Elliot,The Piano Bar Queen, or A Big Baloon

Ft Lauderdale, Florida, Saturday, June 7th, 2008:

I was setting up the patio at The Ramrod before the bartender arrived, as is my custom. I had already stocked the beer and water, checked the bottles of alcohol to make sure we’d have enough for the shift, and was lugging a bucket of ice when I heard the following exchange from a corner or the bar:

“Oh, my dear” I heard a voice say.” Do you remember?”
A hush fell.
“What was the name of that musical…on a train?”
Another ventured “The 20th Century Limited?”
“Yes!”
“it starred…it starred…”
“Imogene Coca” I croaked, my voice hampered by a cold and 'Ramrod Lung'.
“Exactly!”
I looked up. Three guys somewhere beyond fifty were clustered around the bar: a bald guy, a bearded guy and an immensely fat guy.
Bald guy: looked up at me and mused, “How did you know that?”
“I was there”
Curious glances were passed between the three.
Bald guy continued: “There was a number where the chorus sang in eight-part harmony”
I nodded.
“That’s extreme, baby…. Who knew that shit?”
I looked up from what I was doing and looked at bald guy.
“88s or The Duplex?”
A strange smile crossed his face, mixed equally with curiosity and a sudden interest. “You’re from New York?”
Knowing the only place New Yorkers respect more than Europe, I smiled, opened my pack of cigarettes (despite my terrible laryngitis) withdrew a Parliament, and replied, “No.” I accepted a light from the fat one, “I’m from Boston. I lived there in 1988.”
Bald guy replied, “The 88s: I’m hardcore.”
We discussed piano bars and NYC, and the unlikelihood of there ever being a “leather piano bar”.

“I was always pretty vanilla to the piano bar scene in New York.” I smiled a wistful smile and said “I never got further than Suddenly Seymour and West End Avenue.”

We all had a good laugh, and I returned to my duties as a barback at the Ramrod.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

During my year in NYC I made scads of friends, and stayed in touch with a few when I eventually returned to Boston.

One, in particular, was this marvelous, larger-than-life New York type named Elliot. I remember being entranced by the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen. He lit up the darkened bar with fierce, July sunshine on a hot afternoon at Boots & Saddles on Christopher Street, where I was enjoying a beer after work. He was enormously tall (maybe 6'6, maybe taller) and big around (maybe 250). He had the most beautiful, mellifluous speaking voice and was fiercely bright and clever. I introduced myself almost as soon as he walked in, pausing just long enough for him to make his official entrance and be properly greeted by the many guys who knew him, before offering to buy him a beer.

We bantered the way intelligent people do in seedy leather bars: alternating brilliant and pointed cultural remarks with smutty asides. I was unable to stump him on any of my references, which is both extremely rare and extremely attractive.

One beer turned to several, and eventually one of us must have gotten hungry or run out of cigarettes (or both). I remember it having turned twilight, not yet dark but no longer daytime, as he unlocked the bicycle he'd arrived with and followed me to dinner for burgers at The Riviera on Seventh Avenue, a local hotspot.

Food, beer, conversation in no particular order continued for several more hours, I was still in my workday suit (that wrinkly Valentino linen number that Carlos bought for me at Saks), clutching the leather, hard-sided attache that was my manpurse at that time, Elliot with his bike. We worked our way down Christopher Street from Ty’s down to One Potato, Two Potato. We laughed and flirted and, occasionally got around to more serious discussions, mostly architecture or politics.

It must have been after midnight when he suggested we go to the 88s, a sing-along piano bar that wasn't exactly my scene. But showtunes will be showtunes and in we went.

The piano player knew Elliot very well (as did everyone else, everywhere it seemed), we were greeted warmly and the next number was Elliot's, as I quickly discovered. It was something equally appropriate and typical (Some Enchanted Evening, maybe, or Someone to Watch Over Me?): whatever it was, his singing voice excelled his speaking voice in excellence, but very much in that brassy, Broadwayish kind of way everyone in NYC who can sing sings.

As I recall, we were both too drunk and too tired for him to come home with me. The bike was also a major obstacle, as it was unwelcome on the subway as much as in a cab. So we exchanged numbers and went home separately alone.

Elliot called me the next day at work and arranged a rendez-vous and we became fast friends.

The next time we met, after a dinner somewhere in the West Village, was a stop at The Duplex., More than even at the 88s, Elliot's star shone there most brilliantly. His repertoire included all the standards, but his best number was, without a doubt, Remember Me, about which no mere description can possibly do justice. It was provocatively brilliant. Elliot was truly special in a city where virtually everyone is exceptional. He would nod to the pianist (who looked precisely like Nina Simone) and would begin singing the opening bars to Suddenly Seymour. A waitress, from out of the shadows, would drop her tray and belt Audrey’s part better than any touring company’s production.



Elliot and I struggled to find ways of expressing our mutual admiration more physically, but it was neither comfortable nor natural, in any sense. When we eventually did have sex, it was overly polite and stilted and totally dry in the way sex in NYC in 1988 could only have been, excluding suicidal madness. In on of our endless philosophical discussions, he'd disclosed his poz status, and it terrified me.

I was still, technically, partnered with Carlos, my beautiful, impossible Venezuelan lover, despite our separation. After the sudden demise of one of our mutual friends in 1986, we’d sworn a mutual-suicide pact: should we prove sick, we’d not end up a walking skeleton, neither he nor I. We swore that, before ending up pathetic and hideous, we’d off each other. And we meant it. There were no proven treatments, only proven suffering and a certain death. Although neither Carlos nor I had ever taken any kind of precaution with each other, I’d otherwise spent the 80s jerking off, sucking and being (mostly) safe, as had he. We hoped that the plague had spared us. It hadn't, but neither he nor I understood that for several more years, by which time our pact had become a grim, private joke.

I know that it always comes back to HIV/AIDS, but it does.

I remember having dinner at some pizza/pasta joint having a rather violent discussion regarding my feelings: Elliot's being much more intense and immediate than mine. His physicality and his enormous, cut penis assured that, no matter how brilliant or talented, I wouldn't find him sexually attractive (my "type" being short, swarthy Latins with small uncut cocks). But, at least in my universe, I have always had sex with those who stimulated me on many different levels, and I was as stimulated as much as repelled by Elliot. It wasn't pleasurable for either one of us, not that we hadn’t tried to make it otherwise.

He tried to get me to open up, but I so very much didn't want to hurt him with an idle, unkind phrase any more than I wanted to lead him on, knowing he cared for me so much more than I could return.

At the most heated point, I threw down my fork and snapped.
"Stop it,...just stop it."
Seeing that he'd struck a nerve, he asked me what he should stop doing.
"Stop trying to define me or my feelings."
"I have every right to know where you stand."
I looked away, then returned his glare. "I'm not standing right now. I'm sitting and having what should be a pleasant dinner with you."
"But it's not."
"No", I shook my head, put my fork back in my mouth and started to chew. "You're making this all..." (swallow) "...needlessly complicated."

He batted those big brown eyes with long, black lashes and lit a cigarette. "I", he pronounced carefully, exhaling smoke through his nose and waving a hand in the air, "am not the one complicating things."

I paused for just a second, keeping eye contact, curled my lip and said "Ambivalent”, then began eating again..
"What?"
"I'm ambivalent."
He stopped and thought for a second. "That's not a good thing."
"It's not a bad thing." I took a sip of beer from my bottle.
"How is it not a bad thing?"

I had a moment of crystal clarity, and without thinking it through just blurted out: "Ambivalence is the root of passion."

We shared several seconds of heated eyelock.
Elliot smiled slowly. "I love it when you speak in riddles with big words."

I put down my fork and lit a cigarette, myself.

"Do you understand what I just said?"
"Sorta..."
"You understand the meaning of the word ambivalence, right?"
"It's mixed feelings."
"It's the simultaneous push and pull of emotion."
"OK"
"People whom I find merely attractive bore me quickly."
Elliot looked lost. "OK"
"If there's nothing else there, then actually there’s nothing at all, it’s that unexpected something...that vague sense of unease that is the root of passion. That itch that nothing can sctrtch…”
"Yeah..."
"It's that feeling of being pulled by something you'd rather push away."
"So you're not attracted to me?"
"I find you repellent."
He winced.
"But", I continued, exhaling smoke, "I am passionate about you."
"Passionately repelled?"
"Passionately intrigued. I am in awe of your talent and deeply attracted to your mind."

Elliot’s disappointment was highly obvious as he waved his hands up and down his sides. "This ain't chopped liver, baby."
"Never said it was."
"So what do you want?"

I thought for a spell, tamping down the long ember on the end of my cigarette into the ashtray, then replied, "I want us to feel comfortable and I want to spend time with you."

"Despite your ambivalence?"
"No, because of my ambivalence."

Having reached a coda, we each took a deep breath and started talking about something else.

I saw much of Elliot for the next few months, frequently spending the night either at his Lower East Side walk-up or my apartment in Tribeca, but it was rarely sexual. Our one attempt at buttfucking (protected, of course) went so poorly that he swore to never attempt it again with me. It humiliated us both deeply.

My life in NYC imploded in the space of one week. After months of putting it off, Carlos (from whom I’d been separated for months) finally told me, over the phone that, despite having co-signed the lease on our apartment in Tribeca, wouldn't be moving to New York after all. Days later I got a confidential call from one of my sources at the corporate offices of Scandinavian Gallery that they were closing stores in the Washington region in the middle of the night. My staff got wind of that and fled in less than a week, leaving me alone in the store with just a security guard.

The AC broke, but I couldn't pay cash from the drawer to fix it and SG's credit was too lousy to have it billed. So for three months (August, September and October) I worked frenzied, 10-hour days in a sweltering store at Madison and 41st, five days a week (corporate agreed to let me close the store on weekends). It was so insanely hot in the store that I gave up wearing anything but lycra bike shorts and tank tops (it was 1988, after all). The bronze trim on the grey-washed mahogany was literally hot to the touch.



I took to filching things and cash, feeling justified somehow. This made everything tolerable, but just barely, and added to the overall madness that had become my existence. My life was a swirl of sweaty work, taxis downtown to fabulous Tribeca dinners, then clubs and parties. I was drinking heavily, but avoided drugs, getting my energy from caffeine and nervous tension. Elliot was part of it, but certainly not its focus. In the final days of all the crazy, I gave him a titanium Porsche watch, which he treasured.

SG moved me back to Boston on the last interstore truck to leave New York, and installed me as the manager of the Brookline store, swearing that they had closed all the stores they’d intended The staff was enthusiastic to have a veteran of so many battles with corporate as their team leader. But when they started closing stores in Maine and NH, the writing was on the wall and, predictably, they all left.

My last days were spent processing deposit refunds on the credit card machine alone in yet another store. One morning I called corporate and the owner's private secretary answered the phone. She couldn't help me, she explained, because the entire accounting department had just walked out, along with most of the remaining corporate staff. I found out later that, from hundreds, I was one of the remaining twenty employees.

I shut off the lights, locked the door and took a streetcar downtown, handing my keys to a disoriented clerk at the Boston store in Park Square. That ended five years with a company that I thought of as home and helped grow from 18 stores to over 80. It was also the last corporate job (excluding a disastrous few months at Ethan Allen in 1999) that I would ever hold. Thereafter I only worked for entrepreneurs.

Once I'd come back, Carlos approached me right away, anxious to be forgiven. But I was wary and pretty bitter. As was typical for the relationship, we started our "reunion" with a terrific fight...ah, ambivalence…oh passion!

We hobbled along, but with limits I’d placed on everything: he was not to move into my new South End apartment, for instance. There were no expectations of exclusivity, and separate financial arrangements were to be maintained. When I begged off plans on Valentine's Day, 1989, after a hellish day, he finally felt justified in dumping me. It was such a relief.

Elliot and I stayed in touch by telephone, and that summer called me all excited about a play he'd written. He'd found a producer who would finance a short run of several performances in about a month and wanted me there. Without even thinking, I agreed.

Arranging for that specific weekend off, I took a late morning train down with an enormous bag (I'd overpacked, as usual). Elliot met me at Penn Station, thrilled to see me again and wild with excitement over having his play produced.

I was feeling a strange sense of numbness, as if I was watching a movie of myself, curiously detached. We took a cab to his place near Delancey St and dropped off my enormous suitcase. He needed to get back to the theater, so we arranged to meet up later.

I walked uptown slowly and with no purpose or sense of direction, totally encased in this weird fog of detachment. I retraced many adventures and scenes, but in broad daylight, not the night-time darkness when they’d actually taken place I eventually made my way to Uncle Charlie's in the West Village and ordered a cocktail, followed shortly by another and another. The drinking didn't help my sense of detachment, it rather enhanced it.

At one point I remember looking up at a gigantic video screen and seeing Liza Minelli singing I'm Losing My Mind.



It was at that specific moment, that the fog began to pass, only to be replaced by a melancholy that I can only describe as chemical. I shook my head, lit a cigarette and stared at the screen in a trance of intense sadness. The further the video progressed, the clearer and more immediate everything became. I had no idea what was happening to me, but I knew that I was about to cry with the intensity of a projectile vomit. I made it out to the sidewalk just in time for wave after wave of choking sobs. The harder I tried to control myself the more I heaved with sadness and tears.

I found a payphone and fished for the number Elliot had given me from my pocket. A voice answered and, through racks of sobbing I asked for him to be brought to the phone. Moments later, I heard his voice, sounding wary:

"Yes?"
"It's me."
His voice took on an edge of concern. "What's wrong?"
"I...I...don't know. But I can't..." deep breath "...stop crying."
"Where are you?"
"On Greenwich...near Uncle Charlie's." The words came out in punches. "At...a...pay...phone."
"What's wrong?"
"I don't...know."
I'll take a cab and be right there."
Nodding, I stammered an "OK", followed by a very weak "thank you" before another wave knocked the wind out of me.
I hung up the receiver and leaned against the phone barely able to breathe and completely out of control on a sidewalk in Greenwich Village in the middle of a summer afternoon.

I remember seeing Elliot running along the sidewalk toward me with a look of sheer panic. I tried to walk toward him but couldn't get far, so I rested my hands on my knees and waited for him. His concerned face had prompted a fresh wave of tears and I could hardly move. He grabbed me and held me against his enormous body, stroking my head.

"Baby, what's wrong?"
I shook my head and mouthed the words "I don't know" but couldn't speak.
"How much have you had to drink?"
"Not...much...not...enough I...guess." I tried to laugh at my weak joke, which only made me cry harder.

I honestly don't remember much else of that day. I know that, somehow, Elliot helped me to stop crying, and we must have eaten something. I remember going back to his place to clean up and change for the show which was opening that night with Elliot directing.

The theater was a small, upstairs space somewhere in some seedy section of the Lower East Side or East Village. I remember rows of folding chairs, probably about 200 in total, arranged in concentric rows of semi-circles in the auditorium, which was separated from the foyer at the top of the stairs by double doors. The stage was about 8" off the floor and was obscured by a black curtain. The lights were simple but professional enough. Elliot sat me in the back row where he could keep an eye on me, and sat me between friends, just in case.

I have no recollection of the play itself. I'd love to say it was fabulous, but I don't recall being impressed. I do remember having several glasses of that standard white wine one always drinks at gallery openings and such, both before the show and during intermission.

But toward the end of the show, that familiar feeling returned, and before I could get out of my chair a fresh wave of hysterical sobbing seized me.

I was horrified. I had essentially stopped the show as people around me tried to figure out what the hell was happening. I remember someone next to me and Elliot himself lifting me out of the chair and bringing me to the stairs outside the auditorium, where I could sit down. I lit a cigarette and attempted to focus, but was basically a basket case for the next fifteen or twenty minutes. Elliot left me with his friend on the stairs and went back into the auditorium, the play having recommenced.

I regained something of my composure eventually and the friend brought me yet another glass of wine, then I remember hearing applause, whistles and cheers and thinking that the play must have ended. As the audience was comprised of nothing but friends and family of the cast and crew, everyone was highly complimentary, especially to Elliot. That was one of the biggest nights of his life and I was having a nervous breakdown.

I sat on the stairs, trembling and chain-smoking as the audience slowly exited the theater, some looking at me with concern, others with contempt, but most chose to just ignore me. That suited me fine, as I've never considered anyone's misery to be a good spectator sport, most especially my own.

When we left the theater, Elliot asked me if I wanted to go back to his place and crash, which I really should have done. Instead I insisted that we do what he'd planned on doing, which involved going back to the piano bar he'd always loved so much, The Duplex.

By this time, I was physically exhausted from all the sobbing, but I'll never forget sitting at that front table, seeing Elliot surrounded by all his friends and fans, the Nina Simone look-alike at the piano, my face wet with tears as he sang Remember Me.

Deep Inside Mancunt, or Titpig's Adventures in Barebacking, Part 9: Two-For-One

Perhaps the most singular encounter I had during the Summer of 2006 (and probably of my entire life) happened in mid-June of that year.

It started off simply enough. I had been casually pursuing a guy with a French screenname for some time, but never got much of a reply until one afternoon he happened to finally respond, leading me to unlock the photos showing not just a hardon but my face, besides. He followed suit.

His public pictures featured a quite fetching youngish man (between 28 and 35, more or less) of medium complexion, a pleasant demeanor suggesting a handsome visage and physique of certain muscular bearing; firm without being especially overworked. Given his previous coolness toward my overtures, I was both surprised and slightly flattered when he at last deigned to respond to my notes and unlocked his private pix, which while attractive, gave me no greater indication of what, precisely he looked like in the all together: all disembodied parts and pieces, and a penis pic was conspicuously absent. On Mancunt, that inevitably suggests equipment of modest dimensions.

Given that he’d chosen an unequivocally Gallic screenname, my initial greetings were in assertive French. He responded first in kind, then switched over to English, explaining that he was, in fact, Peruvian: not French at all. I neither asked for an explanation as to his odd choice of screenname, nor did he offer any. But his responses were fast and furious and desirous immediate contact. We quickly covered all the bases: Poz, yes; Bottom, most assuredly; and with a small uncircumcised penis to boot.

He arrived at my door looking perhaps thirty pounds heavier than the pix, but overall seemed pretty much as promised. My loyal readers know by now that I’m a sucker for a cute face, and an open ass. The added weight added much to his desirably “child-bearing hips” and offered no impediment to my desire. Moments into our encounter my fingering turned into knuckling then deeper yet. His ass seemed to be inhaling my hand, which I didn't mind at all but hadn't expected based on our on-line banter.

Turning around, he asked if I'd fist him, to which I replied that there's no better way of preparing a nice, sloppy open hole for fucking. He jumped off the bed, kissed me, and quickly threw his clothes back on, saying he'd be right back. Following him out to the kitchen, I looked confusedly into his big brown eyes.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve gotta run home, but I’ll be right back. I wasn’t expecting this to turn out like this.” His face was open and gleeful:. “What else d’you like?”
I thought for just a second. “Bring some toys…big toys.”
“I got lotsov ‘em. I’ll be right back!”

He bounded out the door, practically running through the garden and out to the car he’d arrived in. Before I could respond, he was gone.

I stood in my doorway naked, my right hand and forearm slathered in Crisco. The only remnant of my hardon was a thick, viscous stream of precum drooling from my dick and collecting in a puddle on top of my right knee down to my foot. Shaking my head, I turned back into the kitchen, made my way to the bathroom and ran a tepid shower. As I lathered up, I made a deal with myself: give him 30 minutes to come back before signing back on Mancunt.

He returned just as I was toweling off, carrying a large gymbag over one shoulder, which he tossed on my bed before excusing himself and retreating to my bathroom for about 20 minutes, turning on the shower at one point.

I wrote his odd behavior off to Tina, and sat on my bed, stroking absent-mindedly to some straight porn I had playing on the VCR, sipping some tea from a glass on my nightstand. Glancing at the bag leaning against my footboard, I opened it up, curious as to what he'd brought. There was an enormous black dildo, maybe twenty inches long and as big as my wrist, among several slightly smaller ones, and several battered old videocassettes. I popped one into the VCR and discovered it was a bad copy of very ordinary gay porn, circa 1993, all condoms and fluffy-haired boys having bored, vanilla sex, complete with the sort of atrocious soundtrack favored for such productions. Hitting reject, I pushed in another: it was a bestiality tape featuring a slim Mexican girl and a rather skittish horse. This one held even less promise that the first.

I went to my collection and plopped in an old Rocco Siffredi gangbang tape that I knew by heart but still preferred to what he'd brought.

He emerged from the bathroom wiping a towel across his broad back, which he spread on the sheets of my bed before climbing up on the mattress, knees down, ass up, doggy style. Three good pushes and my right hand completely penetrated his anus without his seeming to have felt a thing. Greasing my forearm up with additional Crisco, I pushed in further and he squirmed a bit, but still said nothing. A bottle of poppers under his nose, he pushed back onto my arm and it slid half-way to the elbow. He was, without a doubt, the most nonchalant fistbottom I’d even encountered.

Then he pulled his torso forward so that just my hand was left in and asked me to push up.

This confused me…I've been in enough asses to know that, from that position, there is no "up": there's only in and, maybe down toward the prostate. I was unclear as to what he wanted me to do. Sighing slightly, he told me to wait, and pulled his ass off my arm altogether. Flipping onto his back, he lifted his legs high and told me to try again, inhaling from the poppers, only this time to push down.

As "down" was only in the direction of his tailbone, I was genuinely perplexed but did as he’d bidden. About six inches in, I felt a flap of skin, just a slight fold, and he broke into a grin. Inhaling deeply, he nodded his approval at my having located whatever it was he’d been wanting me to find.

“You’ve found it,” he intoned in a voice heavy with emotion and lush with pleasure. “That’s the other hole. Open it up.”

It was gummy and gooey and tighter than his rectum, which was open wider than my closed hand. Gobs of Crisco oozed over my arm as I pushed one finger at a time until all four had found this odd, secret place. This excited him hugely. He wriggled and pushed until my entire hand was deep into this “other hole”, a place I’ve never even heard of before, let alone explored.

Clambering onto the bed, I eased myself on top of him and grabbed another towel I had nearby, telling him to wipe his hand clean before touching my tits. With my left hand still in his rectum, I guided my dick into his greasy “other” hole.

"Fuck the other hole" he told me, his voice suddenly flat and hushed in tone. I withdrew my left hand and grabbed the metal rails on the top of my headboard, pushing in as far as I could. He twisted his lower back up to meet my thrusts and off we went.

The harder I grabbed on to my metal headboard, the more I pushed his head up to it, until the back of his skull was rapping in a rhythmic clang against the metal. Imploring me to fuck him harder, he lifted his head so that it was twisted up, half on one of my feather-down pillows, half on the steel vertical spokes of the headboard. With my right hand I slapped his chest in a swinging palm/backhanded motion, and he responded by pulling even harder on my tits. I leaned in to kiss his open mouth, then pulled back and struck him hard across the face.

The harder I slapped, the greater in pleasure seemed to increase. I alternated deep, soulful kisses with backhands against his cheekbones. His “other hole” gripped the outer third of my dick, being the only part that could penetrate so deeply into the “other hole”. I toyed and played with it, alternating hand and dick and several of the toys he’d brought, pulling out into his yawning rectum before driving home, again and again. That secret place unleashed something from some hidden primal place of my own, a place up until then I’d never explored with such ferocity.

After untold time, I yanked his hips up to my pelvis and pushed and pushed until I reached the point of no return, seeding his “other hole” with a frenzy of screams and bellowing curses, backhanding him one more time before latching on to his mouth, pulling air from his lungs and chewing on his full lips. Twitching and bucking, my orgasm continued for minutes on end before a low groan formed in my lungs. I pushed my way as far into him one last time, as I could manage.

I have no memory how we returned to reason or of his leaving, or what we might have discussed as he packed his gymbag and got dressed. But I distinctly remember the fact that my entire bed, metal bedframe, my sheets and pillows and the several towels strewn about were caked in molten wet goo of Crisco and sweat and cum and something I’d rather not contemplate. At a certain point I must have showered, or at least toweled off, because I almost immediately got Matty on IM, though it was very late for him in the wee hours of the Australian morning:

Bucko The Depraved: BTW- odd bit just happened
BtD: I wanted to ask you...
Matty The Damned:: honours you for dealing with it in this manner
MtD: ;-):
BtD: Hehehehehe
BtD: It's all natural...
MtD: I had to . . . . well you read the email
BtD: Very understandable
BtD: Yup
BtD: That's fine
BtD: part four's in progress
MtD: yup
BtD: Anyways, something just happened
MtD: yup
BtD: I had a very provocative encounter
BtD: Sweet guy from Peru
MtD: Natch
BtD: Kinda big through the hips, but you know...
MtD: O_o:
BtD: Really cute
MtD: ;-)):
BtD: But he seemed to have two holes inside
MtD: honey I'm running out of smileys here
BtD:: It was really weird
MtD: 2 holes?
MtD: wtf?
MtD: weeeeeeeeeeeeeerd
BtD: He directed me "down, over, find the other hole"
BtD: I was up to my wrist
MtD: and it wasn't a woman?
BtD: Nope
BtD: real live guy
MtD: oh god no
MtD: -shudder-
BtD: WHAT???
MtD: you had a
MtD: fistula lover
BtD:: ???
MtD: fistula
MtD: you know what that is?
BtD: I wish I did
MtD:: ok
MtD: cool
BtD: Should I be worried?
MtD: not really
MtD: a fistula
MtD: is an opening from one structure to another
BtD:: OK…
MtD: most commonly found in women
BtD: That's kinda what it felt like
MtD: from the vag to the poo tube
MtD: but
MtD: men have it too
MtD: it's a bad thing
BtD: It was exceptionally odd
MtD: for the owner of said fistula
MtD: and can be corrected surgically
BtD: I wonder where it led?
BtD: Wherever, it got a heavy load
MtD: usually in men it leads from one part of the bowel to another
BtD: It was kinda like a shortcut
MtD: or, rarely into the bladder
MtD: yup
BtD: I had to open it with my hand
BtD: then he wanted me to fuck it
MtD: it's weird and gross and should be corrected by surgery
BtD: definitely not the run-of-the-mill ass
MtD: honey
MtD: you were playing straight into that queen’s digestive system
MtD: honey
BtD: yum!
MtD: a high fist is one thing
MtD: but knowing the pancreatic process is just strange
BtD: This was inside, starting at about the length of the back of my hand
BtD: about 5-6 inches
MtD: babe
MtD: woteva
BtD: right
BtD: hot fuck, whatever it was
MtD: there are openings where your pagan deity did not intend them to be
MtD: and weird stuff going
MtD: on
MtD: I'm sorry but a queen has only so many holes
BtD: That's why I wanted to ask you
MtD: Smart, wise crone that you be
MtD: you've encountered a fistula
MtD: which inevitably results in peritonitis and blood poisoning.
MtD: for the bloke with two bum-holes
BtD: Right
BtD: I was intrigued
MtD: yup
MtD: may her surgeon be skilled.
BtD: Prolly should have not proceeded
BtD: But it was oddly
BtD: hot
MtD: oh it is
BtD: Kinda "medical" though
MtD: anatomical comes to mind
BtD: Right
MtD:: ;-)
MtD: look babe
BtD: As long as I didn't fuck an alien
BtD: : -0
MtD: nope
MtD: just a side show freak
MtD: but it's all Appalachian (I mean good)
BtD: ;-*:
MtD: honey, MtD has to sleep
BtD: I know
BtD: It's so late for you
BtD: Sleep well, sweetheart
MtD: poor Bucko
BtD: Nah
MtD: nighty night
BtD: I'm fine
MtD: I love you
BtD: I love you most
MtD: always
MtD has signed out. (6/19/2006)

The HIV Closet

If you are HIV + and not comfortable with your new state of health, you need to read this and absorb its content to your life. This is not only admirable, but places you squarely in a position to take action to change your state of mind. Remember, it is your mind and not anyone else’s, and you have total power over it and its workings.

I don’t care if you are a Gay person, a Straight woman or Straight man: it is a part of you and a part of who you are. You might deny it, but to do so is not only futile, but is also very damaging to your own psy­che. In the same way, HIV is now part of who you are. It will be with you until you die, and that is just the way it is. So, do you by any stretch of the imagination consider it prudent to try to hide this very part of you, and not disclose for the next 10, 20, 30 or 40 years? Whew, that would place such a strain on your own mind, heart and persona that sooner or later you are going to crum­ble. Part of the acceptance of HIV and living with it is that very nasty subject of disclosure. How difficult is it going to be to go through the next 30 years making every effort in your being to keep this secret from everyone that touches your life? How diffi­cult is it going to be to try to trust someone enough to become a good friend, knowing that some day in the future, that friend might make a slip and let your secret out of the bag? Remember, HIV is for a life­ time. That is a very long time.

Considering this factor, was one of the most liberating and empowering things that I have learned while living with HIV. Ac­knowledging that you are in fact HIV+ is one of the biggest and most daunting hur­dles that you must conquer, and disclosure to family, friends and work, then sets you up to “create” a new and exciting life while “Living WITH HIV/AIDS” and not IT living with you! I realize that it all sounds like semantics, but I assure you that all long term survivors that have been self empow­ered, have at some time in their lives taken the bull by the horns and come out of the HIV closet. Many of us have nailed the damn thing shut, which then frees us up to do and create exciting things for our lives with the consideration of our HIV limita­tions. Remember, I was confined to bed for the better part of three years, and from then confined to a wheel chair for another five years. Now when I cannot walk, I mount my electric Zippy Cart and off I go, with my red ribbon firmly stuck to the back and in plain view of anyone that isn’t blind. Am I special for that? No, not one iota, but do I gain com­fort in the fact that I will not let HIV get me down and crush my life? That is a definite yes. I try to celebrate life, even when my head is in the toilet every morning, barfing up what is left of the Trizivir from the night be­fore. It is just part of life as I now know it.

Many have suggested that when living with HIV, one must stay flexible and that plans are always tenuous at best. This I have found to be very true, and when making plans, I must consider that my body might change those plans. I cannot get all worked up over that reality, but only accept that maybe I shouldn’t have made the plans I made for that period of time.

Please look at the message 1 have given you here, and please remember that part of your survival and good health in the future will totally depend on how you deal with the virus, both physically and emotionally, and coming out of that damn closet of secrecy will change your life, and do so in a positive direc­tion. Oh yes, some in your family will shit all over themselves, but this is not their life. They gave you life, and for you to take this bug and force you into the darkness for the next 30 years would be so very sad and destructive. There are many, many of us out here that have nailed the closet of secrecy closed for good, and I must tell you. I don’t miss that thing at all. It was totally miserable.

These are my thoughts.

Its ALL about Oil....

Strange isn’t it that “We The People” are being used by our own government to not only fund a war, but also to loose many of our young people in that war, simply to benefit Oil Companies. I’m sure this is no surprise to most readers of the Spin Cycle, but actually knowing why or how this is going on, then empowers us to not only inform those in our own circles, but to fight the law makers who happen to be on the take from said companies.

In doing a bit of research online, I was able to find some websites which illustrate this fact in an all too plain a fashion. This link will show you how the Energy Information Administration of our own government is tracking the oil fields located in the Caspian Sea area of the former U.S.S.R. http://www.eia.doe.gov/emeu/cabs/Caspian/SummaryTables.html This one will show the deal that was struck by congress in 1998 firming up plans for constructing a pipeline from the Caspian Sea to the Persian Gulf, of course traversing the mountains of Afghanistan, and Pakistan. http://www.whatreallyhappened.com/oil.html And this one is a report from the BBC about the culmination of that deal, which is dated 2002. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/2608713.stm

I don’t know if any of you are alarmed by this news, or if any of you actually give a hoot, but if you read the history of the Vietnam War, and go way back to the struggles the French put up in that country; I think you will find that war was also over oil and rubber. In that case, Michelin had a whole lot to do with the impetus of France going there.

Now we are faced with a new administration that is going to be dealing with this problem and on top of that; a war in Iraq which is a war to claim more oil reserves which are not ours. All of this to support Halliburton and Bechtel corporations in their vacuuming of tax dollars into their coffers reconstructing the oil infrastructure we destroyed while attacking that country. This of course is due to a promise made by our number two man, Cheney, to make up for the incredible losses he created while at the helm of Halliburton. All in all, we have been duped and led to believe yet one more very huge lie about us being there for the support and spread of Democracy. What a load of shit.

I find it so amazing that not only the Republican base is firmly in support of these two conflicts, but in fact many Democrats are there too. Even more astounding, those pesky Christians are right in the mix with their prayers and support of these conflicts. Even my parents when they were alive told me that it was vitally important to kill all the infidels and enemies of Israel, who were the personification of the devil. I of course asked if all people who worship through Islam were devils and should be killed, which they assured me was correct according to scripture. For those who don’t remember, my father was a minister and a missionary, and was schooled in John Brown University, a Baptist school of huge renowned. Unfortunate also that the extreme conservative side of Islam is also in the same struggle against us, and funny thing, they also go to their own scriptures in the Koran, to justify their war against us and Israel. Why is it that people must invoke the name of God to go on a national killing spree, and then when they are in the middle of it, spend huge amounts of time asking God’s blessing on the conflict? I would welcome any answers.

I don’t have a clue what any individual can do to not only renounce this “Oil” political policy, outside of driving an electric car, or some other very expensive or burdensome action. On the other hand, I remember when I was a youth in the sixties that when we became informed of issues of this incredible importance; we got busy and got active to create opposition to the idiotic issues at the time.

Now days, it is so very easy to find information on the web and to inform ourselves about the decisions being made in Washington that are going to affect us, or you can be like the lady in my bank who’s son is now in Iraq and when I speak of these things she stops what she is doing and holds her hands over her ears and won’t listen to any of it. I understand why she is hesitant to find the answers, being that her flesh and blood is there and involved, but this illustrates to me so very well how many of our country are just turning a blind ear and eye to our deplorable political record in this world. In my humble view, if I was in my twenties to forties, I would spend as much time as possible dedicated to this glaring miscalculation of policy and fight it until everyone in this country was aware of it.

My worst and most feared sense to this foreign policy is that the media is in on it and is playing patsy to the government. I know this administration has already told the Whitehouse press corps that if anyone prints anything about it they will be barred from press conferences immediately, and very few news networks are willing to be put in the spotlight for resistance to the norm. Furthermore, our news in this day is driven by advertising dollars, and we all know that the congress is now owned by the corporate world and for that WE are only to blame.

Funny thing is, now that I have placed all these facts down on paper, it seems so very obvious and such a waste of time, that I feel like hitting delete and just canning the whole thing. Maybe through my placing it here, I can inspire one person in this country to action, then I have done my part in fighting this obsession with world dominance that we have now placed ourselves in. Fortunately the world will go on, even when the United States kills itself and its economy though simple ignorance. When China moves into Washington D.C. and forces us to accept their domination and their rule, then maybe we will have awakened and will then be able to do something and make an attempt to save our nation. Unfortunately I don’t have a whole load of hope that this will actually take place and I see a time when China will not only rule our economy, as it does now, but will also move into the halls of congress to RULE us directly.

I am glad I am 61, and I fear for those children who are now growing up in a climate of hopelessness and frustration with our lack of direction. Hopefully their parents will be able to guide them into fields of work that will insulate them and make it possible for them to be able to pick up the pieces and make something of what is left of this shambles we are now creating for them.

When did our democracy become a “Demockery”?

How will YOU vote?

I have heard all kinds of reasons people are going to vote for this candidate or that one, and I have heard all the inane reasons for these choices. Hillary is a whore, a lesbian, shouldn’t have stuck to her vows with Bill and left him, is part of the establishment and so on ad nauseum. As for some of the other candidates; I have heard just as much, including that Mr. Obama is a Muslim. Gay people are talking about voting for McCain because the Democratic slate is so fucked up. First off, just like when Raygun got into the job, few people asked the citizens of California what kind of a Governor he was. Well, you need to ask a few Republicans in Arizona how McCain has worked out for us before you waste your precious vote on an imbecile that is rapidly becoming a shell of a man.

There is plenty of conversation about the economy, the cost of gasoline, the cost of food in the market, and the increasing cost of living without anyone addressing the lack of money in the salary to pay of all the current needs of living. There is a smattering of a discussion about the war that the conservative Christians of this country have foisted on us. There is a huge amount of time and words being given to illegal immigration and the stresses that they place on our society and budget. How come nobody is holding the Christian conservatives’ feet to the fire about how they are NOT enforcing the current plethora of immigration laws? Health Care, while a very important need, is right at the top of the list due to the thousands of bankruptcies in this country on an annual basis, due directly to the thousands of people who ARE insured under the new and improved health care mess that the conservative party has forced on us.

The candidates to a person are sticking to these very few talking points and messing about in a cloud of confusion about all of them and none of them. It seems that the new mantra this time around is “CHANGE”. I have news for you people out there with such a short memory. George Bush ran on the mantra of change, and change he did! Change in itself is not a bad thing, but one must be careful because the change you ask for is the change you probably not going to get. Change alone is not a reason to elect the leader of one of the largest countries on the planet, because after they get to Washington, they will find out that all those high in the sky promises they made to the electorate are just about as far from their capabilities as becoming Santa Clause. Remember, this congress is not useless; it is just imbalanced because we didn’t elect enough democrats last time to carry a majority against a congress that has become fat and rich. Just think, how much do you think any of the candidates really know about the stresses of everyday living for the normal middle class person like us. Shit, the worst decision any of them have had to make for years is “do I wipe my ass now, or wait for another few minutes to see if I am really done or not”. Think about it. They don’t even have to pick their clothing on a daily basis due to their Multi-Millionaire status in our economy now.

I want to bring a few things up that it appears nobody is talking about at all.

If you haven’t been sleeping under a rock, you would realize that the next Executive of this country is going to be faced straight up with a record debt that we have never had before, and a war that is about 4000 years old, and we will never have any way of winning let alone come out looking “Victorious”. They will be hit head on by a continued diminishing oil supply, with no alternative in the wings to help out,
a crumbling Interstate Highway system that hasn’t been maintained for at least 9 years. Global warming that is accelerating far beyond what the scientists projected just three short years ago. A rail system that is crumbling into oblivion, with no investment from the government for years. A social service system that is drowning the country. Tax receipts that are not paying the bills, and will never do so as long as the ultra wealthy are exempt from any tax liability. And the list goes on and on.

When I hear and read that people are not going to vote for a Lesbian, it literally makes my skin crawl. How shallow can someone who is a college graduate be when they say that they are going to let their vote be directed by such garbage? I guess the hopelessness must extend to the “educated” electorate that to this observer seems to be sleepwalking because so very few of them are really thinking about the real issues of the next four years.

I know Global Warming is an issue that you have heard me mention on more than one occasion, and when it is snowing on the coast of California, it probably seems even more remote a thought. However, the latest science out of Greenland shows that the globe is far from warming unilaterally. At the end of last year, a report came out about the warming on a regional basis, and for one degree of warming on the equator; the poles are warming from 2 to 3 degrees. The temperature average in Greenland is now at an accumulative total of 8 degrees warmer than it was for the previous 100 years. No wonder rivers of melting ice are eroding the foundations of their glaciers, and acting like grease to accelerate their trip to the ocean. The projections for the rise of the oceans has now been moved up and they now expect that in five short years, cities like New York and London are going to have to really move rapidly to keep their cities from being flooded forever. Florida is going to have to start working on ways to keep Miami afloat yesterday, but alas, they haven’t even thought about it.

No folks, this time the office of the President must be filled with a very competent person who has a world view, has experience working WITH the rest of the planet, and must have the balls (or ovaries) to call the difficult shots, and put the oil companies in their place. They must invest in new technologies so that this country will become the leader of the world in harnessing the expulsion of damaging chemicals into our atmosphere. They will be forced to funnel monies into our infrastructure in ways and amounts that will make the conservatives shake in fear. The rail system needs to be super funded, and passenger/car service must be incorporated into Amtrak. The actual rail beds must be rebuilt and fortified so that when I get on a train here in Arizona, I can go to Jacksonville Florida WITHOUT having to go through Chicago.

From my observations of this presidential campaign; I am left speechless that such idiotic reasons are coming out of the mouths of intelligent people for their reasons for voting for such and such a candidate.

I think Ron White is correct; “You Can’t Fix Stupid”.

The Weather It is a Changing.......

So, while the Presidential candidates are jibbing and jabbing at each other, all seeking to get into the ugliest job in America; what would happen but the "Bible Belt" gets smashed by the storm that left snow on the coast of California.

I watch the news each day with the anticipation and glee of a kid in a candy store, because my hunger for seeing what is happening in the world verges on an unhealthy obsession. I don't know if it comes from my past and my experiences of traveling the globe on a regular basis, but it really doesn't matter where the hunger comes from. I am watching as they are placing pictures of buildings, homes and cars all looking like the toys that the six year old had their way with. What a mess.

How do I react? That isn't such an easy answer. In my heart I am totally able to relate to the mess and to the urgency it places on the people that live in that area of the country. I have seen devastation and have witnessed the utter hopelessness that it brings to the people affected.

HOWEVER; my twisted sense of reality overwhelms me when I see someone on the screen saying "we prayed and prayed to help keep us save and alive, while all around there was hellatious destruction". My first question is, "what were you doing last week when California was getting slammed for a week with a winter storm that none of us alive have ever witnessed?"
Further, have you been living on this planet long enough to figure out that the storm systems in the northern hemisphere travel in a west to east direction and that in about a week you will be slammed with the same storm? Don't you realize that in about three days from today, England and Europe will be smashed with this same storm?

The most astounding thing that came to mind was the huge question "why are you praying and praying for protection?" Don't you realize that the God you are praying to was the same God that allowed the storm that is destroying your neighborhood to arrive today?

It is obvious to this writer that the planet's imbalance due to global warming is the main cause of these constant stream of "The Storm of The Century" repition we are witnessing now? Geeeesh. I guess this old man is just not with it, because I just don't understand the utter stupidity of this nation.

We claim to be a Christian nation, yet we slam our ignorance into the face of God above, and then wonder why he/she is allowing this pestilence upon our precious country.

Wake the Fuck Up!

I am a Christian

I am writing this as an American Citizen and the views and biases I iterate here are based on that fact, and the reactions to the present political climate in the United States.

That being said, how many times in your life have you heard the above statement, “I am a Christian”? Or as a literal translation, “I am Christ like”. I hear it all the time here in the Southwest of the U.S. and it is something that falls out of the mouths of Baptists and other theologically influenced people all over this country.

First off, we need to establish that Christ was in fact a man who did live in the geographical area of present Israel. I think the historical record of his life is fairly substantial, both from the churches’, and from the secular historical record; so I accept that he was a man who in the first 30 years of his life was a carpenter and a fairly good one. His unpaid service record for Christianity was the last three years, where he trundled throughout the Middle East with no wife, no girlfriend, and 12 men in tow; all with long hair and wearing dresses and sandals.

The Biblical record we now hold as the standard is the King James Version of the Old and New Testament. Why the King James Version? Mostly because in the time of King James in England, the church was in a huge state of turmoil over which books of the Bible were the anointed words of God, and which were not. He assembled a committee to translate a new modern version of the Bible that would serve to clear up all the confusion of using worn out text versions of the originals, which were written in Hebrew and Greek, the Old Testament was written in Hebrew and the New in Greek, which were the two universal languages of that era in the Eastern Mediterranean countries. They started with all the original works which had been discovered at that time, and the actual volume of material was vast. There were nine gospels at that time, including one written by Mary Magdalene. The committee narrowed this volume of work down to four gospels and left out several letters from Paul and other post ascension works, to what we now “accept” is the complete words of God. Of course they also left out the one book written by a woman, and we don’t know to this day if it was because of sexism, or just because it wasn’t well written. If this fact doesn’t cause you to question the accepted fact that the King James Version of the Bible are the complete and only words of God, then you need to be awakened from your deep dark sleep!

Imagine if you would, a large Baptist church in any state from Texas to Florida; a man enters with hair down to his shoulders, wearing a dress and sandals, and an entourage of 12 men all looking pretty much the same. Would he be welcomed, or would he be rejected? I don’t even have to answer that question. Now if you will, recall all the present politicians who have invoked the name of Jesus in their speeches, and in fact the present president of the United States has on more than one occasion stated he is a “Christian”. Oh my goodness! Would Jesus, who never ever advocated violence for the solution of any problem, have entered Iraq with the sole purpose of killing off their leader and claiming all of their oil reserves for his own? Would Jesus ever have cut funding for the infirmed, causing them at the very least, a load of discomfort, and at the most death; in the case of those who died while on waiting lists for HIV medications? Would Jesus ever have advocated selling the treasury of the country to the Bank of China? Would Jesus sell out his charges to make his own wealth more important than the needs of the country he was given the responsibility of leading? Would Jesus ever be caught driving a Hummer, with a plastic “Christian Fish” pasted to the rear door? Would Jesus ever commit to a campaign to become the president of the United States of America? I think the answer to all of the above would be NO!

I can hear you now complaining about the record of the many “Holy Battles” in the historical record of the Old Testament. I agree, many times in the Old Testament, there are detailed and gory accounts of the many battles that the tribes of Israel had to enter into to escape Egypt, where they were held in slavery. However, most of the time they were in conflicts that were fought with a Holy injection of power, such as the plagues that were brought on the Egyptians that held them, and were used to break the Egyptian resolve. In New Testament times, which we are now living in; Jesus was the ultimate “Peace Hippy”, going around the Bible belt helping everyone, without even a thought given to their church affiliation. In point of fact, the only record we are given of Jesus giving in to his “Anger side” was when he went into the Temple in Jerusalem and found the church leaders selling “stuff”, collecting taxes for the Roman government, and generally turning the Temple into the central market place. When Jesus entered this environment, he went ballistic and started throwing tables and chairs all over the place, evicting all the “Officials” of the church and telling them never to come back again. This is the ONLY time in the whole of the Biblical record that Jesus showed and acted on his anger. The ONLY time.

We can gather from this, that Jesus was fairly disconnected from the actions and traditions of the masses, and especially the politics of Rome. In the Gospel of Mark, we see that the early Christians were admonished not to beat their slaves, but to treat them with love and respect. Christian slaves were admonished to love their masters and to work for them without question or without complaint. Nowhere were they instructed to go to Rome and lobby the senate to change the laws to outlaw the ownership of slaves. It is not a foreign fact to anyone knowing anything about the time of slavery in this country that this particular passage in the New Testament was used time and time again to place God’s blessing on the trade and ownership of our brothers and sisters from Africa. Never were the early churches told to interfere with anything going on in Rome, on the contrary, they were always told and instructed to give to Rome that which Rome required to run the empire. Never were the early churches instructed to protest the capture and butchering of their numbers in the coliseum in Rome for the entertainment of the “Ultra Class”. On the contrary, they were told to submit and die with humility and with the peace of Jesus in their hearts. Further, they were told to turn the other cheek and let the dominators have their way. The Biblical record gives us great detail about the lead up time to the crucifixion of Jesus, and we see where the then leader of Rome, Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Jerusalem, was in shock that the leaders of the temple at the time, were the ones that had condemned Jesus and were the ones that were trying to force the Roman government to sentence him to death for his “false” ministry. During this whole time, he never protested, never once uttered a whimper of complaint, only a plea from his Father above for mercy for those who were out to actually “Kill Jesus”. If you remember the record, Pontius washed his hands of the complete mess and turned Jesus over to the leaders of the church to do with him what they will. It is vitally important here to recall that truly, the government at the time had absolutely nothing at all to do with the death and torturing of Jesus, but it was in fact the direct actions of the temple that brought all this on him. I find that fact disturbing and find that the actions of the “Christians” of today must be held suspect and Christians should never be trusted when they invoke the name of Christ to fortify their hateful and destructive actions against the society at large.

Now jump to today

The current church in the United States is up to it’s eardrums in political action and is interfering in Washington in all the every day details of this country. They are currently trying to force the country to amend the constitution to outlaw gay marriage, ban abortions forever, and many other things which do not in any way fall under the purview of the church. In fact they are only to have influence over their own church. When Paul wrote his letter to the church at Galatia, he started the letter by saying “Oh my dear idiots in Galatia”.

The church in Corinth was having a terrible time with their members fucking themselves into oblivion and the orgies that were taking place at their gatherings were denounced by Paul on every side. This is where he went into great detail on the “Sanctity” of relationships, never once telling them to extend these rules to the church’s non-members living in the city of Corinth. No! They were to apply these rules to their own church and their own members; never the society at large.

All in all, I am very uncomfortable with the involvement that the church in this country has forced on it’s citizens, and I am at the same time amused when one of them gets caught in the Minneapolis airport trying to pick up a trick, or a “Christian” member of congress is humiliated for soliciting sex from one of the many gay pages that make the congress of this country function. Most of them have intimate ties to the “Christian Fundamentalists” which are causing us more and more anxiety on a national level. I must ask “Oh my dear friends in the Christian Church of this country, how is all this working for you?” Unlike what is printed on our currency, we are NOT a Christian nation, and we do not “trust in God” in any sense of the word, nor have we ever been a Christian Nation, or we would never have shed a drop of blood to defend and nourish the richness of our land. We would have learned how to live “With” the natives who already owned this land. We would have never entered the first or second world war but would have acted much like Switzerland and been seen mostly as “Peacemakers”, which is after all, the true meaning of “I am a Christian.”

Praise Be

For those three or four people who might just be wondering; no I didn't fall off the earth when I was "banned" from using the POZ forums site. I just went on a sebbatical from not only the internet, but my HIV work also. I was obviously getting far too touchy and far to incapable of controlling not only my anger but also my patience.

This morning I was playing with my computer and finally, with the direction of one of my dear friends, was able to unlock the AIDSmeds forums once again and see the actual forums, instead of a message that said, "Moffie you have been banned from using this site and you know the reason why". What an interesting statement to place in front of a person who is looking to read their forums. Anyway, enough said about that information.

I am having a really difficult time with my HIV, and am probably in need of recovering my ability to type into the ether and see what bounces back. I am currently working on a disertation of the religious sort, but have been overwhelmed with other issues, so it is taking a long time.

Just wanted to let you all know that I am still here, still thinking of all of you, and hopefully still capable of placing two or three thoughts together in a logical format.

For those of you who have sent me e-mails and other greetings without a whimper of a response; I appologise, and hopefully I will soon be able to catch up with all of you.

Yours,
Tim... (Moffie)

As Positive as You Wanna Be: ICP 2.7

'sup Faggotz,

Ever committed to the global touchy feeliness that is HIV/AIDS on the Internet, the Spin Cycle is proud to play host to Edition 2.7 (January 2008) of the International Carnival of Pozitivities. We here at the Cycle have a special place in our collective rice-grain sized heart for the ICP. We were the inaugural post on the inaugural Carnival, way back in . . . well, a long fucking time ago.

Here's how it works. A whole lotta folks have penned articles on their blogs with HIV as a common theme and we link to all of them here. This is chock full of some excellent shit people. There's science, there's community activism, there are heart rending accounts of the human cost of AIDS, there are videos.

Videos!

There's even stuff for the religious sorts amongst you.

Our contributors are an eclectic mob to say the least. From newbies to established bloggers, to the Red Cross and Red Crescent, and even the fucking US Government. It's a red letter event, my lovelies.

So without further delay and in no particular order, welcome to the January 12, 2008 edition of international carnival of pozitivities!

Dave Wessner and Ali Cundari of Davidson College present Cognitive Dissonance Theory & HIV/AIDS Prevention.
posted at: The AIDS Pandemic

Mark of DropDeadHappy has nominated Burnout on the Frontlines.
posted at: Protectinsite

Nadege will tell us all about Creating a Positive Attitude.
posted at: Clearly Envizion

Alvaro Fernandez wonders if we might be interested in Travel and Engagement as Good Brain Exercise.
posted at: Sharpbrains

Baan Gerda reports on How a Dying Mother Helped Define Our Community.
posted at: Baan Gerda

Daniel Garcia comes over all grateful as he tell us that it Makes him think...of how thankful we all should be.
posted at: 2Sides2Ron
Daniel goes onto to say that When we rarely get out of our own sphere of living, we forget the vast differences in the world that exist beyond the horizon. This video helps us get a new perspective on the world and HIV plays a role in it. Please visit the The Miniature Earth Project.

More science, why not? Drs Myhre presents Tuesday Night Numbers-Still in Bundibugyo examining parallels and differences between HIV and Ebola prove that understanding both can be critical for public health.
posted at: ParadoxUganda

Everybody's friend, Daniel Dames presents Men's Health and HIV/AIDS in the Black Communities of Africa and the Caribbean.
posted at: Dennis Dame's TIGBlog

Melody offers us More from the winning essays in Nata.
posted at: The Nata Village Blog

Mark informs us that HIV Stops With Me.
posted at: HIV Stops With Me

Jack Hampster presents Worlds AIDS Day.
posted at: Drill and Hammer

The lovely Dragonette hopes to Exhale.
posted at: NotPerfectAtAll

Noted eggheads Nelson Vergel and Dr. David Wohl present HIV Metabolic Complications Myths.
presented at: Surviving HIV

ICP Ring Master Ron Hudson sneaks one in with Today is my 23rd, uh, no 22nd Anniversary.
posted at: 2Sides2Ron

O NOES! It's da Fedz! Herewith the US Government's Transgender Factsheet.
posted at: US Department of Health and Human Services

Jeremy gives us the Friday Minutes.
posted at The Evolution of Jeremiah

You loved them in Dissonance Theory, now marvel once more at Dr. Dave Wessner and Andrew Johnson of Davidson College as they report that Merck announces failure of V520 HIV vaccine candidate.
posted at: The AIDS Pandemic

Alexander Robinson presents Let's Not Forget About AIDS on World AIDS Day.
He notes: "National Black Justice Coalition CEO: It is urgent that the LGBT movement begin to refocus more of its energy and attention to dealing with HIV/AIDS and strike a delicate balance between the hard fought social issues of today and the public health concerns of HIV/AIDS that lies ahead of us on tomorrow."
posted at: The Bilerico Project

Rachel Walden sticks one up Mike Huckabee's big baptist butt with HIV Related Bigotry in Politics.
posted at: Our Bodies Our Selves

Andrs Duque presents Puerto Rico: Government should end offensive STD prevention campaign, activists ask for a public apology.
posted at: Blabbeando

Jim Johnson presents for the religious types Rick Warren: Church "Here to Stay" On AIDS Ministry.
posted at: Straight not Narrow

Hospice Guy presents Hospice Blog: HIV/AIDS and hospice
presented at: Hospice Blog

AIDS Chicago presents, in glorious YouTube Vision, Faith Responds to AIDS.
posted at: YouTube

The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies have come over all "interfaith" to bring us Living with... and speaking out HIV/AIDS Stigma.
posted at: YouTube
Please visit The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies for more information.

Marie at Myspace presents High Rate of False Positives at DC Clinics.
posted at: Marie at Myspace

SIDACTION of France sobers us all with SIDACTION.
posted at: YouTube France
For those who, like Matty the Damned, don't speak a word of French (and why would you?) the caption reads: "In the world, someone dies of AIDS every 10 seconds. Time flies. Send in your donation to SIDACTION." Should you want to part with your hard earned, see this link for more details.

The HUB-Witness brings us Awaiting Tomorrow - people living with HIV/AIDS in Africa.
posted at: The HUB-Witness

Farid de la Ossa (a special guest artist with 2Sides2Ron) presents Farid de la Ossa's "Awareness Due HIV".
posted at: 2Sides2Ron

Last of all we have Mohammad Khairul Alam another guest writer with 2Sides2Ron.
posted at: 2Sides2Ron.

And there you have it people, Edition 2.7 of the International Carnival of Pozitivities. Take the time to examine each of the offerings here carefully because, unlike you lot, these people are actually making an effort.

A special note of thanks here to Ron Hudson, ICP Whipmaster for a sterling effort. Ron is a long standing friend of the Cycle and one of our preferred perverts. His assistance in getting this Edition out has been invaluable. We salute you Ron!

I'm advised that the next edition of the ICP will be held at NotPerfectAtAll and is scheduled to hit the Netz on February 10th. For more information see the ICP Website.

IN SOLIDARITY

MtD

Vale Christine

Today we at the Spin Cycle lost one of our dearest friends. Christine, from the AIDSmeds Forums, lost the battle against AIDS at 2 PM on October 17th. The picture you see is of Christine enjoying her recent and last birthday.

HIV positive since 1993, it didn't seem to matter what treatment Christine tried. They all failed her dismally. To those who say HIV infection is a "manageable chronic illness" we say -- Feh! You wish!!

She was good and true and honourable, unlike the arseholes who read and write this blog.

I have disabled the comment facility for this article. Frankly a proportion of our readers are dead-set butt-munches and I won't have those sorts of people profaning Christine's memory.

There is a condolence thread for Christine in the AIDSmeds Forums.

All of us here at the Cycle send our condolences to Christine's loved ones.

For and on behalf of the Spin Cycle,

MtD