Vanguard: A Miscellany

Not So Perfect

In my mind's eye, I saw my jaw drop to the floor, my heart sinking in like fashion.  But I knew outwardly, nothing gave the disappointment away.  

Up until then the night had been perfect.  Even with the initial delays, it was perfect.  It provided just that little bit of conflict, that sense that the fates were somehow standing in the way that built up the anticipation.  I was supposed to pick him up at 5:45.  I had given myself a decent amount of time to get from the west side to WeHo, but still with rush hour traffic, I was going to be late.  I was antsy and starting to get pissed.  I just don't get fucking L.A. traffic.  Why can't people all just drive at a normal pace?!  Fuck!

My phone chimed in a text at the height of my frustration: "Sorry can we make 6.  Still stuck in class."

And then the evening just settled into a groove.  I arrived at his home at 6:15.  He rushed out to greet me in jeans and a hoodie with his chest completely exposed, even hotter than I remembered from our first meeting five days before.  "Come into the bedroom," he yelled.  I walked in on him buttoning up a white button up shirt.  He completed the look with dark jeans, dress shoes and a sport coat--definitely hotter than I remembered.  We lingered at his home for a while.  He'd only been there for a few months and was proud of the changes he'd made.  He gave me a tour of the bedrooms and the redone kitchen and the backyard with recently installed jacuzzi before we decided it was time to go.

The drive to Silverlake was, despite the still molasses slow traffic, pleasant, and it had everything to do with the company.  Even after spending four hours together at the previous Saturday night's party, it turned out we still had a lot to talk about, leaving not a minute of uncomfortable silence on the drive.

We arrived at my friend's art gallery show at around 8:00.  My friend was showcasing a collection of paintings that were contemporary interpretations of ancient deities from various pantheons from Greek to Nordic to Native American.  And we both enjoyed it.  We would take turns guessing which god or goddess we thought was depicted, together studying the choice of color, the mood, the expressions before offering our guess.  I found him to be thoughtful and incisive, and I was even more impressed by his ability to jump into any conversation with the other guests and the artist himself.  We said our goodbyes at about 8:45, and the artist whispered in my ear, "Your date is adorable.  Keep him."

I took him to Kitchen 24 for dinner.  It was ideal--hip and trendy with gourmet takes on old American standards for an affordable price; I didn't want to go too extravagant on a first date.  We were seated at a small table for two, but forced to lean into each other because the restaurant does get a little loud.  And over a turkey burger and a monte cristo sandwich both of which we split and shared, we talked about family and friends and coming out.  And how funny it was to think that we had just met a few days before at a random Hollywood party.

We were at the valet by 10:00, late for me, especially with work in the morning.  After the art show and the dinner, I thought it had been a good first date.  

"Hey it's only 10:00.  Do you want to go to O Bar for a drink?"

Apparently, he wanted to hang out some more, and I was not going to turn that down.  Besides, it was O Bar.  On a Thursday.  More than a handful of acquaintances stopped by to say hello, and a few of them without solicitation whispered into my ear that from a distance, it looked as though the date was going well.  And it was...until he said "I just don't understand dating in this country."  

In Europe, people were either one night stands or exclusively dating.  There isn't the American version of dating with its litany of iterations--"seeing each other", friends with benefits, dating, exclusively dating, in a relationship, in an open relationship, etc.  So he wasn't sure what was going on.  Not what was going on with me, but what was going on with this other guy who, for the last few months, he'd been sort of "seeing."

That's when my jaw dropped and my heart sank.

Bail Out

I'm nervous.  And I'm having second thoughts.

Over the last few months, my practice has been busy.  Besides the schedule crammed with patients for management of chronic issues like diabetes and heart disease, there are the typical "need to be seen today" patients complaining of upper respiratory symptoms or burning on urination.  And besides those patients there has been a spike in a growing number of same day patients complaining of anxiety.

I've never seen it this bad.  In the eight or so years of clinical practice, I've never seen it this bad.  Sure there have always been those who suffer from depression or anxiety, but this is insane.  I saw a fifty two year old woman for a follow up from her hospitalization.  She had been doing so well and had been so proud of herself in the last year and a half, but she fell off the wagon.  She'd been on a one and a half week binge, resulting in a hospitalization for delerium tremens, alcohol withdrawal.  "I needed it.  I needed to drink again.  I didn't know what else to do.  Things are bad.  I'm not happy, and it's gotten worse.  My husband lost his job, and I don't know what to do."

And it's not uncommon.  One of my sweet little old 80+ women, generally very happy and very generous with end of visit hugs broke down in tears as she told of how her daughter and son-in-law have had to move in with her, into the small apartment in which she lives or rather has been forced to live since her home burned down in the November fires.  Or the couple who cried as they told me that they both wanted complete physical exams to make sure they were healthy because soon they would have no more health insurance.  I've been doling out Paxil and Prozac and Pristiq like crazy.  

So in the context of all this, yes I'm nervous.  Nervous about having depleted my savings.  Nervous about whether or not I'm getting in over my head with a mortgage payment.  

I Resolve, Pt. 2

Wow, it's only March.  Two and a half months since I posted my resolutions, the first time I actually have them in print or was determined enough to have them in print.  And how have I done?  Let's review.

Well, number one the finances.  Oh the finances.  I haven't been all that bad, but the G-Star sale kind of threw the clothing budget out the window--jeans, corduroy pants, a couple of hoodies, t-shirts and a trench coat.  Yeah that's blown that budget out of the water.  However, I haven't been spending as much money going out either, but that's not entirely my doing.  Friends have also gone on a strict budget, so those evenings at Katsuya or Wilshire are much fewer and further between.

Two.  Not focusing a lot of time and attention on men with no long term potential.  Wow!  Did I really think that was going to happen?  Let me see: 23 year old with an already sort of boyfriend.  That sounds like a lot of potential right?  Not so much.

The third resolution was charitable work.  Aside from helping friends with various issues, I've volunteered to assist Tree People, an organization that "inspires people to take responsibility for the urban forest" by planting trees in the local parks and mountain forests.  I've done that...once.

And finally I had resolved to save up enough money for a down payment on a home or get into one by the end of the year.  That was lofty!  With my budgetary cutbacks (yes that was tongue in cheek), with my 401K tanking by 40% or greater, with L.A. relatively resistant to the massive drops in home prices that the rest of the nation's home buyers seems to be enjoying, lofty is probably a good description, particularly since as of Friday 3/6/09, I've been in escrow for a loft that I fell in love with since I first laid eyes on it.

Perfect

It was perfect.  The kind of perfect that is found only in movies, only when it's scripted.

It was so perfect that it even took place in the Hollywood Hills, in the perfectly and impeccably designed home of a successful Hollywood screenwriter.  It was so perfect that it took place on February 14, on Valentine's Day, the kind of story one can see telling friends and family over a candlelit dinner recounting the circumstances of their meeting, finishing each other's sentences in their personal tale of "meant to be".

So there I was, on Valentine's Day, another fete to celebrate Single's Awareness Day only this party was specifically for single gay men.  I was there somewhat reluctantly; I'm never good at flirtation, and this was specifically designed for flirtation.  I brought Dutch along for support, as a crutch, as a guarantee that I wouldn't be left alone with no one to talk to.  But it was fine.  We walked in relatively early and straightaway started talking to various guests.

It was one of those Hollywood parties littered with industry heavyweights and their hangers on.  Cute little waiters flitted about the room with martinis in hand.  The unlucky ones were actually serving them.  The lucky ones were drinking them, because tonight, as guests, they were actors! 

I panned the room from the sitting room to the front door.  From the specially designed leather swivel chairs to the Italian tufted sofa to the contemporary but obviously extravagant runner of the foyer, just as the door opened.

That's when he walked in.  I saw the heads turn as he stood caught in a column of light from the recessed light in the entry.  He was stunning with perfectly coiffed hair and perfect skin stretched taught over perfect cheekbones dusted with the perfect amount of stubble.  And he had taste--a white ribbed sweater underneath a distressed white leather motorcycle jacket.  It was more than obvious that he also had a perfect body.

I was mesmerized.  I don't even remember what happened or how much time had passed between that first glance and the introductory handshake.  It may have been seconds; it may have been an hour.  All I know is I saw him enter and then I was shaking his cold hand.  I don't even remember if he'd introduced himself or if someone else had facilitated the introduction.  I was dizzy.  

"I'm Rick.  I'm sorry.  My hands are cold."

"I'm Van," I said as he placed his hand on my cheek to prove just how cold his hands were.  I was just getting over the fact that not only did he have the most hypnotizing smile, but also the most endearing European accent.  

Over the next four hours, we talked.  By the stairwell we talked about his life in Europe.  On the outside deck, we talked about his pursuit of acting, and I pointed out some of the actors and writers present that he might want to talk to.  In the den, as we sat side by side, we talked about music and European politics and travel.  At times, others interrupted, trying to engage him in conversation or just to tell him "You're so adorable."  I politely excused myself, conscious of monopolizing his time, and not wanting him to feel as though I was crowding him.  And yet, every time within minutes, he would find me to continue our conversation.

I admit, I felt uncomfortable and self-conscious, and I did what I am good at--self-sabotage: "With all these industry types here, I just want to make sure you don't feel like you're wasting all your time with me.  You should network a little."

But he didn't allow it.  His response was sweet, "I'm not wasting my time; I WANT to talk to you.  I don't want to make it in this business by kissing the asses of people I'm not interested in.  I want to talk to you."

At the end of the night, he took my phone.  He dialed his number and called himself: "There, you have my number and I have yours."

We left the party together and gave me a hug at my car.  "Call me if you want to hang out."

It was perfect, the perfect meeting.  Perfect like a Hollywood script.

Only the perfect Hollywood script is never this easy.  The perfect Hollywood script is never free of conflict, never free of problems.  And in that sense the rest of the story is Hollywood perfect.

Bawm Chikka

Friday night.  I drove back from West, the bar/restaurant at the Angeleno Hotel.  It was only 9:30, and people were still arriving, but with the exception of the birthday girl herself, I knew only one other person.  And even though I don’t want to say he was boring, I would say he was not interesting.  I think describing someone as boring is pretty shitty.  I’d rather have someone hate me than think of me as boring.  So no, he wasn’t boring…just not interesting. 

Anyway, I’d gotten there at 8:00.  Alone.  My friend was supposed to come with me.  He told me he would earlier in the week.  He told me he had no other plans, and he knew her just as well as I.  And yet there I was, left faking interest as not boring guy droned on and on about stuff I can’t for the life of me remember. 

So I left.  I left, and on the drive home, I called my friend: “Dude, you should have come with.  Tons of hot chicks, just your type.” (And yes, big homo that I am, I am still quite fluent in the dialect of American Straight.)

“Sorry bro.  I just didn’t want to drive that far, and my buddy wanted to hang out.  So we just grabbed sushi and now we’re back at my place.  You should come over.  We’re just drinking beers and later we’re gonna hop in the hot tub.”

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.

Well, not really.

But come on now.  My buddy.  His friend.  Beer.  A hot tub.  Visions of hot man sex danced in my head.  And admittedly, it wasn’t the first time I’d had little man on man fantasies about this particular friend.  He’s hot—tall, blonde surfer boy, athletic.  He does Iron Mans for god’s sakes. 

And so against my better judgement, against my body screaming to just go to bed, I made the thrity minute trek to his house. 

He answered the door with a beer in hand and immediately introduced me to his friend: “This is my buddy Van.  Sorry, dude, but rather than bullshitting around the issue, I’m just gonna out you right now.  Van’s gay, so when we change to get into the hot tub, you’ll know why he’s staring, but make sure you put on a good show.”

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.

Well again, not really.  His friend?  Not so hot.  But again the thought of my friend,  beers, the hot tub?  I must have been smiling because just then he put his arm around my shoulder and said, “This is what I love about Van.  You can fuck with him, and he doesn’t get all bent out of shape.”

I punched him in the arm.  Fucker.

As we drank and waited for the hot tub to warm up, I was given a tour of the house.  It was a new acquisition, and I’m sure the invite was as much to hang out as it was to show off.  And he was justified in doing so.  It was his baby.

And it was pretty awesome.  The back yard was outfitted with an outdoor kitchen/bar area.  There was a pool with a hot tub and outdoor speakers.  The house itself had four bedrooms and three baths.  And the master suite was impressive—a remote controlled fireplace, huge walk in closet, and the bathroom?  It was awesome, just the shower area itself was great—plenty of room for a small party with dual oversized shower heads and a bench with heavy, clear glass doors that all new showers seem to have nowadays.  I admit it.  I was a little jealous.

We finally got into the hot tub.  I had borrowed a pair of board shorts.  His friend, bigger than either of us, just got in with his boxer briefs, and we stayed in…with our beers…until we were pruney.  At 2:00, his friend decided he should go home to his wife, leaving me and my friend alone in the hot tub.

Bawm chikka…yeah, not so much.

We spent another hour in the tub just shooting the shit and just having a great time before deciding it was time to get out.

“Dude, you probably shouldn’t drive home right now.  Just crash here.”

Bawm…nope, still nothing.

We hung out in the kitchen for a bit before I realized that the chlorine was making me itch like a motherfucker. 

“Go rinse that shit off.”

I asked which shower I should use, and after explaining that none of the other showers had towels or soap or anything, he walked me to the master and said “Just use this  one”, opening the clear glass door and turning on the shower for me. 

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.  Only…not so much.

OK, this was a little weird.  But I didn’t question it.  He had left, but had left the bathroom door wide open.  I started to shower for a few seconds before deciding, fuck it, tossing the board shorts aside.  I didn’t give a shit if he could see me in all my glory. 

“Turn the other shower head on.  I’m coming in.”

Didn’t question it.  Just did as I was told.  We stood there back to back, me fully naked and he in his board shorts. 

“No, don’t use that soap.  This one’s better.”  He was a little too chatty during the shower.  And he clearly wasn’t in any rush to get out.  “This shampoo’s really good too.”

Again I just did what I was told, trying to be cool.  Not staring.  Just keeping my face toward the shower head and away from him.

“Hey, no homo or anything, but this is stupid.  I’m losing my shorts.” And with the unmistakable sound of Velcro ripped open, his shorts were tossed to the side.

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.

But yet again, it was like the worst porn ever.  I didn’t want to make a move.  I didn’t want to scare him away, and so we continued chit chatting and rinsing for far longer than anyone would consider necessary. 

Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the porn that was playing in my head out of my head and despite being mildly buzzed, I became excited with nothing to conceal it. 

He noticed and gave out a loud chuckle, “Ha, dude what’s this?” he asked,  reaching down for a grab.

Bawm chikka bawm bawm. 

And seriously, this is a situation only I can fuck up.  I took it as a green light to make a move, so I returned the grab.  He didn’t freak out.  He was mellow, but made his intentions clear: “Hey, I’m sorry.  I’m totally not trying to be a tease or anything, but well you know I’m not gay. “

We finished up after a few minutes as though nothing of circumstance had happened.  Neither of us bothered with clothing or towels or anything.  We just ended up a safe distance from each other, talking on his king sized bed. 

At 4:00, he asked a one word question: “So…?”

Bawm chikka bawm bawm.

Well…sorta.

Breaking Up

December 2007.  That's when we started.  Hard to believe that it's been over a year.  

I love that when I get to his house, he already has a drink waiting for me.  He's a great listener.  He asks how my day has been and what's been on my mind.  I love how every time, if there's a lull in the conversation he says, "Tell me a story."  He tells me I look good when I feel otherwise.  And he's one person who, in that regard, I believe because he'll also call me out when he knows I've not been quite so good at staying away from chips.  And he gives the best back rubs.  

So it's been over a year.  And I've grown.  I've learned.  And now I feel bad.  I feel bad because I know I need to tell him that it's over.  I've tried.  I've gone to his home with every intention of telling him so, but...somehow...I don't know.  He does something or says something and I just can't.  

But for the last month or two, my head has already checked out of this relationship...and my eye has already wandered. 

So last Friday, I told him I was going on vacation.  I was going to be gone for several weeks in February, so we can continue on doing what we do until then.  But in February, I may not see him.  And I think, with the month apart and after the break in our routine, it'll be easier for me to tell him that I've decided to go it alone.  That I appreciate all he's done for me.  That at this point I'm going to work out on my own because it is just too expensive for me to keep him on as my trainer.

And this is just my trainer!  Imagine the shit I go through when I tell a guy I'm just not interested in dating him.

Persephone

My Audi TT Roadster, it was kinda gay, but I loved it.  I thought aesthetically it was great, but what a piece of shit.  Never again I thought.  So I shelled out some money and got a car noted for reliability. 

This morning, I got up at 7:30.  Shit!  7:30!  The alarm was supposed to go off at 6:30 so I'd have enough time to shower and change and get down to the service department by 7:00.  Turns out, after six months, my new car was starting to make funny noises.  I was told it might be my CV joint.

Actually it started in December.  I was on my way to Falcon.  I was late.  Sunset traffic had screeched to a halt; it was a sobriety check point.  And here I was without even a drink to get the slightest buzz and thirty minutes late to meet my friends.  I went around the check point, going around the bottle neck and back on track to the restaurant, but all of a sudden, as I took a hard right, I heard a strange scraping sound from the passenger side.  I stopped the car and took a look under the wheel well.  No, nothing stuck there. 

As the weeks passed, the sound became more predictable and progressive--first only with hard right turns, then even with slow turns, then with braking.  Over the weekend, it happened even turning left, and I grounded myself.  No driving until I get this checked out.

It was just my luck.  It was bound to happen.  I end up getting a new car, and it ends up being a lemon.  Typical.

I made it to the service shop at 8:00.  Mario got into the passenger seat and told me to drive and do whatever it was I did to elicit the noise.  Predictably, it happened at the first right.  "Did you check under the wheel wells?"

"Yup."  Of course I did that.  It was the first thing I did when I heard the noise.  I'm not a fucking idiot.  What I hadn't done, however, was check under the passenger seat to find the old, dried, rock hard pomegranate that had been scraping the underside of the seat.  Turns out I am an idiot.

And now I have to tell friends that the repair I was so concerned about was diagnosed as a piece of fruit rolling around on the floor of my car.

Faking It

Don't let 'em see you sweat.  That was some kind of antiperspirant tag line, right?  Doesn't matter because it is pretty much universally applicable.  

Have them throw you a curve ball.  Have them present you with something unexpected.  Just play it off as though you've seen it five times a day every day for the last twenty years.  

On my first day as an intern, I saw another doctor anesthetize a patient's groin, stick a large bore needle into the femoral vein, thread a wire into it then pass a larger needle over the wire to gain access to a large vessel.  Afterwards, she said, "You're doing the next one."

I learned two things.  First, don't ever get sick in August and if you do, don't go to a training hospital.  Second, for a patient's peace of mind, deception is not always a bad thing.  I didn't tell him it was my first central line.  I didn't tell him it was my first day.  I went in with an air of confidence, non-verbally presenting myself as seasoned.

I wasn't as quick.  I wasn't as adept.  I wasn't as neat.  Actually, it was a little bloody.  But, in the end, the patient got the central line.

It was the same with my first heart attack, my first cardiopulmonary arrest, my first seizure...been there, old hat, done that.

And ten years later, things are generally not too surprising.  It really has become been there, done that.  Usually...

I gotta say, however, that the shy twenty-one year old girl who had come in for a routine physical got my sweat glands working overtime: "Can I ask kind of a weird question?  How do I have anal sex?"

I Resolve

This year I'm writing it down, putting ink to paper or keystroke to website as the case may be.  This year I'm making it more concrete, making myself more accountable for my resolutions because this year as I reach the end of my fourth decade, I have things I want to accomplish.

This year I resolve to be more judicious with my finances.  At first I was going give up buying new clothes except socks and athletic apparel (I'm thinking of taking up cycling and I have to replace running shoes every few months).  I thought about it.  I'm shitting myself.  There's no way I can have that much restraint.  But I will stick to a strict budget.

This year I resolve to be more selective in whom I choose to focus attention on.  No more romanticizing guys who clearly have no long term potential.  No more settling on whatever it is I may have been infatuated with when what I want is so much more.

This year I resolve to expand my world to include more that just what directly affects me.  I'm getting more involved.  I've already volunteered for a charitable event this month and plan on doing something similar monthly.  I'm planning on becoming more active politically.  I just want to do more.

This year I resolve to either a) save up a decent sum of money for a down payment on a home or b) actually get into a home by the end of the year.  

So there it is.  Not a whole lot.  Just four things.  But if at some time during the year this post magically just disappears...well I'm just sayin'.

2009

 

 This is really a nothing post, except to wish everyone the best in the New Year.  May 2008 have been filled with great memories and 2009 be filled with better.