RcktMan’s Launching Pad

I know I’ve written about this before on the pages of this here blog… 

But why, oh why, oh WHY do the birds insist on starting their noisy-ass chirping at 1:30 in the morning?

I mean really.  Is that racket necessary?

Growl.

So in my sleeplessness, I decided to give the ol’ joint another new look.

Whaddya think?

So often I find myself feeling just a little jealous of other people who knew and had relationships with their grandfathers.  Whether they have one or both in their life, they always seem so lucky to me.  They get one (or two) more person(s) to dote on them, send them cards, and tell them they are loved.  

I didn’t know either of my grandfathers.  My Grandpa Anderson died on New Year’s Eve 1968, and my Nanu Aiello was gone shortly after that.  And I was born in 1970, so I just missed them both.

I was thinking about this on my cab ride home from work tonight.  Funny how being at the mercy of someone else’s crazy driving gets you thinking about things like this.

My sister and I never knew our grandfathers, and now, her daughters will not know theirs.

My brother-in-law’s dad died some years before he met my sister.  His mom remarried and is still with him today, so the girls do have a step-grandpa.  And, of course, our dad died in 2006.

All throughout our lives, my sister and I have only had pictures and memories from our parents and grandmothers to help us understand what our grandfathers were like.  We never heard their voices or their laughs, or got to hear them say our names.  It was like something was missing.  

My cousin’s Grandpa lived through most of her childhood and through her teen years.  He was the only grandfatherly figure in my life.  I remember when I was very young– probably about 6 or 7 at the most– I was talking to him at a family gathering, and I distinctly remember asking him, “Will you be my Grandpa?” 

I remember him responding, “Why sure, Ricky, I would love to be your Grandpa, but I can only be your pretend Grandpa, because you will always have your real Grandpas.  Can I be your pretend Grandpa?”  

And I remember saying, “Sure!” and he shook my tiny hand, and the deal was sealed.

Years later when he passed away, his wife came to me and reminded me of that story.  ”He was so honored that you asked him that,” she said.  ”He never forgot it.  He loved you kids (my sister and I) as if you were his grandkids, just as I do.” She asked if I would be pallbearer at his funeral — the first time I had ever done such a thing.  Of course, I said yes.

Now with my nieces just about to turn three months old, I think of how unfortunate it is that they will never know their grandfathers.  They will have lots of pictures to show them what they looked like, and lots of stories from their parents, uncles and grandmas; and at least on our side of the family, they will even have family movies and a few audio recordings of my dad’s voice so they can know what he moved and sounded like.   But that won’t take the place of actually having a grandfather in their lives.  

So they have loving and doting grandmothers, two crazy uncles that are as crazy for them as they are themselves (yes, I am one of those uncles), and a step-grandpa who is related only by marriage, but undoubtedly loved completely.  I’d say they’re two very lucky little tykes.  

The girls are going to Grandma’s house for the first time this weekend, and of course we are all excited. 

I’ve always said that our family is small, but it’s mighty.  Some things, I guess, never do change.

This weekend I joined my fellow chorus members for a gig at Illinois Wesleyan University in Bloomington, IL.  We sang there a few years ago with a Lesbian/Feminist chorus named Amasong and had such a great time and were so enamored with the audience, we couldn’t wait to go back.

The fact that we haven’t been back since is probably just because Amasong mixes up their guests every few years– but we did get the call this year and about 50 of us made the trip down.

Bloomington (also known as Bloomington-Normal because of the close proximity of neighboring town Normal) is a very collegiate town– aside from Illinois Wesleyan, there is also Illinois State University and two smaller community colleges.  So for a small-ish town, it is pretty lively, especially when students are around.

After the show, a few of us decided to stay overnight, so we headed out to The Bistro, the only gay bar in Bloomington-Normal.  The Bistro is a fairly small place, but it was big on fun.  It’s owned by a lady that everyone calls “Mama,” and “Mama” is quite a lady.  She feeds everyone shots and good times and drinks from a special jug of tequila she calls “Mama’s Milk.”  It’s raucous and fun and creates a really great atmosphere for a party.

So two shots and two $2.50 Long Islands later (I love the south suburbs!), I was on the dancefloor cutting a major rug.  The tunes were fun and my friends and I were all over the place. 

We were enjoying a great disco tune when all of a sudden this cute young collegiate looking boy appeared in front of me.  “Hi, my name is Pete, what’s yours?”  I said, “Rick, nice to meet you Pete!”  and we started dancing together.  He asked me where I was from and I said “Chicago,” and he responded that he was a student at ISU.  We got a little closer, and he touched me a few times in a few places, and I touched him in a few places.  Just when I thought maybe I might sneak in some kissing action, a couple of his friends stumbled by and pulled him away.  I figured maybe I’d see him again, but that was the last I saw of cute Pete.

So while it didn’t turn out quite as I had hoped, it was still pretty nice to know that I’m not entirely invisible to guys.  Especially cute ones with nicely shaped arms and tight-fitting T-shirts and big green eyes. 

So as far as I’m concerned, that was a step in the right direction for me.  I left the bar feeling more confident and more upbeat than when I walked in.  And there was a bit more of a lilt in my step as we walked away for the night. 

“Hello again, hello!
Just called to say hello…”

OK it’s been a few too many days since my last post, so it’s time for a quick summary of what’s been up with me lately…

Kitchen floor

It was a disastrous mess, but it’s over.  The floor looks fantastic!  Of course it took me a few days to wash EVERY SINGLE DISH I OWN after the guys left, but now I have a new floor AND my dishes are all clean.  So what more can one ask for, right?

The twins

They are growing so fast!  Abby is 11lbs. and Emily is almost 9.  Abby is quickly becoming a little version of her daddy and Emily is looking more like her mommy.  I’m hoping to see them again in a couple weeks.  In the meantime, my sister started a new job yesterday, so we’re all hopeful that things go well for her in that area.

Dating life

Nothing new here.  Still nothing.  And nothing on the horizon.  I don’t know what will ever become of this, but I remain strangely hopeful… and with spring in full bloom (more or less), I feel even more hopeful.

Living situation

The guy who has lived in the apartment below me for the past 6 years just moved out, so now I’m starting to worry that some bitchy queen - or some bitchy bitch - will move in.  I have gotten quite used to having nobody live under me.  The guy who moved out was a flight attendant and was almost never home.  And when he was home he never once complained about me being up at all hours or my cats chasing each other at 4 in the morning.  Time will tell what happens when the new person moves in.  Maybe if I make a cinnamon swirl bread he or she will like me right away.  Hmmmm…

The earthquakes

I didn’t feel a damn thing.  Not the first time, not during the aftershocks– nothing.  I slept through all of it.  Honestly when I am sleeping the walls could be crumbling and I wouldn’t know it.  Which is a good thing, in case I end up dating a snorer.  But still, a 5.4 magnitude quake and I didn’t feel or hear ANYTHING?  Damn!

Money

Oy vey.  Money has been a source of much head and heartache for me lately.  I and quickly trying to devise a plan to find more of it somehow.  It won’t be easy, but something has to work, and soon. Stay tuned there.

OK, that’s all I can think of for now.  I really and truly do hope to write more and more often.  But once I got behind I didn’t know where to begin to catch up.  Much like life, isn’t it?

Is there anything I left out?  If so, let me know.

I’m not very shy in my support for Barack Obama.  I’ve discussed on the pages of this blog and on other blogs how I chose to support him for the Democratic nomination, and was (initially) chided and even derided for my choice because of his spotty public support for gay-related issues.

Truth be told, it has been rather hard to pinpoint Obama’s views on some of the more “hot-button” issues.  He hasn’t done interviews with the gay press, save for an appearance on Logo’s Democratic debate; and the mentions he has made have been vague, at best. 

Still, I sensed a truer honesty coming from Obama, rather than the “Rah-Rah, I’m in your corner” tactic used by Hillary Clinton.  To me, her overly vocal support borders on pandering.  It’s almost TOO much.  I certainly appreciate her support, and recognize that she has done good things in her time as a Senator, but really, saying things like “I want to be first U.S. president to march in gay pride parade” just seems a bit forced to me.

Obama, however, has a more honest approach.  While he doesn’t believe that gay marriage is the answer, he supports civil unions.  He supports equality in terms of benefits for partners of gay people.  He supports the repeal of “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell,” and gives very good reasons why it should be repealed.  To me, his views and beliefs seem much more realistic and doable than those of his opponent.  As a gay person, I expect the Democratic candidate to represent me, but I also expect him or her to be realistic about what they can do.  A president can have all the great ideas in the world, but the president doesn’t make all the end decisions– despite what Bush may want us to believe.  Obama is thinking about this, and knows what can pass and what can’t.  Rather than make empty promises, he’s giving realistic promises.  I like that.

Obama sat down for an interview with The Advocate recently, where he discusses these issues and many more.  That interview was published today on their website.  If you haven’t read it yet, it’s worth a look. 

I just realized I haven’t talked much about my baby nieces lately. It’s not because I don’t want to share- I have just been so busy with things lately I haven’t been so good at keeping up. So here are some pictures to keep everyone up-to-date.

Me feeding Abby- three weeks

Emily, mid-feeding with Grandma- three weeks

Me smooching Emily- three weeks

The girls, asleep in their pack n play- three weeks

The girls are now two months old and so very healthy. They are growing by leaps and bounds. Every time my mom and I have visited, we’ve been amazed at how quickly they’ve grown and how much their personalities have evolved. Here are a few pictures from our most recent visit, the week after Easter.

The whole family (Roxie included!)

Abby (l) and Emily (r) - Look at those little chunker cheeks!

Emily, just shy of two months

Abby, just shy of two months

Spring has finally come around in Chicago, and not a moment too soon.  I was a little worried that suicidal thoughts were starting to creep into people’s brains after the lengthy — and painful — winter we’ve had.  I swear if one more flake of snow touched the ground around here, the collective city and metropolitan area was going to up and leave for warmer climes.

Granted, most of my wonderful spring interlude was spent indoors.  I had two shows with the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus on Saturday, which required me to stand under artificial lights for a few hours instead of enjoying the natural light outdoors– but it was worth it in the end.  I did get some time to get outside between shows, and I basked in the warm sunshine as much as I could.

With this show closing, I am faced with a bit of a dilemma.  I was recently elected to the chorus’s Membership Council, but I really, really, REALLY want to take the next show off.  Anytime I do that I feel a twinge of guilt because I feel like I’m missing out on something.  But the time off is always welcomed, especially when spring and summer roll around.  So I need to really figure out what I want to do, and when and if anything interferes with rehearsal.  If it does, I’ll cut chorus out for the rest of the year.

Til then, I’m going to enjoy the sunshine, the birds chirping, the grass turning green, and the leaves blooming. And I’ll be sure to keep a bottle of nasal spray nearby, because my allergies will be sure to follow.

Today was opening day for the Chicago Cubs.

To most of you that’s not a big deal. In fact, I’m sure there are a good number of you who read that first line and said “Who cares?”

Well to this baseball fan, it’s a big deal. Because baseball means more than just nine guys running around a field hitting a ball with a wooden stick. It’s because, for the most part, boys and dads have a sort of innate relationship around baseball. Sometimes that relationship blossoms into a loving and wonderful coexistence; and sometimes it harbors a lifetime of regret and/or agony.

For me, the relationship between me, my Dad and baseball has almost always been a positive one. I remember playing catch with him in the backyard and going to the park to hit a few line drives (which were probably only bloopers but to me they were line drives.) I was never much good at playing the game, but I definitely recall the first few trips we made to Wrigley Field to watch the Cubs play.

One of my fondest memories is during our second visit to Wrigley Field. I was probably about 8 or so and my sister was 6. We were seated in the main grandstand area, to the right of home plate, just under the upper grandstand. They were pretty great seats. I had my program and my Cubs baseball cap, and my sister was sporting her trademark Cubs fisherman’s cap which was so cute on her little head. Mom and Dad were reviewing the lineup with us, getting us ready to start keeping score for the game.

I looked up and saw a mob of people forming from the Cubs dugout, walking up toward the stairs of the grandstand. In the mob I could see Jack Brickhouse, the legendary Cubs broadcaster. I knew he was probably just finishing the “Lead-Off Man” interview with one of the players and was heading up to the announcer’s booth in the Mezzanine. The only way to get there was through the crowd, so every time he made the trek, he would be besieged by autograph seekers.

I asked my dad for a pen, and he found one for me. In a flash, I grabbed my program and took off. I could hear my dad calling after me, “Ricky! Get back here! RICKY! You’ll never find your way back!” But I knew where I was going. I ran after the mob, and followed them down the stairs into the concourse. Just after turning to the right, I reached the the mob and tunneled my way between the legs of the taller fans. I got right up to Jack Brickhouse, smiled with my toothless smile, and said, “Mr. Brickhouse, can I have your autograph?”

Jack replied, “Sure, little fella!” and grabbed my program and signed it with my felt-tip pen. I looked at the signature, said “Wow! Thanks!” and dashed back to the seats.

When I got back, my dad was fuming and my mom was frantic. “We thought we’d never find you! How did you find your way back?” they cried.

I responded quite confidently, “I knew where I was going!” and not another word was spoken about it.

Throughout my dad’s and my life together, baseball remained as a constant in an otherwise symbiotic relationship. No matter what else was going on in our lives, we could always fall back upon what the Cubs were doing that year, or what bonehead moves the management made that would plunge the season into another fit of despair.

As I said before, I wasn’t much of a player. I did play on a Little-League type team in grade school, but I wasn’t all that good. I was always stuck in right field, and I spent more time picking dandelions than running after base hits. Dad, of course, was furious with me and couldn’t understand why I wasn’t a better player– but I assured him that it wasn’t because I didn’t like the game — I just didn’t enjoy playing it as much as I enjoyed watching it.

So that’s why, when the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus started rehearsing the song “What You’d Call A Dream” from the little-known off-Broadway play called “Diamonds,” I was struck by how much meaning the game has in so many people’s lives. Whether you’re the greatest or worst player, or whether you ever made the game-winning hit or cost a team the game; there’s something special and meaningful about the relationship between fathers, sons and baseball that can never be broken.

So this Friday and Saturday, when I’m on stage, choking back tears during that song, I will remember the trips to Wrigley Field; the days playing catch in the summer sun; the baseball cards and team rosters, and his recollections of years past; the afternoons watching WGN and Jack Brickhouse– and later, Harry Caray– call the games; and the good times–and bad– that revolved around the game.

What You’d Call A Dream

There are two men out, and its in the ninth, and the score is four to three
There’s a man at first, and a man at bat, and the man at bat is me
And I’m sorta scared, and I’m sorta proud, and I’m stronger than I seem
And I take a swing, and my dad is there, and its what you’d call a dream

For the ball flies in the sun, and it sails off as I run
The crowd is roaring, cheering as I go, so are all the guys on the team
And I run for home, and we win the game, and its what you’d call a dream
And the sun shines like diamonds
The summer sun shines like diamonds
The summer sun, high in a baseball sky, shines like diamonds
And the sun shines like diamonds

There are two men out, and its in the ninth, and the score is four to three
There’s a man at first, and a man at bat, and the man at bat is me
And it’s what you’d call
A dream.

You know how it seems like things go nuts all at once? That’s life in my humble little abode lately.

I renewed my lease again, which means I’ll be staying in my apartment for a record seventh year. I swear it doesn’t seem like I’ve been here that long, but the leases don’t lie– first one was in 2002, and this one goes until 2009. Geesh.

So to celebrate, I decided it was high time to ask my landlord when my kitchen floor would be replaced. Most of the other apartments had theirs replaced when the tenants moved out, and they were replaced with a really nice ceramic floor. Mine is this cheap-ass, nasty no-wax tile that was laid in squares which is now coming up and/or cracking and denting all throughout my kitchen. It’s so ugly. I want it gone.

So when I told my landlord I was renewing my lease, I threw a bargaining chip on the table– fix my floor. She cautioned me that it would take a few days and my kitchen would be out of commission for a while, but I replied that I didn’t mind. I’ll take a new floor over a few days of inconvenience.

I wasn’t ready for the next part though… apparently there is a leak coming from my bathroom that has been seeping into the apartment below me. She just found out about this from the guy who lives under me — who, along with me, is the longest-term resident in our building. Apparently it’s been a problem for a long time but he never mentioned it to her. Um, hello… if your walls are falling down around you– fix it! That’s the glory of renting. Someone comes in and fixes everything for you. Why live with crumbling walls?

Of course I had no idea that this was happening either — the leak is obviously not visible to me, so how am I supposed to tell if there’s a problem?

So in addition to the piles of tiles and bags of spackle, there are about 5-6 panels of sheetrock outside my apartment door.

Does anyone have room for a guy and his two kitties for a few days?  I might need to get away from this insanity — and quickly!