David Alan Dedin
Quick Links:
  • Home
  • BLOGS
  • The Beekman Place Novels
  • Reader's Reviews/Comments
  • Dave's Cartoons
  • Dave's Bio/Contact Info
  • Dave's Photos
  • Dave's Haunted House

The Hissing Cat: The Aftermath of IML

5/29/2013

1 Comment

 
Picture
The Chicago Marriott, May 25, 2013. It's kind of like looking down into Dante's "Inferno."
"The hissing cat stood in the center of the elevator doors, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike."

And now, here's the joke: "Most gay men have nothing but memories of their first boyfriend, 20 years ago.  But I still have the CAT he brought home."

Josie, my beloved cat, has been my constant companion for the past 20 years.  She's seen me through some of the darkest periods of my life, and I can't remember a time when she didn't go to sleep at my side - even when I treated her badly.  She was a mean cat.  Until the last few years, she hated almost everyone.  And she often hated me - her owner, the man who bought her catnip toys and gave her Fancy Feast for the last two decades.  I often reminded her of this very fact whenever she swatted my feet because I opened a flavor she didn't like…or just glared at me when I entered the room, as if to say: "Oh…it's YOU."

Josie inspired the opening sentence to Goodbye to Beekman Place, and she appears within the story, inside Janeane Lavinski's apartment.  She's the "face" of the elevator, the stylized logo of Radio World.  She also represents the metaphor of "a cat's many lives," and the reader sees her eyes within Frankie's own - when his human eyes change into cat's-eyes-slits, after a stiff whiskey & Coke.  I loved that little bitch.  And I genuinely felt grief tonight, when I had to put her down.

For the past three years, Josie has shrunk into a skeleton with fur.  Her life was reduced into my bedroom, the living room couch, the kitchen, and the litter box.  She slept, she ate, she shat, and she puked…and she became a very dirty cat.  She left a trail of fur, dander, and litter everywhere she walked.  And she pissed me off too many times to count, when she yack'd on my carpet - or on top of my freshly-laundered bedsheets.  

Jesus, those fuckin' shit-Tootsie-rolls on the carpet…

But again, she was my constant-companion.  She was always waiting for me, no matter how angry, drunk, or sad I was when I came home.  She always sat in the corner, staring at me.  She looked at me up and down and said, "So, what did you expect?  That's life.  Deal with it."  And tonight, when I realized that I couldn't keep her alive just because I was lonely, I finally understood what she really meant to me.

I will never, ever forget you, my baby girl…and your memory will be with me always.  You will always be alive within my vivid memory, and your death has finally made me understand the importance of human contact - and what I must mean to others.

Depression is "grief," and as stated in Goodbye to Beekman Place,  "grief is a cancer, hidden in daily routine."  But grief is just a symptom of a larger issue - an elevator that's trying to reach the real world.

Goodbye, my sweet Josie…and Goodbye to Beekman Place.

And hello to the potential of living life on my own…and to not being afraid of being alone, even when I reach next to me at night, and feel a hollow space beside me.
Picture
JOSIE: 1993 - 2013.
1 Comment

Meeting Other Leather Writers at IML

5/26/2013

1 Comment

 
Picture
Picture
Picture
So, it's 2am in the morning, and I'm sitting in the bar of the Hard Rock Cafe on Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago.  I'm staying a few hotels down, and the music here is deafening....but I'm enduring it because the Hard Rock is located in the Carbon & Carbide Tower - the building that inspired the Beekman Place Hotel.  It's also the only place in Chicago that's open.

I LOVE this building.  It's black and copper exterior is what I thought about when describing The Beekman Place Hotel.  I'll admit I'm disappointed with its crazy bar and horrible, horrible music, but at the same time, I'm happy the old Tower has found a new life.

IML has sucked so far, but not because of the event itself.  My "social anxiety" has been out of control, and I feel helpless with the chest pain, racing heart, and frustrating inability to talk to people.   Social anxiety reminds me of George Jetson - that scene where he's trying to merge onto a freeway full of traffic.  Crash, crash, crash before he gets in.  That's how I feel.  I keep trying and trying to break into a social situation, and every time I fail, it leaves others feeling awkward.  But I keep trying.  And eventually I succeed.

The Next Day
(I'm writing this on the train.)

So I passed out all my promotional copies of Goodbye to Beekman Place at the IML market today.  I went from vendor to vendor - sweating like I was having a stroke, and struggling to breathe through anxiety-driven chest pain - and somehow managed to introduce myself to about 40 different people.  After attempting to make small talk, I gave them free soft covers and e-books.  Most guys were flabbergasted, amazed that someone had taken the time to write a quality novel about "their" scene.   Several congratulated me, but I was so damn nervous, I barely remember what they said.  And once it was over, I couldn't get out of the host hotel fast enough.  

I genuinely love Chicago...obviously, I wrote a book about it.  But for as much as I love its history and architecture, I cannot stand the oceans of people.  I need my space.   I crave solitude.  Almost every medical source has the phrase "a need for social isolation" in describing schizotypal personality disorder.  Chicago on Memorial Day weekend is a SPD sufferer's worst nightmare: like Radio World, there are so many voices, it all becomes human static.  But it couldn't be avoided this year.  I had to promote my book.

I do want to give a special shout-out to authors Laura Antoniou and Vincent L Andrews.  Both had book-signings at the Marriott, and each took time to meet and greet their readers - and talk to me.  Andrews had the better food spread (including a cash bar) but Antoniou was hysterical - clearly a skilled public speaker.  Both read passages from their books.  Andrews' was so sexual, I noticed that the man sitting next to me was rubbing his crotch.  Antoniou on the other hand had to pause for laughter after each paragraph.  I'm not saying that one writer was better than the other, but the two clearly catered to different audiences.  

Btw, if you're begging for change on Michigan Ave, nobody's going to give you a dime if you're texting on a smartphone.
1 Comment

The Sociopath Next Door

5/23/2013

1 Comment

 
Picture


Picture
I live in a 110-year-old Queen Anne house, on the corner of two picturesque streets in one of Aurora's historic neighborhoods.  My house is meticulous  both inside & out, and my grass is - literally - green enough to be used in a Scott's ad.  My flowerbed is spectacular, as are the nine brilliant-red hanging geraniums on my porch.  And did I mention that it's a covered, wraparound porch?  With white wicker furniture and a fern on the table?  

Seriously, with the exception of the frequent gay men smoking outside (in my matching wicker rocking chairs),  my place looks like a goddamn Norman Rockwell painting.


Picture
With all that in mind, I was standing in my basement dungeon this morning, trying to decide what I should take to IML.  And by "basement dungeon," I mean the room that I keep locked to prevent my roommates' friends/family from accidentally finding my leather gear.  Actually, the entire basement is a dungeon, with eye-bolts hidden everywhere - from ceilings to baseboards.  The house's old cistern (a small cement "cavern," hidden behind the stairs) has been converted into a holding cell.  Forget Christian Grey…I'm a goddamn suspect on Criminal Minds.  Especially for those who notice that all the track lights (in the room where I keep my home-improvement tools) are red.

This is the first year that I'm actually staying in a hotel for IML.  I won't be at he host-hotels (waaaaaaaaaay too many people for an alcoholic with an anxiety disorder), but I am staying nearby.  So, this is also the first year that I've had to pack a suitcase for the event, and I cant help but feel like a predator.  Socks, check.  Skivvies, check.  Restraints, rope, and leather hood...check, check, and check!


Picture
Seriously though, I never attend IML to "hook up."  I usually go for the spectacle, and the feeling of camaraderie that comes from being surrounded by leathermen.  It's also a great chance to meet guys from out of town (and out of state) whom I've met through social media - and more recently, through my website.  But this year is different: I have an agenda.  My plan is to introduce myself to as many potential readers as possible, passing out free softcover & electronic copies of Goodbye to Beekman Place.  I'm excited, but also terrified.   I'm packing Xanax as I speak.

Another thing that's different this year is that this will be my first IML in a decade where I'll be attending the event alone.  Sure, I have plans to meet up with friends here & there, but I'm single this year - no strings, so to speak - and I can't help but look at IML with the eyes of possibility.  And I DON'T mean the possibility of finding a partner, but rather, the readers' possibility - and the fact that Goodbye to Beekman Place marks the beginning of what I hope to be a fulfilling writing career in the second half of my life.  

The men at IML are more than just my target audience; they're my core audience, and I sincerely look forward to meeting each and every one of them.


1 Comment

The Hideous Songs of the Horrible 1970s

5/17/2013

2 Comments

 
Picture
Picture
Enter Barry Manilow: "I write the songs that make the whole world cringe.  I write the songs that make bulimics binge.  Recovered drug addicts go back to the syringe.  I write the songs, I write the songs."

Picture
Enter Karen Carpenter:  "I was looking at myself and feeling fat.  My jeans don't seem to fit. I take Ex Lax to make me shit.  Walking around, a bulimic clown.  I eat my food but never keep it down."

"Oh, what I was they used to call obese.  My friends all say grow up.  I'd say, why not just throw up?  I was fat, but now I'm thin!  I'm a living skeleton!  Why take qualudes when you've got Dexitrin..."

(Big finish:). "Walking around, a bulimic clown, rainy days and Mondays always get me dowwwwwwwwwn!"


Picture
Enter Carley Simon: "You walked innnnn to the night club...like you were walking onto a yacht.  Your hair strategically spritzed into a coif...the color: L'oreal Apricot."

"You had one eye in the mirror as you vogued a strange govat.  And, all the boys, dreamed that they'd be your partner...they'd be your partner, cuz -

"You'rrrrrrrre so gay.  You probably think this song is a dance mix."
"You're so gay!"


(So gay!)

"I'll bet you think this song is a dance mix, don't you?"
"Don't you?"
"Dont you?"


2 Comments

Sleepless In Chicago

5/17/2013

1 Comment

 
Picture
Picture
Picture
So, I'm laying in bed at 4am this morning when I realize that someone is playing classical music.  It's a soft sound, coming through the window from own the street, and in a neighborhood more noted for kill-all-the-white-people hip-hop/mariachi, the music was…unexpected.  

The birds, the dark, and the cool morning air added to the surreal experience - and ensured that I would not be going back to sleep before my 5am alarm.  There was just enough light for me to see the bedroom.  My bed was a restless mess, balls of blankets, sheets, and wads of snotty Kleenex from the tail-end of a cold.  I felt…old.  Especially as my T-shirt had worked its way up my chest during the night, and once I stood up, I had to pull it back down over my belly.  My cat watched me from the corner, unsure if I was up to piss or up to feed her.  As luck would have it, I was up for both.


Picture
A friend got out of rehab yesterday, and we texted several times throughout the day.  He's a nice guy - someone I'd considered dating at one time - but I backed away fast when I realized the extent of his alcoholism, something that hit me too close to home.  I didn't ask many questions.  I imagined that his detox was similar to my psych-ward stay a few years back.  I did ask him though if he wanted to go with me to IML next week…specifically to the "Leather Recovery" meetings.  He said that he would, but in the spirit of full disclosure, he was celebrating his sobriety by doing shots of Jack.  I was reminded of last week's episode of Elementary, where Sherlock was playing quarters with AA coins.  I was glad that we were texting, rather than talking face-to-face.

Picture
I've been doing a sort of "Sleepless in Seattle" thing this week with a dude who lives in Texas.  He works for one of the area's gay leather bars, and he responded to a postcard I'd sent, promoting Goodbye to Beekman Place.  At first we spoke through Recon, then later on YIM.  On paper the guy sounds like a solid match for me, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit to imagining, "what if...?"   But again he's in Texas - a long drive from Chicago.  Murphy's law, he's one of the few guys from his club who's not traveling to IML next week, so meeting him at the Marriott won't be an option.  "Someone has to watch the store," he chuckled.  "And it's always the boys who get left behind."  

On a completely unrelated note, my roommate caught me masturbating yesterday.  Yeah, I know, I should have opened with that line, but as the first few paragraphs of these blogs tend to get posted on social sites, I figured I'd better leave it for the end.

Annnnnnnnd, there goes my alarm.


1 Comment

Starting at the End

5/11/2013

1 Comment

 
You know you're a writer when you can't even write a suicide note without stopping midway through and thinking, "Damn.  This would be a great way to start a book!"

I know, I know...I should probably explain.

I live in a pretty nice house, a late Queen Anne in a well-kept neighborhood.  I share the place with two gay renters - guys I described in my blog, "The Stoner, The Psycho, The Trick, and The Drunk."  We're like that TV series, The Young Ones.  Only we're gay.  And we have  geraniums.  And we also have a two-to-one vacuum-cleaner-to-human-being ratio, and the best bed of inpatients on the block.  Probably from all the cigarette ashes.

Renting two rooms in my primary residence has a duo-purpose for me.  The first one, obviously, is that I get a few extra bucks towards the mortgage/bills each month...but the second reason is far more important.  I'm a loner by nature, often antisocial.  And when you throw in both diagnosed personality & anxiety disorders, I rarely leave the house when not working.  I'm a hermit who finds comfort within social isolation...but I'm also smart enough to know that some human contact is needed.  For that reason, I have renters to talk to...rather than just talking to myself.

But for a gay man in his 40s, tenants carry an emotional price.  I considered that cost today, when one of my roommates invited a buddy over for the weekend - a guy I learned was an ex-con, a good-looking meth user...and currently, a prostitute.  The dude wasn't hookin' at my house (and if he was, he clearly wasn't a good prostitute), but the fact remained that in a roundabout way, the escort was in my living room because I was lonely...and that made me feel even lonelier.

Especially when I learned that he had HIV.

You know, I really try to keep my blogs both funny & upbeat, and I apologize if this one's a downer.  I've been thinking a lot about loneliness lately, and how much I envy those who've never known depression...and who don't rent rooms in their house, just to have a buddy.

Life would be so much easier if I had "partnered up" in my 20s like most people.  I see folks now on FaceBook - high school acquaintances & buds from previous jobs - and I'm jealous with how much they've accomplished in 25 years, with their houses, kids, careers, and family.  I imagine what it must be like, to have someone I love waiting at home for me. I imagine what it would be like to share household duties and expenses…and to have a partner who accepts me for exactly what I am.  I'm a drunk.  I'm a writer.  And I'm a a compulsively-clean, sexually-deviant geek.  What fun, what fun, and what an incredible fantasy.  And what a total load of crap, within the reality of real life. 

Writing is the only thing that keeps me alive, and Goodbye to Beekman Place is an incredibly flawed story.  It communicates the fear that I have in dealing with the (real) world, and its story confronts those things that make me sad…the loneliness & despair that come from renting to guys whose best friends are hookers.  I'm ashamed of my life.  I'm ashamed of not yet reaching my potential.  And more than anything, I'm ashamed of writing about depression…and the sadness that comes from wanting a normal life.

No worries.

I'll write about all that in The Casual Cafe.
 
1 Comment

    Dave's
    Blog
    Archive

    2013 - 2018

    A Gay Man's Life in the Suburbs - and Beyond.

    October 2018
    September 2018
    February 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013

  • Sir Dave's Blog
  • Dave's Blog Archive
  • God's Message to Humanity
  • Book ONE: Goodbye to Beekman Place >
    • GTBP Info Page >
      • GTBP Visual Metaphors
      • GTBP Sample Chapters
      • Beekman's Playlist
  • Book TWO: The Saturday Night Everlasting >
    • TSNE Info Page >
      • TSNE Sample Chapters
      • TSNE Playlist
  • Book THREE: When People Go Away >
    • WPGA Sample Chapters
    • WPGA Playlist
  • Dave's Bio/Contact Info
  • Dave's Retail/Food Service Resume