I believe yesterday’s post reinforces at least the appearance of my being a detail-oriented person.  When I found this picture of my new boyfriend online today, I noticed that all he’s wearing is the wristwatch I believe I gave him.  So, do you believe this post will get more views than the previous one?  I know I do.

I know I’ve trotted out this milestone before, but since I’ve ditched all the posts before late last year, please allow me to re-trot it.

Today is the 40th anniversary of the boys’ first date, April Fools’ Day 1977.

Stephen and I were both Graphic Design majors in college, and attended classes together, but never spoke, since as we later confessed, he thought I was too starched, and I thought he was too à la mode.

Well, the starched part is just ridiculous (Tut-tut! Did I ask for your opinion?) but the à la mode part, SO true.  Years later, opposites attracted.

BTW, pinpointing the origin of our couplehood, Stephen argues that August ’77, when we moved in together, is more accurate.  Successfully enduring this kind of petty parsing all these years?  I thank my gentle and centered nature.


A very long time ago, a reader of Domani Dave said some of my posts were ‘haiku-like’.

Can you imagine it?  I cannot say how much that remark meant to me, though there has since (and certainly at that time) been ample reason to wonder where that impression came from.

The posts have with the passage of time become more ‘tweet-like’ in length, stemming from my belief that in the immortal words of George: ‘A man can put up with only so much’.

Here’s more brevity.  Or, more accurately, less… non-brevity.

I started thinking about terms and expressions I don’t care for.  After my previous post, hard to imagine where that rumination got started?

Apologies to the Brits, but one I don’t for a lot is ‘gobsmacked’.  My friend Roger uses it incessantly.  I learned the ‘gob’ part from my first viewing of ‘A Clockwork Orange’, when poor Little Alex is told to ‘Shut your filthy, bleeding gob!’  Maybe that’s the problem.

I also don’t like the word ‘corpse’, which sounds crunchy and gooey at the same time.  What are some words you don’t care for?

You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.

Yesterday, I stumbled onto the White House Press Briefing in progress on television, Press Secretary Sean Spicer at the podium.

There are a number of topics upon which I am apparently completely bipolar.

For example, whereas I am famished for manners and civility, a fantasy I have begun to entertain is having someone in the press corps who has an unassailable, credentials-heavy, thriving journalistic career, sacrifice that career by barking something at Mr. Spicer to make him explode.  Literally.

I’ve chosen a Greek curse (though I have since learned that its origin is Arabic) gifted to me fifty years ago: ‘I defecate on the vagina of your mother’.

For the sake of delicacy, I have softened the translation here somewhat…

I wonder if — like bringing poor Tinkerbell back to life by chanting ‘I do believe in faeries, I do believe in faeries’ — I can bring this about with chanting.

Well, it is almost March, but …

Everything — large and small, pastel and not! pastel — is blooming here in the South.  Fact is, we’ve been sans a decent Winter for years, and are unlikely to get another.  Global Warming, don’t you know, but that’s just Fake Science.

I’m glad to see that they still have actual Winters in places like Prince Edward Island, though perhaps residents there might not want them to be quite so ‘actual’.  These pictures go out to my ‘Ether Friends’ there.

But, even if you aren’t a P. E. Islander, you can look at them, too.  It’s okay.






I/we had a quite old-fashioned movie experience last evening watching the 2015 version of ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’.


I enjoyed it far more than the fifty year-old John Schlesinger version, starring Julie Christie, Terence Stamp, Peter Finch, and Alan Bates (and photographed by Nicolas Roeg and scored by Richard Rodney Bennett), which I saw only fifty years ago, so I could be wrong.

I judge some movies by my ‘mesmerization’ gold standard, ’Howards End’, and this one measured up.  (I recall being mesmerized by Ben Kingsley’s UK mob picture ‘Sexy Beast’, too, so ixnay on the pigeonholing.)

While I am somewhat of a suspension of disbelief whore, and Carey Mulligan did have quite a few exceptional ‘country’ outfits, never mind all that.  Have a look.

So, that was last night; this morning we had breakfast.

I think my aura has been depleted.

So.  I’ve decided to do something about trying to resuscitate it — infuse some magic, in a kind of shamanistic manner — and I think the first thing to do is turn my name into a palindrome.

I’m almost positive this is a really good first step.

One of the vowels needs to replace the other one in order to bring this about: ‘Davad’ or ‘Divid’.  Or, maybe replace both vowels: ‘Deved’, ‘Dovod’, or ‘Duvud’.

‘Deved’ works pretty well, but ‘Dovod’ and especially ‘Duvud’ are no-go’s.

However, there’s also ‘and sometimes Y’ in the A-E-I-O-U mix.

‘Dyvyd’!  Now that’s magic.  I’ll keep you posted.

Several things have happened in my life — including that one — during the past three or so years that have conspired to ‘rearrange’ my psyche.  I don’t, for lack of a better way to put it, recognize myself.  Just got off an hour-long on the phone with my best friend of fifty years, who suggested that I call it ‘growth’ rather than something more panic-oriented.  I think I’ll go with that for now…

I still consider myself a better ‘Comments’-ster than blogger, but seems I’ve all but given that up recently.  Apologies to ‘my’ blogs?  I’m still part of your retinue.

More gallows humor from Martin out there on the Pacific Coast:


Martin L called day before yesterday to ‘check up on me’ post-birthday, and at some demi-lull in the conversation asked with a little earnestness in his voice: ‘How do you feel about being 70?’

‘The Sands of Time’?  I replied that any meditation on that had been so tainted by the Trump disaster that I didn’t really have an answer.

This morning Will W sent me this lengthy psychoanalytical piece on the new President.  George S had stated it somewhat (!) more succinctly several months ago in a phone conversation: ‘He’s a damaged child’.

Does any of this insight and understanding do us any good?  Now?


Well.  In an attempt to balance the previous angst, I offer the above [click the picture] which I hope does not fall into the ‘puppies & kittens online’ category.  And, before someone says it, yes, I know that’s a bear.

Stephen ran across this last evening and passed it along to me, knowing how much I love to watch ‘the mature’ dancing.  The ‘bio’ reveals that he’s 50, gay, and had several nifty careers in NYC before becoming a ‘farmer’.

Old MacDonald blossoms?  Uh, no.  Club time.

If that sounds snarky, it’s because he’s stolen all my moves.  Well, some of them…

Last Thursday, we drove six hours to St. Augustine, Florida.

Stephen had been pestering me for a locale to celebrate my birthday on Friday, and on something resembling out-of-the-blue, I suggested St. Augustine, factoring that the last time I’d set foot there was 62 years ago.

Though I swear I’m not attempting to inject any ‘petite madeleine’ business here, the solitary thing I remembered about St. Augustine from a family vacation (when I was 8-years-old) was a sliver of some brandied dense chocolate pastry eaten at a little pocket cafe one evening.  That’s it.

Established by the Spanish in 1565, St. Augustine is the oldest continuously occupied city in the U.S., also the home of the ‘Fountain of Youth’, allegedly located where Ponce de León allegedly landed in Florida allegedly searching for it.  We did not sample the waters thereof.

If there was a focus during this visit, let’s say it was the Ponce de Leon Hotel, built by co-founder (with John D. Rockefeller) of Standard Oil, Henry Flagler.  Opening in 1888 and finally closing in 1932, it now houses Flagler College, established in 1968.

The materials, details and craftsmanship of the Ponce de Leon Hotel, and its sister hotel the Alcazar (also built by Flagler) are something to behold; photographs do not capture the scale of the structures.  I leave it to you to research, or not.

Though we had really nice evenings at two Stephen-approved restaurants, my favorite was a little millennial-vibed spot called ‘The Blue Hen’ for lunch before leaving for home on Saturday.

The food was very tasty and our waitperson very nice.  At least at first…

Quizzed as to what brought us to St. Augustine, Stephen allowed that Friday had been my 70th birthday.  Reply: ‘OMG! I would never have guessed that!’

Forsaking leaving well enough alone, she followed:

‘I’d have thought… maybe 58 or something.’

After she walked away, reading the look on my face, Stephen started laughing and said, ‘My, how greedy a boy can get when someone’s guessing his age!’

‘Greedy?’ [in my finest Vivien Leigh] ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!’

Why am I telling you this?

I started blogging in 2009, but September 2015, I ditched the previous posts in a fit of cyber housecleaning. Some of it was really nice writing, but alas as my old friend Susan once said, 'Compulsion is a cruel master'.

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