“And then I asked myself where would people never notice a town full of robots? Ah, Connecticut!”
- Glenn Close, The Stepford Wives 2004
Years ago Steve and I were walking on Astor Place in New York when a man came up to me and asked if I wanted to buy this sticker. With no hesitation I did. When I lived in California I would not have thought of desiring something with such a sentiment. But the years spent on the East Coast have hardened my sensibilities, something of which I am not proud. Before she passed away my octogenarian friend Ella would say "nice is not enough." She also killed a defenseless chipmunk with a shovel when it wandered into her garage. ("It was vermin.") I disagree, not about the chipmunk, (for Ella's action I condemn), but with her statement of being nice. I don't find many people here that are. The conditions around us do not allow the attribute to be readily accessible and our "default" is meanness. 
The sound of running water gets Monkey and Sami very excited. They love watching me take a shower. When Steve was alive Sami would let us hold her in our hands while the shower water gently ran over her. She'd place her face in the crook of my arm and hip and coo as she got wet. Monkey would just watch from the shower rod, happily pushing the curtain back and forth with his beak. But after Steve's passing, although they were just as excited to watch, Sami refused to join me. Whenever I'd approach she'd nip my fingers and move away. Until this week. Not only did she readily return to my hand and the water, Monkey joined along flying inside the shower. Unfortunately he didn't know where to alight and eventually landed on the tub bottom. He tried to fly out but was now too wet. With my hand as an aid he made it to the shower rod, soaked, happy and proud of himself for exploring such unknown territory. Their lives are expanding as is mine.
Spring is fully engaged in this part of the world. The sun warms as the breeze cools. It’s my favorite time of the year here in New England. Grass is green and leaf buds on the trees are opening, what my mother used to call “tender leaf,” in opposition to the “piss and vinegar” of our attitudes in this city, a trait for which Waterbury has become famous. I needed a walk today but I wasn’t sure I was up for my usual trail up and around Fulton Park. I wanted to avoid the area residents and their assaults against civility. But first I had errands to attend.
Already I was annoyed by the personnel at the local bank branch. They just told me they would hold my check for 5 days. It forced me to drive an extra ten miles to have my personal banker approve it for immediate posting. Three times I was misdirected at the sporting goods store, wasting more time. And then I needed to shop for storage containers at a restaurant supply store where the people are unfriendly and the prices exorbitant. It’s a big dark box of a warehouse and the workers are sour. In particular is one very skinny woman whose arms are habitually crossed and her lips turned down at the corners. Maybe the permed and died mullet are to compliment her sallow personality and complexion.
As I wandered through the aisles and took notes, comparing sizes of food bins and prices on parchment paper a young female customer kept wandering around, her despair increasing. As I was ready to pay, she was at the counter and leaving her name and information. Apparently she had accidentally lost her employer’s credit card and was preparing to go back to work and tell him. The manager at that point told her to hold on. He thought he saw something slip under the shelves when she dropped her papers but he thought she had picked it up. She had, but there were two cards so they went back and alas found the lost piece of plastic. At this point the woman broke down crying, so grateful that her fears had been eradicated. The mood within the expanse immediately lightened and we were all smiling. And I thought this is the first public compassionate interaction of people I have witnessed in my city in months and I left with a smile on my face, fueled by the grace of humanity. Later I went for my walk, ignoring the piles of garbage lining the lakes and ponds and focusing on the blossoming fields of violets and the blue sky.
Unlike other urban areas in Connecticut, Yale and the area around it has incredible wealth. It shows in the architecture. It shows in the pedestrians. The campus is beautiful. From top to bottom: Yale University Art Gallery (glass wall) by Louis Kahn and Yale Repertory Theatre to its right; private walkway for Yale students; Cotton Mather gate; old Yale School of Art; The Tomb, home of the Skull and Bones society which may house Geronimo's skull; street through campus; detail of gate to a Master's house; Beineicke Rare Book Library (below ground) and Woolsey Hall
Yale is in New Haven. Yale is not New Haven. On campus is this library. The panels are alabaster. You can see the outside light come in through the stone.
I went to the Yale Art Gallery today. Admission is free. They let you take photographs.
The last Howard Johnson’s in Connecticut was in Waterbury. When Steve and I lived on the south side of town we’d pass it every day and each time I’d be reminded of the all-you-can-eat clam dinners I had in their restaurants. The clams were decent, ok, maybe not, but the idea of getting out of the house with my parents, where they would be nice to us was a treat in itself.
In California Caryl and I would drive up to Marin to the only Howard Johnson’s we knew so we could recount stories from our childhood and laugh. We’d sit for hours, regaling past moments spent eating the rubbery fried crustaceous piles and the buffoonery we caused as children, laughing at all our foibles. For me it was hard to laugh in Waterbury and I craved a similar experience as I had with Caryl. I was yearning to experience such a joyful remembrance again, this time with Steve. He’d roll his eyes and say nothing when I'd suggest it. He told me he couldn’t understand why I’d want to go there, but finally acquiesced after more prodding. I was overjoyed at the prospect and as we drove into the parking lot I felt light-headed to have some fun with Steve.
When we entered the building I realized something wasn’t right. It was empty. The waitress who escorted us to our seat wore a stained outfit. She grimaced when she spoke. Walking to our booth I noticed the cake display. It was a tall glass box with automatic rotating shelves inside. The glass was covered with hardened frosting. The panels where the rotating cakes and pies were improperly placed on the shelves, forcing the desserts to squeeze against the glass, leaving trails of cream, butter and flour behind. My attention was taken away when the soles of my shoes began to stick to the floor, making murky sounds with each step I took towards the banquette. The once green carpet was now black and grey from spilled food and slick from hundreds, possibly thousands of shoes walking on it. The booth was ripped and the table had scraps of leftover food from the previous occupants. The waitress handed our dirty, chipped and scratched plastic covered menus and silently walked away. I told Steve I lost my appetite. He looked at me and chuckled and asked what did I expect? I told him I thought the food would be safe enough to eat and we could laugh about eating all-you-can-eat clams. But instead I felt I had walked into a roach motel after walking on the carpet (“They check in but they don't check out”). The waitress begrudgingly took our order. It was then that we noticed the light fixtures were not working. I think I asked for tea. Steve ordered a coffee and we left soon after. My excitement for a nostalgic moment was over.
Simone Signoret, a French actor known for her beauty, grew old and fat. Yet she gracefully continued on with her life, looking old, haggard and decrepit. She wrote a book about it entitled, "Nostalgia Isn't What It Used To Be." I believe she’s right.
I once drove through eastern Pennsylvania and saw the same seed packets. There was another that portrayed a woman in a wood paneled living room. She was holding a very long and thick eggplant.
Robert Hall Clothing was a national chain. I was told it started in Waterbury. This is the building that housed it. When I walked down the street to take the picture a woman started yelling. I said "excuse me?" And she replied, "I wasn't talking to you. I don't know you." So I turned around and continued walking but was now the focus of her long-winded attention. I wasn't listening to what she said but I knew it wasn't friendly. 
I've been highly attracted to visuals in my life. This caught my eye. There are many foods I've tried and loved. This is not one of them.
Out of boredom and economy, I decided to apply with the Census Bureau as an enumerator. Over the phone I was told that the exam would take place at the Father Michael J. McGivney Building at the Immaculate Conception Basilica in downtown Waterbury. It used to be an Episcopal church. It was where my grandmother's funeral took place, since she, being divorced, was not allowed a Catholic service. Father McGivney is the founder of the Knights of Columbus (K of C), a political arm of the Catholic Church that gives money to anti-feminist and anti-queer organizations. I asked myself, "where is the separation of church and state?" But I'm in Waterbury and people don't like to answer such questions. Just as I was informed by the Visiting Nurses Association after Steve's death that grief counseling was available at various places around the city yet they were all in Catholic establishments. How was I, as a gay man, to be comforted by Catholics in their places of worship for my loss, which they condemn and profess at best a disdain for who I am? More reports of pedophilia from clergy and sexual slavery in the Vatican keep arising. And yet, here I am looking for a job.
