We're back home after a long weekend trip visiting Greg's parents in San Antonio. It was hot. It was fun. It was relaxing. Oh, and it included a full day at Sea World. Gosh, I must have been ten when last I was at Sea World.

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I sat next to Angela on the plane yesterday. I had the middle seat on the four-hour leg from La Guardia to Houston, and she had the window seat. Angela was a forty-something woman with a huge scar running down her chest where, she explained to me in great detail, they performed open-heart surgery on her a few months ago. Angela was suffering from some psychosis. Angela wanted to write me a poem.

"Excuse me, guys. Would you mind moving? I think I have the window seat."

Angela shuffled happily into her window seat and introduced herself. "Hello. Are you in the military?" I shook my head and smiled. "You look like you're in the military. Doesn't he look like he's in the military?" She looked at Greg, who nodded his approval, and grinned a wide grin. "Yes, you look like you are in the military." Angela decided that I was in the military.

"Well, my doctor said it was okay to fly, you know." She leaned over as if she was telling me a secret. "I haven't flown since 1992. Can we smoke?" I told her no, and she settled back into her seat and onto her tan leather jacket that she had so carefully crumpled into a tiny ball. "When I went to Greece, I smoked all the way on the plane. And I drank beer, too. Are the drinks free, or do we pay for them?" She looked around. "But I shouldn't be drinking, you know, because I am taking medicine." She whispered the last word into my right ear, wrinkling her nose as if in disgust. "Want me to show you?"

Angela reached into her bag and produced a translucent, orange-coloured prescription bottle. She held it to me for my approval. "See here, it says my name. My doctor gave it to me. I took three just now and you know what?" Angela cupped her hand to my ear and looked warily around. "I headed to the bar for a few drinks." She giggled. "That's how I can fly without worrying now."

Clozapine. "Colozapeem," she agreed, as she pointed to the label.

Angela was a sweetheart. She had a Walkman and two pairs of Coby headphones that she swapped back and forth. Her voice had a slight slur to it--a side-effect of her medication, she said--and an uneven, warbling tone that was strangely soothing and unnervingly tense at the same time.

Angela told me of her past. "I used to work for Associated Press, you know." She wrinkled her nose again. "That was before I got sick. They had to let me go because I became suicidal and the doctors took me away." She smiled at me happily and produced her medication again to inspect. "Colozapeem."

"You know, I shouldn't smoke anymore, anyway. My lungs are bad. Can we smoke on this flight?" Once again I gently told her no, and she pursed her lips. "You want to see my scar?" She smiled again, and began to fumble with the top button of her blouse. "They had to do open-heart surgery, you know. They took me away because I am too..." Her voice trailed away. "I'm too nervous." She smiled again. "Yes, you look like you are in the military."

Angela was on anti-psychotic medicines that her doctor had given her, and she was very talkative. Angela used to be a photographer for the Associated Press, she insisted, before the doctors took her away. She wanted to show me her papers, but the plane was about to take off and her seatbelt was not yet fastened, so I helped her with it. Angela was impressed that I would help her.

"I used to be a photographer, you know. I have pictures of George Bush and everybody. But now I write poetry. You want me to write a poem for you?" Angela and I both agreed that she should write me a poem. "I will write you a poem. I can write a poem in two seconds. Do you have a piece of paper?" She looked around and began fumbling with her Walkman, and I suggested that maybe she should wait until we were airborne. "Yes," she agreed, "when we are in the air." She looked at me. "When we are in the air I will show you my pictures. I will find some paper, and will write you a poem. When we are in the air."

As the plane taxied to the runway, Angela became quiet, and stared fixedly out the window. I began to doze off.

The flight was otherwise uneventful. I slept most of the way, waking briefly to munch on the chicken sandwich that the stewardess offered me, and hearing at the periphery of my dreams Angela laughing at Kate and Leopold playing on the screen above her.

Four hour later, the plane began its descent, and I slowly began to wake. Angela was listening to her Walkman and staring at me. "Let me show you now," she began. "I will show you now." She reached into her bags as the plane taxied to the gate, and pulled out several pieces of multiply-folded paper. "Do you want my chips and cookie?" she asked. "I don't like junk food. It's bad for me. Bad for my heart." I politely declined and she offered me her pineapple cottage cheese. "This is much healthier. I like this." I declined once more, and she began to unfold the papers meticulously, one by one. "See here, there's George Bush. There's my name. I took that photo. See, there's Arafat. There's my name. I took that photo. See, there's Jackie Onassis. That's my name. I took that photo. See, like I promised, I showed you my pictures."

I was impressed.

"But I am sorry," she said, as we gathered our belongings. "I am sorry I didn't have any paper. I am sorry I couldn't get any paper to write. I am sorry I didn't write your poem." As she drew her bags around her, she suddenly looked up at me and gingerly touched my forearm. "Thank you," she said.

We walked off the plane and into the crowded terminal. As Greg and I headed off to our connecting flight, struggling with our bags, I looked up and caught a glimpse of Angela and her crumpled tan jacket just as she disappeared into the crowds. Angela with her precious newspaper clippings and her medicines. Sweet Angela with her poetry and her scars. Good luck, Angela, I'm truly sorry I didn't stay awake long enough for you to write me a poem. Good luck, wherever you are, sweet, sweet Angela.

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I puked my brains out last night.

Delvis and I went out for a late lunch/early dinner yesterday, and I decided to skip out of work early to go bar-hopping with him instead. Several bars later, we ended up at SBNY (formerly Splash), where I passed out briefly. I had been really exhausted from the past couple weeks at work, and the colourful mixture of beers, cosmos, martinis and assorted special drinks didn't really help. So I woke up puked my brains out.

I swear, if I see one more olive in a martini today, I'm gonna hurl.

What's up with that? Is it a sign of aging that one can't hold his liquor anymore? This is a rather significant milestone for me, actually. I had never quite reached the stage of throwing up, never the stage of passing out, never the stage where I had such a lovely case of double-vision. I didn't even think I drank all that much yesterday. Must be the particular mix of alcohol sprinkled with a liberal helping of exhaustion.

Ugh. Thank God it's Friday. I'm off to Texas for the weekend.

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Middle of the week. Friday almost here. Anyone else having a crazy time at work/school/home/whatever?

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The sun glanced off the glass façade of a tall building this morning, creating an ethereal early-morning glow as I waited for my bus on Broadway. A cool breeze blew intermittently through the traffic, and ruffled the gossamer hair of the young woman reading the paper next to me. She gently patted the stray tresses back into place and took a deep breath of air as she turned the page, paying no attention to the splendid April morning about her. I studied her for a moment, my eyes following the delicate contours of her body, and I found myself breathing in concert with her as her bosom rose and fell in syncopated rhythm.

Today I am wearing my teal shirt, the one with the little white buttons down the front that look so delicate and crisp. It's a rather summery shade, this teal, and I wear it only on special days when the world is bright and sunny, and when strangers are likely to smile as they pass by. A bee came by this morning to pay my teal shirt a visit. I was absorbed in my study of the woman with the silken hair when he came by. How delightful, a teal flower. I've never seen such a lovely flower. Such a lovely large teal flower. I shall investigate. He buzzed gently around my shoulder and hovered close to my left pocket, flying in lazy circles around me as he looked for a suitable place to land. I stood still, waiting for him to land on my shoulder, barely daring to breathe lest I scare my visitor away. He flew to investigate my face. What's this? There's a face stuck in the middle of my large teal flower! How bizarre. I felt the flutter of his wings as he hovered close to my neck. Where's the pistil? Where's the pollen? Do you know their whereabouts on this beautiful flower, Strange Face? He landed on my lapel. Nope, not here. He walked over to my shoulder. Nope. For several minutes he flew around me, searching for the nectar that he was convinced lay hidden away.

Soon, a bus came by. Damn, it was the 104, not mine, and the woman with the fair hair boarded, still engrossed in her newspaper. The bee followed her into the bus. What's this? Any flowers in here? The doors remained open for a few moments as the bee surveyed the passengers, and he flew back out before they closed. Nope, no flowers in there. He took one last look at me and flew off, disheartened. Farewell, my beautiful teal flower. Maybe tomorrow when I come by, you will share with me your treasures. I peered through the windows into the bus, and as the bus sped off, the young woman suddenly glanced up from her paper and smiled with her beautiful face. The young woman with the gossamer hair smiled at me and my magical teal shirt.

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I skipped out of work for a few hours today and met up with Victor to see a taping of Sally. The show is being cancelled, and well, we were curious. It was very interesting to see the people who show up at these tapings. While we were waiting to be let into the studio, a woman sitting all the front of the room ran up to us and excitedly introduced herself as Marlene. Marlene was one of the regulars. She pointed across the hallway where the Maury Povich Show was being taped, and told us how much she loved him, gesticulating wildly as she demonstrated how he had hugged her just this morning. She then pulled out her photo album and proceeded to inspire us with her impressive collection of "Marlene with Maury" photographs, including one where he kissed her exactly one year ago.

In the studio, we were put to sit in the front row. I noticed some rather excited chatter behind me, and after a few minutes I heard someone clear her throat, and a hand tapped me on the shoulder. "Excuse me, we were just wondering..." I turned around. Three buxom women were beaming at me, their faces lit with nervous smiles. "Tell us the truth." She pointed at her companions, both of whom were nodding in unison. "Who are you related to?" I was confused. "I mean, who are you related to in the taping today? Are you the husband of one of the guests? A brother? A son? We saw the names of the guests, and we know you're related to one of them." I offered my aplogies at not being even semi-famous, and as I turned back around, their disappointed faces were refreshed by smiles once more as the audience coordinator led everyone in a round of cheering. Apparently they had thought I may have been related to Erica Jong, who, despite having an Asian-sounding name, is very much not.

Oh well, watch out for the the episode of Sally where there are four women authors and Jacques Pépin. I'll be in the front row, hooting and hollering along with the rest of the regulars.

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Taxes for the IRS? Check. CDs for Chris and Max's Blogger CD Swap: Round 1 project? Check. The cost of procrastinating until the very last minute for both: two sweltering hours in the post office, battling the maddening crowds until 10pm. Why do I do this to myself? For those who have asked, the photos on the CD insert and on the CD itself are from our St. John trip earlier this year. For those who haven't asked, uh, well now you know, too.

Here's my CD mix:

Numbers 2 (Dollar Wine) and 14 (The Hammer) are Trinidadian calypsoes that make me vaguely homesick. By the way, in Trinidadian slang, to "wine" is to gyrate your hips. Also, Number 10 (Hot, Hot, Hot) was originally a Trinidadian song, too. Did I miss any summer songs in the mix?

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I asked my doctor today if he was gay.

I escaped the office for about an hour mid-morning and headed across town to my doctor's office, where I was scheduled for my second shot of the Hep B vaccine. After he recorded the routine readings and gave me my shot, we sat around for a few customary minutes, chatting about nothing in particular. He told me about his trip tomorrow to a Philadelphia conference, and how busy he was. I told him about my knee feeling a bit better and how similarly hectic things were at my office.

"Okay then, Patrick, so nice to see you again. Any more questions?" He began to stand up, his hand extended.

I had been meaning to ask him this for quite some time now, but I never thought it was too appropriate. And I was afraid such a question would make him feel uncomfortable. But I have to open up so much to him, tell so much intimate information about my personal life that it feels too much like a one-way stream of information sometimes. It would help so much to know that he really understood what I was saying to him. I looked away and politely declined his hand.

"Well, I do have one more question," I began. "I'm not sure if it's even appropriate to ask you this. Or at all relevant. And please let me know if I'm being too nosy." I looked up. "Of course you know I'm gay, right? I mean, you've asked me from the start." He looked quizzically at me and nodded. "What about you?" I asked. "Are you gay?"

He looked at me unflinching, his gaze unbroken, and began immediately. "Well, Patrick, no, it's not an irrelevant question at all." He sat back down. "You see, it's important for physicians to fully understand their patients. Women have gynecologists, babies have pediatricians. Sure, gay men have their own special needs, too. And of course, doctors need to be sensitive to that. But no, a gay man doesn't need a gay doctor. No more so than a straight man needs a straight doctor. Any doctor should know what to look for as long as he's a good doctor." He smiled warmly and put his hand gently on my shoulder. "And yes," he said, "I too am gay."

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Alastair invited Greg and me to a taping of Comedy Central's The Daily Show yesterday afternoon. Alastair's friend, Ronald, was visiting from Jamaica, and Alastair, being the kind and considerate soul that he is, had managed to get four tickets a few weeks ago. I had never seen the show, actually, and we needed to get to the studios by 4:45 pm. Thanks, Alastair, for the excuse to skip out of work early.

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And now the review of my site, the second part of Rasmus' Peer-to-Peer Review Project:

Thanks, Trish, for the kind words.

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A few weeks ago, I signed up for Rasmus' Peer-to-Peer Review Project. The idea behind this was that you were randomly assigned a blog to review, and your site, in turn, was assigned to another randomly chosen person to be reviewed. Here is my review of Dickinson Syndrome:

I only hope that the review wasn't too cruel. Was it?

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Greg turns 32 today. I woke up this morning and gently reached over to kiss him a happy birthday, but his side of the bed was cold and empty. Out of the foggy recesses of my first waking minutes, I remembered that he wasn't supposed to be there, that he had left Manhattan last night, driving furiously the long trip to Vermont where he had to be. Poor Greg, he was so apologetic about not being here with me on his birthday. "You really, really, really sure you don't mind?" he asked, over and over again. "Yes," I assured him, "go on, you should go. Just promise me you'll have fun." I touched the pillow where his sleeping form would have cast soft shadows from the early morning light, and I smiled.

Happy birthday, hon. I love you so.

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Greg and I just came back from the 2002 Auto Show at the Jacob Javits Center. I left work at 9 o'clock and got to the show with about an hour to browse before the 10:30 closing time this evening, and the ticket attendant looked rather surprised to see two guys rushing in to the show so late. "Uh, you'd better hurry. We're closing in about an hour, you know."

An hour was about all we needed, though. There was a lot of very interesting stuff there, from the Mini Cooper and the BMW CS1 to the consumer Hummer and the dizzying array of concept cars. It was at once an exhilarating rush and a rude awakening when we realized how many toys we still so desperately wanted. So many toys, so little time…

What's your dream car?

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After a warm and humid--almost summerlike--yesterday, complete with intermittent rainshowers and bareback joggers, today's deep blue skies and cool temperatures is a magnificent contrast and quite the model for the perfect Spring day. My group was kind enough to indulge my whims, and so at lunchtime we headed over to the Rockefeller Center Motorcycle Show exhibition where I ran around gleefully trying to take in as much as I could in the few minutes we had to spare. We stopped ever so briefly to peer at the ice skaters at the Rockefeller Center outdoor ice rink, and wished aloud that we could stay outside to enjoy the wonderful weather. But alas, the working world affords us not the luxury, and we headed back to the office, lunches in tow.

We decided to eat our meals in the conference room near our desks, but we had only twenty minutes before the room needed to be cleared out for another meeting. That was more than enough for us: we wolfed down our lunches in ten minutes flat, and cleaned up with lots of time to spare. The only thing is that the conference room now smells a little of food. Let's hope that the people who have booked the room don't mind the lingering smells of seven grand lunches of grilled chicken, pastas, soups, sandwiches, pizzas, and salads.

How's the weather where you are?

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Another Easter has come and gone, and with it ends my Lenten observance of giving up meat on Fridays. It baffles me that I still do this, since I am not really religious, and since I have found myself sufficiently drifted away from the Church that I haven't attended services in quite a while. A vestige to which I cling, perhaps, to remind me of my seemingly distant past.

The weekend was pleasant enough. My brother-in-law, Carl and his daughter/my niece, Cathy visited from Trinidad for the week, and all three nephews were in town for the weekend. We shopped the outlet malls on Saturday, fighting along with the rest of the crowds, laughing and poking fun at each other through the miles and miles of clothing racks and yesterseason's styles. It's nice to go to the outlet malls every once in a while, and it's even better to find a good bargain on something you don't really need. But the fun part of the day was the drive there, with all of us screaming raucously along to bad pop songs and sappy ballads, five voices in absolute discord, lyrics all awry. So tell me what you want, what you really, really want...

Sunday morning Greg and I took the bikes out for an inaugural Spring ride. Nothing much, just a quick spin about the city to warm up the engines and to shake the winter dust off their seats. It was good riding them, even if we had to deal with Manhattan traffic. We apparently weren't the only ones who had decided to take advantage of the fine weather: motorcyclists were everywhere, although most of them were heading out of the city.

The weekend also had a nice little surprise in my mailbox: my first ever mailing from another blogger. Thanks, Brent, for the little gift. It really put a smile on my face.

Oh, and everyone wave a very happy 36th today to Jess!

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