January 1st 2003


[Actually mentally composed 1/1/03 and put down in words on 1/2/03. The idea of today being 1-2-3 is too cute to ponder, so I'll quickly move on from that.]

New Year's Eve I spent helping Malixe with the gallery presentation he put on along with two other fine photographers - Amy Hunter and James Mogul. For the evening they took over the Capital Hill Cafe on Broadway. Many wonderful examples of their fetish photography - three individual and different flavors with common vitality - were hanging on the walls and all of the computers in the cafe were tuned into one of their three web sites. Checking tickets at the door I got to chat with many friends I'd not seen for way too long, and saw some of the world's finest eye candy passing me by. I spent a goodly bit of time catching up with Aubrey, did some flirting with this guy and that gal and was home around midnight-thirty.

I had such plans for New Years Day - printed out last year's resolutions to compare to, typed up an outline of how I planned to do closure on 2002 and get grounded for 2003, and all of a sudden my world got kinda shaken.

New Years Day I'd been invited over to R's house for brunch and a group of us were gonna see Hanks' new Catch Me If You Can. I was walking out to the car with my pot luck components when I saw the landlady. Suddenly she introduces me to a real estate agent. Seems the rest of the house [I have the basement] isn't renting - she's only had 2-3 calls since she listed it. She has decided she must sell. It was just a few weeks ago she and I had had a long enjoyable conversation on the phone - we only see each other every year or so - and we both assured each other that we were the best tenant/landlady ever and wanted to work together forever and stuff. After 4 1/2 years of waiting we're just planning on installing adequate lighting in my bedroom, and after 4 1/2 years of only having a shower I was just about to have a nice large bathtub installed and now who knows what will happen? The real estate lady made pushy sounds about the shape of my firewood piles and "...maybe rats live in there..." and she was tight-lipped silent when she saw how my home is decorated.

For those who have not visited Casa Throckmorton there are several large piles of firewood outside on the patio because I get no benefit from the friggin furnace. I have a painted buffalo skull hanging on the wall outside my door. On two walls are painted prints from the fine folks at Pornotopia - one of Pan impaling a maiden on his manhood and the other of a penis sitting inside a vagina, with the two organs sutured together. I also have a collection of Steven Fisher's work hanging on several walls. There are photographs of myself naked hanging from skin hooks and have the hooks dangling from the frames. The door to my commode has a poster sized calendar of porn star nudes from AIM. Did I mention that there are still shreds of saran wrap dangling from the chains of my sling? The lace up leather hood hanging from a bookcase? The garden weasel? The DANGER red police warning tape from handle to handle across my needle storage drawer? The 500cc bottle of Eros sitting next to the computer? The .50 caliber buffalo gun my mother's ancestors carried across the plains sitting near the door? And this needs more fibre in her diet real estate agent asks me if I want to be notified before she brings people through?

So anyhow I've called a very good friend who is rehabbing an apartment with his wife. They said it needs a lot of work, but if need be I can have it. There is good and bad about it [a little further from work and a little closer to the Wet Spot] but I've helped them with some of the work in that complex [actually several duplexes] and saw that I could live there. If need be. Having to move would throw my life into a bit of chaos. Financially I would probably have to put off the hoped for trip to Scotland for a year. I have - and this is literally true - thousands of books. I have a god damned chest freezer that works well as a freezer... and works well as an anchor also. Littleone would have to return to being an indoor cat. The goldfish, I feel, would take the least lumps.

Thank you both, my friends, for the safety net.

So anyhow, with this unexpectedly looming on the horizon, I've not done my 2002 closure and 2003 planning and hopes rituals. Man, I'd been ready. Writer's block gone, scadzillions of site reviews to be done, journal entries to post, life I was ready to conquer. Now, frankly, I have no idea what is going to happen in the next month, let alone the next year.

For some reason, Gilda Radner's, "It all goes to show ya, it's always something" comes to mind. I know that I'm ultimately gonna make it all end up as yet another incarnation of my Life Is Good philosophy, but I could really really use a break from all of these marvelous challenges and enjoy a simple wallow in a simple life. Really.



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