In Taberna Quando Sumus

It’s Friday. It’s Payday. Jack’s life is good. As tends to be my payday tradition, I found myself at my favorite third place. It’s nice to be one of the regulars; the Barmaster greeted me asking if it was a gin and tonic or martini tonight. “Citadelle and tonic,” I declared. After all Jack doesn’t do well drinks. I didn’t have a book with me, so I spent my time texting friends and watching the news and wondering when Obama was going to announce who’d be living in Number One Observatory Circle come January.

When my glass ran ice-dry, the Barmaster came by to replenish my libation and take my most humble request for a shepherd’s pie – one of my favorite dishes anyplace. I’ll put up with the peas as The Pub makes their with a blend of ground beef and ground lamb. Being parched from the meal, I need a third to tide me over. Besides there might be a mosquito lurking around Fourth Street. One cannot take chances in these, most interesting, times. Alas, it was time to go, as Jack’s dance card for the weekend has a few entries – though no trip to nor guest from the Buckeye State. But I digress.

I called the Barmaster over, and when he handed me my bill I pointed out it was wrong. I’d had three beverages. “I’m trying to take care of you. You’re a regular.” I explained that I always point out such discrepancies. He laughed and took the amount he thought the bill should be. Yes, I tipped well. I mean I’m gay. I have to, or they’ll take away my Judy Garland CDs and won’t let me watch the 2009 Tony Awards.

Yes, I’m listening to “In Taberna” as I post this. =

The Red Dragon and the Hamburger

Maybe it’s a Tuesday night thing; maybe it’s that I’m off tomorrow, and that makes today Friday-esque. Or just maybe there’s the hand of some God in it. At any rate, at the end of the work day I was drawn down the street to The Pub. The bartenders know my name, what I drink, and that I can be hungry, thirsty, or both when I walked through the doors. I admit it. I’m a regular, and my prints (if not my name) are all over the bar-stool to which I’ve lain claim. Today, I wanted a seat on said stooI and a Citadelle and tonic, but as I sat there texting with Musclecakes, I decided that I really did want a meal to go with my libation. I talked to one of the guys and ordered a rare burger (no bun) with bleu cheese. He checked with the manager who said that I could have it raw if I wanted it. Not today, but maybe next time. All was well. The food came. I had my malt vinegar (as I despise catsup as a tempestuous, low class concoction, pretending to be on par with Sauce Béarnaise) for the fries, my drink, and I anticipated the bloody beef on my palate. Then I cut into the burger.

I called the barmaster over to ensure that I wasn’t confused. “Does this look rare to you,” I queried. “Nope,” he affirmed and was off to get the manager. “I’ll eat it, and I’ll pay for it,” I said. “Just give him a clue in the kitchen.” He was insistent on taking it off my tab. “Really, I’m cool. If I wanted to be a dick, I’d take it to the kitchen and make him eat it,” I said.

“It’s not what you ordered. We’ll make it right. Besides, the guy on the grill is always bragging about his skills, so this will let him know he’s not that good. It’s worth it to rag him all night.”

“Well, I can come back and show him how to cook it,” I said with a smile as he subtracted the entrée’s price from my bill. Business went on as normal. But as I stuffed a fry into my mouth, I heard the manager telling the grill guy that I’d offered to come give lessons. Damn, now I’ve got some cook out for me. Ah well, life’s been pretty good to me. ;) I did give the meal price as a tip to the guy behind the bar. After all, the barmasters are always my favorite.

On the way home, I stopped in the bookstore, and as the lastest Iliad comic wasn’t out, I got Scooby Doo’s latest release. Hmm, but I forgot the candy! Drat.

The Wait is Over!

Season 3 of Dante’s Cove is finally available on DVD! I’m elated. Given my childhood, it’s no wonder I have a passion for the strange, dark, and Gothic. After all, I spent the 60s and very early 70s watching Dark Shadows with Mom every afternoon. Scooby Doo was my favorite Saturday morning cartoon. Night Stalker was preferred television viewing. Hell as an adult, The House of Morecock and Devil is a Bottom are on my most watched list of porn flicks. And I really do want a Deady to sit on my bed. Damnit! I digress again. Dante’s Cove is an offering from here!– a premium network that targets the LGBTQ audience. It has it all – hunky gay men, beaches, odd religions, ghosts, secrets, lesbians, hunky gay men (oh, I covered that), Sun, liquor. It’s basically your average soap opera with a twist. More graphic? Check. Male frontal nudity? Check. Appeal for the LGTBQ masses? Check. Hey, even I find the chicks making out hot.

Now I’m waiting for my other here!  favorite’s next season to be released to DVD. The Lair is a vampire soap that’s dark, and sexy, and ominous!

Friday with Jack

Dirtly Call Brand Martini at Happy Hour: $6.50

Spinach & Artichoke Dip: $8.95

Being Stirred (but not shaken) by Tref: Priceless

meupareunia

pleasure and pain
           crack the whip
                  at me again
         instruct exactly
   how to please
                wanting only
              to appease
     flesh to latex
  rubber skin
             touch of passion
                 my head spins
                    bottle tops
      and drinks of gin
    hear passion
              escape again
      front and back
    leather lace
    thrice tonight
        i met your pace
               on the sheets
                     your love a glow 
               as i top you
                     from below

What a Lady What a Night

It’s no secret that I’m one of those people who is living for the weekend. As I often do, I commenced my two days away from work by hitting my favorite third place after my cardio this afternoon. I sat on the stool, paired up a Tanq and tonic with a fish and chips and settled down. Soon, I was making headway with my meal; then a woman came up to the guys sitting down from me. They were there when I came in and talking, laughing, and buying beer — too hetero for my tastes, but I digress. I hadn’t noticed her in the place at all, but then why would I?

“ Can I have a sip of your beer,” she asked. The guy, apparently, gave it to her. She commenced telling that she wasn’t allowed to be in the bar. She’d left her dog tied up outside — after no being allowed to bring it inside. This was not a service animal, so the manager was making her leave. One of the bartenders came to ask if she’d been served. “I’m having a drink on the house,” she informed. “Make it a Harp.” She looked decent enough, and while I like the darker beers personally, Harp isn’t bad. She then told the guys that she’d called the police. They conversed with her in polite, but guarded, tones. “Isn’t she loose,” one of the guys asked. The woman went running outside — just in time to find the police pulling up. The bartender showed up Harp in hand, and looked totally befuzzled by the scene. He finally wandered off with the Harp — looking completely confused. Louisville’s finest, on the other hand, didn’t look too happy about standing in the cold for this woman’s nonsense. In fact the one in short sleeves looked almost angry. Who could blame him in twenty-six degree weather? 

“Do you think her line about a drink on the house would work for the rest of us,” I aksed. We laughed and talked whilst the drama played outside. Finally, she left with the dog. A few chuckles later, I was eating again. I heard them still talking about it. “I mean if it was race, or gender, or sexual orientation that they used to keep her out, I’d agree to calling the cops, but not because they wouldn’t let her in with a dog.” The “sexual orientation” grabbed my ears. This man had very casually defended me and mine without thinking about what he said. His buddies seemed in full agreement. Maybe the world has come far further than I think.

Bumble Bee

Last night, I walk into my third place only to find my bar-stool occupied by some bloody wanker who obviously doesn’t understand it’s Friday night, and Jack needs food and liquor. Rather than causing incident, I found another bar-stool and settled into make love to a bumble bee. I found various recipes for hard liquor versions, but I was drinking a mixture of Boddington’s and Guinness. This rich, smooth, dark drink was a nice pairing for my fish and chips (well drenched in malt vinegar). I did need a Tanqueray and tonic to clear my palate, but honestly when gin meets tonic and citrus juice it’s more of  a medicine than a beverage now isn’t it?

I also remembered to make it into Border’s to pick up the second installment of The Iliad comic book series. As it’s my favorite book of all time, I have to have all eight, but I wonder why they didn’t break it into twenty-four to mirror the poem. I also ran across an intriguing mechanical pencil. It has the jolly roger on it. Of course that had to come home too.

On my way home, two guys sat behind me on the bus talking about the differences among guitars, etc. Oddly enough, I was drawn back to the conversations I’ve sat through with musicians I’ve dated. I could actually understand what they were talking about — even if I couldn’t have added anything of relivance. When I stood to get off, they were both impressed with my leather duster. Hey, I’ve got a little taste — and hopefully the courtesy and sympathy to go with it. If only there had been an Addams Family moment on the way home it would have been a supurb evening.

Razors, Whips, and Chains

I went to see the film version of Sweeney Todd this afternoon. It was nice and dark and filled with blood. I was one of the ones sitting and giggling through most of the movie — especially at the child and his love of the gin bottle. However, and some of you will understand better than others, it looked like the kind used for well drinks. I could be wrong. I want to make no unfounded accusations. I almost want to see it as a stage production just for the difference in reference.

For those who read regularly, the update on my nipple piercing…it didn’t happen. I thought about it, and I decided to use the bucks for a new tattoo — a whip curling up my right calf. I’ve made the appointment to start the work next Saturday. It will be in multiple sessions, so it will be like getting a couple of tatts for the price of one. I’ve wanted the whip for a while now. The shop is a custom only, and I just couldn’t find anything, so this afternoon, I found myself walking in and talking to the artist who inks me. He said he can do it without anything from me. That’s good. I’m looking forward to next weekend — 1600 Romeo. Let’s say I’m just a little pumped.

I’ve also walked far more than the 7,000 VLC suggested steps today. The trouble is that I didn’t have on my pedometer for any of it. It just didn’t hit my belt this morning as I left the apartment.

Old Long Since

On New Year’s Eve I always take a moment to remember those who aren’t in my life now — for whatever reason. I don’t necessarily “tak a cup o kyndnes yet, fir ald lang syn,” but I do give pause and wonder if they do the same.  I know some of those people are gone from this world, but of others I am not certain. They number friends, lovers, enemies, fixations, and fascinations. Some I knew a long time and others only enough for them to make an impression. Occasionally there was a conscious decision to part ways; more often than not it was not a nuked bridge but an abandoned one. Some people I don’t think I’d know if I ran into at the coffee house, and others I’d recognize from a half mile.

In my memory, they don’t age. Likewise, to some I’m an eighteen year old still in his graduation gown. Some might even deem me straight. But these people do change in my memory. Their phiscial flaws smooth out, and their foilbles strengthen. Their wit sharpens. They are somewhat smarter than they were. While they in no way obtain perfection, they become something better. I hope in theirs that I am closer to perfection as well.

So on this night, among the homemade oyster stew, the Brut, the caviar, and revelry, I think of those who have crossed both my door and my heart. Somewhere between 11:59 and Midnight I will incline my head in thoughts for the past, present, and the future. I will mouth a prayer for Peace and sing “For Auld Lang Syne” with the masses.

Thimble Me You Fool

It may surprise many people to learn that if I’ve read juvenile literature, I read it as an adult. The Lord of the Rings didn’t find its way into my hand until I was in my mid-twenties. I am still reading the Chronicles of Narnia as the mood strikes me. And just yesterday I started reading Peter Pan. Yes, I’ve seen film adaptations of the novel but I don’t recall even picking up the book before this month.

The difference between Peter Pan and the other novels is a simple one. I’m brewing a short story where Peter Pan is inter-text for the story. I know it will take place with adult aged Lost Boys (not the vampire kind), but I don’t know where else it might head, but I expect there will be gin and Twinks. It’s like the beginning of a relationship. You’re not sure where it will go, but you’re anxious to find out. My task ahead is to read, to think, and then to set pen to paper — even in this digital age.

When I’ve completed my tale, I’ll post it here.