfortable world view, that somehow I’m the victim of this crazy harsh world and nobody understands me. Sniff, sniff. So I try to be brave and plucky and so what if I get a little drunk on cheap booze to blow off some steam, gimmie a fucking break!

That’s not…you know…shadow or anything.

I was grateful for the forgotten ice - I needed a good metaphor and forgot to pick one up at the store.

***

And that’s where this story ought to end.

But you see, I had forgiven the innocent liquor store. So, yesterday I ventured in to buy some cheap booze. (’Sir, is this your largest size of butterscotch schnapps?’)

After I left and was a block or two away, I realized that I had intended to buy some ice. I never actually enjoyed that little luxury a few weeks ago and figured I would delight in some freshly-hewn, doughnut-shaped, Alaska ice. Ahhhhhh. Give me my icy fantasy.

I decided the indulgence was worth the trip, so I went back.

Inside I approached the same clerk, a balding man in a dirty shirt. The whole time he was ringing me up - just three minutes prior - he never even looked in my eyes and only grunted ‘thank you’ as a reflex. Not that I wanted us to hug and share life stories while he’s bagging my Rolling Rock. I’m just saying - we weren’t exactly giggle buddies by the end of our encounter.

“I forgot to buy ice a few minutes ago.” I explained to him, pulling out my wallet.

He looked down at the register and then looked at me blankly.

“Just take some.” he said.

“No, no.” I explained. “I didn’t pay for it. How much - ”

“Take it.” he said, looking at me but his expression still blank. “Just take it and go.”

I took a step backwards because I didn’t really understand him. Merchants aren’t supposed to give you an irritated tone for not leaving without paying, are they? Did they change the rules again?

A tired woman came up behind me, gently nudging me aside. He started ringing up her cheap beer.

I’m not sure what happened there. It wasn’t our unbelievably tight bond of brotherhood. It wasn’t customer appreciation day ’cause there was no free beef jerky squares with hot pink frosting. Was his higher power working on him? Was he actually so gifted he could sense the finely-crushed, frosty glint in my ice blue eyes? Did he recognize a man in need - a hug from the universe?

I am not sure why I got a free bag of ice.

But I took it.

This must be a metaphor for something.

RATING PG-13: Despite the ominous title, this website blog is rated PG-13 only for strong language. No nudity. There is one furious drag queen involved, so yes, adult situations.

I spent this afternoon wandering up and down Halsted St., Chicago, lost reminiscing.

I remembered dining at that place, when it was an Italian restaurant and not a French/Vietnamese café. I hung out in that bar over there a few times. I remembered some first dates, some last dates. A couple landmarks have changed, but The Alley and that excellent comic book shop remain, as well as the Belmont Dunkin Doughnuts.

Whew.

I was sad to see that the Manhole, a leather bar, has been gentrified into something new and pastel-sounding: a bar called ‘Hydrate.’

I miss the Manhole. I had the most wonderful, physically-abusive, domestic fight outside that bar.

Ah, memories.

Years ago, I dwelt in a Chicago ‘burb and did volunteer work for a Boystown group called the The Pink Angels. In response to that late 80’s take-back-the-cities energy, they copied NYC’s Guardian Angels premise and decided to patrol Chicago’s gay neighborhood. We never really engaged in fisticuffs (which is good - some of us were probably imagining West Side Story), but we jogged down dark alleys reporting drug deals to cops, helped drunks find cabs, and ran like hell towards any cry that sounded like ‘help!’

We patrolled from about 10:30 until 4:00 a.m. on Friday and Saturday nights.

We had to wear pink T-shirt and matching pink berets. I thank Hercules this was pre-camera phone, pre-digital cameras.

One Saturday afternoon we were conducting training for ‘the new guys.’ Some of us more experienced folks were supposed to go out and create a little controlled chaos so that a practice patrol could engage in realistic simulations.

I was assigned (with another man) to stage a domestic argument in front of the leather bar, The Manhole. No fist fight…just shoving. We looked at each other, shrugged, and said, “Sure thing.”

As we walked together, we exchanged names and the short bio. He was smaller than me, so we created our scenario along the way: I was going to shove him into an entry way and stand menacingly close as he unconvincingly told the on-patrol team that everything was, “Okay. Not a problem.”

In the Manhole entryway, I practiced pushing him in a way that didn’t really hurt him but still looked realistic. During one of the faux shovings, about 3 minutes before our patrol team was scheduled to happen upon us, we both heard a rich baritone voice about three feet behind me bellow out:

“OH BITCH, YOU DID NOT JUST SHOVE THAT MAN.”

We turned to find a 6’2 African-American drag queen with her hands on her hips. She wore a leopard print mini skirt and had big Ru Paul hair.

I was about to get my ass kicked.

“It’s okay,” I protested. “We’re just practicing.”

Apparently, this was not a compelling explanation.

My training partner hit his line flawlessly and was completely unconvincing: “It’s okay…not a problem.”

Nervously, we did our best to persuade her that this shoving was part of the plan, that we absolutely needed to do this, could she PLEASE just stand on the other side of the street because our team was about to come by and it was not part of the plan to find me spread eagle on the sidewalk with a black stiletto heel against my soft and pulpy neck.

PLEASE.

She crossed her arms and skewered her face. She reluctantly agreed, but let me know that she was RIGHT over there, BITCH.

She skulked away, but not far. The Pink Angels showed up almost immediately and I shoved my faux-boyfriend with faux-rage. If anyone on the patrol team were paying attention, they would have seen that I was probably the more rattled of the two of us.

This is what I love about Chicago, the city where I learned to say ‘fuck you.’

You’re in a shop and you hear part of a conversation that’s not meant for your ears, chime in! It’s still your fuckin’ business. In Chicago I took a free class in how to walk down the street without looking vulnerable. Here’s where learned to tell drunks, ‘Get out of my face!’ and how to get seen when howling for a cab.

Boundaries.

Strong ones, soft ones, blurry boundaries and tough stranger love. Here I learned to create some useful boundaries, a pink and tender skill for me. There’s an odd undercurrent of tenderness in the ‘what da fuck is wrong wi’ you?’ Listen.

If you’re gonna knock the teeth out of your boyfriend, well then, you answer to a self-policing pack of homos in matching T’s or an African-American goddess who is NOT going to stand for THIS SHIT.

It’s enough to make me want to stand on Belmont & N. Clark and ala Mary Tyler Moore throw my pink beret into the air screaming, “FUCK YOU, CHICAGO!”

I have no doubt that someone – whether in a brownstone, at the Dunkin Doughnuts, or from the back seat of a cab – would yell back, “No, fuck YOU! What’s your fuckin’ problem?”

That in itself is enough for gratitude…but wow, what a week. I’m letting Ann’s own words tell the story of what we did together. This is from her trip email:

“In advance of all of the “How was your trip?” questions, and really as a way of remembering it for myself (which releases all of you from actually reading this!), I had an AMAZING time in San Francisco! Edmond and I could have hardly packed more in to four days!

The first night I arrived, we crossed the Bay Bridge into the city and spotted the triangular TransAmerica Building right away — one of those pinch me moments when I knew I was in SF. We ate at The Stinkin’ Rose (a garlic restaurant — and they weren’t kidding) and planned the next day at Muir Woods!

We began day one with a quick stop at the Golden Gate Bridge and Sailor’s Memorial, which was really cool! The day was full of fog, so SF was not entirely visible, but the fog actually made it a beautiful view. I have never seen such a unique city — the combination of those insane hills, Victorian architecture, bay windows EVERYWHERE, and tropical plants was something completely new.

Muir Woods was, well, words fail, don’t they?

Redwoods.

REALLY tall trees! Misty day — spooky! — the exact 100 year anniversary of the National Monument. Edmond has had a tendency to stay in the redwood forests a bit late (past dark), so we discussed at length the fast-running zombies, mountain lions (both of whom do NOT stay on the trail), serial killers (who DO stay on the trail), and carnivorous trees that dwell in the forest after dark (after 1400 years of consuming only sunlight, wouldn’t YOU be hungry for something else?). This conversation ceased to amuse when the very real possibility of Harry Potteresque giant spiders was raised. Also, we ran into a verified serial killer (hooded, scared us twice, reluctant to say hello–clearly a serial killer!) on our return to the parking lot — made it out alive, all is well! We hiked 6.5 miles in 5 hours, saw the ocean, and still had time to buy silly souvenirs!

We got back to Edmond’s home near the Castro district, visited his favorite comic book shop (of course — new Buffy!), and ate a lovely dinner at Blue.

Day Two was raining, so we spent it knocking around the city itself. We began this second day the same way we began the first - with ham and cheese croissants as big as my head from Tartine’s Bakery. We then: drove around the Presidio & fabulous hilly streets of SF (clearly these people do not have to worry about snow and ice!), including the curvy Lombard Street, Fisherman’s Wharf (”Craptastic”) and the sea lions at Pier 39, Ghirardelli Square (Yes, I have gifts!), Golden Gate Park (Japanese Tea Gardens, de Young Museum—artwork so subversive we left immediately), shopping in Union Square, and a Cable Car ride (complete with standing and hanging off of the side, just like in every Rice a Roni commercial you’ve ever seen)!! We went home and collapsed.

Day Three was finally sunny!! We drove to the coast — did the 17-Mile Drive from Monterey to Carmel and argued over which 30 - 60 million dollar home we would claim. We first stopped at the Monterey Aquarium to see the sea otters and the jellyfish — they have an amazing jellyfish display. Beautiful! The sea otters showed up again — in the actual ocean!! — as we stopped to look in tidal pools for starfish. We also saw plenty of seals in the crashing waves, the Lone Cypress tree, and Pebble Beach. We raced home through Friday night traffic to have dinner at the…(drum roll)…

Top of the Mark! Fabulous! Very cosmopolitan and excellent views of the city from the 19th floor of the Mark Hopkins Hotel, where GIs in WWII went to have a drink and their wives and sweethearts went to watch them ship out under the Golden Gate. A very San Franciscan thing… My favorite moment of the entire trip came at the end of this night. A rollercoaster cab ride home at what must have been nearly 60 miles an hour through the hilly streets of SF in which all four tires left the pavement at least twice. I was overcome with giggles—I mean hysterics, yet Edmond attempted to remain stoic and normal amidst the insanity! Hilarious!

Well, as if there was anything left to do…our final day was today. I walked around the Castro in the morning — where else can one cross the street next to a drag queen dressed as Cher at 11 am on a Saturday morning (as well as a matador, which I remain powerless to explain)? We then visited Twin Peaks to view the city. We stopped by the Golden Gate Bridge again. It is truly a beautiful bridge — as Edmond proved by taking 43 pictures. Another sunny day, so our pix are much better. We climbed to the summit of Mount Tamalpais to watch the sunset and had 360 degree views of the planet. The mist floating through the mountains on one side, San Francisco on another, and the Pacific right in front of us (complete with a view of Shark Island – the world’s largest breeding ground for Great White Sharks, which just happens to sit in a direct line not far off shore from Stinson Beach, the most popular surfing beach in town). Just not something one can find in the midwest, eh?

We then ate a perfect dinner at Caffe DiVino’s in Sausalito — and I mean perfect. The tiramisu was the most loving, delicate, sensual experience I’ve had in a long time! (Edmond said, “This is so good I expect it to call me in the morning.” And I was doing very inappropriate things to my spoon — WHAT was in that stuff?!!?) And if that was not a perfect day, we then went to a San Franciscan institution — BEACH BLANKET BABYLON. Where else can you watch a musical review in which Snow White is transformed into Madonna by the Queer Eye guys in order to marry Elvis? Or see Nancy Pelosi argue in song with Dick Cheney to the Dreamgirls soundtrack? Al Gore singing “We’re Having a Heat Wave” with the Happy Feet Penguin? Hilarious! The hats were ten feet high! A must see…

So now, we go to bed and dream of orgasmic tiramisu, carnivorous redwoods, and Pacific sunsets. This is truly a beautiful city and I hope I get to return. And our drive home begins in the morning. Think warm, dry and sunny thoughts all along Route 80 for us and see you all soon!”

My lovely, lovely Heather sent me this synopses from a New Yorker regarding the ‘tallest tree in the world.’

Richard Preston, Dept. of Amplification, “Tall for Its Age,” The New Yorker, October 9, 2006, p. 32

Writer tells about Chris K. Atkins and Michael Taylor discovering two extremely tall trees while bushwhacking in a remote stretch of Redwood National Park. The first, which they named Helios, was measured at 375 feet. The second, which measured 371 feet, they called Icarus.
Previously the tallest tree was Stratosphere Giant, at 370 feet… The laser range finders that Atkins and Taylor used can get a reading to within a few feet, but the only way to measure a very tall tree accurately is to climb it.

One of the first people Atkins called after finding Helios was Stephen C. Sillett, a professor at Humboldt State University. Stillett studies the redwood canopy by climbing the trees. He began to assemble a team to make the first ascent of Helios.

Before he could do so, Atkins and Taylor discovered another redwood that was even taller than Helios. They named it Hyperion and estimated that it was 380 feet tall…

For years, scientists believed that the world’s tallest tree was a redwood discovered in 1963 by Paul Zahl of Naional Geographic. At that time, timber companies owned most of the redwood forest. Tells about Zahl’s expedition and discovery of a tree measured at 367.8 feet.

Discusses the creation of Redwood National Park in 1978. By the time the park was formed, about two-thirds of the land in it had been logged. Other groves of redwoods are protected by state parks, such as Humboldt Redwoods State Park…

On September 16th, Sillett, Marie Antoine, James Spickler, the writer, and several others hiked into the valley where Hyperion stands. The tree’s trunk is fifteen feet across at the base. Tells about Sillett climbing the tree using ropes and mechanical ascenders.

Often enough, when scientists encounter something unusual living in a redwood, it proves to be an unknown species.

“This is a young tree,” Sillett remarked. “It could be six hundred years old… It could get to 390 feet in our lifetime.” Measuring by hand, he determined that Hyperion was 379.1 feet tall. Definitely the world’s tallest tree. Seeing a nearby clear-cut, Sillett said, “I think the tree was less than two weeks from being cut down.”

I wasn’t physically with my family this year for Christmas and that made me sad. I chatted with them by phone on the 23rd, 24th, and more on the 25th but obviously, it’s just not the same.

Tonight I got home from my Christmas vacation up the Pacific coast. I rented a movie, ordered some Thai food, and considered unpacking my bags. Nah - the bags can wait.

When I came downstairs to pick up the Thai delivery, I was stopped by my neighbor Naomi, who delivered the mail she had picked up all weekend.

Sitting on top were cards from my Mom and Dad, older sister Andrea, younger sister Eileen, and my younger brother Matt. All arrived on the same day.

I ate my Thai food and zoned to a movie…and then right before bed, I drank a little eggnog and opened the cards from the folks with whom I most wanted to spend Christmas.

Pretty excellent way to end Christmas day.