Author: Mark Alexander

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…for some shirtless Stephen Dorff?

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1 – How tall are you?
Shorter than Ben. Taller than a Hobbit.
2 – Sexual Orientation
Gay. Duh. Have you looked at this website?
3 – Do you Smoke?
No.
4 – Do you Drink?
No.
5 – Do you Take Drugs?
Other than prescribed medications, no.
6 – Age you get mistaken for
Usually about 10 years younger than I actually am. (see 2, 3, and 4 above)
7 – Have Tattoos?
Yes.
8 – Want any tattoos?
One more, yes.
9 – Got any Piercings?
Not any more.
10 – Want any piercings?
Been there, done that.
11 – Best friend?
My Ben.
12 – Do you like anyone?
What is this, high school?
13 – Top 5 favorite bands?
Bands? Are the 60s calling? I have eclectic tastes. I like Jazz, Classic Rock, Old School Disco and Pop. So let’s say Duke Ellington (currently grooving on “Blues in Orbit”), Chicago, Elton John (from the 70s), Alec Costandinos, and the Pet Shop Boys
14 – Top 5 favorite songs?
Of all time? the last week? Impossible to answer because it would probably change before I finish this post.
15 – Biggest pet peeve?
Willfully stupid people. Clueless drivers. The entire Republican party. Hateful “Christians.” People who are famous for being famous, i.e. the Kardashians. (Now there’s a Venn Diagram for you!)
16 – Story from your childhood.
In sixth grade I’d just discovered the wonder of scientific thermometers. While at recess one day I snuck back into my classroom determined to discover the boiling point of water. The minute I put the thermometer in the boiling water it broke into two pieces. I had a witness to the deed, but I swore her to secrecy, and while she almost turned me in weeks later when the broken thermometer was discovered, I never fessed up and never got caught.
17 – I wish…
I had a new career and job that I actually looked forward to going to in the morning.
18 – Favorite foods?
Mexican
19 – Story about your day.
I spent most of the morning composing the last blog post. Then I went out and had lunch with Ben. And then the alien invasion began.
20 – Top 5 CILFs (Celebrities I’d Like to Fuck)?
Well, I guess based on this that Seth Rogen is on the list. But if you’re talking about the other four (I only get 4?) they’d be Eddie McClintock, Channing Tatum (jeez, who wouldn’t?), Skylar Astin, and lastly—Darren Criss (who I envision being a very pushy bottom).
21 – Top 5 favorite movies?
Personal Services, Blade Runner, Auntie Mame, Koyaanisqatsi, and a toss-up between Vicror/Victoria and 2001: A Space Odyssey.
22 – Top 5 favorite TV shows?
Doctor Who, NCIS, Chelsea Lately, Being Human and American Horror Story
If you count shows that are no longer aired, you can add Battlestar Galactica, Fringe, and Falling Skies to the list. It’s more than 5. Deal with it.
23 – Random fact about yourself.
I didn’t have my tonsils removed until I was in my 40s. (And NO, that’s not a euphemism for anything.)

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It has been said that a boy doesn’t fully grow up and enter adulthood until his father dies. If that is the case, I grew up two days ago.

My dad’s passing did not come as a complete surprise. A month ago my sister called to tell me that he’d suffered a major heart attack and the attending physician told her that, “Anyone who needs to say goodbye needs to come sooner rather than later.” The next day I got on a plane and flew down to Phoenix.

It was the first time I’d been to the group home where we’d moved him shortly after my last trip to Phoenix in December. All I can say is I hope that when the time comes and I find myself in a similar situation that I end up in such a warm, welcoming place.

When I arrived, Dad was weak, but in good spirits. Surprisingly, he actually looked better than the last time I’d seen him. And despite the fact his chart read “actively dying,” he was eating like a horse. I called my friend Cindy—a lifetime nurse—and told her about this and she said that was pretty common; that the body was rallying for one last hurrah. She had seen this many times before and said it could be anywhere from a few days to a few weeks until he passed on.

My sister and I mended the rift that had opened since my previous trip, and—since apparently no one had actually told Dad how serious his heart attack had been—had “the talk” with him. We told him that if he wanted to go, he could. We would both be all right, that he raised two great kids, and that we loved him. In typical Arthur fashion, he looked at us and said, “What if I don’t want to go?” We laughed.

My dad worked as chief architect and designer for Hallcraft Homes during the peak of their business in the 1970s. His residential designs changed the face of Phoenix—if only through the ubiquitous presence of the homebuilder in the valley. Today you cannot drive anywhere in Phoenix without seeing his work, even if his name is totally unknown by the people living those homes. (Ben’s grandparents actually live in one of his designs.)

On my second—and last—day in Phoenix, on the way to the group home I took a detour through what I consider to be the high point of Hallcraft’s reign; a subdivision called Biltmore Highlands. Our family had even considered moving there—going to far as to actually pick out one of the homes—as I was about to start high school, but for one reason or another it never came to fruition. I don’t know if it was overall cost of the house, or the school district we’d be moving into, or the fact we could get a bigger home for the same amount of money elsewhere, but ultimately we ended up moving to a new place (in another Hallcraft development) on the west side about a mile south of where we were currently living.

I’d driven through the Highlands back in 1998 and was surprised at the changes, but for the most part the homes were still instantly recognizable to me and my heart swelled with pride knowing that my dad had designed them. But driving through the streets that morning was more of a shock. Major remodelings since 1998 seemed to be the norm, and in fact, entire homes had been razed and replaced with horribly ugly McMansions. What surprised me the most, however, was that the house we’d initially chosen to move into remained virtually unchanged. Yeah, it had been painted, front doors replaced and a small wall had been erected out front, but otherwise it looked the same as it did back in 1972:

Alternate timelines, bitches. The mind reels at how different my adult life might’ve been if we’d moved there instead of where we ended up.

I got to the group home before my sister that morning, so I had some quality one-on-one time with Dad. We reminisced about everything from his days in the Navy during World War II and the Korean War to those days at Hallcraft to his brief stint in San Francisco. I said everything I needed to, and it seemed he did the same. Tears welled in both our eyes as we said goodbye several hours later, knowing that this was probably going to be the last time we would see each other.

I flew back to Denver that afternoon, knowing that the next time the phone rang and my sister’s name appeared on the display it would be that call.

Several days passed, so I called her and she said that Dad had made an amazing comeback; he was even out of bed and sitting out on the home’s front veranda. I called him a few minutes later and he said he was tired but feeling good.

And that has been the situation until last Tuesday. I realized it had been a week since I’d last spoken to him, so I called that night. He again reported feeling a bit tired, but my god, he sounded amazing; stronger and more vibrant than I’d heard in months.

So it was a bit of a shock when I got the call from my sister at 8:30 the next morning. She never calls me at work, so even before I answered I knew what what had happened.

She said he was fine before breakfast, but when they returned to get his dishes he was gone, laying there peacefully with his eyes closed.

I’m not flying down this time; Dad had the foresight about ten years ago to get everything set up beforehand with the Neptune Society (something, ironically I’m going to do for myself with some of his life insurance money) so neither my sister or I would have to deal the actual disposition of his body. My sister will keep the cremains at her house until next fall, when we’ll all gather to scatter the ashes in southern Arizona as he’d requested.

My dad had always been an excellent father. Though I know over the course of my life I caused him untold financial and emotional distress, he never stopped loving me. When one of my cars blew up, he was there with credit card in hand. When I lost my job in San Francisco in 2002, he opened his doors to me. I don’t know if that was strictly the father in him speaking, or if it was because—some thirty years earlier—he’d found a kindred spirit in his son.

In 1976, when I came out to my family, several days later, my dad took me aside and came out to me. Like so many men in the 1950s, he had become—as Bette Midler might say—”trapped in an act, not of his own design.” While there was no doubt that he loved my mother, he was still a gay man living a double life, and my coming out allowed him to finally let someone—family—know who he really was. I can’t even begin to imagine the weight that fell from his shoulders that summer, but I know from that point onward our whole relationship changed. He was no longer simply the authoritative father figure I’d grown up with; he was also rapidly becoming my friend.

And maybe that’s the reason I’m finding that his death is hitting me much harder than when my mom passed several years ago. I don’t know if it’s because Alzheimer’s robbed us of much of who Mom was long before her passing, or if in addition to losing my dad, through his death I also lost a really good friend.

Arthur
March 23, 1926-February 20, 2013

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…I had an almost sex dream last night featuring Seth Rogen. Yes, that Seth Rogen.

And by almost sex dream, I mean there was making out and some boner rubbing through our pants but no nekkid man-on-man action. Unfortunately.

I have no idea where this came from because I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of Seth’s movies, but obviously he’s made a some kind of an impression on a subconscious level.

And seriously, can you blame me? He is rather adorkable.

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“Hey Catholics, newsflash—if the Pope can quit, it’s OK for you to quit, too. As you all know, this week Pope Benedict told Vatican radio—you know Vatican radio, playing the hits from the 8th century, the 9th century and today—Benedict told them he was going to resign because the church needs a fresh young face somewhere other than a priest’s lap.” ~ Bill Maher, who has the readers of Daily Caller ever so pissed.

(Source)

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Spotted on my walk to the train station this morning…

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Lapeer, MI — A security officer at a Lapeer charter school left a firearm unattended in a school bathroom on Monday, Jan. 14, a school official said.
The security officer “made a breach in security protocol” and left an unloaded weapon in a restroom “for a few moments,” said Chatfield School Director Matt Young.
Translation: The idjit unholstered his firearm, put it on the sink or shelf or somewhere in there, and walked away having forgotten he’d done so. The fact we’ve heard about it likely means someone else found it before he remembered his gun was gone.

Young said the school has been in contact with local authorities about the matter and wouldn’t discuss any possible repercussion for the officer, calling it “a personnel matter.” Young also declined to name the security officer.
Translation: If they won’t say he was fired or formally reprimanded or fined by the local PD for reckless endangerment, in all likelihood it was just a verbal reprimand.

“The school has put additional security procedures in place that follow local law enforcement practices and guidelines,” Young said in a statement.
Translation: We’ve told our armed guards they’re never to unholster their firearms, even when taking a piss, a dump, or merely washing their hands because they might forget them. Because apparently we needed to point out the obvious.

“At no time was any student involved in this breach of protocol.
Translation: This happened during class periods and we’re pretty sure the adult teacher or custodian who found the weapon was the first person to encounter it. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it. Because legally, if a child found it, we’d be in big $ trouble.

“We will continue to work on improving school security.”
Translation: We really hope you all forget this ever happened.

Young stressed that no children were exposed to the handgun or put in danger, and declined to comment more on specifics of the incident.
Translation: We really, really hope you all forget before some irate parent decides to file a lawsuit. Besides, we asked the kids if they saw anything and they all said ‘no’, and we all know kids never lie about anything if you ask them in your serious-voice.

The school recently hired the officer, who is retired from the Lapeer County Sheriff’s Office, as a means to bolster school security.
Translation: Because police officers never make dumb mistakes like the rest of us humans do. Like, for instance, shooting up a paper delivery truck that looks nothing like the one the police were looking for.

Source.

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While it hasn’t happened recently, I used to often have dreams of walking in or actually boarding trains in the MUNI subway tunnels between the actual stations beneath Market Street in San Francisco. My dream tunnels were nothing like reality; while they often started out as the standard size you’d expect, they would often open into huge caverns, as if stations were constructed but abandoned at some point for lack of funding. Unlike the dark, damp tunnels of reality, these cavernous spaces—while no means bright—were decently lit from above. My tunnel dreams often centered around the Civic Center Station, one stop on the line whose energy I always found a bit odd.

Come to think of it, I have a lot of dreams about trains. Freight trans are often ominous, dark, frightening entities; passenger trains are the opposite, although they often take me places I hadn’t intended. To this day I remember a dream I had shortly after arriving in The City in 1986; I hopped on a train that took me to the beach, but it wasn’t like the real N- or L- lines, nor was it like any beach I’d ever seen in San Francisco. (Think sub-tropical with lots of lush vegetation.)

But I digress…

This morning, when I saw these photos of the big dig going on under New York City, it was as if they were pulled right out of my MUNI tunnel dreams. Even the lighting effects were spot-on.

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