Earlier this month I had the opportunity to visit Philadelphia for their 14th Gay and Lesbian Film Festival courtesy of our friends at TLA.

In addition to some quality time with the Boss Lady and Blake Riley I got to hang with some Channel 1 VIPs that we do not get to see very often. There were many highlights during the weekend in the city of Brotherly Love, but there were three in particular that I would love to share with you.

First, a while back I was sent an e mail from a young girl titled “Ode to Johnny.” Her name is Stoia, she works for Digital Playground and she’s gorgeous. It was most complimentary and flattering. Well lo and behold she is from Philly and TLA took this opportunity not to only have us meet but create a mini movie to document the entire ordeal from her writing the ode to our long awaited meeting. The movie was shot in black and white with a fifties motif. In the final scene we sharing a milkshake in front of a vintage soda shop; it was the best milkshake EVER!

Saturday evening we had the chance to schmooze and booze at a club called Pure. This was the chance for us all to hang out and be ourselves with no cameras, pens or other obligatory what have you. We were Free to Be. Early in the evening Chi Chi was scheduled to speak at an event that coincided with the Film Festival, but was geared more to, well, porn. As the limo pulled up to the theatre the first voice I heard was that of our lovely Hazzard Ahead contributor and my biggest fan on the East coast, RitaPHL! She was bright-eyed and looking very sharp with her new do! She later informed me that it had been two years to the day since we met in Bean Town when she and her husband Jim were on holiday being served by yours truly at Aquitaine. It was wonderful to see her.

Our editor at Channel 1 created a video montage of Chi Chi, Blake and me that was played before she went on and it was sooooo amazing. I asked them for a copy and I’m hoping to have it soon to feature here – I promise! After Chi Chi’s talk we opened the floor up to Q&A. My number one fan raised her hand and asked if I could sign her B-Rude original T shirt. It features my mug and pecs splattered on the front with “Blow my Speakers” as the caption. I gladly signed the shirt and was amazed that she was able to snag one. After Rita walked away Chi Chi turned green with envy that Rita was able to get her hands on one. At the end we were passing out our latest picture book “Smut” and I made sure my girl got one! Enjoy it Rita! And thank you so much for all the effort you went through to get there!

Before our night out I managed to bug everyone with my digital video camera. Since there is some mild nudity and some appearances by folks that would rather not be featured I am including just a small piece here. The full version will be on Hazzard Central in a few days time. Enjoy!

I love traveling to the East Coast (especially on someone else’s dime) thanks Eric and thanks Philly!.

This story has been on the back burner for ages. Sometimes it’s better to talk about something after the fact. I’ve whittled this down considerably and yet it is still reeeeally long so I’ve decided to pepper it with photos!

That’s right. This is all about Petey.

When I first got him it was clear that he suffered from a severe case of separation anxiety. He would tear up the rug in front of the door and began to rip the metal frame from around the front door in an effort to get out whenever I was away from home. I bought a wire cage from Petsmart only to have him chew, yes chew through it squeezing himself through an opening that I am shocked did not cause a bloody mess and a trip to the ER. I talked to the instructor for Petey’s first segment of obedience class about my dilemma and she told me of a woman who encountering the same problem had designed, with the help of a welder, a wrought iron cage that was meant for the transport of large exotic animals, more specifically, a tiger! Obviously the cage was going to be made smaller and the idea was comical and I was hopeful. My hopes were short lived however and smashed to a million pieces when I came home to find Petey soaked in urine and slobber. The final event that led Petey back to the truck was the “Post-Its” on my door from neighbors asking me to quiet my dog. I was literally at my last rope now so in the meantime while I figured out what the next step was in calming this panic I had to take Petey with me everywhere in my truck.

Amazingly he had absolutely no trouble hanging out in the truck; he knew I was coming back and he would lay down on his pillows quiet and relaxed patiently waiting for daddy to return. It was very problematic during August and September as the temperature would reach into the 100s. Not only was it a issue for my little boy’s health, but it is illegal to leave a dog in the car in CA. I would crank up the AC and only be gone for minutes at a time. I would enlist the help of friends to watch him when I had to run errands that would take more than a couple of minutes; this was now a full time job.

I enjoyed his company though and when I would see his little ears blowing in the wind from my rear view mirror I would just smile and be happy that he was in my life. I would leave the little window of the cab half open when I would go shopping or to the gym and it was set to a spot that even I had a hard time getting past. I had done this so many times and was without worry or fear that he would get out and besides, he was not anxious at all about hanging out in the truck.

One night I had attended a class on the Science of Happiness and of course brought Petey along. When I pulled in on the far side of the lot I noticed a man and a woman of the tweeked out variety in close proximity. I made a comment to Petey that may have been a bit judgmental, but I thought since it was just the two of us that no harm would be done. I pulled in to my spot and went inside at 7:10 PM. I know this because I glanced at the clock when I turned the truck off. At 9 PM the class ended and I went outside to the truck ready to be greeted by my beloved companion. I approached and noticed that the window appeared to be opened all the way. Panic set in and I ran to the truck. I unlocked the door the truck illuminated to show an empty cab. I wanted to throw up. I immediately imagined him by the side of the road then switched to a vision of him lost in the foothills of the mountains that looked over us from the West. Even as I write this and relive it, I feel that panic rising from my gut and the chill running down my arms to my fingertips; it was to date the worst experience I can recall. I started to run calling his name as loud as I could. I had no idea where I was running to, but standing still would only serve to exacerbate the panic and fear that seemed to engulf my body. I had only gone about 50 ft around the building when I made a quick left to see my beloved four legged friend hanging out calm as cash with the two crackheads that I silently insulted 2 hours prior.

They had Petey leashed with some rustic rubber tubing that was crudely tied to his collar like some junkyard dog. The female was grossly thin and clutching a “Big Gulp.” Her male companion was silent and wearing sunglasses. She began to explain that she found my dog and that he looked really lost and scared so she grabbed him and gave him chicken. The three of them were hanging out by the pay phone around the building, a football’s throw from my truck. I looked at her gaunt, skeletal face as she explained again that they had found the dog and that he was scared, they gave him chicken and called the number listed on his tags. I thanked them over and over and she said her victory speech over and over until I coughed up a couple of twenties.

The second I was alone with Petey I began to cry, hard, really hard. And I was ashamed of myself for my remark earlier about the street kids. That all changed very soon. Once I discovered the 10 voicemails left during my two hour absence it was clear that Petey had been taken and more or less held for ransom. He did not push that window open, they opened it. What fucking balls! You have to be really cracked out and desperate to stick your hand in a truck with the face of a pit bull staring back at you. They coaxed him out with the cheap chicken they got from the KFC behind the building and took him right to the phone where they began to make their rescue calls. It was definitely a moment to remember and now when Petey goes with me the window is locked.

With that scary episode behind me and a very different life in front of me there has been much improvement with Petey. Thanks to a little intense training and some tough love he can now stay at home by himself (for short spells anyway). There are still days that push me to my limits, but I think he’s definitely worth a little wear and tear on my nerves. Who knows what would have become of him if I hadn’t come along? I know I certainly wouldn’t be where I am today without the collaborative support of many, many individuals and they didn’t give up on me when I chewed on their $260 custom sandals! Well, you get the idea.

On the final evening of a not-so-recent trip to Boston I was treated to an evening of laughs with old friends and arguments with new assholes.

The friend I was visiting ditched me for a date that night so I made plans with her roommate, Mikala, also an old pal of mine. We met after her shift at the restaurant and sat outside making our plans. A small man walked by and instead of blatantly ignoring him I nodded a congenial, “Hello” in his direction. Something about his eyes suggested that my choice may have been a poor one and I immediately returned to the discussion at hand.

Mikala and I ended up two blocks down at Sister Sorel, a favorite of the locals here both gay and straight. As we sat enjoying our nightcaps I noticed that the guy who had struck my defenses earlier was sitting just two stools over. To make matters worse, the bartender mixed up our orders. I was caught off guard as I looked to see which lucky guy received the smashing India pale ale. It was him. Eye contact was achieved a second time and I would soon be wishing I had stayed with the Irish stout.

I turned to Mikala and asked if he was staring our way.

She replied with a quiet “Yes.”

Great.

Mikala visited the WC and in her three minute absence I managed to involve myself in a slight altercation with a woman that felt justified using the word “fag” in a derogatory fashion. When I refused to call her a dyke to “even the score” she proceeded to try her case to every gay man in the bar seeking any sort of validation for her ridiculous opinion and behavior. Not surprisingly, the small, staring man had befriended the group of people belonging to the poor word choice lesbian and I knew it was prime time for a switch of venues.

We continued to another local hotspot, Stella, which has more space and a less offensive crowd. Just as we were getting settled the entourage we left behind at Sister Sorel staggered in the door. I can’t be certain, but it did seem like Mikala and I were the subject of many hushed discussions between members of the hostile posse. We kept our distance in hopes of salvaging what was left of the evening.

As the night progressed and the liquid courage flowed I narrowly escaped several attempts by the small, staring man to engage me directly. Unfortunately, there is only so much you can pull off with fake mobile call tactics and he finally caught me off guard.

Standing on his tip toes he slurred into my ear “What difference do you find with the people of Boston and the people of the rest of the US?” I took a deep breath and looked down at him long enough to say “Sometimes they can be very annoying.”

He grimaced in defeat and returned to the growing group of drunken patrons. Glancing in their direction I took notice that the self-proclaimed “dyke” was making out with some guy and eating something from another restaurant’s take-away container with her fingers.

A few more of my Bostonian friends had joined us by the time the persistent and completely pissed small, staring man returned for yet another go with me. His entrance statement this time was “Has anybody heard the new Pink album?” I was done. The time for diplomacy had expired. I hissed into his face, “Yes, my favorite song is the one that goes something like “don’t talk to me, keep your drink and give me the money? I can really relate to that”.

The level of hostility I exhibited cued one of my newly arrived friends to intervene. He sent me to the gents and tried to neutralize the situation with the aid of Mikala. Somehow even after all she had been through she still had faith in the power of kittens, rainbows and bubble gum to make everything better. That didn’t last long. Once the small, staring man thought he could intimidate her with a little close proximity verbal abuse Mikala traded in the sunshine approach from some good old fashioned whoop ass and shut him down pronto. The small, staring man finally departed with a half-assed finger gesture that nearly caused him to lose his balance.

I was happy to see him leave, but most of the night has been tainted and it was nearly closing time anyway. I started to feel bad about my thoughts and actions towards the little man, who meant no harm and probably just wanted to make some new friends albeit in an intrusive and rude manner. I am not usually impatient, but I just didn’t have it in me this time around. I think the encounter with the “lesbian” at Sister Sorel served to strip all of my patience reserves for the night.

I am human first and foremost and deserve to be left alone to enjoy my time by myself or with my friends. I tried to be kind, polite and even used sarcasm to get the message across without hurting or even worse, embarrassing him. We all have our limits and he pushed me to mine. There are people with no social filtering mechanism and when they are inebriated it seems like nothing will get through to them. If he has any recollection of the night at all it will probably be what a raging asshole I was to him. He will gloss over his terrible behavior and label me a jerk for not inviting him into my circle. Perhaps my guilt is somewhat misplaced, but at least I took the time to see the situation from his perspective.

It was my tenth birthday, my first double digit celebration at our summer weekend destination on Catawba Island on Lake Erie. We spent every weekend there and most of our vacations and I hated it. I hated having to pack and then drive two hours, on a good day, to the island. My father had a boat and being the avid fisher family, we spent a lot of time on the water fishing, swimming and just hanging out.

A typical weekend started Friday night arriving pretty tired from the drive and going to bed early. We were awakened really early much to our discomfort and dragged to breakfast. I usually had two eggs sunny side up and two pieces of whole wheat toast with no butter. Then came the hard part, we would drive to the boat and then ma would get the dope ready, Dramamine. She would crush up the bitter white pill in a spoon with “Slice”, a citrus 7-Up concoction that my brother and I grew to despise forever with or without the pill. We were pretty good at being on the water after being drugged and either slept or played games. As we got older we took the rods and began to fish.

There aren’t many fish tales in my background, but I remember winning a Fish Ohio award for a White Bass that I caught with my dad and Uncle Kenny. The fish was 15.5 inches long from tip to tail and the award was for any fish longer than 15”. That fish stayed in our freezer for years to come uneaten and completely whole tucked beneath countless Ziplock baggies of sauce and meatballs.

When it was time to reel ‘em in and head home my brother and I would tear up the remaining sandwiches into small pieces and feed the seagulls that followed us all the way in to the dock. It was there that the carnage began. My father and whoever accompanied us, my Uncle Kenny or Randy, would begin to clean the fish in a precise, professional and bloody way. Meanwhile, ma and usually us kids would go down the street to the local farmers’ stand and get sweet corn on the cob, peaches and tomatoes for the upcoming dinner. Dad would bread the filets and deep fry them to a perfect golden brown. The corn was shucked by me and the sibling. I remember I always took great pride in husking the corn and making sure that every single thread of silk was taken off and the corn’s speckled kernel skin was left shiny and smooth.

We all gathered around the wooden picnic table waiting for the day’s catch to be presented. Soon there was plates of fresh fish fillets with corn on the cob that hours before was still on the stalk. Ma would prepare a salad of fresh tomato wedges, red onion and fresh basil all dressed with extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper. I remember this meal so well I can almost taste it and chances are before I blew out the candles on that zucchini cake, that’s what we had for dinner. My Uncles had places on either side of us and became quite close to us and our parents. We spent a great deal of time with them on and off the island. Their wives and kids soon became our “adopted” cousins and Aunts. On that particular dinner, for my 10th birthday, they were there to help cut, bread, serve and celebrate.

I would give anything to have that back. All that bitching and moaning I did when I was a kid was all because I did not want to go to my family’s weekend getaway on the lake. You really have no idea of what you have until you grow up and find that you dearly miss what is long gone.