----------

You'd have to understand this guy to know why we're doing what we're doing tonight. But you never will. Hell, I've been working on it for three years and understanding him is about a century away. But that's okay, I've got time, lots of time. You don't. So let me share a few tidbits -- like tonight, New Year's Eve. First of all, you need to know that he used to be a party animal, in a strictly anthropological way. Three New Years have come and gone during the time we've shared living space, and each and every one of them was spent at some anthropological study date masquerading as a party. Wine, women, song and the mating habits of the Guarna Tribe of Zimbabwe filled his New Year celebrations. Now don't panic, I wasn't alone either, you know? I'm not exactly chopped liver and never let it be said that James Ellison couldn't get a date for the last big bash of any given year. But this year -- well, things are a bit different. For one thing, we're kind of -- a couple. Yeah, you heard me -- a couple. Him and me. Blair and I. Ellison and Sandburg. And all things being equal except our hair, height and ages, Sandburg and Ellison. He sleeps with me now. Upstairs in the king. We fuck at the drop of a hat and whenever we damn well please and since we've only been a couple for two months -- we damn well please about three times a day, five on Saturday and seven on Sunday. God may have needed a day of rest but not us. And don't breathe a word of this, but sometimes, we manly men actually get -- romantic. We've been known to stay in bed on Sunday while basically enjoying a really great having carnal knowledge time that involve lots of rolling around in the sheets, sweat, sperm, condoms and lube. We indulge in tons of holding, kissing, staring and those terrifically special moments when one of us wakes before the other and prior to attacking, just enjoys looking. So what does this have to do with understanding the dweeb and New Year's Eve? Well, this year it's just the two of us. No party, no company - I'm not even inviting Dick Clark. Bet you think it's going to be a sex fest, right? Nope. We're gonna watch movies. Yes, I said movies. And eat popcorn and guzzle real French champagne. From France. I have chocolate, he has oatmeal cookies and we have this bottle of garlic and cheddar cheese stuff that you sprinkle on hot, buttered popcorn -- Newman's Own, naturally. Star Wars for him and High Noon for me. Hey, what can I say? I'm a sucker for Gary Cooper at his stoic best. And yes, I can hear you asking what the hell this has to do with understanding Blair Sandburg. Well, have you ever watched him watch Star Wars? I thought not. Basically, we're talking an E ticket ride at Disneyland -- if they still had E tickets. We're talking about the fact that watching him watch Star Wars is more fun than the movie and almost as much fun as having sex with him. Now it's the holiday season so in an effort to promote good will, peace on earth and a better understanding of Blair Sandburg, I'm gonna share our evening with you. You get the undeniable pleasure of joining me in this Star Wars ritual. You lucky dog. And did I mention that you may look but not touch? Good. Remember that, okay? I have a dark history and no, I don't know thirty-five ways to kill with a paperclip -- I know fifty-seven and all painful. So. Our evening. I should start with the fact that we've been on vacation since the twenty-fourth of December so we're rested and could be considered well fucked. Twice each. He has the the night planned down to the minute since it's imperative that our movies are over by eleven forty-five. Why, you ask? Because he's decided that by midnight, I must be buried to the hilt inside of him. And who am I to argue? He can plan to his heart's content when it comes to me being buried within him. We may be equal opportunity lovers but truth be told, there is nothing I love more than sliding into him and he will, on a good day, admit he loves it just as much. Back to the evening. Star Wars will go in at about seven forty-five and High Noon at ten. This gives us a short break for food, bathroom runs and hot necking. Then during the closing credits of High Noon, I can expect Sandburg to start stripping. He has the condoms and lube on the coffee table, arranged rather nicely -- and when that flannel shirt hits the floor, I'm expected to get the clue. His goal? For my two balls to beat the ball in Times Square to ground zero. Didn't I say you'd never understand him? So here we sit -- and he just stuck the disk into the new DVD player, a little gift from Santa Jim, and I'm in my corner, he's in his, which happens to be the corner of me and the popcorn is hot, buttery, cheesy and garlicky. Our drinks are within easy reach, the fire is popping just fine, the lights are off and the phone is unplugged. Have I mentioned that the first time he saw Star Wars back in '77 at the tender age of eight, he'd just run away from home? Yep, I have it on very good authorty, namely Naomi, that Blair Sandburg, upset with his mother, had packed a small brown bag (one pair of underwear, his spare glasses and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The jelly was grape, just in case you're taking notes. Oh, and he had Scruffy. Don't ask) Once packed, he'd broken into his piggy bank, or more accurately, his panda bank, taken the ten dollars he'd saved and headed out for parts unknown - like the movie theater five blocks away. He had to stand on tiptoe to pay his two bucks. Now once the prized ticket was in hand, he sauntered inside like he belonged there. Back then he had short hair, but still very curly and from the pictures I've seen, he looked about five or six. Except for his eyes. Aged, wise eyes stared out of an innocent face that included a tiny pug nose and a bottom lip that was continually chewed, much like it is today -- but now I'm the one doing the chewing. His clothes were too big for him because, according to Naomi, they were hand-me-downs that had been graciously bestowed on him by neighbors, so his jeans were rolled up at the cuffs and the two shirts he wore that day, one serving as a coat, had sleeves pushed to the elbows and hems haphazardly tucked inside the jeans. He had on one blue sock and one green sock and a pair of red Keds on his feet. This small version of the Blair Sandburg of today had really wanted to see Star Wars and when his mother said no, because they were moving again and leaving town that afternoon, he'd decided nuh, huh, not this time, not him. She could leave, but he was staying and he was going to see Star Wars. So there, mommy. Bright boy that he was, he'd already figured out that he'd need a job and was determined that the moment the movie was over, he'd start looking. For such a brilliant kid, Blair was kind of dumb. He went into the auditorium and took a seat in the third row and yes, he still prefers to sit up close. He took out his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, slunk down in his seat and eyes wide with wonder, watched -- Star Wars. Blair had been so enthralled with the world to which George Lucas had transported him, that he failed to notice his mother slip in behind him and slightly to his right. She was no slouch in the brains department either. While Blair watched Chewy Chewbaca growl, Naomi Sandburg received the surprise of her life: Her son, the human jumping bean, could actually sit still. For long periods of time. She watched, fascinated and lovingly, as he gasped, whispered out warnings, pointed at the screen, drew back stunned when Darth Vader made his first appearance on screen and cheered when Luke Skywalker defeated the Death Star. She listened as Blair chirped excitedly with R2D2 and then pointed his finger at the screen and proceeded to tell C3PO that he was a stuffy 'droid. And she cried silently when she caught the first tear that rolled down his cheek as he watched Obi Wan Kenobi's sacrifice. On that day, so long ago, Naomi became the first person to enjoy watching him watch Star Wars. I'm the second. You see, watching this movie is a special experience for him and he's always done it alone. Until -- now. And yes, I know how privileged I am. So how is it, you're wondering, that a simple movie could be so special to him? That's simple: When the film was over and the theater lights came up, his mother slipped into the seat beside him, put her arms around his small body and told him she was sorry. It seems that on that day while holding Blair in her arms, Naomi had her own version of an epiphany regarding her little boy and as a result, she and Blair spent the rest of the day together just talking and sharing. She took the time to explain her need to keep moving, to try to help him understand her sense of wanderlust, but she also told him that now she realized how it had affected him. And she promised that same day, on a park bench across the street from the theater, that from that moment on, it was Naomi and Blair all the way. Whither the mother goeth, so goeth the son. And Naomi kept her promise. For the next eight years, she and her son saw the country and the world -- together. Moving was no longer a hardship for Blair Sandburg because now it was because they both had somewhere better to go, a new places to see, new people to meet, and new worlds to conquer. Is Star Wars responsible for the Blair Sandburg of today? I think so. And if you could see the copy of the movie that is never far from wherever he hangs his hat, you'd probably agree. He told me once that he used to watch it weekly. Those were in his early days here in Cascade. Uncertain years as a teenager attending a university. A little gawky, a lot geeky and holding up a cocky facade to those older than himself. But inside he was insecure and needing the memories that watching Star Wars always brought him, not to mention meeting the need to escape outside of himself. In the three years that he's been my partner and roommate, he's watched the movie twice. A few months ago after a little trip to Sierra Verde and most recently following a small press conference. Why then are we watching it tonight? Well, in his own words, *I don't need to watch it any more, Jim.* Because according to him, I'm his Star Wars now. I don't completely get that, but like I said early on, I've loads of time. He watches for fun now, with me. I guess because we're together now. Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg all the way. Whither he goeth, I goeth. And vice versa. And you know, he still chirps with R2D2, still calls C3PO a stuffy 'droid and hisses when Vader shows up. He yells at the screen when Luke, Leia and Han end up in that sewer, because he's trying to warn Luke about the slithery sewer creature and he still rolls his eyes when Luke kisses Leia. He guffaws at the ego of the Peter Cushing character, twitters with the little sand people, predicts deaths, mimics the weaponry and proclaims at the conclusion that he just knows Chewy and C3PO are in love. Which gives me pause - because I invariably have to wonder how the two would, you know, consumate their relationship... Thank God I know exactly how to continue to consumate our relationship... It's snowing outside and it's New Year's Eve, 2000. In four hours, it will be 2001. The true millennium. Our movies will be over, the champagne bottle will be empty and the new century will have begun. Blair will be staring up at me, eyes full of love and lust as I hover over him buried so deep inside that I tickle his heart. Sweat will be trickling down the sides of my face and we'll both be holding still, barely breathing and then he'll whisper, "happy new year, han." And I'll smile and whisper back, "happy new year, luke." I've always believed that Han Solo and Luke Skywalker should have ended up together, didn't you? Happy New Year from Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg! ----------