Ah, Larry, we hardly knew ye!

Since there are only 7 or so years between Senator Craig's age and my own, I have some residual memories of the sort of urges with which the senator must deal.

If you came to age in the 50's, and your sexual proclivities were anything more than the "missionary position," you had a lot of what have come to be known as "issues." We dealt with them as best we could.

There was a joke back in the late 50's, early 60's, which went something like this: An irate queen, on her first plane ride, in high dudgeon, demands imperiously, "What do you mean, 'This plane doesn't stop at the nearest Greyhound bus station'?!?"

"Tea room" cruising, as delineated in Laud Humphrey's book, Tea Room Trade, was a rite of passage for nascent gays back then.

And there were rituals which were rigidly followed, among which were the tapping toes, and the caress of the bottom of the stall walls, followed by the come-hither-flick of the index finger.

It was exciting. Unfortunately, it was, all too often, the only way to satisfy the drive.

I would have thought we'd all grown out of it, what with the plethora of places in which we might make contact today.

I guess not.

My title is wrong, Larry. We know ye all too well.

We also know there's absolutely no excuse for tea room cruising in the 21st century.

Somehow, in some ways, Larry, you're still stuck in the 1950's. That's too bad. Look what you've accomplished in spite of your sexual drives. Imagine the heights you might've reached had our society been less puritanical.

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Keeper? Who Needs a Keeper?

Well, perhaps a name tag?

Anecdote 1: Two Sundays ago, I decided at the last minute to catch a matinee of The Simpsons. I dashed to a local movie house, paid my admission, and was making my way to Theatre 6 for an 11:45 showing. It was 11:40.

As is my wont, I decided to make a pit stop, against the ol' prostate giving me some grief over the next couple of hours.

I went down a labyrinthine hallway, did my business, returned to the original hall, dashed into the theater--noted with some satisfaction that there were only 4 others in attendance, and sat down to wait for the inevitable previews to begin.

I waited. And waited. After some 10 minutes, some patrons began to trickle in. "Idiots. They almost missed the opening of the movie. If the previews had started on time, they'd've been out of luck."

More waiting. "What the heck is wrong with this theater? Can't they read a clock?" Waiting. More late patrons. Waiting.

Finally, I couldn't take it any longer. I got up, determined to confront the manager and register my complaint about not meeting published starting times. I exited the theater, looked back at the individual marquee, to see if they'd changed the start time only to discover that Theater 5, in which I had been waiting, was not the location of The Simpsons. That was being shown in Theatre 6. On time. I missed the first 5 minutes of the movie.

Anecdote 2: A couple of days later, I stepped out of the shower, dried off, put aloe vera on my face, gel in my hair, brushed my hair, and began putting aloe vera on my body (crepe-like skin, alas). After slathering my arms with the aloe vera, I discovered that somehow the hair gel bottle had substituted itself for the aloe gel bottle. Alas (again), hair gel doesn't eliminate the crinkly skin effect; it sort of concretizes it.

Anecdote 3): A day or so after the hair gel dilemma (of course I left it on--waste not, want not), I for some reason decided to change my routine for adding sweetener to my coffee. I stood over the garbage bag, tore off the tops of two packets, and proceeded to dump the sweetener into the garbage, while carefully not dropping the discardable town-off tops.

Now, I don't know if all of this means anything or not, but I have to wonder. I'd feel a lot better if I knew about what I should be wondering, though.

Where was I?

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A Break (if you don't mind)

The news out of the Middle East is more unpleasant than not; the news out of Washington isn't much better.

How about a moment away from the sturm und drang (that's a phrase I learned from theatre history--it describes a time in German dramaturgy--no charge) and try for a bit of, well, if not levity, at least an amused befuddlement.

A few days ago, the Decider underwent a colonoscopy. It's a procedure most people over a certain age undergo. Another procedure which is regular for gentlemen of a certain age is the digital prostate exam. We (oops! Now you know!) should have one every year.

This year I went in for a physical, fully expecting the old finger (that's a delightful message in one of the posters for Michael Moore's Sicko--you know, where he's pulling on a rubber glove and smiling a tad evilly); but, by the end of the session, it became clear the digital exam would not be happening. Conversation ensued.

Me, "Um. Aren't you going to do a prostate exam?"

Him, "No. I don't do those. If the PSA [blood test] seems abnormal, I just refer patients to a proctologist."

Me, "Huh?"

Him, "My fingers are too short to reach the prostate. So I don't even bother. I know I won't be able to feel it anyway."

Me. "Oh...um...OK...I guess."

(Well, it's less depressing than focusing on Iraq or the Bush administration!)

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Epilogue to an Epilogue

My ol' buddy over at Digital Fishwrap has a blog posting called "Epilogue to How long does it take to get over someone completely." This, is an attempt at an answer.

Dewey Doga--grade one; Donald Savoy--grades three and four; Anthony Sala--grade ten; Dick Wilson--grades eleven and twelve; Roger Puckett--college sophomore year; Jerry Jones--college junior year; Al Parker--college senior year; Larry Brucker--1964; George Dursthoff--1965; Keith Townsley--1965 through 1974 (w/overlaps); Rex Walker--1974-75; Gavin Trowsdale--2000.

You don't "get over...completely."

What you do is go on living.

A couple of song lyrics leap to mind: "I tipped my hat and slowly rode away;" "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again."

Best advice there is.

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