Now here's an odd story of the three act performance, so common that few seem to know anything much of it at all... That so many more claim themselves expert, confirms it's truly an odd little story that's never quite told even close to correctly; told here with similar doubts. A story of sex as it's applied throughout all our ages, first conforming to the norms, then twisting itself into an almost admirably honourable perversions; then losing all meaning, becoming a mere aberration or simply that uncomfortable adjunct to everything else. Some of us crave it, other deny it, many stuck inbetween spend their days looking, searching, seeking even desperately striving for the quickest way out of having to act out the performance, at all.

I write it, this story under protest; as its a story I, like many, would rather leave unsaid... but recent over-thinkings and partial observations have awoken that old friend, that good friend, lets call him the ancient young man deep inside me, who when even at my rope's whits end; has always kept me going. I guess I owe him this favor, after caging then valiant attempts at retraining, then believing him and leaving him for half tamed. Starving his feelings on little but hallmarked perversions and pornagraphic leftovers that, if one gave any realistic thought to his situation whatsoever, his thinking... of course you'd draw the conclusion, that he'd gone quite insane. So, here is the favour, the part of his story, he's told me... to some extent is true. (more or less)

In our twenties this ancient young man leads us on missions simply to get what he wanted and I wanted too. To get to act two as quickly as we could with whomever was there, good looking enough, kind enough but more honestly anyone, thing, or flickering image would do. Act two so contorted simply seemed part of the act one mission to get to the ending, that feeling, that craved for buzzing bee, swirling in one's head, that scrambled boy screaming, woo-hoo. An elated emotion or feeling so wanted that sometimes it drove both of us quite simply and easily totally utterly self centeredly and childishly crazy. Act three? Get the mop bucket, there's a mess to be cleaned up... quickly quite often but for some, sadly a chore that remained a forever conclusion, a prison of sorts... a life lived in a long endless the sameness all the same, day after day... after day.

Just a little bit later we'd become much more crafted, directed and focussed. This mission we were told had a grand purpose, to build a new family, boldly with purpose, to extend one's historical dna strain. Proudly we chained our ancient young men deep inside us, not yet into cages but began at least trying to teach them some manners. In other words fooling ourselves by denying act one's mission was exactly the same. With weapons of flowers, maybe poems all smiling sales tactics we hunted for victims, that sad lonely game... Act two still exciting, at least at the outset, searching a simple answer to the most basic of question, would this be the one we'd bend over and ourselve over backwards for day after day? Act three an illusion, still so much to be cleaned up that most of us fooled ourselves by not thinking it all the way through. Accepted the assignment, cheerfully grabbed the mop bucket and did every last little thing, we were told what to do. Other's you know them, they juggled these age related old problems and let their ancient young men out of their cages one night, maybe every night, more often than not, sometimes, more than two.

And then the disaster, as the rest of our life get in the way of this already strained friendship with these ancient young men deep inside us. The pressurized build ups and getting oneself buried in boxes, compartments of stories half written, some abandoned, never finished, some rewarding other simply fancied illusions we still hoped to get to one day. We'd done everything requested though often half hearted... some of us seemingly quite successfully thinking they'd made it all the way though. But upon taking that good look... all a self-fooling old con job as at this age in our lives so few are at all even remotely close to the happiness that's expected, projected to us by the flickering light tubed boxes of noises we find ourselves now subjected to night after night by our lonesome. The missions? Deserted... Act two, if ever got to, simply rolls into act three in mere moments, a clean up to be avoided... even with the dreamed of mistresses too. It all seemed so... over done, finished, we were lied to? Pour me, I mean poor him... my ancient young man, head in hands, now lost deep inside me softly whimpers, boo-hoo.

But then... if ones lucky or clever or made a right decision or two. We stumble and bumble onwards together, perhaps even enlightened into something quite honestly wonderfully true. Call it proper love making, with someone who has been through all the above madness with many another or even just one poor fool head in hand, whose exactly at least quite likely not very much different than you two. A companion co-pilot a kindred spirit a partner whose seen it from her side, all knowing and caring, simply delicious the spirit you've searched longingly for all your life through... maybe, I mean if this story is anything but true...

Act one, far more than simply a diversion or a pleasant distraction from those remaining compartments, those boxes and pressurization for more than just a mere moment much more than the morsel you chewed through on your ancient young man's mission to get it... Act two, simple pure pleasures no hurried-up mandates to reach that elation or anything for else for that matter; and far far more importantly beautifully something than just something to do... If you're brave hearted and brilliant you'll unlock the cages, throw open the door and let that ancient young man who you thought had gone missing come out and play with you ...and you know who too. Act three? As easy as the dishes, an almost instinctual now pleasant part of the performance; done so many times in a mere blink of the twinkling eye and the sudden and thoughtful realization the performance is not over but a  better and comfortable non-conclusion to a more reasoned, soft spoken rewarding and pleasant emotionally thrilling and spiritually enlightened three sinuously connected and now a totally cohesive contiguously sound, sometimes thrillingly easy portrayal of those wondrous vignettes you've played out in acts one and act two.

How's that for a shot of almost unbelievably optimistism for those of us still mired and blue? And here's a little secret, the rub, not the lesson but something to consider maybe pounder for a mere moment with the ancient young man deep inside you... at any old age one can easily unteach all the things we've subjected ourselves and our misbegotten ancient young man deep inside us; unwind those pornographic expectations and embrace the part of the hallmarked elation that are actually quite true. Although he's quite scary to many, frightening us with his grunts and blunt wants and ways in this modern world with it's missions we'd been told almost lady-like how we'd have to get through... every now and then get down to your basement, bring a sandwich a tall drink of something you find pleasant, a paper and pencil or a notepad or two. Those lessons you've taught him may have come in quite handy if conforming to nothing is all that you wanted to do. But... if you want it to be special, sensuous caring and loving... tear up those lessons... and let that ancient young man thought lost deep inside...  teach... you.

So, now that that's written for him, he asked that I leave a note for the ladies, a postscript perhaps as you're a big part of all his stories. I do know for certain, it's not simply a suspicion as I've met a few of yours too. Down in your basement, we both know she's in there, maybe not locked in a cage, but playing with toy dolls, reading old books that you've written and maybe a sweet poem or two. Your ancient young lady, that pretty little darling lover thought lost along the way with so many like them in those basements... I'll say this, almost pleading perhaps even begging because in the end. This story is as much about her as its about these ancient young men deep inside us. These lost men within us, in our own very basements... they have one simple purpose, the finally grandiose last mission and truly quite honestly and more specifically... it's all about you.

Haven't you figured it out yet? Determined just where it is you are most likely to meet the best of the best of your best friends? Undoubtedly you've met great friends at school, often life long friends. You've likely met good friends on the job, oftentimes you'll even remain friends long after you or he quits, or that sorry ass of yours, get's itself fired… Unless of course you're the prayin' type fella, or have another some such hobby, the best friends you'll meet will most likely be the peoples you meet at your local bar. If you go to bars religiously, then this, well it's a no brainer, right?

I've always had more than one bar I'd call my local on the go at anyone time. As a matter of fact I have always had at least four or five locals on the go at any given time. Just the other day, I realized I had become a regular at a grimy little Irish bar at 23rd and 1st Avenue; a wee little beautifully dingy hole in the wall corridor bar, goes by the name O’Connel's. I'd become a regular there simply as it so happened to be right across from the NYU Dental Center. Since I'm there once a week these days, why wouldn't I have a "hey how ya doin', how are the teeth treatin' you today ol' chum?" local to check into before and outta after these weekly trips to the dentist?… And, the good folks behind the corridor of a bar at O’Connel's offers me up a free shot of Jameson when I pop in post-op condition; face swollen and stuffed with cotton... (don't tell my dentist I'm suckin' on a straw 5 minutes after... you know, dry socket n' all).

But, this little ditty isn't just about the locals; it is about one of my most favorite locals, a truly wonderful friend we all call, Doc; a finer Irish-Bostonian you'll likely never meet just below Midtown Manhattan, near the Madison Square Park, Flatiron district if you'd like to be exacting. 

Another of my locals in Manhattan, a place called the Swan, has been a Manhattan local for over six years now. My original New York-ex-girlfriend introduced me to the place mere moments after I had met her, just before I considered I'd moved down and well before I had a permanent address in The City. So, I’ve been swinging from The Swan's German taps, been a local since well, before I was even a local myself (hey, that's kinda sweet). Sadly, I frequent the Swan less and less these days, I mean, it’s not the at least twice a week plus once for a month or so for their Saturday Night Tanny-Parade as it once was… These days I frequent the Swan… primarily to see Doc. 

Doc’s is an older gentleman and to be certain, the term gentleman survives today specifically to describe gentlemen like Doc. He’s older, but not that much older than the oldest fella I call friend; I believe he’s 69... let’s get these facts straight and the stats out of the way already... Doc is 69, he’s a Vietnam Vet, he has been awarded both a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star [for my Canadian friends, the Bronze Star is the third highest decoration one can achieve in US military service]… He’s a Vet, he’s a retired New York City plastic surgeon, he’s gay, oh and (shhhh) keep this to yourself, he is the finest Republican I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, to date. 

Doc and I had struck up our ongoing conversation long before that disastrous day in the city Ken Burns' brother Ric calls "The City on the Edge of Tomorrow"… Doc and I became very good friends to some extent on the basis of what some idiot might call a courageous, non-homophobic ability to kiss him directly on the lips each time I saw him, just before we'd say hello; and a shared ability to carry on a conversation that went way beyond the limits of Rush Limbaugh into the nether worlds of what another idiot might call the extreme right-wing. These nether-worlds where Doc and I would meet on the great plains of democratic enlightenment, (non-partisan, small "d" democratic to be sure). Doc is the true American argument… 

I mean, c’mon think about it for a moment. He’s not only gay, a very-decorated Vietnam Vet, a Republican; he’s also from the neighborhood from which that cursed family tried to hoodwink this country into the belief that a bunch of booze running, far too rich Irish locals, a bunch of loud mouthed to good for their own good… eh hem, I'm sorry; my apology... Doc is from Boston Massachusetts (a state I cannot not pronounce, cannot spell nor truly figure out).

The brief history of Doc as I have managed to glean from those rare moments he'd talk about himself, reveal those secrets far worse than that he is… a Republican.... He was born to a working class Irish family, up there in Massachusetts, in other words, he's from Boston. And, he has a weird accent to prove it. Haven’t heard all much of his childhood story, we'll just assume it was everything we'd seen in the movies about, being from… a working class neighborhood Boston, adding on the clichés of being a gay child in a working class neighborhood may afford our imaginations. Doc got himself through med-school in particularly patriotic fashion, perhaps peculiar for the times. It was back in the sixties; being from the working class neighborhood, he knew, he'd have to serve his country. An old college professor of his who was stationed at some camp down in South Carolina, got him assigned to the medical core. When that sheltered assignment was up… he might have been re-assigned to say infantry in Germany, or logistic in Korea, but he requested to go directly to Nam, specifically to continue his medical education… and to serve a country he once loved more than he may do so today. 

He honestly hasn't told me too too much about being a warrior-medic, come doctor. He’s mentioned that he saw action, a lot of action. He once told me, somewhat later one evening a bizarre story, that time of the evening when our stories became more bizarre, about setting up camp near some beautiful cove. He and his buddies would often swim off the day's battle strewn blood stains in the cove… he'd alluded to how he had once rescued a small boy from the currents and the sharks in this cove. How he stitched up the little boy after the boy had been bitten (or cut on the rocks, it was never quite clear which). I would noticed how Doc's eyes would well up a bit each time he told me a newer fresher version of the story he never did finish telling me. Just another unfinished story from Doc, told over the bizarre later hours... Perhaps one day he'll finish that story and just how and why he was awarded the Bronze Star, another of Doc's deep-darkies. We do have an agreement that he will one day get to these...  

Indeed, it's all a bit sketchy, but he did return from Nam, eventually alive and as intact as anyone else who arrived back from that story... and skippity-skipping past whole whack of stories I have only had the pleasure to partially hear; Doc gotta a get into med-school-free veteran education, located in NYC and became quite the renowned plastic surgeon in this one place outside of say, LA where plastic surgeon-ing is renowned and most definitely quite financially rewarding. I won't tell Doc and mine's secrets, but I can report, on the proof upon seeing his old apartment, he was indeed living the lifestyle one might imagine a 1960's through 70's gay retired plastic surgeon could be living... yappy little dogs, his living room, wall to wall to wall mirrors, little glass figurines, a warhol there, another fabulously ugly 1970's piece of way too valuable for how it looked piece of art over there. Kind of a Halston-esq museum cum shag-rugged dream palace.

For those unclear, Halston was in many circles the King of NYC in the late 60’s early 70’s, his fashions and scents put him leapfrog years above that silly white haired boy who lived in a loft he called the factory down in what Doc would simply snub as the heroin ridin dirty part of town they called… the "Art World" (in reality, just a couple of blocks from mine and Doc's local). For his time, Halston was NYC and Doc’s old apartment, every inch n' detail of it stank sweetly of a Halston enriched interior design scent… more mirrored walls in the bedroom, zebra print bed sheets, red shag deepest of the deep pile carpets and did I already mention those hundreds upon thousands little glass figurines… everywhere. The only sad thing in Doc's happy place, were those prerequisite two cute yappy dogs who seemed to have survived to this day from the 70's, but were likely descendants of the originals, were all yellowed, mangy and mottled at their ripe old 16 and 18 years of age. 

Doc once told me a story of how he'd been pulled over by cops in Toronto while breaking red lights in his big old solid gold colored Rolls Royce… Niagara Falls and Toronto had been one of the regular trips he and his pal Trudy, the widow of the scientist who invented the no more tears formula and sold it to Johnson and Johnson would take together. I can only assume he'd met Trudy in his plastic surgeon-ing chair. Another regular trip he'd take with his good friend Trudy was to Villa Desta (along with Donatello et al)… They were once a year winter regulars, I guess locals at the Bermuda Beach Club… Doc introduced me to Trudy once, and to many other of his very good friends. One fella an un-named Restaurant chain magnate who gets chauffeured around town in classic, 70’s era stretch Mercedes Benz limo. Doc has told me all these stories along with many others I'd listen to while eating the leftovers off his plate at the Swan, our local. AND here's one thing, maybe the best thing I love about Doc. Not in any one of these introductions did I ever feel belittled, subrogated to a lower class; Doc introduced me to his friends all in a manner (a true gentlemanly manner) where I described simply as his friend, a good friend. And Doc, my dear friends, as much as many another friend of mine, knows the value of a friendship… and I shall leave it at that, as Doc might say himself.

Actually, no maybe I won't… Here’s a story of good friendship. Last Christmas, I wandered into the Swan in, let's simply call it a forgettable state. Doc gave me the greatest gifts any friend could give another… and a compliment I've held dear ever since. I had a very big pile of problems on my plate… I wandered into the Swan and went through these problems, in a friendly non-complaining way with my good friend Doc… Gordon, he said, you don't need to be in such a state, or seek therapy… you don't have a problem, he said, you just have to do what I do and take time off whenever you're feeling out of control. His kind advice on one what I had begun to imagine the bigger of the problems I was to simply describe. On another he...

"Gordon", he said, "go to the NYU Dental center (across from my vet), on first Ave, they're cheap and they will fix those problems in your mouth…" "Gordon" he said, "...you and Jennifer (my then original NYC-ex) will remain good friends…" "...and, you'll meet someone soon..." That night we actually did something quite rare and left our local together. We walked as we talked, up Park Avenue, stopping at what could only be assumed were other people's locals. Him drinking too much, me holding him upright as best I could. It was one of those truer almost beautiful moments in a friendship; him spending a bit of extra time with a friend that was a bit blue... around Christmas time.

The compliment came a bit harshly at first. He chided me (as gentlemen with manners sometimes do): "Gordon", he said, my more Scottish name rolling and broiling through a by now far more pronounced and way more working class Boston Irish brogue... "...the nicest thing about you is that you do not present your problems as problems… things you'd like to be solved by your friends.. You do not have drama, you have small issues; and issues are so much more easily attended to by your friends". I took this compliment, stuck it in my heart and promised myself I have stuck with this manner of addressing my problems, er "issues" with my dear friends until this day... (I think). 

Doc has issues himself; he presents them to me as issues, I discuss them with him rationally, and while I am with him, I refuse to express the concern and dread that I may actually feel at the moment he describes them. I offer a fresh bit maybe even a full dollop of empathy, at least as much as I might, depending on the problem. Doc and I are more often than not found smiling at our problems... Then, I give him a kiss on the lops, walk out of the Swan and onto the L train… with just enough said about that. 

I've now only a vague memory of the many things I wanted to get up in this story about Doc when I started to write it. I may have wanted to write about those non-arguments over politics and the general state of the Union he and I loved to have (over which Doc and I have buried hours). He’s a Republican, I'm a Canadian and we'll leave it at that...  In the end we do see eye to eye on about 90% all issues, and share both 2 of our 3 most favorite Presidents… we argue only at the point where he believes in a more Gomorrah-Interpretation of these United States of America  where as I still see a country, an empire, a new epoch, not yet truly beginning to take it’s true shape in the beautiful history of mankind… Funny thing is Doc and I will argue intensely while holding almost exactly the same point of view... and talk happily while disagreeing vehemently... friendship.

I wanted to write about these conversations, instead though, perhaps I've begun to realize, that although the stuff one “talks” about with his friends may be important. It really is the beautiful opportunity to just sit and talk with your friends, share the shit, the luck of the Irish. Having someone close, dear and on more or less the wavelength of the day is what makes it all have it's own particularly special and spectacular meaning… 

[Original Postscript: I take pride in giving my younger friend bits and pieces of dare I say wisdom yet, AND I revel in the advice and examples of their lives, their bits of living they give me… My older friends, the Docs, the Paul, the Charlies to name but a few... I am honored, truly honored, blessed to have their friendship, and to have access to what I see as their most definitely appropriately called... wisdom… I am beholden to passing the wise advice they give me onto these younger friend of mine, maybe someday I'll be old enough to deliver it correctly]

Meanwhile, I continue to live as, or like an Irish… Potato..