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Year: 2013

Hanging On

Hopefully you haven’t forgotten about me or written me off.

Actually, I’m sure that several of you have not, based on all the e-mails, messages, and tweets asking about me and Granny and The Attorney.

I really appreciate the concern.

We’re all doing OK.

Along with the general issues of being 95, Granny has suffered through several weeks of shingles, but it seems to be behind us now.

I got so focused on her care that I pretty much let everything else go.

My blog, my twitter, my friends, my Attorney.

He has been understandably frustrated, but still very understanding.

Hopefully my allowing things to go fallow will only result in the fertility that it should.

On my blog, my twitter, my friends.

And especially my Attorney.

It may take me a bit to get everything up to speed again, but I’m ready to open the throttle.

Stick around for the ride!

It Gets Longer

So, this guy goes out to a bar one night.

Not his usual thing.

He’s not the type.

But it was a holiday weekend.

He’s standing in the corner, trying his best to blend in.

Even so, he’s getting eye-balled by another guy.

The other guy is not the bar type either.

But for some reason, there they both are.

Although neither for very long.

They leave.

Together.

Which led to a hot tub.

And pancakes.

But nothing more.

Because the one guy isn’t big on one night stands.

Actually neither is the other.

They both prefer a little longer investment.

And now, eight Good Fridays later, The Painter and The Attorney have six-and-a-half years in the bank.

You know if you treat six-and-a-half right it gets longer.

Back

tonysback

I stopped.

I stopped writing.

I don’t know why.

But, I stopped.

I hated it.

Hated not writing, that is.

So, I’m back.

Brand new look.

Same old Tony.

Back.

Good Read

summerreader

This could be me and The Attorney.

If they both had books.

And I had better legs.

And if The Attorney would sit around naked.

He won’t.

I will.

But, we do sit like this on the sofa all the time.

Reading.

Opposite ends.

Legs inside legs.

Mine inside his.

And eventually, feet in crotch.

His in mine.

It’s surprising how strong a grip a runner’s feet have.

More gripping than a good read.

And almost as strong as the grip he has on me in general.

 

Write It How I See It

Constant.

If you had to pick one word to describe me, it would work.

Spontaneous would not.

I don’t exactly embrace change.

I’m not necessarily against it.

I just don’t go looking for it.

I find comfort in the familiar.

I stick to what works.

That’s one of the reasons I make a good boyfriend.

I got about nine other reasons, too.

But, sometimes you need a little change to shake things up.

Give something a good enough shake and you can get some juices flowing.

That’s why the new look on the blog.

I find beauty in the simple things:

Like The Attorney’s white dress shirts.

Or the dimples where a guy’s lower back meets his butt.

Like the Attorney’s.

So, I’m keeping it simple.

Without the bells and whistles.

Because that’s how I see it.

That’s how I write it.

Aqua-celibacy

aquacelibacy

Everybody likes a Friday.

The Attorney and I had our first date on a Friday.

We first met on a Friday before that.

That Friday was more hook-up than date.

Although nothing happened.

Except kissing and pancakes.

And a hot tub.

Enough to find out what he wanted to know.

Or hoped?

Friday is still our night.

Our date night.

Even though we hardly go out.

Unless you count outside as going out.

To the back yard.

To his pool.

My favorite thing about Friday.

Okay, second favorite.

Sometimes my favorite thing starts there.

And maybe finished there a time or two.

But mostly we swim.

I used to joke that I’m with The Attorney for his football season tickets.1

But, if I was really that shallow, it would be for his pool.

Now that Fall has finally started to take hold, I won’t be getting any for a while.

No pool.

Aqua-celibacy until Spring.

There is still the hot tub.

But a hot tub is to  a pool what a handie is to my favorite thing.


  1. Once something very difficult to come by around here. 

Blow

Why is it called a blow job?

There is very little blowing involved.

If any.

Why should there be?

Granted, to inflate most other tubes…

…balloons, tires, etc. …

You blow.

But tube steak requires a vacuum.

Or sometimes just anticipation.

I guess “suck job” sounds too crude.

Not that there’s anything elegant about a blow job.

There better not be.

If it’s good.

Maybe “blow job” is a metaphor for a tornado…

Blowing.

Leaving things lifeless in the aftermath.

Contents strewn about.

Because the only thing being blown is a load.

And, if you want to get real, loads are being thrown.

So suck it.

Second (Mid)Life

The Attorney has decided to buy a motorcycle.

At age 53.

How many mid-life crises is one allowed?

And if you’ve already had one, does that make the first one actually a third-life crisis and the new one a two-thirds-life crisis?

I thought the luxury convertible six years ago was the mid-life crisis.

Or the young new boyfriend.

But, he sold the convertible about three years ago, and guys have since referred to me as a “Daddy” on more than one occasion.

So, maybe the bike is just a fresher component of the same old crisis.

It could be worse.

He could be coming home with shopping bags stuffed with Aeropostale and A&F, trying to shimmy into smedium t-shirts.

But, then again, maybe with a motorcycle he might shake up his super conservative wardrobe a little by dipping into a bit of leather.

Chaps on a 36-inch inseam?

Nice little mounds of denim pooching out the back?

Boots adding just enough lift to tip him over 6′-6″?1

Yes, please.

I wonder of they make chaps that tall?

Ironically, that’s an issue he faces with the bike he wants most. It’s not built for men his height.  The sales rep said that even with an extension package, it would probably be uncomfortable.

So, he’s trying to sell The Attorney on an alternative.

An alternative that The Attorney doesn’t currently see as an alternative.

He’s a man who wants what he wants.

Maybe this will put the whole idea to rest.

If only motorcycles were not so dangerous.

That’s my problem with it.

He broke is arm last spring when he took a spill running.

What’s a bike wreck going to do to his brittle old bones?

I’m joking.2

If only there was a way to have the wardrobe without the bike.

But a leather daddy stepping out of a BMW kind takes the puff out of the pastry, no?


  1. He’s 6′-5″ 

  2. A little.  He is 53. 

Black Box

You know how airplanes are equipped with The Black Box?

I have a black box in my truck, too.

But, mine has nothing to do with recording the last moments before a crash or offer any clues as to the cause.

Mine is literally a black box.

A tough little hard-plastic strong box that I keep under the passenger seat.

It’s always been a place where I would shove stuff that either I didn’t want rolling around in the truck or I would find rolling around in the truck.

I had kind of forgotten its was there until I was deep cleaning the truck this weekend. Judging by some of the contents, I have not been in it in a long time.

It wouldn’t offer any clues about what happened if I ended up dead in a crash.

But, I wonder what kind of clues it would give the first responders about me.

What scenario would they put together with this:

    A Little Debbie Fudge Round
    A basketball hand air pump
    A tiny bottle of Purell
    A strip of three Magnums1
    A bank deposit receipt for $523.00
    An eyeglass case2
    A photo of a friend of mine taken in bed3
    A set of two padlock keys4
    A jockstrap5
    One sock6
    Business card from a window salesman
    47 cents in loose change.
    iPod ear buds
    An unopened Christmas card postmarked 2011.

Who is this guy?


  1. The Attorney and I stopped using them long ago. 

  2. The Attorney’s 

  3. Not The Attorney. But nothing dirty. 

  4. No padlock. 

  5. Passed the sniff test for cleanliness. 

  6. Sniff test results inconclusive.