I had a pretty laid-back day, but there was one moment of wonderment I'm glad I didn't miss, which I'll get to momentarily. As I may've mentioned, I'm gainfully employed again *sigh*. Holding out awhile actually worked out pretty well for me. I work three afternoons a week now, and make a lot more than I was making before. It's still not a lot, but it's a lot more than before.

And there are perks. I have an enormous desk, one of those old steel-case jobbies with the Formica tops that is so huge and heavy they had to build the building around it. Remember during the Cold War when they used to have the atomic bomb drills where you'd hide under your desk? This is the desk they had in mind. I am quite sure it could withstand anything. It could easily double as a bomb shelter for a family of five. It's bigger than some places I've lived.

I also have an endless supply of stickies (God, I love stickies). And, as I've mentioned, a near-infinite surface on which to stick them. So, if (when) the apocalypse hits, I'm set. Feel free to leave me behind. I'll be perfectly content under my desk.

But I don't work on Wednesdays, and it's a good thing, because I'm still in recovery from throwing my back out digging out from our last little snowstorm. After my morning computer crisis, I decided to have a leisurely breakfast at Renee's up near Teele Square. They do this omelet they call the New Yorker, with salmon and cream cheese. Hits the spot every time.


After that I ambled over to Goodwill. They had a huge donation of books recently. It was obviously someone's library, because there was a single hardcover copy in pristine condition of every major gay book published in the past twenty years, I'd say. About four shelves-worth of Edmund White, Alan Hollinghurst, Andrew Tobias, Dale Peck, Scott Heim, and on and on. It was as if the previous owner had been a member of The Gay Book of the Month Club.

There isn't really any such thing as The Gay Book of the Month Club, surprisingly. Not that I know of, at least. There are some Gay & Lesbian Book Clubs, but it's not the same thing at all. Gay and Lesbian cultures obviously overlap, but they're not the same. It's like having a Dog & Cat Book Club. I mean for dog- and cat-people.

There are obvious areas of affinity. Both dog-people and cat-people are animal-lovers, for example. Many have pets. But I'd venture the differences are at least as significant as any similarities. And if you were to toss Parakeet-lovers, and hamster-and-gerbil-lovers, and fish- and ferret- and rabbit- and lizard-lovers into the mix, well, it's wonderful and all, but it's not really a Dog & Cat Club anymore, is it?

While I'm sure there are many gay guys out there who are really just dying to read A History of Lesbian Hair or Iron Jane, I'm equally sure there are many gay guys who really just aren't. And vice-versa, or whatever, for the ladies. And that's OK. I think we're all adult enough to have our own book clubs, aren't we?

Anyway, back at Goodwill. The collection was so comprehensive that either somebody'd died, or'd had a serious conversion experience (although I checked the shoe department, and there weren't any more than usual). There's one other possibility: Maybe whoever it was just went with a new, minimalist decorating scheme. I like to imagine it was the last of these.

There were also several cookbooks that'd just arrived. A couple of little Fannie Farmers, and one from Cafe Beaujolais. And I love those old cookbooks from the early sixties from Gourmet Magazine...


Objects of practical reverence, with the leatherette and gold leaf. Cookbooks are incredible anyway — as art and artifacts they say so much about us. Opening one of these babies is like stepping into a certain moment in time — le moment à la mode en Gelée, you might say. I mean, check out some of these dishes and their, erm, artful presentation...


Food photography has changed a bit in the past fifty years, hasn't it? I don't know too much about the contemporary gourmand's pallet, but it would seem to have as well. I'll have to ask Tony. He would know.

I also found a copy of Simon Winchester's Krakatoa: The Day The World Exploded August 27, 1883. Very excited to get into that, after having seen the special on The History Channel. But first I have to read Marc Doty's Still Life With Oysters and Lemon (from The Gay Book of the Month Club collection).

I came home and had lunch, read some hot-n-heavy Hillary h8tin on the web, and decided I would register to vote in the primaries after all. Not that it'll matter much by the time Massachusetts gets to the polls, but I've gotta support my Goldwater gal! And today's the last day to do it. I was registered in Dorchester, but had not gotten around to putting in the paperwork for my move. I had nothing better to do and it was a nice day for a walk, so I headed off to City Hall.

It was a pretty uneventful 25 or 30 blocks. City Hall is on a hill, with a nice view, I guess. And there are some nice historic houses on that stretch of Highland Ave. Like the Samuel Gaut House, built around 1850 in the Italianate style, which is a hotel now...


I can't tell you anything about Samuel Gaut, but I do like his house.

When I got to City Hall, it took me all of a minute and a half to register. I could even have done it by mail if I hadn't waited till the last minute. The whole thing was pretty painless, though. I hopped on the bus back to Porter, and sat next to a woman on the bus who was probably old enough to have personally known Samuel Gaut. She was at least three-hundred, poor dear, extremely wizened. Admired her spunk. I should have asked her who he was.

I stopped into Star Market on my way home, and this was the best thing of all, today. I was back in the bakery, and there was this young mother with a toddler in her cart. She had just taken a donut out of the case. She gave him a nibble of it, and said, "your first donut. There's no going back now." Now, that's momentous. That’s a serious rite of passage right there.

Makes you want to celebrate with a baker's dozen of Bavarian creams, dunnit?