While I’m still trying to decide what to do with myself, I guess I’ll continue to dribble bits and pieces onto the blog here for a while.  (Writing that last sentence just now, I first typed ‘bog’ instead of ‘blog’.  Freudian typo?)

I won’t go all Ron Tipton* on you, but I will say that my second-in-my-lifetime colonoscopy went swimmingly this morning — six a.m. arrival at the hospital.  The staff to the one were charming and professional, and though I hesitate to mention this for fear of sounding cheap, the anesthesiologist was a bear cub with a warm, but no-nonsense demeanor that suited him very nicely.  That wasn’t too cheap, was it?

Post-procedure, Stephen took me out for breakfast at ‘Mama’s Boy’, which was hopping — lots of beautiful college students, some of them quite exotic, and lots of slender and hiply-attired (but no posing) waitstaff.  I suppose I should mention a killer breakfast, which I was desperate for.

I suppose I should also mention my ‘mystery project’.  Though I know that all the internet needs is more pictures, it’s going to be pictures.  Maybe I’m better suited for pictures, because — that last post?  Just more-of-the-same, right?

The site, which is just a template now, is pixelqueue.wordpress.com.  I’m still tinkering with it, because I’d like to get off to the right start.  The other week I found a site online with the tagline:

Αν τα πράγματα δεν πάνε εξαρχής τέλεια, δεν θα πάνε ποτέ τέλεια.

‘If things do not go perfectly from the outset, they will never go perfectly’.

Anyone know anything about that quote?

I don’t know if it’s true, but it certainly is fun to say.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

*This means: lots of detail.  It also means: Dave is most likely a bitch.

Our house is 101 years old this year, and has had only one previous resident:

Miss Nola Mae Dunaway.

Her parents built the house for her as a dowry, but marriage never materialized.  When she died, she left the house to the university alumni association here, which sold it to us in 1986.  At that time, it was essentially a 1914 museum, complete with a stove (now in the basement) exactly like the one pictured here.


Hands-on in the service of the house over these 30 years, I’ve picked up skills of the carpenter/electrician/plumber sort I wouldn’t have previously imagined.  The proudest achievement never-imagined has been the installation from the ground up of not one, but two toilets.

Friday, I replaced the ice maker in the refrigerator.  Piece of cake.  This morning, the heating element in the oven destroyed itself in a hissing, spark-spitting show, so tomorrow it’s off to the appliance parts place.  The worst of that will be facing the gentlemen behind the counter who, sorry to say, have attitude.

The point of all this, before at some point this week I recount our trip yesterday to the High [which is a family name, rather than a hierarchal position] Museum in Atlanta, is that I wanted to tell you something.

You’re simply going to have to come to grips with the fact that you will never be as butch as I am.

Note: Over the past six years, I confess I’ve been proud of quite a few posts, but if I had to pick a favorite, this might be it — possibly, because I wrote it straight through and tapped the ‘publish’ button without torturing it to death.  Wow;-)


August 23, 2011 — 3 comments


Stephen and I drove back from Charlotte NC Sunday afternoon after spending the weekend with his brother and sister-in-law, whose sixtieth birthday we celebrated.  Brother Bob used to fly constantly for his company, often to Asia and even more often to Canada.  All this travel generated tons of frequent flyer miles, which he was forever offering us and we were forever [idiotically] deflecting.  Other people benefited, most notably the parents, who became seasoned travelers.  Once, however, we relented and accepted a trip to Toronto.

Unbeknownst to us, our arrival in Toronto coincided with the tail end of some manner of Japanese/Canadian cultural exchange that included art, industrial design exhibitions, and literary events.  Several pieces of sculpture on display were perfectly realized brightly colored plastic birdcage toys, but scaled to the size of a car.  Those whacky Japanese.  Stephen was a flurry of notes and sketches in the industrial design shows, then lost the notebook on the aircraft returning home.

The afternoon we arrived, we discovered a lecture by British journalist Henry Scott Stokes, friend and biographer of Yukio Mishima, gay author who is unfortunately mostly remembered for his ‘performance suicide’ in late 1970.

The lecture began with a sort of standard issue bio introduction by someone in the festival organization, and included a little secondhand ‘apology’ for the local press having misidentified Stokes as Canadian rather than British.  Intense looking and wafer-thin (picture Ernest Thesiger in Bride of Frankenstein), he was a charming speaker.

Woven into the lecture along the way was a shock bit about Mishima having actually skinned a cat during research for The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea.  I know what you’re wondering, and I do not believe we were given that information.

During the post-lecture Q & A, a very soft-spoken young woman obviously unsettled by this cat story said she felt that anyone, no matter how brilliant or talented, should be banished from society for something like this.  A vaguely uneasy sort of an ‘oh no’ vibe slithered through the audience on her behalf.  I have no memory of Stokes’ exact response, but he managed to disagree without so much as a molecule of sarcasm.  Very stylish.

I picked up a copy of The Life and Death of Yukio Mishima and stood in line for Stokes to autograph it.  My one sentence chat when I stepped up to the table was, “Were you scandalized by being identified as Canadian in the newspaper?”

Without missing a beat, he stiffened his posture in my direction and said with a tiny smile, “My dear!  I was scandalized by being branded a cat hater this afternoon!”

Ernest Thesiger by John Singer Sargent

Ernest Thesiger by John Singer Sargent

This past Saturday was the ‘fabled’ sixth year anniversary of Domani Dave that I’ve alluded to recently in advance of my plan to retire the blog this month.

I would hope that you might take it on faith that this intention and the other couple in past years have not been garden-variety crying wolf.  In each case, I’d either felt that I’d run out of steam, or decided why on earth should I want to continue putting my neurosis on display.

What I’ve decided to do is start over soon.  I think my ‘routines’ have gotten stale (really stale), and I’d like to imagine that I might be able to do something else.  Feign to deny that it sounds like I think this is important.

(What I will say is that I don’t know what I would have done in my life without Miss Eleanor Lavish having said,You had an adventure there! Feign to deny it!”)

Let’s see what happens.  Thanks!

Johnny S cuts my hair.  He is so bright and funny that I don’t mind parting with the fairly substantial amount he extorts from me every five weeks.  I have so much faith in his considerable skill that I’ve told him that it’s up to him to decide how to snip: I actually put it this way once, that in this regard, ‘I am his bitch’.

Once, gossiping while he was working his magic, I complained about the behavior of someone we know: he stopped cold, looked at me like I had just fallen off the turnip truck and said, ‘He’s an actor!’  (Johnny is married to a faculty member in the Department of Theatre and Film Studies at the university here.)

At forty-two, Johnny is working on another career; this makes me nervous, as I have come to rely on him.  In the past, I’ve had ‘stylists’ who periodically would make me look either like a coconut or a Q-tip.  I’ve told him that if some day he and Michael decide to relocate, I’m simply going to have to move with them.

Last Tuesday, prior to Stephen’s and my ‘matrimonial’, Johnny whispered to me, mother/daughter fashion, that men being animals, Stephen would probably very soon be asking if he could kiss me on the penis.

A week later, I’m still waiting.  But after all this time, I am nothing if not patient.

Why am I telling you this?

I started blogging in 2009, but recently ditched all the posts before June of this year. I think I'm going to blog until October, a tidy six years, then 'retire'.

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