Are cigarettes good for you?

Of course not. They’ll do less for your health, in fact, than most hideous car crashes.   But that’s not the point, is it?  We already know that they’re unhealthy.  This has been drilled into our minds for what may as well be eons and yet 19% of the US smokes.

But whatever.  These are boring statistics that really aren’t what you’d call “unpublished”.  What I’m more interested in are the aspects of the “tobacco entity” that allow this habit to continue.  Why?

Because I smoke.  It’s expensive, has turned what used to be swimmer’s lungs into the biological equivalent of a tired old leaf blower, and in my circles smoking is more deadly to your social status than it is to your mortality.  But I do it anyway, because (here’s the good part)…

Hot or not?

I enjoy it.  Genuine enjoyment and pleasure happens when I spark one up.  Turkish Royals, pink BIC, hell yeah.  I love it while driving, while eating, after sex, while at work, while hiking, or after I leave the gym (yes, you read that right).  Pretty much any activity I do, besides sleeping, is made better with a cigarette.

I’m addicted, hopelessly.  I say this with a tiny dash of shame, or much less salt than Emeril uses.  I’ve been smoking my entire adult life, for 12 years.  I’m 24 (hello?!).  Before you count years on your fingers I’ll go ahead and tell you that I was 12 the first time I took a puff – a beautiful, blue, billowing…never mind.  Anyway, this despite being brought up in a good family, in an excellent school (where I did well), and in an affluent area of town.

My next point, and this is the big one, is that I don’t know what life is like without cigarettes.  I have never actually lived adult life without them and the thought of not having tobacco at arm’s reach is downright scary.  How could it not be?

I don’t do drugs, I exercise, and I’m very conscious of what I eat.  The juxtapose of cigarettes in my life is nearly laughable.  I know I can’t smoke forever, but for now I shall.  So if you’ll excuse me, I have something to take care of…outside.

“What-ifs” – Good or Bad?

Sitting on Zach’s bed, I stared at the TV and pondered a timeless question, “How did this happen?” Throughout the day I had been helping him move into a new apartment, and seeing all of his things; the little knick-knacks around his room, brought back memories.

I knew I still had feelings for Zach. I knew I still loved him. I knew that he was the only boy I ever really felt comfortable with. But just as he had expressed regret that we hadn’t taken things farther, he had made plainly clear that “those days are over.”.

But something in me still thought that there might be something between us that was more than friendship. Part of me thought there still may be a possibility for romance. But laying there, a body’s width away from him, I couldn’t muster the courage to take his hand, to look him in the eye, and tell him how I felt.

We all imagine situations and examine them through the filter of an almighty variable “What if…”. My better judgement told me (well, shouted really) to let things go; to forget it; that the spark between us was gone. But my own internal “what if” kept holding me back. As we moved furniture and unpacked boxes in his new apartment, I couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel if this were our apartment; if we were together.

I looked at Zach and suddenly the cold reality of the situation seemed to slap me. We weren’t together. There was someone else for him. Most horribly, I blew it. A year ago when he moved to into the city I completely ignored the emotions between us. As he would later tell me, “I would have dated you in a heartbeat.”

But then I started to think of my soon-to-come move to Chicago, and the new start that I would have there. My “what ifs” began again. Only this time, they were what-ifs for the future. These are the good kind; the kind that give us hope and stir ambition. Maybe I’ll be happy there. Maybe I’ll make great friends, and maybe, just maybe, with a little luck, I’ll finally find someone that I can be happy with.

So as I begin my journey to a new city and a new chapter of my life, will my ambitions lead me to great things, or will they leave me wondering, “What if?”.

My favorite book has blank pages.

There’s a certain excitement inherent when I see a blank page. All of the stories or chronicles that it could hold leave me with a sense of anticipation. So you can imagine how an entire blank diary must make me feel.

Last month I went through the things in my grandmother’s condo. She died two weeks prior and while she hadn’t lived there in over 5 years, it was still filled with her belongings. Five years ago she moved in with her boyfriend of 25 years, so all of the day-to-day items were gone. Left behind were decorations and personal items she had gathered throughout her life.

She traveled the world, and everything in that house told the story of where she’d gone. I found an ashtray from a hotel in Amsterdam. There were hand-painted porcelain dishes from Japan. Inside a cigarette tin from the UK laid a folded five pound note. A piece of stationary note from The Ritz in Paris had a bit of wine spilled on it and what appeared to be a last name and a phone number.

As I gathered a few of these things and put them in a small box I came across one more item that made me gasp with excitement  It was a journal. The cover was a colorful weave of fabric and it had a frayed string tied around it. I untied the string, hoping to find some record of where she was when she got it. To my disappointment, each and every page was blank. But no matter. I put it in the box with everything else and left her condo for what would be the last time.

It sits on the dresser…waiting.

The journal now sits on my dresser, waiting for words to fill it. It’s beautiful. From the weave and color of the fabric it looks to be from the Middle East (in my very non-expert opinion). There’s a smell of spice or incense coming from it. I want to write in it. At first, though, I couldn’t seem to think of any subject which would be worthy of a book with such personality.

A few things came to mind. I thought that perhaps someday I’d meet someone who is so special to me that he would be worthy of the journal. That seemed a bit risky though. I wouldn’t want to have to burn it, after all.

Then, it occurred to me something with which I could fill the diary that would fit its personality perfectly. I don’t know where it came from and I probably never will. But I want to see the world, as she did. I want to explore to the four corners. As I do, and I will, I’ll record that journey in this book.

Who knows where it will someday end up. Perhaps someday someone will find it in my condo and, while sitting on my couch, take a trip around the world.

That thing so good, you’ll never have it…

He’s that boy, for me at least.  He’s the one I knew I’d never have and I always wondered what it’d be like if I did.

He’s beautiful.  Completely.  He’s pretty in that Instagram, bartending-in-only-underwear way, and every detail is perfect.  The first time I met him was nearly a year ago. He was behind the bar making drinks for the crowd around him and I watched him for a moment.    I remember wondering to myself what kind of crazy perfect person I would have to be able to get next to the likes of him.

He is a very talented musician who is already well on his way to success – and hell bent on it.  He’s that kind of million-twidder-followers popular.  He knows every gay in the city (and I mean every single one), and most gays in other cities.  

The second time I met him was at his house (no, it’s not what you’re thinking).  I was with a friend who works with him at the club during a small gathering.  I casually asked him about his music and we ended up sitting on a couch chatting for awhile.  When I gave an awkward look he smiled and asked, “What?”

“I was just thinking about asking you to play for me.  I mean I don’t expect you to but…”

He interrupted me and said, “Sure, I’ll play for you.”

As I stepped through the doorway into his room I still had that thought of him in the back of my mind.  “I wonder what it would be like to kiss someone that beautiful…”  (Not that I ever would…)

He pulled out a black guitar and while he played the voice that came from him fit perfectly – it was beautiful.  He then showed me around, talking me through various recording equipment and discussing his plans to add more.  He sat down in front of a keyboard and toyed around with it for a moment.  I had my phone in my hand and took a picture of him playing.  He smiled and said, “What’s that?”

Just toying around…

“I want to remember this, and I sort of take photos everywhere I go.”  He smiled and continued to play, pausing briefly to pull me towards him and wrap my arms around his chest.  I could feel the sound of his voice moving from his body into mine as he sang.  My whole upper body vibrated to the sound of his voice and I’m pretty sure I was trembling a bit.  Still playing, he turned and looked at me.

Then, he kissed me.

“It’s the little things.”

I went on a drive this evening.  That is, I got in the car with a recording artist friend of mine and drove, for the hell of it.  We were in a local forest and stumbled upon a beautiful winding road in the hills.

This is about 20 seconds of us weaving down that road.  Personally, this is one of the “little things” that makes life beautiful.

By the way, the song playing, if I remember correctly, is “The Fox” by Nickel Creek.  It’s brilliant!

I am not bipolar, I have bipolar disorder.

Recently I came across a post by a fellow who discussed his dealings with an illness called bipolar disorder (or manic-depression, if you speak the old tongue).  I too have this illness.  Learning to effectively manage this disease is nothing less than developing a science or crafting an art form.  It’s a massive help to share your story or to hear someone else’s, so to the fellow behind bipolarblogging, I commend you.

I’m 23, and I’ve been dealing with manic depression for the bulk of my adult life (since I was 15).  The journey has been interesting, to say the least.  I’m not crazy, but I’ve done some crazy things.  The one thing that perhaps is most lacking when in the throes of this disease is clarity.  It’s clear understanding that has been my biggest tool in managing my condition.  So for those who may not be familiar with the disorder, I thought I would deliver some, in convenient bullet-point form.

• I’m not bipolar, I have bipolar disorder. 

What this means, in a nutshell, is that I am not defined by this illness.  It’s simply a part of who I am.  It’s very easy to label someone with a mental illness as “crazy” but this is never the case.  I may have done some crazy things in years prior, but as our presidential candidates have shown us, you don’t need a mental illness to do crazy things.

• I may take medicine, but I still have feelings.  

Glance at this blog with one eye shut for two-point-five and it becomes apparent that I’m pretty gay.  As you would expect, I’ve been privy to many a gay-rights debate.  It’s a hot topic, on both sides of the field. A big part of this is prejudice and discrimination.  I have no problem with this, but at times I wish we could focus on eliminating prejudice towards other groups while we’re at it.  I have faced a bit of controversy in my own life because I’m gay, but it’s nothing compared to the mountain of prejudgment I’ve received for having bipolar disorder.  It’s even come down to a level that can only be described as name-calling.  Call me a “fairy” and I’ll probably brush it off.  But call me “crazy” and, while I may not show it, I can say based on experience that it will hurt.  Deeply. 

• Sometimes, I hurt.

Bad things sometimes happen, and the result is negative emotion.  One key to understanding bipolar disorder is seeing that with the illness, emotions don’t always have an apparent cause.  Many years ago on a summer day, a friend picked me up and took me for a drive.  This is one of my most relaxing activities, but halfway through our middle-of-nowhere-adventure, I started to cry.  Josh didn’t understand, and asked me, “What’s wrong?”  With tears running down my face, I spoke only the words,       “I hurt.”  

A lonely road, indeed.

The reality was that my neurotransmitters, the chemicals in my brain that affect my mood, were not balanced that day.  As a result I was depressed.  Nothing bad had happened, but I was so deeply in pain.  Recognizing this is one of the most effective tools in my mental toolbox.  So, just as important when dealing with this disorder, as medicine, therapy, or activity, is education.

Making the Impossible Possible: Dating

As I headed over to Eric’s I knew that when I left I would be filled with regret.  I had the perfect playlist cued up.  It’s called “Bursting” and among others it contains:

• -Song for the Lonely, Cher
• -Silver and Cold, AFI
• -Born to Die, Lana Del Ray

I’m sure you get the idea.  With things getting serious between Michael and I (although not yet official), this had all the makings of a hookup-gone-wrong.  Eric is Tanya’s roommate – she’s a long time friend and for us things have not always gone smoothly.  He works at a gay club…as a stripper.  She has warned me about him and before today I had met him twice.  It was the perfect combination for a potentially very un-perfect situation.

He welcomed me in and we started the movie that we both knew we’d never finish.  It was at this point something odd started to happen.  That pre-hookup awkwardness – the kind that’s dispelled instantly once one grabs the other’s crotch – began to fade away and we talked.   We talked about the bad acting in the movie, what we thought about certain aspects of gay culture, and before long we were discussing personal philosophy.  I can honestly say with utmost certainty that this has never happened during this type of encounter.  Before too long we were laying in bed together, clothed.

“Why do I find it weird how compatible we seem to be?”

Just talking.

He posed this question and instantly I snapped out of whatever haze I was in and realized that this was more than a hookup.  It wasn’t a hookup at all, in fact.  Had something significant just happened?  In a place that should completely lack it, had there suddenly been meaning?  As we laid there he showed me some of his poetry.  It was brilliant – it flowed and lacked that “I’m trying to be poetic” feel that plagues most abstract writing.  Eventually we ended up in his jeep.  We had the top down despite the cold and we rode along through the city, belting out random songs from the likes of the Goo Goo Dolls and Cher.

I got in my car to leave and was left wondering, “What the hell just happened?”  I know that this entire situation has D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R written across it in big ol’ red letters.  I know that the boy I’m dating is great and I’ve been warned that Eric should be approached with caution.  Which begs the question:  Is the impossible, in this case, possible?

On losing a friend

“What is it about me working at the club that you don’t like?  Do you think it’s changed me or something?”

“Yes.”

It was then, as I spoke it, that I realized that Josh had actually changed.  Working at the club, becoming a queen, and all the while dealing with issues that had plagued him throughout his life had changed him for the worse.  He now saw things in a queen’s terms.  There were now allies and enemies, and I was an enemy.

“I feel like the Josh I’ve known for almost 10 years is being covered by something else.  I don’t understand what’s happened.  You’re as near a family member as I hold dear, and I don’t want that to change.”

“You’re not going to understand.  There’s nothing I can say to make you get it.  So I’m just not gonna try.”

With that single phrase, a world’s weight settled on me and I realized that my worst fear had been realized.  My best friend, the person I had spoken with on a daily basis for a decade, the person that I turned to when I didn’t know what to do, and the person who had truly saved my life on two occasions, was gone.

I couldn’t speak.  I was completely still and utterly shocked.  My hand rested motionless on my knee, holding a cigarette as it smoldered.  He stood over me and turned to leave.  Without a word he walked down the stairs and around the corner.  May the sound of that car door slamming, I hope with all my being, not be the last I hear from him.

On parting with a great love…

I recently made the decision to part ways with one of the greatest loves of my life:  Smoking.  I decided to stop “cold-turkey”.  Then I left Fantasy Land and caught a train back to Reality.

So I’m tapering back and today (it’s 3pm) I’ve not had a single drag.  This may not be a big deal for some, but for me it’s an epic achievement worthy of a giant bronze monument downtown.

I will admit it’s had some affect on my mood.  I’m a bit…testy.  To help ease this I’ve had my iPod set on Adele and AFI for most of the day.

To adapt a statement of the great philosopher Adelus, 21st century AD, I could gaze at water and set it aflame.

Everyone wish me luck!  Lord, I’ll need it.

A Message From Atop the Bar

Tonight I am off work, and I have plans.  More often than not, I call my friends and they have already planned my evening.  Tonight is no different.  They have decided that we are going to a bar downtown.  It’s within walking distance of the bestie’s apartment and it’s a somewhat seedy, hipster / gay, fairly popular place to get completely knackered.  Tonight will be interesting though, as Wednesday night there is referred to as “Techno Dance Night” and things tend to get a little wild – to put it mildly.  Just imagine rush-hour traffic without the cars, where everyone’s drunk, and that’s what it’s like.

The last time I went on a Wednesday, I woke up with an epic hangover – the kind that makes you feel as if you were put into a barrel and pushed down several flights of stairs.  That morning (by “morning” I do mean 2pm) a friend was showing me photos that he had taken the night before.  I stopped at a picture of a few guys dancing on the bar.  It was a somewhat blurry photo (he had certainly gotten his drink on that night), and I asked him who they were.  “Well, the boy on the right – that’s Chris, the middle one is my friend Keith,” and as he pointed to the third boy, who was shirtless, he said, “and that’s you.”  Oh dear…

Just then, a moment of clarity took place.  When I awoke shortly before, I became aware of an itch around my midsection.  I reached into my blue and yellow Express briefs and pulled out a dollar bill.  It had undoubtedly been inserted there while I was doin’ my thing above the crowd.

DISCLAIMER:  Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a terribly constant party animal, a drunk, or a drug addict.  I don’t do this often.  However, I wholeheartedly believe that there is no shame – NO SHAME – in letting loose from time to time.  Do what you’re going to do, and keep in mind that worrying about what other people think has never done any good for anyone.  Anyone who has ever lived in the wealthier part of the suburbs and gotten the hell outta’ there (and I have) will agree with me.  Cruel Intentions is a great movie, until you’ve lived it (but that’s a story for another time).

So, as I’m sitting here with my laptop, sipping on the finest Chardonnay that $12.99 can buy, I wish you all a happy and pleasantly eventful Wednesday evening.  Mine certainly will be – of this much I’m sure.