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My (Gay) Valentine’s Day

As usual, David woke up before I did. Once I was up, he was in the living room, as usual, reading the paper, then typing away on his computer. I fired up my laptop from the sofa to read the news. Our two chihuahuas sat next to me, licking, nuzzling, chewing a toy and occasionally mugging for attention.

It was a good half hour later when I went down to my office in the basement to get something. The dozen roses with a big "I love you" helium filled balloon were all in a vase on my desk. I opened the card, brought the flowers upstairs and gave him a kiss.

David went back to working on his computer. He’s starting a blog, go figure. Around noon time he went out for food and I went to the local market to pick up a couple of large lobsters. Saturdays are my night to cook; David plays tennis in the afternoon and gets home around 7:45, so I cook while he’s out. I got some green beans to go with the lobsters, some wine, butter, lemons, and some stuff to put in the bottom of the lobster pot for flavoring: onion, cut celery, some branches of fresh thyme, and pulled some bay leaves out of the pantry.

When his car pulled in up front from tennis I got the pot steaming hot, so he’d have time to shower before dinner. By the time he came downstairs from his shower, I’d set the table and set the "be my valentine!" card I’d gotten for him at his place. We’re chihuahua owners, which means we’re a little ridiculous: both our cards had chihuahuas on them.

Dinner was great, lots of food, the lobster meat was just right and succulent. Messy eating, it’s true, and while the dogs don’t get people food, they liked licking our fingers. I had a heart shaped chocolate brownie cake for us for dessert with some roses in the icing from a local store.

Saturday nights we usually watch a movie from Netflix, something on the DVR like an episode of The Office or Lost, or whatever. We’re Midsomer Murders fans, and we had a video we’d not yet seen, so we popped it in and watched it. By the time it was over it was time for bed.

Steady, quiet love. Valentine’s Day, for us, was just a seamless kind of day, part of the rhythm of our lives. No big surprises, just the kind of little ones we always have as part of our little routines. Six plus years and we still make each other laugh. Six plus years, we’re very lucky, very in love, and neither afraid to admit it nor compelled to make a big fuss about it.

Every day is Valentine’s Day.

I’m the luckiest man alive.

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Pachacutec did not, as is commonly believed, die in 1471. To escape the tragic sight of his successors screwing up the Inca Empire he’d built, he fled east into the Amazon rain forest, where he began chewing lots of funky roots to get higher than Hunter Thompson ever dared. Oddly, these roots gave him not only a killer buzz, but also prolonged his life beyond what any other mortal has known, excluding Novakula. Whatever his doubts of the utility of living long enough to see old friends pop up in museums as mummies, or witness the bizarrely compelling spectacle of Katherine Harris, he’s learned a thing or two along the way. For one thing, he’s learned the importance of not letting morons run a country, having watched the Inca Empire suffer many civil wars requiring the eventual ruler to gain support from the priests and the national military. He now works during fleeting sober moments to build a vibrant progressive movement sufficiently strong and sustainable to drive a pointed stake through the heart of American “conservatism” forever. He enjoys a gay marriage, classic jazz and roots for the New York Mets.