first joint

My friend Pam had invited me to join her and her son and husband at Harvey Washbangers this evening. I'd be at church rehearsal until about 7:45 and then usually get a "beer with the girls" at Double Dave's. So, that's where I was; with Gigi, Laurie, Jessica, Cynthia and Christoph when my phone rang. It was Pam's husband:

"Um, Greg, it's been about 20 years, but I was wondering if you might be able to help us score."
Giggling, I considered that I did have some pot at home - but not much. And I've been a bit cash-poor this month, so I didn't know when I'd get some more. Regardless, I said, "Of course, man!"
"Great, we're at 'Bangers now. Can I call you when we leave here?"
"Sure. That'll work fine. I'll be home in about 10 minutes and will be there the rest of the night."

I got home soon after that and figured that if they'd not smoked in 20 years, they'd need a joint rolled for them. Well, I knew the day would come when I'd want to roll a joint. This had just become a day when I would need to roll one! I got started right away.

Images of the Freaks & Geeks episode where Lindsay was trying to roll a joint passed through my head: spilling the weed; breaking the paper; trying to twist the ends... Memory of Rob identifying with that scene, and confirming how true it was... And here was I, ready to make one of those grievous, first-time joint-rolling mistakes. Which one would it be? Could I get this finished before Randy got here?

Well, it turned out beautifully. That joint was slender, straight, sleek and pretty.

He arrived and although was standing two feet from the counter where the joint was laying, he didn't see it. He began trying to find the words to say that neither he nor Pam were anywhere close to knowing how to roll a joint, and would I please do that for them? We connected, and I pointed out the already ready already joint.

We chatted for a good long while: He recounting some memories of when he'd been high before; and about when he was around Rob and clearly knew he was high; and I chiming in wherever necessary. It was clear that he hadn't lied about how long it had been for him: his talk was quite square! Funny; he sounded like the smart kid trying to ingratiate himself with the cool kids. He kept on talking and talking and talking. I thought it was cute.

Eventually, though, he left with the joint stuck down his crotch. He'd asked me where he ought to hide it for the ride home ("Paranoia already setting in, Greg!"). He'd had the idea of putting it in a church donation/cash envelope that he had in the car. I thought that was a great idea. However, after I told him Rob's strategy - one that we'd discussed once when I asked him what we ought to do if we have pot in the car and get pulled over - of hiding the pot "on" himself down there, it seems he couldn't help but think that was a better idea.

He left. I should hear from one or both of them tomorrow

"You're killing me, Smalls!"

Try as I might, my memory of exact phrases that were used in conversation or in movies is not perfect. This is nowhere as evident as when I'm trying to quote some line when Rob is present. His memory is like fly paper - he remembers more of the most detailed minutae than anyone else I know. As such, he is always correcting me when I quote. Whether I get it right or wrong (with a correction) I usually get my point across. However, if the intent of my quote was to be funny, the moment is usually lost if I get it wrong (well, if I get it wrong, and then Rob is there to correct me!).

Sometimes, my misquote is more funny than the original quote would have been. This happened not too long ago. It was during this last several months of Rob living here with me. I was trying to quote the line from The Sand Lot where Smalls is just not getting the game of baseball and one of the sand lot guys, exasperated, says, "You're killing me, Smalls!" The context was perfect for me to nail this quote - unfortunately, I don't recall it. I don't remember what brought that quote to me, but it was something that Rob had done or was doing. The quote came out, "You're killing me, Shorts!"

Something didn't sound quite right to me.

I think it was the sound of Rob guffawing.

My misquote was so funny to him that any humor that might have come from me quoting correctly was incredibly overshadowed by it. Now it has become a strong part of Rob's and my history.

Now I have the option of quoting the movie or myself: whichever is funniest.

left hand

I had lunch at the Spice Bowl indian restaurant last week with Joe Barron. I'd eaten there several times before, but it was Joe's first time. Even so, I made my first trip to the bathroom this time. In the unisex bathroom there was a version of the obligatory, "Employees must wash hands before returning to work" sign. This one said:

Employees must wash hand before returning to work

or some such thing.

I had to laugh. So I did.

drunk

I am drunk. It started out with my going over to Joe Armon's place to help him with computer stuff. He pays me well to help him out, and I like helping him. I love that guy. Not because of this nice computery relationship, but because of just who he is. I feel like we understand each other without having to say why, specifically. Whatever the case is, I just love to hang out with him. I smile when I think of him.

Anyway, he fed me beer after beer. I'd not had any dinner, so I was feeling just fine by the time I was just half-way done with the work he'd had me over to do. And by the time I was done, I was more than slightly boozed up. I didn't seem too bad for driving, however.

I stopped at the grocery store and found some baked chicken. It's funny; many nights after rehearsal at the theatre I had a craving for fried chicken. The problem: it was always after 10 p.m. by the time I was on the road and looking for chicken (in a manner of speaking - hee hee). At that time of night, most of the chicken locations are closed. Only grocery stores are open, and they, mostly, seemed to be out of fried chicken. One night I bought a frozen dinner with the necessary chicken. It was pretty all right; but not quite what my taste buds were looking for.

Tonight, Joe sent me home with two Coronas (after having drunk about 4 or 5 brews at his place). So, I got the baked chicken at Albertsons, brought it home and ate it while watching another episode of "From Earth to the Moon." (By the way, I'm noticing the inordinate amount of typos I'm making - forcing me to hit the delete key more times than I'd care to let anyone know about.)

So, here I am, inebriated and full. The chicken was quite good. The beer plentiful. And I find myself (FUCK! It took thirty-six tries to type that last work correctly!) in a state of profound sadness again. Not so bad as when I am drunk and at a gay club, but a close second. I'm tearful. I'm thinking about how much I want to be away from here and in Portland. I'm thinking about "my" Germantown Baker, Scott. I, as usual, crave the presence of a lover. I feel stifled by my continued presence in this place: I want OUT!

So, what to do? Cry. Cry. Then take water and aspirin (to avoid hangover) and head to bed.

I called Rob tonight. I'd not spoken to him - except for when he called to ask if I knew what the white, flaky, pointy thing in Australia is (Sydney Opera House) - since I left him and Andrea on Broadway near Belmont as I got in my truck to head back home. It was, of course, a bit of a drunk conversation. He was with friends at the Belmontish cafe where they serve cabbage soup. VERY tasty. But none for me tonight.

Well, it's back to the couch and back to "From Earth..." for me. Then bed. It'll all be all right.

Germantown Baker

When I'd decided to persue moving away from College Station - with vengeance - I also decided to try to prepare the way to Portland in more than one way: I started to explore online personals ads for guys that live there. I started out with the web site for the Portland Mercury newspaper; a somewhat irreverant, satiristic paper that I discovered during my last trip to Portland (www.portlandmercury.com). I figured that people who read that paper, and who put up their personal ads would be my kind of people. The personals section was powered by SSN Personals (they've since changed how they do them, and don't use SSN any more). Well I found a few interesting guys there. There was even one who responded favorably when I sent him a message, but who stopped responding soon thereafter.

The personals have a link for finding matches based on one's own profile - rather than on parameters that one can type in. So, for grins, I hit that link and came up with a bunch of personals ads from all over the country. And, of course, there were a few interesting ones there. One of them was for a guy in Germantown, WI. The picture was cute; his responses to the questions about himself seemed to indicate an interesting, thinking individual. I sent him a "wink." A message (that doesn't cost the sender anything, as opposed to sending a message that I'd type - that costs a buck) which says, "Hey, I like what I see. I'm interested." What's really cool is that he responded with a message that cost him a buck. He gave me his email address and we began to correspond.

Scott Brown is 22 years old; works as a baker at a Jewel grocery store; is into theatre - and just auditioned for a "Buffyesque" TV series. He has shown me just enough of himself to keep me interested - and I think about him a lot. We have made chat contact via Yahoo Messenger. His schedule is such that I don't see him online much at all, and it takes him several days, usually, between contact from him. It keeps me intrigued.

I almost met Scott when I was in Chicago, recently (to help Mom and Dad pack up, and to move Rob). We were trying to get together in Chicago, but his schedule just didn't work out. But what gets me about his communication is that he is polite, courteous, well-written, mature. What gets me about his (admittedly out-of-focus) pictures is that he has long, straight, brown hair and girly features. Pretty.

Of course, my mind has filled in the holes in his personal information; and he has now become my latest Fantasty Boy. I am trying not to take the fantasy too far - I've no need for that. But I do wonder and pray about how this boy might fit into my future: He in Germantown, me in College Station but with plans to move to Portland; me wondering if I might end up in Chicago, instead, to try to make a life with him. I find myself weighing two dreams against each other: dream of Portland vs. dream of boyfriend. The dream of boyfriend is much older than the dream of Portland. Dream of boyfriend doesn't necessarily mean that I have to move to Chicago. The dreams might be compatible and not have to be put up against one another, of course. But at this point, I don't know how or if they will go together.

Last night, after chatting with Scott, I sent an email suggesting that I'd like to talk on the phone and asking him if he'd like to do that. Since my timeline for getting to Portland is something in the vicinity of six months, I really want to find out if his interest in me (and mine in him, for that matter) is anything substantial.

This is fun.

This is a pain.

This isn't excruciating, yet.