A Word About Jayne

To behold my friend Jayne is to behold a work of art in living form. I have known her for more years than either of us will willingly recall, but I am the only one of us who ever seems to age. Time, like so much to her, is something you stand up to and face, and let no one doubt that Jayne has thusfar won the battle. Physically, she is one of the most remarkable creatures God did ever assemble. She comes with impossible curves and an aesthetic that is deadly profane and awesomely beautiful--and that's fully clothed. Naked, she would have caused Reubens to piss himself.

And in case you might be wondering, yes, she is a real girl. There have been some who have doubted, but I have inspected all her parts, quite literally, and everything is where it should be; in some cases, to excess. I have never understood the confusion and believe it is because when Jayne wants something, Jayne gets that something. Unfortunately, some in our culture still hold on to old ideas that never really applied. So, let it be known far and wide that Jayne may have huge cahonas but she's never worn balls.

More than a friend, she is to me an icon and a touchstone. After all of these years, in fact, she is almost like a sister--a sister that you nibble and kiss from time to time. She is strong, sexy and more than a bit of a revolutionary and I have I always been in awe of her presence. She makes me smile always and inspires me to be the most creative person I can, a thing for which I have never thanked her. Jayne is a girl who loves beautiful things and beautiful people and is always in the company of both. Luckily for those who know her, she has little time to waste on the more mundane things of the world and offers no pretentions to desire them. She is a person out of time, recalling Berlin at the dawn of the 20th century or Paris in age of decadence. Glorious, and somewhat hallowed in mine eyes, she is an undoubted vixen and my love and respect for her will never wane.

I grew up with Jayne in my life. Not literally, of course, but I recall, plainly, her presence in many of the steps I took toward fashioning the man I am today. We have laughed and laughed some more. I do not recall any tears, however, mainly because I think we both prefer to shed them away from the prying eyes of others. I miss her greatly today and I hope that someday, before I am too old and haggard for her to want share her time with me, that we will get to snuggle and snicker in the way we always did.

Though we have not seen each other in a lifetime now, I will always count her a part of my life. There are many memories full of incidents and allegations of the most unholy kind and I treasure every one. Not to mention the fact that, if, as my lengendary anecdote contends, she did not give me the first blowjob I ever had, then she certainly gave me the first memorable blowjob I ever had (said blowjob being masterfully, um, delivered (?) in one of the darker stalls at an old Chicago club called Cairo). I stand and bow deeply before you Jayne. You are my friend, my muse, and on more than one occasion, you have been my cohort. I love you.

(This originally appeared on my MySpace page last year, but I am too lazy to write anything today and Jayne always deserves props...)

Musings.

It is Thursday, the first day of summer.
It is beautiful outside and I am almost overjoyed.
A good day to be alive.

I want to be happy all of the time.
So hard not to think about the war.
With more dead everyday.
More and more.
And more.

Body bags and mass graves
from Africa to Asia.
Our hand almost everywhere.

3,000 died in the Towers.
Horrible.
Heartbreaking.
I didn't stop crying for weeks.
But how much revenge is enough?
When will the urge be sated?

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Jacqueline Carey's new book.
Fifth book in the Kushiel series.
Three of them are all-time favorites.
I love Phedre.
Beautiful escape.
Read them.

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Ben just bought me the collected poems of Allen Ginsberg.
I love it.
Will treasure it.
Inspiring.

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Bill is helping Hillary more.
An active role.
So much experience.
I have so much hope.
She will win.
I know she will win.

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Rosie said to listen to Beth Ditto.
She was right as usual.
Brilliant.
Brilliant.

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New Bon Jovi album.
Rocking.
I don't really hear the country.
"Lost Highway"
Love it.

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Love. Just Do It.

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Time to workout again.
Feel good.
Alex will join me.
Then we will play with Bones.

Summer is finally here.

Musings

I have been having a weird day. Not much sleep last night. Took Alex to see "Fantastic Four" today and regretted doing so about thirty seconds into the thing...to call it awful would be lending it more credibility than it deserves.

And, as if I did not already know this, I have been reminded of how odd a place this virtual blogosphere has become. The only people who have tried to comment on my blog are men who disagree with the political and cultural links that I have included as part of the "Eudkasion and Eksersize" experience. Luckily I am moderating the comments or else there would three very ugly messages. I am not trying to censor them, but I am not providing a forum for them either.

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I see that Forbes Magazine is at it again--quantifying power in the entertainment industry and it looks like they have recovered from last years Tom Cruise blip.
Oprah is number one.
(Duh!)
Madonna is number three.
(Very cool.)
Though how Barbara Walters merited a spot and Rosie O'Donnell didn't seems a bit peculiar...

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Side note: Amy Winehouse recently called Madonna a "has been." Aside from the ridiculousness involved with an upstart pop star dissing a living a legend I will point out several facts that completely undo Miss Winehouse's theory.

First of all, Madonna is coming off one of the most successful albums of her career. Second, the "Confessions" tour was the most successful concert tour by a female performer in history. The woman completely destroyed previous records held by the peerless Tina Turner and others such as Cher and, well, herself. Not to mention that the tour grossed five times as much as other major acts; having played fewer dates.

Earth to other would-be critics: Madonna has been a bonafide superstar for almost twenty-five years and has gracefully moved beyond such arrows and daggers--regardless of who they are slung by. She is not a "has-been" and will no more become one than will Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger, Tina Turner, or even the late Elvis. Such people have earned permanent immunity from expulsion from the island of fame. History will always remember them for their glories, and should.

As for her career, future success or no, Madonna will decide when and how and if she exits.

Meanwhile, Amy Winehouse will find herself nothing more than a pop-cultural footnote in twenty-five years. As a result of her sacrilege I have removed Miss Winehouse from my car, my hard drive and my iPod. She was on heavy rotation too...I would return the damn cd, but it is pretty amazing and I might forgive her in the future...;-)

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Anyway, I am going to go for a nice early evening run. I want to clear my head a bit. My return to working out has been such an amazing experience. I already see the difference in my body and, even better, I feel the difference in my soul. Cheesy, but true.

Just like me.

Peace, live for it.

Robert

The wind and my willow.

The willow tree in my backyard is gigantic.

No.

It is better to call it overgrown.

It is so big, in fact, that a strong wind surge severed its largest limb last fall. The small leaves still grow on the remaining branches, but the once grand tree has taken on a tragic air. Stoic and less beautiful, it no longer groans with every gust. It just stands there belligerently silent.

It is embarrassing to admit, but the groans actually used to frighten me. I guess it was that whole living in Maine/Stephen King connection. It can be oddly unsettling at times. Odder still, is the fact that I now miss the groans. The whole lost limb affair served as a reminder that often such beauty comes with a price. I realize now that that missing limb once held up almost one quarter of the entire volume of leaves, hence the groaning. It not only completed the picture, it made the picture. That limb gave the willow it's "weeping" quality, it gave it definition, and now it is gone forever; pulled away in parts by some anonymous men shortly after it fell.

The tree remains the playground of several families of squirrels, all competing for resources and space, and several species of birds. I have become something of a birdwatcher as a result of this--a fact that makes me wince and laugh simultaneously. There are grackles, orioles, robins, blue jays, chickadees, several varieties of finch and sparrow, wrens, woodpeckers and my favorite, the cardinal. For the record, I am only indifferent to the squirrels since a couple of them made their way into our closed off fireplace and I was forced to kill one after it attacked me while I tried to remove them (for their own safety as they were not able to get back up the chimney for some reason).

It is a great deal entertaining just walking out onto the back deck of my house to see how many different species of birds I can find without even trying. I only get a few seconds before they all fly off, frightened by the sound of my screen door and more frightened by the affectionately aggressive canine that usually storms out the door following me. He is nothing if not persistent, my dog. He tries his best every time to nab one, and I get the feeling that he believes he has a shot. But it is a good fifteen yards from my back door to the area where birds flit about and he is too loud, large and relatively slow to ever stand a chance.

In the early morning the cacophony of voices singing out is really quite something to hear--and probably somewhat annoying if you do not have something by which to block out the noise. They start off singing around four in the morning and then peak around seven. It starts as a string of chirps and peeps and calls and by the end the sounds overlap to such an extent that is no longer pleasing. It becomes pure noise.

That noise is nothing compared to the sound of the fighter planes that run test and training flights from the Navy base located only one mile from my home, however. Every time a plane overpowers the bird song I am reminded of a quote from Charles Lindbergh which said something to the affect that if he had to choose, he would much rather have birds than planes.

It would seem that even anti-semites say some things worth remembering.

It is the afternoon now. Overcast as always--or at least as it has been for months. It is not dreary though, only just shy of that. Alex has his last baseball game tonight. He is sad because he has to give back his uniform. He wants to skip the game so he doesn't have to give it back and I want to skip the game because it is just not fun watching nine year olds not hit balls, not catch them, and not care either way--many of them picking their noses while talking to themselves in the outfield--for two hours!

Sigh.

I am going to go workout now. I will be listening to "Instant Karma: The Amnesty International Campaign To Save Darfur" while doing it. It is an amazing compilation. Go get it. Help Darfur! Help anyone! Afterwards I am going to go write under what remains of my willow tree.

Maybe it will inspire me to write a poem that The New Yorker will accept. But it's not likely.