When I got to the lawyers office at 9:45 AM it reminded me of a lot of corporate buildings I'd been in before. They all seem alike to me and this one in Atlanta is no exception.

I found the ante room. The receptionist invited me to sit down. The furniture was nice. The place was decorated in typical "modern south" decor and everything was just right. She offered me an espresso or capuccino but I already had a knot in my stomach. I didn't know what to expect but I sure as hell knew I didn't want to see that red headed gorgon of a sister again. I was hoping she wouldn't show up.

The existence of a will surprised me but it shouldn't have. They always made us keep our wills and powers of attorney up to date when we were in the military, especially those of us who were in line units likely to see more action. The fact of Joe having his affairs in order also came as no surprise. He was a "Marine's Marine." Tidy, organized and highly disciplined.

There was a sound at the door. I looked up. It was the sister. She sat down right across from me and pulled at her husband's sleeve. He had been coming over to shake my hand, having stuck his out but she yanked him back and he sat down with a sheepish smile.

"What are YOU doing here?" she hissed.

I didn't answer. I just looked back down at my magazine that I hadn't been reading anyway. It took me a minute to process the fact that my being here was a surprise to her. That must mean that the attorney didn't say anything to her, just that he couldn't do the will at the original time, thus had to reschedule.

That thought made me confront another idea that hadn't occured to me at all. Simply, WHY was I SUPPOSED to be there? I hadn't given it a single thought. I'm not a conclusion jumper. Neither do I run scenarios through my imagination. I'm pretty good at the "wait and see."

Now I was curious though. She was surprised and resentful to see me AND she rearranged her schedule to hear the will read.

At the moment I was mulling this over, the door opened and out of the office came the attorney whom I had (up to that point) only heard on the phone. I recognized him the minute I saw him. He and a date/boyfriend/what? had been in the same restaurant that my pals and I had eaten in the night before. It was a gay restaurant. Of course I only noticed them as the goodlooking couple at the next table. I had no idea he was Joe's attorney at that point.

He invited us into the conference room. It was the door next to his office door. Nice room.

I sat down on one side of the table and the gorgon and her mate sat on the other.

"This is a straightforward, uncomplicated will" the attorney said. "It is well notorized, regularly updated and witnessed legally. There are no irregularities. In fact, it is one of the better wills I've seen, notwithstanding the fact that I drafted the original."

The sister was getting impatient, shifting around in her chair.

"Let's begin" the lawyer continued " by reviewing the assets listed in the will".

To be blunt, I was stunned. I knew Joe invested. I knew Joe had some properties, a couple rentals and a couple commercial things going on. I knew Joe was generous to a fault but good with his money. What I did not know was that he had made a hobby out of investing and saving since he was a kid and that he watched and managed his portfolio meticulously (although it didn't surprise me. he was that way about everything). What I did NOT know was that Joe left an estate worth over three million dollars not including insurance.

The lawyer, after reading the assets informed us that Joe had established college funds for both his neices that were in trust. They would be administered by the attorney until the girls were each twenty one, at which time they would take over management of the accounts or whatever remained in them. The only stipulation was that the girls attend liberal arts, not religious institutions. (The redhead was livid). Joe apparently knew his sister well.

The remaining (approximately) 3 million dollars in cash, investments and real estate assets were, in short - left to me. I thought my heart was going to stop and I thought the woman was going to have a stroke.

After a moment, she asked "What about insurance?"

"Joe also left the insurance to his husband." The attorney answered. And it was a BIG policy. Big.

"Further" said the lawyer "The insurance is in Euros, purchased from Allianz in Germany and will be paid there. It is unasailable as the European courts all recognize the full legality of Buzz and Joe's marriage license from Copenhagen. The same is also true for the European investments. The American investments are covered separately, not as a spouse inheritance listed in the will but as a beneficiary designated legally by Joe in the will. Further, Joe has left a letter in the will detailing the fifty percent split between himself and you, the sister, when the parents left you equal portions of their considerable estate. In short, you will just be wasting your money if you contest this will and you will only be able to contest 1/3 or the assets as the rest are in Europe. Joe has left his estate, properly, to his husband." The attorney was silent.

"Husband!" she screeched. "Blasphemy! Haters of God! Anti-American CRAP! Debauched European pseudo-sensible CRAP!" she spat out. "In America MEN CANNOT MARRY MEN! Thank GOD!"

"They can in Massachusetts and Hawaii" said the lawyer. With that he stood up and exited the room leaving me a wealthy man and her in tears. "Sorry" the husband mouthed as they left the room.

I hope he dumps her. He's way too nice for her.

So I sat there alone. I started to cry again. I could care less about the money, I'd give it all away if it could bring Joe back but I'm not the first person to ever say that and I won't be the last.

The receptionist came in. She saw me crying and brought me tissues then she sat down next to me.

"You see" the receptionist said, "I agree that people who love each other should marry. You're lucky because you have what so many other men here don't. You had the chance. You got married. You made your love into a union. You see, they can't do that here. But because you two were in Europe you had the chance. I know it's a horrible loss but you got to go so much farther and look... he cared for you after his death. Someday it might be like that here."

"Yes, someday." I managed to say. I just felt like I wanted to die. But then I got up and adjusted my tie in the mirror and wiped away the rest of my tears and left. I had to go find Eric and tell him what happened.

I stayed at Eric and Phil's place late. All our friends ended up there as well as Eric's brother and his wife, his mom and dad and Phil's parents and inlaws. We had a hell of an impromptu wake for Joe. It helped.

I got back to my hotel at three in the morning. The night clerk gave me my key. He flirted with me too. Oddly, that also helped. Wierd.

The curtains were open and there was lots of light coming in from the city. It was nice. I just lay there looking out the windows for a long time thinking about the kinds of things that float in and out but don't hang around long. Random, disassociated things. During all of it I thought of Joe.

I could hear his words as he left for Iraq, "Don't worry, if anything happens to me you have to know that I'm ready. I've lived well. Loving you is the best thing that ever happened to me. Even if I only ever got one day, one week, one month with you, it would be worth everything. If anything happens, I have lived well. You have to know that. Don't ever forget that."

I started to cry again. I looked at the clock. It was five. I'd been laying there for almost two hours just drifting in and out of thoughts. I got in the shower. I use the same kind of soap Joe did. I didn't before but I switched when we moved in togther because I didn't like the way my soap smelled next to his. His was better anyway. It made me feel close to him. I was still thinking about his words, and about how it felt to be in his arms and about how it used to be when we were in the shower together. A hundred thoughts, all at the same time.

I went to bed again but slept this time. I slept until I felt an electric drill boring into my eye and coming out the back of my head. Then I realized it was the phone ringing. God.

"Hullo?" God, it even hurt to answer the phone. How much did I drink?

"Buzz?"

"What? Who is this?" I asked.

"It's Frank, from work. Frank."

"Jesus, who?" I was still trying to comprehend where I was let alone concentrate on Frank or the truth that he was in my office, half a world away. "Frank, what the FUCK do you want? Why are you calling me?"

"Buzz - there's a lawyer. A LAWYER, Buzz. He's called the office here three times looking for you. He's from Atlanta. He works for Goff, Shanahan and Mitchell. They're downtown. In Atlanta. He's trying to find you. Do you want the number? I wouldn't tell them where you are. They thought you were back here already. They saw you at the funeral. They said you spoke. I didn't know you were going to a funeral, Buzz... was it a family memember? I'm sorry."

"Fuck. Fuck. Um, Frank, what do they want? What is this about? What is this?"

"Just copy the number down Buzz. Just call them." Frank gave me the number. I scribbled it on the note-pad next to the bedside phone (after I finally got the Ritz Carlton pen working).

Jesus my head hurt.

I went back to sleep. Finally, I woke up again because I had to pee. It was two thirty PM.

After I used the bathroom I saw the note and remembered it and how much my head hurt. I called the firm and asked for the attorney. I waited, on hold until after what seemed like five minutes I heard:

"Mr... ah..."

"Call me Buzz" I said. "My pals all call me Buzz and you may as well."

"Ah, yes, ah Mr... ah, Buzz. Well, I'm Bryant Williams. I am, well, was, your friend Joe's attorney. That is to say, your partner Joe's attorney."

"My partner?"

"Yes, I understand he was your, ah, for lack of a better term, your life partner."

"He was my husband. We were married in Copenhagen. The legality of our marriage was recognized all over Europe and in most free countries of the world including Canada. Joe was my husband. We don't lack a better term. Joe was my husband."

"Yes, ah, well, yes, of course then."

"What do you want, Bryant?"

"I want you to come to the firm. Joseph stipulated that the will could not be read without you present. You have to be here for the will. His sister insists on waiting until next week but we must, by law according to the last will and testament of the deceas... ah, of your part... ah, husband, read it in your presence as well as that of his sole surviving family member - his sister. Her husband will also be there to support her."

"My flight is tomorrow."

"They say they cannot do it tomorrow."

"Does the will stipulate or mandate their presence or only mine?"

"Only yours, sir, it's just custom to have the next of kin there but in this case only your presence is mandated by the document."

"Then you can goddamned well read it at my convenience and if she cannot attend, too bad."

"Yes sir" said Bryant Williams.

"Tomorrow then?"

"Yes sir"

"10:00 AM?"

"Yes sir" he said again.

"Good. I'll see you then."

Click. I hung up.

Then I picked up the phone and called Eric. "E," I said... "You're never going to believe this."

Then I called the airlines. I decided to stay around Atlanta to spend a few more days with my friends, and Joe's before heading back to Europe. Besides, Luke couldn't make the funeral from NEW YORK but wanted to come down. Lufthansa changed my ticket with no problem. Then I called the office and let them know.

After that, I headed out to meet some friends to pass the rest of the day not alone. I can't be alone right now. No way.

When I got outside the "Fellowship Baptist Church" I stood there for a minute letting the sun hit my face. Singing had broken out inside. There was a color gaurd at the bottom of the steps getting ready to render military honors and carry the remains that had been Joe out of the church. The guys in the color gaurd reminded me of Joe and of me but young versions. They were kids, barely in their twenties.

I looked across the parking lot at my rented Mercedes and wondered where the hell I would go. My return reservation wasn't for a couple days yet. I had been under the mistaken notion that the tearful "come right away" on the telephone from Joe's sister was an olive branch. It turned out not to be. It turned out to be yet another drama acted out by the schizo redhead.

I arrived quickly. She didn't have time to undo the invitation. After THAT phone call I didn't even bother to call a travel agent. I got dressed, threw an overnight bag together and headed for the airport hoping to find the fastest flight to Atlanta that I could. I figured I'd hit the stores with my credit card to suit up once I got there.

Lufthansa had a flight leaving in thirty minutes. I made it. 9 hours and some change later I was in the lobby of the Buckhead Ritz Carlton getting a room. Ten minutes after that I was confronted by a long silence on the phone from Joe's sister and the tenative sentence "I tried to call you back to ask you not to come after all but you didn't answer your phone. Anyway, you've wasted a trip."

"I'm here now." I said.

"What are you going to do?"

"Come to the funeral. Do you need any help? Can I do anything?"

"Yes, you can help. You can agree not to come and while you're at it, you can ask Joe's friends who are like you to not come. I don't want his funeral to be some kind of circus or political show for activists. I don't want anyone using Joey's life to make a statement."

"You're the one making all the statements." I tried to remain calm. "As for a circus" I said, "You're the one acting like a goddamned clown." I hung up the phone.

I got undressed and went into the bathroom. I turned on the shower and got out my shaving bag. Then I started to cry. I couldn't stand it. The fact that he was gone. The fact that his parents (who had been wonderful, accepting people) were both gone and that all that was left was this sister. So full of bile!

I sat on the bed and cried. It was the first time I had cried.

I got into the shower. Afterwards I ordered room service and then went to bed. I slept all night.

The next morning I called the redhead again. "When and where is the funeral?" I asked.

"Never mind. I told you I don't want to see you. You don't need to be there. You shouldn't have come. That chapter is closed. I won't see you again, ever."

"Ok" I said and hung up.

Next, I called an old friend who works for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in Atlanta. He gave me the name of the local Army Casualty Assistance Officer. I called him and found out everything I needed to find out about the funeral. Then I called every friend of Joe's in town that I know - and I know plenty of them. And they called their friends. And so on. I called all of my pals in Atlanta too. Almost all of them had already heard THE NEWS.

The morning of the funeral we all arrived at church at the same time. We agreed to do it that way and go in together. There were over a hundred of us. Over a hundred homos walking into the land of the homophobes.

Then it was over. Just like that. The funeral, my unintended speech, the whole thing - done. And I was standing on the steps wishing I could just go straight to the airport. Instead I went back to the hotel. I looked at myself in the mirror. The suit looked great (Zegna). The white shirt and tie were conservative. Joe always did like me in a suit.

I changed. While I was changing someone knocked on the door. It was Mike and Steve and Eric. They were worried about me. I finished changing. We agreed to go over to Eric's. He and his husband have a nice place with a pool, also in Buckhead - not far from my hotel. It ended up being great being there with everyone. We sat by the pool in the shade and caught up and got drunk.

I started to cry again but this time Eric put his arms around me. That's when I knew that even with the dreadful loss, I'd never really be alone. I have the greatest friends in the world.

It hurts like hell though. It just plain hurts.

The thing about funerals is that they are at once solemn and farsical. Everyone shows up and says things. Nice things. Even if they hated the guy or were jealous or hardly knew him. There's plenty of reinvention and invention. And the guy is laying there in the box. Not caring. Dead.

That's how it was at Joe's. I wasn't even supposed to be there but by god I was there. His oh so Baptist sister (Joe used to call her "her emminence") instructed me not to come as an extension of the "thanksgiving rule."

The "thanksgiving rule" was simply this. Joe could come for thanksgiving and other holidays. I could not. I used to be invited but then, one fateful year, his oldest neice (Cassie) asked right out loud at the table whether or not Joe and I were married. This is a normal question for a 6 year old to ask but to Joe's sister it was oh so much more.

We were instantly an evil influence, bent on subjugating as many young, pre-christian minds as we could to win them over to our cause. (I think our cause that thanksgiving was to get in and out without gaining five pounds). No more faggots in the Christian house. Joe didn't go back either. He was as disgusted as I was and considerably more verbal about the whole thing.

So when he was killed I was asked not to come to the funeral. Moreover, I was asked to tell "any other people like you that might want to come to please not do so as we are going to have a worship service and a christian burial."

Uh huh. That made my mind up. I called every other person "like me" that I could think of and we all went to the funeral. And there were a lot of us. Joe had a lot of friends.

Her Christian Majesty gave us all the hairy eyeball when we walked in. I gaurantee you we were the best looking people in there. Jesus Mary and Joseph you never saw so many good haircuts and Boss, Zegna, and Armani suits in a baptist church before. Next to those beeves we looked like movie stars with our lean builds and good tailoring. Joe would have been laughing but he didn't care because he was just lying there dead in the box.

The preacher preached and the choir sang and the whole thing was insipid. It was all about the Baptist sister and her kind.

Then people started getting up and saying pretty but mostly meaningless things about Joe.

Then the preacher said "Is there anyone else that would like to share a memory of Joe or say something?" The room was quiet. You could hear a pin drop as I walked up to the pulpit.

I couldn't believe I was doing it but I was halfway there before I even knew what I was doing.

I stopped and looked down at the box. It was closed because he was too much of a mess to reconstruct. I understand such things and to me it was just a box anyway. It's funny what you think about when you are staring at your lover's remains in a box at his funeral but you are the living object of hate reminding the Christian relatives of who he was.

I was thinking about the sound of the shower on Saturday mornings because he always got up before I did. And the smell of coffee. And the feel of him getting back into bed, smelling of soap. Funny how much a simple thing like that can break your heart.

I turned around and looked at the audience. Some of my friends had tears in there eyes and were leaning forward on their seats. Joe's sister's face was a drawing of loathing. She was silently shaking her head "no." Little Cassie gave a little wave. I always did get along great with Joe's nieces.

And then I said: "Jonathan loved David as himself. This is the passage of scripture from I Samuel 18:3. Samuel the prophet gave us, for all eternity, the story of the love and undying bond between Jonathan and David. These men were warriors who served a mercurial King whose policies were inconsistent and not always in the best interest of the state. These two men loved each other, pledged faith to each other and lived to be together. Jonathan was excoriated by his father for his love of David. So was David for his love of Jonathan. Their lives were at risk. Finally, Jonathan's life was taken. He died a warriors death serving a King and father who despised him. When he was gone, David understood that he would never love again, the way he had loved Jonathan. When a lover falls and dies will his beloved be explained away just because he is inconvenient to a given morality? No. He won't. When a lover falls into death his beloved will live and love again but will not forget and will not deceive. This man, This Joseph was my Jonathan and I was his David. And we fell upon each other with loving kiss and lived as one. You may pretend that it wasn't so but it was. Now my love is gone but as I look at you all, I understand that you have lost far more than I. You would not have him as he was while alive and now he is no more. Alive he was my love. He was so many things! But dead he is my memory of a life lived well and honorably and with love. To you he is a made up thing of your own choosing but he was my love and so he shall remain. How I pity you for wasting the chance to know such a man as he was while he was alive."

And then I walked down the long aisle and out the door. It was so quiet. Not a sound. As I passed the sister she whispered out (but all could hear) "God how I hate you." But I kept walking and only smiled.

BAGHDAD, Iraq (CNN) -- A bloody week for U.S. troops continues in Iraq, with three soldiers killed Wednesday night in a Baghdad-area bombing, a U.S. military spokesman said.

Fourteen hours after I read that headline my phone rang. Joe is dead. Joe who used to bring me coffee in bed every Saturday morning. That Joe. Dead. His mom and dad both died a few years ago. His sister called me. She wants me to come there right away. I don't think I can do it. I can't quite figure it all out. Joe. Gone.

I am alone. And it's probably going to stay that way. Especially if the conservatives and neo-cons keep it up. Here's why I think so: I'm a gay man working for the federal government. Like many people, my social life is woven into my work life (although not entirely). We spend a lot of hours working though. That leads to easy or "natural" social contacts. Nowadays most of the gay people in my business are diving for cover, that is to say, most of the gay people who work in the branch of government that I do. That is to say, most of the gay people who work for the department of defense. And then there are the uniformed guys, several of whom I have dated. They either get transferred every couple of years or sent to Iraq or Afghanistan. It happens a lot. None of it makes for a relationship or finding a mate. If you are gay, that is. I expect to be alone as long as I keep working for the DoD. I guess it's time to get a new job and try to do it in a place where a well adjusted, good looking, well educated guy like me stands a chance of meeting someone. Of course the conservatives just wish we'd all die.

Jesus Mary and Joseph it's been a long time since I blogged! A LONG time. I have an excuse though. I've had a broken jaw, three surgeries and been sick. Really sick. Sick like "If this pain doesn't stop I'm going to shoot myself."

"What?" you might ask yourself "Caused such a thing?"

"Bashing?" No, well... sort of.

But factually, I have to answer: "Dentist"

More like the BUTCHER OF MALAGA PROVINCE but indeed, dentist. It all started with a broken tooth and ended with a ruined jaw. I'm better now though. The bashing bit of it took place a few years ago. It involved a baseball bat, a red headed homophobe and my face and resulted in a lot of blood, broken stuff and a pretty long hospital stay. Funny how things go sometimes.

But in America we're all about diversity now. Live and let live. No, wait... that was then, this is Bush. Glad I live in Europe. They don't hate homos nearly so much here.

The thing that sucks more than not blogging about being sick is not seeing any of my friends. It's been damned lonely.

I finally had dinner with Mick and Sinead the other night. It was nice. We ate over at Marcus' place. Marcus is as lucious as ever. He needs to ditch Doris and run to me. I swear. He kissed me on the lips yesterday so there might be more to Marcus than meets the eye. Doris notwithstanding.

Flannery and Scott have plans. Before they execute them, I'd like to get Flannery to make me a sweater. That girl can KNIT. And FAST. She's a force in all ways and (like Brad) has the metabolism of a hummingbird.

Luke has a twin in our current class. I almost fell down when I saw him. They could be twins. It's amazing. I wish Luke were here so we could stand them side by side. They are the same build, same features, everything.

If Luke were here, I'd get him and his non twin twin and take the both of them down to Bernard's one on each arm and tell Bernard we're doing a threesome. I think he'd fall down and have a screaming fit right there. Or scratch the twins' eyes out. Or both.

Brad's legs hurt and they don't hurt from him holding them up in the air. I swear that boy's a NUN. He needs to get out of the nunnery and back in circulation. I think he's been home crocheting.

Everyone is reading Harry Potter. Me too. I can't put it down. I know it's a kid's book but Jesus.

Earth Mother and the Absent Minded Professor went to Amsterdam. My GOD. They came back in clouds of joy if you catch my drift. They are STILL buzzed. NOTHING phases them. If I had gone to Amsterdam with them they'd have probably found me tied up in some harness being held captive by some leather queen. Or they'd have gone home without me because in their mighty clouds of joy they would have forgotten that I exist. That is the more likely story. Earth Mother looked like she had a birds nest in her hair yesterday. I love those people.

I finally went to my favorite (hunky) barber in Munich the other day (Bernard would have a FIT but he's too damned expensive). My handsome Turk told me that he hadn't seen me for too long and kissed me on the mouth. I'm getting a lot of mouth kisses lately but none of them are leading anywhere. I expect that if I went to Bernard I could get more than a kiss but at this point it's wild speculation. Bernard looks like Jude Law (which isn't all bad) but when he talks one has the impression that three red purses just fell out of his mouth. He's not as bad as Brad though.

Sassy sent me a test to take on the internet and I came out a big old buddhist. A big gay buddhist. That's me. Internet tests are silly and fun. One time I took one and came out a labrador retriever. I guess that makes me a big gay buddhist labrador retriever. Jesus. No wonder I can't get a date.

"That chick has as many curves as Casa Mila!" he said.

"Casa Mila?" I said.

"Yeah," he said... "you know, that apartment building in Barcelona. Casa Mila. The one with all the curvy art nouveau stuff. You know. Gaudi? The architect? You should know it. All you gay people are arty."

"Enough with the stereotyping" I said.

But he's right. We are an artier than normal bunch. It was an arty evening too. Sitting in the glockenbach viertel eating fraises freche enjoying the warmth (finally) of a spring (FINALLY!) evening.

"Jesus" I said. "Casa Mila."

"Yeah" he said.

"I haven't thought about that place in YEARS! The last time I saw that place was when I was married to a woman!"

"Jesus" he said. "There's a story."

"It's a sad story. I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay, okay. We won't talk about it. Jeez. You gays. So sensitive."

"Hey!"

"Okay!"

"Anyway" I said, "What are we going to do next?"

"Sauna?"

"Oh Jeez, Tom. I don't want to go to the mixed sauna!"

"You gays! So exclusive!"

"Hey! I TOLD you about the stereotyping."

"Okay" says Tom, "We'll go to YOUR sauna... how bad could it be?"

I smiled.

It's a good thing Tom is built and not like the average mid thirties american straight man. Being in the Army helps him a little. He works out. He has to. He's afraid he won't pass his PT test if he doesn't and he wants to make Lieutenant Colonel.

On the way to the Sauna I asked him about his wife.

"She just left me."

"Crap!" I said. "What the hell?"

Tom's a catch, he's good looking, smart, well spoken, well educated, a good officer and has a future. He's also laid back and good natured, easy going. Nice all the way around. Why the hell would anyone leave him?

"She didn't like a lot of stuff about me. I don't want to talk about it."

"What?" I said. "So sensitive?!"

"Ease up!"

"Okay" I said.

When we got to the sauna the cute clerk kissed me. Tom was watching that. Then he said "Kabine oder schrank?" Before I coul

One of the things I do on my not so interesting job is run a program that includes our student's dining facility. The whole thing is done by contract. Government contract. That in and of itself provides insight into the operation. It should come as no surprise then, that of all the people who eat there the German soldiers like the food, the American soldiers are mixed but not vocal in their reactions and the students from the thirty something other countries who attend our programs loathe it.

Therefore we "fixed the problem." We got a whole bunch of the taxpayers money and we gutted the place, remodeled, redecorated, rebuilt the kitchen, got new furniture and art and had a grand opening at which the same old contractor with the same old bag of tricks happily served the same old shit on a shingle but it sure does look better in those new digs. I bet they don't eat this good in Iraq.

It's time to ditch this gig. Here's another GREAT piece of government work. I've been keeping my programs running with books and ledgers, pencils and pens; the old fashioned way. I'm great at it and mine are the most current and up to date programs in my branch.

I got to thinking though, I have this computer see... and what if I put everything on MicroSoft Project? Then I could email stuff around and do some web based stuff and some work group stuff and all that. "GREAT!" said the powers that be. Visionary! Fantastic! Quel Currant! Today they put it on my machine. My service request was submitted two years and two months ago to the day. That didn't take long.

My pal Sean came by last night. It's the last time I'll see him before he heads to the states tomorrow. He's way younger than I am. It doesn't seem to bother him though. Sinead say "he has the map of Ireland on his face." Frankly, I think he's much better looking than the map of Ireland. I'm not sure what she's getting at.

It's still cold and rainy here and the haters seem to be winning. Maybe the weather and the politics will change. But maybe not.

Sinead is BACK! We had a lunch date today. She's been in BULGARIA. Ugh. I'm glad she's back. I knew she was back before I saw her because she sent me some good articles in the email. (Not my YAHOO! email because that is defunct and I seem to have forever lost touch with the stunning and not overly tattooed Dave and my new, now lost epal in Texas called GOOCH.) One of the articles said fat people live longer than thin people.

Such an article is good for certain friends of mine and the entire nation of Americans. Given, however, that the fatest Americans are corn fed church dinner eating neo cons this is most likely bad news for the world. The neocons don't care that they are fat and will be willing to let the thins die first because if they don't they'll bomb them sooner or later anyway.

Sinead is a ton of fun and especially today when SEAN (Irish good looks, killer blue eyes and smile and a past FLING) ended up sitting at the table right next to us. RIGHT next to us. I was trying to figure out a way to let Sinead know who Sean was and that I dug him and then, just when I figured I'd tell her in the Russian language, in walked RODRIGO and the MARTINMATON. Dammit. Rodrigo is as big a homophobe as ever there was but the Martinator isn't. He's cool. I know he's cool because we've kissed but it didn't mean anything.

So there I sat, stealing sidelong looks at Sean. When his buddy left, he waited a long time and then he slipped me his email and phone number. Uh Huh.... I can even work it with Sinead at the table. In fact, she's an ally - and if she thought she could help she'd pitch right in. Now if I could only get Mick to invite his pal Steve back and get Steve a little liquored up...

It's a full moon. I met a guy over the weekend and we howled at the moon, in a sense, the whole weekend. So what if I'm a little tired now.

Brad went to Dortmund to see the charming Michael and on his way back, made an obedient stop in Munich to see the swine Ulrich. I wish he'd leave off with Ulrich but it's not my picnic so I don't have to eat the baloney.

I haven't seen Scott or Flannery in the longest time. I love it that Sinead sent Scott and Flannery the aforementioned article. Sinead is, as we say, a shit starter. Sinead has a good way about her.

I saw Mick in his office the other day. He's as cute as ever and he and Sinead are a damned fine looking couple. Mick's charming with his understated "cheers" and the way he drops his inflection at the end of a sentence. Much better than dangling participles.

Now it's rainy and cold. Spring has arrived in Germany so we can get out the wooly sweaters. Maybe I'll go to Italy this weekend to warm up. Or the sauna.

It's good to be back.

When one's friend (Luke) writes about his current student (a stylish japanese man with a slight lisp) one can't help but think that the friend in question is evolving in surprising ways. But then one hastily realizes, no... that's not it... he is already highly evolved so quit projecting!

Were I to teach the stylish japanese man, the fellow might have something to fear (or not) but since Luke is teaching him, he needs fear nothing. All he needs to do is study and learn. This is why Luke is a brilliant teacher and I would be a disaster at it. Unlike Luke, I should not be allowed in polite society.

For example, the University where I work (I say "University" euphemistically, it is a rather self-concious school sort of thing that deals with post graduate and post doctoral students but isn't really very credible) just had graduation today. After graduation, there was a reception for the students and we all went. That's when it happened. The waiter came up with a tray of drinks. Our little group promptly emptied his tray. I flirted with him the whole time. Then I walked back through the ballroom with him to get a bottle of mineral water. By the time I had the mineral water I had his phone number, a date for later tonight and his name and age. By the time the reception was over I had him. In the men's room. It was quick but it will be better tonight at my place. His name is Sean, he's 24, he's from Sacramento and he's coming over tonight. Like I said, I shouldn't be allowed in polite society.

My friend Brad (who has been banging one of our students this whole class) thinks I'm oversexed. This coming from Brad. Jesus. Look up oversexed in Websters and you will find there a photograph of Brad.

This weekend I'm meeting Mick, Sinead, Scott, another guy, and another guy at Molly Malone's. It's one of the Irish pubs in Munich and it's supposed to be the best. I don't know what's going to happen there but the waiters better watch out.

Speaking of waiters - yesterday I was at the best pizza joint in town. When we left, the waiter looked at me and said "I love you." Now i ask you, what the fuck is THAT?! The others heard it too, clear as day.

I have a devastating affect on waiters, dogs and old ladies. It's a curse. Oh, and on hairdressers. And barbers.

Oh well.

Now that the pope-a-palooza is over I figured I'd write somthing about it. The thing that is crazy making is how stupid the whole thing was. A guy who was the totalitarian head of an organization stuck in the 13th century dies and everyone hails him as a hero/saint/champion of democracy, etc.

A lot was said about his belief in THE DIGNITY OF LIFE. There sure is a lot of dignity in encouraging people in underdeveloped nations to not practise birth control, thereby having a dozen or more babies most of whom don't stand a chance of a dignified life. Go pope. Starving babies on the side of the road with flies all over them is dignified as long as they're catholic?

Then there's the thing about the priests who couldn't keep there hands off the altar boys. That was handled nicely. Or the banking scandal. It goes on and on.

About the only compelling thing I can think about the grief as a spectator sport news coverage was some interesting footage of certain art treasures. Most of which were created by homosexuals. Isn't that inconvenient? But then, no one ever accused the vatican of being convenient.

So long pope. Bring on another one. Not much will change. At least the Bush family approves.

Luke is in Puerto Rico with his chica and trying to go to Oxford. Oxford, Mississippi. It seems like a strange choice to me but who am I to judge?

Mick saved my ass on good Friday. Not a bad day to get your ass saved. He had a holiday but I did not. I had to do something hard at the office that I couldn't do without Mick and he took time off from his holiday to help me out. Mick's good that way and he saved my ass.

I had Easter dinner at a restaurant in Heckendorf. They had three different kinds of rabbit on the menu! Happy Easter! Have some bunny! The Germans are a special people.

Before that, I spent saturday in the sauna with Brad. The Munich sauna. I was mad at him because he had sex with a guy a couple days before whom he described as "hot" and then he found out that the guy was exactly MY age. Brad couldn't believe that he had sex with someone "decades older" than he ("decades older" my ass! - and, for the record, I am better looking than Brad who looks like a collection of spare parts gathered from all sides). But I'm not bitter.

On Saturday he couldn't attract any attention at all. There is nothing more tedious than a horny, bitchy queen who can't get laid. Fortunately for us all, his luck changed.

I, on the other hand, was having a spectacular day despite my advanced age.

Later, in fact, an even more closely extinguished ancien than myself invited me to be his paid escort for the night! I stipulated "no sex" and then agreed upon a price, expenses and logistics. It was a hoot. He was handsome even though he was decades older than I. For an extra thou I'd have thrown in the sex.

I suppose it wasn't a traditional Easter weekend but it seems less harmless than nailing a guy up, surreptitiously making off with the earthly remains and then checking out a tomb that you think was raided. Easter is a wierd holiday. I never did get it.

Now, at least, I'm getting it.

Flannery flayed me alive at lunch and feasted on my entrails. I walked straight into it too. Oh, it was all going nicely enough, and everyone was sure happy to see her walk in but then (me and my big mouth) I had to poke fun at Denis for ordering capuccino in an Italian restaurant after noon (I ordered espresso and the others had big, femmy latte macchiatos).

It all seemed to go over in good humor but then, after a suitable interval (having been lulled into a sense of false security) she let me HAVE it. She dressed me down like a school marm on speed, and all in that lovely, lilting brogue of hers! It was a fantastic display of a man being eviscerated in front of a group. I was speechless! Dumbfounded! And then, at the end of it, I was in awe. Oh that I posessed such a tounge, such an edge! And then the laughter came. It was a JOKE! The whole thing was a JOKE! Even as the others began laughing I sat there in dumb silence, not understanding.

It's no wonder we all love Flannery (I have a newfound respect for Scott).

Scott was lovely too. We bantered back and forth about important and banal things. He's a wonderful conversationalist. You'd think he had some Irish in him. He has a golden repartee. I've likely insulted him twice in one sentence. Irish heritage and a French gift of gab. If I'm not careful he'll set Flannery on me again.

Flan's wound up today because her twin sister Hector is coming to town for Easter. I can't imagine Flannery and Hector together with Scott between them. (Well, actually... no, never mind) anyway, it's going to be quite an Easter over there.

Sinead was great too. She has been in Germany so long that (despite her Irishness) she has become a didact. The subject of the day was Pygmy vision. I can't say I've ever had luncheon conversation about Pygmy physiognomy (Pygmyognomy??) but there's a first time for everything.

Under Sinead's careful guidance, we learned that Pygmies only have a visual distance range of about three feet. It has to do with their jungle habitat and their shortness of, well, everything. In short, Pygmies are short sighted.

I made a series of unfortunate Pygmy jokes... like "What is a Pygmy without any manners called?" "Pygmalion!" I shouted in triumph. "What is a Pygmy with more than one wife?" "Pygmamist!" I gleefully announced. And so it went until I saw Flannery's eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. That's when I made a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

By the time I got back the storm had passed.

This weekend is Easter. Our jolly table we hosted one unknown, one athiest, one pagan, one buddhist and one christian. We all agree that we like bunnies.

Happy Easter!

My once and maybe future lover Joe is still in Iraq duking it out with the insurgents in his role as a Marine Corps company commander. It's been ugly. We exchange emails whenever we have the chance.

Lately, we have been having an email argument about the Asam brothers churches. I hate em, he likes em. But then, he's a Marine and given to certain excesses. I think the excesses are because of the spartan dicipline imposed by his monastic career (editorial? I think not) but that doesn't sum up the argument we have. He just likes rennaissance, baroque and roccocco plain and simple. When he is old, he's going to have silly china patterns and curly que silver patterns, I am sure of it. He's made for Francis the first. Me? I'm a bauhaus / mid century modern boy. Plain and simple.

I like looking at the stuff but don't want to live with it. I like clean lines and simplicity of design.

Anyway, Joe and I have been arguing about the Asam Kirche (right next door to their house on Sendlinger Str) in Munich. I hate it. He doesn't.

He had just sent me a long missive about the whys and wherefores of it all, using terms like "sacred theater" and "counter reformation" etc., etc. (That university education really paid off)

I include my reply to him, not for benefit of THE ARGUMENT but to illustrate that I still can't get PRAGUE out of my system.

Here's my email to him from this morning:

Meine Liebste Herr Professor!! (note the germanic spelling of your last name to reinforce philosophical intent of lessons well learned) -

I THANK YOU for the lesson indeed! You bring to mind things I knew but forgot and maybe never knew. One must review it all now and again, anyway. How could I have misplaced that pesky detail, the counter-reformation?!

A series of bizarre cosmic twists surround your kind email to me. I will try to list them in a manner that lets you draw your own conclusions.

The cosimc evidence:

1. I received your email after I departed on my trip, thus had not read it until today (I extended my trip because I was enjoying it too much and it was ridiculously inexpensive and I was under budget).

2. I decided at the very last minute to go to Prague instead of Amsterdam because I didn't want to drive so far and I hadn't been to Prague since 1987.

3. I stopped in Rohr to see Maria Himmelfahrt on the way because to go to Prague you have to go through Regensburg anyway (I liked it).

4. St. John Nepomuk was thrown into the Vltava (Moldau) river to his death from the Charles Bridge by King Wenceslas the 4th. I saw his statue. I saw his church. I saw him EVERYWHERE in Prague, even on the astronomical clock!

There are a few other cosmic meteoric tails that I could list as well (surrounding my trip) but the cord is thickest at those listed above so I leave you to draw your own conclusions, especially in light of our recent visit and correspondence.

With regards to ROME. My habitual hotel in Rome is the BERNINI BRISTOL which is at a lovely triangle just below via Veneto at one of the best known Bernini fountains. One of my most often visited statues in Rome is Teresa in Ecstasy. I confess that when I visited that statue with my sister and her partner I made a quip of a different nature about Teresa in ecstasy but was hit hard (to the point of bruising) by both of them because nobody is allowed to call my sister Teresa anymore.

So, with thoughts of gothic, rennaissance, baroque and etc. in mind, I drove into Prague, arriving at a sensible 3 PM and finding my way directly through the old town, across a bridge and to my 4 star hotel with no difficulty. St Anthony of Padua was with me.

Joe - it's a ridiculous thing. My room was a SUITE with two rooms, a bath that was more a temple than a bathroom, a wet bar, a coffee bar and the biggest bed I have ever slept in. Including the parking in the garage (a technological 4 tiered wonder that beggars my little lift style garage at home: 4 bays each, 16 cars per side and all operated by a computer that measures and weighs your car before you put it in!!!!) oh - and including my breakfast (sumptuous): the entire cost per night was 73 dollars.

Needless to say, I parked the car and left it parked until my departure. Prague is a walker's delight.

Have you been there? When they say that it escaped bombing during the war and that the old buildings are all as they were, one hears that sort of thing but upon seeing it one comprehends what so many of the old European cities must have been before they were flattened. It is a breathtaking cityscape of spire after dome after tower after wall, etc. One on top of the other in every style and scale from the gothic to the modern. The cubist movement in architecture came to full flower there, Art Noveau rules the jewish quarter and new town, Gothic treasures beyond the pale and then, of course, the ubiquitous stamp of the Hapsburgs and the Kinskys are all over the place.

St. Vitas Cathedral (where good king Wenceslas no longer looks out but is buried) is a treasure that spans from the 14th century to modern times. The art nouveau window by Alphons Muca is breathtaking, as are many of the other modern, almost pointillistic windows. They are no better or worse than the much older ones. It's an intriguing, amazing cathedral. I aim to go back and spend several hours there with my notebook, sketchbook and camera.

Prague is young and vibrant feeling though. The people are wonderful, the restaurants are beyond the pale, there is live music (lots of jazz too) everywhere and the clubs don't open until 11 at night. The restaurants all serve supper until 5 in the morning. At three and four in the morning the streets were full of people.

I found a wonderful french restaurant (they are many), a wonderful italian restaurant (also many) and great czech stuff. And the beer! Those bavarians only THINK they know how to make beer.

On one sidewalk sandwich sign I saw was the following written in chalk: "BEER 6 kinds of goulash live jazz."

If I ever open up a restaurant, a jazz club or a gay bar I am going to name it "6 kinds of goulash."

You've probably heard everything I have to say about Prague. I know Jeff goes there alot and others. I hope I haven't been tedious.

I will just add, in closing, that it was an especially easy city for me because everyone there speaks Russian beautifully.

Oh! I forgot one thing... I met a terribly nice anthropologist / historian at St. Vitus. I had her as a private tour guide. When we were done, she invited me to join her for a cup of coffee and suggested a coffee bistro called THE FRANZ KAFKA CAFE but "I'll warn you" she said... "It's a little dark!"

Isn't that delicious?

Best Wishes and congratulations on finally skiing the great divide on your recent R&R trip.
Love from Me...
p.s., What are you doing for easter, sand fleas and goat? I will bask in comfort at the table of the absent minded professor and earth mother. Pleased don't hate me for saying so.

I didn't know what to expect in Prague. Oh, I'd heard from people who had been there that it is beautiful and unspoiled (whatever that means) but I went with an open mind.

I'd read that it's the GAY CAPITAL OF EASTERN EUROPE (whatever THAT means) but even so, I went with an open mind.

I was unprepared. When one hears that a place escaped bombing during the war and that it is called "the city of a hundred spires" as a result it gives a sort of idea but seeing it is something else altogether.

When you look back towards the castle from the Charles Bridge - just high enough so you've started to walk the small rise of the bridge and then turn around - you see what looks like all the old engravings you've ever seen of all the great cities before they were spoiled but this time it's in the clear light of day and it's huge and it's three dimensional and it's real. Breathtaking. Spires, towers, domes, more spires, well - you get the idea. On top of it all, the castle and St. Vitus cathedral where good old King Wenceslas no longer looks out because he's buried.

The Hapsburgs took down a lot of the old castle and built their italianate / baroque things, same as always but they are nice enough. There are some remnants of the very old.

That cathedral is amazing because it was finished in modern times, thus has some modern windows. They are beautiful. One is an art noveau window by Alphons Muca and some of the others look like they could have been painted by Utrillo but they weren't of course. It's the best stained glass I've seen in a long time.

The LOCALS are sure proud of their town. Rightly so.

I bought 300 bucks worth of bohemian crystal but was wondering what to do, come back for it? Go back to the hotel with it? What? The lady who owns the shop said "Where's your hotel? I'll have my son take it there." They did it too. When I returned to my room later that night (well, the next morning) there was my glass; boxed, wrapped, bagged and sitting on the sofa in my suite.

More sightseeing and picture taking and general wandering filled the day. I saw the theater where Mozart first staged DON GIOVANNI (don't be concerned by this, I am not an opera queen).

I decided to have dinner in a nice little jazz club and wouldn't you know it, my waiter was gay. He's nice and was flirty. He was about to finish his shift so I invited him to join me for a drink and he did. We listened to George Mraz and his trio play (superb) until 1:00 Am and then he suggested we go to a bar called "friends." They were friendly all right.

Then my new friend and I went to take a sauna at Babylonia so we did.

Babylonia is a nice place. It's owned and operated by two brothers, both gay, and employs a few other guys, all nice. Karel (Charles) is the masseur - he's a physical therapist and professional massage therapist and a singer in his spare time. He sings jazz and does it well, according to the Babylonia staff and regulars.

The sauna was ambient. They have the only hot tub in Prague and it's a big, clean one. The whole place was spotless. After we soaked and steamed we decided to get something to eat. No problem because the restaurants serve supper until 5:00 AM. It isn't Germany!

We went to a French restaurant. We had stroganoff and salads and chased it all down with a good Bordeaux while listening to a french gypsy group. Then, it being about 6 in the morning, I decided it was time for bed so I prepared to say farewell to my new pal. He said he had the next day off so I asked him if he lived far. "Not far." he said.

"Do you want to come back to my hotel with me?"
"Yes" he smiled.

We went in, not even raising an eyebrow of the front desk clerk. We went up to my room and put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. While the sun was starting to come up we fell asleep in each others arms.

Bart Bink was good company and I was sorry to see him go. I got so relaxed and into his visit that I decided to abandon the office for the rest of the week. Thursday I went to Prague.

Before quitting Germany, Bart and I had a final romp. Then he headed south and I headed north. Appropriate given the recent give and take of our bedroom norths and souths.

Driving was EASY. There was no traffic. I left at 7 O'clock in the morning and by 1:00 PM my car was in the hotel garage. I parked between a red citroen and a yellow lancia.

Nice hotel; a sweet little 5 star with only 30 rooms situated just down the hill from the castle. The bathroom of the place is a temple and there's a sitting room with two plush leather sofas, a wet bar, a tv and all the comforts of home. The entire long wall of the room is full of windows that let in lots of light and air. The bed is huge and luxurious.

I decided to take a walk to orient myself to the town but then remembered that I had engaged a private tour guide to do just that at 3:00 O'clock so I opted for a light lunch and a nap.

The guide was fantastic. She is an anthropologist and historian by training but makes a better living as a tourguide. Typical. She showed me things in Prague that it would have taken me weeks of floundering around to find. Like an art noveau bank that was built as the first bank that did business in the Czech language and Czech currency. It was built at the end of the 19th century and the Hapsburgs were fond of putting a stick in the eye of their subjects. The banks and casinos and other businesses were all German speaking and in the currency of the Hapsburgs. Not this one though, it was built by the Prague nobles and it is a palace, literally, all done in the art noveau style. A working bank to this day, it qualifies without competition as the most elegant surroundings ever provided for an ATM machine. The tellers booths, offices, grand staircases, etc., are beyond the pale examples of Art Noveau.

My guide also gave me a good overview of the gay areas and explained to me that there was absolutely no stigma to being gay in Prague. When asked why, she explained that it was a holdover from Communism. Under Communism, no church. No church, no stigma.

Prague is an interesting place.

"Hi, my name's Bart Bink."
"What?" I said.
"Bink" he said. "Bart Bink."
"You're kidding, right? Bink? Bart Bink?"
"No," he said, "I'm not kidding. That's my name. I blame my mother for it. My dad wanted to name me Bill."
"That's hardly better," I said.
"I know" he said, "it's a curse having a name like Bink. A curse, I tell you. I think that's why I turned out gay. Imagine going through school with the name Bink. Pink Bink. Kink Bink. Blink Blink. I've heard 'em all."
"Well, Bink," I said, "nice to meet you."

And THAT is how it all started the other night at the bar at Kr@ft Akt. See, my friend Brad was getting ignored by his boyfriend and I thought I'd better get the hell out of the way before the fireworks started so I went and sat at the bar. That's when this other Amerikan abroad - Bart Bink - came along and introduced himself.

I sized Bart up. He stood about six feet and weighed about 175 and looked about 35 and had a buzz cut. Boyish but mature all at the same time. Not pretty not ugly just a guy. I liked Bart right away.

"What brings you to Munich, Bart?"
"Just travelling."
"Where to next?"
"I hear there's good skiing in Garmisch"
"Garmisch?"
"Yeah."

And THAT is how Bart Bink ended up in my apartment after a night of drinking and sauna in Munich and he is still there. He's not in the guest room either. Bart likes me as much as I like him. It can't last though, it's just a fling. I could never be Mrs. Bink and he would never give up a name like Bart Bink (now that he's over the shock of it he likes it) for a mundane surname like my own.

I worked all day thinking of him skiing all day and what waited for me when I got home.

Bart's not just a pretty face. A great dinner and a good wine and a great movie and some good conversation and MORE was what waited for me when I got home.

I don't know how long he's going to stay. He said something about going to Italy from here but wondered if maybe I wanted to take a couple days off and go to Amsterdam with him.

I think I might.

I could get used to Bart Bink.

Lucy the dog 

some photos 

The absent minded professor has fallen and he can't get up. On Thursday his legs went straight out from underneath him and he slammed flat on his back against the ground. The ice did it. We have so much snow and ice. It's no laughing matter. One of the lesbians that worked for me totalled her car on it on Thursday. Thursday was a bad day for a lot of people.

Friday was a bad day for Brad. We were in a coffee shop in Munich (Kr@ft Akt) surfing and drinking beers and just goofing off when his german boyfriend came in and sat at the bar. He didn't see us back there but we saw him. Flirt flirt flirt with cute guy at bar, whispers, kisses and they left together. Brad was ruined and so was the evening.

Saturday was a bad day for my housekeeper. She was almost run over by a crazy german driver and fell on the ice and hit her head. She seems sensible still but she has a headache. The doctor said "no concusion."

Sinead played phone tag with me and Flannery is back from Scotland but I haven't seen either of them.

Work is smelly. Where's my trust fund?

It's axiomatic that when straight friends start telling you their sex fantasies they are going to end the discussion with a proclamation of being "bi-curious." The assumption by the party of the first part is that the party of the second part will be ready and willing to assist the party of the first part because the party of the second part can never resist an opportunity to excercise the third part. Of course that is nonsense. It might work that way with dogs and cats but gays are slightly more complicated when it comes to "closing the deal."

Just such a thing happened in Berlin last night. The straight U.S. Army officer started telling me all about his sex fantasy and sure enough ended up the monologue with a declaration of bi curiousness. Happens every time. I suggested he get on the web and join a swingers group.

The next day he seemed more than vaguely disappointed with me and said "we have to talk" (as if to imply something more than a passing acquaintence).

Later that evening he talked. The more he talked the queasier I became. I ended up explaining to him that it is neither my mission nor my desire in life to help bi curious married men self actualize and again repeated my suggestion that he engage in a swingers group or something.

The point of mentioning it is that when people travel and are far from HOME they seem willing to say and do things that they haven't the courage to do otherwise.

I'm all for liberality, self expression and the like but I sure don't want to help thirty something army officers work through their crises. It can only go badly.

Two weeks ago I had an email from Joe the Marine in Iraq. His commander found out he was GAY because he walked in on Joe and another Marine doing the nasty in Joe's stateroom. GAY. No question.

Joe's commander said "If you think this is going to get you out of the Marine Corps and out of Iraq, think again."

Ironic, isn't it, that since we have a shooting - NO - a getting shot AT war going on, nobody minds the fact of a queer in uniform.

Since that incident, Joe emails, the word has crept out (as such word always does) and every guy in his company that has ever had a fantasy has come to him with it.

It is NOT the responsibility of gay people to educate or help straight curious or deeply closeted or any other category of person implement their secret desire.

Live and let live. Amazing though, how desperate these poor souls are who haven't been able to find their way through the maze of desire, society and conflicted feelings.

I feel for them but we all had to fight our way through that jungle and they do too. I blame Falwell and Robertson and their ilk for a lot of it. Would that people could just be themselves.

The rest of Berlin was good but a little gritty. Cold too. Germany is having winter.

The clubs and other establishments with gay clientele are edgy and fun but I wouldn't want a steady diet of them. Back to Catholic Bavaria and Munich. The boys there are different - more hesitant in a way but also better organized in their clubs, saunas, etc. Socially I like it better than Berlin. It's not Brussels or Paris though.

Ooo lah lah.

I am having the BEST week in Berlin. Yesterday I was at the BAUHAUS ARCHIVE looking at impossibly beautiful things. Things like Eireman drawings and Van der Rohe chairs and Breuer drawings and a lady wearing Corbu glasses and fused glass and concrete bricks from the KAISER WILHELM MEMORIAL CHURCH and lots of other beautiful things. That is when I saw HIM.

Tall and good looking and crew cutted and built. And staring at me. And then, again, later... there he was. And again. Then he approached and introduced himself. Andreas. And then invited me to coffee. And then to shop a little at KaDeWe and then for drinks up on the sixth floor and then. Well, then I woke up at his place the next morning.

He is charming and polite and knows what to do in bed. Today we are going out to a Sauna called the TREIBHAUS. It`s in the east ... old east Berlin at Shönhauser Allee. Keeping our Bauhaus theme, Andreas said 'it's an interesting sauna landscape.'

After a late breakfast we will head out there on the subway.

I like Berlin JUST FINE.

"I think it's a sneer more than a smile," I said. We were sitting in the lounge chairs in our towels, looking at magazines. "Not a smile at all. No way."

"She's smiling allright, like the cat that ate the damned canary" Brad said.

"Well, we know what she DIDN'T eat." I said (laughs all around).

"Jesus, look at that guy!" said Brad. I watched him pass. "Jesus" I answered.

Sunday afternoons at the sauna often lead to such topics but neither of us can get too excited about Camilla Parker-Bowles. She is going to be a PRINCESS CONSORT which is dumb. Princess Consort? That's like calling an aging drag queen a princess (Camilla kind of looks like an aging drag queen).

Gay people like William, tolerate Harry, yawn about Charles, could care less about Camilla and adored Diana. How does it happen? Why Judy and not Liza? Why Bette and Babs and Cher? Why Sir Elton and not Billy? Who knows how these things get started.

Camilla. Yawn. She's about as exciting as Wallace Simpson.

Just as I was about to say "the whole thing bores me silly," the guy walked past again. "Jesus" said Brad. "Yeah" I said.

"If he walks by a third time I'm following him into the steam room" Brad said.

"Go for it" I said.

He did and Brad did.

After about five minutes Brad came out. He sat down and looked at me with a sort of grin on his face.

"You were fast" I said. "Way fast" (not a compliment among our tribe).

"He wants to meet you." said Brad.

"You're kidding me."

"Nope. I'm not."

I went in the steam room and there he was. Waiting. Leaning against the wall, one leg up, flexed at the knee, flat foot against the tile. He was beautiful.

I stood next to him, casual-like and he looked over and smiled. Then he said hello. He's American! No mistaking the mid west accent.

Brad can't pick up an American to save his life but the German boys love him. Me, I'm king of the French, the Italian and the American pick up but can't get a German guy to look at me (except Sinead's hairdresser who thinks I'm hot).

As Mark and I were headed back to my rented room, we passed Brad, by now chatting with a German Jude Law. They watched us pass and the German guy said "Jesus."

When I said goodbye to Luke I thought it was going to be tough having him gone. It is but I feel oddly close to him anyway. He's such a friend and even though he's in New York and I am here, I feel close. We are emailing. That's the way of our postmodern friendship these days.

We exchanged St. Valentine's emails today which was nice. In his, I learned that he and his gal pal Veronica are going to a broadway show (where she plays the lead) and their new "couple friends" Hugh and Patrick are going with them. They will sit with the still as handsome as ever Luke while Veronica sings and dances her heart out on this closing night. Then they will all go out afterwards. What a happy foursome!

Now what are the odds of Luke falling in with homosexuals again? He is certainly not a red state kind of guy, that's for sure.

In a sense, having queer friends elevates one. It's terribly hip and even more hip if you pretend it's not hip and in fact isn't out of the ordinary at all. Gay slumming in the new conservative century. Closets for everyone! How terribly chic!

We know that they know and they know that we know and we all know that THEY don't know and won't and that THEY don't get it but we do because we all know. If it weren't so chic it could sure get tiring.

Have a nice Valentines date Luke and if you feel someone caressing your leg during the show, just go with it, it's probably Hugh thinking you're Patrick or vice versa.

Speaking of that, Luca and I are going to Venice and Verona. We are going to stay at the Hotel Aurora on Piazza Erbe (room 14) in Verona and at the Hotel Agli Alboretti in Venice.

Luca is Italian, originally from Milano and is working in Munich. He's a jazz piano player and handsomely latin (but not too hairy). I want him to meet Scott and Flannery because they will like him. Scott will analyze everything through good natured lenses and Flannery will lean forward into earnest conversations. I love Scott and Flannery and I do not say the "L" word lightly. I love them the same way I love Luke and Mick and Sinead and the absent minded professor and earth mother. Though I do not always see a lot of them, these people are my world here... my family.

I love Joe in a different way but now we are both used to the fact that as in two other key relationships at key times in my life the Marine Corps has administered the death knell to this, yet another military love affair. I will not do it again. I refuse to fall in love with another military man. Period.

Venice depresses Luke but I find it elevating. Glorious decay and remembered decadence. Maybe it's a gay thing although Venice is anything but a gay town. It's a conservative backwater, its population having shrunk to around 60,000 residents. It has been surviving on the respirator of tourism for the past few hundered years but doing so quite handsomely thank you very much.

During early Lent is just the time to go. The place is empty. It's the residents and you. I want to photograph, write, walk, lay in Luca's arms and enjoy carnal pleasures like eating and drinking too much. And other things. Not to put too fine a point on it.

Rodrigo and the crow are trying to fix me up with the fish king's ex now that Luke is out of the picture. It's the funniest thing. I TOLD them I am gay. I TOLD them I am in the early stages of seeing someone. I TOLD them that if I were going to be interested in a woman it would be either a tall thin black woman (doctor or lawyer) or Luke's mom (sorry Luke but she IS hot and she IS nice) but beyond all that, I could care for women and am not going to switch teams at this late date. Good Grief.

Apparently the fish king is back in the picture too. His pal who was working for Yukos jumped ship several months ago (before the court sold off all the assets) and is now working for LUKOIL. My god he has landed on his feet! (Why do I feel like Dominick Dunne just now?)

The fish king's ex has teased me with a phone call. How did she get my number? RodRIGO! (I'll bet the crow put him up to this)

She has told me that she wishes to meet me for coffee or dinner (I declined) and now she dangles the carrot of tranlsation contracts in front of my very nose! And a big contract.

Nothing that has to do with Russians and money comes without strings attached and anything that has to do with the fish king, his ex, LUCOIL or Yukos especially comes with strings attached. I wonder how they feel about translator homosexuals rebuffing the amorous advances of well healed and well spoiled ex wifes who also aren't so bad looking in a straight kind of way. Jesus I'm not going there.

I sure do wish my epal Dave would email me here, through the blog (buzz.nelson@gmail.com) because I cannot get into YAHOO and I have lost all contact with him and I have three new tattoos to tell him about and other things. I love you Dave. Happy Valentines Day. You too Luke, and Mick, and Sinead, and VERONICA, and Scott, and Flannery. ... and BRAD. You are ALL my valentines and I love you. I love you too absent minded professor and earth mother. Don't be pissed because I said you last.

Chemistry is a funny thing. You go to your hunky barber and you think he's flirting with you and you're gay and when you think about it you decide that he's just hunky and you're projecting and being stupid so you talk yourself out of the whole thing.

A lot of people don't trust chemistry. I have more and more faith in it. Chemistry, biology and all the other sciences.

I was at the sauna last night chatting up my Italian pal Marco (who was there with his boyfriend in their perennial quest for the perfect threesome). Then it happened. I heard a voice - sort of familiar - from behind. "That's a great looking haircut!" the voice said. I turned around. My hunky barber. Chemistry. We kissed and it was, as they say, ON.

Later I thought maybe I've made a mistake. What's it going to be like going to the barber now?

There's an insistent rain today. It's melting the snow. I'm glad I'm not outside, I hate the rain. I prefer snow to rain any day.

It's a sad thing to see a man so drunk he falls down the stairs but it happens. It's not just because it was Mardi Gras either. I've seen this guy before.

Sinead and Mick wouldn't have been caught dead in the place for all the cigarette smoke but God help me, I love it. Not least of which is because the Italian waiters are gorgeous and they flirt with me like nobody's business (I think Carlo who works the pizza oven is onto me though).

That guy was there again. I've seen him time and again out on the town with his horsey faced woman. They are bossy as hell and always a problem. I've been known to back out the door quietly if I see them before I am seated. They are that obnoxious and frankly I don't understand why the restaurant keeps letting them in. Especially on Mardi Gras. Fasching Dienstag (doesn't it sound just AWFUL in German?)... Carnevale.

The boys at the Italian joint close up shop a little early (11 PM) on Carnevale and then the party gets underway for the staff, their families and guests. I'm lucky enough to be a guest for the second year running and this time, my current squeeze got invited too. Probably because he's from Milano and charming not to mention good looking. LUCA. *sigh*

When it comes to looks and style those Italians are thick as theives. They could care less for gay but you'd better have a good looking white shirt, a great watch, sharp trousers and shoes and if you wear glasses they'd better be good ones. (I get mine at the fashion forward Ottica Urbani in Venice).

I took my guitar. I play great guitar. Mostly I'm a jazz guitar player but I can play Italian love songs like Grant took Richmond. LUCA loves it when I play Italian songs. Whereas I've never known him to be not in the mood, were he not, that would put him in which is silly because he's never not.

Those boys at the restaurant love my playing too and this Italian group that played for the party knows me. We play gypsy music too, not just Italian music. They're great. We're great.

That's when it happened. The pig man with his horsey woman came in the door thinking they were open still and, perceiving a party, proceeded to inflict himself upon the company.

When Nico, the owner, explained that it was a private gathering, the boozy bastard got loud (in loutish German vernacular) and was weaving about while waving his arms in the air. Before anyone knew what had happened he fell down the stairs in a hell of a crash. It almost knocked over the Venus di Milo lamp on the landing and did knock over the table and four chairs off to the side, at the bottom. The woman was braying after the man and hurling teutonic insults at Nico.

Nico was having none of it. He shut the door and returned to his guests. We launched into a kick ass version of "Minor Swing."

Somehow the descent of that ass made us all feel a little better because we each nurture our own hatred of those two. I wonder if they will go back? It's not the first time he has been that drunk and not the first time he has fallen down those stairs.

But last night, the Fat Tuesday night before Ash Wednesday and forty days of fasting and penitence, I think that maybe, just maybe... Nico might have given him a little push.

Later (four in the morning later) when we went to bed, Luca kissed me on the neck and said "I'll never push you down the stairs baby."

I learned about gay sex and GOOGLE from my big brother. One when he gave me the book "Everything you always wanted to blah blah blah" when I was still a teenager and the other later as it did not exist when I was a teenager. I've found both useful. It's a case of unitended consequence though.

My brother, a devout Christian, is mortified by the gay part and would be more mortified if he knew about some of the things I've GOOGLE'd.

The thing that prompted me thinking about this was a conversation I had with Mick and Sinead and SCOTT (enter SCOTT) on Friday night. The phone rang. It was Sinead inviting me to meet them for dinner.

I hadn't seen Sinead for an age and I hadn't seen Mick for a longer age. I saw Scott and his wife, Flannery before New Year's. Flannery couldn't come to dinner though. She's at her sinecure on a remote isle of the realm researching something or other.

Flannery is GERMAN but I thought she was SCOTTISH and I thought Scott was GERMAN. Then I heard them speak and I knew that Flannery was SCOTTISH and that Scott was BRITISH.

Scott has the inflection of an oxford don while Flannery sails verbally forth in a cutter blown by the winds of a lusty brogue. My GOD! Her language rolls over you. What a gal!

Later I found out that Flannery is GERMAN. I also realized that as long as I had known about Scott I had known on some level that he is SCOTTISH. I like his name. Scott. It means "wanderer" in Gaelic (a gaul told me that).

But none of this is getting any closer to gay sex or GOOGLE.

While at dinner, we were having a lusty discussion about Wanda Wadowski, a bleach blonde with big tits and a voracious appetite that used to work where we work. Wanda has bedded a lot of men. Me not included, neither Scott. Nor Mick. That doesn't mean she didn't try though. In my case she has real bragging rights because she is the only woman to ever put her tongue a lot of the way down my throat. (While it was happening I thought she had been an iguana in a past life. She has a lot of tounge).

Pretty soon I'll get to the GOOGLE part.

We were having such a great time with our Wanda stories. You'd have thought we were all dining on meow mix.

But then it happened. I said the "d" word. In context, of course. "Dildo." There it was. Now, gay people say this word a lot. In context, of course. But Sinead. Oh, Sinead! It was delicious. She had - for just the slightest moment - a stricken look and then a smile and then she said "I think that woman at the table next to us heard everything you said!"

I looked over. There, face down and ass up in a big plate of food and praising Jesus, sat one of the most baptist women I've ever seen. She was dressed so rigidly that she could have been John Ashcroft's wife out on the town. Taking my own turn to eavesdrop, I perceived dipthongs and wide vowels. Southerners, on vacation in our Shirley Temple of a town in the ALPS. Good GOD.

If I hadn't been with polite dinner company (by polite I mean NOT gay) I would have loudly recounted my recent adventures in homo-landia leaving out no detail. (I wonder, if hearing Scott's lovely british accent, she thought he was my husband? Many people who love Jesus think all people with British accents are gay).

Mick was charming. Amused and charming. Sinead was delightful and Scott, well, he's just a peach. We ordered more wine all around and dove headlong into the redmeat of more Wanda stories. Loud Wanda stories.

That's when I started to think of my brother the Christian and that LOOK he gave me the day he found Mike and me out on the deck snogging (that "snogging" is for you, Scott - see, I have vocabulary).

When I got home, I thought I would GOOGLE a little bit. Sinead told me that women don't use the "d" word, they say "vibrator." Therefore, I GOOGLE'd "vibrator" and GOOGLE'd the "d" word. The results were interesting, including several articles about the "d" word written by women. Hm. I think what Sinead meant was that POLITE women don't use the "d" word.

I'll bet Wanda uses the "d" word.

Sometimes in life there is a certain cruel irony. My ploy of calling in sick from Rome worked like a charm. It was precipitated by the fact that I was FED UP with meeting students at the airport. It worked, I didn't get caught out and Rome was fantastic. Oh, it rained a little and was chilly at times but it was fabulous. Rome always is.

My new clothes look wonderful (I spent a fortune), I got lots of attention from interesting Italian men (passion!) and I had a good rest away from work.

Having made a full recovery I attended the office on Monday morning only to be redirected to the AIRPORT! The homophobic mysanthrope who was supposed to work the airport duty for the last arriving students found something less like work and more like advancing his career through ass kissing to do. Therefore, I returned to the place of my rebellion. The Munich airport.

What a day. 14 hours in that artificial environment (and it ain't no Tom Hanks movie). Flights cancelled all over the place, drivers giving me trouble and the snow and more snow and then more snow. I am glad to see that day behind me. It almost erased Rome but not quite.

Work is dull and anticlimatic. But then, when was work ever exciting?

Winter is on with a vengeance but at least the skiing is good. An interesting man I met in Rome says he is coming up to ski this weekend. We'll see. In gaylandia they lie a lot.

I have just finished living at the Munich airport for 5 days meeting 150 of my closest friends get off airplanes from all over the world. It has been a whirlwind of lost luggage, frayed nerves and travel drama. I am spent.

They are not REALLY my closest friends though. They are the winter crop of new students and not just any students. These ones are all mid career all grown up professionals. Undergraduate students would be oh so much easier. These people have needs!

I was so tired and fed up that at the end of it all I went to the last minute fare counter, called in sick and bought a plane ticket. I am writing from Rome. ROME! So warm, so nice, so fashionable, no students.

I didn't even go home to get luggage, I just took my credit card, my backpack and my smile and got on my 75 Euro round trip flight. At DaVinci airport I got some more Euros from the ATM, hailed a cab and said "take me to a gay hotel." The driver thought I meant HAPPY because he took me to the Bernini Bristol just off the via Veneto and down from the imperial American embassy (and the Ritz and the Eden and all the other storied hotels). I talked with the guest services people and found a REAL gay hotel, not just a happy hotel. The cabbie was right though, those people at the Bernin Bristol were HAPPY. And happy to help.

When I got to my real gay hotel, an astonishingly handsome (all italians are astonishingly handsome even the old trolls who raise all the standards for troll-landia) met me with effusive kisses (cheeks not lips, damit) and showed me to my room after swooping my credit card through with a flourish.

It's a nice room and the bathroom is almost a religious experience.

He asked if I need a porter. "No."

"All you have is that backpack?"

"Yes."

"Do you need anything? Toothbrush? Razor? Lube? Condoms?"

I like gay hotels in Rome. I said "I need everything."

He said "What will you do for clothes??"

"Buy them!"

"So expensive!"

"I need them anyway, I have been loosing weight."

Then he gave me several good recommendations for places to buy clothes. I shall buy ONE good pair of black wool slacks (cuff, no pleat); ONE good black leather belt (I already have my good Italian shoes on - maybe another pair of shoes though...); THREE good black T shirts since I am here three days; THREE white pairs of boxer briefs since I look fabulous in them; ONE black cashmere V-neck sweater; ONE good white dress shirt since I love white Italian dress shirts and one or two white t-shirts.

In Amerika, when someone dresses all in black he is either goth or a Johnny Cash wannabe. In Rome (or New York or Paris for that matter) he is terribly chic. With my black hair (okay, Sinead, there are a FEW flecks of grey in it) and my steel blue eyes how will the Romans resist me? They won't!

I will also buy a smallish black bag to cart it all back to Munich. How vain and irresponsible I am being. This is the way to call in sick and I don't even CARE how much it all costs.

Isn't it wonderful that in ROME, when you arrive without the toothbrush at the gay hotel they ask if you need CONDOMS? What a city! The irony of all this planned shopping is that I'll probably find some fashionable sauna and spend most of the next day or so naked. But then, Rome is like that.

The pink and white woman in Munich was nightmare enough but then I had to come back to work today. It is a twilight zone existence on the best of days. Further, my epals who write me on YAHOO! are seemingly lost to me forever. I am too dysfunctional to keep their email addresses written down somewhere and YAHOO! won't let me on. Period. I've tried everything including a bizarre email exchange with their bot. Adam Gopnik quoted the french philosopher correctly. "There is no regulon in the semiosphere."

YAHOO! epals, if you are out there and you read this, email me through the blog. I put it on a recent post.

Luke, enjoy New York pal. I know it's grimy when you go to the doctor but all in all it beats working for the man.