हैप्पी Anniversary

His name is John Niko but I just call him Niko. And he’s my Niko. He will kill me when I get home for exposing him to you but that’s a risk I will have to take. You’ll understand why by the time you get to the end; assuming you stick through until then.

We met 12 years ago in Fort Lauderdale at, believe it or not, a leather bar. I still have the little gray “Trick” card the bars supplied back then where you write your name and phone number to exchange with . . . well, your latest trick! I carry that card with me to this day. It’s in my wallet warding off evil the way religious people carry cards with the Virgin Mary or Jesus Christ hanging on the cross for protection.

The night Niko and I met, I was a little depressed. Well, a little depressed, lonely and horny.

I had just gotten back to Fort Lauderdale from visiting my family in New York. My baby sister graduated College and it was a proud moment in our family. I was the first in our family to attend college but she was the first to actually finish. As I sat in the auditorium I remember thinking how wonderful graduations were. A perfect way to end a chapter in your life; a transition into another volume of the Encyclopedia of The Living Experience. I also realized that graduations weren’t just for the people who completed their education but for the families, friends and other loved ones who endured and supported that person while they went to school to get that little piece of paper we all place such value on.

Anyway, Manhattan was in full bloom that June. It was a city on top of the world. A city in love with joy, with freedom, with love itself. Hell, the city was even in love WITH itself; and I’m not talking the narcissistic type. It was a kind of love that was full of innocence and passion and totally into experiencing new things. It was a perfectly euphoric trip to sooth and embalm me in those emotions; especially after having ended a four-year, verbally and emotionally abusive relationship just a year prior.

On the flight back down my heart ached to the point I truly thought it would break. The little voice inside my head was screaming: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU LEAVING? WHAT ARE YOU GOING BACK FOR?

“A job,” I thought weakly.

“A JOB!” the voice yelled, “NOT A CAREER! NOT YOUR LIFEWORK! YOU CAN ALWAYS GET ANOTHER ONE!!!!”

“My cat,” I retaliated defensively. “My things,” I added.

“SO YOU SHOVE HIM IN A BOX, PACK THE THINGS YOU WANT, SELL WHAT YOU DON’T NEED AND SHOVE OFF.”

“But I just signed a lease.”

“SO YOU BREAK IT! IF YOU TELL THEM YOU GOT A JOB OFFER OUT OF STATE THEY CAN’T HOLD YOU TO IT!”

“My car?” I started wondering. “What am I going to do with my car in NYC? Insurance is so high!”

“SELL IT!”

You get the picture. By the time I landed in Lauderdale that fateful night a dozen years ago, I had made the decision to come back to New York. I had not told anyone but my heart. I got to my apartment, unpacked and started to make a list of the things I needed to do in order to move back home. I was all set and prepared for my move back to New York. All I had to do was give notice at work, inform my landlady and start packing!

But as the evening wore on, I started to get lonely. And horny.

Forgive me for not endowing you with the details of the hookup that followed. As much as I would love to, FOR SURE, I know Niko would kill me.

So we dated. Several times. Minutes turned into hours. Hours into days. And days turned into years. Twelve years. That’s like 90 in Gay Years; you know, like Dog Years?

I wasn’t sure about him at first. He’s totally not what I normally went for back then. He wasn’t really into many of the things that I was into. I mean he didn’t even like coffee! Still doesn’t!!!!!! We were opposites; still are.

I warned him time and time again. I told him of the things I had done and apologized ahead of time for all the things I was going to do to him and put him through.

And yet he stayed.

Fast forward past 12 years of heartache and sorrow, seeing each other at our best, supporting each other through our worst; past all the friends and family who have died or moved away. Vacations together, weddings attended, sexual fantasies explored and that we are still exploring. Colds swapped back and forth, depressions, joys, dreams talked about, conversations we’ve had, dinners out alone or with friends, the beach, drinks, 3ways, 4ways and Moreways. The mundane, routine and ordinary as well as the fun and exciting things we've done.

And I still, after all these years, love him. In fact, I love him even more now than I did when we first met. Hell, I'd ask him to marry me if I believed in marriage.

He’s childish, he makes me laugh and makes me feel good even when we’re doing nothing; which sometimes there is plenty of. I can be myself with him and there isn’t much I couldn’t tell him. Almost anything I want to do, he’ll do with me. He has the soul of a curious child and the patience of a saint to put up with me and my insanity.

I know my mom has needed me as she prepares for a mastectomy. I do not regret for one single moment my decision to fly up here and stay with her for six weeks. Well, maybe there was that one frustrating night in the previous blog.

But I miss my Niko.

I text him constantly. Repeatedly, in fact. I’ve spoken to him every single day; sometimes several times throughout the day! I love hearing the sound of his voice but it's no replacement for being with him. Nothing beats having him in my arms at night, spooning behind him. That’s when I miss him the most because he helps keep the monsters under the bed at bay. Even when he’s sweating like a pig and I’m comfortably tucked under the blanket, we sleep butt-to-butt, the heels of our feet barely touching. It’s just enough comfort to know that nothing will happen to us that night. We will make through another day.

For the first three weeks I was here, I felt myself slowly gravitating in a dark direction. Not quite sure where or how. I only know that I was losing my center and my balance. And when, a little over a week ago, I left work to meet him at the airport, I knew exactly. I felt like a satellite that had lost it’s orbit and he realigned me. My life revolves around him, you see. He is everything to me and I cannot see myself with anyone else or even without him. He is the anchor that stabilizes me, the glue that pieces back together my scattered brain.

We spent 3 glorious days together when he came to visit me. We walked around Manhattan, shopped, ate at some cool, funky places in the East and West Village. We walked some more, took in a Broadway show: Young Frankenstein (which was awesome!!!) had dinner with my mom (who calls him her son).

But the best was the Saturday before he left to go back to our house, our pugs (Emma, Trinket and Googie) and our cats (Max and Wild Thing). Niko and I sat on a concrete wall on the pier along the West Side Highway. And we did something we had never done before, something I had always wanted. He gave me a kiss. In public. It wasn’t the kiss to end all kisses nor was it filled with burning passion as it once was. But it was the first time he had ever shown me any kind of public affection. We held hands, my head resting on his shoulder, his head resting against mine. And I cried. I didn’t want the moment to end. It was the single most perfect moment in all of my almost 46 years of existence.

For that, and for many other reasons (some listed here, some not) I will love him and be IN love with him until the day I die; which I hope will be with him, together, holding hands, in bed.

My desire my stray, I may look at other menus and sample many appetizers, but it is to you I will always return to.

And as Frodo Baggins once said to Samwise Gamgee (please forgive my paraphrasing as I do not have the book with me and cannot remember the exact words): “Gandalf has chosen a perfect companion for me. Come, let us see what adventures the road holds for us!”

My dearest Niko, if you are reading this right now, I sincerely hope you know how much I love you and need you. I don’t care how you look, or how much weight you think you may have gained or how . . . anything. It's all bullshit. Because the only that matters to me is that I love you, I need you, I desire you. And that you love me, too. Stay with me always you dumb little shit because if you don’t I’ll hunt you down and slap your sorry ass! Oh, wait, I think I hear the patter of feet receding in the distance. Damnit! Now I'm going to have to chase you!

Seriously, though. Happy Anniversary. I am worth much more when I am with you for without you, I am worth nothing.

A Most Unlikely & Unwilling Parent

Have any of you loved your mother SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much that you would do anything to protect her and help her and save her from the maws of death? Only to find yourself in a large moment of frustration where you just want to . . . well, tap her EVER so lightly and just . . . best to not even say it in jest.

Last night my mom started in with, "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing." Okay. Totally cool and understandable."

So I asked her, "What is it that you're not sure about?"

"Getting my breast removed. The doctor," she says. "The hospital. Do you think he's even a specialist?"

And I just looked at her. "I don't understand, Ma. What is it that's confusing you?"

And she proceeds to go off on a litany of things such as, "What if he's not a real doctor? What if he's not licensed to perform surgery on my breast? Am I going to the right hospital? I haven't taken my pills."

Mind you, it was extremely frustrating because I wish this outburst had happened sooner. This is how I know I probably wouldn't be a good care giver. But then if I didn't have other things to worry about, perhaps I would feel differently.

Needless to say I had a rough night. After managing to calm her down about the doctor, I wrote down the numbers on the back of her Medicaid and Medicaire cards and made her promise me that she would call to find out if Sloan-Kettering accepts those two types of insurance. Then I made her promise that if I get her one of those pill-minder thingies that she would keep it out and take them and fill it as it empties.

I am ashamed to say that I yelled at my own mother. I even counted the Tamoxifen pills she's supposed to be taking. She's only taken about 6 from a bottle of 60. I can't say I blame her. Considering the side effects of the medication I'm not so sure that I would take them if given that option.

Perhaps she just had one of those moments where everything was hitting her at the same time; this came on way too soon after I reminded her that I'm leaving NYC in two weeks to go back to Fort Lauderdale. It's also an awkward situation because I'm uncomfortable suddenly being thrust into the role of "family leader" and making decisions for my mother. That's not supposed to happen!!!!!! She's still quite alive and breathing and very vital; despite the fact that she's acting like she's friggin' 80! I mean, I have enough problems taking my own life into my hands, taking care of my health (or trying to) balancing work, relationships, friends, family. When did this become so hard? When did I become the one that reminds her to take her pills? And someone please tell me HOW the fuck do you transition from first-born son in a latin family to ALMOST become a surrogate dad/husband/brother?

FUCK!

Heavy sigh.

Welcome Back, Benny

Brooklyn Bridge. Don't know who took the picture, though.


So here I am. Back in Brooklyn. I’m staying at my mom’s apartment. She’s been here since Labor Day of 1977. We were supposed to move in that Monday but the elevator was broken and the movers refused to bring our meager items up five flights of stairs. They came back the next day and I missed the first day of school that year.

A lot has happened since then in this old, two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment in Flatbush.

There’s been a lot of bad memories; bickering, arguing, yelling, crying, screaming and misery. A lot of late nights unable to sleep (like now while I’m writing this; it’s 1:57 a.m.). There’s a lot of ghosts here. My stepfather got sick in this apartment and had nightmares that death was coming for him before he actually died. There’s a part of me that still believes he’s still here; making fun of me, taunting, tormenting. He wasn’t a very nice man.

But there’s a lot of good memories here, too. Birthdays and celebrations like first communions and graduations. Baby showers and Bachelorette parties. Easter, Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners; some lean, some not so lean. Aunts, uncles, cousins; all putting aside our differences for a while, rejoicing in the sheer moment of being, eating and drinking. Spending time together doing absolutely nothing but talking and existing.

A slew of people have come and gone; some for a short while, some for a long time, some repeatedly. And then there were the weeks and months, if not years, of Spanish soaps, movies, t.v. shows.

And of the hundreds of shows we’ve watched here as a family, one of those shows was “Welcome Back, Kotter.” Not necessarily the best of shows but one remembered because very few were supposed to have taken place in Brooklyn. Unfortunately for me, now that I’m here, the theme song to the show just keeps playing itself over and over and over again in my brain.

Welcome back, welcome, back, welcome back.

As I retrace the steps I once took between my sophmore year of high school and the year I moved out on my own. Walking past the building where I had my first apartment, on East 18th Street and Newkirk. Walking up Foster Avenue to the bagel shop for my heavily buttered Bialy and Yoo-Hoo. Crossing Newkirk Plaza to the candy store for a pack of Violets. Taking the Q train (once the QB) past Avenue M and my old Alma Mater, Edward R. Murrow High. Passing Kings Highway where I used to cruise the parking lots late at night. Barreling past Neck Road and my last apartment before finally moving away from New York and to Fort Lauderdale; to a different life. One on hold for another few weeks, if not more.

Much has changed between then and now. Waves of immigrants have come and gone; latins, koreans, russians. Neighborhoods once known for dangerous gangs, loud music blaring on the street in the summer, racial altercations and the seediness of the prostitues, their pimps and the drug dealers, have now been regentrified.

Like the Atlantic Avenue and Pacific Street area that now have a Target. Park Slope, which was THE place to move to back then because Manhattan was becoming so expensive. Flatbush, which now boasts a Target as well. Kings Plaza, once home to Alexander’s, Orange Julius and some other department store I can’t remember (Korvette’s?) now home to Macy’s, Sears, Old Navy, Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works.

And let me not forget Redhook.

Once upon a time, you would never want to be caught dead there. Well, okay, maybe you would be FOUND dead, but you certainly wouldn’t want to be caught dead there. Once a whore and drug infested, flea-ridden dog of a neighborhood, it’s now up and coming. An Ikea set to open in June and a huge, I mean HUGE Fairway Market stuffed to the rafters with people from all sorts of neighborhoods now anchors that regentrification. Above the supermarket and around the immediate area, where empty warehouses once stood falling apartment, gloomily facing their doom, there are now luxury condos along the water.


Condos over Fairway Market on Van Brunt.

You can see Staten Island in the distance and the Statue of Liberty. Ellis Island just beyond and the gap where the Twin Towers once stood.


Like mother, like son. Enjoying a cup of joe.

But as many changes as there have been, much has also stayed the same. The people are rude, crude and rough around more than just the edges. They don’t speak properly, they sure as hell don’t enunciate and have absolutely no manners to speak of. Blacks, Latins, Russians, Middle Easterners and Asians now fight against the newest wave of immigrants . . . Causcasians . . . for the right to breath against a certain . . . complacency that still exists here in Brooklyn. It's a complacency that is almost stifling. And yet, strangely comforting . . . like an old pair of jeans where the material has been worn soft and fit just right . . . because it borders on acceptance. And of all the things you can say about Brooklynites, we are who we are and that is all. There's no pretense.

Yup. Brooklyn is still here. Once, it mocked me. Now it just sits and waits to see what’s going to happen next. To see if I’m going to run towards something again, or away from it. And like my mom’s old apartment, Brooklyn is still filled with ghosts. The difference is that THIS time, the ghosts can no longer harm me.

I guess like parts of Brooklyn, I’ve changed too. I feel . . .

. . . clean.

Now if only I can get that damn song to stop haunting me!


Welcome back. Your dreams were your ticket out.
Welcome back. To that same old place that you laughed about.
Well the names have all changed since you hung around,
But those dreams have remained and they're turned around.

Who'd have thought they'd lead ya, here where we need ya.
Yeah we tease him a lot cause we got him on the spot, welcome back.
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.

Bird & Dog

The Thursday morning after i got the call about my mom, I sat on the metal bench outside the building where I work. It was a beautiful, clear day; the kind that is rare for April in South Florida. The air was a bit crisp and the sky was so blue it hurt the eyes. But I loved it! I had spoken to my Mom the night before; her spirits were up; and I had slept well. I was feeling good and peaceful.

Then, while eating an Einstein’s breakfast sandwich, I watched in amazement as a small bird whizzed by, darted left, then right, and smashed head first into a plate glass door. It fell to the ground, somewhat comically, on it’s back. Then it rolled over, it’s wings spread, and didn’t move. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do. I looked around at first to see if anyone else had seen what I had just witnessed. But there was no one. It was just me. And the bird.

I thought to myself, “Am I being punked?” Actually, if truth be told, I thought of Candid Camera. Alan Funt was WAY before Mr. Deh-me Ashton Moore, often with funnier results.

Someone walked by a moment later, looked at the bird, or I thought they did, and kept on going. And suddenly it hit me; the panic. Oh my god, this poor bird was dying and I was the only human who witnessed it.

I dropped my sandwich and went to pick up the bird. His eyes were closed but his little body was warm and still breathing. And as I walked back to the bench I just wanted to die with sorrow. He was so beautiful. I don’t know what kind of bird he was but his feathers were almost a sage green with a tinge of white at the edge of his wings and two tiny black ringlets around his neck.

I stroked him gently, trying to comfort since there was nothing else I could do. The bird seemed to almost gasp silently and I choked. I really didn’t know what to do for him. I felt utterly helpless, useless and vulnerable.

“Don’t die! Please don’t die!” I murmured to him, covering him with both hands and willing him back to life the way they do in the movies. But I guess my life is not a Hollywood film and I don’t seem to have any kind of live-giving power.

Looking back now, a couple of days later, I realize there was something tragically poetic about holding such a tiny living creature in my hands; a creature with no boundaries, no home but the world. It’s only power the wings it was born with to simply take flight and soar to where ever he wanted, when ever he desired. I wondered where mother bird was, where had father bird disappeared to. Was he an only bird? Did he have brothers and sisters? Did he feel? Did he have emotions? Did he know what had happened to him? And I thought, how terribly sad to have no one, not even another bird, beside him while dying. And worse still, how horrible to have simply taken flight, taking for granted he would return from whence he came, or alight somewhere new, only to smash unexpectedly into something he didn’t see coming, let alone understand.

Realizing I was starting to panic, I pulled my cellphone from my pocket and called my partner. He works for a Veterinarian. I thought HE will know what to do! He couldn’t possibly be at work yet; I had left him only moments before as we left for our respective jobs.

But there was nothing he could do. The best I could hope for was that he was simply knocked unconscious. I would have to pray that he would come to eventually, and take flight again.

I don’t remember all the things I said to the bird. There was a part of me that felt kind of silly trying to explain to him why I had to leave him, that I was running late for work and could not stay watch him recover, or watch him die. I truly felt horrible as I placed him on the ground behind the bench, near a bush so he would be protected.

And then I stupidly decided that he would need food. I plucked a piece of bagel, egg, cheese and bacon (more food than a bird that size would ever need) and dropped it beside him.

I went to talk to the security guards (both women and hopefully, or so I hoped, a bit more sympathetic) about the bird. I told them what had happened but they said had witnessed it before. It wasn’t the first time; it would not be the last. I wanted to die. Didn’t anyone care about this poor little bird?

And to prove that it wouldn’t be the last time, one of the building maintenance guys, whom the security guards had been talking to before I showed up, pointed and said, “There’s another one!”

I hurried back out with one of the security guards and my heart sank. It was the same little bird. I didn’t understand. I looked towards the corner where I had laid him, hoping it was perhaps another one. But it wasn’t. Apparently another bird, big and raucous, has caught a whiff of the food I laid down for the first one. And I guess out of fear, the other bird simply took flight in the direction I had placed him and repeated his first mistake.

He was still alive when I left him to go upstairs to work. But I don’t think he made it. And I haven’t had the balls to ask the security guards about him. The image of the little bird’s tiny, broken body still haunts me. I don’t know why this should be. Perhaps because he looked so fragile? Because it was a reflection of our own fragility? A reminder of how quickly it could all be over? Or was it because watching those last few moments of the bird’s life reminded me of how life still marches on no matter how we feel?

The end of the day was no better I’m afraid. While on the way home from picking up dinner at Boston Market, my partner’s cell phone rang. It was a friend of ours. One of her neighbors, a gay couple who take their dog to the vet where my partner works, had to rush their dog to an emergency animal hospital.

There was no debate or question on what we would do. We were on our way to her house immediately. But in the 4 minutes it took to get there, the dog was gone. He lay in the back seat of their SUV covered with a green sheet not unlike the green of the bird from that morning.

I didn’t know the dog, nor his master, but I understood their grieving. And everyone, I mean everyone, in that small complex was outside comforting the two guys and crying along with them; even me. And here again, it was oddly poetic, tragically beautiful; yet inspiring all at the same time. Perhaps because it reminded me that there is still compassion in the world and that even in our sorrow we must reach out to one another to better understand our feelings.

A few minutes later, in an empty vet’s office with lengthening shadows, I helped my partner bag the dog. I tried hard not to think of our own dogs, the cats, my mom. Everyone I’ve ever known.

“This is what it comes down to?” I wondered.

We had our supper in silence while watching TV. I tried to make sense of what happened with the bird, the dog, and what lesson I was supposed to have learned from the days events. But all I could think of was how sad and beautiful it had all been. How horrible, yet inspiring to know that people had all reached out to one another. How wonderful to have witnessed first hand, the passion with which we must live each moment.

I don't remember ever crying the way I did that night, while Niko held me. I felt so numb, so pained. Every ounce of sorrow in the world seemed to have poured through me. I felt ashamed for the things I had wanted to do but kept putting off for one reason, excuse or another. And yet, strangely, I felt so alive! I don't remember feeling so passionate about the life I have yet to live.

Even now as I sit writing this, I’m not quite sure about the lesson I was supposed to have learned last Thursday. I only know that is Saturday morning. Well, almost noon. I am sitting in front of the computer, taking breaks to look out the window and watch the tree branches sway. The sky is so blue it hurts to look at it. The dogs are downstairs, out in the patio barking at passers by as morning doves croon their mournful song and the washer and dryer are going.

In a few minutes Niko will be home and I will go downstairs and hug him and squeeze him. And no, I will not call him George. But I WILL be grateful, as I am now. Grateful for him and our life together; in all it’s glorious mundaneness, in all it’s brilliantly hopeful opportunites, and all the crazy, impossible dreams we have yet to hatch.

Gratitude. Hmmm. Being grateful. Maybe that was the lesson?

Something Different

Some of you who have come to my website in the past have become accustomed to reading the chapters from a novel I've been working on. I took a hiatus for several months because the novel, "Sex Offenders," originally meant to be a simple thing following the 12-Step Program, had become a bit dark, lonely, and uncomfortable. You see, as writers, we write about what we know. "Sex Offenders" was perhaps hitting a bit too close to home in certain aspects. I'll leave you to speculate on which parts.

So, for many months I have just let it lie.

Now, many months later, I have picked it up again. However, I won't be posting it on here; at least not right now. Instead, I've decided to do what everyone else is doing and just blog. Journal. Whatever you want to call it, i'm writing about my experiences; the things I see and do. I want to show the world what I feel and think and that I'm here! I know there are some that might say, who cares? Who the hell are you?

But somewhere deep down inside I know I'm important. At the very least, I have something important to do in life, something to say. something significant to contribute. We all do! I just don't know what mine is. I have been told that it's my writing. I don't know. If that's true, wouldn't I be published already? Wouldn't I be in the New Yorker? In my local community paper? It's okay, you can laugh.

Truthfully, though, I guess I just haven't pushed hard enough. I haven't motived myself to stay focused enough to see something through to the very end. I can only tell you that lately I've been journaling like a mad man. The old fashioned way; blank book and pen. It is through my writing that I have begun to experience a catharsis very similar to the catharsis I feel when I have sex.

And speaking of sex.

I have two other blogsites. Many of you will probably consider it a porn blogsite. And that's cool. I'm sure that's what it is.

At first I thought to keep them separate because it deals with explicit issues on trying to start a gay, amateur porn business, because it's about sex, because sometimes there are pictures some might consider to be vulgar or obscene. I chose it also because I did not wish to be censored in any way shape or form.

But then I thought: why not unite them? If nothing else, link this one with that one. I'm still not sure that's such a good idea but I'm going to do it anyway. Here's why: because sex is an integral part of my life that helps define who I am. Because sex is an integral part of ALL our lives. And although I do not condone censorship, I will be doing it to myself because I would rather be the one to choose what I delete as opposed to having someone else do it for me. We're all adults. We can all decides for ourselves.

I'll see how it goes. After a while, depending on the response, who knows?

As for the second blog, like everyone else it seems, yes, I have a myspace page. I hardly every use it, though. Therefore I will not place that link here.

And so, without further ado, one of the blogs posted previously where I combine both of my worlds. The original title was, "Speed Bumps." And in case you're interested in the more adult version of my blog, the site is: www.hellopenis.com/blogs/horndawgz/.


SPEED BUMPS

Just when you achieve the appropriate speed for Cruise Control on the Highway Of Life, it throws you a curve and you wind up hitting a speed bump. As a result, sometimes you spill your coffee and other times you miss your exit only to wind up on a side road.

Here I've been hoping to shoot a scene where some big-dicked skull fucker grabs Chase by the ears, fucks face and shoots his load all over the guy's face, lips and tongue. I've also been hoping to shoot one final segment where some top, or bottom, comes in and either rides Chase's hole or his cock. Either way is fine by me and I don't think Chase would mind either! I've even upped the ante a bit; I'm actually offering people money (though I'm probably going to have to sell my ass to do it!)

To no avail. So I kinda feel like Max Bialystock in "The Producers." WHO DO I HAVE TO FUCK TO GET A BREAK IN THIS TOWN?!"

Because I'm SOOOOOOOOOO close to finishing my first DVD I have been growing anxious. Then I thought, "Why am I pushing so hard? I know I'll get there. Maybe not at MY desired speed, nor in the car I want to be seen in, but, I WILL get there."

So, just when I decided to step out of the way and let Life take the wheel and drive, I hit that speed bump. My mom has to have a lumpectomy and undergo 6 weeks of radiation treatment. Once the intial shock wore off, I did some research, had a hear-to-heart with her (as much as you can have a heart-to-heart over the phone) and decided to take time off from work to fly up to NYC and help her. Since then I've gone from moments of extreme worry, to zen-like bits of peace. Somehow I know in my heart that she will be fine. She has a great positivity about her and is in terrific spirits. They caught it early enough where she is expected to make a full and complete recovery (minus a portion of her breast, of course.

And yet, it's my mom. You know? I mean, this is the woman who has not just brought me into the world, but raised me to be the man I've become. And this is the very first time she's ever had anything reallly serious with her health. I guess there was a small part of me that still saw her as the invincible mom who made me lunch every day to take to school, helped me with my homework and kissed me good night before going to bed. I know we will all one day leave this earth. People come and go in our lives. But Mom's are forever. At least, that's what I wanted to believe. This has been an eye-opening experience and a fantastic opportunity to remember that we must take life a moment at a time and appreciate where we are, who we've known and embrace life.

I don't know what I'll do for money. I know bills will pile up; I still have lots of calls to make and arrangements to make. I will miss our pugs, Emma, Trinket and Googie. Hell, I already miss my partner so much it feels as if my heart is being wrenched and squeezed within God's bony, arthritic hand!

But all will be well. It has to be. So, even though I'm not happy to have to take this detour, it is nonetheless a very necesary one. And once the side road ends I will get back on the highway and finish my first movie, "Sunday Afternoon With Chase."

In the meantime, though, until I leave for NYC, I look forward to David (HTG) coming to Fort Lauderdale again, having dinner and maybe shooting a session for him.

I leave you with the following thoughts: Do what you want, what brings you joy, what makes you feel good. Because it is all over way too soon.

Peace.