It came!...

The storied Harry Potter book arrived in the mail on Tuesday morning.

Seems my frustrations were more-or-less unfounded, but I was under the impression it wasn't going to arrive for a week or more. After spending half and hour on hold with Indigo, I finally got to speak with someone.

"I was wondering about my order, I placed it a long time ago and it looks like it hasn't shipped yet..."

The girl paused a moment, dread creeping into her voice. "Is this about Harry Potter?"

As it turns out, shipping went according to my plan, and I should have received it Monday morning. Because of the huge number of copies shipped, there was a slight breakdown in the system (not used to handling such a volume of books at once) and it took the extra day to reach me.

On top of that, they just stopped updating peoples orders online, so nobody had any idea if/when their book had shipped. "Do you know how much time it would take to update everyone's information?" the girl scoffed.

Oh, excuse me...I thought this was the information age...

Anyway I'm about halfway through, which is preposterous since I've had it two whole days. But I've only had the chance to sit down a few times and delve into it. So far it's very good, and very different from the other novels in the series. Hopefully I'll be done this weekend, but I've also been working on two essays for my trip to France that have to be handed in August 1st. Sadly they take (some) precedence over Harry Potter.

Thank you for all who were concerned about my mental well being during this time of crisis.

Sonofabitch...

It is Monday, July 23.

This is the third day the new Harry Potter book has been available.

My copy was ordered June 15.

It has still not arrived.

Shitty.

I'm now faced with the ever-growing threat of finding out what happens before I actually get to read it. Several friends have already finished it, or are well on their way to doing so. And I haven't even gotten my copy yet.

Now I curse Indigo Books, the Canadian version of Barnes & Noble, because they have failed me. The reasoning for my anger is twofold. I ordered two books, both of which had not been 'published' when I placed the order. The other title was 'Lean, Mean Thirteen' by the hilarious Janet Evanovich. Shocking even to me, it arrived in my mailbox on the day of release, having been mailed a few days before. I was very pleased, and expected similar results with Harry Potter.

So this morning I waited patiently for the mailman to drive by the house. I bounded down the driveway, dizzy with anticipation. Ripping open the mailbox door, I stared in at a few bills and the local paper. No book.

Instantly I went online to check my order's status. Indigo's web page says the order is 'awaiting processing'. Whhhaaat? This was supposed to be boxed up and mailed by now!!!

The ultimate piss-off (and second reason) is the fact that I interrupted tradition by purchasing it online. For the last two books, it has been a bizarre circumstance that I was always at a friend's party on the evening of the release. One year, I mentioned that the book was going on sale, and that it'd be funny for a bunch of tipsy teens to crash the local bookstore's midnight release party to get our copies.

Even funnier, I ended up loading the car full of people to head to the bookstore. We all got our copies, but didn't start reading until the next afternoon thanks to a blinding hangover (ahh youthful indiscretion...).

So it happened that on Friday night I was at a friend's house party, with some of the very same people who picked up the other books in past years. I didn't bother saying anything since my copy was supposedly tucked into Friday's mail and would arrive this morning for my reading pleasure.

But no book has arrived.

Now I've got to censor everything from conversations with friends to my Internet surfing for fear of another "Snape kills Dumbledore!" fiasco.

Sonofabitch. I want my book!

Don't stand so close to me...

"Oh my God, Kevin!"

I turned to face him more fully, moving my head closer to hear what he was saying. The Police had just finished taking their last bows and the house lights had still not come up. I had stepped from my seat and was in a crush of people leaving the Air Canada Centre, stuck on the stairs as those closer to the exit moved to leave.

As I stood there, my eyes wandered around the crowd. I never expected to see anyone I knew, nor did I expect to see anyone that would catch my eye. I had just locked eyes with a slightly cute 30-something when his face creased into a smile.

After his initial comment, his words were lost in the crowd noise. I leaned in closer trying to hear what he was saying. I gave up.

"Sorry, I'm not Kevin," I said simply, shrugging slightly. He looked a little confused.

"You're his fucking twin then!" was all he said, and turned around to the guy standing beside him.

Part of me wishes I was more spontaneously extroverted, had asked the guy who Kevin was, and ended up actually chatting with people 'on the street'. Besides, how am I ever going to actually meet guys if I'm not a little more talkative?

Instead, the crowd began to crawl forward, and I followed them silently to the warmth of the concrete sidewalk.

Broadcasting signals...

I had the mixed fortune of passing through Huntsville yesterday evening.

As you might remember, it's our favorite vacation spot. I love the area and was glad to get to see it, even though we were literally just passing through (long story...). Through a set of circumstances, we ended up eating dinner at the Swiss Chalet just on the edge of town.

We were seated in the corner booth, but to get there we had to pass the waiters station. There stood the usual array of workers, mostly young girls with a few guys mixed in. One of the guys instantly caught my eye, he looked pretty cute, and he had the most amazing black-and-nearly-white-blond hair color. I've seen this done before, and it can look really good or really stupid, but on this guy, it fit.

I had a very good impression he was gay, bringing my total number of known homosexual youth in Huntsville to two. As we passed by, I heard him talking to one of the other waitresses. What can I say, but he had a 'gay voice'.

I mused over what it must be like to be that noticeably gay in such a small community, as I did with the guy from April. But a second thought struck me, the fact that he was noticeably gay. Not that he was wearing a pride flag or making out with a dude, but there was really no question about his orientation.

This lead to two thoughts. First, why do some people have these signals, and others don't? And second, what signals, if any, do I broadcast?

Though people may choose to embrace more gay stereotypes as they integrate themselves into the gay community, I had the feeling this guy was not playing up the gayness. It really felt like he was just being himself. What a wonderful thing, in a way, to have these more pronounced signals. Coming out would really not be a 'surprise' to family and friends, and it would make you obscenely noticeable to other gays.

Of course, there would be the inevitable downside to this trait. All through the intolerant young years of school one would probably feel more out of place than if they were simply a well-disguised closeted gay. But once you were a little older, and had a group of friends who were more mature, being yourself would be a lot less difficult.

So why is it that some people broadcast these signals so effortlessly? It goes beyond gaydar, as I have noticed by walking through the Village that many guys simply have an air about them that takes it beyond the flicker of gaydar and makes it nearly undisputed fact.

And of course, I look at myself and think, "Am I broadcasting?"

There have been comments before in previous posts when I wondered aloud if people understood my sexuality without me formally introducing it. It has been suggested that I likely had been 'figured out' by other gays. But I question, and worry, if that's the case.

I don't know how I would describe myself. I hate sports, know little about the traditional 'manly things' like plumbing and electrical wiring (though thanks to my Dad I can manage to do some things...), and don't live to tinker on my car. But I also don't read fashion magazines, wear skintight t-shirts and carry a miniature dog in a bag on my shoulder.

I do, however, use several different facial cosmetic soaps, am very particular about what shampoo and products I use, and order 136-step-non-fat-coffee-concoctions. I care about calories, would kill to actually be able to tan, and generally thoroughly enjoy the finer things in life.

So what does it all mean? Am I flying under the radar's of gays everywhere? Am I written off as too straight, dismissed because I don't fit a mould. It it not subtly obvious that I'm sleeping with guys? Or is it as clear as the Swiss Chalet waiter that I'm playing for the other team.

Characterization...

I love those moments when you don't intend to learn something, yet it sporadically falls in your lap.

Earlier, I was looking out the window, watching the rain patter onto the burnt grass and blacktop. For some reason, I wrote the words, "I am a rainy Thursday."

This in itself is nothing amazing. A few words written almost subconsciously and for no particular reason. I went away, did something else, and came back, re-reading what I had wrote.

It then started me thinking, what does this mean? What makes me a rainy Thursday. And then I started to see the light.

In many ways, I really am a rainy Thursday. I feel like a Thursday, anyway. The day before the fun chaos of the weekend breaks out, when the freedom is close enough to taste, yet an entire other day away. Thursday nights are best spent with friends and a few drinks; good times but overshadowed with the knowing you have one more day left before you're able to truly be free.

But why rainy? Because, I'm just different than most other days. Not using the usual imagery of clouds and depression, but rather the approach there are more sunny days than rainy ones. And I really feel like I do stand out from the sunny days. Hell, if a 20-year-old can recount the better part of the lyrics to the entire 'Born to Run' album, there's got to be something different about him.

Maybe someday soon, I'll move on from Thursday and become...not Friday. Fridays seem to be the times when energies run highest, when nights out drag far into the next day, where people do anything to help unwind from a weeks worth of stress. I'd take a Saturday though, with a good time in the evening and rolling around with someone in bed all morning.

Who knows. Maybe things will change someday soon.

So, what day are you?

More talking...

We always have our 'discussions' in the kitchen.

I don't really know why, probably because the layout allows us to each have our own personal space, without feeling too in each other's faces. I always stand closer to the fridge, she stands by the sink, and there's about 7 feet between us. Lots of light, too, so you can judge your words based on the look in each other's eyes.

Tonight it started over the usual, mundane things, mostly over differences in opinion in doing different household chores. More specifically, because of my new duties as house-husband, and lack of proficiency at window washing, etc. We'd gotten into it a little heavier than usual (usual being once every few months, I don't want to give the impression this is a constant thing...) and she was phrasing things with a little more emphasis than normal. I was scared, because I didn't want to push things over the limit.

So after we'd exhausted all of what was bothering us, and were standing awkwardly, wondering if we were finished, I decided to unload some of the things that have been bothering me. I waited a few beats, then explained that I've been a little run down since the Friday discussion, and hadn't realized I would feel that emotionally worked up.

We talked about things that we'd already talked about. I said how I was upset by the 'disappointed' comment, knowing that she wasn't disappointed in me per se, but that it still was hard to hear. This time it was a lot more about her feelings, less about worrying about my dad.

I don't know what to do with it any more. We've clearly made some progress, but how do I act now? Do I simply speak as if it were one of my friends, talking about some guy who I thought was cute? Or pretend as if we've really never discussed anything. I guess it's time to find new ground with this, especially since my sexuality doesn't have a lot do do with my relationship with my mother.

She also commented that she 'didn't know what she wanted me to do' now. I really couldn't answer that, other than to hope she was getting more alright with the notion and was accepting it for what it was.

One thing she's decided, "If anyone asks me if you're gay, I'm just going to say that your sexuality has nothing to do with me. It's like saying the sky is blue, nothing to do with me."

We wrapped up the conversation a little awkwardly. I hugged her, but she just stood there. "Well, I thought you were mad at me," she said. It can be so frustrating trying to explain something and having another person hung up miles behind your last point. Eventually she was more reassured, but I got the feeling she was drained from the conversation.

Each small step...

Pass...

I got to take a trip to the Ministry of Transportation yesterday.

It was 5 short years ago (holy shit, that was 5 years ago!) that I got my license. Here in Ontario, we have a graduated licensing system, so when I was 16 I wrote my G1 test and started driving with 'supervision'. The next step was 8 months later, when I did my first driving test, passing my G2. I could drive by myself with no restrictions (except no blood-alcohol count allowed).

My license expires in September, and to keep from loosing it, I had to take yet another driving test to confirm that indeed I can drive. So I got the great pleasure of doing my final road test and solidifying myself as a fully licensed driver.

I arrived well in advance, sat in my car and listened to the radio, trying to keep my mind from psyching myself out too badly. When my examiner arrived, I thought I was screwed. She was a little over 5 feet tall, short hair and a serious face, and looked to be wearing army-issue pants. In retrospect, she looked like she belonged marching across the deck of an aircraft carrier, not across a parking lot to administer a driving test.

She arrived at my window and without a smile said, "Steve, turn on your left indicator."

Well, good morning to you! And here I was thinking if I'm friendly to her, it won't be so stupidly formal.

We ran through all the lights on the car, then she got settled in to the passenger seat. A moment later and we were on our way, my hands choking the steering wheel at 10 and 2, eyes darting from mirror to road and back to mirror. Honestly, I think it's safer to drive casually rather than with such 'attentiveness', because it felt like I spent more time looking behind me than I did to see what I was driving into in front of me.

The test took far longer than expected, roughly 25 minutes. I had left the radio on it's lowest volume setting, and she didn't ask me to turn it off, which helped break the monotony of the exercise. We were driving down a quiet residential street, when a police cruiser rounded the corner in front of me and sped down the middle of the street. I got to demonstrate my keen driving skills, signaling and pulling off to the curb to let the emergency vehicle pass us by.

"That wasn't very nice of him," commented the examiner. I tried to make light of the situation, but my comment fell into an uncomfortable silence. Apparently only She may talk.

I was almost finished, when she asked me to do an emergency stop. I signaled, did the mirror check thing, and was angling myself to the curb while at the same time fumbling for the 4-way flasher knob, which is conveniently hidden under the steering wheel.

"You're going to hit the curb," was all she said.

Then it happened, just as I was rolling to a stop, my wheel tapped the side of the curb.

Shit.

"Well," she said, in the same voice she'd used the entire time. "Seems like we found ourselves in our own 'emergency'."

I nervously sucked in breath, reviewing in my mind if hitting the curb means an automatic failure or not. We resumed and finished the test. In the Test Centre lot, she pulled a sheet from her clipboard and handed it to me.

"You passed," she said, and slung herself out of the door.

I happily took my paperwork into the office, where I was informed that even though I had passed, I still have to renew my license in September, and get a new picture taken. And for the low price of $60, I could have it done that very morning, while I was dressed in rumpled clothes with three days worth of growth on my face!

Ultimately I passed on the new photo, opting to do it in August when I actually tried to look nice for it. After all, this is my usual identification, and I don't want to look like an insane, sleep deprived maniac. The way my license is right now, I look, well, 16 years old, and it's been rejected several times recently because people just don't believe I'm the same person. Well, duh, there's a big difference between a 16-year-old and a 20-year-old.

I now have to wait pensively by the mailbox for my new G license to arrive, and have my official driving career begin.