Tag: photos

You light up my life

I don’t want to belabor this, but back in 2007, when I first met David Puterbaugh, he was near-cocktailed out of his mind. Since he knew full well I’d wanted to meet him sober, he asked what he could do to get back in my good graces. I pointed ceilingward and said, “You must get that for me.”

No, it wasn’t a palmetto bug, even though I always say it’s not a true Southern story of the coast until that flying cockroach makes an appearance. (Which it did, but that was later.) No, what I was seeking was this:

Please click here for more.

Sugar Speaks

June 13, 2009

MEMO

To: The Mamas
From: Sugar
Re: My Unfortunate Incarceration

Rumor has it that you two may be home late tonight, so I might be extending my “staycation” at The Compound another day. This is completely unacceptable, as I’ve now figured out that while you’re frolicking on Florida’s white sandy beaches, I’m actually in jail. As you can see by the photo to your left, not only are there bars, but in a week of ninety-degree temps, I’ve been forced to “sunbathe.” This is NOT a beach. It’s a field of dead grass. Just because I’m lying on it doesn’t mean I like it. It’s DEAD GRASS!

And it’s only the beginning of what I’ve had to endure. My captors say they’re giving us treats, and while they make my captors’ eyes water, they do smell and taste mighty delicious to me. However, get a good look at the container they’re in, borrowed from the man we know as “Tim”:


HELLO? I am not a cat.

Also, any photographic evidence making it appear that I’m getting rest is totally fabricated. First, I stay on constant vigil at “Rex TV” trying to alert the nonstop flow of pedestrian traffic by my barking that I’m being held prisoner. So far, no man, woman, beast, mail carrier, Fedex man, UPS woman, or the plumber have done one damn thing to help me. We truly have become a society of those who look the other way.

My captors have tried to convince me that everything they do is for the good of my health. Look! Vitamins!

But even these are meant to break my spirit. Look closer at the label:

“SENIOR?” HELLO? I am NOT a senior!

Oh, sure. They’ve been giving me my sixteen ounces of delicious raw food every night at 6:30 p.m. just like you do. And when I ran out, they even took the money you left and bought more chicken necks and gizzards and wings, just like you buy. But then there are the other things they’ve tried to make me ingest. Like veggie cubes! HELLO? I am NOT a vegetarian!

I will admit that I’m intrigued by this “plain yogurt.” I’m not saying I like it. I’m saying I lick every bit of it off my food before I eat because I’m trying to decide if it’s poison or not. The other prisoners seem to really like it. Maybe it’s some kind of addictive substance the captors use to make us docile and prevent attempts at overthrowing them or escaping. I’ll continue to examine this substance closely. With my tongue.

Do you think this couch makes my butt look fat?

During my entire “staycation,” I haven’t spent time with my friend Rexford. He’s being held in a different part of The Compound with another prisoner who may be a Republican. At least they keep calling him “Maverick.” I’m pretty sure the captors are keeping Rex, Maverick, and me apart because they fear our combined power. I have glimpsed them through the Rex TV screen. (Maverick doesn’t look anything like John McCain except for some spots.) It’s possible that the two of them are plotting an escape with the help of the guy everyone calls “The Gnome.” If this happens, I hope Rexford knows I’m trapped inside the Big House with Margot and Guinness.

Mostly, I pretend to rest and go along with whatever the captors want, but I think the following photos make it clear that I’m a ball of stress while I wait for you two to break me out of here.


It’s not like there are many diversions. Not even once have I been offered a “red dot,” and the toys! Look at the pathetic condition of them. Margot and Guinness say it’s not their fault the toys are in this state, and I tend to believe them. Margot mostly stays under the bed writing emo poetry about the deplorable conditions here, and Guinness walks around in circles and bites her butt. Apparently, a family they call “the Fosters” are the ones who’ve gotten the toys in this condition, mainly the brothers Tyson and Dexter, but also this “Maverick” guy.

You know, I’m not normally one to complain, but last night was the final indignity. I was finally catching some real ZZZZZs with the other prisoners while the male captor known as “Tom” was guarding us. By guarding, I mean he was on the bed, too, pretending to sleep by closing his eyes and fake snoring. Suddenly I was rudely awakened by flashing lights when the captor known as “Becky” came in with that torture device known as “the camera.” (I’m sure I don’t have to explain the cruelty of this machine to you, as the two of you have about ten of them now, don’t you?) After subjecting me to its bright lights, she crawled into bed. But instead of confining herself to her allotted two-foot-square space as the prisoners had to be content with, she kept shifting and nudging and turning and muttering. I have never had to endure such torment in my life!

Please spring me out of this joint soon. I fear that waterboarding may be in my future, although I’m sure my captors will call it “a bath.”

Your daughter,
Sugar

What I’m Doing

Here at The Compound, a/k/a The Sluggery, I’m not really being a slug. Since I don’t have the stamina to write anything interesting or imaginative, here’s a list that you can ignore or not, as you wish.

I posted a couple of photos from New Orleans to the Moo Sisters group.

I’ve rewritten the same chapter four times. So far, it’s not setting my imagination on fire. It will when I find the right tone. This is just a whole new kind of character for me to write. I want to do right by her.

Tim and I saw UP on Monday. I really liked it. What is it about a few notes of “When You Wish Upon a Star” that always brings out the happy kid in me?

I had a mysterious onset of severe pain about the time we went to New Orleans. It got progressively worse over the last three weeks. It’s now just as mysteriously going away. The body is a wonderful thing.

The Brides are in Florida. Sugar is staying at The Compound. The first night, my sleep schedule drove her crazy. Now she pays no attention to it at all, just does her thing. She has cuddled with me a couple of times. It took Sugar a long time to relax with me, so I like this very much. Sugar, Margot, and Guinness have always gotten along. The girls treat her just like they treat each other–total acceptance. I plan to get some photos of them tomorrow so if Lindsey and Rhonda check in, they can see Sugar living it up at The Compound.

Maverick and Rex are COMEDIANS. I’ve been online so little that I didn’t even know Tim had changed his LJ banner. I love the new photo, especially Rex’s happy grin.

I found a photo of Tom holding Rex in May of 2001 when Rex was living with his first family. He still gets this same stoned/disgruntled look on his face when Tom holds him like this; he just has a lot more leg now.

I’ve been trying to get a photo of Maverick’s ginormous ears from behind, because they are adorably speckled. He doesn’t sit still very long, so photographing him is hit or miss. I ADORE this dog.

I’m reading and enjoying Michael Thomas Ford’s novel Changing Tides. I’m so glad I read Steinbeck’s Cannery Row last year for the first time, because that’s giving me another level to appreciate Ford’s story.

Still going to the gym three to five times a week and adding more to what I do every week. I always whine about the getting there, but I love the being there.

I’m working on another project. So far, I’ve been really pleased with it. Monday night, NOT AT ALL. Much went into the trash and I will start afresh Tuesday. Come to think of it, sounds a lot like my new writing effort.

New Orleans Notes, No. 6, plus more

Every morning but our last in New Orleans, Tim went out for breakfast and brought breakfast back to me in the hotel room. I felt SO spoiled. It was wonderful to have yummy food delivered to me as if I were some Very Important Person.

Our last morning in the Crescent City, we’d planned to meet Lisa, ‘Nathan, and Dan at the Clover Grill, but Tim was feeling a little under the weather, so I walked there alone. I was reminded when seeing Lisa’s photos that I, too, upon watching her whip out her camera, took the obligatory Clover Grill breakfast plate shot. Mmmmmm, grits: one of those things that say “back home” to me, even though my real “back home” is one state east and a few hours north of New Orleans. Roll Tide.

As we were eating, I watched the intersection of Bourbon Street and Dumaine come to life, including a house across Dumaine. Men emerged to sit on the stoop, squint against the sun, and wake up to the day. I noticed a “Happy Birthday” sign spraypainted on one of the windows and was idly writing a little story in my head in between the conversations at our table.

Later, when we stepped outside after our meal, I got one of my favorite shots of the trip, capturing an unexpected, happy moment, when Lisa strode across the street and asked the men, “How was the party?” Why hadn’t I realized that OF COURSE she’d probably been talking to the guys for days as she went back and forth to our favorite little café, and undoubtedly she knew all kinds of details about them. I just adore her. And if I’m wrong, Lisa, don’t tell me, ’cause I love the way you never meet a stranger.


Lisa, chattin’ it up with the dudes.

Lovely memories. But back to Houston and this week…

Monday morning I was reminded of how spoiled I got in New Orleans when Tim came home from the gym with a breakfast sandwich from Jack in the Box for me. It was a nice beginning to what could have been a yucky day. June 1 is the first anniversary of my mother’s death, and Sunday night, I finished reading Scott Heim’s We Disappear while sobbing. What an achingly moving book by such a good writer. In earlier times, I’d have grabbed my quill pen and written him a tear-stained letter of admiration and gratitude. Instead, I sent him an e-mail and received one back from him. There’s a lot to be said for today’s more immediate gratification, and those two e-mails will remain intensely special to me always.

In addition, my brother, sister, and I exchanged some funny e-mails. I’m so glad I was born into a family where we were taught the value of humor for release and coping.

I had an eye appointment on Monday afternoon, and since I knew my eyes would be dilated, Tim graciously agreed to be my driver. (Another thing I could get used to. What am I talking about? I already have.) Off we went to the Galleria. While I was waiting for my glasses (a new prescription because my distance vision has improved, while my close-up vision worsened–I blame all that sewing), Tim further indulged me.

As many of you know, Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum novels became some of my favorite escapist reading after a friend recommended them when I was just starting to write A Coventry Christmas. (She did so after she found out that I, like Evanovich, was giving my main character a hamster.) The characters in these books just slay me with their quirks and exploits. I was able to hook my mother on them, and we used to crack up as we recounted the shenanigans of characters like Grandma Mazur, Sally Sweet, Albert Kloughn, and Lula. I think Evanovich has done a masterful job of introducing three hot men–Joe, Ranger, and Diesel–into Stephanie’s life and balancing them over fourteen “numbers” books (Finger Lickin’ Fifteen releases the end of this month!) and four “between-the-numbers” books. When Tim was in the hospital in 2007 and needed something light to read, those were the books I took to him.

So Monday, being the friend he is, Tim agreed to go on a hunt with me for the Bvlgari shower gel that Ranger uses because I wanted to know how Ranger smells. But as we scanned the men’s fragrance shelves in Nordstrom and Macys, none of the names were jumping out at me. Then we went to Etoile Perfumery, where the sales associate pointed out that there were some unisex Bvlgari products, too. I still wasn’t sure about the name, so we went to Borders to look through the books. Tim finally spotted the exact name in one of the later books: Green Tea. Back to Etoile to check out the scent. They didn’t have the shower gel, but since Tim’s out of Marc Jacobs, he said he’d be willing to wear this because it smells as delicious as Stephanie Plum says. I happen to have a checking account that I shared with my mother that still has money in it, so we paid for it using that account. She’d have gotten a kick out of the Ranger connection. Plus it was ON SALE, as it originally had been part of a set, and the other item was missing. What budget-conscious mother doesn’t teach us the value of buying stuff that’s ON SALE, right?!?

Then I almost got us eighty-sixed from the Galleria. Apparently, there are NO PHOTOS signs at every entrance to this shopping mecca. Which is weird, because I’ve ALWAYS taken photos there, especially at the ice rink. I guess it’s because only a terrorist would take a photo of a ginormous American flag. Ha, I got my shot before the security guard yelled at me. For scale, that’s Tim standing on the walkway directly beneath the flag.


He smells good, too.

Last week’s birthday

The story of Tim’s birthday last week:

I didn’t know how to decorate the cake, so I printed childhood photos of everyone who’d be at Tim’s birthday dinner and put them on the cake. Tim’s photo was biggest, of course, to indicate that he was King of the Playground.

Lynne must have mentally picked up on the kids’ theme, because she brought Tim a bag of silly toys along with his real gift. Like groovy sunglasses and head gear:

and Silly Sludge:

We posed for a group shot holding our kid photos:

Then aliens came.

And stole our souls.

The End.

New Orleans Notes, No. 5

I’m not sure the right order to tell this story, so I’ll just plunge in and trust you to keep up with me. A few days after our return from Saints and Sinners, I began reading a novel I picked up there. It’s not a new novel: Mysterious Skin by Scott Heim. In fact, it’s been around long enough that a movie has already been made from it. I hadn’t read the novel or seen the movie. After I began reading it, I couldn’t put it down until I had to because my eyes were crossing. I went to sleep, then picked it up from the bedside table as soon as my eyes opened the next morning. People, when your bladder has turned thirty-five a few times, trust me, THIS IS AMAZING. I didn’t get out of bed until I read the last page of the book. It was haunting, well-written, and–obviously!–compelling.

Before Saints and Sinners, the only thing I really knew about Scott Heim was that he and I had a mutual online friend on Facebook: amanda_mary, who I originally came to know through Mark G. Harris. You know how sometimes you start reading someone online and you just instantly like that person? And the more you read, the more reasons you have to like her (or him)? That’s the way Amanda is for me. She’s a lot younger than I am, way cooler, and has a pretty different life from mine. I like the way she thinks and the way she expresses herself. If she moved next door to me, I’d immediately think the hipness quotient of my street went up a notch (as long as she didn’t park her car in front of The Compound where I like to park mine when it’s outside the gates).

I decided as a little surprise for her, I’d make a point of meeting Scott Heim at Saints and Sinners and get my photo taken with him. David Puterbaugh made that easier at the opening party at the W Hotel when he pointed out Scott to me. David said he wanted to meet him, too, so we sashayed our butts over to where Scott was talking to someone.

Flashback: My very first year at Saints and Sinners (2006), I was in a conversation with another writer when two people came up and edged me away from him. It was annoying at the time, and I felt like a big geek standing there looking at the air around me. Then my gaze fell on the sweet, smiling visage of a stranger who turned out to be one Mark G. Harris; I asked him if he knew where a restroom was; he got that information and accompanied me to one; and out of that little incident came all kinds of wonderful things.

I did NOT MEAN to do the same thing, taking Scott away from his conversational partner, and I’m sure David didn’t either. But since it happened, I hope it freed this Unknown Man to meet someone as terrific as Mark G. Harris who will likewise enhance his life in myriad ways. Just in case, however, a big I’M SORRY to Unknown Man.

Scott Heim is a delight. When I mentioned Amanda, he said they’d been talking online for years. He recognized David from the S&S program, and before you know it, we had a merry little group surrounding him. I managed to get a few more photos, including these:


Authors Timothy J. Lambert, ‘Nathan Burgoine, Scott Heim


Authors Jeffrey Ricker, David Puterbaugh, Scott Heim

Tonight, Famous Author Rob Byrnes has been live-blogging on Facebook from the Lambda Literary Awards. So we could all learn AS IT HAPPENED that Scott Heim won for We Disappear in the Best Gay Fiction category. Congratulations, Scott! Fortunately, I picked up this book when I got Mysterious Skin. I know what just moved to the top of my To Be Read pile.

New Orleans Notes, No. 4

There’s a reason why cameras were made: for touchingly funny moments like this one.

We’d finished dinner at Margaritaville and were getting ready to leave when Lindsey and Mike suddenly shared an impromptu dance.

Before the long Saints and Sinners weekend, of those who would be present, only Greg, Marika, and Lisa had ever met The Brides in person. Marika, Tim, and I knew that was about to change, but we kept the secret, so Lindsey and Rhonda’s arrival in New Orleans on Thursday night took the others by surprise. Less than twenty-four hours later, it was as if ‘Nathan, Dan, David, Michael, Jeffrey, Mike, and Rob had known them always.

Here’s my version of the now infamous “Last Supper” shot.


Mike, Rhonda, Jeff, Lindsey, Lisa, Marika, Tim, Michael, ‘Nathan, David, Dan, Rob