I spent the weekend on the Cape getting my summer place ready for occupancy. I have a deal with my roommate here in Boston and my good friend, also here that involves the sharing of the place among the three of us. It’s a common occurrence for summer rentals; friends renting it out to others, switching weekends, etc. I have the convenience of having it during the week if I choose. They are both 9-5 ers, inaccessable during the week, in addition, my job is such that I can easily give away a shift or have somebody paid off to take it. I love my job(s)!

We had hoped for a weekend of cleaning, reminiscing, planning cookouts and sitting on the beach letting the Atlantic air come through the windows and sweep away the winter stale. Instead we sat indoors and fought back the Atlantic rain as it came through the windows. Oh well. It made for a day of jumping into puddles and strolling through town, unfortunately we were not the only ones looking to spend the afternoon like that. Not a big problem, I can share and play well with others. I do have a problem though, with people who are so unaware of those around them that they end up being a nuisance.

Umbrellas. A nifty tool and a must-have for city living. Also a convenient, unintentional weapon in the hands of the chronically oblivious. Upon opening the umbrella, does the brain close even further? The reminder of not only those sharing your space, but for the 5 foot long plastic rod and the 3 foot diameter dome atop it should be administered through electro shock therapy and severe cash penalties. People were swinging those things around in an alarming manner. The times that I came close to losing one or both of my eyes began to happen so frequently, I actually feared for my sight! I asked Sarah if perhaps we should retreat home. She agreed and we ducked underneath a huge Lady bug sticking out from the shoulder of a self-absorbed blonde talking to everybody around her.

Aside from the perils of the umbrellas we also had the misfortune of another terrible East Coast problem: Mosquitoes. They must be some sort of curse from when we took the land from the natives. If you tune into the news every so often, you will hear that we had a lot of rain this spring so far. The more rain we have, the more water collects in those “off the beaten path” spots that in turn serves as breeding grounds for the blood sucking terradactyls. They were absolutely remarkable in their ability to withstand sideways rain and bite you. It can almost be pictured as if they are riding the air stream and water like a surf board, surfing right into our arms and legs. Bastards they are. You couldn’t walk 3 feet without fighting them. “Off” and like products were flying off the shelves of local stores. Everyone I encountered, myself included, had a sharp, imposter citrus scent to them that sort of became nauseous after a couple of hours.

We got things cleaned up, broke the bed frame, and waved goodbye. I will be back this weekend with a new Futon frame. Don’t ask. It is still wet here, but I do not mind, I am well aware of what is to come. Meanwhile, Sarah and I bought a gas grill and I plan on christening it tonight with some good ole fashioned grilled chicken kabobs. I am feeling adventurous and I am going to try something on my new toy. Brocolli stems. I throw them away every time I get the stuff and wondered if there can’t be some use for these things. It’s just too much to throw away. So all suggestions are welcomed as well as any grilling recipes, rubs, marinades, techniques etc. I’ll let you know how they turned out.

I’ve been back in Boston for a week getting myself into the routine at the restaurant. Until recently, having a schedule dictated by someone else was just an unpleasant memory. Now I have to get my little ass to certain places at certain times and it’s taking some adjustment. It hasn’t been easy with the last three weekends, this one included, traveling doing Gay Pride related events. Sarah, my roommate here in Cambridge, and I have a deal worked out where I do the shopping, cooking and yard work. That’s right - chores on top of my porn tours and table service. I am so happy that Frontiers and InNews Weekly have not needed my literary talents lately, because my mind has been at capacity. I still have all my boxes to unpack from when Ma and I arrived here May 17th! I really need my Ab Fab DVDs!!

The best thing about my return to Boston has been the gym. Tuesday marked the first day in a month that I had been. Yes, a month, 30 days! Imagine traveling across the country, spending a week at home, which to me means living on Great Lakes Brewery beer and cheese sticks, then driving to Boston where Mom and I existed hour to hour leaving virtually no time for bench presses. Now, the fun part, spending 5 days in Chicago where I was shirtless and standing next to Tyler Riggz who is 6′1″ and 230 lbs. Hot, but not so hot. For those of you that don’t know, I am only 5′7″ yes, the miracle of the camera angle. I may have shattered some fantasies, but it’s a blog, it’s supposed to be revealing. Standing next to that mountain of a man left Johnny feeling less than secure. You can imagine my delight when the first thing out of peoples’ mouths was “You’re so tiny” or “Oh My God, you’re so much smaller in person” GR88T, nice to meet you, get out of my booth. It’s good to be back at the cable crossovers and the dumb bell racks - it feels like home.

There were not enough hours in the day today for what I had set out to accomplish. That space in between the ceiling and wall that I enjoy doing was keeping me up last night. I was able to see my distraction and impatience in the streaks on the wall before I went to bed. Most of my REM sleep was spent trying to figure out what size brush would best suit the job. I decided on the 1/2″.

The majority of today was spent running around completing errands, one of which was finding a pair of flip flops, that was paramount, everything else would fall into place. I wanted to get home to the kitchen, plagued by streaks and imperfection, it needed some serious attention. You know, this is how the Sistine was done, a little Italian man on a ladder painting very detailed lines in a ceiling. After some undivided attention I was able to complete the kitchen by early evening.

I just finished a 2 hour and 10 min flick called “In Her Shoes”, cute, but waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long for me to deal with at one sitting. It took me three days to finish. And I’ve only been home for three days. Tomorrow I’m driving to LA to begin what promises to be a very social Saturday in Phoenix for their Gay Pride. They have to have the Pride celebration before it gets so hot that birds start dropping out of the sky and busses sink into the asphalt. Saturday will begin with me and Luca DiCorso paraded around in a convertible for the parade. Sashes? Tiaras? Evening-length gloves, perhaps? Next is an autograph session followed by a couple of side steps on a box in short shorts (you can’t show crack in Phoenix) at a party that night. A long day for sure. Usually I only have to be “on” for an hour or two but this gig has my Johnny switch activated a little longer than normal. It will definitely be a Calgon night.

It’s back to the grind today. Thoughts of François seem to distract me all day. I decided to paint the kitchen today to look a little more attractive to potential renters. Painting has always been a calming activity for me; like productive meditation. The detail required to get into that space between the wall and ceiling is my favorite part. All of a sudden I remembered my last night with François and paint dripped from the brush onto my kitchen floor. I shook it off, had a glass of water and a cold shower and resumed. I got half way through the first wall when I decided to break for Hazzard Mail. Expecting the usual slew of pharmaceutical ads peppered with erection promises and big tittie web cam adverts, I was surprised to see one letter in particular. You guessed it, a lovely note from Monsieur Sagat.

I had been toying with the idea of taking a drive up to San Francisco where he is staying after I get back from Phoenix on Sunday. Well, it looks like I need not toy any longer. As of Monday afternoon I will be French kissing the Frenchman. Kissing this man is like nothing I have ever experienced. His style parallels mine to a T! I am definitely one to kiss and tell and let me tell you!!!!

Once the paint had dried on my brush, making it virtually impossible to continue the project, I cursed my lack of discipline. Listening to my latest music review for Frontiers proved to be a good distraction from my hormones and imagination. I’m not in 7th grade anymore. I don’t crush on boys. And yet I still found myself checking Hazzard Mail far more than usual…