JULYTRIP

July, 1992

No BVIs in July. In July I saw everything in North America.

You know, it's interesting. This was really my first set of trips where the people I dealt with were more familiar with my writing than my face. In fact, if it weren't for my egomaniacal obsession with slapping my mug on several BVI covers, these people wouldn't have a clue what I looked like. I was almost tempted not to write about this last month because so many people said to me:

I can't wait to read what you write about this trip!

Now that's a pretty imposing order. For the most part, the autobio stuff that I've spit out dealt with things that happened years ago or with people who didn't have an inkling that I was going to write about my dealings with them. So now here I sit, my mind not filled with, as it usually is, the minute details of my journeys, but shotgun video images, like I ran through the month as fast as I could. I feel like I will betray these people who expect a J. LeRoy's Progress style detail or a Dinner With Scatterbrain depth.

Having said all this, I will try to explain the month and what it did to my brain.

Eeeeee Simon, noah ye can't doo thaht.....

July was like a stream of consciousness. July was a long, drawn out hallucination. No, it was a stream of consciousness, never mind the hallucination bit. It was concrete, just not static. Ah, I see, July was fluid.

I started July with a definite desire to get away from Seattle. On the 28th of June was the Pride March and the end of Bi-Fest Northwest and I had been working on NAMES Project stuff and the office was busy and I was just ready to get away from it all. Although we had been invited to the BIG FUN Bisexual Camp Out that the BiNETtons-Seattle were putting on outside of Vancouver BC, Ann and I opted instead to go to Vancouver Island BC to a place just outside of Parksville. ((Vancouver, BC, is a mainland city and Vancouver Island is a very large Island between the city of Vancouver and the Pacific Ocean. The body of water between Vancouver Island and the city of Vancouver is the Strait of Georgia. There are forests and rivers and lots of nature and gobs of vacationing Canadians on the island. Look at a map if this is still foggy.))

VANCOUVER ISLAND, BC

The trip to Vancouver Island tried to get off to a bad start. The day before we left, I woke up and looked out at the Oldsmobile and it had a flat. Ordinarily a flat wouldn't be a problem for anybody, but our car has lovely locking hubcaps and about a year ago three teens stole our car for a joyride. While they were flying around Seattle, they threw the contents of the glovebox out the window, with this stuff went the key to our lovely locking hubcaps. So we couldn't get the hubcap off and I ended up renting the world's worst production car -- The Dodge Spirit.

The Dodge Spirit is the 90s version of the Fooeymobile, except that it does not change shape or have any features whatsoever. The car is basically some seats on a very puny engine (technology circa 1979) in an ugly mid-sized case and an airbag because Lee Iaccoca is so damned concerned for my safety. It is a horrid, ugly, godawful piece of crap and you should, under no circumstances, buy one or even rent one. In fact, if you see one coming down the street you should give it a lot of room. This is not a joke, this car sounded like the Fooeymobile. Remember? Hong Kong Fooey and Spot would get into the Fooey mobile and buckle up and then it would make that bongo sound poota-poota-poota-poota- poota-poota-poota-poota-poota-poota-poota-poota-poota-poota. So did the 1991 Dodge Spirit. When you turned on the intermittent windshield wipers they went boing on the off-beat, so you had the normal windshield wiper sound of ffffffwichit ffffffffwichit but a boing on the off-beat. So it went fffffwichit boing fffffwichit boing fffffwichit boing fffffwichit boing fffffwichit boing fffffwichit boing. So you can guess what it sounded like in the Dodge Fooeymobile when it was raining. The car went poota-poota-fffffwichit-boing- poota-poota-fffffwichit-boing-poota-poota-fffffwichit-boing-poota-poota-fffffwichit-boing- poota-poota-fffffwichit-boing-poota-poota-fffffwichit-boing-poota-poota etc. Damn thing almost drove me insane. It got lousy gas mileage to boot.

Despite the annoyance with the Fooeymobile, however, the drive up to Tswassen, BC, to catch the Nanaimo ferry was very enjoyable. Ann and I were glad to get away and have some time alone. We arrived in Tswassen about 15 minutes after the ferry that we wanted to catch pulled out, so we had to wait for an hour and 45 minutes for the next one. Since we were on vacation, we didn't care. We were determined to let nothing at all get in the way of our trip. We were not going to stress out about anything.

Ann took a nap and I read a bit. A half hour later we walked around the Tswassen ferry terminal, which is a rather dismal glob of concrete sticking into the Strait of Georgia. Our friend Tony said it was very nice, though, so maybe you shouldn't trust me. Even though I think I'm right.

We walked around and took some pictures. We walked through a door that said, To Restaurant and found ourselves back on the other side of the security entrance. Our tickets to ride were in the car, so we were very worried. We wandered around for a few minutes, went up to the gate and said, "We accidentally ended up out here" and they let us in no questions asked. Pretty lax security. We could have been deranged, lucky thing we weren't.

The float over to the island takes 2 hours, roughly. Tswassen to Nanaimo is one of the longer treks -- unless you go all the way to Port Hardy at the Northern tip of the island. Ann and I toyed with the idea of going to Powell River to visit the sites mentioned in Mark Vonnegut's The Eden Express (which is a very good book and you should read it if you haven't already) but we didn't end up doing that.

The float was pretty, but clouds, light rain, and fog obscured the spectacular views. We sat on deck and read for a while, got a snack, and took some pictures as we neared Nanaimo. Gabriola Island was very green and made for an interesting backdrop.

When we turned in to the Tigh-Na-Mara Resort, we both were filled with a strange sense of arrival, decadence, and ... infiltration? Yeah, I guess that's a pretty good word for it. Infiltration. The place was filled to overflowing with seemingly happy vacationing Canadian families. Some had driven from as far as Nova Scotia -- a sure sign of mental illness. Not that the resort was bad, but driving all the way across Canada and having to drive back would surely be my undoing. But, then again, Mark Vonnegut did it. Well, then he went crazy and was committed to an institution, so I guess it sort of proves me right.

Anyhow, we felt really strange spending all this money -- which really wasn't that much compared to what you'd pay for a crackerbox room in Washington DC or Tokyo or New York. But it seemed like a lot to us, so that's what counts. It was our guilt, dammit, don't try and cheapen it!

Our suite was very nice. We checked the place out, rested for a bit, Ann took another nap while I looked out at the Strait of Georgia and the windsurfers. There wasn't much wind, so they fell over a lot.

While Ann slept, I looked through our cookbooks for some interesting things to eat that week. I picked out a few things. Ann woke up and picked out the rest. We went grocery shopping at an Overwaitea (Pronounced Overweighty -- no, I'm not kidding.) Foods in Parched. Canadian grocery stores can be frightening. They are still in the 70s, I think, and have no real concept of chemical-free living. We bought some margarine that still resides in my fridge because I am afraid to eat it and and throwing it out would only offend it.

Another problem with grocery shopping is that you have to learn the new brand names. Ann and I will not buy things made by Philip Morris (which is mostly everything in a chain grocery store) and their brands are different in Canada. Nabisco is something else, Kraft is not. So you sort of have to decipher when you are and are not supporting Jesse Helms' patron corporation. (And I don't care if they did give some token bullshit $30,000 to whoever they did. They still support Jesse Helms, they still built his sick museum, and $30,000 to them, unfortunately, is like a dime to me. So I'm boycotting them, they are scum. So there.) Despite these seemingly insurmountable problems, however, we managed to find the ingredients for our dinners and paid in Canadian multi-colorbacks.

That night I took a walk down to the beach and strolled around the grounds until I felt at home. After a while of sea air I went back up to the room and relaxed in the shamefully decadent private jacuzzi. Of course, it was only a jacuzzi bathtub in the bathroom -- so it was only marginally decadent.

The next few days we relaxed and hung out. I wasn't accustomed to not having something to do and not having a computer at which to write, so I stood up and sat down a lot.

One night we went in to Nanaimo to see the very happy Penny Marshall film League of their Own, which was extensively reviewed in the zine Girljock. The film was like a two hour long This Week in Baseball, except all that happened was that women hit baseballs and smiled. As far as statements, it only had two: 1) Wasn't this neat and 2) Gee, they weren't treated with very much respect, which were both obvious from the get-go. As far as depth, Big was a much more mentally challenging film -- if that's any indication. It wasn't really a feel good film but more of a feel a bit better film.

Nanaimo is a working class town. Pretty grimy place all the way around. It has a nice downtown that seems to have remained intact. Canadians seem to respect their downtowns and architecture a little more than greedy moron developer / speculators in the good ol' USA do. Except for Vancouver and Toronto, where a lot of the architecture has been demolished. While I really like both Vancouver and Toronto, the architecture is crummy and Toronto is, really, the largest shopping mall in the world -- even with GST.

On a really nice day, we drove along route 1 to Port Alberni. Port Alberni is a very scenic place that is a good 100 kilometers inland from the Pacific Ocean. In Port Alberni we strolled along the port. The water is nestled in some gorgeous green hills that even the heavy industry can't detract from. After hanging out there for a while, we drove back to MacMillian Provincial Park named after a British Horteculturalist / Botanist / Tree aficionado. There is a spot in there known as Cathedral Grove that was very pretty and relaxing. Canadians are also more respectful of their parks, so the areas off the trail were not trod down, as they are at Yellowstone or anywhere else lots of inconsiderate Americans go. Of course, Canadians do have the same problems as we in regards to gluttonous timber companies advocating clear-cutting our biosphere away in the name of jobs, so they ain't enviro-gods or anything.

After five days of very comfortable relaxation and playing in the surf, we went home. We took the ferry to Horseshoe Bay this time, due to the ferry schedule. It was a rainy, wet day and the ferry was mildly rocky. There is no Vancouver bypass on the freeway, so one is forced to drive through on surface streets. Vancouver is a monstrously difficult city to drive in, but I'm not complaining. I'd just as soon outlaw cars everywhere and be done with the inconvenience and annoyance and stress and Fooeymobilisms that this auto driven society creates for itself.

We got out of Vancouver and rolled down to the US - Canada border. To change your money and get your GST refund, you have to pull over to the duty free store and go through the currency exchange obstacle course. First, you take your receipts to the receipt desk wait in line for 20 minutes to get to a person who will fill out a ten minute form and stamp the hell out of your receipts. Then they punch some stuff into a Fooeycomputer which goes whrrchachicka and spits out a piece of paper. Then you carry that piece of paper through the duty free store (which is laid out to make it absolutely impossible to get from one end to the other without walking around 65 display cases and bumping into at least 10 people) and wait in a long line to give it to the cashier. The cashier gives you Canadian multi-colorbacks for your receipt and says, "Thank you." You then take your Canadagelden to the exchange window (of which there is only one and it is next to the first line you were in) and wait in a long line that is constantly getting mixed up with the line you used to be in until you can exchange your money. Then the woman tells you that she can only exchange to US dollars, no change, so you end up leaving with a bunch of greenbacks and some Canadian coins that even the Canadians won't take!

After all that was done with, we merged a'la George Jetson into the massively long line of carbon monoxide spreaders in order to go through customs. God, how you long for open borders! We waited and waited and waited and waited and waited and inched a long until, finally, at long last, we got to the gate. The guard, affixed to his seat, asked who we were and why we were going home and how long we were in Canada and why we went. And all went well until he asked who the car belonged to. "Snappy Car Rental," I said. "Why did you rent a car?" "Because mine had a flat tire." "You rented a car for five days because you had a flat? You couldn't change a flat?" I told him the locking hubcap story -- which is so pathetic you couldn't make it up and he let us pass. The car next to us with the pink triangle sticker, though, was searched.

The next day I called Snappy Car Rental and told them to come out and pick up the Fooeymobile. At the office, I filled everyone in on our wonderful trip and started preparing for my trip later in the week to the east coast. I was starting to notice that I could not breathe. At first it was just annoying, but it started to get quite bad.

So I went to see an allergist who told me that I had incredibly evil asthma that was being aggravated by a mild case of bronchitis. He gave me some Erythromycin for the cold and some methylprednisone and inhalable cortisone for the asthma. The methylprednisone was worrisome to me, so he only gave me an eight day dose. All of the drugs cost me over $100. The doctor also gave me a battery of allergy tests, all but one of which I passed. I was quite interested to learn that I was not allergic to cats. I still could not breathe, but I was going to the east coast lungs be damned.

I got ahold of Dave Fisher and Brian Goldberg and made sure that all our plans coincided, then, on Wednesday, I left.

HARTFORD & CONNECTICUT

My flight for Hartford left at 7 in the morning, so I awoke at a bright and cheery 4:45 to shower and get ready for the airporter which was coming between 5 and 5:30. A bizarre dream / hallucination from my aborted sleep replayed in my head. I said goodbye to Ann just as the doorbuzzer buzzed and rushed out the door. There were two other people in the van. As soon as I sat down, I pulled out my DayTimer and jotted the following in the notebook.

16 July 92 5:15

On my way to the airport for an east coast vacation. Had a dream / hallucination / OOBE last night during which or involving being a black woman, the Democratic Convention, and Freddy the cat. The whole thing was centered around doing the right thing. There was tons of motion, commotion, and gala fanfare brass music -- a'la DNC. I was the total representation of good -- in some sense and bolstered by voices who told me such. I would certainly be great and the dark times of the Bush Administration would certainly be at an end by my hand.

During this time - in the physical world - Freddy was desperately trying to loudly purr and cuddle with me. I was thrown into this limbo where the confidence bolstering rambunctious atmosphere was interspersed by questions of who I was. For a long time - relatively - I was a black woman holding my cat on the podium at the convention. For a while I was a young black boy playing on the streets of North Omaha. But for the longest time I was a human socio-racial amalgam -- looking at this weird "best of the best" concurrently proud of all my human family and historical accomplishments.

Meanwhile, my cat purred and rolled around -- while in my half sleep he became this bizarre symbol of innocence and potential for the voices. "Don't let go of its purity. You can achieve. You can achieve great things. The essence of purity," the voices said. The deafening music, the cat, the voices, the changing self-perception. The incredible clarity of feeling in the first person a sense of self that was not my own, several times over. The feeling of being something, someone, else. Looking at my body as an African American woman, standing on the podium with the cat, stroking it with my long fingers. Feeling a sense of social continuity and inertia, something I guess I have felt as a queer white male, but never realizing the impact of it until I was placed in this position socially distinctly different from my frame of reference. And all the time, the voices convincing me that I could make a difference -- that I was not a waste of space.

When I was finally able, toward the end, to distinguish between myself and the human amalgam I was a part of in the dream I came away with a mix of awe and regret. Awe over, first and foremost, the intensity and the incredible texture of this dream and the regret that this incredible bulk of humanity and all the potential for the world is still quite distant. Regret for the obvious amount of work involved in almost any interracial endeavor.

This is certainly the type of experience that many people would take for "seeing god" and I, the good Maslovian that I am, would claim that it was a spiritual peak experience. Recent discussions about people's religion and people's peak experiences with same are really interesting with regards to this event. It is indeed obvious why someone would say that they saw god in such a vivid, emotional, flash of insight, positive reinforcement, and (arguably) confusion.

The feeling afterward that one is capable of, if not responsible for, positive change would certainly be much easier for a Christian to accept from their god, due to people's (mine included) societal imposed predisposition to devalue themselves and the activities in their own brains. Even I am willing to ascribe some spiritual element to this event -- spirituality for me being a bit more vaguely defined. I feel there was some sort of shared common consciousness involved because the human amalgam element of the event was definitely not something that my brain has just randomly conjured up previously.

There was also much warmth and movement in a physical sense -- much of which, I suppose, was provided by the cat. However, when I was a black woman and was feeling such -- clothes, piercing eyes, looking out over the crowd and the world with a world view of determination and confidence and certainly a sense of purpose that I as J. LeRoy have never before felt. The amalgam was a huge range and mix of emotion -- mostly a weird feeling of gratitude for a kinship between people -- all people -- which has previously been denied.

When I got done jotting that down I wrote a long letter to my friend John VonSeggern, who is currently living in Japan and, therefore, doesn't drop by too often. I wrote for several hours, both before and after my 15 minute layover and plane change in Minneapolis, talking to John about responsibility and the social import of music and our peer group from high school and my month of travel and so forth. Before I knew it, the plane was setting down at Whatchamacallit Airport in Hartford, CT.

As I landed, I noted that the airport and the surrounding countryside made me feel like I was landing at Eppley Airfield in Omaha, Nebraska. The hills, the airport construction, and so forth all made me feel that way. The plane landed and we taxied around to the gate. The day before, Dave, the legal end of my extended family, had told me that I was going to have to wait for him because of a long court case he was involved in.

I got off the plane and waited. The airport was dingy, so I called everyone in Seattle I thought would be interested and gave them audio postcards on their answering machines. Having a wonderful time! Wish you were here! I gregariously bellowed. I told them all about the same thing, much to Ann's chagrin because they all turned around all called Ann and left messages on her answering machine saying what I said. So she, who also got an audio postcard - by the way, had to listen to its content about 15 times.

After about an hour or so, Dave drove up in his little hurling box. Dave has a Ford Escort, or is it a Chevy Chevette? It's a Chevette, well, like there's a difference. Anyway, Dave is an aggressive driver and it is like riding in a cardboard box at 65 miles per hour. I never felt particularly unsafe, but that's because when I was a younger man (not like I'm ancient now, but I was physically younger because it was in the past), Dave and I and others used to put ourselves in cars and calmly drive like lunatics. Being around Dave put me in that frankly stupid blind faith mode and, therefore, I never felt particularly unsafe, even if I did notice that I felt like I was in a hurling box.

Under Dave's direction, the hurling box flew toward Hartford. Then the box shot down an exit ramp and careened into the streets of Downtown Hartford, Connecticut. We exploded along the streets and avenues. This is that. That is this. Oh, that's the state capitol where I bumped into the governor once. That's a queer bookstore, I got my mom a mother's day card there once. Then, seemingly on purpose, we ended up at a Greek pizza place. We ordered a garlic and feta pizza, which was most delicious. Then we went out to the car again and rocketed around Hartford some more. This is Farmington Street, that's where Mark Twain lived, this is where I almost lived, but then I didn't because they wanted a lot for parking. Zoom.

I did get a good feel for the way Hartford looks and if I could paint or draw, I'd sketch a likeness of it so fantastic people would think I was a native. Finally, we went to The Hartford Brew Pub which is located under a parking ramp. The beer was remarkably bitter, so I drank little of mine, in the end pawning it off on Dave. I then had a Birch Beer. My pills made me hungrier than I even usually am, so I was eating all the food I could get my hands on.

After the brew pub, we shot out to the Middletown / Cromwell area where Dave lives. We stopped off at a grocery store with a really bad name like Stop 'n' Shop or something like that. I'll never understand why anyone would name a store Stop 'n' Shop or Pay 'n' Pak or Pay 'n' Save or any of the other names of that ilk. Do these people really believe that this instills us with consumer confidence? Do they really think that these names in any way convey a message of quality? God, I hope not. If anything, they show that it doesn't matter in the least what you name your strip mall in the US, if you build it, people will drive to it.

At the Verb 'n' verb I bought some bran muffins and some yogurt. Since I was on the antibiotics still, I needed a good shot of yogurt once a day. We catapulted out of the parking lot and to Dave's place.

Connecticut is the most bizarre place in the world. It left me (to borrow a phrase from They Got Their Steely Dan T-Shirts) It left me stunned and amazed. Dave Fisher lives in the middle of nowhere. There is no mass transit in Connecticut. Everyone drives. It is like Nebraska or Phoenix in that respect. Dave Fisher lives in the middle of nowhere. There are no stores, theaters, not even a 7-11. Just parking and apartments as far as the eye can see.

Now, normally, people move to places like these because they are dirt cheap. Dave's apartment is $500 a month -- for a studio. You can get a studio in Seattle, a notoriously expensive city, on Capitol Hill, for about $525 and have stores, restaurants, theaters, night life, fun, frolic, a good time, and love love love all around you.

Dave's place is very nice and Dave probably wouldn't get a swimming pool in Seattle, as he does in CT, but wow, the expense of Connecticut really blew me away. Now, before you go and condemn Dave, he likes living on the east coast quite a bit, likes his proximity to Boston and NYC, and he has a job that gets him recognized in restaurants. (While in the brew pub a woman recognized Dave from her divorce hearing and her table of friends applauded him and thanked him for all his help. For my part, I was picked out by different people as a Wall of Voodoo fan for no real reason.)

We sat around and talked for a few hours and then went to bed. Dave's guest bed is this bizarre flip out foam couch thing. It took me a while to find a way to sleep on it without destroying my back, but I did find a way. Then Dave started snoring. My eyes flew open and I wondered aloud, how the hell did I forget about Dave's snoring? It's big. However, I was so exhausted that, much to my shock, I fell asleep.

The next day, Dave woke up around 7 to go to work. I was totally exhausted and Dave played mambo music and blew dry his hair. He left though, and I passed out. Then, at about 9 or so, Dave's neighbors started yelling cheery conversation at each other from third floor deck to ground. Sort of like Hey Tony, how ya been? Oh I been doin' okay, hows bouts you? Oh I been doin' okay, but cha know that Rachel, there, she was in the hospital last week. No kiddin'? What for? And so on, I kept thinking that no one would continue a screaming conversation like that for very long, but these two guys went on for about an hour and I gave up and got out of bed. After I had emerged from the shower, they had stopped.

I watched Regis and Kathy Lee for the first time, only knowing them by their Saturday Night Live knock offs. They were worthless people in a worthless show. Donny Osmond was there adding comic relief. Regis Philbin reminded me of an overripe eight year old. My bran muffin was tasty, however.

BOSTON

Dave came home and we left for Boston. Dave opted to stay formal for his Boston trip and did not change from his suit and tie. We went out to the car and hastily drove to Boston. We stopped at one point on the Mass Pike for air in the tire and something to drink. I think the drive from the Middletown / Cromwell metroplex to Newton, MA, took three hours. I wasn't really paying attention. I just think I remember Dave saying "Three hours" at one point, but he could have been talking about the length of Brazil or the length of time it takes to watch the average baseball game or something else. I'm sorry I can't remember the exact travel time, I will try to fill in important details like this on my next excursion. Please forgive me.

We parked the car and boarded the green line for scenic Boston. While riding, I noticed that most of the people were rather bland. While Dave was pointing out a place where there might be a juice bar, three incredibly gorgeous 19 or so year old guys got on and talked amongst themselves. One of them made eye contact with me and held it for a while, but I started to imagine the complications this would pose to my journey with Dave and broke the contact to ask Dave a question. The guy looked perplexed, but the train stopped at Brookline and two more cute guys got on and started talking to the three, I wondered if all the cute guys in Boston belonged to some club. One of the Brookline guys seriously checked out Dave, who was oblivious to his admirer.

We got into town and changed trains to go to Cambridge. The people were all very interesting. A subway musician, who was actually pretty good, played for the people waiting in the poorly ventilated station. I was watching the moving lips of an asian woman talk as the train entered the station.

We rode to Cambridge and exited the T. We arose into the bustle of the area. It was a Friday afternoon and a truly beautiful day. Dave asked what I would like for lunch. I answered Hummous. He led me to Grendle's Den, which he knew not for the food, but for the Supreme Court case that the restaurant was involved in. Evidentally, when the restaurant opened they could not obtain a liquor license because some church had veto power over liquor issues. The church said "No" to beer at Grendle's Den. Grendle's Den said, "Bite me," and took them to court for violation of the separation of church and state and won. Therefore, Dave had a beer at Grendle's Den. "If it were not for the supreme court," he said, "I could not drink this beer."

We sat outside at this landmark restaurant. Like I said, it was a gorgeous day. We sat there for over an hour, relaxing. I rested my lungs, which were still showing the signs of the weird bronchitis stuff.

But we could not stay forever at Grendel's Den and we paid and left. No, we did not dine and dash in Massachusetts. We walked around and checked out a few bookstores. I found some anti-homophobia zine with an intro by Ivan Stang. In general, it wasn't such a bad introduction, although I felt that he was a puerile and infantile man who unfortunately possesses an ounce of talent and an annoying amount of luck. Several people I know disagree with me. Several others do not. Enough about Ivan Stang. I don't know, at least he's not Bob Black. Okay, okay, enough petty, catty, backbiting...

We walked around the Harvard environs and bought a box camera, but did not use it in Cambridge. Probably because I was anxious to get going. I don't know why, it was sort of stupid. Perhaps I was afraid of appearing like a tourist, which is stupid because I was a tourist, although, of course, I would prefer the titles renowned and beloved world traveller or esteemed visiting scholar. Regardless, I wasn't going to see the place for a while and should've gotten a photo snapped.

After a half hour or so, we hopped back on the T and went downtown. Downtown Boston. We started out at Government Center. I had read much about Government Center while studying Urban Planning, when I actually visited it, I wasn't all that impressed with the concrete expanse. It very much reminded me of the west bank at the University of Minnesota by the Opera House and library. Although it was quite hot and humid, the strikingness of the memory momentarily made me feel like I was walking to the Humphrey Institute for Public Policy for my interview in February, 1990.

The one saving architectural feature of both places is the unexpected juttings of buildings and stairs and other solid forms. The surfaces and the buildings are arranged in a way that would make some cubists really enraptured, well, maybe not. We walked through the plaza and on to Boston Harbor.

There was a summer concert series of light jazz happening while we were there. That evening's concert was just starting. We stopped so that I could rest my burning lungs. We hung out there for about 20 minutes and chatted about various things. We were going to get some lemonade, but then we didn't. I have no idea why we did not get lemonade, it would have tasted good. It would have made me feel like an enraptured cubist.

Boston Harbor seemed very very very very small to me, until I realized that I couldn't see it. We were sitting in Waterfront Park, the view from which is almost entirely obscured by docks and cranes. There are some very expensive apartments that line the park which would be nice to live in. I suppose it would be maddening to live there, though, if you didn't like light jazz, because it was fairly loud.

I had regained my breath, so we walked into Boston's North End. I found the area quite engaging, it was the east coast as I had envisioned it. Several places to shop, several restaurants, thin and intimate streets, and, overall, a strong sense of community. While Dave and I walked through the living streets, there were no less than three, and perhaps five, weddings going on.

Two things need clarification here. First, by living streets I do not mean that the streets were teeming with people, like the streets of New York, but that they seemed alive like arteries. The streets had a purpose that went way beyond being a funnel for people and the occasional car, they were conduits for the community that lived within it. Second, anyone who knows me knows that I am anything but a big fan of weddings, but these celebrations were being handled in such a way that the role of community in the celebration -- way beyond the limited concept of family as it is understood elsewhere -- was very apparent. Even with whatever problems this strong concept of community may bring with it, the underlying current of sharing and worrying about your fellow resident is a central theme. This is something that is never experienced in the false friend and indifferent world of the suburb.

This is what I look at as the most positive function of density. In a dense situation like North Boston, people do not have the luxury of brooding. If one lives with their partner and someone in the partnership is pissed off, things are generally brought out into the open much sooner because the proximity of the people involved leads to communication.

When you live in a suburb, it is much easier to just exist as a 1,2,3 or whatever person unit, totally separate from the world. After living this way for a while, the rest of the world begins to seem frightening and alien. The dehumanization of surburbanization so far outweighs the negative impacts that some people attribute to density that a measure could not be ascribed to it.

So when I say that I would love to live in the North End, I don't necessarily mean that I'm going to change my name to Tony Rosetti or revert to catholicism, but I would love to be part of a community that was strong enough to keep a place like that as clean as it is. Seattle should be so clean. It made quite an impact on me.

We turned back toward downtown and walked under the I-93 tribute to urban destruction, dodging cars all the way. Having safely reached the south side of the freeway, we stopped off for a beer at some place. I had a tonic and lime and took some of my pills. It was some guy named "Bob"'s birthday and there were photocopies of him all over the place. Bob and his friends laughed at a table next to ours. Bob looked up at me, so I toasted him with his glass. He smiled somewhat sadly and returned the glass tipping. Bob seemed like a monumentally dull individual. Bob's friends seemed to be celebrating his melancholy. Dave used the restroom before we left the 109 year old pub.

After this rest, we walked to Boston Commons. It was a pretty good hike for someone with bronchitis so my lungs were hurting when we arrived. We found a bench and sat there for a while. Dave, as always and much like myself when bronchitis-free, was filled with energy and a fair amount of get-go. Dave also has a very calm / stoic outer shell. These two things make him appear much more impatient than he actually is. He shifted his weight and stood up and sat down.

We talked about Boston and the Commons and the contrast of the city's political and social reputation and the people who lived there. People were rollerblading, bike riding, dog walking, frisbee throwing, hula hoop spinning, hacky sac kicking, photo taking, book reading, into-space staring, and participating in various other non-threatening activities. I regained my breath and we left the park for dinner on Newbury Street. As we left the park, I smiled at an african american woman sitting at a bench. She looked puzzled, then bemused, then she smiled back like I had given her a valuable gift. This in turn made me feel like the recipient of an equally valuable gift. So I left the park happy -- don't worry, I'm not going to mention cubists. The T efficiently whisked us in comfortable splendor to Newbury Street. This was the first place in Boston that I saw openly queer people. I realized that the lack of queers had put me on guard, somehow. I could feel myself relax somewhere inside. I'm not sure that this was justified, the open queers that I saw seemed to be very wealthy and pretentious with attitude for days and probably would have been no help to me in any situation I found myself in, but Boston was hardly threatening to me so it really didn't matter. It's kind of like driving, I suppose. Even when you're driving down a perfectly flat, dry road, you still need to be prepared to drive defensively.

We ended up at a Mexican place with outdoor seating. We had a hassle with getting seated, we waited a long time for our drink orders to be taken. Our drinks came after a long time. Then we ordered. I ordered a cheese burrito. The woman told me that they didn't have cheeseburgers. I said, "That's nice, I'd like a cheese burrito". She said, "No no, we don't have any, this is a mexican restaurant." I said, "No, you aren't hearing me, I'd like a cheese Buh-rrrreeeeeeeetoe." The woman looked puzzled. Dave said, "HE WANTS A BURRITO, NOT A BURGER!" She paused, "Oh! a burrito! I thought you said burger!"

The waitron left, to reveal the woman next to us laughing maniacally. She looked at me and I said, "I thought Buhreeeeeeetoe was a pretty clear pronunciation." She, her daughter, Dave, and I sat around and talked for the hour that we waited for our food. Finally, their food came. Dave and I had long finished our drinks. My tonic and lime came with a slice of lime rind and one or two of those little citrus fruit corpuscle things that I guess would be called lime meat attached to it. Dave and I were getting more and more annoyed. I was having trouble talking because my throat was dry. No one who allegedly worked at the restaurant seemed in the least bit concerned with our plight. Finally Dave screamed at a waitron who was a good ten feet away, "EXCUSE ME!" We ordered two more drinks that came right away. This time my lime had four or five piece of lime meat, so I guess it pays to be brusque.

Our friends were finishing their meal and I began to wonder aloud when the hell Dave and I would eat, seeing as how we had been there for about two hours. We could have flown to New York and eaten by then. If you added up the entire time we were there we could have gone to Toronto and gone to the yummy vegetarian deli down by the Skydome. But we weren't. We were at an outdoor mexican place in a pretentious part of Boston.

It is a beautiful area of Boston, Newbury Street. I think that it was one of the more quiet and intimate spots that Dave and I could have eaten dinner. I do think, however, that the Acapulco Restaurant will never again be visited by J. LeRoy. Finally, we got tired of waiting and Dave screamed at a waitron who was a good ten feet away, "EXCUSE ME!" She came over and we asked politely where the hell our food was and if it was being shipped from Acapulco.

In short order, our food arrived. Of course, I got a chicken burrito. I said, "It's a chicken burrito." Dave screamed, "EXCUSE ME!" Our waitperson came over and said she was sorry and showed me the ticket that did most certainly say cheese burrito. She took it back to the kitchen and within ten minutes I had a cheese burrito. I was more upset to get it that fast than I would have been if I would have had to wait a half hour. Obviously, they can cook them awfully damn fast, why didn't they cook it in ten, or even sixty minutes, in the first place?

The woman and her daughter left. Dave told me that I was simply too nice and how astounded he was that I could strike up a conversation with someone sitting next to me. He wondered if he had become infected with east coast indifference. I didn't know about that, but I found that everyone I spoke to on the east coast, with the exception of the staff at the Acapulco Restaurant, were quite eager to speak to me. I think that's true about anywhere, people are usually quite willing to talk to you if you are friendly and don't look like a maniac.

At one point I mentioned that I noticed a lot of attractive women in Boston, but the only attractive men were 19 and rode the green line. Dave talked about various women that he had met and about eye contact and things. I asked him if he even noticed when guys checked him out. As I said, Dave has a cultivated stoic shell. At this question, his shell sort of wavered. He said he didn't even notice. I told him about the guy checking him out after Brookline. In what could be perhaps the most incredible and interesting enlightened-heterosexual reaction I have ever seen, Dave visibly considered this for a short while, found it interesting that some guy would do this, and then filed it under the useless but interesting file in his brain. It would be like if someone told me that 6 year olds found me exciting, it would be interesting, but wouldn't do anything for me really as I am not pedophilic.

I laughed at this reaction of Dave's, because it was unique and pleased me. I think he thought I was laughing at him, which I was not.

After the second ice age, our bill finally came. I gave them a credit card and got back the slip to total it up. I just brought the total down. No tip. Dave looked strangely troubled by this. "There you see the end of my nice guy, I guess. I said. I go out of my way to be nice to people, but I resent being expected to pay tips when I've been treated this rudely." We left and Dave told me that I was that way -- nice until crossed -- because of my Irish blood. I'm not sure what my Irish blood percentiles would be, so I didn't argue.

The green line has three branches, so when the cars come in to Government Center they line up in three different positions depending on the final destination of the car. This is much like the way the Seattle Bus Tunnel operates. What it ends of meaning is that a large group of people who are getting off soon enough to just want any green line car wait in the middle of the platform and then run to whatever platform position the cars are stopping at. I think that's annoying, don't you? The transit agency should provide an electronic sign, like in London, that says what train is coming next. Then the people could walk to whatever end of the platform the thing was stopping at. Much more civilized.

The green line's historic looking PCC cars waggled us out to our car. Then we switched to the hurlmobile and zoomed off for Connecticut. After a quick tour through more of Hartford, we went back to Dave's place and talked until we fell asleep.

NEW YORK CITY

The next morning I was hungry beyond belief, so we went to a Friendly's. All the Cromwell folk seemed to be out that day, no, that's not really true. The place was about three quarter's full. Our food was okay. I had a couple eggs, a cheese danish and white toast! Wow, white toast. Akin to asbestos tiles for breakfast. I found it unique and amusing, so I quickly ate a bite because I was certain that Dave was going to scream excuse me again.

After we ate, we drove through the Friendly's maze, which is disguised as a parking lot. Finally, we found our way out of the thing and left for Bridgeport and the train to the city. We didn't talk too much on the way, we were both contemplative, I think.

We made the train by about three minutes. I got a bottle of flavored mineral water that was so flavored that the actual mineral water content must have been about 5%. I watched the Connecticut and New York landscape fly by. The monied part of Connecticut, the large boats of Bridgeport Harbor, contrasted greatly with Harlem and The Bronx. Of course, neither the areas of Harlem nor the Bronx visible from the rail line even began to approach the urban blight of Detroit or south Chicago. New York, it seems, just abandons buildings, while in the midwest the more accepted practice is to destroy the building and abandon the rubble.

When Dave and I left Grand Central Station, about 75% of my health problems seemed to disappear. My lungs had been cleansed with the purifying air of New York City. As we left Grand Central, I said that my favorite thing about transit and planes was that you got on in one spot and then you hurled through their air or underground and suddenly, magically, emerged in a totally new place. I got on a MetroNorth train in Connecticut and emerged in the middle of New York. Several years before I got on a 747 and the door shut out Detroit and opened revealing Tokyo. Automobiles never just place you in the middle of everything.

New York unfolded as we walked it. The city's detractors talk about how dingy it is, how unfriendly the people are, how evil the subway is, and how crime is lurking every 6 or 7 feet. This is how I would describe New York: New York is like an urban treasure hunt -- there is a lot of grime, a lot of blight, and crime too; but New York holds secrets, treasures, and totally unique places that could only rise from the city.

I would rather have New York be less dingy. I would rather see New York not have so many abandoned buildings. I would rather that New York be an urban wonderland of smiling, happy, intelligent people that would all work in tandem of world peace and positive social change. But that's me. And that's not New York.

The legendary intensity of New York is neat-o, in the true sense of the word. It exists, but if you try to find its source you can't do it. That's all I can say about it.

Dave and I walked north through Rockefeller Center and by Central Park, jumping into the subway at 59th Street. We rode for a while and then walked through NoHo and SoHo, stopping in SoHo for a Coke and some Terimassu. We also stopped for a few minutes so Dave could nab a tie from one of the many tie vendors on the street. I got some money from an ATM.

Greenwich Village has the most pronounced sense of entry of the New York neighborhoods. There is no sign, no real change in architecture, the lighting is pretty much the same, but something gives you a sense of arrival. It is a value free feeling in a sense, not like Welcome to Greenwich Village we're so happy you could come but more like You have just entered Greenwich Village. Like the urban equivalent to The Queen has entered the theatre.

Dave showed me the club where he saw John VonSeggern play and talked about how John felt like he had to find something for them to do while Dave was there. "All I wanted to do was hang out," Dave said.

I tried to call Brian Goldberg, but he wasn't back from Boston. We walked across the Avenue of the Americas to Christopher Street so I could pay homage to this mecca of queerdom. My only goal as far as consumerism in New York was to get a one-line Christopher street shirt. The shirt that mixed transit and queerness into one neat little design. You don't get much more J. LeRoy, I suppose. I searched until I found it, I bought it, and that was done. I showed Dave the copy of OUTLook that had the pro bono cutting of So You Wanna Be a Rural Midwestern Bisexual Teen which made him happy.

From there we got some stuff to drink and sat out in a park and relaxed a bit. Although New York had cleared up a lot of my lung problems, they were still there somewhat. We walked around a bit more and stopped off at a random place for lunch. Lunch was yet to be served. Or dinner was, rather. I had some applesauce and Dave had potato pancakes, one of which he gave me. After about 90 minutes or so there, we left and walked around some more.

With a perhaps more than a little adjusting, I could live in the village. My lungs were starting to really become annoyed with all the walking I had done of the last few days, as well as the changes in climate and air quality, so I was resting more often now.

After walking over and looking at the Hudson for a minute or two, we walked back to Christopher and Seventh and I called Brian again. This time he answered the phone. We discussed a few places to meet for dinner, finally he asked if we wanted to meet at a place in the East Village. We agreed.

I didn't think my lungs really wanted to make the brisk walk, so we grabbed a cab. After driving around with Dave for three days, the cab drive was not the fabled harrowing experience I was expecting. In fact, I felt safer because the big Chevy Impala seemed like it could take a hit better than the Chevette.

The coffee house was rife with attitude. We were served with applied disdain. Dave had a beer and I had a lemonade. We were early, Dave leafed through the paper and I read the ACT UP Boston thing I picked up the day before. I realized that I hadn't told Brian what to look for, so I gave him a ring and said, "I just realized that I didn't tell you what too look for." "You're right," he said. "We're sitting in the corner, I'm wearing a white shirt and have floppy hair, you can't miss us." About fifteen minutes later a voice said, "Hello J. LeRoy sitting in the corner with floppy hair."

To fill in the reader, whomtofore I have more than likely erroneously assumed was conversant in the minute details of my life, to wit: a J. LeRoy Aficionada, Brian Goldberg and I had known each other for a year or two, but only through the mail. Through the writing of zines I have had the opportunity to meet a wide variety of people from divergent backgrounds and a variety of locales. This is the entire reason that I write. I have always felt that writing is a wonderful form of communication, as is any art. Communication, to me, is the whole reason that people are on earth. Communication between friends, lovers, academicians, ourselves, and so forth is the way we learn, legitimate our existence, build relationships, and,. in general, grow.

I have not met someone that I have not learned something from. Many people I have met feel that they do not have anything to say in print, yet they all have opinions, anecdotes, and feelings. This is all one needs and I feel that people's devaluation of their own ideas and creative urges is a major negative symptom of the world today. Everyone has something to offer, period.

My relationship-by-mail with Brian was a rocky one, we were always at each other's throats. He was always breaking things. Actually, I'm lying, it wasn't anything like that. Brian requested a BVI a few years back and I sent him one. He replied with a two page typewritten letter that brought up a lot of interesting discussions and arguments to what I said. I replied. Then Brian was eaten by his own volition. His tape distribution business was very labor intensive, his involvement in various groups, his art, and his relationship took up all of his time and then some. So instead of letters, I would get postcards, handwritten in Brian's meticulously neat sans-serif print, that briefly thanked me for the BVIs and promised a letter soon. In general, Brian's letters didn't get written, but I understood the demands on his time, so it was cool.

What did arrive from him were Auto Free New York fliers, blurbs on the NYC subways, a T-shirt (not new, he said, but recently washed), one of the most incredible films I've seen on growing up queer, and other generally neat stuff. I was rather intrigued and impressed by what I felt were the general warm feelings from the things he sent me. I felt that this was implied in the apparent forethought and choice involved in sending them. Then, about two months before I went to New York, I got a postcard that asked if I had received the video (sent on the day after I had sent a letter thanking him for same) that had the sentence I have been fantasizing about having a conversation with you. This rather strong wording prompted me to figure out a way to get this to happen.

Since I had just made plane reservations to visit Dave in Connecticut, I called New York information and got Brian's number. I got his answering machine (voice mail for you neunzigjungend) and left a message telling him my phone number and that I was on my way to his home town. He called back about an hour later and we talked for two or three hours. I was struck by the fact that there was no friction or stumbling blocks in our chat. We seemed to reach a level of familiarity usually attained after, say, six months of dealing with someone, in about eight seconds.

So that's who he is and that's how I met him and that's why he's in this story. While I'm at it, I should also explain David Fisher, whom you probably don't know from a box of rocks and feel very insulted that I assumed that you did. You probably hate me.

David Fisher is a friend of mine from childhood. We grew up together in the little prison camp of Grand Island, Nebraska. We had a peer group that was basically made up of the creative kids in our town of 38,000. We were creative and, therefore, the outcasts. During high school we had the only hardcore band outside of Omaha. We didn't play too much, despite our gigantic market area of all the space between Omaha, Denver, Kansas City, and the North Pole.

As our friend John vonSeggern, whom I apologize for not explaining earlier as well, has pointed out, a lot of our time that was used for honing our creativity was available to us precisely because we lived in Grand Island. This is very true. I am no longer in the habit of wishing that I grew up elsewhere. I cannot imagine what life would have been like without my friends from my home town, the bulk of which have scattered to the ends of the earth. I unconditionally love them, which is certainly a rare thing. But I wouldn't wish a Grand Island childhood on anyone.

Several of these people are described, incidentally, in J. LeRoy's Ingress and Dave Fisher is discussed in depth in J. LeRoy's Progress. Which are available from BVI and you can order them, if you are still curious.

Where was I? Oh yes, Brian, Dave, and I greeted each other. Brian ordered something to drink and we talked for a bit about where Dave and I had been so far and how I was enjoying the city. Brian asked if we were ready to eat. Dave said that I was always ready to eat. And Brian said we'd get along great, seeing as how he was hypoglycemic.

We paid and left for the restaurant, which wasn't too far away. I would be a liar if I said I remembered what the address was, but I think I could find it if you plopped me into the east village and said, "Go eat some vegetarian food."

Contrasting with the atmosphere of the coffee place before, the server at the vegetarian place acted like we may actually be human beings, which was refreshing. All in all, as I said before, I found that the gruff stereotypical exterior of the USA's east coast, is an easily cracked facade. Brian and I talked non-stop through dinner. We brought Dave into the conversation a few times, but he seemed content to spectate.

The restaurant seemed to be a very homey place where one could relax. We took about two hours to eat our dinner and desert. Brian hosted our meal, which I note for one reason...again there was no friction. I didn't notice it until later and, although it may seem bizarre to you that I dwell on this, I just found it fascinating. There was no designs of any sort placed on the act of spending money on me and Dave, it was simply an act of courtesy by our home town host, Brian. We left the restaurant and walked over to Tompkins Square for a beer. On the way, Brian said suddenly, "Wait here!" and ran across the street. We were behind two big vans and couldn't see where he went. We stood there for a few minutes and then walked forward a few feet to lean against a post that secured the huge chain link fence that kept people out of the public park. After a minute or so, Dave said, "Is that Brian?" I looked up and Brian was on the other side of the street, about 3/4 of a block away, jumping up and down and waving his arms. We correctly interpreted these gymnastics as a sign to cross the street, which we did.

He introduced us to two women who were out for a walk. We chatted for a bit and they continued their walk. We went to a bar on the corner of 10th and B. We sat outside and watched people wander and drive by. It was a warm summer evening and most of the people out seemed to be really happy.

This was an interesting contrast to the fact that Tompkins Square itself was 75% closed off to the public because the public was bad and didn't want land speculators to come in an fuck the place up. A peaceful demonstration was held, which included a concert that didn't end promptly at 23:00, so the police rushed the stage in riot gear and beat people senseless. The people fought back (which the Rodney King incident should have taught us all not to do -- when you are being beaten, lie really still and everything will be okay) and as a penalty they couldn't go to the park for a certain number of weeks. Why? Because we said so, that's why....

Nevertheless, during the night we were sitting there the area was friendly and active. We talked about gentrification, wealth, family, drugs, rights, government, education, choices, and some other things for quite some time. I sort of picked at my beer, which didn't seem to want to go down my throat. My chest was frequently burning like a Post Reagan Era forest. This was annoying, since my health had been flawless for a long time.

Because of this burning, when Brian asked what we wanted to do with the evening, I said that I didn't want to do anything that involved an obnoxious locale. We went to meet Brian's friends at a bar on 3rd, I believe, but don't quote me. It was a friendly enough little bar, but the exercise combined with the chest burning had left me rather dull. In addition, I wasn't into speaking up that evening, so the loud often country music in the bar muted me several times. I was pulled into a few conversations, but I don't think I made a very good impression because I would frequently fall into silence. My lungs just didn't have the oomph to belt out the words the way the venue demanded.

I think we were there from ten to twelve or so. Maybe a little later, I had lost track. Brian was concerned that I wouldn't be able to make the walk back on account of my searing lungs. I assured him that I would. He gave us a mini-tour of New York, being sure to give us the details of the city. Tribeca meaning triangle below canal, for example. (I should probably add, lest you think I am overly wimpy, that I was also carrying a 22 pound Land's End bag all this time.) He showed us his gallery. Guerilla Girls and Guerilla Girl-esque signs started appearing as we entered the area near the SoHo Guggenheim. We rambled on through New York until we reached Brian's loft.

"It's a five story walk up," he said. He and Dave then ran up the stairs. I walked, dragging my lungs along behind me. When I visited, Brian's loft was but a shadow of its former self. The few remaining pieces of furniture looked small and lonely in the vastness of the Manhattan loft. I called Ann and left a message on our machine at home in Seattle and washed my hands.

Dave and I took the futon, Brian stretched out on the couch. We talked for a while before going to sleep. Brian told me that my writing had a much more hyper quality than my actual in person persona. Dave quickly agreed. I think that must be because writing is very compact. I have already smashed three weeks into just a short essay and I rarely waste my time with glop. I hate glop.

We talked late into the night. The sounds of the hot New York night entered via the windows. Dave fell asleep and promptly started to snore. After about a half hour I said, "Dave, stop snoring." "Okay," Dave said. He stopped for a few minutes, started again, and then stopped. I think he stopped for good, but I'm not sure.

At about 10:30 the doorbuzzer screamed. Brian and I both shot straight up a'la Bugs Bunny. Brian went to answer the door, fully expecting to kill the one who buzzed, but it was Dave, so he didn't Dave came up and chastised us for sleeping so late. He had taken an early morning walk around City Hall and the World Trade Center and was happy with life. Neither of us mentioned that he got more sleep than we did.

New York II

I put in my contacts and we went out to eat a bite of breakfast. We sat outside in an interesting way. Sunday morning, the streets were all but deserted. It was like being a character in one of the many NYC post-nuclear holocaust Twilight Zones. Whether it was a fierce looking Elizabeth Montgomery viciously eating tinned food or Burgess Merideth moping over his broken glasses, it was always shown as a deserted New York and always with the wind blowing papers around.

We sat and had our breakfast. It was rather tasty. Inside the restaurant, the only people who were visible were an 80s punk, holding fast to a past decade, a man in a suit and tie who seemed to only sip coffee, an Italian guy whose fuzzy chest poked through his shirt and his female Italian or Puerto Rican companion in her fishnet stockings, leather skirt, and warning beacon lipstick.

I was telling Brian about how every mental picture of New York I had was not complete without an ineffective street cleaner as an ineffective street cleaner went by. It pushed the paper and refuse up onto the sidewalk, sort of the way snowplows push snow into people's driveways, only to have the people shovel the snow back into the street. Dave took a picture of us. "Oh, you take pictures?" Brian asked. "Yes, it helps me remember," I said. "Oh really," he replied, "they always make me forget."

We finished our meal and Brian walked us up the street. He pointed up towards the Chambers Street subway entrance. We thanked him for his hospitality, he thanked us for coming. Dave and I trudged for the subway. Brian went off to continue his preparations for selling almost everything he owned and drive across America.

After a bit of trouble finding a subway station that was operational, Dave and I rode up to Park Avenue and 56th, where I called Ann at a payphone. When I told her where I was, she asked me if I was going to stop by and see the guy who gave her a scholarship to go to MSU and then proceeded to try to tell her how to run her life at every turn. I told her that I was not going to do that. We talked for about 15 minutes, while Dave paced back and forth. At one point, Dave walked up behind me and reached into my bag to get my camera. I almost killed him, as I thought he was someone trying to steal something. But he was him and thus did not warrant any punitive pummelling.

Dave took a picture of me talking to Ann.

We then walked to the Museum of Television and Radio. On the way there, we stopped off and got some food from a vendor. Dave munched a fairly cheap looking hot dog, certainly not the big all-beef variety we used to eat when we lived in Denver. I was content with a hot pretzel and a Coke. We trudged through the streets of Midtown Manhattan which were randomly filled with people or deserted. I mentioned to Dave that I felt slimy, not having taken a shower and all, which he dismissed, saying that he "felt New York grimy."

We got to the block where the museum was supposed to be, but it didn't jump right out at us. We quickly jumped into MOMA and asked where it was. It was virtually next door, but the doorman didn't treat us like idiots, which he could have easily done.

We went to the MTR to see the Jim Henson exhibit. As far as actual muppet artistry, there were only a few exhibits, the original Kermit, Stadtler and Waldorf, Earnie and Bert, and a few other muppets. There was a few pictures of Jim and the gang taken at various times, included the post mortem TIME magazine cover.

Dave went to the radio listening room and then to an old television variety show exhibit. While he was doing that, I went to see The Frog Prince, which I could have seen anywhere. They merely exhibit the works, I was hoping for a more comprehensive five or six hour retrospective. So I watched that, to at least get a Jim Henson feel. My friend Pete went a few weeks after I did and he used their archives to watch a few old television things, like the first episode of Soap, for example. I would have done the same, had I my wits about me.

Dave and I reconnoitered and stopped off at the paraphernalia shop on the way out. I got a Jim Henson T-Shirt. Dave purchased an Earnie Kovacs video tape.

After the museum, we walked over to the United Nations, so I could pay homage to the only real testament to human beings even attempting to create a better world on a grand scale. Dave took a couple of pictures of me in front of it. One has his fingers all over the lens. A bunch of people walked by and looked at me like I was weird for getting my picture taken in front of the UN. It's the damn UN! I wanted my picture taken in front of it. So sue me!

We went inside. Security only peeked in my bag, which I thought was odd, given that it was filled with about 18 pounds of stuff. We walked around. I scritched the walls and sat on a bench. I got a UN pin. Then we went down to the gift shop. I got myself a T-shirt, a coffee mug, and my nephew a couple of little tiny T-Shirts, which he will be able to wear in 1994 or 95. I wanted to get him something, though and I thought he could use a T-shirt long before he could use a coffee cup.

So New York had become the T-shirt mecca for J. LeRoy. Two days, six T-shirts. If I lived in New York, I would buy 1,095 T-Shirts a year. It is a good thing I don't live there. I am certain, however, that it would not be in the least bit difficult to buy 3 T-shirts a day in New York and never get the same one twice.

Dave and I then walked to Times Square. There was a big gospel shindig going on and there were about 3,000 people on a stage singing. Times Square looked like it was trying to be Tokyo's Shinjuku, but it didn't have nearly enough electronics places. And even with the gospel shindig, there weren't enough people there. I remember being in this Shinjuku record store one night, I picked up about five double CD sets, that in the US were only available on one expurgated CD. The record store was five stories tall and the only vertical conduit was this rather thin stairway. The store was crammed with people, but people very rarely got in each other's way. It was like everyone was moving at exactly the same speed and in the same direction. In Times Square, everyone was bumping into each other. I was thinking of John Rechy when we left for Grand Central.

The walk to Grand Central was relaxing. My lungs were really getting angry with me, but I was ignoring them. We went to a long, thin and poorly laid out deli / convenience store and got a few snacks. I picked up some Evian water, some RC, and some candy that I can't recall. I paid and the clerk said, "Enjoy your snack," with a smile. I noticed that I hadn't even glanced in the person's direction. I looked at him and smiled back, saying, "Well thanks! I'll do that. See you later." He seemed to feel as pleased with himself in making me be civil as I was in doing the same to others the previous day.

We got on the MetroNorth train and found a seat. This woman came into the car and said to all that she had lost her money in a fight outside the station. She seemed very sincere to me, but no one believed her. Most audibly ignored her. When she had left I said to Dave, "Suppose, just for a second, that she was telling the truth." "Right," Dave said, "she said she needed Five Bucks, train fare is seven." "Maybe she already got two." "Thousands of people come through Grand Central station every day. I'm sure they have some procedure to help stranded travellers."

I wondered what I would do in a similar situation as the one this woman was allegedly in. There was one time in Denver when I had not a dime to my name. I had ridden the bus downtown to apply for a few jobs and check my Post Office Box. All I had in the world was the 35 cents in my pocket. Bus fare - Off Peak. I waited and got on the Tennessee bus that went by my place. I dropped in my 35 cents and the driver said, "It's still Peak Period." By my watch it was one minute past peak period. The drive insisted that it was peak period and would not let me ride. I had no money and could not get home. I ended up going to where my roommate was parked and sitting on his car for four hours. There was no place for me to go. I'm sure that a lot of the people on the bus, who ignored my plea for the extra 15 cents for Peak Period fare, thought that I could just go to a cash machine or call a friend. The only place I had to go was my roommate's car. In fact, it was only by the good graces of my roommate that I wasn't on the street at all.

"There's your Harlem," Dave said. As Dave and I had walked the streets of Manhattan, we talked about the representations of New York by various writers. I went on at length about Langston Hughes' descriptions of Harlem as he first walked into it. I looked down upon the sunny streets of Harlem. People milling back and forth. I was sorry that I didn't have a chance to visit it. Harlem, from what I saw of it, reminded me of Chicago in the summer. When the doors opened at 125th Street, I just wanted to jump up and run down into the street. I was filled with some strange need for flight, to run, to escape something. But I couldn't figure out what.

The train started to move again. I was lost in thought about whether or not I was leading a life that was valid for a writer. I wondered whether being an Urban Transportation Planner was killing my creativity. As I had concluded before, I came to the conclusion that it didn't matter in the least what my occupation was. It's hard to stare at my desk everyday, however, and believe that I will amass the same amount of unique experiences that Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, or George Orwell did. It is hard to keep in perspective that Langston sat on a stationery ship in New England for six months and never went anywhere; that Maya Angelou sat in a crummy little apartment and didn't go anywhere for a year while her son was in the hospital and recuperating, or that George Orwell was homeless for quite some time.

After a long while of silence on the train, Dave and I talked all the way back to Cromwell. Once there, we went to a pizza place called The Athenian or The Parthenon or the Greek sounding thingamabob... The pizza there was really fantastic. Cromwell is small enough that you should be able to find it. It's in this older downtown sorta looking place and isn't in a strip mall or anything like that. It was very nicely seasoned and had a really great texture. It sort of reminded me of an even better version of Lincoln, Nebraska's, Valentino's, back before they became a chain and drastically cheapened their sauce and choices of ingredients.

We then went for a short drive and then back to Dave's. We stayed up late to watch the Earnie Kovacs video. Some of it was very amusing. It was certainly obvious that very many of his original techniques are still being copied. It was also interesting how very surreal a lot of the show was. Neither Dave nor I were expecting the surreal bits. One thing that I found intriguing was that Kovacs' gay poet character was rather indiscrete, incredibly so for the time period, and was funny on his own. He did not (totally) rely on stereotypes to create his humor for him. His poems were just amusing, as poems. While this character was rather goofy looking, so were all of Kovacs' characters. His character was so much less offensive than Damon Wayan's mincingly stereotypical gay-boy character that it was astounding.

We talked for a couple of hours, until it was about 01:00. Dave had to wake up the next morning for work, so we drifted off to sleep then. Dave snored, but I was getting used to it. The next day, Dave showered, played music, blew dry his hair, and all those noisy things. After he left, I went to sleep again for a few hours, then got up, showered, and packed. I listened to Jack Kerouac speak to me through Dave's tape deck. The sun came through the sliding glass door. It was all pretty neat.

Dave came home. We went into Middletown so he could register to vote. First we ate lunch at an Indian restaurant that was very tasty. I tried to pay with my MasterCard which was declined after overuse. I was surprised that I had spent that much money.

In Seattle, there are always people clinging to your shins as you walk down to the street, saying, Have you registered to vote??? They all have clipboards, just waiting to register you to vote. In Connecticut, you can only register at the courthouse. Both the Democrats and the Republicans have a secretary in the registration room. No socialists or independents or anything like that, though. They made Dave fill out a form and say a little oath. Something like, "I promise to be real good." There was something in his oath that annoyed me, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was. It may have said something about god, but I doubt it.

I talked to the Republican secretary as Dave did his little registration song and dance. She asked me if I was going to register. I told her, "No, I'm just here to watch." She asked me why I didn't want to register, "Because I don't live here, I'm from Seattle, where I am registered to vote." I told her that Washington was a Dukakis state in the 1988 election and how proud I am to be from a state like that, given that I used to be from Michigan where the people were so incredibly stupid that they voted to Pat Robertson. She stopped talking to me, but kept trying to continue the conversation, in the way that Republicans have down to a science. You know, they continue talking to you, but manage to get you to only talk about worthless garbage.

"What's the weather like in Seattle?" She asked. We talked about weather for a few minutes, until I realized that she had pulled a Republican "I don't want to hear your views" zap. I was in an evil mood, so at one point I said, "Of course, after Reagan and Bush, our weather is getting a lot worse. All of the rampant deforestation that the last two administrations have allowed is destroying our ecosystem up there."

Oil started to leak from her forehead, as she realized that the weather, that ultimate safe conversation topic, had failed her. She so wanted to be nice. Luckily, someone walked in the door. "Would you like to register to vote?!?"

Dave finished and we left. "What could you possibly have been talking to that Republican woman about?" he asked. "Oh nothing," I replied, "I was just being cruel."

We drove to and around Hartford. Midday on a weekday, as usual, we careened around Hartford. After a bit, we decided that we should head for the airport because the last few times we were near Hartford, the freeway to the airport was crammed with cars, backed up due to construction. There was no cars, the construction was much less of a problem on that day. This gave us extra time to go to the Connecticut Trolley Museum.

The Trolley Museum was a great deal of fun. The trolleys themselves were in good shape, but looked lonely, out in the middle of nowhere and all. I went to their gift shop too and consumered a bunch of trolley stuff that was definitely needed. After the trolley museum, we went to the airport and I left.

On the first leg of the flight home I was on a DC-9 -- which has lots of leg room, but has a cabin pressure system designed by third graders. Invariably, you have a headache by the end of a DC-9 flight. The second leg of the flight was on a DC-10 -- which is great for cabin pressure, but has all the legroom of a third grader's desk. All in all, it would seem that McDonald Douglas has for too many third graders in their employ.

On the second leg of the flight, I was sitting next to a BUSINESS MAN. He spent the first twenty minutes of our flight looking a sales reports. I pulled out a copy of QW and started to read it. I noticed one minute he was reading over my shoulder, the next he moved! He realized that he was sitting right next to a queer boy and moved! This left me with the luxury of stretching out my legs into the next seat. Leaving me with a lavish two third grader allotment of legroom. I was simply thrilled!

Phoenix, Arizona

My parents live in Mesa, Arizona. My grandparents used to hang out in Sun City. My good friend Kim is from Tucson. My company has an office there. It's hot. The first people to sell BVI-Central are there. This was the extent of my appreciation for Phoenix, Arizona, the day I left Seattle.

My flight left at seven a.m. again. I took the airporter to Sea-Tac and waited in the Alaska Airlines wing for my plane. After a few very long phone calls to Dave Fisher, I boarded my flight. I was reading Beloved, as the plane taxied down the runway.

Behind me sat two girls. One was about seven or eight and the other about five. The older girl had flown several times before and was quite used to it. It was obvious by the way she acted that she felt very grown up and really got into the whole flying alone scene. The flight attendants treated them like they were one or two. Overemphasizing all their syllables and other speech effects that people put on when they talk down to small children.

"Is this the first time you've ever flown in an airplane?"

"No, I've flown to Phoenix a lot."

"What are you going to do there?"

"We're going to stay with my aunt and uncle."

"Well, that should be LOADS of fun!!! You two should have a very good time."

This went on for far too long, the flight attendants were treating this girl, who was obviously enjoying the autonomy and responsibility she had been granted by her parents, like a total imbecile -- effectively negating any positive effects that such a solo flight could have. I know this from experience. When I was twelve, I flew to Scottsbluff, Nebraska, to visit my grandparents. I was really playing it cool in regards to being the experienced flier. The attendants treated me in this very same manner, at one point giving me a hand puppet and an old maid deck of cards to keep me busy. They interrupted my reading Watership Down, to give me the toys. I was mortified.

This girl seemed to have a much more pleasant demeanor about her than I did when I was twelve, no doubt because she was much younger and the treatment was, for her, not as humiliating. In any event, I was really appalled at how condescending and disrespectful these people were to this girl.

On the way to Portland, I had a conversation with the guy next to me about literature. We talked about Toni Morrison, Kobo Abe, and a few other people. I was just really getting into the conversation when the plane landed and he switched seats to sit with his companion. I read and fidgeted the rest of the way.

When the plane landed in Phoenix, I gathered my things and got off the plane. The airport was not too crowded and the Hertz counter was right by my gate. I got my paperwork filled out and walked out the door to my car.

I prepared myself for heat. I remembered the 105+ days on the plains of Nebraska, with 105% humidity. I remembered going for air conditioned space into the summer heat. As I approached the door to the rental deck, I steeled my back for the inevitable blast of hot air. The doors slid open and I was standing in the desert.

To be sure, it was a good fifty degrees farenheit hotter out there than it was in the airport, but there was really no feeling of ... anything. It was hot, but that was it. It was a bit uncomfortable, but certainly not anything near the discomfort of a Chicago July day. I walked to the White Ford Tempo, threw my stuff into it, and drove to the security gate. A guard lazily checked my papers to make sure I really could drive out with the car. Then I headed for my room at The Pointe at Squaw Peak.

I turned on the radio. It played oldies. There are 10 billion oldies stations in Phoenix. They all play Rod Stewart and Credence Clearwater Revival a lot more than is really necessary. I don't think I went more than six hours while in Phoenix without hearing Rod Stewart.

I drove north to my hotel. It was a speedy drive. Everything in Phoenix is a speedy drive. The streets in Phoenix are all at least five lanes wide, many times seven, and have 45 miles per hour speed limits. Driving in Phoenix is like being around an entire civilization based on the Grease method of driving. In Grease, they had their drag races in the washes. This is exactly what happens in Phoenix.

The desert is not the first place that you want to build a city. Water comes all at the same time. You go all year long with no rain, then, over the course of about a month, you get about the same rainfall as the entire rest of the country does in a year.

I had the great fortune of being in Phoenix during the Monsoon season. I was treated to the ramifications of this first hand. These huge roads become floodways. Rain will fall at the rate of several inches an hour on land that, even if it were opened and untouched, could not soak it up. Phoenix is very concretized, resulting in standing water everywhere. Just like in Grease, after (many times while) the people have driven at 50 or so MPH through these city streets, the rains come and fill them up.

Of course, there are real washes to take this water out of town, but they're about as effective as putting an electric blanket on your driveway and expecting it to keep the blizzard off. The monsoons are merely a fact of the desert and there is really no way to avoid the floods. Of course, this does not stop people from being amazed at the flooding. "I've been living here all my life, and my house has never flooded. Can't figure out why it did this year..." was a common utterance of interviewees on the evening news. I just stared at the television and wondered if these people really believed that the weather was a static entity that came in and did the same thing every year.

I talked on the phone to Lea Kent who was attending college in Bowling Green, Ohio, that first night I was there. Then I went for a drive through Scottsdale until I couldn't take anymore. It was grids and grids with no sidewalks. If you really had the gumption to walk somewhere, you would walk along the roadside until you reached a corner, then run across the 8 lane road hoping that the average Scottsdale resident didn't smash you with their newly acquired Oldsmobile Delta 88 or Cadillac El Dorado. Driving around, I felt very much like I had mistakenly ended up in western Nebraska where there are pickups or Cadillacs and nothing else.

The next morning I went to the office. It was about 110 degrees and I parked in the wrong parking deck, which meant that I had to walk about four blocks to the office. The major problem was that Phoenix has no landmarks whatsoever. I drove into a sea of parking garages and picked the one that I thought was correct. It wasn't. I walked into the building closest to it and looked on the roster for my company and it wasn't there. I walked out the front door of the building and looked at the address. I was in the wrong building. I looked down the street and, on the other side of a shopping mall, I could see the right one.

I walked out into the heat and down the road. It was about three blocks' walk. I didn't think that it would be much of a problem because the heat didn't seem that bad. Desert heat is cumulative. The longer you walk, the hotter it gets. Chicago, Omaha, midwest humid heat, that takes a toll right away -- the instant you step into it. Desert heat feels rather refreshing at first and then you slowly realize that it is really damn hot.

By the time I got to my building, I was totally dehydrated. I bought a mineral water in the little snack shop in the lobby and went up the elevator. That day I met the Phoenix office staff and went back to my hotel room. After taking a shower, I went out and paid my parent's a visit.

When I got to their house they were on the back porch and couldn't hear me knock. The dogs were jumping up and down and barking when I walked in. My mother about had a heart attack when she found me in her kitchen. They weren't expecting me to be there until Monday. I sat around and talked with them until around 23:00. They told me all about living in the desert. I said that it was interesting to be that hot, but I wasn't sure I'd want to make it a habit.

I got back into the car and took off for Phoenix. The rains had subsided for a bit and I got onto the Superstition Freeway and joined the late night 75 MPH traffic shooting into town. Driving on the Superstition is like being in a slot car. By this point, I was getting frighteningly used to being in automobiles. Rod Stewart played on my radio as I watched the overpasses shoot by. I noticed that Phoenix has no landmarks.

After returning to the Pointe, I read the little plaque on my wall that told me all the famous people that had stayed in the resort at one point or another. Rod Stewart was one of them. So was Arnold Palmer, the Budweiser Clydesdales, Evil Kenevil, and James A. Baker III -- but none of them got as much radio play. It started raining again, I opened the door to the lanai and listened to the desert thunder as I fell asleep.

Saturday morning it was really sunny and about 107 degrees. I awoke around 10 o'clock, the dry desert air betraying the rain of the previous evening. I called Metropophobobia, the first bookstore to carry BVI stuff. I got their answering machine that told them that they opened at noon; I replied I'd show up then. After a quick bite of a bran muffin and some Orange Juice, I hopped in my desertmobile and took off to tool around the city.

There is so much of Phoenix that one cannot possibly take it all in. However, the downside is that all there is of Phoenix is sheer mass. It's like a city on steroids. It's really big, but it's all space and no real substance. As far as I could tell, the entire cultural community of Phoenix is located at Metropophobobia (hereinafter referred to lovingly as 'bobia.). This is nice, because it makes it easy to find, but it sure makes the rest of the Phoenix metropolitan area look like a huge waste of space.

In fact, Phoenix is just plain frightening when it comes to mass. It's some 50 square miles of trailer parks, single story homes, strip malls, and six lane roads. You can go to the grocery store all over the place in Phoenix. Brian Goldberg became so scared of Phoenix that he didn't even stop when driving around the country. "I just couldn't deal with all that pointless sprawl," he said.

However, I drove around this grid of doom for two hours, looking for anything that didn't look like everything else. I was pretty much unsuccessful. So, at noon I rolled up to 'bobia. I walked in to the store and saw Peter Ragan and Deedee talking to some guy. Not wanting to interrupt their conversation, I started perusing the racks of zines. 'bobia seemed a comfortable place to hang out.

At one point Peter walked around to the back of the counter and hit the answering machine button. My voice came pouring out. "Oh, that's me," I said. Peter looked up at me and sort of smiled. He listened to the rest of the messages and came back around to where I was and shook my hand. The old man was still there, only his discussion had taken a particularly racist bent. I could tell that there was some history between 'bobia and this guy, so I tried to pretty much lay low and assess the scene. He went on about being in the military and how he had to quit because there were too many black people and about being in the hospital and a lot of other stuff. After about a half hour, he left. He called Peter "Gov." It was quite bizarre.

I asked who he was, when he left. Peter just looked wistful and said that he wasn't really sure. He was evidentally just this guy who had sort of adopted 'bobia as a second home and then disappeared for about six months and came back with stories of surgery or something. Peter offered me a Coke as I sat on the couch.

We had a long and interesting chat about zines and politics and Phoenix and art and music and creating. At one point, Doug showed up and joined in the conversation. Deedee hadn't read any of the BVIs before. I was disappointed that I hadn't achieved cult status, but she sat there during the conversation and read all there was to read.

Peter told me that there was a benefit show that night at the Gallery X at 800 W. Madison. (Which, unfortunately, has since closed). After about four hours at 'bobia, I went back to my place and relaxed. I wrote a bit and took a bath. I was to show up there at 21:00, so I left at 20:30 and drove down.

The gallery was in the warehouse district of Phoenix and used to be something industrial. Downtown rents in Phoenix are dirt cheap, so both 'bobia and the Gallery were incredible deals by Seattle standards. I walked in the door and two queens took my five dollars. One of them pinched his nipple and said, "Towels are around the corner, have fun!"

I walked into the space. It was some ex-machine shop of some type with a high ceiling and a huge garage door at the far end. To the left my entry was the sound and video control boards and a refrigerator. The front 20 feet was filled with chairs, some stuffed, some barcoloungers, some dining room table chairs, a few couches. The performance area was prepared for that evening's show. There was a mike, a chair, some big black box, a few monitors, and other performance art paraphernalia.

Deedee and Doug were sitting against the west wall and I joined them. Peter was working the control panel and came out to say hello. After about 15 minutes, a woman came in wearing what could be described as "full mistress regalia" which certainly caught my attention. Her slave followed her in and waited to be told where to sit.

I asked Deedee who she was, Deedee said she was Mistress Catherine. Mistress Catherine looked right at me for a moment and smiled, I returned her smile. The show started more or less at that point. The beginning started with Doug and two or three good naturedly bitchy queens trading quips. This was really funny for me because the dialogue almost exactly matched an exchange that I had written in Randall Cantern ab absurdo.

After that had subsided, the evening progressed through all sorts of readings and performance art pieces. I was blown away by the content and the style. All in all, it was most certainly the best show of its type I have ever seen. I could not do it justice to describe it, if I had my wits about me I would have taken notes, but I did not. Just do yourself a favor and if you happen to be in Phoenix, find out if they're doing something and go to it. It's really the only thing to do in Phoenix other than drive or eat citrus fruit (there are these really good little limes down there...).

After the show ended, which ended with Doug jumping over a detoothed chain saw on a motorcycle using a human being as the pinion for his ramp, I was buzzed. Deedee wanted to get something to eat. She was asking people if they wanted to go. The group ended up being Deedee, Mistress Catherine, her slave, and myself. "This could be fun," I thought to myself.

It was about one in the morning when we arrived at Big Wong on Indian School Road. There are very few late night places in Phoenix because most of the people there go to be at ten p.m. But Big Wong #2 was open and Mistress Catherine was good friends with the proprietor. There were no good seats to get in the restaurant because there is no view of anything anywhere in Phoenix other than the parking lot. We were seated in the middle of the restaurant.

We talked for a few minutes about various things that we liked about the show that evening. Mistress Catherine told me that she was training to be a driver for the Phoenix Transit service after finding out that I worked in the transit industry. We talked transit for a few minutes. Then she and her slave told me that her slave was coming up to Seattle for the Leather and Lace Conference in October. I asked if the Crypt was putting that on.

The fact that I knew even the most rudimentary aspects of leathersex caught Mistress Catherine's attention and she started probing me about what I knew and what I did not know and evaluating me for future service. She was very flattering and did a pretty good job of figuring out which of my buttons to push. "When I first saw you," she said, "I thought, gee what a pretty girl. Then you said something and I thought oh! what a pretty boy!" I most likely blushed.

Later, she said that when people learned her name was Catherine they would call her "Cath" or "Cathy" and that pissed her off. She said that only her friends could call her Cath, and then said that I could call her Cath. Pushing a few buttons myself, I looked her in the eye and said with a smile, "I just figured I'd call you Mistress Catherine."

As the meal progressed, Mistress Catherine became a strong advocate of my having a nice enema before I left Phoenix. I had admitted to her that I had never had an enema. She seemed quite sold on the idea that one would be just what I needed. I'm not sure why I needed one, I guess I may never know. Unless I still need one, then maybe the next time I eat dinner with her she can tell me.

The end of the meal came with the restaurant proprietor singing Chinese songs to us on the Kareoke. The restaurant had been totally silent, save for the chatter of enemas and what not at our table, then from out of the blue came off-key Chinese pop music. We sort of took this as a cue that the evening was over as far as eating was concerned and settled the check.

I gave Mistress Catherine a hug goodbye and Deedee and I went back to my car. I drove her back downtown to her apartment. We talked for about 15 minutes and then she went inside and I went back to my luxury place, once inhabited by the Statler Brothers and Liberace.

Sunday was the family day. I woke up and ate a light breakfast, then headed back out to East east east Mesa where my parents live. After listening to Rod Stewart and watching dirt and dust and sand and other cars fly by at 75 mph for about 20 minutes, I arrived at my parents house. My dad wanted to go to the store and we did. He was being fairly crabby that day. But since I hang around so many bitchy queens, it was pretty mild by comparison. We got to the store and picked up stuff for the mountain picnic. In French it's pique-nique, I always liked that.

When we got back to the house I found out that we were also taking the dogs. I really didn't want to take the dogs, but they went. My mother, father, myself, and the two dogs, complete with picnic basket, piled into the little white Ford and drove up into the Arizona mountains. A few miles out of Phoenix was where Arizona keeps its trees. There were trees and the red Arizona mountains.

I'm not really sure where we went, but I think that we drove out SR 87 to Payson, then over to Kohls Ranch on SR 260 until we got to SR 288, then we turned south. My father was convinced that there would be a place to stop to eat somewhere in one of the three or four national forests that were up there, but we didn't stop to eat until we were near Theodore Roosevelt Lake. We stopped at this place that had a huge staircase that my father was not to happy to see.

We walked up and down the uninviting stairs three or four times to carry everything. Took a few pictures, ate, talked, and left for the rest of the drive home. It was a short day to describe here on paper, but a long day to live. After I took them back to their house, I noticed that the Monsoon clouds were coming home again and I went back to my place, the rain keeping visibility down to a safe 15 feet or so.

The next day was a work day. I spent the day, oddly enough, working on a proposal for my office back in Seattle. At the end of the day, I went and picked up my film from the trip back east and met my parents for dinner. I showed them the pictures of New York and Boston and Dave Fisher.

On Tuesday, I went to work and then out to Mesa again. I was beginning to think that the little white Ford was an extension of myself, an ill-fitting Rod-Stewart-invoking prosthesis. At 75 miles an hour I shot out to east east east Mesa to get my father's resume which he wanted me to work on while I was in town. I spent a few hours talking to him when I noticed that yet another deluge was about to hit the place. I didn't want to mess with the 15 foot visibility so I took off.

Rain had come and gone during the drive home and I had completed my trip on the Superstition and turned up SR-85 when I rounded one of Phoenix's perfectly designed blind curves and found about four police cars, an ambulance, and a big flat back truck with a crane picking up and Honda that had smashed into a retaining wall. There was no warning, I slammed on my fully-locking breaks -- stopping a safe 6 to 10 inches from the grill of the truck.

Wake up Maggie, I think I got somethin' t' say to yoooooo.

I was shaking like a leaf by that point, thinking, this is a dangerous place. I noticed that all the cars on the divided highway had stopped behind me and were waiting for me to move. I was really amazed. Cars not in my lane -- there were three northbound lanes -- were waiting for me to change lanes and go. The rain had started to fall. All I could hear was Rod Stewart. A police officer was staring at me, lit up in the pitch black by the flashing emergency lights and my dim Ford headlamps. It was entirely surreal. Everything had incredible clarity. I moved my prosthetic limb into the other lane and drove a little slower the remaining quarter mile to the Pointe.

After sleeping the night before off, I woke up the next morning and turned on the news. More Phoenicians were complaining about the rain. The news had plenty of shots of stupid morons who had lived in Phoenix all their lives trying to drive through the washes and getting stuck, their cars drowning in the water.

After eating and all that sort of stuff, my little white member and I drove off for work. I worked more on the report for Seattle, only getting into the photorealistic imaging that I had come to Phoenix for towards the end of the day. After work, I went and hung out at 'bobia and talked to Deedee and Peter II and several other people. I think that Doug was there. It should be noted that a good portion of the people who I met there were named Peter and I was remiss in taking polaroids and matching up last names. Therefore, I remember Peter Ragan, but I fear that the other Peter may have to remain Peter II. I apologize to Mister Peter II and express my earnest desire for him not to think that I don't value the memory of doing what I did next with him which was .... eat dinner.

Deedee, Peter II, and I went to eat dinner. We needed to go somewhere that I could use my American Express card at because it's easier to deal with my company's reimbursable people if I do. So we went to an Indian restaurant. The monsoon god was going berserk and the visibility was just lousy. We drove out to this place which was way out in some part of Phoenix, because everything is way the hell out somewhere in Phoenix because nothing is convenient there. It's a law. I think it's sort of a croquet mentality. You go to one wicket and pick up your groceries, then you shoot over to another wicket and get your medication, then you shoot over to another wicket to pick up some film, all this is designed to take up time -- which I gather is in abundance down there to waste it so.

Anyway, suffice it to say that Phoenix is inconvenient by design and we were in it and it was raining like all get out. We got to the Indian restaurant and they didn't take American Express. I opened the door and said, "Do you take American Express?" The woman inside said, "No." I said, "Okay, thank you." And we stood outside under the awning trying to figure out where to go next.

We decided to do something, but I don't remember what and were leaving to do it when the proprietor came running out and said, "Why did you leave my restaurant?" "You don't take American Express and I needed to use my card to pay for dinner." "Well come in anyway." "No, I can't pay for my meal." "Come in anyway, you pay me later, It's okay. I just hate it when people leave my restaurant." "That's very kind, but I live in Seattle. I can't just drop by." "It's okay, it's okay. You mail me money."

The wind and the rain made this conversation one that was just shy of shouting. We couldn't say no to an offer like that and went inside. They sat us at a very nice table. The restaurant was about 3/4 full and didn't seem to be hurting for business. Later, when I recounted this anecdote to Phoenicians they all seemed to know what restaurant I was talking about. We had an excellent meal and talked about a lot of things. It was a very nice evening.

Afterward, we drove Peter back to 'bobia and I took Deedee home. We sat in the car and talked. The weather had completely changed and was hot and muggy. A lot of drag bars were near Deedee's house and this guy came teetering down the street. I would imagine that he was a hustler. He came up and greeted me like I was an old friend. Then he saw Deedee in the car and said, "Oh, you're the good people. It's so good to see the good people." It didn't dawn on me until later that he was assuming that we were straight because we were a mixed couple. He asked for some money, but I didn't have any. He teetered off. Deedee and I talked a while longer until she was sure that he was really gone then she went inside.

As I drove home, I was contemplating my then current position. If it would have been under normal -- or at least less confusing -- circumstances, my trip to Phoenix would have probably been very different. But as it was, my relationship with Ann was in a very weird state. When I told her that Deedee and I were considering driving out into the desert to watch the sunset, Ann defensively asked, "You're not going to do anything with the Deedee person are you?" So I said, "No," and didn't, even though I really had every intention before that of at least leaving the possibilities open.

I wondered how my reactions to things that Deedee and I talked about changed with that imposed dynamic. What I wondered about most was in which role was I more or less superficial -- or, conversely, more or less authentic? That's really not a self-experiment that you can perform because every situation is unique. Then, perhaps, that situation, with the dynamic, was just as unique as any other situation that could have arisen. In which case the whole point is moot. So I went to bed with the lanai door open.

On my final day in Phoenix I worked, finished my father's resume, took the resume out to them. We ate dinner. I went back and packed. The next morning I went into the office for a little while and flew out of Sky Harbor Airport at 11:35. I arrived in Seattle at 14:25, got home at 16:00 and went to see the Roches at the Backstage at 20:00.

The next day it was August.

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