9.19.99
Fuck me and call me Alice!
Sorry, after yesterday's revelation about starting each entry with an exclamation, I just couldn't resist doing it again.
One of the things that my friend Evan said in his emails was "I was wondering if I was ever going to have a long-term relationship with another guy, because I have never met someone who had one." Actually, I've heard that from many guys, and people are fairly universally amazed that RR and I have been together for as long as we have. I guess that in gay relationships, surviving into double-digit years is a rare thing.
Actually, it is rapidly becoming uncommon in straight ones too. I can't mention too many people that have been together as long as RR and I have. There is one friend who claims to have been together with his bf for 25 long ones, but I've got news for him, since his bf has been off diddling hairy Frenchmen for the last 10 some-odd years, they don't count.
For the benefit of all that might ask, the secret of staying together for so long:
Drink. A lot.
Seriously. The nifty thing about alcohol is that it makes good times better and bad times worse. In short, it intensifies emotion. Last night, we drank a fair amount and made pizza. I digress for a second. I make a killer pizza…there's a fabulous, simple crust recipe from Julia Childs, topped with a handmade sauce, perfect pepperoni, sausage, and of all things spinach. Add a liberal amount of alcohol, and you're on your way to lipemic serum land (blood plasma that has high amounts of fat in it is this disgusting yellowish, cloudy colour. We refer to it as lipemia, or in a less clinical statement, Captain Crisco, in homage to its appearance.)
That's what we did last night, but there was a twist. Whilst heating up the oven, there was an odd amount of smoke that was coming from the oven. We generally don't think too much about smoke and this oven, owing to it's advanced age and lack of modern convenience like a thermostat. (This gas-fired behemoth was constructed about 1910, I think, and is FULLY Y2K compliant)
Anyway, where there is smoke, there is fire, and this was the case. We had stupidly been storing paper bags in the space behind the stove, and their collective mass had finally reached the critical stage, and burst forth in sickly yellow flame. I emptied a small fire extinguisher kept near the stove for just such an occasion, RR standing on the sidelines telling me that it was out.
I told him to go fetch another fire extinguisher. A couple of minutes later, we had to resort to throwing water on the damn thing, and I, having swallowed a fair bit of smoke, had to crawl out and hack my left lung out. A good time was had by all.
Now, my collection of hard liquor bottles is covered in fine white powder from the first fire extinguisher, and the whole kitchen is trashed from the water thrown on the embers. The joint now smells of smoke and Pine-Sol (I've done a bit of tidying this morning) and of course my sweat from the night previous.
So, that's my secret. I can't leave the schmuck, no matter how much I sometimes I want to. He really is my best friend, and I never know what's going to happen next. There's always an element of excitement between us, and that keeps it young and vital. There is another thing that keeps me here, and that is the penalty of death. You see, dear RR has buried all of his former lovers, (And I do mean all of his ex's.) The running joke between us is "You leave, you die. Simple, no?" Gotcha, sweetheart.
Oh, yeah…on the CD as I write this morning is the recording of a friend whom I have not seen for a good many years, Sam Keli'iho'omalu. His first CD, Ola ka 'Oiwi* is just stunning. I'm not quite sure why I have such an attachment to Hawaiian music, but I do. To listen to such a pure, crisp voice is always a treat. After all, he does owe his great talent in part to tight BVD's.
*Translation: The Natives Endure
Sorry, after yesterday's revelation about starting each entry with an exclamation, I just couldn't resist doing it again.
One of the things that my friend Evan said in his emails was "I was wondering if I was ever going to have a long-term relationship with another guy, because I have never met someone who had one." Actually, I've heard that from many guys, and people are fairly universally amazed that RR and I have been together for as long as we have. I guess that in gay relationships, surviving into double-digit years is a rare thing.
Actually, it is rapidly becoming uncommon in straight ones too. I can't mention too many people that have been together as long as RR and I have. There is one friend who claims to have been together with his bf for 25 long ones, but I've got news for him, since his bf has been off diddling hairy Frenchmen for the last 10 some-odd years, they don't count.
For the benefit of all that might ask, the secret of staying together for so long:
Drink. A lot.
Seriously. The nifty thing about alcohol is that it makes good times better and bad times worse. In short, it intensifies emotion. Last night, we drank a fair amount and made pizza. I digress for a second. I make a killer pizza…there's a fabulous, simple crust recipe from Julia Childs, topped with a handmade sauce, perfect pepperoni, sausage, and of all things spinach. Add a liberal amount of alcohol, and you're on your way to lipemic serum land (blood plasma that has high amounts of fat in it is this disgusting yellowish, cloudy colour. We refer to it as lipemia, or in a less clinical statement, Captain Crisco, in homage to its appearance.)
That's what we did last night, but there was a twist. Whilst heating up the oven, there was an odd amount of smoke that was coming from the oven. We generally don't think too much about smoke and this oven, owing to it's advanced age and lack of modern convenience like a thermostat. (This gas-fired behemoth was constructed about 1910, I think, and is FULLY Y2K compliant)
Anyway, where there is smoke, there is fire, and this was the case. We had stupidly been storing paper bags in the space behind the stove, and their collective mass had finally reached the critical stage, and burst forth in sickly yellow flame. I emptied a small fire extinguisher kept near the stove for just such an occasion, RR standing on the sidelines telling me that it was out.
I told him to go fetch another fire extinguisher. A couple of minutes later, we had to resort to throwing water on the damn thing, and I, having swallowed a fair bit of smoke, had to crawl out and hack my left lung out. A good time was had by all.
Now, my collection of hard liquor bottles is covered in fine white powder from the first fire extinguisher, and the whole kitchen is trashed from the water thrown on the embers. The joint now smells of smoke and Pine-Sol (I've done a bit of tidying this morning) and of course my sweat from the night previous.
So, that's my secret. I can't leave the schmuck, no matter how much I sometimes I want to. He really is my best friend, and I never know what's going to happen next. There's always an element of excitement between us, and that keeps it young and vital. There is another thing that keeps me here, and that is the penalty of death. You see, dear RR has buried all of his former lovers, (And I do mean all of his ex's.) The running joke between us is "You leave, you die. Simple, no?" Gotcha, sweetheart.
Oh, yeah…on the CD as I write this morning is the recording of a friend whom I have not seen for a good many years, Sam Keli'iho'omalu. His first CD, Ola ka 'Oiwi* is just stunning. I'm not quite sure why I have such an attachment to Hawaiian music, but I do. To listen to such a pure, crisp voice is always a treat. After all, he does owe his great talent in part to tight BVD's.
*Translation: The Natives Endure
<< Home