Bonne Année!

I've been avoiding the laptop as much as possible since I got to Paris last week with Vini. It's supposed to be a vacation, and for me that means staying far away from my Outlook.

But alas, I'm in Paris again. I'm back in Europe, where I still expect that I'll likely spend most of the second half of my life. It's the end of an extremely momentous year in my life. And I just can't be completely mum right now.

In short, I'm having one of those rare New Year experiences. I know things are in great motion right under the surface of life, without a clear idea about where they are really going. But I feel great peace, and great trust in the tides.

It was a wonderful year - on balance - and will be another wonderful year ahead.

Hours Like Years

On Saturday, I got up as usual at 7:30am (but I was alone), and made coffee. And I sat at my desk and checked my email, in such a way as to open the office for business - for lack of anything else to do. But there wasn't much there waiting. Without Vini at home, and with my clients ebbing from their usual needs thanks to the holidays coming, I was suddenly aware that my usual routine of intensity was hitting pause for the first time in a long while.

I just had to do a TV interview before I could hang it up for the year. So, I had to spruce up, print out my notes and get hydrated before the car arrived at 10:30. It was my first here in Brazil, and my first on-air work in a foreign language, so I was kind of nervous. It went very well, I thought, and I got home full of adrenaline. But alas, it was just Clancy at home, and he was happier just napping. So, I just sat down in the living room and started watching DVDs. Something I used to do when I lived alone in Logan Circle just about every Saturday I was at home. I really missed it.

I got to thinking about a lot of things, suddenly aware of the freedom to do so. And aware of the date. It's not even Christmas yet, and already some bloggers are writing their year in review tomes. I wasn't sure what to do with my free thinking time. So, I opted for entertainment (Woody Allen, Sex and the City, The Comeback...), and just laying on the couch.

On Saturday night, after Vini had not called at all, I did get wistful and lonely. Whenever he is home visiting his family, he is very different when we speak, if we speak. Sort of like when he's at the office. Alas, most time when I speak to him on the phone he's in one or the other place, and he isn't himself as a result. It's nothing big, just a bit like an over-salted portion of an otherwise wonderful dinner.

A friend had mentioned he'd call so we could go out for a drink. But Brazilians rarely mean it when they offer to socialize. You get very used to not getting your hopes up. It's not meant to be rude to us, just the way they are. He didn't ring. I wasn't surprised. And I guess I at least knew you were out there, so I posted.

On Sunday, I was going to host Claudia and Helena, Claudia's sister Natalia (who is very close with my family back home) and her husband and daughter, and some other friends for brunch. I got the place tidied up but again, I didn't expect much. I thought maybe it will just be Claudia. Alas, it was quite a brunch. So many people came we barely had room. We downed a lot of champagne. Helena brought these wonderful Chilean cherries that were absolutely perfect and ready to eat. Claudia basically cleaned out every kind of croissant there was at Galeria dos Pães -- sweet to savory -- and brought them along. The mountain of bags and little containers she was carrying was almost bigger than her when she came in the door. Natalia's little girl and Clancy were, as usual, joined at the hip and trotting all over the apartment with smiles on their faces all afternoon. I put on some Partridge Family Christmas album from my childhood, along with old Motown holiday songs and such.

It was amazing. And very Brazilian. Things just happen here.

Last night, I made a casserole for dinner that I hadn't made since well before I left Washington, one of my old favorites. I called home to say hi to the family, and had a really nice talk with Lulu, whose trip home to São Paulo for Christmas was sabotaged by American Airlines. I actually slept in, and had vivid dreams.

This morning, for some reason I still don't quite understand, I watched The Hours. I've owned the DVD for a long time but never watched it since I bought it. I only saw the film once, in the theater. I was a fanatic of modernist literature in college, and a bit obsessed with Virginia Woolf's work and life when I was in my early 20s. The novel was given to me as a gift when it came out (before it won the Pulitzer), and I was surprised at how absorbing it was. It was a reminder that a lot of people felt tied up in Woolf's own stories - those she told, and the one she lived. And as I sat watching the film again today, I was amazed that it was only four years ago that I saw it last. Four years.

My God, I thought, I've lived a whole lifetime in these four years.

I remember the scene between Virginia and Leonard at the train station was the most emotional for me the first time, as Virginia made the very rational case for why she had to take control of her own life, even if it meant also taking the helm of her own madness. I remember that four years ago, I was struggling with a little of that, too. And I wept in the theater during that scene.

So, yes, there is some relevant history. I don't want to share all of it. But suffice to say, I attempted suicide at 18 and spent many years in therapy after that. (I ended therapy in 2002.) Woolf was one of the most important companions I had to lead me out of that time. She ultimately chose death - and many scholars argue it was "brave" and "the logical course" for her. I never felt it was right, even if I might have understood it. I guess if there had been a moment that I really felt she'd made the right decision, down to my bones, then I wouldn't be sitting here typing this right now.

But here I am.

And what's more, I really am. There is no other way to say it. My life is bigger, ampler, and grander today than I could have imagined four years ago. I've loved, lost and recovered. I've partied my ass off and seen more of the world. I've found joy in work, and followed my heart to a different land. Clancy is well. My stuff is here. The casserole was good. The champagne is gone just in time for our trip to Paris tomorrow.

And it's all because I made that decision round about four years ago or so. I wept in the theater because I already knew what I had to do with my life, but I was afraid. I had to take full control -- no more therapists, no more vices, no more acting out. And I was worried that madness might still be along for the ride and if so it was going to require a final showdown.

To be honest with you, and hopefully not to disappoint you, there is no huge climax to this story. There wasn't just one Woolfian moment where it all came together. There were, though, a lot of little moments filled with enormous meaning - sometimes joyous, sometimes painful. There's a glimpse of some of them on old Club Whirled. It's no small thing that the last four years have also been the core years of my friendships with Sean and Lulu, and were the golden years of life in Logan Circle for me.

It all just came together. It all just happened. And here I am.

So, I have to start packing and the kitchen needs to be readied for our week away (so there's nothing nasty waving back at us from a counter or the fridge when we return). But I can't help but smell that summer is in the air, and feel the cool air in the shadows, and there is much to rejoice about on this day.

The View from My Window

It's 1:30am on the Saturday before Christmas. Vini is with his family this weekend.

Jardins is very quiet, and there's a full moon above the city. There's a gentle breeze.

It's lonely.

Tuesday A/V (Friday Edition): The Facebook Experience

We're all nuts about Facebook these days, but the major downside to it rears its head quickly. Particularly if you're a computer geek like Ran, and you overdo it on adding applications right after you sign up. Of course, the applications tend to generate a ton of unwanted mail and solicitations that are nothing more than spam.

Lately, Ran's status bar has read: "Ran has appspam fatigue."

In his honor, I offer this little emotional outlet for what it's like to read one's Facebook mini-feed and messages lately.

'Tis the Season to Be Whalish...

ME: My name is Kevin, and I'm overweight.

YOU: Hi Kevin!

We all think we're fat, right? Even when we're not, we see 'fat' in the mirror all too easily. Sometimes I wish I had Sean's problem - he looks in the mirror at his muscular body and sees a scrawny person. (Jesus, talk about a win-win situation.)

I, on the other hand, simply sit in a chair, and I feel my body exploding against my clothes and my various chins waggling as I turn my head or look down to read. When I walk down the street, I feel half my body bouncing in various directions like a whirligig of yo-yo's. Since I also have a slight case of scoliosis since childhood, when I relax in a sitting position I invariably slouch, and thereby crunch all the fat on the front side of my body into a ball.

Yeah - I sound like quite a catch, don't I? Certainly, from inside my skin I'm pretty revolting right now.

But I look in the mirror, and I am struck that it's never so bad. I am always distracted by what's good, what's not good. It's fluid.

But I photograph SO badly right now. My face and neck are so fat when I smile and duck my head a little (cuz everyone is always shorter than me in a group shot). Ugh. I'm mortified when a camera is unsheathed anywhere near me lately cuz sweetheart, the camera don't lie.

A year ago, I was in very good shape. I'd been working with an excellent trainer for over a year, and watching what I ate. I was clubbing a lot with the boys, which meant shirtlessness as a rule. What's more, I felt even better in my skin than I probably looked. That was fantastic, cuz I really don't care (or don't want to care) about what I look like. Feeling good in my skin has always been the goal. So, we've careened into the red on that score as we approach Christmas 2007.

The one saving grace in all this is that I'm happily partnered, and we've both gotten a little chubby but the passion is as strong as ever. I am not noticing other men, and therefore I don't care what other guys think of me. And I know full well I can get back into great shape as soon as I decide I want to. It takes serious motivation to get into the zone, and once you're there it's fairly easy to stay at it for a while. The condo sale and the move really fucked with my routine. So naturally, here I am.

An added pleasure: I'm eating everything I want and loving it. There is this orgasmic dessert at Galeria dos Pães here in Jardins called Torta Holandesa. I have no idea if it's really Dutch or not, but who cares. The only way to describe it is -- imagine the sweetest soft creamery butter imaginable, in the shape of a round pie, with a thin topping of shiny dark chocolate sauce and no crust, just a ring of thin wafers along the outside. Biting into a forkful is literally better than drugs. And the fat content is undoubtedly a 10 on the Richter scale.

But I have a piece of it now and then lately, and it is so wonderful. I know that once I give up the fat suit, as it were, and go back to being more athletic and in shape, I will be giving up on Torta Holandesa for some time. I'll probably even turn my nose up at it on occasion, quite sincerely. (When you're in the zone, your body reorders all your cravings.)

But it's the fat periods like now that remind us all that there is indeed more to life than being at your best. There are wonderful, sinful things to enjoy, too. Guiltlessly.

Dog on the Bed? A Philosophy

My net-friend Maureen commented recently about my somewhat kidding/somewhat serious concern about Clancy's bold encroachment on forbidden furniture since my stuff arrived in São Paulo earlier this month:

Glad you have all your things around you. Very happy for you...except...HOW CAN YOU DENY THAT SWEET CLANCY-DOG THE BED?

Fair enough. He is indeed a sweet dog, but alas that didn't come by accident. It was a lot of work. When Clancy arrived in my life in September 2000, he was a basket case. Very deprived of love and attention, a victim of abuse who was a rescue at the public shelter, and only six months old -- once I got him home, I realized he needed a lot of training. First came the love, of course. We had to bond, and I gave all my free time to him (as I was nursing wounds from a traumatic break-up, and slogging through a brutal election campaign at work).

But then came the discipline. Friends of mine were babysitting him as I made frequent field trips during the last month of the 2000 election campaign. Word came back that Clancy was "very bratty" and "impossible." He didn't listen or obey, and was extremely playful and needy to the point of being annoying.

So, being the good friends they are, they pooled their money and bought me 8 training sessions with a fairly infamous dog trainer in D.C. named Ira Hartwell. He's this African American retired Marine with a confident swagger who is known for his unbelievably well-trained and docile Mastiffs. At first, he scared the living hell out of me (and Clancy). But 15 minutes into our first session, I was a believer.

We followed two core principles -- he lives according to routine, and I am the alpha in our pack.

The first part meant everything was absolutely rote. He never, ever ate anything but his own food, in his bowl, and at set times every day. We had a very set walking routine -- from which side he remained on (my left), where and when he relieved himself, and the route we would walk for "business purposes." We would keep regular sleep hours as much as possible, and he would be crated at all times when we slept, and when I was out of the house (especially since my apartment at the time was a duplex, and the bedroom was at the top of the stairs with no door to shut).

The second bit was about assuring Clancy that he was safe. He was in a solid pack, with a clear position in it. I was the alpha -- which means I was going to care for him, and he was going to know that always. In return, he had to obey me -- and I had to be kind as well as consistent. His behavior had to be corrected when necessary (and with absolute consistency) and his needs had to be separated from his wants.

To be an alpha, though, you had to enforce certain rules that a dog would understand. As Ira pointed out, a dog's instincts -- particularly a feral breed like Clancy, who is primarily a Canaan Dog -- are straight out of the wild. The dog pack in nature has clear rules, and dogs thrive when they're kept. The alpha eats first; the pack follows. The alpha enters a room first, the pack follows. The alpha sleeps on the highest spot; the pack below. In return, the pack cares for the alpha's primary safety (i.e. they warn of encroaching outsiders), and obeys him to preserve the system which feeds and protects them.

So, this meant that Clancy had his own bed, and I had mine. Mine would have to be the higher one, to reinforce his sense of place in the pack and mine. So -- he had to know that it was my space, and he wasn't welcome in it.

This had immediate results. With the rules laid down in a language he understood, I started identifying all the territory to him around the house. Yes to his little beds here and there; no to the furniture. I stayed out of his beds, he respected the rules. When he pushed it, I reacted immediately and corrected him every time. From then on, he respected me on everything and was extremely obedient. And many of his old, neurotic behaviors melted away. He became a very happy dog, content with his rational and very ordered life. Yes, we had to deal with separation anxiety quite often the first couple of years, but since he was crated, and he knew the alpha always would return and the routine he knew would follow, he slowly got less anxious when I had to travel.

Then, we joined day care. And that's when Clancy really came into his own. He was reported to be one of the most socially astute dogs in the place, who not only played very actively with the other dogs but also would often seek to bring the outlaying ones further into the social order.

Alas, the rules worked. So we stuck to them very zealously. That meant -- no dog on the bed.

I then got my hands on The New Art of Dog Training by Shelby Marlo, which expands upon the whole "alpha" rules. It reinforced this whole concept of remembering that this is a dog we're dealing with, not a person. He's very intelligent, but understands a very different language than we do, so to tap that intelligence and have that bonding relationship that you both crave, you have to be consistent and you can't confuse and destabilize him.

But alas. He may be a dog, but I'm also human. After several years, after he'd long since accepted his place in our pack and we were in that "groove" of being able to communicate very, very effectively on the widest range of matters (he knew how to obey me, and I knew how to read his needs), I got soft on a couple things. It didn't help that my boyfriend at the time, Chad, made it his habit of letting Clancy sleep on his bed (see photo above) any night he took care of him when I traveled. (But that just let Clancy know that Chad was down the pack order from me and maybe even equal to him. Chad's problem, not mine.)

Also, I stopped crating him once I moved to Logan Circle and had a bedroom door - but that just meant he'd help himself to the bed once I'd left the place. OK - so when I'm not there, he's in charge, I thought. I can live with that.

But Marlo does say that once things have been really well established, you can invite the dog into your territory, like the bed. Just so long as you don't change the routine. So when he was about 4 or 5 years old, I would invite him up on the bed some nights while he was nodding off and I was working on my laptop, just for an hour or so. And also when we'd wake up in the morning. The minute I'd say "off", however, he'd leap off on command without a problem. And still does.

There was the odd time, of course -- typically after I'd return from an exceptionally long time on the road -- when we would go to sleep in our separate beds, and I would awaken the next morning with him laying next to me, head-facing-feet like in the wild, and he'd be startled when I'd move and look at me all sleepy-eyed with that sheepish expression, as if to say: "Can I?" The answer was always, of course, "off." Even if I didn't like it.

So, now comes the move to the classic seven here in São Paulo, with its expansive territory that was empty and up for grabs for the last nine months. Then the furniture arrives. Confusion, and opportunity. He's been lording around like he owns entire rooms. When sent to bed at night, he'd trot into the office instead of the bedroom, as if that was "his room" and the bedroom was "ours". He once got onto the guest bed to take a nap one afternoon, and looked surprised when I intervened. At least he's stayed away from the living room furniture. If he got anywhere near the leather, I really would have to go alpha on his ass.

So this the nexus of the dog-on-the-bed situation. We don't want any setbacks on our previous understanding, of course. But we must contain the imperial ambitions within our little pack, as well.

Scuze Me, Sir, but...Your Shit is Here

Sorry for the disappearance, but alas I was in San Francisco on business (and got to meet a good blogger-friend in person), and coping with the final chapter of my move.

Yes, my stuff finally arrived.

It was a bit anti-climactic, of course. Everything was in good shape (save a couple of broken glasses and some soiled ultrasuede furniture), and everything ended up fitting in place. The process of unpacking and repacking one's life is a long one, though. And thanks to the fact that our Christmas party is tomorrow night, we are being forced to do it fast.

It was kind of funny this morning that I had to hold a seminar with the maid on how to use an upright vacuum cleaner. She'd never seen one before, and the sound startled her.

I also have my old TV set up in the office, and my cable is connected, so I feel reconnected to the world back here in the rear of the apartment.

The guest room was the first one finished. All of you who know who you are can rest assured -- we're ready for you now :-)

Meanwhile, Clancy has seen all this as simply an opportunity to expand his lebensraum. Given the carpets and other items now in place, he now has dog beds and resting nooks in every room of the apartment. And his imperialist instincts are beginning to overwhelm him and us. He now very openly climbs onto the beds in this apartment and takes naps whenever he wants (which as anyone knows this family would also know, is a serious no-no). We expect future territorial clashes with the canine portion of the household in coming weeks.

Finally, a word about dear old North Dallas Thirty. It was great to meet him in person, and kibbitz about mutual friends such as Matt, Chris and Bruce, among others. I wasn't at all struck by the fact that he's a brilliant, gentle and very amiable guy. In a funny way, San Francisco suits him very well. Nothing like striking a bold profile against such a backdrop. Smart positioning.

The Brazilian Exodus from the United States

Yesterday's New York Times had an interesting piece by Nina Bernstein and Elizabeth Dwoskin on the growing return of Brazilian illegal immigrants from the United States back here to their home country. It raised several points about both countries, and showed the unique position that Brazil holds today in the larger issue of immigration in the U.S., as well as the evolving global economy.

The piece is illustrative in that it shows that a large number of Brazilian illegals in the U.S. have been middle class people who got tourist visas and overstayed to settle down, have (American) children, start businesses and live their suburban "American dream" lives. It's amazing how well so many Brazilians did, living out in the open back there; and it's no surprise that many of them were middle class, given the long distance to travel by air and the economic discrimination built into the granting of American tourist visas in Latin America. But alas, the wave of these folks who fled the days of hyperinflation and economic ruin here in Brazil up to a decade or so ago arrived in the U.S. at a time when it was marginally easier to live a normal life without papers.

Things, as we well know, have changed -- on both ends of the map. The crackdown on illegals in the U.S. is in full swing, almost approaching torch-and-pitchfork stages in some areas. The U.S. economy is also slowing down, especially in sectors like housing construction where documenting one's workers was never priority number one. The Brazilian economy is on a roll that none of us have seen in a generation or two, if ever.

Frankly, I read this article and found myself feeling happy.

True, the stories are sad. I feel great sympathy for these families who were forced to make a horrible choice between dividing a family or leaving the country they call home. That's my story, too. Seeing the awful way that others, especially Mexicans, are being rounded up and thrown into hellish detention centers made these people opt for the orderly packing of bags and voluntary, dignified departure.

But the real story here is that we need these marvelously talented people back here in Brazil, especially at this moment in the country's history. We need their entrepreneurial spirit, their tenacity, their skills and their experience. As the article rightly points out, there is real opportunity now in Brazil that didn't exist before. Things are on the upswing here. Indeed, even those day laborers earning in dollars and sending money home to Brazil would be better off living anywhere BUT the United States right now, as the dollar is on a power-dive into the toilet against the Brazilian real.

Ironically, though, the United States desperately needs these people, too. It needs all its immigrants, illegal or otherwise. It's an economic necessity there. As country music star Steve Earle (of all people) very brilliantly put it recently: "Are you going to cycle down fucking Fifth Avenue in the rain to bring some yuppie their Chinese food? Yeah right." Indeed, who is going to do much of the work so many middle class Americans depend on for their lives to function? Are they going to do it themselves now? In a two-income household with kids in school, they're going to clean the house themselves? Pay for licensed day care? They're going to do their own lawns and landscaping? They're going to do their own renovations? They're going to wash their own cars, and pick up their own pizzas, and pay more for Chinese-manufactured crap at big-box stores? They're going to pay the coming (and hefty) premium on every product or service that is made, sold or delivered now on the back of wages no American citizen would accept? Seriously?

No matter for the Brazilians. Much of them are not maids or nannies, but successful businessmen like Jose Osvandir Borges, formerly of Newark, New Jersey. He's only a couple years older than me, but he and his wife managed to build a successful plumbing and construction business. As the legal noose is closing around them, and the housing market has slid into the toilet, the decision was made. They will take their American kids, their know-how, their energy and their money back to Brazil. And they'll probably leave a big hole behind in the U.S., as will hundreds of thousands of Brazilians like them who are now buying record levels of one-way tickets back.

Over the long run, I think history will judge all of this business quite cleanly. This was a time when the United States, in a fit of its usual stupidity, shot itself in the foot -- and when a wave of talented, financially secure Brazilians headed back home and made their country even better and more robust than ever.

Tuesday A/V: Come Closer to the Goddess

A very serious blast from the past. The 80s to be precise. Here is a very well-worn piece of Judy Tenuta's best known performance of her stand-up act, captured (in a different venue) for her well-selling 1987 album, Buy This, Pigs!

The self-described "petite flower/giver goddess/fashion plate/saint" was a bit of a flash in the pan, except for us fags of a certain age who played her album endlessly while drinking, or smoking dope, and took turns doing her. I remember Vinny Cannata even had the little accordion-rim-shot bits memorized as well.

My favorite line of this clip begins at exactly 3:00, and still resonates emotionally with me today.

Wow.

When I got in last night from Buenos Aires, the news on the big TV in the immigration hall at GRU showed images of Hugo Chávez giving a speech with that smug look on his face, and he was holding an infant in his arms.

Even though the results were not yet being reported, I got this sick feeling in my stomach. I just knew that despite the many reports of independent opinion polls showing widespread opposition to his constitutional changes that would transform Venezuela into a Cuban-style communist dictatorship, Chávez would find a way to steal the vote. He would get his way no matter what. Never in history has an increasingly insane, self-obsessed tyrant ever, EVER submitted to the opposition of his people without bloodshed, his or theirs. Why would history change now?

Well, the news was stunning when I woke up this morning. I couldn't believe my eyes. He was soundly defeated, and he accepted the result -- a result that means he will have to leave office at the end of his current term! Could this be happening?

President Lula da Silva said last week that nobody should worry about Hugo Chávez, that democracy was still alive and well in Venezuela and that its president would respect the results of the referendum no matter what they would be. A lot of us choked on our arroz when we heard Lula giving such a tight, shameless embrace to a man who was so certain to rob the Venezeulan people of their rights and their democracy in a few days time, no matter what the vote really was.

And alas, he didn't.

I'm speechless.

Happy Birthday, Mattie :-)

As every December 1 would roll around, everyone in their circle of friends back in Logan Circle would pause to reflect, and take stock. It was, after all, an annual commemoration of a very important aspect of their lives, and this year would include an especially poignant sentiment. There was a sense of longing, of missing old friends since departed, hopefully to better places. It was a special day. It was, after all, Matt's birthday.

Sean sat in an upscale Mexican restaurant, "Zona Rosa", in midtown Manhattan with several friends, about to see a Broadway show. Somehow the conversation rolled around to having one's intercom ring to your cell phone, and Sean told the story of the night another guy in his building with the same last name threw a party. Sean had answered repeated calls from people at the intercom, although out at dinner with friends at the time. After the first couple calls, he had stopped explaining the situation to the callers, and instead just gave a friendly, "Hey, come on up!" and told them the other guy's unit number, then buzzed them in.

As he was telling this story, he suddenly realized that that had been exactly a year ago, because that had happened at Matt's last birthday dinner -- at an upscale Mexican restaurant in DC called "Rosa Mexicana". Suddenly he felt particularly sad not to be celebrating with Matt right now... but the coincidence was fascinating.

*****

On the other end of the world, Kevin was sitting on a bench in the sweltering heat of Buenos Aires, eating some Freddo ice cream and waiting for his mother to come out of the souvenir shop. It was Matt's birthday, and much like Sean's in August he'd be missing it. It was also Michel's birthday, who would be celebrating at Town that night - a club Kevin had never even set foot in back in D.C., only walking distance from Logan Circle. Life was whirling on without him up there.

It was sad, yes. But Matt was also married, and had a new life with new priorities just like him. Kevin understood that hard-to-explain feeling of someone who has settled down. You mark the time of your life not by standing still, but by moving forward. So there was no need to lament the distance. He just had to make sure, in some clever way, that Matt knew he was thinking about him.