Tuesday, August 23, 2005
So I’ve had a number of accomplishments this week. Went to the DMV, passed the vision and driving test, got a new license; began work on a new project at work, and spent the weekend in New Orleans hammering out the blueprint of a new family.
And the plan is, provided the pregnancy happens, that they are going to try to adopt the child when it is born. But in the deep south such adoptions into gay households, even if conceived by gay people, are rarely granted. . . so it’s looking like they either establish residency here in Chicago and do it here (where gay adoption is easier) or they are simply not able to adopt and I maintain by parental rights and responsibilities, which is fine with me.
And we also hammered out what will happen if something, God forbid, happens to them: I will take custody of the child. If something happens to me, then my brother takes custody. A trust will be set up in the child’s name for exactly these circumstances.
All we need now is a pregnancy and child. . . so I’ve been researching how to donate here in IL and have found things frustrating: laws regulating these types of transaction are oppressive and most hospitals no longer provide this service. So I’ve resorted to going to a sperm bank and having it shipped down there.
Dear God, I can’t believe this is the subject of this blog!
And in other, less interesting, news. . .
I’ve been having a lot of pain in my leg for the last year or so. Diggerblue finally convinced me to do something about it and I went to the Dr. who prescribed physical therapy.
It’s working wonders. The pain has substantially been reduced after only a couple of weeks. But the broader picture is such: I am getting old and the old body can’t take the beating I’ve subjected it to over the years anymore.
Tempus fugit
And the plan is, provided the pregnancy happens, that they are going to try to adopt the child when it is born. But in the deep south such adoptions into gay households, even if conceived by gay people, are rarely granted. . . so it’s looking like they either establish residency here in Chicago and do it here (where gay adoption is easier) or they are simply not able to adopt and I maintain by parental rights and responsibilities, which is fine with me.
And we also hammered out what will happen if something, God forbid, happens to them: I will take custody of the child. If something happens to me, then my brother takes custody. A trust will be set up in the child’s name for exactly these circumstances.
All we need now is a pregnancy and child. . . so I’ve been researching how to donate here in IL and have found things frustrating: laws regulating these types of transaction are oppressive and most hospitals no longer provide this service. So I’ve resorted to going to a sperm bank and having it shipped down there.
Dear God, I can’t believe this is the subject of this blog!
And in other, less interesting, news. . .
I’ve been having a lot of pain in my leg for the last year or so. Diggerblue finally convinced me to do something about it and I went to the Dr. who prescribed physical therapy.
It’s working wonders. The pain has substantially been reduced after only a couple of weeks. But the broader picture is such: I am getting old and the old body can’t take the beating I’ve subjected it to over the years anymore.
Tempus fugit
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
I’ve met some hard-core opera fans here in Chicago that make me look like a dilettante. (One actually has a shrine to Callas in his living room.) Nonetheless, I have made friends among them and enjoy going to their places and listening to their vast archives of performances.
Recently, a film about Callas was produced by Zeferrelli so Val, my neighbor, got a copy. This gave us cause for a dinner party / “Callas Forever” viewing last night. I bring a bottle of white, Mark brings a bottle of Champaign, and Val has a bottle of red. (You see where this is going.)
We enjoyed dinner then started the movie. Excited, we watched intensively. As the movie progressed we found this enthusiasm dying a slow, painful death. The movie was, and this is a gross understatement, dreadful. It wasn’t campy enough to be funny, or good enough to be good. . . it had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The movie took the middle of the road where cars hit it from both sides.
We managed to have fun, regardless. After the movie, we spent the evening listening to Horne, and Callas recordings and watching some hysterical interviews of people who knew Callas.
At the end of the night Val toasted to my birthday and gave me what seemed to be priceless birthday gifts: the actual clipping of Callas’s obituary in the New York Times (it made front page, by the way) and a 45 vinyl of callas singing the mad scene from Lucia.
Recently, a film about Callas was produced by Zeferrelli so Val, my neighbor, got a copy. This gave us cause for a dinner party / “Callas Forever” viewing last night. I bring a bottle of white, Mark brings a bottle of Champaign, and Val has a bottle of red. (You see where this is going.)
We enjoyed dinner then started the movie. Excited, we watched intensively. As the movie progressed we found this enthusiasm dying a slow, painful death. The movie was, and this is a gross understatement, dreadful. It wasn’t campy enough to be funny, or good enough to be good. . . it had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The movie took the middle of the road where cars hit it from both sides.
We managed to have fun, regardless. After the movie, we spent the evening listening to Horne, and Callas recordings and watching some hysterical interviews of people who knew Callas.
At the end of the night Val toasted to my birthday and gave me what seemed to be priceless birthday gifts: the actual clipping of Callas’s obituary in the New York Times (it made front page, by the way) and a 45 vinyl of callas singing the mad scene from Lucia.
My muse
Before my mother dies, she said, she wanted to go to opening night at the Metropolitan Opera. As a child I thought: What’s so special about the Met? Isn’t, say, San Francisco’s or Chicago’s Lyric Opera as intriguing?
When I moved to New York I went to my first opera there and, Christ, all I had to do was walk into that place and you feel the history, not just of opera in the United States, but history of the United States itself.
As I walked into the house I was greeted by twisting, spiral staircases that lead to the houses 6 balconies and orchestra. The scene is dominated by dozens of giant crystal chandeliers designed to look like fireworks. . . a gift from the people of Austria for helping them rebuild their destroyed opera houses after World War II. Patrons also recount Eleanor Roosevelt appearing at the Met during its radio broadcasts (after a trip to a firebombed London) to encourage Americans to aid in the war effort.
Then I walked downstairs and was overwhelmed by the portraits of all the great singers that called the Metropolitan Opera their home. The first portrait was Ezio Pinza, the great bass -- my grandmother’s favorite. I turned the corner and there’s the portrait of Leontine Price, the first international African-American diva: She’s painted in her costume that opened the 1964 season as Cleopatra in Antony and Cleopatra, an opera written especially for her. Then there’s Peters, Pons, Tebaldi, the portorates go on and on; it was the coolest thing.
Walk up into the Partarre and the Dress Circle and on display were the costumes worn by, for example, Tebaldi’s Tosca, the Pamino costumes designed by Chagall, Caruso’s Mario. Christ, I was having a great time.
And I went to the Grand Tier to have a glass of champagne. (That’s simply what you do.) I began talking to an older patron who recounts a performance he attended of Tosca. Maria Callas was singing and – it was rumored – that the widowed Jackie Kennedy would also attend. That night, he said, Kennedy came to the house, entered her box, and received an ovation. The opera begins and Callas’ offstage voice begins to excite the fans. . . Mario! Mario! Mario! She finally appears on stage and the audience interrupts the opera with a 5 minute ovation. Wow! I wish I were there.
We finally get into the auditorium and take our seats. The orchestra sits and a dozen of the chandeliers rise from the parterre to take their place with the others on the gold-leaf ceiling – it was beautiful. Levine walks into the orchestra pit and the giant gold curtain opens to a cast of nearly a thousand people and a sound that nearly blows you out of your seat. It was Turandot, my first opera.
Last night I opened my mailbox and discovered the tickets I ordered for opening night of the Metropolitan Opera’s 2005-2006 season. They are doing a gala performance of act I of The Marriage of Figaro, Act II of Tosca, and the last act of Samson and Dalila.
You can imagine how happy my mother will be to go.
When I moved to New York I went to my first opera there and, Christ, all I had to do was walk into that place and you feel the history, not just of opera in the United States, but history of the United States itself.
As I walked into the house I was greeted by twisting, spiral staircases that lead to the houses 6 balconies and orchestra. The scene is dominated by dozens of giant crystal chandeliers designed to look like fireworks. . . a gift from the people of Austria for helping them rebuild their destroyed opera houses after World War II. Patrons also recount Eleanor Roosevelt appearing at the Met during its radio broadcasts (after a trip to a firebombed London) to encourage Americans to aid in the war effort.
Then I walked downstairs and was overwhelmed by the portraits of all the great singers that called the Metropolitan Opera their home. The first portrait was Ezio Pinza, the great bass -- my grandmother’s favorite. I turned the corner and there’s the portrait of Leontine Price, the first international African-American diva: She’s painted in her costume that opened the 1964 season as Cleopatra in Antony and Cleopatra, an opera written especially for her. Then there’s Peters, Pons, Tebaldi, the portorates go on and on; it was the coolest thing.
Walk up into the Partarre and the Dress Circle and on display were the costumes worn by, for example, Tebaldi’s Tosca, the Pamino costumes designed by Chagall, Caruso’s Mario. Christ, I was having a great time.
And I went to the Grand Tier to have a glass of champagne. (That’s simply what you do.) I began talking to an older patron who recounts a performance he attended of Tosca. Maria Callas was singing and – it was rumored – that the widowed Jackie Kennedy would also attend. That night, he said, Kennedy came to the house, entered her box, and received an ovation. The opera begins and Callas’ offstage voice begins to excite the fans. . . Mario! Mario! Mario! She finally appears on stage and the audience interrupts the opera with a 5 minute ovation. Wow! I wish I were there.
We finally get into the auditorium and take our seats. The orchestra sits and a dozen of the chandeliers rise from the parterre to take their place with the others on the gold-leaf ceiling – it was beautiful. Levine walks into the orchestra pit and the giant gold curtain opens to a cast of nearly a thousand people and a sound that nearly blows you out of your seat. It was Turandot, my first opera.
Last night I opened my mailbox and discovered the tickets I ordered for opening night of the Metropolitan Opera’s 2005-2006 season. They are doing a gala performance of act I of The Marriage of Figaro, Act II of Tosca, and the last act of Samson and Dalila.
You can imagine how happy my mother will be to go.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Scheduling get-togethers with friends, it seems, can be somewhat difficult these days. And with my leaving for New Orleans this weekend then being off to Cape Code the next for a long vacation, some close friends had decided to get together at my place for a pre-birthday celebration. Kira, Deeter, Melody, Anthony, Dave, Mike and Dan came by for a dinner celebration on Saturday.
I actually cooked -- made chicken marsala and pasta. Anthony made Greek potatoes, Mike and Kira brought desert and appetizers. So there was plenty of food, and Melody ensured there was plenty of booze too.
We had a great time. Though worlds collided – new friends, Anthony and Dave, met the old friends and family – we all seemed to get along as though we’d all known each other for years. It could, admittedly, have had something to do with the 5 bottles of wine, six pack of beer, bottle of Vodka and a little grass we were indulging in (made the food taste better, too!) but I doubt it.
By the end of the night we busted out the old photos (and tortured poor Anthony and Dave), were cracking up, doing a little dance in the living room and smoking outside. That’s a party. Then against our better judgment we went out to SmartBar for some dancing and more drinking. The perfect storm continued to rage and we start drinking Red Bull and vodka. By three in the morning we’d danced up a storm, drank enough to choke a horse, and did enough damage to our lungs and livers to take five years off our lives.
Alas, it was worth it! And I can think of no better way to welcome my thirties: hanging on, defiantly, to my twenties by the skin of my teeth and acting like a 20 year old.
I actually cooked -- made chicken marsala and pasta. Anthony made Greek potatoes, Mike and Kira brought desert and appetizers. So there was plenty of food, and Melody ensured there was plenty of booze too.
We had a great time. Though worlds collided – new friends, Anthony and Dave, met the old friends and family – we all seemed to get along as though we’d all known each other for years. It could, admittedly, have had something to do with the 5 bottles of wine, six pack of beer, bottle of Vodka and a little grass we were indulging in (made the food taste better, too!) but I doubt it.
By the end of the night we busted out the old photos (and tortured poor Anthony and Dave), were cracking up, doing a little dance in the living room and smoking outside. That’s a party. Then against our better judgment we went out to SmartBar for some dancing and more drinking. The perfect storm continued to rage and we start drinking Red Bull and vodka. By three in the morning we’d danced up a storm, drank enough to choke a horse, and did enough damage to our lungs and livers to take five years off our lives.
Alas, it was worth it! And I can think of no better way to welcome my thirties: hanging on, defiantly, to my twenties by the skin of my teeth and acting like a 20 year old.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
I have to say, things are picking up for me here in Chicago: I am making new friends, re-establishing my old friendships, and finally getting settled in. In short, Chicago is finally feeling like a place to call home, instead of the place I retreated to after many years on the East Coast.
Work is coming along well enough for me not to complain about, though the job is tougher than I thought (let’s just say that bastardizing statistics to get the results you want is a lot harder than doing pure research – that’s what I get for selling my soul to the devil). Sure, there are a couple of ass holes around here but, all and all, it’s nothing I can’t handle.
And this is going to be a busy month for me as well. I’m out of town to discuss the eminent pseudo-fatherhood meeting, then it’s FINALLY off to Provincetown with Rob for a much-needed looooong vacation.
To add something new, I’ve also booked a trip to Puerto Rico with Rob. Okay, maybe vacationing with Rob part is nothing new, but going to PR is something I’ve never done.
My 30th birthday is also fast-approaching. . . not only does that mean that I’m getting old, but also that I have to get my driver’s license renewed. And knowing that I have hours to wait in line and a test at the DMV, I’m beginning to think there’s something worse than being older than I care to admit.
Work is coming along well enough for me not to complain about, though the job is tougher than I thought (let’s just say that bastardizing statistics to get the results you want is a lot harder than doing pure research – that’s what I get for selling my soul to the devil). Sure, there are a couple of ass holes around here but, all and all, it’s nothing I can’t handle.
And this is going to be a busy month for me as well. I’m out of town to discuss the eminent pseudo-fatherhood meeting, then it’s FINALLY off to Provincetown with Rob for a much-needed looooong vacation.
To add something new, I’ve also booked a trip to Puerto Rico with Rob. Okay, maybe vacationing with Rob part is nothing new, but going to PR is something I’ve never done.
My 30th birthday is also fast-approaching. . . not only does that mean that I’m getting old, but also that I have to get my driver’s license renewed. And knowing that I have hours to wait in line and a test at the DMV, I’m beginning to think there’s something worse than being older than I care to admit.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Where the hell have I been?
After a long weekend in Connecticut and New York a couple of weeks ago, missing Gregg’s birthday party, then having my parents over for the weekend and nearly dying of heat stroke on an hour long hay ride, I’m happy to report that things are back to normal: This Friday I decided to go out on the town alone. So the saga begins.
Let’s just say that going out alone on a Friday night is something that – well – no good can come of. And I had an unexpected houseguest that night (I shaln't be so bold as to expect such a houseguest).
Saturday, I had been given some furnature from my old boss and I went to collect it --it was a lot larger than I’d thought. . . in fact, too large for one person to manage. So the old boss, like the good guy he is, offers to help me move it in his truck. Cool.
We get to my house with the load of furniture and he asks if I need a desk for my bedroom. Sure. . . I could definitely use one. The old boss then swings open the door to my bedroom and – eeeeeer, nooooooo!!!! – the reminants, tools, and other paraphanilia of a responsible night of fun were all in plain sight and all over the bed (which was nearly in the center of the room), floor and a chair.
He immediately slams to door. . . . lends me a smirk and says:
"Yep, that room could use a desk."
After a long weekend in Connecticut and New York a couple of weeks ago, missing Gregg’s birthday party, then having my parents over for the weekend and nearly dying of heat stroke on an hour long hay ride, I’m happy to report that things are back to normal: This Friday I decided to go out on the town alone. So the saga begins.
Let’s just say that going out alone on a Friday night is something that – well – no good can come of. And I had an unexpected houseguest that night (I shaln't be so bold as to expect such a houseguest).
Saturday, I had been given some furnature from my old boss and I went to collect it --it was a lot larger than I’d thought. . . in fact, too large for one person to manage. So the old boss, like the good guy he is, offers to help me move it in his truck. Cool.
We get to my house with the load of furniture and he asks if I need a desk for my bedroom. Sure. . . I could definitely use one. The old boss then swings open the door to my bedroom and – eeeeeer, nooooooo!!!! – the reminants, tools, and other paraphanilia of a responsible night of fun were all in plain sight and all over the bed (which was nearly in the center of the room), floor and a chair.
He immediately slams to door. . . . lends me a smirk and says:
"Yep, that room could use a desk."
