We have this Delta faucet that I was reticent to repair, cowed by my inner voices that berate me for my imagined mechanical incompetence.

But how does one gain competence?” You ask.

By doing the activities that make one competent”, answers The Wise One. (Feel free to use your Yoda voice).

So I declared today would be the day the faucet got fixed. I watched a You Tube video that walked me through the repair. First It said shut off the water by turning the valves off under the sink. Then take the faucet apart. Next I replaced the springs, seats, and “O” rings. Then reassemble.

Whaddaya know!

It worked. I did a simple home repair.

Then I figured out why the toilet valve never drops properly after the flush. A five second repair. Something was blocking the action.

Then I plunged the slow drain in the bathroom sink and cleaned out the crud in the drain.

I am in awe of myself!


Tuesday Trains. Wistful.

I’m watching a freight now, headed North to Who Knows Where. It carries tank cars with chemicals, empty refuse receptacles, plain box cars, one of which bears a stunning fresco of graffiti. (We could write about how creating beauty in this culture is an act of vandalism. That begs the question, “What is all that stuff in the museums then?”)

South bound #89 The Palmetto passes through, bound for Savannah. I have a private fantasy of a certain woman in Savannah boarding that train Northbound for a clandestine tryst, dirty, sweaty liaison, purging our bodies of the potential energy stored too long.

I want to drink the coffee I brewed. And just sit some more,wondering when J will return.

Every Day

Every day I get the op-ed page from The New York Times in my email. The editor is a chap named David Leonhardt.

Each time I read the first few words, I ask myself

Who cares?

It has been a long trip down the road to irrelevance for The Grey Lady.

And New York. Art Deco, I fear, is but Woody Allen’s memory.

It’s all gone. Like The Old Penn Station.

Jerome Kern,The Gershwins, Cole Porter, The Talking Heads, by golly, replaced by Disney musicals.

Nobody speaks Yiddish anymore, goes to The Catskills, or does piece work sewing.

The great grandchildren of these seamstresses live in. Westchester, work on Wall Street or publishing.

Their measure of success has moved beyond escape from tenement.

And this City lives more on its memories than its dreams, just like everywhere else.

Three Females



They’re together at the Publix.

In the ‘burbs of Richmond, not the hippest place, but right now,

Who cares?

Two lesbians, their daughter, who’s maybe five but still rides in the cart.

The butch one is tall, a champ at androgyny, the shoulder length thinnish hair, John Lennon hippie glasses, fifty years from The Day. The plaid shirt, a drab, but harmonious assemblage in beige and brown.

The femme wears a skirt of paisley with green tones, a sweater, maybe mohair, magenta, maybe too.

The daughter rides in the cart, quietly. Her glasses, little kid glasses, are held on her head with string attached at each temple.

They buy groceries.

What else does one do at Publix?

This is what queer looks like in 2020.

Into The Void

How do I articulate my loneliness, without leaving my house, to my wife, my partner who sleeps, who cringes at any sudden move or disturbance of the space?

The night almost alwsys features a period of wakefulness for me. I become more and more alert. I use this time to read or enjoy the silence while I drink my decaffeinated coffee. Then I think again about my sleeping wife, with her worries about me.

Pleasure between spouses is not her “language”, to use a current metaphor. She chooses worry over fellatio and cunnilingus. Did she ever surrender to anyone, besides Jesus, in the baptismal pool at some long forgotten church?

Will I ever know?

It is going to take every fiber of my being to dispose of the accumulated chaos in this house, to make it a home.

God I’m lonely. That is a prayer.

Sunday 26 January 2020

Got up. I slept pretty much OK. I told J I would fix a frittata for a brunch this afternoon. She works til noon, maybe. They sometimes give her more hours on Sunday, usually because somebody doesn’t show up.

I’m wearing my new flannel shirt and black long sleeve tee-shirt I ordered from Land’s End. A picture will follow. My Dad had a shirt in a similar tartan to this one, only it was wool. His birthday is Wednesday. He would have been 99, more about Dad later.

I’m reading Best Lesbian Erotica Of The Year, Volume Four. Women write better erotica than men. I don’t know why. I find the characters more empathic.

I am going to sleep some more, I think.


Weird expression. Imagine somebody you find attractive wearing this shirt

Saturday Thoughts

It is a rainy Saturday morning. I just finished a warm croissant with fig preserves that I enjoyed with my coffee. I’m trainspotting now. #88 Northbound just left Ashland, headed to New York.

I think I could pay for my trip to New York in March by bringing two cartons of cigarettes and selling them on the “grey market”. But I won’t, because I don’t know anybody who could access said “grey market”. Oh well.

I’m thinking this question this morning. What do we risk for love?

Being in love with someone should take us out of our “comfort zones”. Huh? What is that? It is a term we use that we think other people understand, but, I suspect, don’t. Being outside such a zone suggests discomfort, sometimes physical,but other times that our sense of social or relational conformity is stressed. Think meeting your future in-laws for the first time, or asking that hottie if they would like to go out.

Being in love is about being uncomfortable. Eventually the edge of discomfort wears down. That usually means we are taking that erstwhile hottie for granted.

This is too much time ruminating, even for me, on this lazy Saturday. More. Maybe later.

Now I’m Cookin’

Just food that is. I had some leftover roast beef. I sauteed onions, garlic, celery, carrots and mushrooms, added the roast beef and made a gravy with a roux and a can of beef stock. Serving over egg noodles. Was really easy. Just lots of slicing and chopping.

Would a BJ be an appropriate gesture of appreciation, assuming the meal is sufficiently satisfying?