To clarify my earlier statements:  I do not hate children.  I just don't like them as much as say...a pint of ice cream, a new pair of shoes, or a slice of day old pizza.  Anyway, we need children to make the clothes we buy at discount stores, to weave the Oriental rugs for underneath our Ikea furniture, and to snap the heads on the plastic dolls we buy for...ehem...our children.  In the end, the only children most people like are their own.

Switching topics suddenly...my uber-geek friends will call me late to dinner, but I just downloaded and installed FireFox.  Smashing!  Brilliant!  Webtastic! 

FireFox, for those who do not read Wired, is the new open-source browser.  It is simple, easy to use and best of all, is remarkably, perhaps bafflingly, certainly measurably, faster than Internet Explorer. 

I must now race to the gym before it closes, but check back later this week for a new series of photographs that I had to negotiate gang territory to acquire.

14 February 2005 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

There are two groups of people in this world:  Those Who Are Destined to Be In Love and Those Who Are Not.

Gay boys who are Destined to Be In Love are the worst of the bunch.  Perfectly paired with gelled hair, matching sweaters, golden retrievers and houses in both San Francisco and Vancouver, they seem to be animatronic figures from the pages of GQ.

Over dinner last week in San Francisco, an also single friend of mine turned and pointed to two gay lovers at another table.  "You know," he said, "I think I'm destined to be single for ever.  I'm just not someone who ever falls in love."

The truth, I noted, is that both he and I fall in love.  But, we fall in love with bipolar stalkers or men who are in love with someone else, often themselves or someone from Texas.  No matter how much we might try, dating a stalker never makes the fantasy work.  And, if we could compete with Texas, well, we wouldn't be at war right now, would we?

I'm 35, in decent shape, with money in the bank, and a big house.  I do not smoke, I don't do drugs except for the occasional Vicodin I saved from my appendectomy, and I only wear drag for certain holidays and visits to San Francisco.  I can carry on reasonable cocktail conversation, I know better than to wear leather pants to a formal dinner, and I only attend therapy sessions twice annually - and then only voluntarily.  From my research, I'd say this makes me a pretty good catch.  And yet, caught I am not.

Gay men have at least five genes that make us superior to heterosexuals.  These genes govern cooking, decorating, fashion, cocktail banter, and relationships.  Heterosexuals may argue, but one need only watch television to see the rest of the country envies our genes and demands the expertise these genes impart. 

Like my dinner friend, I managed to miss out on four of these genes.  I cannot decorate, I cannot cook, I cannot dress myself and I cannot find a man.  Fortunately, I can generate sufficient income to make up for the first three.  I have not yet become so desperate as to pay for the last.

I foster the fantasy of growing old with someone.  Someone, of course, who is tidy and who ages slowly and dies after I do.  In reality, I will end up alone - just me and the cats.  Somewhere around age sixty I will start to adopt a new cat every year until I am found dead, surrounded by old newspapers, bits of dust, and enough felines to keep the animal shelter full for a year.  No, it is not a pretty vision.  But it will give  Those Who Are Destined To Fall In Love something to read about - together - in the Sunday paper.

28 February 2005 - (Link to this entry) (Comment)

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