Banned In Seattle!

So I got into a little on-line dust-up with Scott, the author of Bill In Exile. It all started with a video post Scott put up of a guy called "Pig Daddy". In the post, PD shoots up crystal meth on camera, has another syringe behind his ear, and settles in (presumably) to spend the next few hours jerking his limp dick and playing with his over-sized, tortured nipples. This is not a new subject with Old Scotty, as in between other celebrations of military men, postings of hot naked boys and rants against evil and stupid Republicans, Scott routinely glorifies crystal meth use and drug abuse. He claims that his own crystal meth habit, while prodigious, was something he just up and stopped one day, and that was that.

My original response was short and to the point:

"Watching that video fills me with an overwhelming sadness. There’s nothing fun about watching someone hurt himself."

I was not the only person to react this way.

That post and others like it were met with a vigorous, angry and utterly laughable defensive response from Scott, equating "recreational" crystal meth use with a "hobby" like (get this!) model ship building or skydiving.

That led to a back and forth exchange wherein Scott and I traded comments and insults. My point in all of it was two-fold. Scott is constantly referencing and fondly reminiscing about his past drug use, specifically crystal meth, to the point where I have long suspected that he may not be using, but his addiction is far from over. My second point was that it was irresponsible to glorify crystal meth use in the manner he always has and continues to do. He doesn't just discuss meth use, he revels in it, he pines for it and you could seriously make a case that he still craves it. And nowhere in this celebration of the good times to be had staying up for days and days having unsafe sex tweaked out of your mind do you find Dear Old Scotty discussing the ramifications of such behavior.

Namely HIV and death. Extreme weight loss. Facial disfigurement. Ruined relationships. Angry, dysfunctional children. Did I mention permanent brain damage?

Scott seems to believe because he was never homeless, never broke, and never had to steal from people to get his drugs that he was never an addict, and there were no real consequences to his behavior. My decision to dispute that and to call him out on it made me a judgmental prig. Indeed he repeatedly makes a point to talk about what a luxurious lifestyle he maintained while living in New York City, high above Christopher Street and high as a kite surrounded by hot naked men having hot naked unsafe sex. There is never a mention as to how many of these men are still living or in what condition. I suspect because that would be a painful slice of reality that Scotty would rather not think about. And if you try to bring it up he will, loudly, vociferously and against all logic, try to tear you down. It should be noted that the title of Scott's blog, Bill In Exile, refers to Scott's acquaintance Bill, currently serving time in prison for selling and possessing crystal meth.

I won't re-hash what was posted in the BIE comments, for now you can read them as posted. But I did send off another missive in response to Scott's repeated attempts to portray crystal meth, as well as the shitstorm of problems attached to using it, as something akin to a simple lifestyle choice. This resulted in an equally angry and verbose response that consisted of speculation that I am newly sober and out of my mind. The first allegation is just not true and the second ... well ... could be. I also have over a decade of study about addiction, the social consequences of same and the successful treatment of addiction and depression under my belt. And somewhere in the back and forth of it all with other commenters slavishly devoted to or curiously afraid of Scott, it became a matter of spin worthy of Fox News that I was claiming that all people who use drugs are addicts. I never, ever once wrote that line or even suggested it. But it was the thing that Scott O'Reilly and a host of lazy readers hung their hats on in an attempt to shut down dissent.

It was after the first exchange I was threatened with banishment (ooooooooo!) from the BIE comments if I didn't "come correct". For those of you who aren't familiar, this was a blatant attempt by someone with addiction issues to control the situation. This is what addicts do. They believe that not only do they control every aspect of their own lives, but that they can somehow force you to cede control of yours. Healthy people know this is nonsense. When addicts are confronted by someone or something that challenges that perception, they will suddenly cut you off by any means necessary. It's based in fear. Although someone untreated will deny that to the heavens.

I had a feeling I should have made a copy of my second response, as I felt a banishment(temper tantrum) was imminent. Suffice it to say I re-iterated my belief that it seemed that the video of PD clearly seemed to be that of a heavily addicted crystal meth addict, that it was irresponsible for Scott to post it and glorify the behavior, that it represented a long pattern of Scott encouraging and celebrating drug use and unsafe sex, and that perhaps, given his extreme and seemingly over-the-top reaction to all of it, Scott ought to examine his feelings regarding his injection drug abuse.

Oh and I also called him a narcissist, a smart-ass, a liar, a couple of other things and an asshole. I ridiculed his threat to "ban me", as if he possessed some sort of magical ability to kick me off the Intertubes. This of course made the untreated crystal meth addict lurking inside Scott absolutely crazy. I acknowledged my own recovery and hopefully shot down his reasoning that this somehow made a single thing I was upset with him about any less true. It didn't. While I was at it, I made a pretty good point that he was full of shit, that he was justifying his past behavior against all reason, and that he ought to knock it off.

Then he banned me. Ostensibly for calling him an asshole and violating some sort of blogger code that he himself made up. Becuase that's what addicts do. They make rules. And when you reject their rules and exploit the cracks in their carefully constructed facade they lash out and then run. Lest the whole house of cards come tumbling down. He did use the opportunity to insult me personally as well, and while I suppose I could waste the time it would take to "crack the ban" and respond on his space, in the end, it hardly seems worth it.

As a last-ditch effort, Scott even took the time to take a swipe at you, my loyal tens of readers and highlight some sentiments from someone who claims to be a "harm reduction counselor". My total feelings regarding harm reduction aren't entirely negative, but in the end, "harm reduction" in drug and alcohol addiction is like trying to only let a teenage girl get "sort of" pregnant, or a reckless driver have a "not so bad" accident. You can be a paid employee of a failed experiment and still be full of shit and misinformation. A degree in stupid doesn't make you any less stupid. They aren't mutually exclusive. But that's another post.

The denial over there runs pretty deep. Pushing my points any further stoops to a level that gives this all more importance than the possible payoff is worth.

Suffice it to say that I maintain that what Scott is doing and saying over at Bill In Exile regarding crystal meth, unsafe sex, and drug and alcohol abuse and addiction is bad for the people that read it, it's bad for the people that believe what amounts to dangerous utter nonesense, and it's sad that he refuses to see and acknowledge that. But I understand that would involve seeing and acknowledging a truth about himself that he may never be ready to see.

He did make one salient point. And that is if I feel this strongly about him and his opinions, why the hell do I read, write and carry a link to him? My answer is that (A) This is something that has been building and bothering me for almost a year, and it finally came to a head with the video post and Scott's ridiculous, childish and impossibly head-up-his ass response to it all and (B) as I said, he posts really hot pictures of naked guys.

But I stand corrected, so I will leave the link up for a few days in case anyone wants to see for themselves what the fuss is or isn't about. After which I will de-link the Nasty Old Guy and take my 46 readers and go.

I no longer wish to see and be a part of it. And that, in the end, is how the Internets work.

He's Dead, Jim

A bit of sad news to report here at From The Ashes HQ. One of our minor characters has unfortunately passed on. It is with more than a little sadness that I have to say that Colby the dog has died.

I was chillaxin on the front porch with Jet after an early evening walk. I heard someone come out the front door but paid them no mind, in case it was Ms. Morbid Fear. Turns out, it was The Hellcat, who I've scrupulously managed to avoid for months and months now. I thought this would be no different, when he surprised me by stepping up and offering me a pet food coupon. I was startled, but managed to politely decline the surprising contact. It was then that he informed me that Colby was recently put down. Doubly surprised, I merely shrugged and turned away. He quickly went on his way. But I was incredibly sad. I didn't ask the circumstances. I imagine his spinal cord problems got worse. Maybe he could no longer walk. Perhaps something else happened.

I had Colby marked as a total Red Shirt from the very beginning. I knew his days were numbered and I had imagined this scenario happening sooner rather than later. Colby had been frequently hurt or sick the whole time he lived at my place. Even though The Hellcat managed to recover from the worst effects of his meth addiction, the dog had obviously been neglected. He would be left alone for a day or two at a time. I imagine at times it was longer. He wasn't always walked and frequently went to the bathroom in the room he stayed in. Sometimes he was fed balls of bread and leftover gravy when there was no money. It was painful to witness and yet it would have been over-stepping to intervene. And there was no doubt that Colby loved The Hellcat unconditionally. Despite the neglect, I'm sure the reverse was true as well.

In my anticipating this news, the hurt and hurtful side of me imagined a decidedly unsympathetic response. I thought I would express my surprise that the poor thing lived as long as he did. I thought that would really hurt if I said it. And I found that I couldn't. I thought about it. I dismissed the notion. I couldn't imagine being that nasty, no matter how angry I am or was. If somebody ever said something like that to me, I'd be devastated. So I simply shrugged. And turned away.

If it wasn't for Colby, I wouldn't have realized how much I loved having a dog in the house. If it wasn't for Colby, I wouldn't have Jet. He had a great face and the most expressive eyes. There were whole sentences in his eyes. Colby was a great little dog. Rest In Peace, little dude.

Cristy

It was the best. intervention. ever. It almost seemed like a bad movie of the week. Watching her guzzle vodka straight from the bottle and the crazy meth writing was horrifying. Even worse was watching her entire family of enablers let themselves be manipulated by the little fiend. It was great.

OK While I'm around the subject, check out Life Or Meth.

Priced To Move

Several of the comic books I put up sold on E-Bay. Unfortunately, because I failed to put a minimum bid price on anything they all sold for the bargain opening bid of 99 cents. Between what it will cost to buy shipping envelopes and the price of the ads, I lost money on every deal. Ah well, it's a learning curve, I won't make that mistake again. Besides, I mostly put up comics I didn't give a rats ass about.

I'm six kinds of annoyed with The Hellcat. He broke the toilet yesterday fiddling with it unnecessarily. He made all these broad pronouncements that he would take care of it today, and then stayed out all night tending bar at a private party and getting drunk. Before he went to bed during the day today he managed to flood the bathroom as well. "Fixing" the toilet consisted of calling the "super" (translation: useless Irish immigrant) who said he couldn't fix it today and would be out of town for a few days. At which point The Hellcat went to bed and slept all day and night. As if it would be acceptable to have to reach in the tank and manually flush the toilet for a few days until the "super" got around to fixing it. So of course I did it myself. It cost all of six dollars and took about 20 minutes but that's hardly the point. Around 10 pm The Hellcat sent his no-class cunty bf off to work, at which point he marveled that I managed to fix the toilet, promised to wash all the towels and rug that got wet in the flood tomorrow (NOT) and then said he was going to bed. Apparently he was exhausted from laying in bed all day accomplishing nothing. Asshole.

Thanks. - A Report From Thanksgiving Day

So the holiday came and went. Wish I had an interesting story or two to relate. If possible, the day was even more uneventful than it normally is. I stayed in bed 'till a little after noon. Missing by quite a bit the Thanksgiving parade. Not that I would be caught dead anywhere near the actual live parade. I made that mistake once before many years ago. Like any large free event that takes place in Manhattan, you need to arrive at the location, in this case anywhere along the parade route, hours and hours beforehand. I don't wait well and I don't do cold. So it goes without saying I don't wait in the cold. Ever. But I do enjoy watching it on TV. Assuming I'm up. You can't ask for a better view.

Since I snoozed through the parade and The Ex was down in Ft. Ladida attending the White Party, my options were limited to whatever fun I could cook up with The Hellcat. The problem with that plan is that The Hellcat has been something of a poop lately. First it was a bad reaction to antibiotics, as he was being treated for a "possible" case of (applause) the clap. I say possible because the boyfriend du jour came down with it for sure, so The Hellcat's Dr. decided to dose him just to be safe. In any case, as they always seem to do, the antibiotics made him nauseous and listless. Then it was a toothache. Or rather, an entire set of teeth ache. Unfortunately, although it seems The Hellcat has, in fact, stopped using meth (it's been well over 6 months if not closer to a year) he's paying the price for years of using. In this case, between the constant grinding of the teeth caused by the meth and the bad oral hygeine also caused by being too high to take care of yourself, The Hellcat has cavities that need filling, broken teeth that need repair, as well as at least one root canal he's going to have to suffer through. Besides all that he seems to have lapsed into his own trough of depression, the upshot of which is he doesn't leave his room for an entire day (except to walk and feed the dog) or he leaves his room only to relocate to the couch and repeatedly fall asleep, only rising to eat junk food or do dog maintenance. Showering and/or bathing seem to be a low priority. This has been going on for over two weeks. It's sad, but also annoying. Even when I was at the bottom of my depression I managed to rally and get out of the house every day, if only for some aimless shopping and a meal at the corner diner. It's depressing having a depressed person lie around the house all day. Particularly when he seems to not want to do anything to address the problem.

So it should come as no surprise that The Hellcat finally rolled out of bed after 3 today. He fed the dog, ate a bowl of cereal and retreated back from whence he came. He did manage a "good morning" but no mention of whatever tentative plans we had to grab some brunch or make a meal.. Not that I was expecting it. I had already gone out the night before and purchased all the fixin's for a big breakfast. In fact, I was just sitting down to the sale circulars from the daily papers and a heaping plate of scrambled eggs w/salsa, a big ole' ham steak , some toasted onion pita and some fresh fruit when he stumbled through the kitchen. And as much as I meant my previous statements that I try to treat a family holiday like Thanksgiving as just another day, it would have been nice if an effort had been made on his part to spend an hour or two with me before I had to go to work. Instead, I spent the afternoon with the TV off puttering around the Internets, paying some bills on-line and shaving my legs. I intended to go see Harry Potter or Rent, but my legs had gotten pretty overgrown. I'm sort of kidding. Besides, by the time I would have had to leave for the movie I had started feeling a little rundown myself. I was running a slight fever and had a headache. So I saved my energy and headed out into a cold and blustery Thanksgiving night to work. The Hellcat was still napping. He had been up a grand total of 10 minutes.

Work was fine, albeit slow. Our regular drunks were in attendance, and I did get a real turkey dinner courtesy of our restaurant next door. Unfortunately, whatever was ailing me had moved into my digestive tract. I didn't get sick, but I did make several hurried trips to the bathroom. If ya' get my drift.

As a matter of fact, between the (literal) pain in the butt I was experiencing, add in the fact that I overall felt like shit, mix in a dollop of feeling all alone and lonely and you have the recipe for me finally jumping off the wagon. I got home and I was cold, I was tired, work bored the crap out of me and my innards felt like they were about to burst outward. So I mixed me a vodka/soda... The earth continued to turn. I didn't go all Days of Wine and Roses and progress right to the rubbing alcohol. I watched the final episode of Rome (loved it!) and then channel surfed 'till about 6 am. I had two drinks, I made myself a third, but I never made a dent in it, instead drifting off to sweet merciful slumber. My "Thanksgiving holiday" coming to an end with a whimper. Actually, the whimper was coming from me. But nothing a good nights sleep, a gallon of Immodium and a giant tube of Preparation H couldn't cure. How was your holiday?

Free The Hellcat

I doubt I'll live up to my hype, but here goes...

So I leave for work on Wednesday around 9:15. The Hellcat, who has finally gone back to work (thank the lord!) on a limited basis, was already well into his cater-waiter shift that night. I really wasn't the least bit surprised that he wasn't home yet when I returned at 4:30 am. It seems every time he goes out and earns money now it leads to him immediately blowing an equal amount of money on food and booze. Which I suppose is a better choice than meth and lube. Still, it's a dangerous game he's playing. It won't be long before he runs into someone with a little coke. Then some pills. How many shots of tequila will it take before you break down and call someone you know is still using meth "just to talk"?

So I'm always a little apprehensive when 5 am rolls around and he hasn't shown. To say nothing of the fact that his dog obviously hadn't been fed since the afternoon. I dutifully scooped the dog up into bed with me as I am choice number two in the dog's sleeping options. He prefers to sleep with people, and he prefers the Hellcat's bed or bedroom. But if the Hellcat isn't home he prefers me and mine. As my bed is high and the dog has spinal problems, I made sure to clear and set up the gradual step-down I taught him to use. I assumed The Hellcat would return at some point and reclaim his dog and sleep it off. Imagine my surprise when I awoke at the crack of noon and felt the lumpy undercover evidence of a dog still in bed with me.

Now I was pissed off. The Hellcat had just returned from a 10 day vacation that extended to almost two weeks. The Ex had promised to take care of the dog. Neglecting to take into account that he himself was going away for a long weekend. So by default, I was dog-sitting on a holiday weekend. And working full time. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love, love the dog. He's cute and needy and funny and needy and likes to sleep and cuddle and be needy. The dog is boyfriend material. But I don't have time for a dog-boyfriend right now. I am frequently out of the house for twelve hours, sometimes more. The dog can and does reward you for neglect of that nature with a tiny steaming pile of poo on the kitchen floor. And while it's annoying, yeah, the poor thing needs to go out. The dog loves me. When The Hellcat isn't around he follows me from room to room. He stares at me as I'm eating dinner. Like,

“That knife and fork business is brilliant! However did you think of it! Damn these non-opposable thumbs!”



Dogs speak exclusively with exclamation points.

So when I'm home, I'll gladly give him a meal or rub his belly, but I can't do it every day. Just like all I could manage with a real boyfriend right now. Hi, hi, kiss, kiss suck fuck eat fuck gotta go, call you Tuesday. This would work with (most) real boyfriends, since he probably wouldn’t need me to facilitate his need to poo.

In any case, we got through it and here it was just a couple of days later and I have a hungry dog snuggled up with me and The Hellcat nowhere to be seen. Shortly after that my phone began to ring. I checked the number and it was from an area code I didn't know. Seeing as how I was only on my first cup of coffee I didn't answer. Someone left a message as I'm notified by e-mail when they do. A few minutes later, another call and message. It's clear that someone is trying to reach someone. Thinking perhaps it's The Hellcat on a borrowed cell I play the message. It's The Hellcat's mom. He's in jail. Sort of dissipates my anger over the dog right quick.

The story I got from the mom and later directly from The Hellcat goes something like this: Apparently, after his cater-waiter shift ended The Hellcat found him self parched. After trying to enlist The Ex on a weeknight excursion into the East Village, he set out alone. Ostensibly headed for an innocent couple of PBRs at our favorite watering hole. Somehow, he ended up drinking at The Cock with the on-again off-again boyfriend. As it does whenever those two get together and drink on a day with the word day in it, things deteriorated. I never asked what was said or why, it’s unimportant. What is important is that The Hellcat claims he ended the argument telling the OA OA boyfriend that he wasn’t going to fight with him, the relationship isn’t working, and I guess this is goodbye. Trouble is, the argument, the break-up, the whole mini-drama has become at least a bi-monthly occurrence. Why this one was different I don’t know. What happened next, I can only relate from The Hellcat’s version of events. The one where he comes off totally innocent. According to him, he had walked away and was a block away from The Cock. Suddenly he heard the OA OA boyfriend call his name from behind. When he turned around he was punched in the face. All 125 pounds of fury being brought to bear on him. Supposedly, he didn’t hit him back. Instead, he pulled out a phone to dial 911. It was then that the OA OA boyfriend went all Hannible Lecter on him and bit him, severely, on the forearm. Shocked and in pain, The Hellcat dropped the phone. The phone going in one direction, the battery in the other. In self defense now, and trying to dislodge the boyfriend from his arm, The Hellcat kneed the boyfriend in the head. The OA OA boyfriend then fell backward onto a fence, cutting his head open in the process. Bleeding and in pain, The Hellcat jumped into a passing cab, screaming wildly to the driver to call the police. He refused, and told The Hellcat to get out. Such a scene was made that a concerned passer by did call 911 for him. Apparently, the police came. It’s in dispute and unimportant whether they were called by people on the block or the OA OA boyfriend. I have no doubt they both portrayed the other as the aggressor. But the police treated it as a case of domestic violence. And it seems in New York City that when the complaint is lodged and injuries occur, someone is going to jail. Supposedly this is to protect both parties from possibly escalating the dispute later that day. A time out arrest, if you will. So after bringing The Hellcat to the hospital for medical attention, he was placed under arrest for assault. He was taken to the precinct in the middle of the night and then to central booking early in the morning. The OA OA boyfriend received six stitches in his head and was released.

I was alternately shocked, amused and concerned for The Hellcat. This was his highest drama yet since beginning this disastrous relationship. But being arrested in New York City is never a pleasant experience. It’s one thing to be taken to the precinct. But if you’re brought to central booking and enter the system, you’re in for as long as it takes. You can get yourself arrested on a Friday night and not get out until Monday. And unless you’re extremely wealthy or a celebrity or you come from a family of cops, that’s that. I was worried that he would be without his meds. I know the food there is horrible. I figured he’d deal with the prison rape issue just fine. I didn’t really know what to tell his mom without worrying her. She had spoken to him so I knew he was OK, at least. So we waited. All day. We finally heard from him around 7 pm. He was waiting for a hearing, which might come by the end of the day. He was supposed to call back at 11 pm, and when we didn’t hear from him we were hopeful he was being arraigned. About 12:45 that night he called. Out of jail and on the way home.

He was, by all accounts, treated pretty well for a gay white man with AIDS. It’s probably what got him out in a day. Score! Another benefit from HIV! He seemed relieved to be home and still pretty shaken. After he ate and took a handful of pills we had the presence of mind to document his injuries should it come to court, which I doubt it will. He really did suffer a nasty bite:





He recieved a tetanus shot, as well as antibiotics. Apparently, human bites are positively loaded with nasty bacteria. As an aside, supposedly the relationship is really over once and for all. A restraining order has been issued barring The Hellcat from any further contact. We'll see a few months from now when the arm heals and The Hellcat remembers this:

I Need To Make An Apology....

To you, my tens of readers.

I had an extraordinarily difficult (to me) weekend. My home, any of my homes, have never been vandalized. Things have been broken, dropped inadvertently. Sometimes something snapped off in my or another persons hand. Wear and tear. It's normal. But this was different. Someone either from within my home or an opportunist from without actually took the moment to willfully and with malice cause destruction in my house. I expect I will never know the real story as to what happened, but it sent me into a rage. The lioness inside went into full-protect mode. Protect myself and protect what's mine. If I had to cut a swath through friends and roommates to achieve it, I would.

I felt vulnerable and not in control, and I knew I needed to act quickly to regain it. Hence the high drama of taking a hotel room for two days. Unbeknownst to them, the hotel was around the corner from the castle lest I needed to act quickly to prevent whole scale theivery. The combination lock I placed on my bedroom was mostly for show as well, The way it's installed, if anyone bothers to inspect it, you can remove the screws and the whole latch can be removed. Still, I'll be using the padlock for at least another week, just to drive the point home.

I needed to stage a throwdown with The Hellcat because I wanted to gauge his reactions. To see what would happen if I stripped off the veneer of my trying to be supportive of this, his 4th repeat at "assembling a support team" and "seeking therapy" and "going to meetings all the time" and not drinking anymore which was qualified in the next breath with a "probably not". I told him he hasn't gotten better because he doesn't want to get better. Getting better would force him to be out of bed before 5:00 every afternoon. Getting better would mean he could take (horrors!) a job. I told him his excuses for why he gets high are downright lame. "I'm depressed." Who the fuck isn't it's New York. Take the anti-depressants they give you and if that doesn't work take something different, or more. It's New York City. We exist on pills. Depression isn't an illness, it's a badge of honor. Go outside and curse at assholes. That's coping. I'm grieving. Blah, blah, blah. I take drugs 'cause my boyfriend died. Reality check, you were a meth head before your boyfriend was your boyfriend. The truth is, you're using his death as an excuse to continue. That was the shot that made him snap. When he accused me of not understanding death and positively screeching about "14 people! 14 people have died on me in the last few years! You don't know what that's like." I didn't answer, but I had obviously struck a nerve.

Here's what I didn't say: On June 11 in 2000 my sister died suddenly while I was on vacation in Las Vegas. In truth, I did get back here to New York before I got the message, and arrived back home before she died, but she never woke up and died the afternoon I got there. She left behind my five year old niece. I was heartbroken. But somehow managed to write and deliver the eulogy at her funeral.

In the early 90's I was working in the South Street Seaport and met a guy at a bar. He was extraordinarily cute and (the true deal-sealer for me) he made me laugh so damn hard. We dated several times and had great great sex. I was aware that there was a boyfriend in the picture from a relationship that was ending badly. Early the following week, I was informed that his soon to be ex-boyfriend hacked him to pieces in every room of their house. He severed both his hands completely. I spent an entire night on my living room couch, wailing at the horror.

That same year, I spent a night with a co-worker I had hit it off with, He was a cool black dude who worked in the kitchen and I thought he was funny and smart with an interesting take on life. We hung around a bar all night shooting pool and playing video trivia. We had a couple burgers and some pizza later. We said our goodbyes about 1 am. At 1:30 he was found shot dead at the foot of the stairs of a subway station. He was killed by a single bullet to the brain. The police theorized robbery, although what a line cook coming home from work had on him to rob I'll never know. I don't believe the killers were ever caught.

There were others. Some acquaintances who succumbed to AIDS so quickly. Other family members, including the suicide of my cousin last year. Also struggling with depression.

I didn't say any of this to The Hellcat the other day. He was far too gone and far too dedicated to justifying his self-destructive behavior if not to me, then at least to himself, to understand my point that using the death of a loved one, of a friend, of a sister as an excuse for why your life has spiraled out of control, does a horrible disservice to the very people you claim to be anguished by their absence. How is it that you honor their memory by destroying brain cells, or lapsing into a depression of apathy. If you truly want their life and death to have value and meaning, you'll use it to fight for your own.

When none of his screaming and refusals to take ownership that he himself is the source of his troubles worked, that his lack of self control and a basic knowledge of what is right and wrong in maintaining friendships and doing your job and keeping your promises are the root causes and failures from within that need to be fixed, well that's when he called me a friendless alcoholic. Even better a "nasty alcoholic" recovering from a night of drinking "right now". So conveniently, me throwing him out of the house, the mess he's made of things regarding laying around the house like a wasted bag of skin, failing to have a single attempt at rehab take, failing to secure any on-going therapy for his mental problems, failing to secure extra income from a job, beating up his boyfriend, bringing strangers to the house to do drugs when he was told to never ever do it, not finding enough time in his busy, busy day to get his laundry done, all of that, all of it, is because I'm an alcoholic. With a full time job. And several major credit cards. And a roof over my head. And money in my pocket. And a pretty nice looking stock portfolio. OK, my bad.

But back to the apology, Upon re-reading the histrionics of the last few days and then receiving the nice, and encouraging comment from RJ I'm also taken aback by the comment left by Alec. I feel like a total dumb-ass. 31 years in a relationship with a man who's now terminal. 12 years battling a pain condition and diagnosed with skin cancer. And you admire my ability to cope? I am truly humbled, sir. I wish all the best for you and yours, may the spirits watch over you. Please feel free to keep in touch. I'm just a guy with plenty of blessings and a couple of sucky roommates.

OK Then!

I just worked a 17 hr. shift. 10 am to 3 am. No break. I was going to tell you some cute (not) shit that happened at work. Instead, when I (fucking finally) got back home, the apartment door was unlocked and ajar (is it a door or a jar? nyuck nyuck nyuck). Going into alert mode I find that my bedroom door (unlocked) has been kicked open. I locked the apartment door so that no one but me could get in. The Ex returned shortly after. Further investigation seems to point to The Hellcat drunkenly acting out.

Seriously people I officially do not feel safe in my own home. He fucking kicked my door in! Tomorrow should be interesting. As well as all of next week I expect. Stay tuned! (If I get my skull crushed with a hammer, there are pictures of The Hellcat on my blog.)

Update: (In case I end up dead)

Hellcat,

Based on the evidence available to me, I can only imagine one of two scenarios: Either you came home and carelessly left the front door unlocked and open. Some random stranger came in to the apartment and upon seeing my unlocked but shut bedroom door, decided to kick it open. After which, he stole not one thing and calmly left. Or, you came home drunk and in some sort of mood (which I’ve personally witnessed before) and acting out, kicked my bedroom door open.

Either way, the result is I no longer feel safe in my own home. That is unacceptable. In light of this, I need to ask you to leave. Unfortunately, I am very busy working and since our schedules are completely opposite lately I can’t do this in person. Because of the issue of my personal well being I have made other living arrangements for myself for the next two days. My next day off is this Tuesday. I expect you to have new living arrangements of your own by then. If you fail to move out by Tuesday I will have no choice but to call the police and have you removed. You have some aid coming from the city next week. If you need me to, I will cash it for you and give you the full amount. I will cover your bills due for this month.

I’m sorry it has come to this, but I honestly feel you’ve left me no choice. When you are sober, you are such a wonderful man. You are smart and funny and great to be around. When you’re not sober you are thoughtless and uncaring. You are unable to control your impulses, and tend to do whatever you please as if there are no consequences. In the real world there are.

In my world, when you leave me and my property vulnerable to violence, or get violent yourself, it’s time for you to go. I will be around during the next couple of days to pick up clothes and whatever I need. I suppose if you want to talk about this I will, but I really have made up my mind. I can't ignore this. And I won't live this way.

Tom

I Shaved My Toes

I have "a thing" about hairy feet. I admit it's "a thing". It grosses me out. I hate hairy feet. My feet aren't totally hairy. But I do grow hair on a few toes and the top of my feet. And I hate it. Well, hate is a bit strong but I don't like it. Aesthetically speaking I mean. I look down after a shower and I'm all, ewwww. But I'm usually at the gym or pressed for time. I'm a last-minute shower and skate kind of guy.

So late last night as I was puttering around the apartment taking care of this and that I took a few minutes to freshen up my hair color (I'm a Feria Brazilian Brown #51) and take a hot shower (which was heavenly in and of itself, by the way). After which I took a minute to shave my toes. I seriously doubt anyone will ever see it much less notice. But I feel better.

The Hellcat came home late last night after I went to bed. He cooked something, I can't tell what. But whatever it was it took several plates and every single frying pan I own. Which he left dirty in the sink and on the stove. I've stacked every dirty pan and dish he left outside his bedroom door for him to trip over when he starts his busy day this afternoon. Around 4 pm I expect. Oh, to live the life of a jobless meth addict.

Taking The Good With The Bad

As I wrote previously, my PC up and died a while back. I replaced it pretty quickly and cheaply with a much better model with a big honkin' hard drive (120GB). I know, of course, I would never need a drive that big I just wanted it. My new system was not without issues however. For a couple of months I had no sound. I finally managed to dope out the problem (no thanks to you scabby bastards, the SOS I put out leading to no help at all - I'm kidding. A couple of people answered they were just the wrong answers). As it turns out, my sound issues had to do with downloading the correct drivers for the included sound card and then going in and "telling" my computer, as well as all my media players (Windows, Quicktime, etc.) to use the new sound card. Problem solved. Two months later.

The second problem I had was that because my PC died and wasn't euthanized, I didn't get the opportunity to import whatever files and programs I wanted to save from my old hard drive. My intent was to install the old hard drive into my new system, use some of my old programs, and have 40GB of extra storage space that I would never, ever need to use. But I had a devil of a time getting my old drive out of the box. And then my new PC didn't have any pre-installed drive bays for me to use. As I was researching buying drive bays or bay rails from computer supply stores I found this way cool alternative. $65 dollars later I was skeptical but hopeful. The setup instructions couldn't have been easier, literally plug and play. My computer "saw" the "new" drive instantly. I was able to access all my old information and programs. EGAD! Except my pictures. Which was what this was all about. I had in fact backed up some of my pictures to disk. But not all. Actually a fraction of what I had. I searched all my files but was having no luck. That's when I happened across my Picasa software. I remembered that launching Picasa would search my hard drive and sure enough, the damn shit searched everything and found all my precious pix. All my naked boys and men. All my favorite cumshots captured as they happened. Even some black and white Coney Island pix I forgot I had but adore. I'll be spending the next few days backing up said precious pix and deleting all the duplicate information I'm carrying. Lesson learned.

I came home from the gym and had a fight with The Hellcat. Yesterday was my day off (my next one being Sunday). In addition to jerking off to online porn, I spent part of my afternoon cleaning the kitchen. Coffee was spilled inside the microwave as well as on top of the refrigerator. More coffee was spilled onto the dish rack. The dish rack I had cleaned two days ago. That's totally The Hellcat. He was sleeping on the couch "recovering" from a hangover. I had to endure a recounting of his drunken night and how he "almost used". Yeah, let's talk about you again. There's a new subject.

So you can imagine how pleased I was when I returned home to see that the kitchen basket that's usually up on the wall had been knocked off. And the dog piss next to the garbage can (from when The Hellcat left his dog alone overnight, and free to roam the apartment, even though we've all agreed he needs to be put into the bedroom where he's way more reluctant to shit or piss) was still there from last night. I inquired what happened and was told that the on-again off-again boyfriend had knocked it down and it would be fixed "tomorrow". That did it.

"It's always tomorrow with you. What else are you gonna do tomorrow?"

"Why are you being such a bitch?"

"How about you forget tomorrow and fix it today? How about you clean up the dog piss on the kitchen floor that's been there all day?"

The fight got much bigger and I basically told him I was sick of living in filth and I was sick of his empty promises to do (insert anything here) tomorrow.

I'm a bitch because I'm sick of spending what little free time I have cleaning up after a grown man with no job and no responsibilities who expects that everyone is going to walk around on eggshells because a fucking addict went out and got liquored up and caused havoc and now isn't feeling well? Fuck that shit. Your friend/boyfriend whatever came into my home and knocked something off the wall. Fix it. Right now. Have some respect for me and my things. I've given you a safe, comfortable place to live and even arranged to have it funded by the state. I don't expect gratitude just a modicum of consideration. I like my home to be clean and orderly. I'm not a nut about it, just try to play along. Asshole.

Darkness All Around

Yesterday was a dark day. It rained. It was raining when I woke up. It rained on my way to the grocery store and the gym. It poured on my way to the laundry. Great, wind-whipped sheets of rain lashed the streets. I managed to duck under an awning and was luckily wearing a raincoat, but my shoes and socks were soaked and the water managed to seep down my neck and collar. Even the few times I went outside to find it not raining, within a half-block of my walking anywhere, the rain began again. I never could decide if my mood was reflecting the weather, or if the planet was responding to the foul mood I was in.

I was supposed to be getting ready for Christmas. I had started with good intentions. Over morning coffee, I opened the half-dozen Christmas cards I had received the past couple of weeks. I like to open them all at once close to Christmas. It usually pushes me into a good mood but this year, not so much. The fact that some people insist on sending out overtly religious Christmas cards annoys me. I mean, I'm aware that the roots of Christmas are obviously a Christian holiday, but many people, me included, choose to celebrate Christmas as a way to spend time with friends and family, to enjoy good food and good company. To reflect on how fortunate we are to be healthy, safe, and with a place to call home. It's about a gift freely given, a chance to tell a valued friend he is cared for. The religious part of the holiday doesn't interest me. So I find Christmas cards with great, thunderous, biblical quotations, complete with exclamation points, to be an affront. What's wrong with a card that says "Wishing you the warmest of holiday memories" and a beautiful picture of a family in the woods atop a horse-drawn carriage?

Not that I'm really celebrating this year anyway. I can't go home. That's the nightclub business. I have to close tonight. I have Christmas Day off tomorrow, though. No real plans for a party. The Ex left this morning for five days in Buffalo. We didn't exchange gifts for the first time in several years. Not surprising, we've had a rough time in our relationship this year. And no great loss, either. The Ex is a notoriously bad gift giver. He's one of those people that buys you what he thinks you should have instead of what you will like. Last year it was tacky gold jewelry I wouldn't be caught dead wearing and clothes. Size large. I weigh 147 pounds.

So that leaves me, Colby and The Hellcat in town and at home. That relationship has been strained of late as well. The Hellcat attempted what amounted to an out-patient rehab. It consisted of a single visit to a psychiatrist and another to a grief therapist and a plan to attend a month of 12-step programs every day. Alcohol, Drugs, even Sex-Anon, it didn't matter. As the current line of thinking for some people that specialize in addiction is that most people are cross-addicted. With the drugs leading to sex or the alcohol leading to drugs. Also, he went on medication to treat what's believed to be a bi-polar disorder. At any rate, he didn't make it two weeks. I think it was only one night back on the pipe but I can't be sure. So we endured four days of the after-affects. He holes up in his room and sleeps or watches television. He rarely eats and when he does it's junk food or cereal. Walking the dog falls by the wayside. So whenever the dog is left alone in any room besides the bedroom he sleeps in, not surprisingly he shits or pisses. How special is it to come home from work at 2:30 in the morning and have to clean up two or three piles of dogshit? Very special indeed.

After a couple of days gone to ground, The Hellcat will emerge from the bedroom completely manic. He will have worked out yet another theory as to why the rehab didn't take and how the next time will be different. He will follow you from room to room talking incessantly about himself and his problems. Any attempt to change the subject or inject yourself into the conversation will be deflected or ignored, so the subject can once again be all about him. This condition will last a half day or more, at which point he finally exhausts himself so much that another day and a half of laying on the couch and falling asleep to HBO ensues.

This is the time when the cycle begins again. I can usually look forward to a solid week or more of "good" Hellcat, where we can take in a movie or work out together. But lately that's become bittersweet for me too. This is always followed by a week or two where you can see the old patterns of addiction take hold. Now that I've mastered his cycle, in the back of my mind I'm always thinking of what's to come, and trying to figure out the best way to make it affect me and my life the least.

The upshot is that we have tentative plans to whip up a tasty brunch in the afternoon. I've offered to treat him to Christmas dinner at a restaurant of his choosing. Public Assistance doesn't provide him with a Christmas bonus. But this is all predicated on whether or not he can get up and get dressed. I may just be spending Christmas alone. Which I've done before, but for some reason, this alone feels really alone.

I'll probably try and treat it like any other day and ignore it best I can. The Ex is complaining of computer problems so maybe I'll clean up his system for him. A lot of places will be closed, but the diners will be open for food. Movie theaters do a decent business Christmas night. Maybe I'll troll the bars for a lost tourist to take home and unwrap.

I'm sorry this post is such a downer. I could have written a goopy post full of good cheer and love for all humanity. I have it in me. But that's not my reality right now. I wanted to write the truth, and I actually feel a bit better getting it all down "on paper". So, thanks for listening. And I do wish you all the happiest of holidays. If you find yourself lucky enough to be in the presence of good friends and loving family, take a moment to mark it, and thank the Universe for your good fortune. Fear not, we must endure the darkness to truly enjoy the light.

Perspective

An easy night on the job. I actually had some fun. I had enough other competent management with me that I could take the time to joke around with the staff, enjoy some time at the concert and still be home by 1:15. The Hellcat was still up, so we had a lovely chat before bed.

Work is ....Interesting. It's very heterosexual. The world is. I'm just not used to that. There's only two overtly gay men working there besides me. The only open lesbian was just fired. I've gotten some signals that we have a couple of bi girls on staff, and I had a security guy tell me that one of the male performers was so pretty "I'd do him". I didn't react. There's very little anti-gay sentiment from people. Racism is far more prevalent. I haven't actually said the words "I'm gay" to anyone connected with work. On the one hand, I don't operate under the delusion that I'm able to pass, that I'm a "masculine" male. First of all, I don't give a fuck. The concept of "masculinity" to me is fucking stupid. I'm a guy. I like my guy parts. I have no desire to be a woman. "The Duchess" is a gay male persona. It's fun and funny. But I also feel no need to "play" a guy or live up to some masculine ideal. I'm a gay man. How "butch" can you be getting royally dicked?

So I assume they know I'm gay. But I'm giving way too much credit to some heterosexuals. Because they're more stupid than you would think. Some of them are so completely unaware of the other people in their environment that the fact that I'm gay would be stunning. I don't care. I've told stories about The Hellcat. I've talked about The Ex. I haven't characterized The Ex as the real Ex, however. I'll get around to it. One of the things I like about the new job is the fact that it's such a big place, that a level of impersonal is built right in. I had 18 servers scheduled tonight. I can stick and run. Jump in and take care of a problem, tell a joke. I can be fabulous for a second and then take off. I'm not hiding, I'm being superficial. Superficial suits me right now.

The funny thing is, I've had more than one employee or manager comment about how "laid-back" or "cool" I am. How nothing seems to bother me. Of course, that's just not true. What is true is that I have a rich and full (for better or worse) life outside of work. I'm HIV+, I live with my ex-lover, my other room mate is a meth addict, I've got a serious shopping problem, I'm currently trying to resolve whether my responses are the result of testosterone therapy or I'm an extremely and inappropriately angry individual. In spite of it all, the upshot is that I like to do a good job, it's important that my staff does a good job, but in the grand scheme of things, it's a nightclub. It's food. We do the best we can. My job does not define who I am. Too many other things are more important. So I take on a "Buddha" quality because while I don't have all the secrets, I have a couple. And one of them is to relax, you're smart enough. It'll all get done.

Ruminations

It's just after 2 am. There are various thuds and thumps coming from The Hellcat's room where he's holed up with "a friend from New Jersey". I'm assuming some sex is involved and for that, I say you go, sistah. I fear, however that drugs may be involved and if that proves to be the case I'm going to be pretty fuckin pissed to say the least. I said up front that I didn't want drugs in the house, not out of some prudish "Just Say No" hypocrisy, but because doing drugs in the house attracts people who do drugs, which results in the aftermath of being in a house where people do drugs. By that I mean theft, and things being broken, and people without boundaries. As it is, I've taken to hiding my cash when I go to bed at night. Not in the least because I'm afraid The Hellcat would take it, but when I don't know the people he considers "friends" and so far, it seems most of his friends have one thing in common: drugs. (It was only after finishing the first draft of this did I come to find out that his "friend" opened and closed The Ex's door at 7 am this morning.) Was he confused in an unfamiliar apartment? Or seeing what he could help himself to? Or so high he was just stupid? I feel ... uneasy.

As to my general living experience with The Hellcat, it's going OK. As a person, I like him tremendously. When sober he is funny and thoughtful and we share a lot of the same interests. But someone once told me that when somebody falls into addiction, they freeze at whatever age the addiction first takes hold. If that's the case, I would have to say The Hellcat's difficulties started around mid-twenties, since that's the age he seems to become when high. Exposing the people you live with to your wayward tweaked-out trick du jour is very faggot-in-your-20's.

My frustration is growing however regarding the arrangements for his housing. I thought it was all sorted but, as I've seen from others in the past, when you're dealing with New York City and the Social Services network, they will find a way to fuck it up and fuck with you. So it's not that surprising that what we had believed to be settled turned out not to be. The thing is, the only way this is going to be fixed is for The Hellcat to take care of it. During the day. When the offices are open. Getting out of bed at 3:30 in the afternoon (it was 5 today) isn't gonna cut it. It's not good enough. And as an aside, he's indirectly playing fast and loose with my home. The Ex is fully expecting to begin paying 1/3 of everything. I absolutely cannot afford to cover 2/3. So backed up against a wall, the only logical choice for me is to put things back the way they were before. Pre-Hellcat. As it stands right now, I'm a month behind in rent. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. If the prospect of falling behind another month begins to loom, I'll be forced to take corrective measures.

The frustrating part is that aside from Social Services, The Hellcat has many avenues to some substantial cash. They all involve the same thing. A couple of weeks of sustained work. But it's seeming more and more that anything that derails sitting on your ass and doing nothing and fucking and doing meth and the accompanying paranoid delusions and the two day recovery period are just not a priority. And I fear that by arranging for his housing to be provided I may have indirectly enabled the whole thing. I had hoped, I had believed, that he wanted to get better. I have seen no evidence that this is true. Curiously, I'm not sure what is causing which. Is the drug addiction rendering him unable to focus on one thing for an extended period? Is the obvious depression rendering him unable to see that the drug addiction is the source of all his problems? He has access to all the free counseling and therapy available and the time to do it. Is his refusal to avail himself of it further evidence that he doesn't want to get better and end this nonsense? How do you show someone they're in trouble if they don't seem to want to know? How much of this is brain damage? And how much is permanent?

The Hellcat is scheduled to leave for a trip to California on the 7th of next month. I'm going to at least need his housing situation sorted out by then or I'm afraid it's time for me to kick another addicted, broke, HIV+ gay man out onto the street. I love my life.

Update:

The Hellcat called in around 3am as I was closing up. It was a shockingly horrific cell phone connection where we were only able to confirm who we were and communication would not be possible with this connection, but even getting every third word I managed to hear the words "I'm OK." which is all I really wanted to hear.

Coincidentally, I heard from the other half of the original Hellcats today. He left our employ after securing a teaching position at a major East Coast conservatory. For now, he's spending the summer slingin' hootch in Provincetown. Interestingly, he's considering tabling the hallowed halls of education for a roll of the dice in Lost Wages. And why does this information not suprise me one bit? Damn these premonitions!

Update: Part Deux

It's Tuesday, June 8 2:36am

I bought the cutest little plant stem faux metal candleholder. I attached a glass shade with a metal insert that holds the candle. As the candle burns down the shade ... slowly... lowers. It's in my open bedroom window and it's quite beautiful. The traffic on Second Avenue is sporadic and largely quiet. Note to self: The cost of peace and tranquility is $7.00. (Candle not included)

I had a long conversation with The Hellcat today. Drugs may have been consumed this weekend but it wasn't the headfirst jump into a vat of crystal I had feared. Rather it was a case of Jabba The Drunk causing needless drama and The Hellcat finally deciding that enough was enough and on the ferry ride over from Jersey he had a moment of clarity and decided to voluntarily step off the hamster wheel. He did in fact leave me a message at the time (I didn't get it), and I did in fact leave him a message on Saturday that he didn't get. So apparently cell phone service between here and Hawaii (not important) works fine but between New York City and Fire Island, NY (where he went to decompress), not so much. In any event, while I hope that the story of my friendship with The Hellcat will continue, his tenure as an employee is well and truly done. Most importantly he's safe and sound and he will live to tie up and piss on a hairless bottom boy another day. And there was much celebration throughout the land.....