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.

When I walked into my local coffee shop the other morning “Same Ole Layne Syne” by Dan Folgerberg was playing. It reminded me that he left this Earth last week. Mara called me the day after to ask me if I had heard. I had not and was devastated by the news. I was glad it was her as Mara and I have been through a lot together - like August 18, the day Jerry Garcia died. Even though we only ever went to one show we lived the life of Gratefully Deadicated, barefoot, pot smoking, acid dropping hippies 20 years too late. Dan did not represent a movement or provide the soundtrack for a generation, but he represented a time for me and Mara that was simple and innocent; our formative years.

Dan Fogelberg was part of my world before I was part of this world. He blared from ma’s 8 Track during my time in the womb and while I sat sucking strained peas from a yellow Pyrex bowl. Even when I started to wear ripped flannel and eye liner Dan Folgelberg, Jackson Browne, Gordon Lightfoot and the like remained in my cassette bag next to Nine Inch Nails, Stone Temple Pilots and Concrete Blonde. There was a station in Cleveland, Ohio called WDOK, 102.1. It was our favorite station; Mara and I used to call Nancy Alden, Cleveland’s Lady in Red, and dedicate songs to each other all the time. Ma listened to that station religiously and it was the backdrop of being with her at home or in the car. Every corner of my childhood was accompanied by the sounds of AM Gold and the 70’s.

Mara and I would sit in the park and many times Dan would be playing from the Skiv and some of our hippie friends would cock a curious head. It wasn’t usual to hear something blaring other than the Dead, Buffalo Springfield or Janis. Amazingly there were quite a few that did not recognize Dan and his soothing, melodic music that Mara and I had come to love.

We got older and exchanged our shag throw rugs, flip flops and KB’s for Keds, checking accounts and coffee shops. Our lives were very different, yet Dan’s music provided a familiar sound to alleviate the stress from our new, unfamiliar way of living.

Soon Dan and his music would accompany me on a difficult journey. My father died of cancer and at the close of his funeral, I chose “Leader of the Band” to play. It was absolutely the most perfect song for my Dad. To this day when I hear that song I stop, close my eyes and say “Hi Dad”; I somehow think that that was what Dan was saying.

That music has been with me for my entire life. No other artist has been so closely associated with so many aspects of my experience and I can’t help but feel as though I’ve lost something. Although he is not of this Earth he lives here with Mara and me, an arms reach and USB cord away.

Download Same Ole Layne Syne

Normally I would not be found out drinking on a Wednesday night, but I had guests and the venue promised strippers in addition to an underwear contest. You may find it surprising that the strippers are what interested me the most. Upon arriving with my posse I took notice of a tall, hairy, somewhat plump looking man flailing himself around the torso of an older gentleman with a vacant expression on his face. I naturally assumed this toad was one of the strippers. As I turned around to return home for an episode of “Sex and the City” and a frozen pizza, my friend assured me that this was one of the contestants getting a “jump” on the event. He explained that the winner is chosen by the reaction of the audience so it pays to gain a fan base before the contest begins.

I ordered a round for us at the bar and discovered the advertised stripper in my line of sight. He was physically perfect. No fat anywhere, not a blemish or a misplaced hair. I immediately hated him and fantasized that he had an eating disorder or recently had a hump removed, anything to give my insecurities some comfort in the hot glow of his flawless appearance. After five minutes of glaring and internal turmoil I thought it best to ignore him and concentrate on my friends and our evening together. While we sipped our Newcastles I began to draw up my chest workout for the next morning in my head.

The contest began and the announcer looked all of 13. He was appropriately dressed in black, square-cut Calvin Klein’s and nothing else. It must have been his first attempt at using a microphone because he held it so close to his mouth that all of his words blurred into a muffled mess. It was hard not to appreciate his enthusiasm though. Amidst the breaths and sighs he seemed very eager to get the crowd into the show or at least into their underwear.

There were three men of various shapes, sizes and levels of intoxication that lined up on the stage ready for their turn to turn it out for the crotch-starved crowd. The first guy was the scary one that nearly caused my premature departure. He had an ear-to-ear Cheshire cat grin on his face and appeared to be really happy to be on stage. I suspect he took notice of his competition and was already calculating just how he was going to spend his winnings.

The second contestant was the smallest and drunkest by far. He was about 5′5″ and 115 pounds soaking wet. A very, very thin man, the sky blue bikini bottoms he chose as his costume practically drooped on his fragile frame. The poor guy almost lost his balance as he undressed in the spotlight. We’ve all been there, right? Trying so hard to be suave and sexy while making extraordinary effort just to remain vertical? He meandered out of the spotlight following his drunken introductory salute and began to walk away. The announcer politely herded him back to his position next to the Cheshire cat guy who was still appearing confident and poised.

Number three was my favorite and the one who got my vote in any category. He too was very short and very drunk, but not as thin. He reminded me of Jim Henson’s Fraggles; short, pear-shaped with bright yellow hair that was sticking up everywhere. Now this guy had set out to win. As soon as he was announced he strutted on stage in a red baseball cap with his bright yellow tufts pointing East and West. He wore a Hawaiian print shirt in the same tone of red that hung to his knees overlapping a pair of shorts in the same style. To cap his Pacific fashion motif he wore bright red flip-flops. He started to remove his pants midway through a turn on his heels and I was honestly looking forward to seeing what was beneath his shorts. Keeping true to form a bright red thong was revealed – much to my delight. I held up my beer and hollered in enthusiastic approval of his thoughtfulness and dedication to the ensemble.

When it came time for the winner to be decided I got butterflies and a wave of embarrassment swept over me. I was nervous for them. I stood there watching them and realized that I was alone in my shallow pool of shame. They were happy to be there, proud even. Who was I to feel anything but happiness for these guys? If they were enjoying themselves then I should be excited for them. When it came time to cast our “votes”, everybody in the house voted for all the guys in claps, hoots, hollers and cat calls.

Somebody had to win however, and it was, as expected, the Cheshire cat guy from Long Beach, California who, by the way, was named Ed.

I finished my beer and thought of how many times in my life I watched somebody in outlandish dress or manner and felt sorry and embarrassed for them. It dawned on me that the feeling of sympathy and shame stemmed from my own insecurities and internal rubbish. We should be so lucky to have the courage to present ourselves to the world without regard for judgment and scorn. I envy them. They are all winners.

This past weekend I had the pleasure of visiting the island of Catalina with a buddy of mine. His father has a great condo there and a decent sized boat. This excursion reminded me of my many trips from Boston to P’town; a beautiful sunny day going somewhere to spend time on the water in a beautiful and charming setting with nothing to do.

We arrived in just enough time to hop on a golf cart, which I later learned is the primary source of transportation in Catalina. Lunch was found at a place called Lua Larry’s that sits only steps from the port. I imagine it has all types wandering about getting lit and sunburned. I had two of my most guilty pleasures, cheese sticks and beer, while meeting the parents and little sister.

The throng of tourists cruising mindlessly through the shell shops, candy stores and clothing spots was soon left behind when we made our way to the condo on the side of a hill. It sits at the top of one of two really nice, serious developments on the island. Catalina is mostly a nature preserve and no further growth is permitted there. I was so glad to hear that a place still existed that was admired so much for its beauty that not even money could pave it over. The view from the condo was reminiscent of something one might see in “Traveler” covering Greece or Spain; huge squares of Spanish tile atop grand white structures that exude a timeless, confident beauty.

Our first activity was snorkeling. This was my first time, but it was a secret I kept from the marine family. The idea of putting my mouth below water and drawing air through a tube was a bit of a mind fuck and I had a hard time adjusting. I got it, but by then I was nervously breathing very hard and trying almost as hard to settle my breath and calm down enough to enjoy the aquatic scenery. All I could do was hear my heart pounding and suddenly the air flow stopped and I panicked. It reminded me of the several times I choked on water as a boy while swimming and terrified, tried very hard to catch my breath. One time left me so scared that for months I had severe difficulty swallowing food and water. I swam back to shore where I confessed my secret and told them of the faulty equipment. After a cursory inspection his father determined that it was because I had dipped my head down too far, which engaged a safety feature to keep water from entering the tube and drowning me; the equipment was not faulty, it was me.

After dinner let up, the bets were placed on how long the two of us were going to last in the boat. The last time I slept on a boat was about 20 years ago and this would be his first time ever. We boarded the small dinghy to take us from the dock to the boat, it was only then he confessed to me that this was his first time operating such a machine. It was a great weekend for secrets and firsts. Without warning I had visions of “Open Water” going through my head. Thankfully it was not a vision and we arrived dry as a bone and experienced the best sleep of our lives.

The next day turned out to be the highlight. We took the boat to find a secluded beach for lunch and during our search we found ourselves surrounded by a pod of dolphins 200 strong. They played with us for a while jumping alongside the boat and chattering excitedly. It was SO unbelievable to watch them glide effortlessly through the water as if they hadn’t a care in the world. At that moment I just wanted to jump in the water and play with them, but I was too busy operating the camera. Besides, they were clearly going places and could not spare the time. Still it was so great for me that they joined us for a bit to wish us well. Dolphins really do have it all!