Sharing an open letter to my favorite bar tenders, servers, convenience store clerks and friends:

I'm sorry.

I know you never depended on me, but it was always a pleasure, wasn't it? We had lots of great times, especially after my third or fourth Manhattan and got a little louder, when I tipped 100%, when I stumbled out the door. You were always happy to see me, and you saw me often. You were always good to me. The drinks you poured me were always strong, my wine glass was never empty, and you never looked at me like I was crazy when I ordered the third pitcher. With you, I was always at least okay.

I'm sorry, but we have to separate. It's not you, it's my weak body and poor judgement, it's my bleeding stomach and my having tired of being constantly hungover or working on my next hangover. You'll say I just need to cut back for a while. You'll advise moderation. I have never known moderation. I always lose at the "betcha can't have just one" challenge.

I still love you, but I no longer want to need you. Maybe we can be friends, one day, but you won't see me for a while.

Sharing the street with Kimi, Walla Walla's Next Top Model final showdown

A blog in pictures.

Sharing movies, ideas, and an apartment.

I would like to share some sordid items from the week.

- I'm not exactly pissed at my mom, like I should be, for wanting to see my grandmother peacefully at rest. After some thinking, I realized that the truth is that I agree with her. It isn't that I want her to die, but that she might be better off, and perhaps it was this subtlety that I missed when my mother repeatedly conveyed her opinion. And, after all, my mother is one of the only two people who are constantly at my grandmother's side. It is not for lack of love or care or compassion or anything else. It may be for an abundance.

- I picked up a new roommate, which couldn't be more ideal. I don't see that much of her (which is only ideal in terms of privacy and maintaining the status quo), and she's clean and respectful. Best of all, we've enjoyed living together before. Now we just need to start kicking each others' asses about getting to the gym.

- Speaking of the gym, I was on a two week hiatus when at first I rediscovered my love of running, then became injured, and then briefly sedentary. I left weight training behind but plan to ease back into it. Today I tried cycling, but I wasn't comfortable with the motion at the reps needed to get to my target heart rate. I'll get on the elliptical again tomorrow, and while I think it may be equally lame (go ahead, read into that use), It might be better than the bike while I continue to be injured. My fitness goals are currently simple: I want to drop some pounds, work on my shoulders, chest, arms and abs. I'm not worried about chicken legs: I already have somewhat well-developed below-the-waist musculature (please, read into this, too), and I can become more comprehensive when the upper half is all caught up. Weigh-in today has me down to 176.5lbs, hoping for 169.

- I'm totally absorbed in a work of fiction which I find strange but totally acceptable. I'm reading Waugh's Brideshead Revisited. I became interested in it after I fell asleep through the 2008 film adapted from the book. The movie was immediately intriguing but then got really boring (and it was late), which made me think it might be a beautifully written book, which make the most seriously boring movies (i.e. Brokeback Mountain, The Hours). I'm rediscovering my independent desire to pay attention to and analyze imagery and thematic elements. Also, it is a perfect novel for a queer reading. I'm worried that Waugh has an agenda with which I will soon take exception, but until then, I'm getting ideas for my own work and a renewed desire for more fiction. It is very likely that I will pick up Anna Karenina again.

Brideshead is about the love affair between a young middle class man and a young aristocrat who meet at Oxford during the inter-war period. The novel has taken a turn in the second third to very deftly describe the effects and causes of alcoholism. Waugh would have been very aware of the clinicization of alcohol abuse (i.e. the emergence of the alcoholic, the diagnosis), but seems to be somewhat careful to address the topic in its context, which is very appropriate for the novel - we see into the reasons the character is drawn to drink, and alcohol itself is an important thematic element. It has become very horrifying, and I'm sort of drawn away from drinking for a while.

- Finally, I discovered this weekend that I don't know what to do with time off. I got a little bored this weekend with three days off in a row. I was able to pack a lot in on the 4th, but I only used about half the day on Sunday, and yesterday I did almost nothing at all (but read and watch movies, alone). The next time I anticipate some time off, I'll do meticulous planning. It isn't that enjoying time alone is a waste of time, it's just that I could feel more accomplished and well rested now, on the other side of this lot of time.

Sharing life, over-sharing about death

Pictured above is me with the woman who repeatedly expressed in a round-about way that her mother-in-law, my grandmother, would be better off dead.

But this is only the beginning of my journey, which started on Saturday.

I arrived at DIA around 11:30, hoping for a quick shuttle ride to the hotel which turned into an hour's ride. At the Brown Palace, a colorful historic hotel in downtown Denver, I found an extremely charming hotel with great room service. They brought me a burger and a bottle of wine promptly, and I was very happy. I decided that, since I was alone it wouldn't hurt to have a cigarette, but after a half hour of searching, there was none to be found, and I'm still on-track. I slept well, took a nice long bath, posted a blog at a coffee shop, and then Richard arrived.

Richard and I had lunch, and after beer two I noticed the altitude. We continued onto a very charming wine bar, where we had a flight of sparklers and a (very generously poured) glass of pinot noir. We rushed to the wedding, which was lovely, perfect, and very very fun. We ditched early and went to JR's, on the eve on Denver's gay pride festival. Suffice it to say, it was a scene, thus crowded, thus boring.

The next morning we got room service (paid the bill, OMG, I know how to spend!), took our time, and caught a bit of the parade, then drove to the Springs, and that's where things began to be interesting.

My mom greeted me at the house. It was great to see the dogs, the house was beautiful, and the weather was perfect. Everything was shaping up to be perfect. We went to lunch and shared sandwiches, and I began to realize what my mother was needing, namely an uninvolved party to which she could vent.

You see, my grandmother had open-heart surgery three weeks ago, after which she suffered a stroke. Before the surgery, she was on oxygen therapy but was otherwise okay - she could talk, sit upright, talk and go about her business - doing the things she always does like watching TV, sitting and complaining. The events that unfolded leading up to and after the surgery (originally scheduled for early May) produced an invalid, unable to speak or precisely communicate. Over lunch, on the eve of my reunion with Grandma, my mother laid out the profundity of her injuries and the severity of the whole situation. Before I'd seen the ailing woman, my mother said in not-so-many words that my grandmother should never have had the surgery, and basically that she should be dead now, not half way there. I had to see for myself. Having to on account of curiosity, yes, but a real necessity. Deathbed shit.

At the care unit I did not recognize the woman. Perhaps I did not want to recognize her, a tuft of grey hair, one half of her body dead and swollen, eyes barely open. A hole in her throat allowed her to breath. When she did look, it was with terror, a muted cry for help. She squeezed my hand and nodded, but I could not understand her. I never could, Grandma and I never connected over anything save onions which, as it is now, she cannot even eat. I kissed her forehead, an action foreign to me, and I talked as much as I could. What do you say? "You look like shit my mother thinks you're better off dead"?

Back at the house, we are welcomed by the news that my father is stranded hundreds of miles away, too stubborn to have refilled the oil in the car. I decide to go for a run. I run over 6 miles, get rained on, and when I return home, my dad has reportedly run into some relatives who are bringing him back. One more tragedy, averted. I help my mom with her computer, then we head to dinner.

The original location for dinner is blocked by some biker festival, and we quickly relocate. I'm pissed, but stay cool.

Dinner, which would have originally been for 6 becomes 13, me, my sister and her husband, Mom and Dad, Grandpa and his "girlfriend" Becky (who never sees him unless we bring them together, he doesn't really care for her anymore), Tio Chito, his son and daughter-in-law, and their three children. Grandma becomes lost in the pursuit of reconnection, and we finish out the evening with dominos. I didn't think I'd had enough to drink.

The next morning, I go for breakfast with my mom, and again over a meal, she drops an insensitive bomb. "By the time all this is over it will cost more than she ever made in her life!" I wonder, out loud, if people who can afford care should receive it based on that merit alone. Of course, she agrees, but then her point becomes clear. Two-thirds of US healthcare costs go to end-of-life care. Damn, Mom, you're right. I guess my grandmother is better off dead. Unfortunately, that is not the right thing to say.

She's up, then sleeping, seeing out of half of her face. I saw her again in the morning, and I really thought she was doing better, but maybe I was just being helpful. I told her to behave. She nodded. I said "this isn't fun, is it?" and she shook her head. My mom is right and wrong. This situation should never have come to pass, but when it's my damn grandma, I won't quite consent to pulling the plug. My own mother, on the other hand - as we rode the elevator to the ground floor where we took the above picture says, "if I ever get that way, I want you to smother me with a pillow" - I'll know what to do.

Sharing dirt with a city

Perhaps it is me. The city looks like anger and dispair. Freaks look me in the eye and faggots avoid me. The air smells like cigarette smoke, farts, and unrequited threesomes. There is no sense of hope, just a vague suggestion of the lack of salvation.

Denver will save me, unlike any other city. There is no room for regret. Love, taste, divinity, these are my modus, I have yet to find my operandi.

Sharing the street in Denver or, what to do in Denver when you're alone [dead]

The tourists here are extremely distinguishable. Denver types are so healthy and go dashing about in running gear or hiking books, with gym bags for brief cases. Or maybe it's just Saturday. The tourists, on the other hand, look like the people who trapped me on the connecting flight from Spokane yesterday: overweight, impatient, stressed-out, red-in-the-face, slightly angry.

I'm trying to strike a balance. I brought every piece of requisite health-nut three piece suit, running shoes, shorts, and a thin, ratty t-shirt, iPod instead of cufflinks and sweat band instead of tie. Not appropriate unless I should be spotted actually running. I couldn't look unhealthy if I tried, owing to the beginnings of a summer tan and my general cardiovascular well-being. Perhaps if I had the money for it I could carry an arm-full or two of shopping bags signaling an unhealthy addiction to credit or poor taste.

Whatever I would have to do to blend in here, I'm not willing to do it: it serves as further evidence that I do not belong in Colorado. I deserve the choice to blend in or stand out. I'm willing to claim this as a right.

[In a somewhat related note which needs less than a full blog-post of exploration, a friend with whom I am often spotted out decided that we need great disguises. We are far too popular to have a relaxed, uninterrupted evening.]

Sharing good-byes

Farewell, James Guzman.

You were undoubtedly the proudest Indian I ever met. You always had something to say, which was neither wise nor made sense, but was usually miraculously uplifting. Whenever I though I had a hard row to hoe, James, you came in and talked about drug addiction and shitty people and disappointment with a sort of cheery tone that made me forget that I was upset in the first place.

I also realize that you never complained. Ever. Things happen. People disappoint. Shit happens. It is the relentless flow of life that keeps coming, and there are two major choices: the bank or the swim upstream. James, you have chosen the swim, and I have extreme admiration for you.

With you gone, I'll have to learn to complain less, love more, and just learn from my frustration, otherwise your absence will be hard felt.

Sharing disappointment

"Michael was fun - until he stopped drinking!"

Laughter.

And that's how I feel. Except I didn't stop drinking, and no one said that.

But the first Saturday night out without occasional smoke breaks was a nightmare. Everything was otherwise the same. We sang the same songs, drank the same drinks, were surprised, saw all types, table sang - even Rex was there, perhaps the most fun person ever.

Something was missing, like I had otherwise been taking a bubble bath that this week was drained.

The whole day was like this, really. I got plenty of sleep, came to orgasm with a man in my bed around 10:30, and was not hungover or dehydrated or malnourished. Well, I take it back. I could have been dehydrated.

I really need to find someone that enjoys having me around without smoke breaks. As it is, my friends don't notice, probably because they were so used to me before. This struggle is inside. Maybe I need another stupid haircut.

Kimberly said, "You can have one."

I was better at fitting in when I smoked. I was sexier. I was happy then.

Sharing technology

This week, as a preemptive award for smoking cessation, I treated myself to a much needed new Macbook. This is my first Mac with a built in camera, which at first I thought would be a useless accessory.

That was until I got the idea to video chat with my family. My mom has a similar laptop, and it is the natural destination of our technological journey. In the school year of '02-'03, I relied heavily on a calling card, a series of 20 some numbers, then the phone number, every time I wanted to call anywhere out of the county. Two years later, I had my own cell phone, but lacked texting capability. In July of '08, we all got iPhones and I recieved the first text from my dad and shortly after, from my mom.

Today, at 8:50am, my computer indicated that DonnieEspinoza (the AIM username I had created for them) had requested an audio chat. (I had to quickly get off the toilet to respond). My dad had figured out how to use audio chat from their iMac. After I told him to try the his laptop (the one with the camera), I waited ten minutes and I was suddenly speaking face-to-face with my dad. I had always assumed that video chat would be a mere novelty, but it turned out that speaking to my father after all these months was a little emotional. I took the laptop around the apartment for a quick tour, and when I sat back down at the kitchen table my dad was sitting with my grandmother, Tortilla Grandma.

I was aware that she had just been recovering from surgery, but did not anticipate that she would be using oxygen (strangely, a not uncommon sight for that side of the family). Grandma was thrilled. I imagine that in her impoverished, hard-working life, she could never have dreampt that she would talk to her grandson hundreds of miles away, looking at his face, on a device with no wires that weighs no more than 4lbs. We waved as though it was from a distance, but that felt awkward. The experience was intimate enough to evoke the impulse to hug.

I can't wait to talk to my mom and everyone else in the family, especially Grandpa. They'll love it.

Sharing the fight

I made a commitment to myself today to quit smoking. So far so good. I was able to overcome the craving, with the aid of gum, when I had a beer. I'm a little worried, but the fear will soon subside.