Geico, gecko, and Gayco

Ah … nothing says part-time employment like cubicles, carpel-tunnel syndrome, and counting the very minutes until you can run like hell to the nearest bar and brainstorm strategies of how not to kill yourself before returning to your fluorescently-lit prison the very next day.

OK so I'm exaggerating! To be honest, I found my first week at Geico to be delightfully tolerable (for those of you who haven't turned on a TV since 1985, Geico is an auto insurance company with a clever advertising campaign). Some highlights/observations of the week:

-Bathroom drama: Yeah OK … they can save you 15% or more on car insurance, but can they install urinals at proper heights to avoid embarrassing splash-watermarks on my pants? Lord! By the time I was done peeing it looked like I had knelt down in a kiddie pool !!! Also, I was quite offended by the automated bathroom deodorizer that took one look at me and immediately sent out an explosion of Lysol – rude!!!

-Message boards: Geico seems to take decent care of its employees, and promotes a true workforce-community atmosphere with events, message boards, and etc. For a minute, I thought that Geico was also supporting personal ads for singles or not-so-singles who were looking for some uninsured fun off the clock. The message on the board read: "nice body, good interior, runs". I was thinking of writing down the number until I realized this was an advert for a car (Bronco or a Mini?), and I was somewhat disappointed.

-The elusive Gecko: Oh yes, friends, it's true. I have received insider information that confirms the Gecko is very, very real and lurks the hallways of the Geico complex on occasion. You have no idea how much the idea of a live, walking, human-sized gecko turns my blood warm ("…so, Mr. Gecko, where else can your tongue stretch?"). And while I'd like to milk this lizard for all it's worth, rumor has it that the gecko only makes rare appearances.

-Gayco: I didn't see them at first, but after a few days of hacking my way through the straight-infested thicket of cheery Geico employees I happened upon the queens of Gayco. The queers can be identified by their plumage (product in hair), markings (A&F or Hollister), and movement (strut your stuff, bitches!). Birdwatching? Only if you give me a peck or two, Woody.

All of this wildlife imagery has me thinking of the expression "more camp than a box of frogs", which is ironically appropriate. So whilst I type away in my snoozy cubicle in the Geico Jungle, perhaps my only distracting thoughts will include a Tarzan swinging through on a mailroom cart, slashing at the overgrowth with a letter-opener, and accidentally catching his loincloth in the paper shredder.

Gays in the news (Gay sin then “ew”s)

Well, we are a persevering bunch, aren't we? Open the newspaper and you're bombarded with gay drama from politics to church to hate crimes. If only there were an island where all the gay people could retreat and seek shelter; oh right, that's Manhattan.

Anglican Archbishop Peter Akinola of Nigeria was recently quoted in the Lakeland Ledger as "calling the growing acceptance of gay relationships a 'satanic attack' on the church" (I can see the new Fox show now: "Exorcist Eye for the Queer Guy"). Perhaps the term "attack" is lost in translation; usually I think of forcible entry and take-over. Since when have queens and queers attempted to overrun and ruin the church by means of attack? Ironic that people in Nigeria are sentenced to death by stoning for committing sodomy (http://www.afrol.com/articles/16722); perhaps Akinola should reconsider the meaning of the word "attack".

All this drama for the Episcopalians prompted Rowan Williams, the Anglican spiritual leader (in the Episcopal church I think this means leading a modest clap to organ music) to suggest a two-tier system of membership, with branches that ordain partnered gays given a lesser status.

Lesser status, indeed. Christmas commercials pound the radio advertising goods only for straight couples. The erotica and relationship section at Books-A-Million should really be entitled "Gays-be-gone"- not a drop of homo-anything (ironically making the section highly homogenous, haha). Thank you Mrs. Williams, for perpetuating our already publicly acknowledged and accepted discriminatory political and social policies that exclude gay people and their rights. After all, Blacks were not given equal status until after the Civil Rights Movement (and still do not truly have it). The queers can wait their turn.

So kudos to the Episcopal church for trying to make it through this rough patch in its growth and reach out to diverse populations. Changes in religion are always rough, especially when some people mask their anger as conviction. My advice? Well … what would you do with an emerging tree in the middle of a tangled thicket?

Cut back the thorns and dead wood that hold you down: then let yourselves heal, and reach for the sky.

War on Christmas

Ah, the Lakeland Ledger. A local newspaper where a liberal can collect enough mud to sling for a good month or so while on break for the holidays … er, or for Christmas, depending on your political affiliation (or religious ties? Is there a difference anymore?).

Yesterday morning I was reading about the "War on Christmas"; a conservative Christian movement to get the Christ back in Christmas. The American Family Association (which by name would lead one to think that this organization is made up of all the different kinds of families America has to offer- this proves to be otherwise) publishes a list of "naughty" and "nice" commercial stores. "Nice" means a store that refers specifically to Christmas, and "naughty" means using a "multicultural mush of 'winter parties, 'seasonal sales' and 'Happy Holidays'".

A multicultural mush … have we backslid that far?

Jennifer Giroux of Cincinnati feels that people who do not worry about the political-correctness of "happy holidays" can then focus more on the "whole peace-on-earth and goodwill-toward-man thing". I suppose Jennifer assumes that peace and goodwill can only be narrowly defined by the constructs of her own religion and culture- yikes.

What's so terrible about being inclusive? Christmas is a time of sharing and caring. "Happy Holidays" keeps the door open for dialogue about differences- which generally leads to conversations on commonalities.

A recent poll suggests that 46% of Americans are offended when a store clerk greets them with "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" (no specific data on whether this poll was carried out in South Dakota or NYC; I reckon it would make a difference). I wonder if a Jewish family is likewise offended when Christmas is rammed down their holiday throats? Does anyone care?

It's this simple: not all Americans celebrate Christmas. Happy Holidays is not anti-Christmas; it is an inclusive greeting that respects every individual's choice to celebrate, or not celebrate, according to his or her values and beliefs.

What could be more anti-Christmas than separatism? Peace on earth does not translate to a manger with angels; it's about love, compassion, and unity.

Now … which sounds naughty or nice?

Post: American values

The United States commemorative stamps have been announced for the year 2007. I would imagine that the items important enough to make the brand of the very stamps that litter our daily postage are significant indicators as to what American society values in our country. Let's see what makes America American:

-Hershey kisses: Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate. Fine, America likes to eat. Perhaps we should have a stamp commemorating insulin, as well.
-Ella Fizgerald: Excellent! Music and diversity; I approve.
-International Polar Year: Well, some astronomer has taken a break from his MySpace or Dudetube (WARNING: do not Google Dudetube unless you are prepared for dilated pupils) to give a timid "woohoo" that a stamp with his interests has been issued.
-24 animal and plant species of the Rocky Mountains: The US postal service is yet to comment on whether these stamps will show the animals being hunted, skinned, and roasted, or if there will be before-and-after shots of the plant species being replaced by oil rigs and day spas.
-vintage mahogany speedboats: Discrimination in this country has gone far enough! Where are the stamps for birch or pinewood speedboats?!? This must stop, people, really!
-Mendez vs. Westminster, challenging segregation in California in 1947: Can I get a "whoop-whoop" from the Supreme Court and government officials? Oh wait, they're almost all White and have no rhythm.
-silhouettes of jury duty members, with the emblem "Serve with pride": If you use a blacklight, you can reveal the hidden script "Serve because you have to, bitches".
-inspired by traditional Norwegian sweaters and Christmas stockings: zzzz …. Huh? What? Oh!!!! Sorry, nodded off there a minute. I guess we can all sit around and wait for Chanukah, Kwanzaa, or other religious iconographies and memorabilia. After all, Americans only celebrate Christmas.
-settlement of Jamestown: Of course! What could be more American than taking over countries or land that don't belong to us? No comment on present military activities …
-Marvel superheroes: Well, I would rather have stamps of the police officers, firefighters, and ambulance workers that actually save the world, but imaginary characters in skin-tight and revealing costumes draws a close second.

So there we have it. America values its food, music, poles (or polls?), wildlife, speedboats, legal action, sweaters and stockings, foreign invasion, and fantasy. We are promoting life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness!

Life: assuming we control the food we eat and don't develop cancers from obesity and a sedentary lifestyle.
Liberty: yes, if you discard oppression and the intolerance of anything "different"
Pursuit of happiness: ideally you should have a mahogany speedboat to catch up to happiness; however my personal choice of transport would be riding Superman.

Doctor Doctor

Doctors are like teachers- you automatically assume that they do not have personal lives outside of their profession. Imagine: you're walking along in the produce section of the grocery store and up pops your high school math teacher. For some reason, you're surprised that the teacher is there. Teachers don't eat and consume beverage at will! This is craziness! The same goes for our medical personnel, who we assume have never set foot or lived outside of the hospital doors.

Until you bump into a few surprises, in the most unlikely of places …

Back in August I was experiencing some slight penile irritation from an unknown source (don't worry gents! Actual cause was too much coffee, I swear – Starbucks is the STD of the millennium). My doctor's office was fully prepared to test the myriad of possible explanations for this unpleasantness, including a fairly uncomfortable examination of my prostate by a young and friendly visiting intern.

The following Friday I proceeded to my gay locale of choice to enjoy a plethora of libations in a cozy cowboy atmosphere. And who should I see sweeping the dance floor without a lab coat? My precious intern!!!

Immediate drama ensued ("oh my god! Oh My God! OH MY GOD!!!"), but I kept my cool and avoided all contact with a man who knew my insides better than most (let's keep the snide comments to a minimum, please). However, it is difficult to avoid an intern who comes square up to your face and drags you out on the dance floor!

Later I was recounting the delicious doctor details to a friend: "It was so strange, Liz. One moment he has his lubed finger up my rectum, and the next minute we're doing the waltz!" Liz replied, "Yeah um … shouldn't it be the other way around?"

This fairy-tale (wink) is enough in and of itself to make any grandma keel over and demand oxygen, but wait- my doctor adventures were not over!

Last week I cruised into another enjoyable boy hot-spot in Dupont, where I came face to face with my orthopedic surgeon! Except this time, he was tending bar! "Why, hello doctor! Yes, my knees are doing better and I'll look into those supportive arches. Now, do a queen a favor and fetch us a Miller Lite." WTF …

I'll wrap it all up for you: a man who explored my rectal cavity asked me to dance, and another man who had a good, looooong look at the back of my "knees" while I was standing in my underwear bought me a beer.

Sigh … sadly neither of them were forward enough to check my throat with their tongue depressor.

Night of Broken Glass

-"Know before whom you stand"-

This is a quote from the Holocaust museum, in the section depicting the atrocities on the Night of Broken Glass.

This is the third time that broken glass has caught my attention this week. The first time was near the Metro, where a single pebble had fractured an entire wall of glass and had sent hundreds of unique engravings 10 feet high. The second time was at school, where vandals had shattered an entire window by busting it through with a rock. And the third time there, at the Holocaust museum.

The particular meaning for the cascading fractures of glass, and the quote, carry great significance for me today.

I have watched as a single pebble has pierced my own personal glassy window, spreading fragments all along the surface. The window remains intact, yet the impact of that pebble can be seen all over. It makes me think of emotions, and how a single event can profoundly impact our lives. A tiny pebble can suddenly become pervasive in what we see, do, think, and feel.

The reality was this- I did not know before whom I stood.

Someone who would trade my laughter for licentiousness, I guess. Someone who would trade time with me for fleeting moments elsewhere. Someone who doesn't appreciate something pretty special. When you finally open up and give what feels natural, only to learn that this isn't enough. Pretty sad, friends—pretty sad.

Time heals all wounds, and even all panes (see- I still have my sense of humor about me). Snippets of shattered shards slowly slink back into position, the window will become clear again, and emotions will settle back to their clean, transparent whole.

Ouch; even a tiny pebble can sting.

Suburbian Thanksgiving

I had to do some internet exploration (thank you, little blue "e") to find the right word for the concept I wanted to get across- mainly, my distaste for suburbs and all that they stand for (i.e. driving everywhere and wasting gas, not encouraging the general public to get up and walk, oh … and aluminum siding with florescent lighting).

Having said this, I acknowledge that suburbs do serve mankind; they get some people out of my way (haha). Wikipedia wasn't very much help, but the closest definition I could find was "xenocentrism": the preference for the products, styles, or ideas of someone else's culture rather than of one's own. Sadly, this was the exact opposite of what I was looking for, so perhaps I am an anti-xenocentrist (sounds like a comic book character – I am my own hero!). As people from the suburbs are of a completely different culture, I feel fully justified in applying this definition (for a full list of "isms" please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Isms). For those of you who say "no, you're simply an ethnocentrist", obviously you do not believe in hyphens and rarely-used letters of the alphabet.

My Thanksgiving Day took me deep into the heart of southern Maryland (a.k.a. Whites-ville … no kidding, there was an aerobics complex named "Big Vanilla", good lord …) to a friend's house where an enormous gut-blasting belt-popping tummy-rumbling feast of 2 turkeys and sides galore reeked havoc on my thighs and reservations. I still haven't recovered my appetite.

I looked around the neighborhood there and my anti-xenocentric self was immediately challenged: Wait! I kinda like the idea of a house and a yard and a fence with a dog and neighbors to smile at and quiet streets to stroll along. Dammit!!! My entire construct-of-self is being put to the test!

What was particularly interesting was that in stepping outside of my comfort zone I was more aware of who I am and how I behave. I am used to a college-aged environment in a highly liberal town; I don't give a moment's pause to bashing the President, openly discussing race and immigration, or disclosing my sexuality. Even the word "disclosing" seems oppressive to me.

And suddenly, there I was- careful with what I said, how I said it, and in what context. I was monitoring, calculating, evaluating; simply, I couldn't be myself. But in not being myself I was more mindful, more aware, and experiencing more presence than I usually do.

Anti-xenocentrism comes with its own challenges. It allows you to think you're always right, and rarely forces you to be accountable for your opinions, lifestyle, and worldview.

Damn you, suburbs … *wink*

have your cake and eat it too much

We are a fat country that likes to avoid responsibility. For example, we don't mind that we are physically unappealing as sexual partners to other human beings, but god forbid if this morbid obesity would negatively impact our health! All this was made very clear to me in a recent CNN report on "resveratrol".

The report was as such: "Are you fat? Are you concerned that your clogged arteries will eventually cease their unheard plea for relief and finally collapse under the pressure of a cardiovascular system that's working so exorbitantly hard it's a wonder that the heart hasn't burst through your rib cage from mere expenditure of energy? Well good news, America! There's a substance called resveratrol. But don't worry! You can still be fat, gross, and completely repulsive even in dim lighting! Resveratrol will keep you healthy, despite your obnoxiously obese state of being!" (please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Resveratrol for more information)

This news brief inspired me to consume an immense amount of cake in the past few weeks (along with the psychological trauma of being kicked in the face by my faculty at school). Here is my account of my caloric rampage:

Chicken Out – chocolate cake, fudge frosting
I know, I know. No place that's named Chicken Out should actually be frequented by people who aren't from Alabama, but hold on friends- this chocolate rocked my friggin' world. For locations near you please visit: http://www.chickenout.com

Cheesecake Factory – Chris' Outrageous Chocolate Cake
From the menu: "Layers of Moist Chocolate Cake, Chewy Brownie, Toasted Coconut Pecan Filling and Creamy Chocolate Chip Coconut Cheesecake". Well … just reading that makes me moist, toasted, and creamy all at once. This Chris fellow can chew, layer, and fill my coconut cake anytime (good lord, does that even make sense? This is where attempts at seductive dirty talk fall flat like a frat boy after homecoming)

Starbucks – Carrot Cake and Cranberry Bliss Bar
I root for carrot cake above all other cakes (if you get the pun I'll give you $100), especially when it is given to you for free along with a cranberry bliss bar (slightly disappointed, to be honest). I think the barista was hoping for some carrot bliss action in exchange for the free cake …

Soho – Chocolate Cake
Orgasmic, if you can tolerate the barista who looks like he accidentally mistook a porcupine for a suppository.

Kramer's – Death by Chocolate
Again, orgasmic (note: the French word for orgasm is "la petite mort", or "the little death")

Bread and Chocolate – The Oprah
God only knows why they named a piece of cake "Oprah", but I have to chuckle every time I think about saying "I wanna piece-a Oprah!!!"

Buca di Beppo – Chocolate Vesuvio
It's a humungous slice of chocolate-caramel cake stood up on its end, with one scoop of vanilla ice cream on each side. If your imagination cooks at high enough a temperature, you may even melt the ice cream…

Jesus, money, and sex

I know what you're thinking- "what do Jesus, money, and sex have to do with one another???" And then you start thinking about the temple and the money changers, and Jesus' alleged prostitute wife (don't look at me, blame Dan Brown). And suddenly I feel like we should be chanting "Jerry … Jerry !!!" whenever we crack open the holy book.

But before I step on any more toes (hey! he just washed those feet!), I shall share what religious sentiments have floated my way in the past few weeks:

-"Chaplain Gordon Klingenschmitt sues Congress for suppressing his First Amendment rights to pray in the name of Jesus at public ceremonies for the Navy."

I wonder if Chaplain Klingenschmitt ever considered how a gay person in the military feels when they cannot exercise their right to freedom of speech by disclosing their sexuality? Hmm… I guess it's alright- this poor guy probably has pent up aggression due to an embarrassingly longwinded last name (NO Gordon, you may NOT go out to recess until you've spelled your last name correctly!! – DAMMIT!!!!!!!!)

-A sign on campus advertising a seminar, and I precisely quote: "using scienctific facts to prove bible is true!"

I suppose correct spelling isn't valued in the scientific community, but I would recommend that this bible study group do some dictionary-thumping as well before they start explaining the trufth.

-CNN did a report on an "ATM for Jesus", in which a church had set up a "giving kiosk" where you could charge your offerings to the church by debit or credit card.

Right … So I'm imagining it's like at a restaurant when they bring you the bill (one entree of righteousness, a side of blessing-biscuits, and two filtered holy waters) and then you have to fill in the amount for the tip (Holy crap! Tax is 10%, and then another 10% for tithing!!! Then I have to tip this friggin' server on top of that???). It's OK, just slide your card and Jabez will multiply your earnings ten fold …

And that about wraps up our religious debriefing for the evening (and no, not that kind of de-briefing Mr. Foley! You can be religious and off your knees, you know…). Good night!

Protest Journal, 22 October 2006

October 22, 2006

I feel like the protest reached its climax yesterday with the parade. My only concern is that the peak of excitement and support will only give way to lessened commitment to the cause and weakened enthusiasm to keep the battle up. Alumni are leaving, students are slowly working their way back into their schedules, and the administration is biding its time simply waiting for everything to go back to "normal".

Normal??? Will Gallaudet ever know what that means again?

"Normal" would hardly describe my experience at Gallaudet since the protests began last May. "Normal" means ignoring the world around you. "Normal" means not paying attention to the neglect and atrocities that are constantly swirling in an endless flurry of complicated emotions. It's like ignoring a disastrous storm and pretending that nothing is going on outside even though your home is crashing down around you.

Is Gallaudet crashing? The administration would rather we weather the storm; are they prepared to deal with the clean up?

Think about hurricane Katrina: Will the survivors of the storm ever go back to "normal"? The government would like to think so. The tourism industry would like to think so. Ignoring the storm and refusing to deal with the serious consequences of the events, regardless of who is responsible, is a failure to identify the real issues surrounding the circumstances of people that are theoretically supposed to be "cared for". The government has an obligation to take care of its citizens and survivors of Katrina; Gallaudet has an obligation to take care of its students. Both have failed.

The parade was amazing. While walking along 8th street we came to a slight hill and I looked back to see how many people were following the march. The crowd went on for blocks and blocks. No matter what the affiliation or agenda or … how do I say this?... Despite the seemingly "conflicted" issues that have presented themselves during the protest, the mere number of individuals who were willing to give up their Saturday to make a stand for something they believe in was simply inspiring. The so-called "dissenters" casually strolled for an hour up to the Capitol: chatting, smiling, seeing old friends, and reinforcing the sense of community.

In reading King's letters and Fernandes' interviews with the press one might imagine that the participants of the protest were a rowdy crowd of animals trampling over the "paradise" of Gallaudet. I looked around me at the march- where were the angry faces? Where was the "chaos"? The "terrorism"? That is (verbatim) what Fernandes has called the protest. I didn't see it.

The tactics of the administration are slowly becoming more apparent to the general public. Whenever I am out in DC and people see me signing with friends they immediately begin discussing the protest – and I eavesdrop. 2 weeks ago people were saying "I don't really understand what's going on. What's wrong with Fernandes anyway?" Now they have started to say "Wow, things are really happening over there. I really don't see why she doesn't just quit. The students have made their case… how can she be so stubborn?"

There were two articles in the Post on Friday that further illustrated the confusion and mixed messages circling the protest. The first article discussed the disagreement between members of the Board of Trustees and some of their calls for Fernandes to resign. It was a fair balance between the protestor's demands and the responsiveness (or lack of responsiveness, as it were) of the administration. I was pleased with it. The second article seemed more like an editorial, and depicted the struggle of poor Fernandes in her pursuit for success despite the monstrosity of obstacles in her path. The articles painted very different pictures of the situation at Gallaudet; any reader should be able to identify the lack of congruence between the two, thereby knowing that while the administration attempts to distribute "factual" information regarding the situation on campus it is obvious flawed and construed to fit their own agenda.

And what is the administration's agenda? Ah… to get back to "normal", of course.

Protest Journal, 18 October 2006

October 18, 2006

This is my first journal of which there should have already been many. Fatigue coupled with emotional upheaval (not to mention laziness) are mostly to blame, and I would like to make up for that by reflecting on all that has happened over the past few weeks… months, rather, here at Gallaudet with regard to the protest over the appointment of Jane Fernandes as the 9th President of the University.

It's been a nightmare, to put it lightly. I don't even know where to begin.

The curse of being a counseling student is the constant awareness of one's emotions, one's reactions to situations, and the unending analysis of the relationship between the two. Since Fernandes' announcement at the end of the spring semester I have been incessantly grappling with myself over my position, my involvement, my level of commitment, and my overall emotional well being.

Most of these had plateau-ed during the summer, and have only begun to change and take shape in the past month when the issues became increasingly more visible and … desperate. Time is running out.

Honestly… I don't know where to begin.

I have never been happy with the administration at Gallaudet. Everywhere you turn there are ridiculous and tedious rules that appear to exist for no reason. A rule can only be as strong as the rationale behind it; Gallaudet has always been lacking in its explanation of how its structure is built. "Welcome to Gallaudet" is an expression used most frequently by incoming freshman and 1st year graduate students meant to shrug off the frustrations of a system that obviously doesn't have its students' best interests in mind.

We have seen that attitude become abundantly clear in the past month's events.

I have seen many changes. My personal opinion of the protest has remained mostly the same since May: I do support the ideas of eliminating the "isms" of the current system, of having a diversified faculty, staff, and administration, and of unity for a common cause. My only issue with the protest from the beginning has been the varied agendas fought behind a common banner, cheapening some of the values I had and goals I supported.

Due to the gravity of the situation and the crucial need for solidarity in our voice to combat the administration, my initial hesitance to support the protest for the aforementioned reasons has fallen by the wayside. Yes, there are multiple agendas. Yes, some people are fighting for what I consider to be the "wrong" reasons. Yes, MANY new demands and calls for changes to the University that were not included in the original protest in May have been added.

It doesn't matter. The system must be changed. The issues must be addressed. Only by numbers and unity can this be accomplished, despite the confusion and chaos between agendas and purposes.

My concerns have been put aside. Those are to be addressed should Fernandes resign and the selection committee continues their work to find a new President.

It has been a difficult week. I have been suppressed from discussing the protest with my students at Kendall. I have seen letter after letter be sent in opposition to Fernandes, and continuously ignored by the administration and Board of Trustees. I have seen friends and peers cry. I have seen myself cry. We are all upset, and we are all hurting.

I have learned about sacrifice. I have learned to accept that sacrifice for a cause is important, and that some things must take a backseat- including my own education. How much am I willing to sacrifice for the protest??? I don't know. But more than I thought I would, that is for certain.

I have seen people look me square in the face and say "this protest doesn't effect the academic education of the students" at Kendall. I have seen the PR office distribute lie after lie about the "dissenters". I have watched an administration stall and hope that the momentum of the protest will die out. Perhaps it will … many people who are uninformed about the issues would like that.

I heard my own elementary students at Kendall say "I don't feel safe" the night of the arrests. I have cried so many times over this that I can't believe it. That one moment will remain fused in my emotional hardwiring for quite a long while. The ONE place where deaf children should feel safe- from oppression, from the hearing world… from a world that doesn't understand them and their extraordinary uniqueness- wasn't safe for them.

I'm crying even now.

How can that one moment affect me so strongly?

I've had it.

male behavior in restrooms

In my time interpreting this summer in DC I had the pleasure (or misfortune) of entering several government office buildings, passing through security checkpoints of all shapes and sizes, and attending atrociously boring staff meetings. And, as any trusty interpreter has a bottle of water by his or her side at all times, I also spent a great deal of time in public restrooms.

Male bathrooms are pretty standard: there are the urinals with pink deodorant cakes (internet search has failed to find a reason why they are pink, although I did learn that the average cake lasts 30-60 days), urinal dividers to keep those government queer boys' eyes from wandering (don't grasp, don't smell), and automated sensor-controlled water faucets that remind me of how I absentmindedly move my hands in front of my face during a 3-D movie.

The most notable features of the men's bathroom are the men themselves. What begins as a cold room of marble and porcelain suddenly becomes a territorial war zone to strut, parade, and celebrate our amazing ability to stand and perform an excretory function all at the same time.

Choice of urinal is the first objective when entering the restroom; men need distance when they are peeing, both to protect their sense of decency and to hopefully be out of earshot on the off chance that some passing of wind may blow during the rainstorm. Farting at the urinal is acceptable behavior; however, I cannot think of anything funnier on the planet.

The most amusing display at the urinal is how some men make it seem like such an extraordinary effort to undo their pants and remove the mayor from his office. Seriously- some men act like they're detracting an 80-pound python from some hole in the middle of the Amazon. It does not require that much pomp and circumstance to remove a (hopefully) flaccid pointer from its shaft. It's not like hoisting a cannon into position and preparing to fire!

What's worse is the "shake-off" that comes at the end of the urination. For some men, they make it look like a dog when it's just hopped out of a pool. That much abrasive shaking would kill a newborn baby, for sure. And that kind of movement is highly distracting and suspicious at the urinal (don't make me go into my stories about the train stations in Naples – ah!).

And last but not least, the washing of the hands. Oh wait- this doesn't actually happen. Sinks, soap, and towels are there merely for decoration and to appease the opposite sex.

Yes, it's true: men remove the pistol, fire, spin it around and slink it into its holster. And, sadly, they leave the restroom with gunpowder residue still on their hands.

Japanese Culture

The word cliché is an onomatopoeia which imitates the sound that a printing machine makes when the typeset strikes the molten metal. This word quite literally derives from the idea of making duplicates of an established master copy.

Likewise, the word stereotype was also coined in the world of printing, and was first used in literature in 1922 by a man named Walter Lippmann: "Whether right or wrong, imagination is shaped by the pictures seen ... Consequently, they lead to stereotypes that are hard to shake."

Last week I had the opportunity to discuss, challenge, and oddly affirm some stereotypes of Japanese culture. We were a bizarre group: 3 gay deaf Japanese boys and a white gay hearing American feeling-slightly-chunky-in-comparison me.

In Japanese culture it is entirely appropriate to comment on the body size of your friends. Makoto, a skinny little thing that couldn't metabolize fat if it killed him, noted that people with extra meat on their bones are quite popular in Japan. Then, he added that I would be a big hit in the Pacific.

BITCH.

He later retracted the statement (upon seeing my culture-shocked face) and quickly revised his comment: "No no no, what I mean is that you're chubby."

When the waiter brought empty plates to the table the Japanese boys instinctively whipped out their napkins and began to smooth away the porcelain surfaces. I felt immediately out of place, and in the spirit of true conformity I was half-tempted to begin wiping as well.

More gay Japanese cultural info: threesomes are frowned upon, bath houses are considered normal and are encouraged, disclosure of sexuality could upset the family line and is often hush-hush.

So, if you're ever having a conversation with some Japanese people and they ask you your blood type within 5 minutes of meeting you, please do not be alarmed.

And keep those stereotypes in check: Makoto and his boys talked about falling asleep on the metro, took pictures of all our food, and headed to a strip club after dinner.

different people

I was working in the dorm office the other day when a student's mother decided to horrify me with the most blatantly racist comment I've come across in a while:
"I noticed there are a lot of black people outside. Is my son going to be safe here?"
*sound of my jaw hitting the ground*

That very day I went into a Subway where a woman was having difficulty expressing the precise kind of condiments she wanted on her sub. The Subway sandwich artist's first language was not English. She ended up screaming at the top of her lungs "Cut it up!!! Cut it up!!! Cut it up!!!" Now, is that necessary?

Is it pessimistic or merely realistic to realize that we as humans seem to be continuously striving to systematically categorize and exclude others that we feel do not fit into our concept of "normal"? He's fat, she's gay, they're foreigners, and you're another race. How many labels can we possibly assume?

A woman was recently fired from her position as a sunday school teacher at a Baptist church simply because she was a woman. In her letter of dismissal a Biblical passage was quoted as the reason for her termination. Can you imagine? Lucky for us the Bible stays quiet about different races, otherwise we might have "justified" genocides.

And nothing fuels the American fire more than the immigration debate. "But they're using our tax dollars!!!" (and "doing the jobs that we won't do" -- good lord!!!). Apparently birth privilege isn't enough for us- we want those other people not to be given the same opportunities we have to make something out of life.

A humble reminder to everyone in America who claims a stake in their homeland and seeks to drive our foreign invaders:
A sign on an office door somewhere in DC: "American Indians -- Fighting illegal immigration since 1492"

hanging out with Deaf people

It is an immense privilege to know sign language. Instantaneously you are transported into a different world of a vibrant, living culture at the crossroads of linguistics and kinestheses. You become more comfortable with your own body and how you express yourself, and you see life through an extraordinarily different set of lenses.

What's particularly interesting is seeing how society reacts to deaf people, and how that reaction changes once they realize you're actually hearing.

It's a fine line to walk as a person who can communicate effortlessly in both languages: Do I tell the waiter I'm hearing? (at the risk of the waiter ignoring everyone else at the table for the remainder of the evening) Do I say nothing and let people assume I'm deaf? Do I volunteer to interpret for friends?

And another thing I've noticed- I get hit on more when I'm signing!!! Is there something different about me when I'm signing, or do men feel more comfortable chatting it up with deaf people? Once I start voicing I can see the intrigue fade from their eyes; I've lost my magic spark.

At some bars in the past few weeks I've been in situations where I was trying to execute a fairly difficult juggling act between being pleasant and conversational with the boys while not excluding deaf friends from the conversation. The result is usually interpreting, which is fine, but like so often in interpreting situations it is that person facilitating communication who ironically is left out of the discussion.

I would like to say that in a perfect world everyone would know sign language and these issues wouldn't present themselves. But then how else could I talk openly about the hottie standing next to be at the bar without him knowing it?!?

Science vs. Religion

The science vs. religion debate is like a round of wrestling in the WWF: we don't like to talk about it, we may even actively avoid it, but eventually our channel changer somehow brings us tirelessly back to watching the ostentatious display of brawns, poorly executed dialogue, and shimmering shaved bodies going at it in a disappointingly non-sexual way (I just imagined Jesus and Satan in the ring: Jesus takes two chairs and multiplies them to bitch-slap the 5,000).

So imagine my surprise when cruising past Catholic University the other day and coming upon Maloney Hall, the building of the Department of Chemistry.

It made me wonder: why can't we all just get along??? Let's consider the similarities between science and religion:
-Gathering data: form hypothesis and test it vs. drown women to see if they are witches.
-Arguing evidence: critiques in journals and publications vs. burning people at the stake.

OK ... maybe there are some differences. But before we start splitting atoms from Adams, let's examine the scientific contributions Christianity has made to the world:
-Changing physical properties of matter: water into wine
-Defying the laws of gravity: walking on water (perhaps they had drunk too much wine and were really just standing in a puddle of their own urine?)

So what does the Chemistry Department at C.U. do, then? Shed light on this ongoing debate to further educate the masses on the symbiotic relationship between science and god?

A quote from a sample comp exam file found on their website: "The purpose of this study was to identify the number of protonic sites and characterize their role in catalysis by thrombin in the hydrolysis of chromogenic substrates that contain some of the P1-P3 specificity sites."

Thats right CU, you show those atheists what's up.

mad mad world

Interesting occurrences in the past few weeks:

My bus driver on the 80 abruptly pulled over, stopped the bus, kissed a woman on the road, got back in, and continued driving without comment.

I saw a woman at a disability conference who seemed to have matched the painting on her wheelchair to her dress (accessorizing accessibility?)

A man on the Metro smiled and nodded enthusiastically upon seeing a SideKick in my lap (or maybe it was something else in my lap?).

An unusually high percentage of gay men walking along the road that leads up to Catholic University.

Running into a girl I made out with at a party a while back ... *car tires screeching to a hault* ... yes, I am ashamed ... especially after seeing her in full lighting. There was alcohol, it is my only defense.

semantics

Have you ever thought about how homo-erotic the cigarette has become? Just consider the vocabulary that has become associated with this friend of emphysema: stick, butt, and fag (for you Brits ... I won't even comment on "fanny packs"). Now really, is all that necessary?

Changes in semantics and vernacular are customary for every language; it is this evolution of language that gives us the beauty of a variety of tongues across the world (unless you like the Babel story; honestly, though, a bunch of people running around unable to communicate while trying to accomplish something ... wait wait, no, that's Capitol Hill ...).

Consider the many definitions of the word "GAY": merry (happily excited), bright (lively), given to social pleasures (licentious), and homosexual (I'm sorry, there seems to be a huge amount of redundancy in the Merriam-Webster).

I found an interesting webpage (http://www.queerbychoice.com/men2men.html -- I'm not too keen on the "by choice" part, however) that provides a list of terms used to describe gay men. Some are quite amusing: Bog queen, Aunt Fancy, church mouse, finocchio (Italian word, also means "leek" ... odd ...), friend of Dorothy's, lavender cowboy, Muscle Mary, sheep-herder, and waffle (perpendicular with sticky stuff? Let your imagination do some walking ...).

Strangely enough, both Nance and Bruce are on the list (my mother's name), which could lead us down the path of some Freudian conversation that I shall avoid for the sake of the common good.

Signed yours truly,
Batty-boy

Eastern Market

Although I've lived less than a mile away from Eastern Market since last September, just in the past week I have discovered several new exciting reasons why I should hop the local bus down to this niche of the DC southeastern quadrant:

Remingtons: gay bar where the buff and beefy come to line dance, drink, and be merry with intent to woo, Tuesday night buy-one-get-one-free, assuming the bartender can count to two (some drama there last time). In the span of one week I've now been there 3 times, aiya ...

Bread and Chocolate: cute however slightly pretentious café, gorgeous desserts (cinnamon and ginger mousse in a chocolate teacup, divine).

6:45 a.m. : military boys out in packs of 4 on their morning jogs down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Therefore Eastern Market equals: men, food, more men. It's the perfect man-sandwich, fit to satisfy any appetite.

And the tastier, the better.

The Wizard of Oz

The original film of the Wizard of Oz was re-released to theatres in 1949. Even on its second run it didn't do so well, and only became popular with general audiences years afterwards. Is it a masterpiece? A classic? A piece of crap?

After reading Wicked, the prequel to Dorothy's arrival and a charged political-drama of Oz, I decided to go back to the original text and read what has become a hallmark of American fantasy classics.

The pages of the original book, The Wizard of Oz, would be better spent in my bathroom for cleanup after a trip to the Cheesecake Factory.

It's basically the story of a fag hag and her 3 queens who traverse afar. Its boring, longwinded, and should not be read before operating heavy machinery.

Wicked, in the other hand, is entertaining (albeit looooong). The musical, which shares the same title but hardly the same storyline, is even more titillating (at least for me). And so, perhaps the legend of Oz improves with age.

But there is room for letdown in the wonderful world of Wicked, as was abrasively demonstrated to me in NYC last May. 3 hours prior to every show there is a lottery for front-row tickets (the worse view in the house) at a huge discount. The names of 18 lucky people are drawn; the others are told to screw themselves with a magic broom.

It's like watching an episode of The Price is Right: overweight mid-40s soccer moms squeal with delight, twink queens flit into the air and clap excitedly (yay!!!), even straight men let out of shout of "oh yeah!" (these brownie points could be exchanged for sex at any moment).

After renting a car and driving for hours just to get a glimpse of Glinda and entering the lottery 4 times that weekend, I learned that my luck had been bewitched and nothing could console me.

Except for that cinnamon bun. Oh, and rice pudding. Hmmm ... and a margarita. Oh and a gay porn shop!!! Perhaps I could buy some stilettos, click my heels 3 times, and pretend it all never happened ...

ex-straight

"He's just so beautiful and wonderful. Such a shame that he's straight." -- gay man, a.k.a. Me

"I know, I feel the same when I see a beautiful gay man." -- straight girl, frustrated on Gallaudet's campus (aren't they all?)

I'm reading a book, The Road Less Traveled, which suggests we can all traverse the tough terrain of life much better if we change our "map", i.e. our personal paradigm, of how we perceive the world. According to the author, mental illness results from an inability to change our map when confronted with new ideas and challenges.

The biggest cartographic challenge for me is this: When I meet an attractive man, I automatically assume he's gay (whats more, I'm always pointing north). There is no room on my map legend for a hottie straight boy.

Well, if Exodus International believes that gay people can become "ex-gays", then I firmly support the notion that straight people can become "ex-straights". Exodus derives from the Latin "the road out", however I would be pleased to show the hot-male straightees the "road in" (let's keep this clean, people, honestly let's have some maturity here).

So, I am planning to set up my own organization, Ingress International, which shall utilize various techniques to get these straight boys onto the right path (don't you love all these map references?). Some techniques used in the past to "ex"-gay men have been: aversion therapy (images matched with electric shocks), brain surgery, castration, positive therapy (images plus masturbation), therapy by tedium (show pictures of erotic stimuli until they are bored), and prayer.

So according to these therapeutic guidelines, here is the plan for Ingress International:
Aversion therapy: show straight men pictures of Rosanne and shock them (electricity possibly not required)
Brain surgery: using anesthetics the straights are put under (is that the same as going down?) and sliced open (deep probing may be required)
Castration: yeah ... we might skip this technique
Positive therapy: images plus masturbation, I will volunteer for the photo shoot
Therapy by tedium: do straightees ever tire of Playboy?
Prayer: I'm on my knees already ... please please please drink heavily and feel a little frisky tonight ...

Damn this map of mine.

Masturbate-a-thon

Title of the Yahoo! News headline:
"Hundreds expected to come to Masturbate-a-thon"

Now were they just being naughty, or do I read too much into things? And why do they have this section of the webpage labeled "Offbeat" news ???

Apparently for safe sex purposes, Marie Stropes International of Britain is hosting a fund"raise"er to increase awareness of HIV, AIDS, and just how gross it is to see some people jerking off.

Different rooms will be set up (comfort area, mixed area, and male or female-only rooms), participants must be 18 or older (I'd suggest a limit up to 40), and "the amount you raise depends on how many minutes you masturbate and/or how many orgasms you achieve".

First of all, this is obvious discrimination against men since we can pop the cork within a minute and general take at least a half-hour to recharge the batteries.

The police in Britain have given their approval *clap clap clap* ... wait, or is it *slap slap slap* ? I'm sure that Scotland Yard will be on "hand" to oversee the sea of flesh (remember, British police dont carry pistols, just nightsticks - ironically, the participants will already be beating themselves).

Now, will we allow our American prudery to interfere with a worthwhile cause to education, enlighten, and encourage public masturbation? NO, we must refrain from blowing our load of conservative discreteness in their faces.

To anyone who takes issue with the Brits, all I can say is- "Get a grip".

soap box prattling ...

And now for today's Bible quote of the day (what? ... don't I do this in every blog?) that I happened upon on a Metro advert.

Luke 6:22
Blessed are you when men hate you,
when they exclude you
and insult you
and reject your name as evil,
because of the Son of Man.

Now this could be interpreted in several different ways. Does this mean that I am blessed because some Christians say that Jesus thinks all gay people are evil??? Here's a Biblical passage with some promise!!!

In defense of Christianity (but not of some Christians), I will say that it is a lame lame lame excuse to use religion as a cover for one's homophobia, ignorance, or just plain inability to open up to people who are different.

Seriously ... diverting blame to one's religion when backed against the wall for a logical reason why gay people shouldn't have equal rights in our society is an insult to the very principles that Christianity was founded on; love, compassion, and inclusion.

And enough of this "love the sinner, hate the sin" crap. I've had it with that. That's like saying "love the artist, hate the art". Don't they see? Art is part of the artist. You can't have one without the other, like love & marriage, horse & carriage, and getting through an episode of Charmed with a bottle of gin.

Now someone help me down off of this damn soap box!!!

what have we become?

Surprising things that have reduced my faith in the human race as of yet:

-Last week I was about to get on the Metro and noticed a blind man having trouble finding the escalators. A tall, white man in a suit walked up to the blind man, waved his hand in front of his face, and then went about his business.

-CNN reporter: "There is concern that Americans could get caught up in the fire". Are we so concerned about Americans that we forget all the Lebanese civilians, and children? Shameful.

-In chatting with some deaf people outside of JRs, a man approaches and flails his arms extravagantly in our faces and laughs himself silly.

-Commercial: A fit, attractive man purchases tofu and health food at the grocery store, and then feels embarrassed when the man behind him is buying ribs and other barbeque goodies. The man immediately runs to the nearest Hummer retailer and purchases the gas-guzzling machine. Hummer catchphrase?: "Restore your manhood". WTF?!?

-A friend saying, "Companies suffer if they hire someone in a wheelchair. The cost of installing an accessibility ramp should come out of that person's salary".

-Hot dog eating contests on ESPN. While many in the world are starving, eating in America is done merely for our entertainment.

-Gallaudet is hosting summer programs for teens, both hearing and deaf. One hearing boy approaches a deaf boy and says repeatedly: "Talk, or I'll choke you".

-The fact that Jerry Springer, the WWF, and Medium are still on TV.

little of this, little of that

Last week I was in Murky Coffee when a sudden pang of urgent hunger came over me. Although I was well aware that the nearby Starbucks offers tasty breakfast treats (including a low-fat sandwich), I thought that my hypocritical bitch-then-buy attitude with the conglomerate must come to an end, and that I would purchase a freshly-baked goody from the Murky folk.

To my pleasant surprise, I found that my bagel (the "everything bagel" ... is that like a black hole of random crap that's fallen into the batter?) was conveniently priced at $0.91, making it an even $1.00 after DC's exorbitant food tax and eliminating the need for the penny exchange.

And yes, we are often quite hard on our dear penny in our fast-paced world. We mock it, calling it "worthless", a "petty penny", and altogether "senseless" (hehe).

In fact, some people have gone to such great lengths that they have set up an entire organization devoted solely to the demise of our beloved Lincoln coin. www.retirethepenny.org is a website that has promised to bring about certain doom to our coppered friend (or fiend, is it???)

According to the website, this metallic menace costs $0.014 to manufacture, making it more expensive to make that its actual value (Um.... isn't that like any Britney Spears CD?). Apparently the zinc industries are lobbying to keep the penny in our piggy banks at all costs (hehe), requiring approximately $33 million every year from the US Mint.

This is atrocious!!! Why wasn't this brought to my attention sooner???!!!??? The website lists these reasons for the justified eradication of the penny: (1) waste of money, and (2) waste of time.

Hmm ... war in Iraq, and the penny. I see a similarity! Other than that both can be used to get oil.

Starbucks Statistics and Charity

It's just like an annoying partner that dishes out really good sex; despite the irritation, you always end up coming back for more.

And so it goes with Starbucks.

There are a total of 127 Starbucks chains in the DC Metro area, and so the petulant partner peddles its addictive devices at every turn, corner, and fork in the road of the District.

Starbucks appeals to the American ideals of convenience and choice. Convenience because you can't take two steps without seeing the all-too-familiar rotund green sign, and choice because of the unending ways you can order a drink.

According to the Guide to Starbucks Beverages, "barista-speak" consists of 5 steps: the cup, the shots and size, syrup, milk and other modifiers (what) and the drink itself. There are 4 cup options, 5 types of espresso choices, 12 syrups, 6 types of milk, and 6 modifiers ... all of which can be ordered using the 36 vocabulary items printed in the front of the Guide.

In the "Giving Back" section of the brochure, Starbucks details how it goes to great lengths to help its local communities. "Each Starbucks store chooses a charity to receive its leftover pastries and past-date coffee". WHAT???

First of all, Starbucks is further contributing to the fattening of America with its butter-enriched pastries (another American ideal?) by donating high-fat and unhealthy foods to charities which probably serve an under-fed population. To add insult to injury, they are giving them stale coffee.

If it is past-date for the consumer, how is it still safe to give to charity? That's like donating expired condoms to a family-planning center.

Besides, I've seen the size of some Starbucks employees and I seriously doubt that many of the pastries make it to the "leftover" phase.

Stifling a giggle ...

Situations that have caused me to bite my lip recently:

-Asking for a person named "Bang Long" while making phone calls for temp work in an office.

-Seeing a book called "Catholicism for Dummies"

-A stranger in the dorms approaching me in my kitchen and asking "Would you like this bag of nuts?"

-Wondering what would happen if some mischievous students at Catholic University switched around a few letters of the dorm named "Pangborn Hall"

-Drag queen bingo

-The announcement in the Reagan airport: "Please maintain control of your personal belongings"

Rescue me ...

"I believe there's a hero in all of us." -- Spiderman II

And let the pathology begin!!! It's been 5 days since I saw Superman Returns, and yet the feverous obsession initially sparked by a man in tighty-reddies (although I've been told the shade was maroon) has relentlessly gripped and crushed me into a wriggling giggling school boy with an insatiable desire to ... well, let's just say that I'm curious to know if the man of steel lives up to his reputation.

The movie itself was very convincing. I was so captivated that I even caught myself wondering "Where are you Superman?" when Gotham was in utter chaos. It seems that the belief in a superhero is not so farfetched, despite Wonderboy's lack of fashion sense (although you will hear no complaints out of this one, digital reductions aside).

This hero theme and the idea of being rescued seems to have followed me closely the past week. I just saw an episode of Sex and the City where the girls acknowledged that they wanted to be rescued from their imprisonment of singleness and solitude. And I'm currently reading "Sanctity and Male Desire - A Gay Reading of Saints", which idolizes the masculinity and salvation of the hero saints in Catholicism.

I started to wonder about the author and his strange obsession with the saints. According to him, this is not an uncommon occurrence for gay men. To which I thought- neither is the obsession with superheroes. Where in the psychology of being gay is there this need to be rescued, to be saved from the impending doom of a natural disaster or evil villain?

Or are they desires to be saved from situations that we (gay men) cannot control? Like a society that continues to deny us our rights, ignoring discrimination and hate crimes, and labeling us as an afflicted population ...

Undeniably there is a huge chasm between Superman and the scantily-clad saints of the Catholic church (or superheroes of any faith).

The difference is simple: Superman does not discriminate between race, gender, orientation, or any other human uniqueness. Everyone is a likely candidate for disaster, and everyone has an equal right to be rescued.

I cannot say the same for the Church.

The influence of DC ...

Ways that I have become more gay since my arrival in DC:

Last week I went to a tanning bed for the first time. They played house music loudly in the background.

I have learned and also incorporated the term "manscaping" into my general vocabulary, and, embarrassingly, into my occasional pruning.

I have used shampoo for thinning hair.

I have watched Priscilla Queen of the Desert.

I have started to use an oatmeal-based facial cleanser.

I drink Diet Coke while eating french-fries.

I know other uses for VHS-head cleaning fluids.

I have learned what "trick" means.

I read the Washington Blade more than the Washington Post.

I recently ordered a "grande iced mocha skim no whip lite ice" from Starbucks.


So much to learn ... I am an earnest pupil.

Sodium (photos) may increase blood pressure

How times have changed!!! In just 100 years we've gone from horse and buggy to segues and golf carts. It seems our laziness is ever increasing, as is our tolerance for ostentatious displays of human flesh consumed by the mass public.

Don't believe me? Take the Morton's salt girl, for example (and no, this umbrellaed sex goddess is nameless ... although Sodium Chloride-ina has quite a ring to it). When initially introduced to consumers in 1914 she was an innocent curly-haired gal just shy of 10 years or so, skirt to her knees and clutching her oversized umbrella (incidentally, did you know that Mortons is responsible for the phrase "When it rains, it pours" ?)

In the 54 years to follow, our Iodine princess' skirt has raised considerably to Marilyn-Monroe status, hair straightened and pixie-like, and she is staring prodigiously at the generous hook of her umbrella (I kid you not!!!).

From frumpy to chic this savory sister has made quite a transformation. Although there have not been any revisions to Ms. NaCl since 1968, one can only imagine how she would appear were she to be re-drawn in 2006.

Inspired by the swimsuit beach models of Sports Illustrated, our Morton's containers would probably bear the image of some pubescent siren barely concealing her personals with damp patches of salt.

Check out the drawings from 1914-1968 at: http://www.mortonsalt.com/consumer/about_us/history/mug.htm

The Plague of Breeders

This is not a joke. The situation is out of control. There are simply too many straight people in this world.

On an excruciatingly boring Thursday night at work I did a profile search on MySpace for gay males within 5 miles of my hometown in Florida between the ages of 25-30 ... juuuuuuuuuust curious. Number of hits??? FOUR.

Fine fine fine ... if any man knows what's good for him he'll quickly run away from the excess flesh and lack of teeth that Polk County is famous for.

Perhaps the boys of Lakeland have moved on to conquer queerer pastures. A highschool profile search, then, for the gays of my alma mater.

NONE. It seems that I am the only gay man of the class of 1998.

Has anyone ever seen the British comedy show "Little Britain", and the Welsh character named Daffyd (David) that always laments "I am the only gay in the village" (check it out at: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/littlebritain/characters/daffyd.shtml). It's almost my life.

Thank god for DC, my oasis in a desert of procreating freaks.

Peace and Freedom

"Our nation is free"
"We are laying foundations of peace for our young generations"
-- Bush, 29 May 2006

Freedom should be defined by those who have the least amount of power in a political system- their perspective isn't as plagued by privilege, greed, and ignorance. Fortunately, we live in a place where even the individuals with the least amount of power still hold more freedoms in our country than do many others in the world.

What scares me is this masquerade of democracy and freedom while the system is slowly closing in on the personal freedoms it so adamantly parades as its strong suit.

-Yesterday I saw a report on CNN saying that it is now legal for states to rezone their districts to maximize votes along party lines.

-The current administration is attempting to censor the media for the sake of national security.

-A single political party controls the entire government.

-Citizens are tying religious doctrine to their decisions at the polls.

And peace? It's so easy to turn a blind eye to the genocide and human rights atrocities all over the world, so long as those countries aren't of any economic benefit to us ...

I don't know what to do.

Interesting tidbits ...

Random things I find interesting:

Commercial
"30 day supply of StaTight free, only pay shipping and handling and promotional fee"

Starbucks cup
Starbucks is proud to use the "first-ever post-consumer fiber cup", however on the reverse side it is written "intended for single use only"

Commercial for bug killer
"It kills bugs three months longer."

Fact
Since 1988 the blueberry muffin has been the official muffin of Minnesota.

Commercial for Levitra
"Call your doctor if your erection lasts longer than 4 hours" (holy god!!!)

Food review, DC

"I get full just watching you" -- my practicum supervisor, watching me dine.

FOOD REVIEW

Busboys and Poets, 14th between U and V, NW
Faaaabulous, just ignore the pain in your lower back while hunched over coffee tables (sitting on couches). Pizza with pesto sauce divine, prices surprisingly reasonable, bookstore in the restaurant to entertain in case your date induces narcolepsy.

Red Hot and Blue, Rosslyn
Charming chain, lovely iced margaritas, BBQ galore. Tasty fried okra and potato salad, drinks served in a mini-pitchers that makes gay boys squeal "that's soooo cute!!!"

Washington Hotel
Sensational view of White House, Monument, and a bunch of stuffy white people paying too much for mediocre food. Burgers start at $9, but worth it for the view.

Mamma Lucias, College Park
Like a psychotic mix of Olive Garden and Fazoli's (no kidding --white linen tablecloth while bread and olive oil is served in a red basket and wax paper). Strip mall restaurant shooting for high class prices with McDonald's-style layout and decor.

Cake Love, U Street
Cake, pie, and brownie heaven- at least visually. Loses appeal after first bite, including the bite it takes out of your wallet (cupcakes start at $3.50). Tastier after a few drinks, cute café-style place void of florescent lighting.

Pride Parade

Yesterday started DC's annual Pride Festival- which basically boils down to a weekend of flair, fairies, and fanny-shaking in a sea of promiscuity, alcohol and etc., and gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous men from the District and beyond.

The parade featured local organizations (most unique: Capital Area Rainbowlers ... love it!!!) and businesses which support gay causes/rights (or, at least, capitalize on the incredible revenue generated by boys who luuuuuuuv shopping). Freebies collected: condoms, T-shirt from Results (boy toy gym), beads, and a beachball from Whole Foods that said "fruits come in all shapes and sizes" ... hilarious ...

While the parade slowly snakes its way through Dupont and along 17th, the entire gay community turns out in droves to see the panorama of queens, kings, bears, twinks, hunks, cowboys (sadly no Mountain in sight), and of course, your average Joes, fly the rainbow colors and wave to an earnest crowd of couples, singles, old-timers, and young ones still brushing off the cobwebs of the closet. It is an entire world.

Jonathan and I were late to a performance for our chorus, so we were dressed in our formal attire (tux, black tie) and scurrying along the street to get a peek before we had to sing for a bunch of straight people in a non-Pride-related event (don't these breeders know we're busy this weekend?!?).

Loads of people in the parade whistled, people in the street hooted, and even a few individuals stopped to take photos of us (memo to me: attention-getting device in a crowd of tasty men, have tux dry-cleaned regularly).

Why all this attention?

"Oh my god that's fabulous!" one woman screamed. "Are you dressed for Pride? Are you two getting married???"

Ooohhhhhhh ................

Thoughts on H Street

Random thoughts that may pass through your head on H Street between 24th and 13th:

How the hell did I end up in a Korean parade of protestors?
Who scrubs the President's toilets?
Who designs clothes for the army?
Why do we know the location of the President's house? Is that safe?
How does one woman deal with 6 children in a stroller?
Why are those children on leashes?
When is it acceptable to tuck in a tie?
How much does it cost to manufacture an IPOD? What's the profit?
Are there no traffic signals outside of DC? How do the tourists not see them?
And lastly-
Do any of these people care about anyone else?

Answers to these would be appreciated ...

Bus therapy

What do you do when life gets you down? Phone a friend? Eat an ice cream? Punch a random tourist?

In the counseling field we are taught to constantly analyze our emotions and how they affect our behavior. It's nauseating; some days you're simply overwhelmed with yourself (and no, not in that extended-shower kind of way...)

The world turns its back on you and you feel rotten ... what options do you have left?

The answer is simple: ride the city bus.

There I was, late on a Thursday evening, fretting about increasing rates on student loans, comprehensive final exams looming, the stress and worry of finishing all my assignments on time, and being pissed off with life in general.

As I boarded the 80 to take me to the Kennedy Center, I paused from my selfish world and looked up at my fellow passengers. Most of them tired, rugged, and worn out from a hard day. Some were going to work, some just getting back- most of them had a very distant look in their eyes.

And then I realized- school is a privilege. I have the privilege to be in a financial position where I can take out massive loans. I have the privilege to have been educated well enough to enter a master's program. I have the luxury of classes and exams and deadlines and stressors, meetings and schedules and frustrations and chaos.

They are all an extravagant indulgence.

Suddenly the world became very big, and very manageable. And that's not bad for a buck-thirty-five.

Airport observations

Observations of the airport in Frankfort, Germany:
-An entire legion of adults guzzling Beck's at noon (if you can't beat 'em, join 'em)
-An American tourist wearing his money belt on the outside of his pants (note: the pickpockets see right through that trick)
-Standing smoker stations intermittently throughout the airport in poorly ventilated areas

Observations of the airport in Washington D.C.:
-A line of at least 20 people waiting impatiently for Wendy's, while the Potbelly's at the end of the terminal was deserted (same price, better quality ... odd)
-Unconvincing drag queen giggling into an unresponsive pay phone
-Smokers lounge walled off by glass (inside looks quite like a sauna, although I've heard that cancer isn't good for your pores)

Cracker Barrel

There are two ways to get a southern boy's heart racing: one, tell him that Billy Bob has just bought a new mud-slinging truck to race around after cow-tipping has lost its appeal, and two, spotting the yellow and brown sign of the Cracker Barrel coming into view on the interstate.

When I say "Cracker Barrel", what typically comes to mind? Good southern cooking, aproned waiters and waitresses that can't wait to slop up a healthy serving of grease-fried lard, and of course, the fluffy biscuits served with the country straight-to-your-thighs gravy.

Accurate? Well, yes, in the golden age of the Cracker Barrel dynasty. Now, I am afraid to report, the legacy of this once great giant of the diabetes-inducing American chain restaurant industry has begun to lose its flourish, its fancy, and its general appeal.

Cracker Barrel has a new rule: the star-aproned waiters/waitresses are not allowed to bring out the plentiful buttery biscuit delights unless requested by the customer. My flittering fairy-boy server (probably the only gay in the village, poor lad) reported this shocking news to me (I'm sure in order to save his tip ... how else are the customers supposed to know that it's CB being cheap, not the laziness of the server?).

Moreover: the green beans were canned, the mashed potatoes were instant, and dammit- those biscuits were just not buttery enough !!!

The only positive news I have received about CB is that it has just recently added sexual orientation to its discrimination clause for employees, preventing those in Georgia and Alabama from ousting those damned queers (*sign of relief from my waiter boy*) and terminating them without due cause (WHAT?!? Being gay isnt reason enough? But just think of Sodom and Gomorrah!).

Makes you wonder where we'll be 50 from now? Gays might have equal rights, but the biscuits will totally suck.

Big, fabulous, and black

"It's a man's world, but for gay men, it would be nothing without a big, fabulous black woman" -- The Advocate, April issue

Nothing could be more true than this quote; indeed, a big, fabulous black woman is unparalleled by any other delight in this mad mad world (save chocolate chip cookies and peanut butter ... which may solely be responsible for the big woman in the first place).

A few weeks ago I had the divine pleasure of seeing Rent on stage at the Warner Theatre. One of the cast members was just so: a big, fabulous black woman who had seen her fair share of peanut butter and other things tasty besides. She had that booming, boisterous voice to match her smooth and sexy shuffle across the stage. Oh yes, she was totally hot.

Fate smiled upon me that evening; I was invited to the cast party at a nearby restaurant and bar immediately following the show. And there she was in all her extravagant glory, chomping down on calamari and hoovering down the cheese dip (oh, to be the cracker that gets to be near those lips ... get it???) But what to say? What to do? Where to hide in all of my gay-but-still-diggin-the-chick shame?

Luckily, Jonathan enjoys torturing me and took it upon himself to destroy any shred of dignity I have remaining (which isn't much now after that nude sleepwalking catastrophe last spring). He marched squarely up to my shapely goddess, introduced himself, and proceeded to inform her of my unrequited love for her, the opposite sex, ironic as that may be.

I was mortified.

And then it happened. In a moment of bewildering flattery and charmed appreciation for the magic she in fact knew could bewitch the very foundations of my solely-male desires, my hot-mama-twinkie swished her way towards me and engulfed me in her cushiony wonder.

Quote of the evening from this talented and refined lady of culture and class: "This bitch must eat !!!"

Soooo hot, I can't even tell you.

Lufthansa airlines

Ahh, Lufthansa: offering the best in quality, service, and inconvenience.

This story begins on a calm and misty morning in the Eternal City. As the sun breaks over the horizon of this chaotic epicenter of art, culture, and irritability, one would never guess that the highly prized American values of service, pleasantness, and alcoholic consumption would be met in flight while streaming fluidly across the Atlantic.

Why is Lufthansa so surprisingly wonderful? Well, it's not run by Italians, and that's just the beginning of it.

When sitting in seat 40.K, the in-flight entertainment is quite often the horrifying amusement caused by the cantankerous odor drifting sharply from the lavatories. However, when flying with Lufthansa, there is a competing odor to win your olfactory affections: sweet honey rolls served with butter and cheese.

The food is unparalleled by any other airline. As an added bonus, real metal silverware is provided to assist you in consuming the feast with a steady hand (and inciting a compulsion for kleptomaniacs). I had half a mind to take a set back home with me, deterred only by the thought of running through the detectors at security with enough red on my face to match the spaghetti stains on my beard.

And, undoubtedly the best perk, there is the generous offering of free alcohol on every flight (*college freshman awake beneath a showering of beer cans and cock their heads in amazement*). Yes, I said it: free alcohol. Wine, beer ... even Baileys. There is no charge, nor even a look of disapproval from the attendant (just one from my aisle-seat co-passenger after my third glass ... I can hold my liquor, just not my bladder).

However, like all fairytales with those characters who have bitten the apple of bliss and found only half a worm, this story does have squirmy ending. For all of its painstaking attempts to please me beyond all forms of conceivable happiness (and sobriety), Lufthansa decided to delay my luggage until the next flight from Europe came in 4 hours after my arrival.

So, I see how it's gonna be, Lufthansa: get me all boozed up and leave me in a strange place without my clothes and underwear. Wait a minute ... wasn't that my first date with Jonathan ???

Rent, then and now

If you look under Article IV.a of the gay man's membership manual (and no, I am not referring to Spartacus), you will find the following clause: A man, defined loosely as an organism with male genitalia, who is attracted to another man of the same species, is required under the bylaws of Gaydom to know at least 85% the lyrics/music to Rent.

So when Jonathan asked if I wanted free tickets to see Rent opening night in D.C., naturally I referred to the manual for instructions. Article IV.b : any invitation to see Rent, paid or otherwise, must be met with a shrill squeal, multiple handclaps, and a gay hop or two in the air (see picture iii.a for Jack from Will & Grace).

This was my second Rent experience; first time was in New York, in the gaping-wound-bleed section (nosebleed just doesn't do it justice). This time, however, I was front and center, literally ... row G in the orchestra.

It's amazing; no matter how well you know the show or sing it in the shower or hum it on the metro or blog about it or etch the lyrics on trees with a heart around them or gurgle Listerine to the tunes or strum the beat on your knees during counseling sessions for obsessive tendencies, the show is still impressive and new.

It's been two years since I saw Rent in New York, and so seeing it again made me realize just how much has changed in that time. I had just come out, feeling released, fresh and free, but still a bit regretful and angry with myself because I had spent so much time in the closet. For any of you who adhere to Article IV.a, you will know that we should "forget regret, or life is yours to miss".

It was a long lesson to learn; but in the end, I look back and realize that if I had come out any other way then it just wouldn't be my own unique story. And, seeing that there is no day but today, looking forward is much better than giving the remorseful past a moment's glance.

Bother of the bride

Why do brides always stand on the left in wedding ceremonies?

According to a reputable source, brides in Medieval times were often stolen from neighboring cities (gentlemen, I have an alternative strategy for what happens when there aren't enough ladies in town ... what are you doing tonight???).

Therefore, the groom (or one of his 6 brothers, sobbin' sobbin') had to always be on the lookout for some angry father on a rampage because he didn't get a dowry. By having his blushing (or bleeding) bride on his left side, the groom had his right hand available to extract his sword should he need to ward off any person attempting to slit his thieving throat.

I can't imagine a time when women were in such short supply. Now women are everywhere: on buses, in public parks, and even in the bathrooms at Omega.

The only comparable situation I can think of in modern times is the extreme shortage of straight men in the District. Therefore, straight boys of DC be forewarned!!! Should a woman approach you, pretending she's interested in football and the revolting way you keep your toenails, be on the alert!!! The only reason most girls even enter sports bars is because of the low lighting, you know.

Although I don't suppose it would be that incredibly difficult to kidnap a straight man. Simply wave a soft, rotund piece of exposed flesh in front of his eyes and there'll be enough drool to take on the Hoover Dam. Second, entice him with chili-cheese dogs and the promise of a beer gut before he turns 30 and trust me, the straight boys will come a-runnin'. Throw in your tolerance of his bad manners and really poor taste in clothes, and that straight boy will be all over you like white on rice.

But while racing to the altar, girls, make sure to have the groom on your left with his right hand occupied. Should he resist the vows and attempt to fight, we all know that a boy's left hand is weaker ... perhaps from too much time extracting that damned sword.

Metro bitch

There's something highly thrilling about that mad dash from the escalator to the Metro just as the carriage doors are closing. It's a race against the machine, against all of humanity; the one moment of the day where you are challenged by your own physical prowess alone. The flurry of office papers, the line at Starbucks, and all the suits in the world cannot stop you from scurrying like a squirrel, barreling towards the Metro car and colliding with everything in between (move it granny! and take your 3-legged dog with you!!!).

In an attempt to calm the general public from their mad dash to personal satisfaction, a new female "voice" as been installed to warn passengers of the about-to-close doors.

"Stand back!!! Doors closing ..."

She sounds like the bride of Hitler. I half expect a metal nightstick to appear out of nowhere and clobber the next suit that attempts to vault his/her way through the doors. She's so severe!!!

Then what follows our Metro-Nazi's warning is a tinkering chime noise that sounds like our beaten-suit's unconscious face was just slammed onto the keys of a poorly-tuned xylophone.

I nervously ask the person next to me, "Sir, this train is going to Shady Grove, right???" ...

Stamp convention

Sign on the Metro reads:

-Come to this once-a-decade stamp show to see the world's greatest rarities! Tens of millions of dollars worth of stamps and envelopes!
-Washington Convention Center

I'm not entirely surprised this event happens only once a decade. Seriously, how much interest can be drummed up for postage over 10 years?

And what does a postal exhibition really do, anyway? Who gets that excited over licking paper? (LSD users are not encouraged to answer)

Moreover, who gets excited over stamps that were never used to do what they were originally designed for? They just sit there. It's like going to a toilet convention and marveling over bowls that were never flushed (ew).

And just what are these rarities of the stamp world??? (answer: the people who find this stuff interesting)

And tens of millions of dollars worth of unused stamps?!? WTF?!!!? The USPS made out like bandits on that one. It's a convention that celebrates all of the paid-for-but-not-delivered services of the postal system.

Do we pay for a meal and walk out before it's arrived? NO. Do we pay for a concert and leave before the opening number? NO.

The stamp must be used if it is bought. Lick it and stick it people.

My pal Liz

Ah Liz ... good friend and companion: she's patient enough to put up with my bullshit, listens to me ramble about gay bars and broccoli, and accompanies me on the strangest adventures in the District. These are some of our stories for the spring semester of 2006:

Sex in Chinatown (see earlier blog): 2 men, high or drunk, decided to get it on in our presence at 2 p.m. on a rainy Saturday afternoon in the middle of the street. Liz wanted to call the police, I wanted my digital camera.

Bathroom hunting: Originally hunting for a theatre with empty seats to see Brokeback Mountain (try Virginia - all the seats were filled at Dupont Circle [keep it clean!]), our quest took us to the Van Ness metro stop where apparently there are no public toilets (15 min. walk only led us to a renovation-in-progress Subway). Thank god for Burger King. And then we ended up at the Eagle, realizing that boys really do wear chaps at leather bars, and certainly not wanting to use their bathroom.

KrispyKreme: Who says I dont get lucky (mind the jokes) ??? Check out the KK (watch those acronyms) on Dupont Circle at closing time you might score big (well, either there or down at Omega) with a dozen free donuts that would have otherwise ended up with the trash (as in the "garbage", not those at Omega).

Free Toast: Some extremely friendly youngsters decided to bust out 4 toasters and a waffle maker to pass out free toast (butter, jam, syrup included) to the drunken parade of post-bar crawlers on the corner of U and 17th one night. They had glittery signs held by cute little ladies peddling their offerings and yelling "FREE TOAST!!!" (rather like a carwash, yet sadly without the suds and studs) to passerbys and extremely thankful cabbies.

And she's leaving me for 4 months next Thursday ... who will come with me to JRs, for crying out loud?!?

Metro sightings

Metro sightings in the past few weeks:

-A sign indicating 1 in 4 suffers from a mental illness, to which I realize that there are more people on the Metro with IPODs then there are those with mental illnesses.

-A man dressed entirely in pink: pink dress, pink pearls, and pink high-tops (not high heels ... really, high-tops). And not very convincing as a woman.

-A man in complete tribal garb, with clattering shark-tooth necklaces and a rainstick.

-A bride and groom, dressed for the aisle ("Do you take ... the red line?" ... "I do" ...)

-A man knitting ... what?

-A construction worker with a hardhat that had "Bruce Willis" printed on it.

-A woman who crossed herself immediately upon entrance to the carriage (can you blame her?).

Sound bites

I have the unique opportunity of studying at a deaf school. Gallaudet University is a completely different world; and sometimes it's really easy to lose yourself in it. Going off campus you are suddenly reminded of just how many hearing people there are beyond the cozy gates, how loud it all is, and how chaotic and penetrating sound can be. But at Gallaudet you can hide from the fury, the pace and the rush.

But there is the odd occasion on campus where sound does disturb the tranquility of silence ...

Take, for instance, my suite in the dorms. There are three bedrooms adjoined by a hallway with a shared bathroom. All of my suitemates are deaf, which conveniently allows me to blast Wicked at 7.00a.m. every morning and sing obnoxiously at the top of my lungs.

The drawback is my one suitemate that does not remember how sound can travel underneath doorways from the bathroom to my bedroom.

Routinely, every night while I am studying, my precious suitemate decides that it is time for his cleansing ritual. To most, this means a shower. But for you boys out there who don't like to make a mess and do laundry (you know who you are!), a cleansing ritual can mean a truly Herbal Essence experience.

How can one be expected to study while he hears a grown man groan and giggle to the repetitious beat of "cleansing"?

I'd love to bang on the door and yell "Keep it down!!!", although he would not hear me and I doubt that at that point he would be able to oblige ...

grande macchiatotally BS

"Starbucks is committed to reducing our environmental impact through increased use of recycled post-consumer materials. Help us help the planet." - Starbucks cup

Let me offer you my personal adaptation and the true meaning behind this message:

"Starbucks is committed to trying to win our customer's sympathy by hypocritically proclaiming our compassion for Mother Earth by pretending to reduce our environmental impact by having drive-thru windows where exhaust fumes of impatient SUV-driving soccer moms further deplete our ozone layer and through increased but not complete use of recycled post-consumer materials (ew, this sounds gross). Help us help the planet by serving all iced drinks in plastic containers and not offering recycling bins at any of our locations." -- Starbucks cup.

But there's probably not enough room on the cup to print all of that. Plus, let's conserve the ink; who knows, future generations may be without.

Clipart

Let's assume that the pictures available in Microsofts online ClipArt files are a representative sample of what our society values. Using a one-word search of the entire ClipArt database, lets see what we truly hold near and dear to our hearts (or FreeCell):

Money = 1200+
Education = 1200+
Clothing = 1200+
Food = 1200+
Family = 1128
Love = 792
Alcohol = 312
Success = 264
Exercise = 252
Peace = 92
Joy = 48
Hope = 10
Imagination = 6
Charity = 6
Emotion = 3
Faith = 3
David = 1 (woohoo!!!)

Matchbox $20

Matchbox is a pleasant restaurant in Chinatown that serves anything but Chinese food -- burgers and pizza are the main to-dos of the menu, which I think is a sort of slap in the face to the strict reverence to Eastern design, cuisine, and language that all of ChinaBlock (... er, Chinatown) adheres to.

Nevertheless, Matchbox churns out decent fare for a decent fare. Twenty greenbacks will get you 2 mini-hamburgers (dolled up wittingly as appetizers so the price raises 50%), paper-thin french-fries (or were they onions? ... I really don't know, but they were greasier than a sweaty construction worker so I dont mind ... the worker, that is), and a thin-crust Italian-style 9-inch delightful pizza.

Now, I like a good pizza better than my own mother (can I get a whoop whoop? ... guys ... guys ... where'd everyone go?). So, I've been around the block a couple of times whoring myself out to various Italian pizzerias and allowing them to be the Sirens to my Odysseus (and yes, I did have to check the spelling of Odysseus).

It's been almost one year since I got back from Italy, and Matchbox was the first place to challenge my thinking that America couldn't pull off a proper Roman-style pizza unless it ordered it FedEx (those interested in attending their own pizza-making course should check out: http://www.il-pizzaiolo.it/school.html).

And there I was, wine-less but content, folding my pizza instinctively and ramming it down my face to the sounds of laughter, the chatter of good company, and a temperate calm in the middle of a bustling non-stop city. For a moment, I wondered if I had ever left.

Has it only been a year?

Kramer's magical token

hate to add another bathroom story. I assure you I am not a coprophiliac (real term, check it out at: http://www.rr1.net/users/wrhardesty/webdoc1.html).

Kramer's is a lovely bookstore/coffee house/restaurant on Connecticut Ave. right off of the fantabulous Dupont Circle (memo to me: spellcheck has no objections to "fantabulous", however it does not like "spellcheck"). It's where the love of literature, fine food, tasty desserts, and snobbery go hand in hand at a (moderately) affordable price.

Atmosphere – lovely. Food – A-OK. Service – delightful. Bathroom situation – yeah, a bit militant.

I excused myself from the table and asked where the elusive bathroom hid itself. My server whipped out a dime-sized golden token that reminded me of my elementary days at the arcade ("but I don't wanna play Turtles, I like Rainbow Brite!" – how did my parents not know …).

I was told to follow the signs up to the bathroom where I would exchange my token for the illustrious opportunity to relieve myself in their facilities. Naturally, I was looking forward to a bathroom experience that merited a token, a golden one no less.

After climbing 4 flights of stairs, taking the third right and the following left, and finally a summersault, I came upon the only-those-tokened-shall-pass door to the men's room. A heavy Alcatraz-style bolt could only be undone by my magical token (why does this feel like The Secret Garden?).

The bathroom was skanknasty. The faucet dribbled enough water to wet a freckle, and the blowdryer panted weakly like a dying dog. I don't think I've been that disappointed since Crystal Pepsi.

But three glasses of water later, there I was requesting another golden token.

In attempting to close this blog, the following free association went through my head: golden token, golden ticket, Willy Wonka, Free Willy – and all related to the bathroom (you figure it out).

Got a stick?

I was on the Metro the other day when a girl in her mid-20s pulled out a packet of gum as a post-lunch courtesy to the crammed passengers within garlic-breath range.

I had the impulse to ask her if I might have a piece, but then I reminded myself of cultural norms (and what possible consequences might ensue for one who breaks the don't-talk don't-look don't-acknowledge-life rules of the Metro system) and that this was an inappropriate circumstance to freshen my breath.

Then I thought: Why is it OK to bum a smoke off of a complete stranger, but not a piece of gum?

Gum costs less, makes you more pleasant to be around, and doesn't cause cancer. Why do we hoard it?

Furthermore, linguistic variances of the word "cigarette" in other countries could lead to dangerous cross-cultural miscommunications with strangers (you should just see their faces when you ask for a "fag" in Alabama).

Perhaps it is the guilty conscience that unites smokers and allows them to violate our normal rules of stranger engagement.

I suppose the only cancer-entitlement we gum chewers have is saccharin. I just don't know if that's enough to help us build bridges to mooching.

Collarless priest

Nothing beats Scrabble with a priest, I always say. You have to omit words like "breasts", "bitch", and "penis" (yeah you just try to challenge those words) but all in all it was a fun night of modest language, unlimited amounts of alcohol (who needs Jesus and his fancy tricks?), and nudist colony stories.

*car tires screeching to a halt* -- WTF?!?

Yes, my priestly classmate told us all about his conquests around the globe (geographical conquests – let's keep this clean), including a surprise stop at a nudist colony somewhere far from Alabama (thank goodness, my eyes can't process that much flesh).

I, for one, would be a bit stupefied to find a man of the cloth (hehe) at a nudist colony. Just imagine, hanging out (hehe) with all of your nudist friends and reminiscing over those fond memories: that summer meeting at Larry's with the leather couch, the aerobics class where Betty suffered a severe back injury, the game of Limbo over at Tom's (use your imagination people), and particularly that one crazy party where Jello body shots brought on a different type of shot altogether from Stuart (oh no he didn't!) – and then a priest walks in the door …

First of all, seeing a priest naked is probably not the most arousing sight imaginable. Secondly, all of the eye candy in the world won't make that lollipop sweet (it's a bit like walking around with your appendix revealed – who cares?! And it's useless!!!). Third, in the unlikely event that the priest is attractive, I don't believe that a Hail Mary (keep that imagination churning) is entirely appropriate considering the circumstances.

I applaud my friend's incredible bravery to enter the colony; in fact, I believe a standing ovation is warranted.