The Tooth Fairy

What is the appropriate compensation an imaginative hoax should leave a child in exchange for an ejected piece of the human body? According to a recent CNN report, parents across the country are worried about the proper amount the faux-fairy should repay something that requires no effort at all and is a normal biological function. Am I paid every time I pee? Do I get a lump of gold for a lump of poo?

Inflation aside, children are demanding more of their fanciful fairy than in years past. The gold standard has generally been a quarter, but in an age where Christmas gifts have gone from Parcheesi to Playstation the financial fairy is suffering from a drastic increase in customer demand. Customer satisfaction, too, is threatened by the petty playground banter in which children compare their dental achievements (which can go as high as $20 a tooth, although the average is around $2.50).

What is a parent to do amidst a recession and the woes of fessing up to their fraudulent fairy practices? Should children know the truth? Should we continue giving them unearned money that reinforces a declining work ethic? Should they be taught to invest their earnings in stocks and mutual funds? Should children be taught the critical thinking skills necessary to discern that the idea of a winged tooth-collecting creature with a non-depleting source of capital is only an elaborate prank?!?

Some people argue that lying to children is actually good for them- the Tooth Fairy encourages imagination and later helps children make a distinction between reality and make-believe. Well, I don't think that children are at all suffering from a lack of imagination. And who the hell knows fact from fiction, anyways? Teenagers lie 98% of the time to their parents- perhaps this is in retaliation for the 98% of parents who tell their children about the Tooth Fairy.

But what would the world be like if we grew up and still held on to our childhood fantasies? Imagine a world where Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy were a part of every day discussion ("Oh my god then there was this Fairy in my bed ... oh wait, that was me"), and the mystically intangible splendor of magic keeps us locked in a circling spell of wonder-- and hope?-- and provides an escape from the harsh realities of the grown-up world.

I suppose that believing in the Tooth Fairy isn't all so terrible- children continue to stare patiently into the fog of the impossible, and earn a little cash on the side while they're at it.

FYI- if you search the Internet, you can always find people who will pay for your urine.

Roller coaster weekend

Drama: it is a word that has truly come to embody my entire existence over the past few years. Drama is synonymous with several key aspects of my life-- Gallaudet, relationships, housemate situations, employment -- everything coming with a significant second-helping of heaping portion-proportions, all wedged and packed tightly into an emotional architecture that is buckling under the strain.

So on this, a most dizzying weekend of ups and downs, we can see just how high that roller coaster climbs- only to watch it move steeply down from time to time while I cling to the bar and squeal.

Friday:
My grandfather died. And, as with any death, the immediate family ties are put to the test in a delicate tug-of-war battle (How hard should I pull? When do I finally let go? How can I see the line to cross in all of this damned mud!). He and I weren't very close, so the situation is a bit awkward for me. I haven't talked about it much with others because most people expect a grandfather's death to be horrifically devastating- I think the fact that it isn't traumatic makes me even sadder.

Friday night:
Deaf Professional Happy Hour. As with any DPHH event, there is a swirling social cacophony(wink) of spinning hands and fantastic fingers. Old friends, catching up, sharing news, quick hellos and hugs, spilling drinks, feeling connected- the more times you say hello, the more you feel a sense of community and warmth. Ahhhh ....

Saturday:
EggSpectations is a cute restaurant in downtown Silver Spring which plays on words that begin with an "egg" sound, and thus is perfect for a dork like me who thinks he's clever every time he tells his waitress his omelet is "egg-cellent" ... *cough*. The door handles for the main entrance and the bathroom are egg beaters (for the bathroom??? Hmm, my right hand IS tired from all this repetitive whipping action). There was consumption of delicious eats and comforting times with friends.

Saturday afternoon:
BAKING !!! 5 hours in the kitchen, singing along to showtunes with a dear friend. Nothing is better! But wait, there's more!!! I got the call that I'd been accepted to do peer counseling for the Whitman Walker Clinic- OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Saturday evening:
Gay prom. Yes, you heard me right- GAY PROM. Dolled up with my lady date (yes, a lady- there are still some things I can't get straight ... oh wait ...) and ready to shake it uninhibited with the boys ... life was rocketing skyward past Cloud 7, Cloud 8, Cloud 8-and-a-half ...

BOOM ... shards of rocket shatter and give in to gravity, falling uncontrollably to the ground. I had reached my 3-drink limit, and had progressed on to my fourth. After 3 drinks, any emotion is magnified 100-fold, and that filter which controls, suppresses, and obscures the external masquerade of emotions suddenly becomes void, and there are no flood gates to hold back the unforgiving surge that follows.

Sunday morning:
Hosting a nasty hangover (with all that water, you'd think I wouldn't be dehydrated the following morning!), and cursing daylight savings time with a mad passion (4 hours sleep is NOT enough), I dragged myself to church at 9:00 to prepare for the 11:00 service. By the time 12:30 had rolled around, I had interpreted an inspirational sermon about affordable housing in the District, and I had shaken hands with Mayor Fenty and interpreted his 10-minute speech about the government's current efforts to improve the lives of DC citizens.

Sunday afternoon:
In a somewhat drowsy daze, I proceeded to Mt. Pleasant with 2 friends to eat at a charming and cheap El Salvadorian restaurant and chat the afternoon away. After a Sticky Fingers Bakery run, I returned home to the inviting cushioning of 2 pillows and a mattress that seemed to envelope me like a spoon being pushed into a bowl of thick pudding. 4 hours of disconnected bliss ...

Sunday night:
Swing dancing at a straight bar. wha Wha WHAT? The gays took to the floor and showed the breeders how to really swing their hips and sweep the floor at McGinty's in Silver Spring. Laughter, pictures galore, some tasty french fries, and testing the societal rules of a straight locale- lovely :-)

Monday morning:
Sleeping through the alarm, late for work, mad and panicked dash to get to my desk before 9:00a.m., with only seconds to spare and with somewhat frazzled hair. And so, the work week begins all over again.


*steps off roller coaster, slightly giddy, slightly nauseous*

Drama, indeed. Perhaps I shouldn't wait in line for the ride.

No Cussing??? What the #&%#?!?!?

The pursuit for an adequate definition of "cuss":

cuss: to curse or curse at

curse: to swear

swear: to use profane oaths

profane: to treat with irreverence

irreverence: lack of reverence or due respect

respect: willingness to show consideration or appreciation

OK -- putting this all together, I would propose that "cussing" could be tediously defined as "a lack of due consideration and appreciation in the form of an oath".

Jimminy-Christmas, it is so difficult to get a friggin' handle on what in the tarnation they are talking about! Golly gee!

Well Christmas on a cracker, leave it to the nation's friggin' youth to try and save this gosh darn planet from the viles of freaking cuss words. It means these kids actually give a poopoo about how others are treated! Holy shishkebab!

The No Cussing Club was founded by a 14-year-old son of a biscuit eater in California. The "No Cuss Challenge", necessary to obtain membership in this dang group, states::: "I won't cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!"

The Internet is full of suggestions on how to clean up our foul potty mouths. My personal favorite: "Instead of ahhh, ****, use "ahhh shuggy duggy quack quack." -- Aside from being hilarious, this quote comes from an ex-military person, which made me think for a minute ... As conservative as the military is (don't ask, don't tell, and burn at the stake), isn't it interesting that expressions like "curse like a sailor" exist? And probably for a good reason?

Research indicates that swear words are "special" in the brain; they are not processed like other words in our vocabulary. Swear words are strongly associated with the limbic system and basal ganglia, which regulate emotions, impulse control, basic behavior, plus a whole lot of other shizzle. They are "lower" brain functions.

As a result, some people who suffer from aphasia (the inability to speak or pronounce words due to brain damage) are still fully able to cuss it up till the cows come home ("Yes, Priscilla, your son is such a handsome young man- such a shame that he is mute." -- "Fucking bitch!!!" -- "Oh dear...").

It's almost like cussing fulfills a basic and instinctual need in the brain. It arouses emotions, effects behavior- and it is almost always the first thing you want to learn about another language. Asking for cuss words in French or Italian isn't offensive to the language- we're trying to build our vocabulary from the bottom up!

Weird- I never speak Italian anymore on a regular basis, but if I'm driving in traffic and some A-hole pulls a crappy maneuver in front of me ... Italian cuss words fly out of my mouth like a bat out of Hades.

So cuss words pack quite an emotional punch! Because they are so powerful, should their use be encouraged because swearing can successfully articulate the depth of emotion in our language? Or should they be saved, used sparingly and held only for the times we really mean what we are saying?

Eh ... I don't really give a shit.

Musicals

You know those times when you suddenly realize there's the most random song stuck in your head (like "It's a Small World"), and then someone tells you that 5 minutes ago they had been whistling that tune? Somehow we pick up a song, bypass our consciousness, and slowly re-introduce it into our current reality. So what's going on underneath our cerebral awareness? What tunes, thoughts, and feelings are circling around like a synchronized swimmer's legs, while maintaining a composed shape on the water's surface?

I think the grey matter in my noggin creates a subconscious imagery that could hardly be described as grey; there are vibrant colors, sounds, explosions of dancing and improvised (yet harmonized) singing, outbursts of song and shimmering costumes, emotional twists and turns that transcend to a reality that is not, but should be ... in essence, a musical.

My first musical, The Sound of Music, was brought to my attention when I was 8 years old (please note that at age 6 I had already noticed that boys were cuter than girls, and so my gayness cannot be blamed on Julie Andrews- which actually is quite a shame). Before that time, I was always puzzled at why my family was so obsessed with music- my mom plays the piano, my dad the clarinet, and they were both music ed majors in college. Blah blah blah yay music ok where's my Nintendo?

In a 2nd grader's mind there is absolutely nothing unusual about 7 children and a pseudo-nun frolicking in the hills of Austria while singing about "bright copper kettles" and "warm woollen mittens". So as a child when I sat and watched these spontaneous eruptions of song and yodeling, I believe my subconscious had finally connected with a satisfying realization of my most instinctual desires. The obsession had begun.

I received poorer marks in school that year. Apparently the teachers didn't like me humming "I am sixteen going on seventeen" on loop 3 hours a day, followed by an afternoon session of "yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-he-yodel-lei-hee-whoo". Fortunately this behavior did not incur the ridicule of my naive classmates, but I'm sure the Lutheran teachers were constant in devout prayers that this big-gay-train would hopefully derail.

I was "inattentive" and "off-task"- two qualities that I am proud to uphold to this very day. Sure, all those people on DC's public transport see a blank face while I'm peaceably riding in the Metro car-- but in my mind's eye there are scenes from Moulin Rouge, Hairspray, Wicked, and others, all adapted to the scenery of a DC backdrop and in perfect sync with the tapping of my feet.

When you take to that mythical stage, dim the house lights of reality, and belt out a passionate note that resonates twice around the world-- that is emotion in its purest form. It is joy, sorrow, lust, contempt, pride- or even love.

And so as I am sauntering down the street to work, iPod in hand, "Climb Every Mountain" booming dramatically in my ears amidst the jackhammers and exhaust fumes of everyday life- figuratively and literally- I am mellowly reminded that these pure emotions and unending musical performances have one true thing in common:

They're all in my head.

Return to Gallaudet, revisited

Debbie Downer is on hiatus, proceed without caution ...

My second trip to Gallaudet in 2 weeks proved to be just as entertaining and hectic as the first. I had an important appointment that lasted longer than any human being should have to endure, followed by a quick buzz around campus and finally a visit to my department.

The quick buzz was great - old friends, busy schedules, homework this and that, job this and that, relationships, romance, and scurrying off to the next segment of an exhausting to-do list. Our 5 minute vignettes of complicated lives and stories that are due more attention- all in a flurry of fingers and hands that are complete gibberish to the people living just outside the gates.

I had been apprehensive about returning to my department, but after such an intense day I could have seen T.J. Holmes and reacted without much hype (ok ... that is a boldfaced lie). I did not know how I would be received.

Weird. It was like a homecoming; except it was for a place that had never felt like home. It was oddly warm and welcoming. What had changed? Me? The faculty? Both? Or perhaps even neither- maybe all that had changed was our perceptions of each other.

Which is not to say that this negates everything that happened, or how it was handled (on both ends). After all, even if you bury the hatchet, the hatchet is still there. But around and through it can sprout fresh spring flowers, opening their faces sun-ward once more to the winds of change and chance. Awww flowers are the cute ....

And as life has its way of coincidentally placing certain events close to one another to really pack a punch, last weekend I had a run-in with an ex-- one that I had hurt a while ago. He had this amazingly mature attitude-- one that appreciated our time together, and didn't continuously resent it- and it really slapped me in the face. I'm always squinting to see the silver lining, but for him it was as radiant as a star despite the pain. Wow. Maybe I need new lenses.

*strokes chin in pondering pose*

Ok *gathering notes* so ... pain is crappy but normal, anger is there to protect our ego but can eventually damper our spirits, people make mistakes but they usually have good intentions ...

Why is it that these lessons are the hardest to remember? Damn ... I miss calculus.