The Wall Street Journal posted an article called “The 25 Documents You Need Before You Die” which is great, but the “before you die” part tempts one to procrastinate.  Since we don’t know when we’ll die, I’d say we all need these right now.

I’ve also taken it a step further with links to Legal Zoom, where you can get some of the listed forms as cheaply and quickly as possible.

I emphasize Advance Directives (Living Will)  on this list, to let your family and any medical staff know your wishes should you be facing death and not able to express your wishes regarding life support, etc.  This is incredibly important.  I mean, Terry Schiavo, you know?

So, I guess you know what to do with your Sunday…

Last Will & Testament • Living Trust • Divorce • Advance Directives

I went for a walk with Mom today, and on these walks I often come away with an insight that neither of us ever intended.  Today it was about relationships.  My Mom was married six times; my Dad, seven.  I’ve had two significant relationships, each squeaking to the six-year mark.

Mom always said to me that when it comes to marriage, “forever” is about seven years.  When I married, I definitely married for life, but all of the longest-lived relationships I know of include some sort of outside sexual play, whether it’s acknowledged or not.  A few years into the relationship, one or both partners stray, a guest star is invited into the bedroom occasionally, or there is a an openness that develops.  It seems natural, and it makes me reconsider monogamy and marriage entirely, but not as you might think, or as I expected.

Instead of the forever vow and a gradual degradation thereof, I may favor a shorter, more realistic relationship entered by partners who know it will end not necessarily in death or divorce, but in a number of years when it has very simply run its course.

At that point, it can conclude – not in bitterness and anger – but with an evolution into a deep and lasting familial bond.  After all, we spend a number of years integrating a partner into our family; another heart beating in the body 0f the family, and ripping that heart out causes incalculable damage.  That’s not to say it couldn’t last a lifetime and end at a gravesite, but that wouldn’t be the expectation going in.

One scenario:

Two people meet, date, fall in love, become exclusive, meet each other’s families, cohabitate and marry (in either order), the whole time making promises of forever.  Thousands of fantastic memories are made and their families become interwoven.

A handful of years later, each begins to take the other for granted, in subtle, non-malicious ways, and the sex becomes less frequent.  They could opt to take stock of their union periodically, but the “forever vow” renders those moot.  They’re in this ’til death.

One of them may have an affair.  The other may find out, and offer forgiveness, but never forgetting.  As the patina grows on their wedding bands, the relationship earns its scars and the relationship that once made their hearts soar is now sagging under the weight of all of their professed forevers.  They fight.  ”Fuck me” has become “Fuck you.”  They go to counseling.

It may be that one of the two has hit a wall that keeps them from expressing any deeper intimacy.  It may be that one of them has let go of the dreams or personal care that once made them irresistible.  No matter what’s happened, they’re not having much fun, and time ticks on relentlessly.  Arguments turn into separations; separation begs divorce.  They fight over money and possessions.  Friends choose sides.  The fabric of the family is torn apart, and the two deeply mourn the loss of their partner, lover, best friend.  Eventually, they’ll cautiously re-enter the dating pool, scraping together whatever hope they can that the next relationship is better than the last.

Now the alternative:

Two people meet, date, fall in love, and as they decide to become exclusive, they commit to treat the other with the utmost love and respect, which includes an acknowledgement that the relationship will likely not last “forever,” but as long as it is healthy and generative for the individuals as it is the couple.  They may even include a prenup.

With that understanding, they meet each other’s families.  They don’t necessarily have to share their arrangement, but they certainly could.   Since there is a 50% chance their own parents are divorced, it could be a refreshing and enviable way to begin their relationship.  They cohabitate and marry (in either order, and if they must), and make thousands of fantastic memories, cherishing each of them even more, as they recognize the finite time in which they’ll get to make them.  Again, it doesn’t mean they might not make the memories “forever” but they aren’t setting themselves up for forever vs. failure.  Along the way, they take stock of the relationship, mending worn spots, and estimating the quality of their happiness, love, and agreement.

They may even take better care of themselves to keep things hot and interesting.

However many years later, each begins to take the other for granted, in subtle, non-malicious ways, and the sex becomes less frequent.  They reevaluate the relationship to determine if the hurdles are surmountable, counseling-worthy, or a sign that they are near the end of the relationship.  If one is tempted to have an affair, and the urge isn’t fleeting, that may be a good sign it is time to transition.

Their familial bonds need not be broken.  They lovingly and respectfully move on, and having known from the start that this day might come, there’s a pretty good chance it won’t be as difficult.

Imagine a butterfly landing on your open palm.  No matter how badly you wanted it to stay, you wouldn’t close your hand around it.  At best you’d damage its wings; at worst, you’d kill it.  Instead, you’d go silent and attentive, taking in each second, for each second could be the last.  It may linger longer than you expected.  It may move to your head, or shoulder, as you stand there elated and amazed, and then it goes on its way, and leaves you smiling and grateful.

Being men, we’re not impervious to the Cinderella myth, or to the concept of marriage as imposed by Judeo-Christian belief, and that can’t even be followed by some of its most devout followers… I mean, Newt Gingrich, for crying out loud.  I often think about how surprising and modern it would have been if my ex and I had stood in front of 150 of our black-tied friends and said, “‘Til we cease to feed each other’s souls, and contribute wholly and whole-heartedly to something that is greater than the two of us, and not taking from it.”  I bet it would have been a whole lot different.

I was on Grindr some time ago, on a Saturday night.  I didn’t feel like dealing with the bars; I just wanted a little entertainment.  I got a message from an anonymous user:

“The fact that you’re on Grindr on a Saturday night is why you’re 43 and single”

Then he disappeared, of course.  Coward.

But then, he was on Grindr on a Saturday night too.

An incredibly juvenile and insensitive message to send, but the guy had a point of some kind… so I went out.  Thanks, asshole.

(I also haven’t been on Grindr since, and I don’t miss it.)

Every Saturday is the same these days. I get up around eight, walk the dog down Sunset to the Coffee Bean, tie him to the table, and go inside, not knowing what to order. It’s never the same thing. I haven’t found the right one yet. Even our temperate January is too cold for iced coffee, and there are too many memories associated with it. Espressos are too dark and bitter. I like my coffee light and sweet, like my men. Salted caramel is my drug of choice these days – and if you’re going to have an addiction, it’s one I’d recommend – but I had copious amounts of it over vanilla ice cream last night, on the couch, before bed, and Summer is coming.

I wait for my drink, which today is a double non-fat cappuccino in a glass – they’ll do that for you, put it in a glass, if you ask. It’s very nice. I look around. There are a few regulars, enjoying the comfort of knowing their drink and their regular place in the shop. Their devotion is enviable and unquestionable when you consider that, for some, the relished place is a hard oaken chair. But it’s “their” hard oaken chair, at least for a while. Occasionally, our eyes will meet and we will nod. It’s clear to them that I still haven’t found my drink, and nowadays, I’m drinking alone.

I look around the room, first for my ex and second for him, but not really him, as in someone else, but “the dream of someone else” like Meg Ryan said in You’ve Got Mail. Maybe even further removed than that: I wonder if there is even the dream of someone else inside me; if I have any dreams left, or if they’re best shaken off and replaced with pragmatism. I wonder if there will ever even be another him, and what the moments just before meeting him will be like. Will I even be paying attention enough to remember? I don’t remember most things. When does that cute little story that we’ll tell at parties actually happen? Being a writer, I’m writing the scene all the time, in my head, madly. Then I render my madness moot with the gentle reminder that even if he is there, and does meet me, I’m not ready to meet him – not even remotely.

Of course, I can still keep myself distracted with some flirting. Never hurt anybody.

Today, there is really only one other attractive man in the room. He’s strawberry and freckled with a bright blue track jacket that not-accidentally matches his bright blue eyes that are trying to determine if I’m really freeballing under my sweats.

I am.

He smiles. I smile and nod back, as if to say – half brazen and half embarrassed – “Yup, that’s my dick.”

“Good morning,” I say enough above a whisper for him to hear and quietly enough not to throw a spotlight on the cruising.

“Morning,” is his quiet retort, then back to my crotch, and away.

Here’s my scan: expressive eyes, welcoming smile, age-appropriate hair, strong hands, moderate abdomen, cute butt, nice calves, tidy feet if they’re visible or what shoes he’s chosen, and our names juxtaposed if I have that information. It’s a time-tested, rapid-fire analysis which runs through my head in just a few seconds, like a spy device sorting out a digital combination to unlock a vault of untold riches, or a tripped alarm and a blow to the head with a rifle butt. There’s really no way to tell.

Blue eyes has had a little too much facial filler and freezer for my taste. Counterfeiting is fine, but bad counterfeiting is a crime. It’s all about what you’re willing to ignore. I could ignore it if everything else were in order, but it’s not.

They put my tall, frothy cap on the counter and call my name. As I sweeten with Splenda, I turn to the side, hips thrust forward, abs taut and full, round chest pouring over my ribs. I shake the Splenda packets with a chack-chack-chack and empty the packets into my cappuccino, drawing any watching eyes downward to my sweats in my own personal porn flick –– but nobody’s watching. Even blue eyes is folded into his iPhone, irretrievable. Thank God. I really didn’t want to fuck him anyway, I just wanted to make him want me to.

The dog looks at me from outside. “You are pathetic,” he thinks, and then scratches himself. I can hear his thoughts. It’s one of my superpowers. He ignores me all the way back to the apartment, not even bothering to look at me apologetically as I pick his poop up off the sidewalk. I walk him home, passing a mailbox i know is full and wondering what I’ll do with this brief, yet interminable day… an uncomfortable space my shrink tells me is exactly where I need to be.

Whether it’s a lover and his spending habits, or a parent and her eating habits, people know what they want – good or bad – and they usually aim to get it.

Instead of expecting to change them, we are better off determining if their way is something we can live with.  We don’t need to control it, or even make unwelcome recommendations.  We can state a case, but then we must leave it to them.

This is a story about control, your control, and you’ve got none of it.  Once I began to realize this, I enjoyed my life a little more, and had a whole lot less to worry about.

And nor do others have control over me, unless I allow it, heeding their advice and adding it to my own thought process.

If you’re going to be in a relationship, don’t be the ‘permeable membrane’ Liz Gilbert conjures in Eat Pray Love; don’t give up your soul; don’t lose sight of yourself. You want a partner, not a conjoined twin; you share an address, or a name, not a skin and vital organs. He fell in love with you, not an extension of himself; don’t let him – and yourself – down by forgetting that.

If you’re one of the countless people in Los Angeles who bought a Prius, you probably didn’t consider it a “luxury” car when you made the decision to purchase it. Maybe you thought that you were somehow saving the planet, not thinking about the ecologically-disastrous strip mines needed to produce nickel for the nickel-metal hydride batteries. Nor did you consider the cost or damage to our ecosystem when it comes times to ditch those toxic batteries.

However, the real reason most people bought a hybrid car was to save money on gas. It was pure economics.

The unforeseen benefit of a hybrid is its extended driving range. For example, Ford boasts that its Fusion Hybrid has a driving range of 700 miles. With that kind of range, you probably could cut your fueling stops in half (if not more).  That’s a luxury.

Many years ago, long before the word “hybrid” was in the car-buying lexicon, I discovered this luxury when I bought a 1995 Mercedes-Benz E300 Diesel. It is the best car I’ve ever owned (and I’ve owned more than 25 cars by age 50). That generation of Mercedes E-Class cars (internal designation W124), was the last of the cost-plus Mercs, truly engineered to be the world’s benchmark for mid-sized luxury sedans. And it was.

What was so different about this one sedan, produced only during the1995 model year? It was nearly identical to all the other sedans manufactured during the W124′s ten year life span (1986 through 1995 model years). The interior was the same, as was all the instrumentation, switchgear, electronics and other hardware. The only exterior distinguishing feature (besides the model designation) was a set of five small slits in the right front fender. Most people would be hard pressed to distinguish it from any other Mercedes E-Class sedan of that era.

There were two main differences: First, it had a 3.0 liter, inline six cylinder diesel engine without a turbocharger and it was a 50-state legal car. The engine is exceptionally reliable. Second, it was the only W124 derivative (sedan, wagon, coupe and convertible) with a 23.8 gallon (90 liters) fuel tank. All the other ones had a 18.5 gallon (70 liters) tank.

I routinely got 25 mpg around town and 34 mpg on the highway – the only car I’ve ever owned that got the EPA advertised fuel economy. [The EPA rated the 1995 E300D at 26 city and 32 highway.] On a road trip, it had a cruising range exceeding 700 miles. I once read an article in a car magazine that tested the 1995 E300D to see if they could do an LA-SF-LA round trip on one tank. They succeeded; albeit running on fumes as they sailed back into Los Angeles.

Britons drink it 1:1.  The American recipe calls for more juice, 1:5.  Some like a salty rim, and others like it clean.  However you drink it, the Salty Dog is a highball whose time has come, again.  Even Hunter S. Thompson would approve.

“The past two weeks have been relatively calm ones for me. Immediately after the Republican Convention in Miami, I dragged myself back to the Rockies and tried to forget about politics for awhile–just lie naked on the porch in the cool afternoon sun and watch the aspen trees turning gold on the hills around my house; mix up a huge cannister of gin and grapefruit juice, watch the horses nuzzling eachother in the pasture across the road, big logs in the fireplace at night…”
- Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72

Salty Dog

1.5 ounces Gin (Hendrick’s is my personal favorite.)

5 ounces Grapefruit Juice

Salted or unsalted rim.

Straight up or on the rocks.

Brad Pitt testifies to the power of fundamental choice, telling W Magazine that becoming a father inspired him to quit smoking cigarettes:

“In the late 90′s [Brad] was something of a slacker, ‘spending too much time smoking things I shouldn’t be,’ Pitt recalls.

‘I was asking, What’s it about? It couldn’t just be wanting a successful movie or something. Then I got more engaged, started studying more and [my] interests blossomed.’

“Pitt admits that his own mortality frightens him—’I’m scared to death of death,’ he says—and he also acknowledges that becoming a father inspired him to give up a deadly 20-year habit. ‘I quit smoking,’ he says when asked how family life has changed him. ‘That was the only thing that got me to quit. That was it. Done.’”

Excited, curious, and a little envious at times: I’ve had a fascination with escorts ever since Mom told me the story of the “hooker with the heart of gold” when I was little.  And then there was the the visit to Miami, where we encountered a seven-foot tranny prostitute.  She was dressed in gold lamé and hitchhiking, or so I thought.  I was ten or so at the time.  Then there was American Gigolo, which I saw one sleepless night on HBO.  When Gere throws all of those new shirts on the bed, laying out his outfits, I mentally replaced my subscription to Boy’s Life with one to GQ.

When my grandparents died and my Mom moved to Virginia, I visited Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, with an eye to relocating there.  I was 25.  I checked into my first gay bed and breakfast.  The owner offered to arrange a “really, really good massage.”  I had an idea of what he was talking about, and felt the visceral rush of exhilaration when I replied, “Sure, why not?”  (Thanks, Grandma.)

Alexander was big, hairy, and Greek.  He was definitely over 40.  Prior to moving to Los Angeles, terms like Daddy and muscle bear weren’t in my vernacular, but Alex was both, and a fantastic masseur with big strong hands.  I’ve never been into Daddies, but one thing was certain, I felt safe and cared for.  What difference did it make that he was walking around the massage table completely naked, with a cock that looked like a foot of garden hose?  It truly was the massage I was after, although I didn’t mind the rest.

Weeks later, I moved to Ft. Lauderdale and my fascination intensified as I thought I’d walk a while in a hustler’s shoes.  I began frequenting a local gay dive, The Everglades Bar, on Dixie Highway, staggering distance from my apartment.  I soon grew bold enough to take off my white tank top and tuck it into the back of my shorts, on the walk home.  I’d teeter along the shoulder of the road, looking back frequently, but always making it home safely without incident or income.  It’s likely for the best: with my luck, my first trick would have been a cop.

So here I am at 41, and my obsession continues.  This week I had the excellent fortune to stumble upon a blog written by a 47 year-old escort.  First off, you have to hand it to a guy pushing fifty who holds his own in a field that is as much about youth as it is about sex.  It’s well written with as much style, craft, and heat as the encounters he documents there.  Check him out.