Moving & Shaking

It would seem that there's allot of transition going on...

In 8 hours I'll be boarding a west-bound plane for Los Angeles. I'll hang out with my niece Saralynn for a couple of days and try like hell to remember what it was like to live there, so many, many moons ago. Oh, and have corned beef and rugelach from Canters on Fairfax! Why I can hardly switch planes at LAX without procuring some Jewish bakery! Then I'll scoot up the coast to see the rest of my family for a brief visit. Watch my brother and his band play a couple of gigs in San Luis Obispo, meet a couple of great-nieces and nephews for the first time, and pig out on Santa Maria Style BBQ, grilled up in my honor by my Grill Master brother, Gordon. I haven't been to the "birthland" in 3 years, and I'm craving lingucia!

But this journey west is about more than reminiscing, rugelach, and bar-b-cue.

On the last day we'll be packing up a 17' Hertz moving tuck, which I'll be driving back to Milwaukee, my sister tailing me in her convertible. Yes, Sister Mary is taking a huge leap of faith, and shaking it up big time by leaving the Central Coast to pursue a new life in the Midwest. This will be the first time I've had a blood relative in my radius in two decades and I swear, I'm really looking forward to it! I'm sure at some point I'll be sharing TMI regarding the sharing of bathrooms and household chores... Until Kerry moves out at the end of Summer, there will be 3 adults, 3 households, 3 cats, and a dog under this one, wee roof. Have mercy.

But wait, there's more. I will have no sooner returned from this 4-Day road trip adventure and unloaded said sister and her possessions into my house, when it will be time to pack up RESIDENCE on North Avenue and move it to its shiny new location at 612 North Broadway, downtown Milwaukee. Well, it doesen't look so shiny yet...but it will!

So you see between moving Mary and moving the shop...and a super exciting / top secret new project with Cassandra (that we will be filming in July), Michael may not have much time for blogging. However before this slice of cyberspace wraps itself up at the end of the year, I still have some wonderful and exciting things planned to share with you yet. You'll just have to be patient, I'm dancing as fast as I can! In the menatime I have to get my suitcase packed. What am I still doing up?!

See you soon. I promise.
Michael

P.S. With my fancy-schmancy new phone (birthday present from Cassandra) I'll be attempting a travelouge on Facebook to document my cross-country adventure, so look for real time updates there! Unless of course you aren't my friend on Facebook. Why aren't you my friend on Facebook?

I'm Still Swimming

Originally posted May 8th, 2010

The world spins. Babies are born, and people become parents everyday. Certainly some are more capable and prepared than others. In my mind, it's a responsibility so great, I can hardly fathom it. Yet between the two of them, my brother and sister managed to raise 9 bright, conscientious, big-hearted, and beautiful additions to the human race. Kudos guys, really. My Father used to say that children should come with instruction manuals. I can only imagine how helpful that would be, since every model is unique, and seemingly requires a different maintenance schedule. Real parenting is not for wussies!

Tomorrow is Mother's Day, so naturally my own mother is on my mind...

My mother was a real firecracker. She had a fiery temper and the patience of a gnat. Those close to her knew she was also tender at heart, and wounded easily. Towards the end of her life she agonized  more than a bit over having not been a perfect parent. I'm assuming that unless you're June Cleaver, this is a natural part of the maternal process. Whenever she would bring the subject up, I would remind her that we all turned out functional, if not fine. You see it was imperative to my folks that we not only be fed and clothed, but be kind and upright citizens. Those basic life-shaping principles seemed to be missing in many of the people I knew. I told her so.

Of course children don't just need adequate shelter and guidance, they need love. Lots of it.

I was 6 the day I learned how to swim. I'd been wading around in the shallow end for some time when Mom decided I needed to let go of the sides of the pool. Horizontal on water for the first time, she placed one hand on my belly, and her other on the small of my back. I was completely freaked out, and just knew I was going to drown. She said "Don't worry, I've got you." I craned my little head around to see her face, and I'll never forget that broad Cheshire smile, and look of love in her eyes as she repeated herself- "Don't worry, I've got you." She had my back, literally. Knowing that someone has your back when you venture into the scary and unknown can make a world of difference. My body relaxed, and I learned how to swim.

That's my favorite memory of her, and perhaps my finest, ever.

Whenever I feel discouraged I try review the criteria she set for my "success". I'm a good person. Check. I try always to treat others as I wish to be treated. Check. I love big and unconditionally. Check. And I'm still swimming Mom, so you needn't worry.

You did good Junie, you did good.
I'm so very grateful for our time together.
Love always, Mockie

Permission Granted

For the past few years Cassandra has been threatening me with a gift subscription to her favorite magazine, Science of Mind. This past Christmas I finally got one, and I absolutely love it. She knew I would. Aside from the excellent and enlightening articles on the broad scope of spirituality (which are thankfully about as long as my attention span these days) there's a 'daily reading', which I've come to appreciate greatly as a jump start to each morning. Perfectly paired with a pot of java, of course.

I was raised hearing a mantra that both my Mother and her Father used frequently. "If you're going to do something, do it the right way or don't bother at all." This philosophy cuts like a double edge sword. On the one hand I, with much pride and integrity, approach everything in my life with a "give it my best" attitude. On the other, I've spent a good deal of my life under some serious pressure to achieve perfection in my constant myriad of creative endeavors. Unlearning the notion that there's only one right way to do everything has been no small fete. And while I possess an inner drive that continues to propel me forward no matter what, I can see how that kind of rigid thinking could prevent a person from following their dreams. Has the pressure to NOT SCREW IT UP paralyzed you from even attempting to actualize your visions? Pursue your desires?

 As an artist of many mediums, I've had to learn to trust my process...and that has taught me that there is almost always more than one 'right way' to do anything. Which may (and frequently does) result in more than one outcome or result. Allowing that outcome or result to be what it is (or isn't) and knowing that it is indeed EXACTLY what it's supposed to be, might be the most liberating thing you can do. From attempting what appears to be a complicated recipe to starting your own business. If you don't keep moving forward, you get stuck where you are. I've been hyper-aware of that lately...

The following excerpt from the magazine was one of my recent morning readings, and some excellent food for thought on this Sunday morning...for me, and for you. Namaste.

..........................................................

In 1945, the great writer Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was arrested by the Soviets for criticizing Joseph Stalin in a letter to a friend. In a special labor camp in Ekibastuz, Kazakhtan, he wrote his epic poem Prussian Nights. He had no pen or paper and was not allowed to write. Each day, he would compose a few lines, carve them into a bar of soap, and recite them over and over until they were committed to memory. Each evening in his daily shower, he would use the bar of soap and wash away his writing. After years of captivity, he had written the entire book, committed it to memory, and watched it be washed away every evening.

When we have something that needs to be expressed, we will find an outlet for it's expression. There will never be a more perfecct time than right now, never a more perfect place than right here, and never anyone more perfect than you to express what needs to be expressed.

So many of us have a challenge writing down what's bubbling up for us, even when we have a pen and paper and permission to write. What if we give ourselves permission to write down- or draw, or sing or dance- what is alive for us in this moment, and understand that we can always make changes? What would happen if we were to honor the process rather than the demand the perfection?

PANTHIEST

Originally published February 12th, 2012

I recently received a message on Facebook from a lovely girl that I went to middle school with. I hadn't thought of her in years, but who could ever forget a girl named Wakana? As I recall, she was one of the brightest girls in my class. The 4.0 type. Anyway, she wasn't looking to rekindle a friendship that never quite existed, but she had obviously checked out my profile page. You know that little niche where you can find a persons religious views? Mine states that I am a Pantheist, and she was curious to know what that meant. I was happy to explain...

I've always been uncomfortable with "my way or the highway". With absolutes, with black and white. I'm a designer, and an artist. I have a deep understanding of grey! I have been baptized no less than 3 times, in 3 orders of Christian faith-  yet I no longer consider myself a Christian. My spiritual journey so far has been largely personal, mostly introspective, and in the last 5 years very important to me. Along this journey I came to an understanding for myself  that there's more than one way to get there. More than one path.

When I was growing up Mother told me to never speak of religion or politics in an "uncertain" crowd unless I was prepared to debate. As an adult I ask "Why is this? The answer is simple. Its because both are so closely attached to the ego. Make no mistake, the ego's position is ALWAYS to be right. We're instructed from the very beginning to be the most intelligent, the most studied and to always have the right answer. After all if you aren't right, then you're wrong! If only we could dissolve our egos.

I'm so sick of hearing people drone on about how religion is the root of all evil, and how it was the basis for almost every war the world has seen. While that may be true, Holy wars are not started by Gods or religions. They are started by men. By our fathers, our grandfathers, our brothers, our friends. God, Jesus, Buddha, Muhammad- don't drag them into it. They aren't the problem. WE are. Of course admitting that requires the taking on of personal responsibility. Its so much easier to blame a God that doesn't really exist, cultures we don't understand, or organized religion for the woes of the world than to take that responsibility for this royal mess we've created.

Two of my favorite people on this planet are Atheists, and they are raising their children as Atheists. There is much love between us and they respect my position to "believe", and I respect theirs to not. Unfortunately I have found most Atheists to be just as judgmental and smug in their non belief as the conservatives of any organized religion. Believers are simpletons, sheep. My spirituality is frivolous and negated by the intelligence of science.We "drank the kool-aid", subscribing to ideologies of religions created to control the masses and give them moral compasses.

Sorry Sam Harris, but that kind of generalization has nothing to do with me. Or my journey.

One of the most asinine things I've heard anyone say on the matter is "Science has proven there is no God." Don't be ridiculous. Science is amazing, but it cannot prove there is no God. Regardless of your religious (or non-religious) views, have you ever asked yourself why Science is so bent on disproving God? Stephen Hawking is a brilliant mind, perhaps one of the greatest the world has ever known. He has famously been quoted saying that "There is no heaven, its a fairy story." Perhaps he's right and the story we've been sold is just a fairytale. Can he prove there's no God? No spiritual realm beyond what we can see, hear and touch? Um, no.

Because I believe we're all spiritual beings, I fear a world where faith is not accepted just as much as one where the ideology and belief systems of any one man's religion is the mandate for all. There will never be a shoe that fits all feet.

For the record I do not believe that God is a old white guy with a long white beard, floating through the heavens on a cloud casting profound judgements upon his wayward children way down here on earth. Is God a man? A woman? I seriously doubt either. A collective force, perhaps. I do believe in both creation and evolution. And I do believe there's a point and purpose to this magical and glorious life we've been given. Most religious leaders will insist that all you need to know is written within the pages of their doctrines.  If we knew it all, would there be a point to the journey?

Because of the separatism and persecution that man's religion has liberally showered upon the world, so many, including my LGBT brothers and sisters have turned their back on their spiritual selves. And why wouldn't they? Who needs all that judgement?! However if I ponder this for too long, it makes my heart heavy. Not because I fear for their immortal souls mind you. For the truth as I know it, is that God is not outside ourselves but indwelling...and has absolutely nothing to do with man's religion. Therefore our souls could never be "up for grabs". Its just that they're likely missing out on such a beautiful and extraordinary layer to their human experience. A layer that for me, just keeps getting deeper and richer the more I explore and embrace it.

I think my personal position is best explained in this lovely quote by the Persian poet Hafiz~

"I have learned so much from God that I can no longer call myself a Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Buddhist, or a Jew. The Truth has shared so much of Itself with me that I can no longer call myself a man, a woman, an angel, or even pure soul. Love has befriended Hafiz so completely it has turned to ash and freed me of every concept and image my mind has ever known." -Hafiz

For something a little better articulated and bit more "textbook" about Pantheism.....
The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy
http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/pantheism/

Life is a DJ, you are the music. Let's dance.

My Funny Valentine

Not unless they're on ice, baby.

What I'm about to reveal may perplex, even shock you. An admission so potentially astonishing, they could possibly revoke my Gay Card...but here it goes: 6-pack abs creep me out. Not just a little, but a lot. I will presume to be the minority here, as men and women the world over covet the prayerfully taut abdominal region for it's purported aphrodisiac qualities.

Please don't misunderstand. I have absolutely no qualms with muscles. They're quite nice when proportionate (and don't look like they were squeezed through the compression chamber of a spritz maker). Why just the other day I ran into Jon Hamm at the gym, squeezed his left bicep, and told him to keep up the good work. In my own quest for better health and fitness, I've been trying to eat better and workout regularly too- with mixed results. But there's something about the ripped chisel of a 6-pack that reminds me of the reptilian underbelly of an alligator; and who wants to cuddle up (or wrestle, even) with that?

The Curse of St. Valentine

I swear Cupid and I were separated at birth. The subject of love in all its forms continues to fascinate. After 4+ years of blogging you'd think I would have covered it all by now. Not nearly.

I had a mildly confrontational conversation with a dear friend recently, who accused me of busying myself with, well, being busy. Are you ready? To avoid being in a relationship. Seriously. I was like "Hello, are you new here?' I've spent the better part of the last 25 years in relationships, or chasing relationships. Right now I'm chasing dreams. Growing me.

Of course her position was that of most coupled folk. There's always an underlying sense of tragedy, pity even, for those left behind in the dust of their friend's "Just Married" tin can trail. She seemed deeply concerned that I'd let someone great slip through my fingers and miss out on the chance to be as happy as her! I have to admit in all fairness, she is pretty damn happy. Apparently I can't have sex and chew gum at the same time. At this age and stage I realize this truth about myself, and so I've been on a relationship hiatus, if you will.

While it's true that a healthy relationship shouldn't be work per se, anything truly worth growing deserves nurturing. I couldn't even figure out how to schedule a badly needed haircut last week. How could I possibly invest in a budding romance? So you see, I'm not avoiding- I'm respecting. Yet, I'm a lover of love and always will be. The day will arrive (and so will he) and I'll be back in the game. Just not until it's time to play.

Since it's Valentines Day this week, I'll permit myself a moment of fantasy... So what special quality will my future Dream Lover possess? The thing that sets him apart, and lures me out of romantic retirement, and back into love? It won't be a taut tummy, but a sharp sense of humor. Who needs a 6 pack? In the long run, someone who can make you laugh (and relishes in doing so) is worth more than an entire Prada steamer trunk of alligator abs. Isn't that right baby? Yes, as soon as there's a hole in my schedule large enough for a Maine elopement, I'm marrying Zach Galifianakis. You heard it here first.

The Tao of Jasper: A Note For The New Year

I peered through the rectangular piece of security glass in the door that separated us, and he stared up at me with those enormous, almost human green eyes. Eyes that were clearly wise and full of love. I was instantaneously smitten with this kitten.

I was with Kerry at the Wisconsin Humane Society and we were "cat shopping". He'd recently said goodbye to his beloved Beauregard, and Miss. Sally (just a wee kitten at the time) was really in need of a companion. I called an attendant over, and asked if I could meet this little man who was already stealing my heart. Kerry came over too, and Jasper began to cast his spell. Kerry already had a soft spot for a little girl down the aisle, but I insisted that Jasper was "the one". In fact, I boldly stated that if he didn't take Jasper home... I would! Kerry adopted Jasper that very night, some 10 years ago.

This Summer Kerry and I combined resources (and households) to economize and help grow our business. Naturally, we were both concerned about how well our cats would co-habitate. My Jackson is a tender little beta boy, his Sally an aggressive alpha girl. Well worry not, three's company. Since their arrival on 47th Street, Sally and Jasper have made themselves quite at home, and Jackson seems genuinely contented with his new companions. He has however, noticed how I dote on Jasper...

You don't know this cat, but you love him. He's so wonderfully laid back, and he has the most agreeable disposition of any feline I have ever encountered. He's so handsome, so affectionate. A true-blue sweetheart. Social and tender,  he waltzes into a room and has makes you feel like you're "the only human in the world". Yes I'm swooning a bit, but I'm not the only one. You see Jasper loves everyone. And therefore everyone loves Jasper. Men, women, children...communists, even. I know it sounds a little silly, but there's an incredibly simple and poignant lesson in that. It's called the law of attraction. Apparently Jasper is a zen master.

The week between Christmas and New Years tends to be a bit reflective, doesn't it? Naturally, I've been contemplating 2013, and what it may have in store. I won't waste too much energy forecasting. Over the last couple of years I've been discovering the magic of co-creation through awareness...and that requires you to dream in the present.

I've also been listening to quite a bit of my favorite singer-songwriter, Beth Nielsen Chapman. Not familiar? Check her out. There's a song on her exquisite album "Prism: The Human Family Songbook" that's been on near continuous repeat for a couple of days now. The lyrics speak of how on a human scale, we often feel that our hopes, our desires...our prayers, are insignificant when pit against the vast universe. And yet,  if each of us would just give our love...

"Like sand on a mountain / Rain on a fountain / Shade on a shadow / A breeze in this tornado/ Just do what you can, clap with one hand / And shine all your light in the sun"

....then we could really make something beautiful in this world.

So that's my New Year's resolution.

I'm gonna shine all my light in the sun.

And take a page out of Jasper's book.

Because cattitude is everything. Sorry, I couldn't help myself.

Happy New Year!  Michael XO

THE HAIR: A Christmas Story

Originally posted on December 21st, 2011

Some man had trifled with my heart and I was sure it was breaking. Or aching. Or something that it wasn't supposed to be doing. This wasn't my first romantic failure, and it wouldn't be my last. I was on the phone long distance with my Mother crying the blues in her ear, and I could tell she wasn't in the mood for it. Of course, that didn't keep me from going on. And on. Bored and exasperated she finally said "Honey, I don't what to tell you. At least you'll always have Stacey."

It was December 14th, 1985.

I was at my very first gay party, a Christmas party hosted by my new friend Bobby Herd. Now Bobby (the older brother of my friend Cindy) was about 24 or 25 at the time, and though I looked and acted rather mature for my age.. I was just 14 years old.

Bobby knew I wanted so badly to meet other people "like me", and he took a mondo risk in inviting 2 minors (my only other gay friend Joel, aged 15 was also in tow) to an adult party where lots of booze (and other party favors) were being served. What could possibly go wrong except a police raid, right? I mingled, I met. I smoked a pack of my Mother's cigarettes, in an attempt to look old enough to just be present. That fateful night I would meet a fistful of people who would shape my future and remain close to me for many years to come. But none of them, would leave a mark on the landscape of me, as indelible as Stacey Dean Abillie.

I was crouched on the floor browsing a stack of vinyl, when a voice boomed from over my shoulder "You got any Madonna? Play some Madonna!" I looked up from a pile of records to find the absolute raddest, most exotic looking person I'd ever seen with my own eyes. We were both permed and in-between bleachings, suffering from painfully yellow hair. Did I mention it was 1985? He explained that he was a cosmetology student, and that he was going "white for Christmas". I played some Madonna for him and he was on his way. A short while later he circled back to me with intent.

"Hey. My friends and I will buy you whatever you want if you go to the liquor store and buy us some beer." When I told him I was only 14, he looked at me with utter disbelief and said "WHATever" as he pivoted on his heels and disappeared back into the party. Moments later, he and his entourage of infinitely cooler people were on their way out the door. Presumably on their way to a cooler party where beer needn't be solicited from uncool 14 year olds. Stacey Abillie was 18.

His clique tried like hell to avoid our less polished motley crew, but over the following year our paths occasionally crossed. Most famously in Los Angeles, at my first attendance of a gay pride parade. By then my hair had moved onto a fiery shade of red, but his was still yellow- only now on purpose. "Chrome Yellow" by Sebastian, to be exact. On an asymmetrical Mohawk. With a permed, asymmetrical rat tail. He sauntered up to me in the blistering 90 degree heat, and asked me (in my pink cotton jersey mini-dress) "What's in the bag hon? He was in search of lip balm. I had none.

It was Christmastime once again, when it all finally clicked.
Through the impromptu suggestion of our only mutual friend Mark Farrell, Stacey ended up seated squarely at my Mother's kitchen table to help decorate Grandma Furman's Christmas cookies. I think we both wondered what in the hell he was doing there, but there he was.We had our first real conversation over frosting and jimmies, and suddenly for both of us, it was like discovering a long lost limb.

Our mothers were both blonde haired, fair skinned, green eyed Catholic girls from Wisconsin, who were half French and half Irish. We both had super diverse taste in music, 2 older siblings, and a serious obsession with vintage clothes. Later that night when he got home, he called to tell me something else he wanted (but couldn't wait) to share. We were on the phone until the sun came up, and from that night on we were thick as thieves.

I was completely fascinated by his every move. He walked so tall in his own shoes, and I followed him around in awe. I didn't want to be him necessarily, but I sure wanted to be like him. Confident and artistic. So unapologetically HIMSELF. I'd never met anyone who could dream as big as I, and now at last, I had a partner in crime! The cliques that once held us in separate camps were forced to commune, and the most amazing family of friends ever was co-created. Turns out we weren't so different after all.

When he first started coming around the house, my Mother accessed him with great apprehension. Just who was this outrageous looking young man with whom her young and impressionable son had suddenly become inseparable from? She referred to him as the The Hair. "Michael, The Hair called. He needs you to call him back." "Where are you going tonight? The Hair stopped by and said he'll be back to pick you up at 7." It wouldn't take but a few weeks and she was under his spell too. Since they are easily the two most influential people of my life, it seems so right that they shared a loving camaraderie of their own, completely independent of me. By March, The Hair was doing hers.

What to wear, what to wear...

In 1987's Santa Maria, there was little for a gay teenager to do but anticipate the next house party. Much thought was put into wardrobe for such occasions, and we were even known to drive (or hitchhike when necessary) to Los Angeles to buy color coordinating cigarettes from the Nat Sherman store. If Stacey wore one yellow sock and one pink sock, then the smokes were yellow and pink. Yes we were that gay. And we were totally fucking awesome. However, a personality like Stacey's was far too large for our small town, and it wouldn't be long before the siren call of the big city would take him from me. One Friday in August he announced that he was moving to LA. On Monday.

For weeks after he left I moped about. Mom said "He's only 4 hours away, you can visit him all the time if you want." "I know, I said. But its not the same."
I'd lost my limb.

9 months later, armed with a fierce determination to propel myself into adulthood, I moved to Los Angeles. I was barely 17. My Mother was beside herself with fear, but without involving law enforcement, there really was no stopping me. She entrusted The Hair with her last born, and proceeded to spend the next 2 years sending biweekly care packages with Eric Freitas. Or Lonnie Frye. Or whomever she could get to make a trip down to see the boys.

20 years later I would overhear him at a party, reflecting back on that time, when he had felt such a responsibility to look after me because I was so young. He continued on to say that truthfully, it had been Michael who had looked after him. I suppose we've always looked after each other.

We lived a tumultuous and sometimes thrilling life as roomies in LA, but it wasn't always easy. There was plenty of drinking, drugs, and rock n' roll going on at any given moment- which caused inevitable drama. And we didn't always get along either. As MJ once famously sang, "I'm a lover, not a fighter", but Stacey holds the distinction of being the only person I've ever fought with. We used to have  fights so ugly, we made other people cry! Then we'd forgive and repair. Because that's what family does. Through the course of it all we also let each other down. Hoisted each other up. I do believe that no one has ever made me laugh harder. Seriously, if you've ever experienced us in the same room, then you know this shit is funny. Laughter is important in any relationship, dontcha know.

When I was 20 I left LA and moved to Milwaukee. The madness of the lifestyle I was immersed in seemed like a potentially disastrous course for me to stay on. And I hated the smog. And the pretentiousness. Go back to Santa Maria? I don't think so. I had spent my entire childhood plotting my escape.

I longed for a place where the seasons were markedly different and there were white Christmases, like the ones I'd seen in the movies. It was scary, you know. To leave my family, my friends, Stacey. But I did it, and it may have been the smartest move I ever made, figuratively speaking. 11 years later Stacey would finally heed my begging call and follow me here. He loves to bitch about how I forced him to come to "this place". Truth be told he loves it here, except for Winter which is like half the year. I hear about that too.

In many ways we're like an old married couple now. It's an interesting observation that while we still finish each other's sentences, we are far less alike than we used to be. We grew up and into ourselves, but never apart. I love that.

It was March, 2006

I had flown to California at my siblings behest. The human form of the spirit I had known all my life as Mother was about to expire. She was only lucid the first 2 days, and then hospice started her on the morphine. She lingered in the hospital bed which had replaced her own, in what had been her room for 44 years. She was so incredibly frail. We only expected her to last another day or two, but she wasn't yet ready to go, and at the end of the week I needed to return home to Chicago and work. I went to go sit with her for awhile before my flight, and say goodbye.

I sat on a chair next to her bed and held her hand and talked to her. She was completely motionless and hadn't uttered a word in 3 days. I was just about to leave for the airport, when in a dramatic moment (Oh, but she was good for those) she suddenly turned her head towards me and her eyes flew wide open. She looked me directly in the eyes, and said with absolute clarity "You tell Stacey I say hello, and give him my love." Just as quickly as her momentary animation had seemingly sprung her back to life, she closed her eyes and drifted right back into the morphine. Those were the last words I ever heard my mother speak.

So many people, places, and Christmases in-between. How do you reduce 26 years of history into something as long as what you've just read? Well you can't, really. Someday when the book gets written, there will finally be a place to share these stories... the story of us. Its a good one, and I promise not to sanitize myself or the role I played. It wouldn't be nearly as interesting. Or funny.

This Christmas we are 40 and 44. We look great, by the way. Stacey's sporting a really short, smart haircut. Me? Well I just have allot less of it these days.

Last night we sat at my kitchen table and decorated this year's "Round 2" of Grandma Furman's cookies. We talked a lot about our Mothers. Stacey lost his, in June. About things. About the future. I  remarked about how I thought that moving here would fulfill childhood fantasies of powder-coated Winter wonderlands. The reality is that over the last 20 years, snow for Christmas has actually been an infrequent occasion.

Once again the forecast for Christmas is calling for sunshine, but no snow. It would seem that both white Christmases and friendships that last a lifetime, are rare and special. But you were right Mom. I'll always have Stacey. 

Moms know things, they do.

Three Times A Lady

The air was ripe with excitement and anticipation.

20,000 well-dressed people were seated in Chicago's cavernous United Center waiting for the legendary Barbra Streisand  to take the stage for what we'd heard would be a spectacular 3 hour show. Everyone knew it would be a polished production punctuated by a lush orchestra. But at 70 years old, could she still 'deliver the goods'?

If you aren't new here then you've seen Barbra mentioned from time {wink} to time. Perhaps you've even read my special Barbra story...

When we were teenagers, my best friend Stacey and I swore if Barbra ever went on tour, we'd quit our jobs and follow her like Deadheads follow The Grateful Dead. Of course back in the mid 80's there was no hope in sight that Barbra would ever overcome her legendary stage fright and give up those goods. She hadn't toured since 1966! When she finally did conquer her fears and hit the road in 1994, I was a struggling young waiter and the closest stop on her tour was Detroit. Forget the increasingly (and exceedingly) high price of concert tickets; I'd have to take a weekend off from work and pay for airfare! I could either fulfill a lifetime dream or pay my rent. I paid my rent and waited for the HBO special.

When she decided to give it another go 6 years later, there was no question I would be there. A plan of action was quickly put together and implemented. I flew into Los Angeles and met Stacey there for one of the most exciting evenings of my entire life. I'll never, ever forget sharing that experience with him. Or going to Canter's deli on the way for patrami on rye and the best rugelach in L.A. for desert! I clearly remember leaving the venue that night amongst a silent crowd of thousands- everyone still too mesmerized to speak. Once we hit the street, Stacey lit up a joint. Two older ladies passed by us and one said to the other "At a Barbra Streisand concert?" Her friend quipped "Sure, why not."

In 2006 while I was living in Chicago, she did it again.

There were allot of folks griping because they had paid steep prices for tickets 6 years before under the guise that she would never tour again. But this new tour was devised as a way for her to raise money for her charitable organization and in doing so, she raised millions and millions for excellent causes. I was more than happy to do my share! This time I was able to host a pre-concert soiree at my place, complete with tasty noshes and Barbra's favorite libation- Bellinis. Jeffery arranged for a limo for the whole gang to be transported to and fro worry free. It was all-so chic. Stacey and I were interviewed by Rosie O' Donnell's cameras for a documentary that never saw the light of day, and I wore fur pants. Yes I did.

Flash forward to this past Summer. 

With her 70th birthday just behind her and her 50th anniversary with Columbia Records just around the corner, Barbra announces a special 2 night stint at Brooklyn's brand spanking new Barclay's Center. It would seem that the borough's most famous export was coming home for a first time ever concert event! Then several weeks later, the Brooklyn shows unexpectedly expanded into a mini tour. The morning of the announcement my reaction was calm and resolved. After a lean year it didn't even occur to me that I would go. I couldn't justify the expense. When tickets for Chicago went on sale Jeffrey called and said "Are you crazy? That's what credit cards are for! It'll be your Christmas and next year's birthday present. We're GOING!" And the next thing I knew I had a ticket.

In the press and gossips (and even online fan forums) there was much speculation about Streisand taking on such a venture at her age. Could she still cut the mustard? Would her voice hold up?

Welll, I was there in Chicago this past Friday evening and I'm here to tell you that she not only delivered the goods once again, she exceeded expectations. Her tone sublime, her legendary phrasing of the lyrics as impeccable and poignant as ever...and in some instances like never before. She hit and held all the necessary notes- caressing or belting. The buzz at intermission was all about how her voice seemed to be in even better shape than it had been in 2006. Clearer and stronger. How was it possible? I could go on, but you really ought to read Miriam di Nunzio's spot on review from the Chicago Sun Times here.

When the concert came to it's rapturous conclusion and we all met up at Gate 3, the look on everyone's faces was that of pure bliss. Barbra Bliss. It wasn't so much the awe of being in the presence of a living legend, or even the sheer delight of having had an exceptional musical experience. It was quite simply, Barbra herself. She imbued the evening with so much warmth that you had no choice but to part ways with a glow. She's never been a mere songbird. She's an activist, a humanitarian, a mother. To see her in concert is to be wrapped in the cloak of all those things. Did I mention she looked like a million bucks in Donna Karan? She did.

I could be wrong, but I seriously doubt that she'll ever tour again.

She has a couple of almost certain film projects coming up, and by the time she were to get around to putting another show together, she could easily be in her mid seventies. After seeing her this past weekend, I can't help but think about how fortunate I was to be there for this last, magnificent hurrah. Thanks Jeffrey.

The kid who never dreamed he'd be able to see his idol even once, has been three times lucky. She's truly ageless...and yes, evergreen.

That Autumnal Feeling

It's what comes before that "holiday feeling".

PAMELA ANDERSON Untitled Abstract I 36 x 36
Acrylic, Spray Paint on Canvas (and yes it's for sale)

Break out the sweaters! Start roasting the squash!
Don't panic, there's still 85 day's till Christmas!
Forget March madness. I'm clearly in a Fall frenzy.

Autumn is truly honey to this Bee. I'll gladly trade you August for 2 Octobers. If October were a man I would marry him. Handsome October. It's always so good to see you.

This fall finds me a bit more fractured than usual. The toll of reinventing a business while trying to juggle clients and manage Cassandra has left me a little weary this evening. It's deliciously cool and crisp, perfect for a fire in the place...but I don't think I have the stamina to see one through. The blaze beneath the pan of Jiffy Pop will have to do. For crying out loud, I was painting floors until 2 this morning. Today my body was like "Bitch, please." But I shall soon reap the fruits of my labor, and I will as promised share them with you here. Our grand reopening is November 16th. Keep you're eyes peeled.

There's a new computer in my life. She's still in the box. And I'm sure that's where she'll stay to until after we have our "soft opening" this Friday. Anyway, she's got a lot more 'joie de vivre' than this old girl I'm typing on right now, and we're going to make little movies together, her and I. The virgin effort will be something I piece together from the footage I shot over 11 days in August, on Lake Orlando with Cherrie and Cassandra. I can't wait to share my little slice of heaven with you!

Are you enjoying the Special Guest Series as much as I am?!

If you've missed any, you can access all of them in the Bee My Guest Archive. While I've missed the therapeutic benefits of writing, I haven't missed the pressure of solely supplying all your entertainment! All kidding aside, I want to make this a permanent and prominent feature...so PLEASE! Would you bee my guest? I'd sure like to have you. Write something. Draw something. Film, or sing something. Share your stories with me, here. We'll sweeten the honey pot, you and me.

Alright then beezers, there's a cool pillow and a cozy comforter calling my name. I'm leaving my window cracked open tonight. I've got a date with October at midnight. Ciao.

P.S. If you don't buy Pamela's painting I will. Even if I have to do it in 63 installments.

Mr. Nice Guy's Diet Plan

Ever heard the term "You are what you eat."? I'm about to put a whole different spin on it...Ponder this, will you? A steady diet of anything negative will give your soul indigestion. Burp.

We all know that eating junk or overly processed foods is bad for us, right? But what's your daily media intake? Do you watch much news? Reality TV? Obsessed with social media? Do you find yourself increasingly judgmental of others, or less agreeable with people who don't think like you, or have the same convictions and opinions? Well listen up FREE THINKER! I'm going to propose that there's a direct dietary link between the unrest and unease you may be experiencing , and the way you're doing your time.

Media can be a tasty but caloric nightmare of negativity, and is best consumed in moderation. Not unlike a trip to the grocery store, you've got to read the labels first before consuming. Television is the worst. They took perfectly wholesome ingredients and replaced them with toxic fillers! On Facebook the other day, someone said "We need more Mayberry, less Jersey Shore." I couldn't agree more. I understand that as a gay man it's some sort of prerequisite, but I don't watch The Real Housewives Of Anywhere. People treating eachother poorly has no entertainment value for me. Are you feeling fat? On most media menus you'll find a never ending selection of people who've been altered or airbrushed to an inch of their existence, guaranteed to make you feel unattractive. But wait! If you order within the next 15 minutes you'll receive that special dumaflatchey guaranteed to slim you down to that size you've been told to dream of-  in just 10 days at no extra charge! Delivery is extra.

Don't get me started on talk radio either. Most of that programming is a pessimistic potluck as well. Ouch. That wasn't very nice of me, now was it? Where are my manners? The truth? If I start listening and watching, I buy into all of it too- even though I know better! So I simply turn it off. Perhaps a media diet is just what we all need.

When I do have a little free time I turn on PBS or the OWN for some positive programming, or one of the movie channels for a good flick (commercial free, of course). On weekday mornings I always try to watch Cassandra on Real Milwaukee because I genuinely enjoy the show and  I get to beam with pride because my girl is on the tube y'all! But I kid you not the minute the show wraps, the TV goes off. By the time that one hour is finished, I've been inundated with a hundred mud slinging political ads. From both camps.We haven't even gone into the full swing of the upcoming Presidential race yet! Who's slanted spin do you want to have for breakfast? I prefer cereal with yogurt, thank you.

I don't  see that this never-ending, overblown blame-game is successfully changing anyone's mind about the issues anyway. The truth is that everyone's ego is so hungry to have the "correct position"  that this contentious climate is only polarizing and dividing us more. There are those who are born with the constitution to become activists and (hopefully) effect change in the world. That's not my calling. This in no way absolves me from my societal responsibility to educate myself on important issues, and look after myself and my loved ones by voting my conscience, but that's where my obligation ends. What's for dinner?

The trouble with me and diets is that I'm a snacker. Unfortunately, my favorite between-meal snack food (I mean time waster)- Facebook, is turning into a real calorie cruncher...

Personally, I use Facebook for what I believe it was intended for; to keep up with folks and loved ones, and vice versa. I post status updates about what's going on in my life, pictures of my excursions, my friends and family, the fabulous things I cook for dinner parties, design projects, a little Bee and business networking, etc. I do share the occasional music video, or thought provoking bit of whatever- but I keep it positive. If I wanted to be barraged with a never ending stream of political advertisements and sentiments, I'd turn on my television! Oy. This whole Chick-fil-A thing has truly pushed it over the edge for me. From both sides of the issue, mind you...and I'm sure I don't have to explain to you which side my bun is buttered on either. It's to the point that I'm either going to have to "hide" half of my friends (on BOTH teams) or simply give it up all together. Which I'm not quite ready to do because I neeeed my nookie! So be warned: Effective immediately my Facebook feed is a strict no politics zone. It ain't personal, you're just jamming up my chi.

Since I need no convincing that the law of attraction brings more to you of what you fix your thoughts and spend your feelings on, I can't afford to be embroiled in the nastiness of the world. I believe we can make a difference in the vibration of THE PLANET by simply focusing our attention (and intentions) on what is positive, rather than what's wrong or not working. In order to do that though, we may have to toughen up and make some serious dietary changes. Your personal trainer?
 Mr. Nice Guy.

"Kindness in words creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love."  - Lao Tzu

When Shit Breaks

Over the last few weeks, a couple of prized possessions met with unfortunate and untimely fates. First, enough sweet potato salad to feed a small army slipped right out of my hands, crashing onto the kitchen floor, shattering my mother's yellow Pyrex mixing bowl. Yes, that Pyrex bowl... 

Then as I was delicately hand washing (as always) my favorite artisan coffee mug, part of the fluted rim snapped off right between my fingers. 10 years ago, either of theses incidents could have turned into long suffering events. I'm so grateful to now understand that these are indeed incidents and not events.

I was recently remembering one afternoon when I was maybe 4 or 5 years old. I was at my babysitter Ida's house and I'd just enjoyed a juicy tangerine off of the tree in her backyard. In her kitchen sink I washed the sticky from my tiny hands, but before they were completely dry she handed me a glass of water and it slipped right through my little fingers and broke. Mini Me melted down.

I was so upset. You see in my Mother's house, this would have been a Category 1 Catastrophe; viewed as a precarious mess that needed to be cleaned up, not to mention having to replace the glass. Ida, who was clearly taken aback by my instant trauma over something so minor, tried to assure me that it was an accident, and "only a glass". I wasn't at all convinced. I needed another tangerine.

Shit breaks everyday. Cars, toys, shoelaces, dishes, rules-  not to mention relationships and hearts. Breakage of any kind is rarely convenient, so how does one manage to overcome life's little (and not so little) travesties? While there are exceptions of course, I try (I said try!) to remember this basic rule of thumb: Just about anything that breaks can be replaced or mended.

When I was a kid I thought my Mother was the bravest woman in the world. I now realize that in many areas of her life she operated from a place of fear. In this particular reference, she feared that if something broke or got ruined there would be no money to replace it. Fear and worry are synonymous, and if you're always worried then you have no peace. I don't think my mother ever knew peace. I'm choosing something different for myself. We were hardly impoverished, but that was an impoverished mentality. I choose to live in abundance, and that's a spiritual position. If something breaks there's no need to sweat it, I'm covered. You can't buy insurance for that!

Don't have the spiritual constitution to subscribe to that kind of thinking? I suppose they still make Super Glue! Listen. When they pack you up and send you on your way, you won't be able take your stuff with you anyway. Didn't work out so well for the Egyptians, did it?

In the event of emotional breakage, I can almost guarantee you that wherever you're busted, it will heal itself- as long as you don't insist on clinging to the jagged edges. Trust me, I know this from experience! Mucho. I find that the ever resilient heart is unique that way. Pyrex bowls and coffee mugs, not so much.

When I was 16 and my friend Carol was in beauty college, she gave me a perm. It was the 80's, what can I say. Anyway, I used to have what's known as a 'widow's peak' hairline. Think Eddie Munster. When you perm a widow's peak, you have to part it down the middle and roll the hair on 2 rods at opposing angles. She rolled it all on one rod, straight across- and the hairs literally broke off at the root. Of course the hair grew back with time. And then it eventually fell out anyway, but I can't very well blame that on Carol, now can I?

Addendum: I thought I'd add that this evening as I was writing this piece, my cell phone fell in the toilet and died a most unspectacular death. True story.

2nd Addendum: So last night I post on Facebook the tragedy met by my phone. There was a unanimous call for a plan to raise the dead by immersing the phone and all it's parts in dry rice. Yes, as in the grain. I did it, and left it overnight...the dead has arisen! She's 'tickyer' than ever, but by golly she's working.

The Painter

Once the paint hits the canvas there's no turning back.
And I'm totally cool with that.

I was recently joking with a friend about my "process".

I always have a color palette in mind, and typically some notion about the subject matter and or movement/style. However before I begin any piece, I surrender. To the moment, to the energy. Don't get me wrong. I do have a say in the finished product, but I truly let each piece evolve...become it's own entity.

It kind of goes down like this. I'm really excited by the first few applications of paint...it's a total rush and I already know it's gonna be good. Then something goes down...not like I think it should be, and I'm devastated. I hate it. I try to fix it and I make it worse. Now it's ruined! Calm down Dramatica. Because without fail, just when I think it's all been lost, I'm directed to make another move which turns the whole hot mess around. I love it again. The piece always let me know when it's finished. I sign it on the back and it goes out into the world. 

I recently finished a commissioned piece that I truly struggled with.

Even as I was installing this one, I wasn't at all sure that I liked it. When the client saw it he flipped out. Absolutely loved it. I realized in that moment that I hadn't painted this one for me...it had come through me for him. It's not always about you, Michael!

Over the years I've given away as many pieces as I've sold. My most favorite piece now resides is England, a birthday gift. If I had the luxury of time and more importantly unlimited resources, I would paint all the time....and I would give them all away. Honest! Yes, it's thrilling to sell one-  but it's even more gratifying to surprise someone with a piece they've had their eye on. To see my paintings installed and living with people humbles me in a way I honestly don't have words to articulate.

When I started painting 6 years ago, I was moved to do so by the suggestion of my nocturnal dreams. It had never even occurred to me that there was that kind of an artist dwelling inside of me. I am so grateful for this and all gifts...and that I listened...and set him free.

Happy Client!    "After My Own Heart"  18x54 Acrylic on Canvas 2012

"Concentric Chaos'"  36x104 Acryllic on Canvas 2012

"Square Biz"   48x48 Acrylic on Canvas 2012

"Seasons on The River"   18x96 Acrylic on Canvas 2011

Dance, If You Want To...

Hey Mr. DJ!

I'm not a very good dancer.
Oh, I can get out there and shake my groove thang, but please don't ask me to waltz. My brother is the dancer. I'm all left feet.

Cherrie has insisted it's because I have a mental blockage. I think I'm uncoordinated, so therefore I am. She may be correct, or at the very least onto something game changing...

Dreamer, risk taker, all around fearless dude. I've been told by some that's how people see me. The reality is most of time I'm nothing but a big fat coward. You see it only looks like I'm dancing. I'm really just shaking my ass. Opportunities to try something new, to grow myself, pass me by every day. It's true.

I've been feeling a desire, more of a knowing really, for quite awhile that it's time for me to step into a new pair of shoes. Here's the bunion. There's something that's standing between what it is I KNOW, and actually getting it done- and it's me. It's my insecurities. I'm afraid to really dance. I can blame the DJ all I want; wallflowers have terrific excuses for spending their lives off the floor.

When you put yourself upon a stage, you open yourself up for criticism. For failure, for embarrassment, for your flaws to be exposed. Why you might as well be naked up there! Here's the thing though. I don't believe this new adventure will require a spotlight on me per se, but it's going to require me to embrace a new maturity. To drive a dream this big requires a responsible person behind the wheel. I think for me to finally grow into the person I'm supposed to be, I may have to finally grow up.

I have suspected for some time now this couldn't be avoided.

Prince once lyricised (New word, like it?) "You can dance if you want to. All the critics love you, in New York." If we (and by we I really mean me) were to adopt and apply this philosophy, then New York is the world, and it wouldn't matter if we were singing and dancing while spinning on our heads playing the ukelele, right? Why would you walk through life when you can dance instead? You could get hit by a bus tomorrow for crying out loud! Cliche? I guarantee you someone, somewhere is gonna get hit by a bus today. And die. Cassandra always says "If you woke up this morning, there's still time." I'm inclined to believe her. I'd rather do this thing while I still  have the use of my feet, thank you.

My new shoes will give me better posture...and shall be made for dancing.

Whatcha doin' on your butt?

Daddy

You've been on my mind allot lately.
The cottage hasn't been available for the last 2 Summers, but Cherrie and I are heading up to Waupaca in August. I'll watch for you on the water...
Love, Schnickelfritz

GONE FISHIN'

Originally posted on March 11th, 2010



My Father loved to fish. No, I mean he really loved to fish.

My folks split when I was 3, and I don't ever remember him living at home. When I was 5 he left California and moved back to Wisconsin where he and my Mother were from. From that point forward, I only saw him during the Summers, and it was over those summers that my father taught me how to fish. I never really loved it the way he did, but I loved spending the time with him, and I learned to love the peace and serenity of the experience. He'd wake me up at 4:30 in the morning so that we could be at the lake before sunrise. We'd load up the trunk of the car with our fishing gear, and coolers containing sandwiches and cans of Pepsi. Dad was a Pepsi guy.

We'd fight our way through the swarms of mosquitoes that would fog the air in the moments just before dawn, and if we timed it just right, we'd be gliding into the middle of the lake just as the sun poked it's nose over the horizon.We had a "gentleman's agreement". I would bait my hook and catch the fish, but he had to take them off and clean them. It worked. I'm sure deep inside he wished that I would man-up and do it myself, instead of yelling "Gross!" and running away like a little sissy-boy. But he never said anything. He in his quiet way, allowed me to be the little person that I was.

I was certainly a different kind of son than my brother Gordon, who is 14 years my senior, and Dad really wasn't sure what to make of or do with me. Interestingly, for all the gaps in our alien relationship, I never had to wonder if he loved me. He really didn't understand me at all, but he loved me anyway and I knew it. A lot of kids don't get that, I'm grateful I did. Even if that understanding was in many ways, marginal.

Dad was a man's man. President of his Senior Class. He was keen on, and excelled at many sports, loved hunting as well as fishing, served in the Navy, and always cried during the national anthem. In fact I saw my Father cry on many occasions. I suppose that's where my brother and I get the propensity for waterworks.

He was charming, handsome, and had more friends than he could count- until he pushed most of them away. He was the life of the party, loved to tell jokes and was good at it too. I remember the jokes. "Why are Dolly Parton's feet so small?" "Because nothing grows well in the shade." When he was content there was a twinkle in his hazel eyes that endeared you to him, and when he was in pain there was a profound sorrow there, you understood couldn't be fixed.

He was an alcoholic who was prone to gamble, and had two failed marriages. He loved to garden with my stepmother Muriel, and made a mean Boiled Dinner. And the best BBQ ever. Some of these things I remember, but most of it I learned from other people. You see, our Summer's were brief, and the time we spent on a boat in the middle of the lake, was quiet time. It's funny. I loved him too, and yet I never really knew him.

When I was 18 he had 3 strokes in 2 days. He'd already suffered a myriad of health catastrophes, including several heart attacks and arterial sclerosis. The strokes left him unable to speak, and with the exception of a short period of time that he managed with a walker, he didn't walk for the last 6 years of his life. He spent those last years in a Veteran's home where they took exceptionally good care of him, and once in a while his fishing buddies would come and get him for the afternoon. Somehow they'd manage to get him into the boat, and take him fishing. Fisherman are a resilient lot.

He's buried at the veterans cemetery in King, Wisconsin on a chain of lakes there. He'd like that very much. By pure coincidence, my dear friend Cherrie vacationed on that same chain of lakes as a little girl with her family, and it was the place in this world most precious to her father. I honestly didn't realize that first year we rented a cottage up there, that we were only minutes from where my father was buried. That was 7 years ago now, and every year I say to Cherrie "Hey lets go have lunch with my Dad. We'll pack a big lunch and make a picnic out of it."

We have the best of intentions,we do, but we never make it there. Some people may think its odd that I don't ever feel guilty about that, but I don't. Maybe it's because I know he's not there. That's only where the remains of his body lie. His spirit on the other hand, is with me all week long. In the whispering pines, in the coo of the barred owl who echoes across the woods "Who cooks for you?", and in the tranquility of the glassine lake. Especially at night.

Cherrie and I will run from the cottage, through the swarms of mosquitoes that fog the air in the moments just before sunset, down to the lake and hop in our canoe, so that we can be right in the middle of the water when the sky goes from blood-orange to pitch black. As we glide across the tree-rimmed, marl bottomed lake, I swear that at any given moment I can catch a glimpse of him on his boat. He's got his fishing hat on, his pole is in the water, and a Pepsi is resting next to him on the seat.

It is still and peaceful, and it is so very good to see him.