post-sidewalk-sale zombie

My neck is stiff. The small of my back aches when I stand up. My ankle hurts when I walk. There's a bruise on my knee and a cut on my finger.

I am post-sidewalk-sale zombie.

I don't need a Halloween costume.

During the course of this past weekend I clocked four miles putting up poster, dragged tons of trinkets, video tapes, bookshelves, filing cabinets and mirrors down three flights of stairs, chatted with literally hundreds of shoppers, haggled with some annoying ones, and celebrated selling the biggest and most worrisome of all the stuff that we weren't going to be able to take with us to the new apartment.

There were definitely moments worth recounting, including helping Bob's sister dispose of a Dean and Deluca shopping bag of poop (that's right, I said poop). But, I can't even begin to focus on a blog entry today. If you didn't get a chance to read last Friday's post about our previous sale ("normal behavior," October 28, 2005), give it a read.

normal behavior

This Sunday Bob and I are planning for another sidewalk sale in front of our Brooklyn apartment to get rid of the rest of the stuff we can't take with us to our new place. We had one other sale back in August. There was a surprisingly steady flow of shoppers throughout the day and at times it was such a mad house that we were lucky we could scrounge up help from several friends and neighbors to manage the crowds. Several passers by even thought it was a new flea market. They wanted to know if we would be there with new stuff every week.

This, of course, also gives you some idea of how much junk we had packed away in our Brooklyn place after the 11 years. Bob and I are both pack rats by nature and we had been out of control for a long time. Every closet and nook had been filled. There was no longer any space under the bed, or the sinks, or the couch. The large room that was once our art studio was packed so completely with so much junk, ceiling to floor, that we could barely make a path. It was like a suburban garage that no longer had room for the car. If we bought a new couch, the old one went in there; new shelves, the old ones got crammed in sideways. Never going to use that weight bench? Good, we can drape an old carpet across it and hang a love seat on the wall above it. I'm not exaggerating.

The purge has been a necessary but difficult one. It has taken months. We needed to let go of this garbage and we've done it pretty well. Last August's sidewalk sale was our good start and by the end of it we had made a butt load of money and had gotten rid of a lot of excess weight.

The sale also turned out to be a strange opportunity to meet some real characters from the neighborhood, many of whom we had never even seen before, like the short lesbian artist with the giant Dalmatian that was as tall as she was, and the nice young couple that dragged home a room-size carpet and a wobbly china cabinet several blocks across Flatbush Avenue. There was the woman with the strange tick that made her fling her arm out in front of her every few minutes. And the neighbor who just loves our Atlantic/4th Avenue end of Park Slope (what we dismissed affectionately as "Park Slump" the entire time we've lived there) who, when he heard that we were moving to the Village, remarked sincerely, "Comparable neighborhood." (Don't get me started. Find me something comparable to the Strand, the Quad, and Norman's Sound within walking distance of the Atlantic/Pacific subway stop. Hell, find me a bodega with 1% milk or fresh produce other than Caribbean root vegetables.) And of course there were several gay couples who hung out at the sale, wanting to know everything about our life and our apartment.

One of these gay couples had actually come to check out the larger pieces of furniture that we had listed in our ad on Craig's List. I asked Josh, a young straight friend from work who was helping us out with the sale, if he would please take this couple upstairs to the apartment to look at the furniture we were selling and keep an eye on them until I could come up. Now Josh is indeed straight and also cute. He could easily be one of my models --swarthy, hairy, friendly, nice eyes-- and this was not lost on the gay couple who also spotted one of my calendars on the table in our apartment.

"Oh, is this for sale, too?" one of them inquired.

"Um, I don't know," Josh told me later he had replied, "that's a calendar of photos by one of the guys who owns this apartment."

"Oh," the other member of the couple smirked, "are you in it?"

After the couple left, Josh pulled me aside downstairs and told me about their comments about the calendar. He said that after that exchange, one of the guys cornered Josh and asked him, point blank, if he wanted to have his balls licked. That's right; he looked my straight young friend from work directly in the eyes and asked, "Do you want your balls liked?"

"I wish I had been cool enough," Josh recounted to me, "to say something like 'yeah by my girl friend' or something so I didn't look flustered. But he took me so much by surprise that all I could say was something lame like 'no, no...thanks.'"

I felt a little protective, and wanted to track the couple down and ask them where the hell they came off.... but Josh is 26 and appeared to have fended well enough for himself. He paused in his story long enough for me to make another quick sale of some trinket or other and then turned to me and asked, "That's just not normal behavior, is it?"

I was about to make some mildly defensive comment like, "well, what is normal?" When I realized what Josh was asking. What he really wanted to know was whether this was common behavior. Is this the way a lot of gay guys come onto one another? Is it really that easy for you guys? Do you just tell someone you find attractive point blank what you want to do and it works? Do you know how hard we straight men have to work to get a fucking phone number!?

He didn't say that explicitly but it was all through his question, "That's just not normal behavior, is it?"

I replied, laughing nervously, something to the effect, "Some gay men are pretty forward with one another and you would be amazed at what goes on."

It got me wondering, however, if we gay guys do have it easier, when it comes to "getting some." I have no dating experience with women, but from what I hear from them some are pretty hard to get and some are pretty easy, whether or not they believe it about themselves. But if I had to venture a guess, I would say gay men are, shall we say, a little freer around sex than straight women and it was interesting to see the flash of recognition on this straight man's face.

We've already got the taste, style and wit "leg up" on them; do we have to have the "leg up" on scoring as well? I know that this is a way more complex topic than that; but I'm just saying....

expletives

Dottie accused me, playfully, this morning of being someone who can blog without using expletives. This after one of her great posts where she gets up on her soapbox and starts swinging. I love her soapbox posts! By the end of each of them I picture her slamming the soapbox itself down on the head of the already unconscious opponent and screaming, as the soapbox splinters into planks, "And what's more, fuck you." I want Dottie in my corner on every battle...forever. I should have taken her up on her offer to kick some contractor ass during my recent battles.

But she's right about me. Bob says the same thing. Somehow it feels so unnatural coming from me that I don't think anyone believes it, any more than they'd believe me if I tried to "bust a rhyme" or football commentary. I think being smaller than everyone else (girls and boys) in grade school, I learned to be more effective by thinking as logically as possible on the spot, stating the case clearly, and making all parties fess up to the truth of the situation, without wiggle room. And I am good at that. Bob likes that about me. He likes sending me into the fray where he knows he'd just be reduced to spitting and gurgling, "...a...oh...fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Then again, I like that he can back me up with that when I need it. And he's so big and scary looking doing it! (Even though I know he's actually a harmless teddy bear.)

See, the thing is, I'm impressed that Dottie can do both, and I wish sometimes I could be a little more forthright and ruthless when the situation called for it. Or, at the very least, to be able to use expletives in my own posts without pretending to quote someone else.

warranty

The voice on the other end of the phone is deeply familiar, yet gravellier and less certain. Dad will be 90 years old next April and is in the middle stages of Alzheimer's disease. A big, funny, kind man who worked hard to help raise eight children and then faithfully looked after my bedridden mother in her dying years, my Dad is now small and frail, and very forgetful.

When I call him on the phone, by necessity I must greet him with "Hi Dad, its Jay." It would be cruel, of course, to play the guessing game on the phone with a 90 year old with Alzheimer's, so by nature of my greeting he knows who's on the other end of the line and manages to hold that in his memory for at least the length of the phone call. For that reason, my experience is different from that of my sisters. He forgets who they are sometimes when they visit him in person or he forgets their children's names. We repeat names and dates and current news as much as possible in conversations, hoping they will sink in.

There are things he remembers and things he has no grasp of. During my phone conversation with him this past Sunday afternoon, when I mentioned that we were coming up on the anniversary of my Mom's death, he was surprised. He remembered well that the anniversary date is November 5th. But he thought at that moment it was springtime. When I told him it was October, he snickered, "Well, I heard the birds chirping." He often covers his confusion with humor.

My father's sense of humor is, in fact, one of his strongest characteristics. So is his love for my mom. My dad was crazy about her. He loved her very deeply, missed her profoundly after her death and whenever we speak of her he still gets a little choked up. Of course, being a man of a certain generation, he tries to deflect the emotions, usually with humor. He makes a joke and changes the subject fairly quickly after only a few moments of swallowed tears. But for those few moments that he allows himself to have those feelings I know that his memory is serving him and I'm grateful.

"It's been ten years since her death," I mentioned. "Can you believe it?"

"Oh my, no," he murmured, feeling his loss both of her and of time.

"I'm amazed that it's already ten years," I repeated.

"Yep," he choked, and paused. And then he added, "I guess I didn't read the warranty."

His remark took me by surprise and I couldn't help laughing heartily. "Well Dad," I chuckled, "I'm happy you didn't! I'm happy you and mom just took it all as it came."

It's bittersweet. My sisters and brother and I are holding onto Dad's person as much as we can until the disease steels him forever. He can forget what day it is, but as long as he remembers me, and my mom, I still have him. As long as his humor is there, I still have him.

the interview game - one more round

So, as I reported last week, Fat Chick For President found one of my old posts and took me up on my offer to play the interview game. The official rules are explained in my original post, but it went like this: Madame President sent a request for me to come up with five questions for her to answer. In turn, she posted answers in her blog and made the same offer that I did to interview volunteers. Finally, she sent me the following reciprocal questions. She accused herself of being long-winded in her answers. I may give her a run for her money with mine.

1. Your taste in men is apparent… tomorrow, you wake up and find you’re the highly talked about “last man on Earth.” Emotional recovery aside, describe the woman who would most satisfy your natural attractiveness quota… bluntly, one who would “do in a pinch” until the masculine species could be revived.

Wow, this is a difficult one, as I am the confirmed stationary peg tagged "homosexual" at the far left end of Dr. Kinsey's scale. While I love women, grew up with six sisters, think some of the most beautiful art every made includes the female figure, have great women friends and am even flattered that a few women have barked up the wrong tree over the years, when it comes to sexual attraction I am solely and staunchly homosexual. Believe me, I would be open to bisexuality if I could, but I don't even have any of that wiring or software installed. Send me a heterosexual file to download into my brain and no icon will appear, my being won't know how to open it. My brain might try to open it using my homosexuality software, but it would come out as gibberish with several error messages noting that certain appendages are missing.

But, if I MUST answer this question, I suppose those really beautiful and smart actresses like Charlize Theron, or Jessica Lange or Halle Barry are riveting when I see them on screen. But if I tried sleeping with any one of them, I'm afraid that we'd just sit on the edge of the bed and gently concede, "This isn't going to happen is it?" We'd then go off for coffee and talk about the really, really sexy, hairy-chested men that we missed having around.

2. Besides your photography, what artistic outlet do you pursue most often?

I wish I could say painting, because it is my first love, but I don't get the time or space as much anymore. At one time, my second and third loves were acting and singing but I haven't done either in years. So I suppose, beyond my photography, graphic and interior design are there most often drawing on my artistic skills and talents, even if it's primarily for my own projects.

3. Halloween is right around the corner. What “couples” costumes do you and Bob wear to the biggest costume party of the year to outdo the couple dressed as Ketchup and Mustard last year?

Well, since Bob and I are often referred to as "Fred and Barney" without being in costume (he is 6'3" and 290 pounds, I'm 5'4" and 150 pounds) I am certain that we could easily pull off even the most badly construction Flintstone costumes.

4. You stub your toe on a lamp in the sand. The genie pops out and says you get only one wish. After the pain dulls to a throb, what do you wish for?

At the risk of sounding very Miss America here, I would wish that all forms of warfare (terrorism, peace-keeping missions, weapon development, whatever) would disappear completely and forever. Right now in my life, I've got a sweet partner, will soon have a new roof over my head that I'm really excited about, Bob's and my health could be a little better, but we know how to take care of that. But the one specter over our lives that makes me feel most hopeless and helpless is the war and hate and insane rhetoric behind all of the violence in the world right now, and making it disappear completely in one clean, nonviolent wish would make the world a very sweet place to live in and travel and learn about other cultures and eat good food and....

5. What is one question you would NEVER answer during The Interview Game?

How much Bob and I spent on our new coffee maker.

men i would like to photograph - ervin katona

So a few weeks ago I decided to start a recurring entry in my blog titled "Men I Would Like to Photograph" with the first entry being Italian soccer hunk Angelo Peruzzi. I figured that anytime I see a guy that I would like to photograph, I will post his picture here, with a request to anyone who knows him (or someone who looks like him) to pass along my open invitation to sit nude in front of my camera.

Yesterday, a blog bud "theevilnub" over at Live Journal introduced me to the latest man I want to photograph: Serbian strongman competitor Ervin (Erwin) Katona. Ervin has the kind of handsome brutish face and massive body that I enjoy working with.

So once again, I'm serious about this invitation. If you know Ervin (or a close facsimile) have him contact me through my photography web site. (Caution: photography site may not be work-friendly.)

cortland street station

The R train passed through the Cortland Street station today without stopping. Renovations on the station will be in progress until February 2006 and until then all trains will pass slowly along the platform and the construction material and debris and construction workers and back into the tunnel without opening their doors.

The Cortland Street station was closed once before for several months in 2001 immediately following the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center, because the station sat directly under the buildings and the station entrances ended up under the rubble. During that time the station was as empty and dusty as a ghost town, yellow police tape draped between the pillars along the edge of the platform, large hand-lettered signs instructing the conductor "Do Not Stop" and "Do Not Open Doors." We passed silently through the station daily like mourners.

When I first heard that the Cortland station would be closed again, my heart dropped. I thought it would be a painful reminder of the terrified numbness I felt during those months after September 11. But this time around, all the activity, and sounds of machinery, and the construction workers with their butt cracks in full view of the train passengers, make the experience a completely different one.

Today as we passed through the station, a dyed-in-the-wool New York construction worker nudged his buddy and pointed at the train windows. "It's like Disneyland," he chuckled. "Like one of them rides. Like the 'Pirates of the Caribbean.'" I have to say that I agree with him and that I am relieved.

the interview game - part 2

The enjoyable, absolutely category-defying blogger Fat Chick For President found her way into my old posts and took me up on my offer to play the interview game. The official rules are explained in detail in my original post, but in a nutshell Fat Chick For President sent a request for me to come up with five questions for her to answer. In turn, she will post her answers with the complete official rules in her blog and make the same offer that I did to interview volunteers. If she likes, she can also do as I did with my friend J.P. and send me a reciprocal set of questions once she's answered mine.

So here are my questions for Madam President:

1. I love parents who know that they are really good at being parents, and you say as much in your profile. What is it that makes you such a good mom? I left the question vague, but I want depth and details.

2. Please provide a complete list of you and your husband's piercings (whether or not there is currently jewelry in them).

3. You are a self-proclaimed eccentric, and I know a lot of eccentrics who are former Texans. What is the trick to an eccentric staying in Texas and surviving?

4. What is the best, sure-fire, way for you to make your husband laugh?

5. If you could become famous for just one of your many artistic talents, which one would you choose and why?

right of way

Driving this weekend on the Jersey Turnpike behind a series of drivers who stayed in the far left lane whether they were passing someone or not, whether there was a string of cars on their tail or not, I wondered when the rules of the road stopped being taught.

I remember when my father taught me to drive, first in the parking lot of an abandoned shopping center on the outskirts of Kansas City, then on the back roads around farm fields and finally the broad lanes of Interstate 70. He impressed upon me there and then, with the stalwart authority of Atticus Finch, the important lessons of dealing with your fellow drivers on the road: signal before your change lanes, look over both of your shoulders before you merge, and always keep right except to pass. He said it with such authority and conviction I feared that I would be swiftly run off the road by the rest of the driving world if I ever forgot any of these rules. They seemed to be as immutable as the earth's roundness, hard work and taxes.

But the roads these days tell me that other people weren't taught to drive by my dad or Atticus Finch. Driver after driver (young and old, male and female, black, brown and white) drove along in the left lane, eyes straight ahead, minds complacently on who knows what, while frustrated drivers swung around them on the right and back into the lane in front of them. Bob philosophized that maybe they had no clue about the rules of the road. Maybe, as each of us whipped around them muttering "asshole" under our breaths, maybe these brainless lane hogs were thinking all of the other drivers were the assholes for riding their tail or honking or speeding around them. Maybe.

On the subway this morning, as happens so many mornings, passengers stood motionless in train doorways, inside and out, expecting the exiting passengers to squeeze through a narrow little crevice between them one at a time. The conductor could turn blue reciting "please stand back and allow passengers to exit the train." The exiting passengers could turn red repeating "excuse me." It doesn't matter. The guy inside the train doorway will stay planted firmly, headphones on, back and legs spread as if the door were still closed against them. And the people on the platform will stay transfixed directly in front of the door, with their eyes on the empty seat they've spotted like a dog eyeing a pork chop. No one has told them, and they can't figure out for themselves, that this is not only bad manners, it's inefficient. No one has placed a gentle but firm hand on their shoulds and said, "Scout, Jem, step back and let the lady off first. There will be plenty of time for all of us to board."

On the sidewalks above ground, as well, if we all kept right except to pass, if slow pedestrians didn't walk side-by-side, we'd all move along way more efficiently. But people stroll all directions, regardless of left or right, three and four side-by-side without making room for the person walking toward them. There's no rhyme or reason by age or social status. I want to think the threesome walking abreast toward me the width of the sidewalk are nothing more than entitled yuppie brats, until the next crew of schmoes behind them does the same.

And at the intersections it's caos as all forms of transportation come in contact with one another, everyone honking or yelling or gesturing wildly at one another. The pedestrians hate the drivers, the drivers hate the pedestrians, and everyone hates the bicyclists. Each thinks the other is the asshole; no one is aware of his or her own responsibility in the situation.

Despite this global world I live in, people don't seem to have as much of a sense that we share the world and we have a responsibility to get along with each other, certainly not as much as my small-town father had. It seems like everyone thinks they have the right of way and their rights are being infringed upon when they are simply being asked to think of someone other than themselves. And that goes for all of us, from pedestrians and drivers, to customers and sales people, to bosses, assistants and coworkers, to the President of the United States and other world leaders, all of us driving in the wrong lane, eyes complacently straight ahead, dismissing as assholes the people whose rights we're driving right over. We all need an Atticus Finch tapping us on the shoulder and making us stop and think.

two autumns

Thoughtful comments on yesturday's post inspired me to reflect further on the autumn that I now know compared to the autumn I grew up with in the middle of the country.

Growing up in Kansas City, autumn meant tall piles of smoldering leaves in broad front yards decorated for Halloween, the bright glow of klieg lights above high school football stadiums draped in homecoming banners, yellow rain slickers and big rubber galoshes leaping from school busses with a splash, hikes into damp woods with tall underbrush and blustery winds rattling through their vaulted branches, apples and gourds and pumpkins and Indian corn in the farmers' roadside stands, and the rush home to dinner and homework and the thick "Fall Preview" issue of the TV Guide.

In New York City autumn is like a surprise visit from a dapper gay uncle who spends his summers and winters somewhere else but in his very being personifies this City where he lived his best years. He was the reason we moved to the City to begin with. He arrives with lists of exhibition openings and new restaurant reviews. He makes us want to go to Lincoln Center or Central Park with him, even if we haven't been in a while. When Uncle Autumn is here, we feel like we have our City, and ourselves, back for a few short weeks. The summer's heat and sour baked-on smells are finally rinsed off our sidewalks and buildings. The trees that we've taken for granted for the past few months show their brilliance one last time as a reminder that they have overarched our paved streets and tiny parks another year and will return like a surprise visitor come spring. Evening descends earlier in autumn, extending the City's nightlife forward to greet us at the other end of our commute home. And at week's end, we take advantage of the final pleasant days to stroll the parts of the city we love the most before the snow and slush and holiday shopping lists take the pleasure out of it.

The difference between these two autumns is like the difference between steak and foie gras (I savor them both for different reasons) and the difference between childhood memories and adult longing. As I write this, as I prepare to move back to Manhattan and reflect on the disappointment I feel at not having moved in time to be living in the City for this season, I realize I am my own gay uncle or at least I want to be again.

autumn rituals

I love autumn. My favorite season is finally here and I would be all cozy and domestic if Bob and I were already moved into our new apartment. When we signed on the new place in January we worried about moving in the dead of winter. When we started renovations in March, we feared moving in the heat of summer. Now we're back to worrying again about boxes and furniture being dragged across slushy sidewalks. More importantly, I never would have guessed that we wouldn't be through this process before autumn. I thought for sure that we'd be all moved in and unpacked in time to listen to Ella Fitzgerald crooning "Autumn in New York" over and over again, while we sat on our fire-escape or the building's front stoop or in Washington Square Park around the corner.

Even still, I did my best this past weekend to celebrate the return of autumn. The flannel browns and tobacco greens have come back out of the closet. The colors of clothes for this season of the year complement my red hair better than any others. And Bob and I took a few breaks from packing and organizing our Brooklyn apartment to walk around the neighborhood. The air smelled of smoldering leaves (even in Brooklyn) and unseen fireplaces that hinted at whole scenarios of amber lit hearths and homes.

Saturday night we were drawn to one of our favorite autumnal rituals. We made hot chocolate with our new espresso maker (yes, at the push of a button...it's shameless) and settled into our comfy over-stuffed couch to watch To Kill a Mockingbird with a big bowl of popcorn and peanut butter cups. I was more attuned to the details of the movie than I usually am, from the arrestingly beautiful opening credits to Boo's appearance behind the bedroom door. I found myself in tears more than a few times. I realize that I'm overtired enough these days that long-distance calling plan commercials might also make me cry. But To Kill a Mockingbird is one of those outstanding films where story, acting, cinematography and history all come together to make a breathtaking work of art.

Our windows rattled on cue. Bob and I snuggled deeper into the blanket together in the flickering blue light of the television screen, and we controlled ourselves from reciting our favorite lines out loud, even though we both knew how tempted the other was to do so.

university research in the republic of china

A Google search on "Woolsrake" revealed about 1,840 instances of my name on the internet, most of which are simply repetitive listings on commercial directories for gay web sites, bear web sites, muscle-bear web sites, hairy-nude-men web sites...you get the picture. There are a few listings for my past gallery exhibits and my calendar as well. It was even fun to see a couple listings in Russian and Japanese! But the strangest listing was the proxy server remote host list for the web site of Tamkang University in Taiwan, which tracks the web sites visited by users using the Universities Internet server. Apparently, my web site received 297 hits on or around September 28, 2005.

Go Tamkang! Was this a secret little gay scholar amusing himself in the back corner of the library? Or was someone doing a report on gay subcultures in America? My curiosity is piqued!

the last issues of genre magazine

For almost a year at my Brooklyn address and now for several months at my new Manhattan address I have received monthly issues of Genre magazine for free.

Somehow, some gay thing that I bought put my address onto a gay consumer mailing list that Genre bought and then, somehow, they found out about my change of address without me telling them. Each additional issue of the magazine comes wrapped in plastic with a great big subscription card over the front cover that reads something like "This is the Last Issue...unless you subscribe." And even though I don't ever subscribe I keep getting one more "last" issue.

Genre magazine is like the Seventeen magazine of the gay world. It's so vapid it's not even guilty reading like People or HX. I leave the most recent issue in the library (a.k.a. la toilette) and skim through the articles for something interesting to read in five minute intervals. But the articles are frighteningly vapid: 10 questions to know if your boyfriend is a good traveler; a fabulous interview of the current fabulous boy toy celebrity conducted by the current fabulous cultural guru; an endpaper on standing up for your gay rights or learning about new gay health concerns thoughtfully penned by the current fabulous drag diva; choosing a designer backpack to match your designer watch. When did gay men have to be told how to choose designer anything? Especially young gay men!

I've read bits and pieces and I get nothing from it, not even from the celebrity interviews or film and music reviews, that I can't also get from a 30 second spot on Entertainment Tonight. It's like flavorless cotton candy. Do I need a school locker to paste the pictures up in to appreciate this fluff? (Even with a locker, I wouldn't paste up the pictures. There isn't a body hair to be found on a single page of the magazine, no matter how low the jeans ride on the models' hips.)

What goes through my head, nevertheless, as I toss each copy down the recycling shoot, is how amazing it is that a Seventeen-like magazine for the gay world even exists. That notion in itself rocks my sensibilities even if the content does not. And so I wait to see if another "last issue" will arrive next month.

out of office...food, wine, and switch plates

I'm going to be out of the office today. Bob and I will be running around making the last purchases of odds and ends for the renovation--like switch plates, glass for the kitchen door window, lights for the closets--the stuff you can overlook.

In the middle of it all, we're going to take a long lunch break for a tasting menu with a wine pairing at Lupa, Mario Batali et al's rustic Italian restaurant a few blocks from our new apartment in the Village. I took the whole day off work, not just because of the errands we need to run, but because I didn't want to go back to work drunk in the afternoon. Hopefully we can get everything done and enjoy the buzz.

the interview game

A new blog buddy J.P. posted a blog interview game, inviting his friends to participate and pass it on. Here's how it works:

The Official Interview Game Rules:

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying, "interview me".

2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's questions will be different.

3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

I volunteered with an "interview me" to J.P.'s comments section last week. J.P. and the rest of the world are about to find that I'm the kind of guy who answers simple questions with paragraphs, which may be because nothing about my life has ever been simple.

Here are the five questions he gave me, with my answers:

1. How long have you lived in New York?
I moved here in 1989 after graduate studies in Berkeley, California to do some more graduate studies, this time in Fine Arts. At the time I imagined that I'd go back to the Bay Area when I finished the MFA. But I met Bob immediately upon arrival and, 16 years later, here I've stayed.

2. PC or Mac?
As a photographer and graphic designer I know I should be Mac. I've worked on Macs in the past and I keep finding myself having to deal with Macs. But I'm really a PC user at heart. Having used both platforms, I could never completely buy the Mac hype. They're prettier to look at, but you only have to look at an old iMac to remind yourself how quickly styles change and how hard it is to upgrade an all-in-one computer. These days, ANYthing you can do on a Mac can be done on a PC, and their cheaper and more of my clients and web-service associates are Windows or UNIX base. But that just means it's easier for me, not better for everyone.

3. When looking at other guys, what's the first thing you notice about them?
It's amazing how Bob's and my tastes have affected each other's. Bob says I've made him notice men's legs and necks more than he ever did before and, because of him, I notice guys packages more than I ever did in the past. And, of course, a broad, hairy chest can give me whiplash. But what's the first thing I notice? I'd have to say a general impression of size (tall or beefy, even on a shorter fireplug of a guy) catches my eye quickly, also darker facial hair, and often, just a smile. Smiles knock me out. They can sometime trump everything else.

4. You can only watch three hours of television for the entire week including any "recreational viewing". What do you watch?
That's difficult. Many of my favorite television shows have closed up shop in the past several years and I haven't found replacements. Three years ago I would have said Friends, Six Feet Under and been embarrassed to admit American Idol. But the first two are gone now, and American Idol is (in baseball terminology) like a long wind up to a wild pitch: much ado in the set up, but ultimately going nowhere. These days, it's the weather and Rome. The jury is still out on My Name is Earl and The Office. And I could live without any of these and they don't add up to three hours. Maybe, if I'm really honest, the only TV viewing that I can't live without would be my middle-of-the-night rugby (on the Fox Soccer Channel) when I can't fall asleep. It's a non-narcotic sedative when I'm wide awake worrying about something at 3 a.m.

5. How much coffee does it take before you're licking the ceiling from a wicked buzz?
Four mugs of regular coffee or two espresso-based drinks. I'm a light weight.

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So, there are my answers. I'll send J.P. a set of five now, and anyone else who wants to give it a try.

Anyone want to play? Don't be shy if I don't know you yet. That's what this game is all about. Just comment on this post with "interview me!"