I’ve so far spent six months in Los Angeles, taking in all the newness of the landscape. And I’ve ended up back home in Albuquerque for most of the summer. I was talking to my friend Heather yesterday and we had the following conversation:

Heather: I really love Albuquerque, but there’s no beach.
Phil: We may not have water, but we do have dirt.
Heather: There’s a lot that.
Phil: And dammit, when I’m away from it, I miss my dirt. Every time I fly home I get so excited to see the brown.

There’s a running joke that I fear only native Albuquerquians understand. It’s sort of a joke about our special desert vegetation, which in its most natural state lacks many popular flowering plants. The joke goes something like this, starting first with a surprisingly common, yet innocuous, question:

Outsider: Does New Mexico have a state flower?
Albuquerquian: Sure. It’s the Orange Barrel.

Being away from the city for as long as I’d been, I completely forgot just how much roadwork can hit this place. First, spring hits in early April, and trees start to bloom. Next comes the inevitable “unforeseen” winter storm that freezes all the buds on the trees and drops a few inches of snow. And then it jumps right into summer, which means that it’s prime time to work on the roads. Construction springs up, simultaneously, on every other major road in the city. Sort of to the point that whenever you discover new roadblocks, you can rest assured that whatever alternative route you find offers a 95% probability of road construction of its own.

I was out driving today and was fortunate enough to have my camera handy when I discovered a classic setup of construction materials. Given that it’s the height of summer, the orange and white beauties are in full bloom. See below.

I’m not entirely sure what the proper term is for these puppies, but they’re obviously a close cousin to the classic orange barrel New Mexico State Flower, and they’re all over the place here. Cheers to summer!

In order to be fabulously gay, you must, as a general rule, love shopping. Over the past week or so, I’ve noticed a pretty huge change in my shopping addictions. I realized the other day that my favorite shopping, at this very moment in time, is grocery shopping. And I was kinda taken by surprise.

Robert pointed out the other day, after we got home from the grocery, that the refrigerator was so full that we hardly had room for anything we had just bought. When I opened the refrigerator door just ten minutes ago, it was all I could do to keep things from falling out. There’s just no way for me to express how happy this makes me.

In part, I think our newfound love of shopping for food comes from our recent hospital visits. During those visits, we had to wander around and raid refrigerators in the hopes of finding something to snack on. There’s generally very little to choose from. There’s only so many times you can make a meal of a turkey sandwich and jello. And by so many times, I mean once. Other than that, there’s the hospital meals, which while not bad, are not exactly offered to you via an expansive menu. No, you get that chopped meatloaf and by golly you will love it!

Hence, I’ve felt compelled to make sure we have maximum variety in the house. And I’ve been cooking up a storm. Sort of to the point that as soon as we’re done with one meal, I’m already thinking about what to make for the next one. This is a domestic side of myself that I’ve only every before seen when it’s exam time in grad school, because avoiding studying is amazing motivation for cooking something massively complicated.

I’ve also taken to convincing Robert that a trip to the grocery is, among other things, good exercise, especially because it promotes healing via normal activity. And because we both love food, a trip to get milk usually turns into a trip to also get tortillas, Gatorade, green chile, hash browns, eggs, and maybe some cookies. If you’re New Mexican and just read that short list, you’ll probably note that I’ve totally been making my own breakfast burritos (a.k.a. the New Mexican version of heaven, in a tortilla). Seriously. Breakfast time is approximately eight hours away from this very moment, and I’m already salivating over the yumminess that awaits me.

Could it be that someone finally recognized that right-wing groups, mainly run by unattractive people who clearly have unhappy sex lives, are but a few people sending out a huge number of complaints on “behalf” of their “followers” who don’t actually care enough to be bothered to make the complaint themselves? So it would seem.

It’s been more than four years since the Super Bowl-watching world was scarred not so much by Janet Jackson’s less-than-attractive boob, but by the awful sun pendant nipple decoration she was sporting when she and Justin Timberlake decided they’d start the foreplay of their spicy romance in front of millions of people instead of the privacy of their hotel room.

CNN reports the following:

In court filing, the FCC said the network received more than 542,000 complaints — an “unprecedented” number. But CBS disputed the number of and significance of complaints, claiming that 85 percent of them came from form letters generated by well-organized single-interest groups.

All those undersexed conservatives worked really hard together, as a team, and got the FCC to slap a fine onto CBS to the tune of about $1.00 per complaint. Then it took the court four years to determine that, wait, CBS wasn’t responsible for the on-stage fetishes of two pop singers. Or at least, it can’t be proven. And besides, if all the complaint letters look the same, it’s maybe a little suspicious. Like, maybe only FIVE people cared. And so the case gets thrown out and CBS gets to keep their money.

I doubt any of the big conservative groups will even make the slightest fuss. They had their “victory” when they wanted it, and now they have bigger fish to fry. The current battle is to keep us homosexuals from getting legal recognition for the partnerships we already form anyway.

I keep waiting for the day the term “sodomy” gets used more regularly by these whacko groups, mostly because it’s also got a heterosexual counterpart. Let’s just say I just want to see the look on James Dobson’s face when a ballsy reporter asks him if his wife has ever given him a blowjob.

It started out as one of those occasional catches of the eye. The kind where you make eye contact and some sense of familiarity is sparked, but usually as just a reminder of someone you knew in the past, nothing absolute. It’s meant to end there. Except in rare cases in which the opposing party decides to say “hey stranger” and move in for the kill.

At the time, I had no idea where I knew her from, and I was more than happy to keep it that way. After all, I wasn’t the one who went rushing up to hug me. I knew enough to know that if I only barely recognized the face, there was little point in trying to figure out where we knew each other from, much less try to catch up on the six or eight years it’s been since we’d last seen each other. My thought: if I don’t remember you well, I probably never knew you well.

Relief swept over me when her name was called to go into the clinic. Only she clawed viciously against the poor nurse and shouted her phone number to me and told me to call her. “I can’t hear you” was what I said as the door closed, and peace resumed in my little world once again.

Five minutes passed. A door opened and a nurse approached me. She handed me a piece of paper, upon which was scrawled a name and a phone number. Meghann.

As the day has drawn onward, the events have replayed themselves in my head. Images of high school have flashed before my eyes. Remembering events and faces I’d long ago put behind me, perfectly content to let them lie. And with all these memories, the face from the doctor’s office returns. Ah yes, I remember her well. Walking along the hallways before math class, and hearing her blather on about stories about her ROTC buddies and her girlfriends.

So much of my life has changed since those days, and suddenly I’m reminded of just how little I miss that time in my life. The phone number will remain on that paper, in all likelihood never to be dialed. So good to see you, but our brief contact will suffice. I’m very happy to let chance dictate our next encounter, rather than voluntarily make that happen. Until next time…

Murphy’s Law states that if something can go wrong, it will go wrong. I would like to create a variation of this law that states, “If you take a trip home and don’t tell your folks, you will see them everywhere you go.” I think I’ll call it something catchy like Phil’s Law.

During my last trip here, I had a chance to visit my folks. During said visit, I was greeted with excitement, followed immediately by accusation (in very large quantities, mostly about the gay thing “changing me” somehow). Having spent a good deal of my life fielding disparaging commentary from them, I’ve generally decided that opting out of their company is a good thing.

Hence, because this trip was so last-minute and for a purpose they could never understand because it wasn’t on account of them that I returned, I accidentally failed to inform them that I’d be in town. And lo and behold, the first day after I’d flown in, who do I see walking right in front of us as we’re driving through the grocery parking lot? Hi, mom. And then, when we make a quick trip to the hospital pharmacy yesterday… Hi, brother.

Thus far it’s been entirely visual contact, and only on my behalf. It’s interesting because I know if a point of contact is actually made, I’ll be forever branded a criminal in their eyes. And who doesn’t want to have a little more diversity added to their résumé?

I’ve been in Albuquerque since Thursday. Having been back in LA for a week, which was basically enough time for me to move and sort of reestablish myself, I decided I still needed more time away. That, and my partner had to go back in for surgery again.

Friday was the big day. In other words, the beginning of a whole lot of sitting on my ass. There’s the waiting before, then the waiting during, followed by the waiting after (during recovery), and of course the waiting to leave. It’s taken a few days, but my ass is rebelling considerably less now than it was on Saturday. I guess that’s what I get for sleeping in a chair Friday night, but there’s no question that it was worth it.

One of the best parts of our one-night stay in the hospital was watching Robert wander the ward in search of chocolate. During our last stay in June, we managed to score chocolate ice cream. Riding on the wings of that success, as soon as the man was able to, he was up to walk around and on a mission to find the chocolate. Only to learn, though, that the nurses of our little realm scorned chocolate as bad for you, and instead encouraged patients to stick to vanilla or strawberry as they are more “healthy.” BULLSHIT, I SAY. Chocolate is every bit as fabulous for you, if not more. And besides, it’s ice cream, people. Oh, and just for the record, dark chocolate really can be good for you, even beyond the obvious psychological benefits.

We never did find that elusive chocolate ice cream, but fortunately the vanilla was crazy outstanding. Oh, all right; so was the strawberry. And, we did manage to find Carnation chocolate instant breakfast drinks. And since it was chocolate over breakfast, it fit the bill. Which leads me to the conclusion that chocolate, be it the act of devouring it or just searching desperately for it, is quite possibly the key to a speedy recovery and a better overall hospital stay. Trust me.

*Evidently I misspelled “chocolate” in the title originally. I’d spelled it “choLOClate.” Obviously the result of not getting enough chocolate in my diet.

The not-so-fun part of moving out of a place you hate is that you still have to deal with clinically psychotic people even after you’re gone. Since moving into my new place a little over a week ago, I feel like a completely different person. I didn’t realize the depth of the loathing I felt for the previous house, and I notice now that for the first time in my life, I know what it’s like to truly detest another human being.

In order to find out if I would be getting my deposit money back this week, I took it upon myself to call my former landlord on Monday. She didn’t return my call, so I called her again on Tuesday. Still no answer. So I proceeded to call her once or twice every hour or so for the rest of the day. She didn’t call me back until Wednesday afternoon. The good news: she sent the check in the mail yesterday (even though I offered to go to the house and pick it up in person, to save her the hassle of mailing it). The lame news: she knocked off $150 from the deposit. In the six months I lived there, I apparently necessitated a steam cleaning of the carpet, a few spots on the wall that needed repainting, and a “deep cleaning” of the bathroom. I had cleaned everything completely when I moved out, but I was sort of expecting the cleaning issue from the bitch; I knew that no matter how clean I felt the place was, she would use her microscopic vision declare that there were air molecules all over the place.

I’m occasionally told that I’m way too nice, and that I need to take a stand during a time such as this. I nearly did, but I stopped myself before I got started. Here’s why:

• My former landlord is insane. And evil. When I tried to use reason and intelligence to explain the concept of homophobia to my folks, I failed to get very far. From that, I learned that trying to rationalize with anyone who is irrational is pretty much a waste of breath. I concluded that, were I to argue my case, evil landlady would stop payment on the check and offer me even less money back. Hence, I concluded that I should take the money and run.

• Arguing my case would have meant talking to her more. I discovered that when you hate someone that much, the sooner you stop talking to that someone, the better off you are. I’m burning inside to just verbally rip her to shreds, but if I did, that might force me to have to deal with her more in the future, which is the last thing I want. At least now I know what crazy looks like, I’ll be better able to avoid it in the future.

And in the unlikely event that I ever happen to run into her at some point in the future, I’ll do the only sensible thing I can do: punch her in the face. But in the meantime, I’m far too busy basking in the glory that is freedom to live. As soon as that check arrives and I’ve got it in the bank, I’m declaring ‘case closed’ to this roommate nightmare. Ahhhh….

My temperature is now solidly above 98.6. I have a fever. Of Olympic proportions. A mere month from now, the 2008 Olympics will begin in Beijing. Even four years ago, I didn’t realize the Olympics were even happening until they were more than half-way over.

Not so this year. Here I am, practically counting down the days until they begin, because I fully intend to at least try following a few favorite events. I’m currently lacking a television, but fortunately, technology is fabulous. There’s an amazing website called www.nbcolympics.com. I say that it’s amazing because it has videos* posted from pretty much every event imaginable.

The two events I’m following closely: swimming and diving. I follow these two mostly because I grew up swimming on a local summer league my whole life. Which you can take to mean that they’re pretty much the only two events that I really understand. As in, it’s not work for me to follow it. Sure, I marvel at how well the commentators notice the subtleties of those damn entries from the dives WHILE the dive is happening, but I suppose since I’m not one of the guys doing the talking, it doesn’t much matter.

*I’m staunchly anti- anything Microsoft. Especially if the words “media” and “player” are followed by the “microsoft.” But, I do have to give them props for a plug-in called Silverlight, which works ten million times better than Media Player ever did. So, much as I hate to admit it, kudos to the big MS for that one.

I broke down and bought a new phone today. One with extravagant features, of which I’m fairly positive I’ll use only 10% or so. My old phone had finally had it. Both little screens were suddenly shorting out on me, and there’s only so many times you can bitch-slap a phone and get it to come back to life for you.

I hadn’t realized beforehand that this event would itself be an epic tale to behold. Sure I dragged my feet and held off for as long as possible, but when my phone finally went belly up and flipped me the finger on its little digital display, I figured it was time to move on.

I did a bit of research beforehand just to make sure I knew what I wanted before anyone tried to sell me anything. To which I’m now saying, ‘Great, Phil. You spent an hour learning about this shit at home only to go to the store and have to wait two hours before you could actually go through with it. Now that’s time well spent.’

And all the while I had to deal with this crazy Verizon welcome woman, probably in her 40s, who had gotten it into her head that a low-cut spaghetti strap black top covered in white polka dots was perfectly acceptable attire for work, so long as it was covered by a see-through outer top of similarly disgusting fabric that, even as a second layer, failed to conceal her bra. Then there was the punk 10-year-old who accidentally jumped into the family pool with his phone in his pocket, so as a reward his dad bought him a brand new Voyager. Sure, I got the same phone, but I’m not the one hasn’t even started sixth grade. Oh, and the jerk kid wore his faux-kleys inside the store the whole time. Bitch, you’re not fifteen yet.

I spent the better part of this evening attempting to further organize my new residence in an effort to make it more homey. I don’t pretend to understand the complex ecosystem that is my little house, but it’s become apparent to me that I am anything but living alone here. Good thing I’m good at sharing.

What I’m not good at sharing, however, is kitchen cabinet space. Especially when that which wants to go in halfsies on the space is an eight-legged monster with a cigarette butt in its mouth and a gun holstered to its hips. Blame for this nefarious roommate lies with the former tenant, who preferred to grow illegal plants in the house rather than ever actually bothering to clean the place.

Even after my awesome new landlord had come in and completely redone the place, I’ve been having to clean and re-clean various areas. Today I attacked the lower cabinets underneath the kitchen counter. While innocently scrubbing away dirt and filth from one lowermost shelf, the hand doing all the scrubbing encountered something light and fluffy. “Oh, cobwebs,” I thought to myself. Only when I looked down I saw not a single strand of web. Oh no, I saw a fucking Six Flags amusement park. With only one guy around to ride any of the attractions.

Spider webs are fine and good, unless they’re where you want to put your dishes. Luckily for me, Renee has been recounting her new camp experiences, and I was able to harken back to my own. That is to say, I realized that a very effective way to rid yourself of cobwebs is to use a broom. And as luck would have it, I only just purchased a new broom this afternoon! So out came the broom, in it went into the cabinet, and after a few swishy swishies, out came the spider web.

The spider, unfortunately, remained. But now it was all alone, and it was nothing a little sneaker action couldn’t handle. Luckily, it was a lone ranger spider (I could tell because of it was light brown with a single dark stripe on its body), and after that all seemed fine and dandy.

Lest I be leading you on with how macho this sounds, this whole debacle by no means butch. Unless butch consists of yelping in surprise and leaping backwards onto the floor as soon as I felt the spiderweb touch the hairs on my arm. Because if that’s the case, then I was fucking Superman.

I’m thinking that it may be about time I consider spraying this place for bugs. After the mess it went through before, it certainly couldn’t hurt anything. Until then, at least Superman has his broom.