Cookie Boy Comments

blog is moving!

2009-12-11T11:58:00.001-05:00

Hello!!!!
I'm trying to get all my stuff under one log-in name (hard to do when you have too many gmail addresses!!!)

This blog has been moved to :::

http://cookieboycomments.blogspot.com/

:-)

Air travel

2009-09-06T15:30:00.002-04:00

“Please maintain control of your personal belongings...”

Right?!? I'd like to say the same to the crowd at Cobalt on a Friday night. Keep your baggage (package?) to yourself!!!

But in the Washington Reagan National Airport, this simply means “bitches, don't leave your shit around … how else are we gonna charge you 20 bucks for your bag???”

Woman in front of me at the ticket counter: “No, ma'am, I'm not checking any luggage today”.

US Airways attendant: “What about that mid-size elephant that is traveling with you?”

Woman: “That'll fit in the overhead bins.”

And, sure enough, people will try to jam any ginormous suitcase into impossible crevices on the plane (hell, if Catherine the Great can figure it out, why can't I?). Fortunately the airlines are now checking these bags (for free!), which only further encourages the smuggling of over-sized bags into the cabin.

All this, only to be charged for peanuts!! Now if someone uses the phrase “oh, they work for peanuts!”, we'll have to substitute “oh, they work for $5, cash appreciated”.

And first class … my god, I just don't get it. Why do they board first? Why is it considered a privilege for you to sit there while everyone else gets on board, crowding up the aisle next to you, shuffling past to the back of the plane?

First class passengers stare straight forward in the same way most people stare past beggars on the street- with eyes darting side to side.

And what about that mosquito net they put up to separate them from the coach passengers? Sometimes I want to light a citronella candle and start buzzing and prodding, just to complete the experience for them.

I always get nervous at the baggage claim. “Many items look alike” … yes, and “many items could so easily be taken it's a wonder that the gypsies haven't caught on to our ignorance”. And as those numerous, dark, seemingly-similar suitcases come wielding around the belt, it's a mystery that we are ever reunited with the exact right bag. Like penguins in a sea of hundreds, somehow we find our match.

Waiting to be picked up at the airport is like the carline at an elementary school; everyone standing impatiently with their over-sized school bags, scanning the arsenal of vehicles hoping to spot a familiar face. Security directs the soccer moms to their appropriate segment of the line, while trunks pop and slam and hugs (sometimes unwillingly) are exchanged. And if they have brought you a snack (no peanuts, please), they are superstars. “How was your day?” is replaced with “How was your flight?”, and you drive off leaving your schoolmates still fretting over “Where are they?”

So there I was, package in tow (wink), ready to start a week-long vacation in Florida and the Bahamas.

To be continued – though sadly there will be no package stories to be told ...

Spotless Minds

2009-04-29T11:04:00.007-04:00

"I remember the time I knew what happiness was ...
Let the memory live again" -- Cats

I've been doing some Googling on this quote from the musical Cats, trying to make sure I got it right -- Is it "I remember a time...", or "I remember the time..."? Every source online seems to say "the time".

There's a seemingly subtle but nevertheless substantial difference between the two. "A time" refers back to a pleasant moment past. "The time" refers to a pleasant moment past in the face of a less pleasant present. If I were to say, "I remember the time I was happy", it indicates that there is a part of my life that no longer exists today - a happy part.

Last night I watched the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time. Despite its stoner-esque title, the concept behind the story is pretty intriguing -- What if we could delete someone from our memory ... completely?

Ultimately this boils down to erasing someone from our memory who has hurt us deeply. The ironic twist is that this person is probably the same one who has brought us a lot of happiness ... at one time.

I think there are two categories of "pain"; the kind that we would rather be without, and the kind that we tolerate because we have no choice. For example, it's painful losing your mother ... but you would never want to completely zap her from your memory, right? However you might consider zapping an ex-boy/girlfriend who gave you the pink slip in a harsh way?

One difference between the two kinds is mere accusation. My mom dying was not her decision, but a breakup or fight between friends carries "blame". Another difference is emotional "loitering" ... mom is gone, but ex's still cross paths.

The characters in Spotless Mind chose memory deletion as a way to endure, as if their lives weren't worth living with those memories in tow. I don't want to live like that.

I'd rather approach both kinds of pain in the same way- remember them both for what they have brought me, taught me, and ultimately how they have led me to where I am today. Which is to say, inevitably- very happy ...

So can I look back positively on ex-roommates-gone-psycho, ex-boyfriends-gone-stale, and ex-best-friends-gone-sour ... ? I guess that's what life is all about- wanting the sunshine, and putting up with the shadows that consequently stand out.

Occasional Cloudiness of the Polka-dotted Mind ... sounds like an absolute blockbuster :-)

Hands moving in church

2009-04-20T18:09:00.003-04:00

Hands moving in church?!? Not for Twitter-checking, and not for altar boys. Whenever my hands are moving in church- rather, whenever my hands are even IN a church building, it has to do with interpreting and sign language. And, oddly enough, it is generally for an audience that has no friggin' clue what I'm saying.

I could stand in front of a congregation and sign "sodomy feels awesome" to the hymn "He Touched Me", and half of the people would ooh and ahh at the grace that is American Sign Language.

Of course that would be highly unprofessional, unethical, and it could put me in an uncomfortable position. *cough*

Two weeks ago I had the opportunity to interpret a few songs for a high school church choir at a Methodist church west of DC. The church had all the required features needed to sustain its Methodist status: food, lots of old people, and clapping to music that is about as exciting as a dog panting.

The kids were pretty damn good considering the surge of hormones constantly yanking at their vocal chords. And it was somewhat haunting to hear songs that instantaneously transported me back to my 8-year-old self. It reminded me of my family's weekly trek to church ... the ceremony, the (ir)reverence, and the anthems sung and played by my mom and dad.

My aunt (mom's sister) was the choir director and also accompanied the kids during the concert. I looked over at my aunt and thought about how she knew my mom in a way I never would (growing up together). It felt lonely. Then I stood up and waved my arms around to a bunch of people who wouldn't know the difference between real sign language and lewd gestures in another culture. And that felt lonely, too.

I stepped outside to get some fresh air after the concert. Congregants inside were wrapping up in truly Methodist style (like watching grass grow in a pitch-black room) and the cool night air was perfect for some pensive reflection about my family. And then the pastor strolled up ...

"Hey there! Friday night at church, huh? Usually I go down to Dupont Circle."

Hmmm ....

"You looked sooooo beautiful in there, you've got such long fingers- perfect for graceful signing."

Hmmm ....

"Your beard looks amazing, it's so short! How'd you get it like that? I use a number 2 on my trimmer- what do you do???"

Oh my hell ....

Well, I didn't stick around long enough to see what kind of tithing he wanted to put in my offering plate ... but I did start to think about this (potentially) gay priest and what kind of life he was living.

Perhaps this priest, quite like myself, stands before groups of people who don't really understand him at all. I wonder if that makes him feel lonely, too?

So ... maybe the next time I find myself in a sanctuary without sanctuary, I'll try to remember this priest and the commitment he has made- faithfully putting himself out there, knowing that hopefully, maybe maybe *fingers crossed*, someone in the crowd will get it.

In the meantime, I'll just keep signing "stripper's pole" instead of "cross", and wait until I hear an audible *GASP*.

Bitten by Twilight?

2009-03-23T18:41:00.000-04:00

Twilight. I've seen it. Now I understand what the hype is all about.

Or do I … ???

I'm not really sure how to classify this movie- definitely not a romantic comedy, or a dark romantic comedy. It's somewhere between a sci-fi/drama/wtf/oh-hell-I-don't-know kind of genre. Or maybe a sci-fi romantic drama suitable for all ages, but targeting teenie-boppers and giggling gaggles of girls eager to hear things like -- “Damn! I wanna suck your blood so bad and gobble you up, but hell you're just as pasty as I am so let's be lovers instead.” (cooing)

Vampire lovin', had me a blast. Vampire lovin', sucked me so fast …

For some reason Bella reminded me a lot of Neve Campbell in the Scream movies. She's somewhere between casually emo and curiously mysterious, leaning more towards the emo side only with a better sense of non-drab style. Her ability to stutter and then utter passionate phrases like “It's ok if you like to penetrate the jugular, I trust you'll be gentle with the hymen...” (swoons!) rivals that of Neve hands down.

And of course Edward (swoons again!), an oddly-named vampire who sacrifices flesh for tofu on a regular (shouldn't it be the other way around?), is the heartthrob of the film that sends girls and gays alike into a feverish frenzy. Those eyes, his chiseled jaw, and that electric-shock therapy hair … sigh …

In the movie Edward cannot go out in the sunlight for fear of melanin production, and the possibility that a human may see his shimmering skin. Whatever … if he walked around in broad daylight in the Castro or Dupont Circle everyone would just think he was a glitter-painted drag queen with an appetite for meat. Seems about as normal as you can get.

SO! The question on everyone's mind … If Bella and Edward get it on vampire-style, how can they ensure she won't get infected by his … well … (cough), his … venom? I mean, if a little hickey on the neck spells certain doom for humans, what happens when his fanged semen runs rabid on her lady insides?

And what about the children??? They come out of the womb teeth first, and the babies are fiercely disappointed every time mommy brings them up to the girls to nurse for milk. Bella would need to get a neck-pump to fill up baby bottles and keep her infants satiated. And their pacifiers would end up being little neck chew-toys … Bloody hell …

Back to the movie … So Bella starts getting chased by other hungry non-tofu vampires (who apparently can smell her miles away … reminds me of ... well, me after chickpeas and broccoli). Lots of screaming, running, biting, and lastly an impromptu dialysis session between the two love birds that would make anyone feel faint.

The story has appeal – two people from opposite ends of the tracks coming together to defy the world (like The Little Mermaid, Romeo and Juliet, and Will & Grace … wait …). It's definitely worth a look, and apparently the books are dynamite.

Fortunately, I know that if Edward were ever close enough to my neck he wouldn't be able to infect me. All the blood would have left my neck, and rushed elsewhere.

(giggle and swoon, repeat)

Baggage

2009-02-23T19:24:00.001-05:00

“I'm looking for baggage that goes with mine.” – Rent

You can pull it, carry it, push, roll, slide, shove and schlep it – luggage is the mainstay of any jet-setter who can't part with their possessions.

Similarly, we tug the emotional baggage of our lives along with us wherever we go. Like a hermit crab, we encase all of our mushy gooey-ness into a thick shell … the messy interior beneath a sturdy facade.

We roll up our emotional essentials and tuck them into psychological suitcases. Sometimes we pack too much, dragging along an aching anchor that slows our pace. And sometimes we pack too little, leaving us completely unprepared for our future destinations.

At the Reagan Airport the recorded message instructs - “Please maintain control of your personal belongings” - which leads me to guess that someone once had an unruly suitcase that airport security had to settle with a taser gun.

But do we maintain control of our personal belongings? Our emotional baggage? Do we drag the suitcase, or does it drag us?

Baggage, with all its variety in multiple compartments, pockets, and sleek designs, generally has the same basic components: zippers, handles, and locks. Zippers to help keep everything inside, and locks to keep them secure. Sometimes we give people the combination, and sometimes people simply break the lock and spill our contents into messy piles. And then the handles are there to … well, “handle” our baggage.

You know that feeling of relief you get when a friend picks you up at the airport? Someone is there to lighten the load, to help you get settled with all your heavy baggage. Close friends offer to help with extended hand and hearty smile, regardless of their own hefty belongings.

At the end of the day while unpacking my mental luggage, I am amazed at how I got everything to fit inside it so neatly. Everything I need to survive is stuffed into one giant suitcase. These are all of the personal possessions that I need to live a bountiful life …

“Still when I'm a mess, still put on a vest with an -S- on my chest, oh yes...” - Alicia Keys

Glad I keep remembering to pack that vest ...

Donations gladly accepted, only if ...

2009-02-04T12:15:00.006-05:00

Here's an excerpt from a classified ad in this week's Express:

"Our dream Donor is 21-31, Caucasian, intelligent, well-rounded, with an excellent personal and family health history. Northern European ancestry, blue or green eyes, and fair complexion preferred."

Well aside from the eerily-similar-to-Nazi-eugenics selection criteria, "Creative Family Connections" doesn't seem to be all that 'creative'. Why can't the couple just come out and say it: "We want white-bred eggs, because anything else would fall short of the 'dream' ".

WTF?

For more discriminatory artificial insemination practices, let's turn now to sperm (every one is sacred) at the Sperm Bank of California.

Let's face it - eggs aren't funny, but sperm makes ya giggle. But if you're shorter than 5'7", your donation is no laughing matter. Also, no illegal aliens can provide the baby batter, and you better be between the ripe ages of 18-40 while the sperm flagella are still a-flappin' up to speed.

"When you visit our lab, you will provide a semen sample by masturbating alone in a comfortable, private room" (story of my naturally-conceived life). The Sperm Bank of California reimburses your deposit with a deposit to the tune of $100 "for every ejaculate that meets our minimum sperm count".

Your contract requires a weekly visit (at least - could be more!) for at least 6 months, which means over $4800 per year for something that happens (twice?) in every male's bedroom across the world on a nightly basis.

This seems unfair that some guys are getting paid a load for blowing their own into a plastic cup! It's like I'm getting screwed or something ... or not screwed. Regardless, my "donation time" always seems to leave me empty handed ... *cough*

Once collected, inspected, and verified for virility, these pricey commodities can be FedEx-ed anywhere around the world (one sperm says to another "Hey what the hell! I thought we only had to travel less than one foot? Rude ...).

While looking through the donor catalog, I can't help but feel like I'm skimming the want ads in the Blade. Status (such as "awaiting first release" ... oh, honey, I can promise it ain't the first one), ethnicity, complexion (fair, rosy ... sperm?), hair color and texture, eye color, height, weight, and blood type.

And lookey here! There's only ONE donor on the list who is temporarily sold out (he must be in high demand, I wonder what his supply's like?). African-American, Native American, German and Yugoslavian ethnicity.

Take that, white bred.

the great 2008

2008-12-31T11:22:00.007-05:00

It's December 31st. I'm sitting at work, looking at my webcam reflection on the video screen, and thinking rather inquisitively about New Year's and all the metamorphic promises we make to ourselves. While peering ominously at myself, I can't help but wonder ... "How am I different from last year at this time?"

It was a rough, odd, and amazing year. So I don't know how to answer the question.

Can you be optimistic, happy, and cynical all at the same time?

In 2008 I lived in DC for the first time as a non-student ... a real resident. I lived in 3 different places, started my first full-time job (and then quit, and did something better), took up line dancing and got hooked (or lassoed), and spent many happy hours with friends at Nooshi, Kramer's, Starbucks, and La Bomba. There were several trips to NYC for shows, plenty of dancing in Philly, Baltimore, and Houston's country western bars, and a week-long cruise that showed how incredible gay families are.

But this year will always be slightly stained by the memory of my mom. Sometimes I wonder - am I grumpy because I'm sad, or am I sad because I'm grumpy?

I don't feel so different. In 2007 I experienced a lot of radical changes ... triumphs, mostly. 2008 had a few more tears, and not nearly as much growth.

Maybe that's the deal with getting older. You know how birthdays are the end all and be all when you're young? But the more of these milestones we experience, the weaker their impact and fanfare.

What if personal growth is the same? Are we more oblivious to it, or does it just matter less and less to us? When does the anti-monotony of childhood give way to a plateaued life?

Even the word "resolution", the New Year's promise in a resolute society, can be somewhat ambiguous. Is it a beginning (a resolution to change), or an end (a resolution to a problem)? Does a resolution look forward, determined, or backwards, concluded?

Is it hopeful that things will change, or hopeful that things will stay the same? I get whiplashed just looking back-and-forth from the future to the past. Where is the "present" in resolution?

In the bulb there is a flower
In a seed an apple tree
In cocoons a hidden promise
Butterflies will soon be free

Those are words from a song played at mom's memorial service ... I guess it reminds me that where one resolution ends, another begins.

So ... what will be my resolve in 2009?

3 steps forward, 2 waves back, 6 feet under

2008-12-10T13:41:00.009-05:00

Returning to DC was a comforting experience after spending almost 3 weeks in conservative central Florida for my mom's funeral et al. My friend picked me up from Dulles, and immediately I could feel myself ooze with the presence of feeling like "David" again. Like dunking a hard, brittle biscotti into some inviting hot chocolate, I could feel the staleness of my emotions crumble away into the welcoming mug of the city.

When I got back to my house I was greeted with 3 weeks' worth of mail. The most prominent envelopes were the super-red Netflix DVDs. Within them were my first requests on the queue: Season 1 of Six Feet Under.

Some people hesitate when they hear I've watched the entire series- was that a good idea? wasn't it morbid? did you cry a lot?

Well ... defining "morbid" is a bit of a challenge to me now ... unhealthy, diseased, and gruesome come to mind. And that's precisely what death is ... but it's also normal, ubiquitous, and -- paradoxically, a fact of life.

I guess my conclusion is that discussions in and around death are morbid solely because they are difficult. And things that are difficult become unhealthy and gruesome when we want to avoid pain.

Six Feet Under impresses me with its ability to take death and, with all of its messiness and entangled emotions, poignantly put it right in your face:

Here it is. It's real. It sucks. It's not going away ... ever.

And it's by accepting these things that you start to get through it.

Death is like stepping on a splattering of gum on the sidewalk. At first it's really sticky, and annoying as all get out. You walk and walk, the gum pulling at your every step and distracting you from everything else. But eventually the gum settles in and gets covered up by dirt and other debris from the street. So while it never goes away, you inevitably get used to it ... and keep walking.

Watching Six Feet Under was difficult, but very therapeutic. I remember, with striking clarity, some intense moments laying on the couch watching the show. I could feel this tide of emotions ... mainly sadness ... wash me over, feeling like the waves were literally rocking me backwards, forwards, and sideways all at once.

And it felt good.

Even though the rip tide threatens to drag you out into open and dangerous waters, swimming against it will only make the situation worse. But if you swim through it, parallel to shore -- not struggling, not fearing, and not fighting -- you'll eventually be safe.

So ... during the holidays I expect the ebb and flow of the tides will be particularly ripping *grin* ... and I'm not really looking forward to it.

But, luckily, my friends and family will throw me the lifesaver I need when my body can't hold out anymore.

Grieving, Super Heroes, & Obama

2008-11-12T10:21:00.006-05:00

"Seize the day, boys,
Make your lives extraordinary"
-Dead Poets Society

For serious, Dead Poets Society appeals to any budding queen in his teenage years- what could be better than a bunch of men sittin' round a cave reading poetry to each other?!? Just add a sauna with some towels and we are in business! (I'm such a poser, that doesn't actually appeal to me at all ... I think ...)

Today I was looking through some pictures of Obama and his family on election night (click) and I delighted in the fly-on-the-wall candidness of the photographs. Here is a family just like the millions of others across the world, and yet a family that is so completely extraordinary in the most fantastic way imaginable.

Obama reminds me of Superman in these photos ... one minute your average man, the next minute a superhero. And only he decides when it's his moment to shine. It was humbling to watch him sitting so serenely on a hotel room couch, the direction of his life guided only by the glow of a TV screen. And it seemed, regardless of the outcome, that he and his family knew that they would be alright.

But Obama is not unique in his ability to change from average-Joe to renowned-hero ... we all have a Batman or WonderWoman lurking just below the surface, and we can show our extraordinary sides even when everything seems to be Gotham-y (Gotham separated is 'got' + 'ham', that's weird).

Losing my mom has been very Got-ham-like for my entire family, and with only 3 months into this race we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, it really is like a hurdling race; some obstacles you clear without a scratch, and others, while presumptuously just like the rest of the hurdles, bring you crashing down. Only the clock never stops ticking, and you have to get your momentum back quick to clear the next challenge.

But in my immediate family I can already see the superheroes struggling to the surface. My dad is still going to choir practice faithfully, and he is even considering buying some cologne (which he hasn't worn in years because it always effected my mom). My sister has uprooted herself and replanted in Atlanta, surrounding herself with close friends and a solid support structure.

And while the finish line of this race doesn't even exist, at least we are all still on the track together ... with plenty of friends on the sidelines cheering, first-aid kits ready and all.

As for me, I'm still looking for my inner extraordinary, my personal SpiderMan or Storm or Wolverine. All that seems to pop up is the Joker, as I try to laugh my worries all the way to the bat cave.

Maybe I should sit quietly, like Obama, and stare at the TV watching my life unfold before me. Patient, reserved, and comforted by the knowledge that no matter what happens ... everything will be alright.

Creation Museum

2008-10-14T20:59:00.008-04:00

Science versus religion, a tireless debate that is argued most intently by those who can only see things as either black or white, comes to a dramatic flourish of biblical proportions at the Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky.

Dear lord ... there's so much to mock, I'm not entirely sure where to begin.

The Museum is home to a fascinating collection of facts drawn from a mistranslated book full of contradictions and a supreme being who enjoys torturing people just because they like to get frisky every now and then.

"Let the Rain Come" is an all-live new musical put on a few times per month for those who enjoy the thought of drowning the entire planet and then repopulating it by means of incest (which, apparently, is totally cool with the Creator ... see below). The show is chocked full of special effects (CGI would definitely be needed to squeeze all those damn dinosaurs on board, lucky God has a degree in graphic design), refreshing music, plus some surprises ("Look, kids, this is how I'm going to get my own daughter pregnant!!!" ... crowd: "ooooooh .... ahhhhh .....").

What kind of music would you put to accompany the complete annihilation of our world??? "Our God is an awesome God -- it rains from heaven above -- to kill, drown and destroy our lives -- our God is an awesome God..." *faint applause from the audience and the sound of children vomiting at the mercilessness of the Creator*

After all this talk of flooding, I definitely need a drink. Oh, how about I head down to Noah's Cafe and experience old world treats like Cincinnati-style chili and pizza. Perhaps they could explain how Noah's family was able to feed the entire population of the Ark without the dinosaurs devouring anything that moved.

"Be prepared to experience history in an unprecedented way."

"Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden's rivers."

"Walk through the Cave of Sorrows and see the horrific effects of the Fall of man. Sounds of a sin-ravaged world echo through the room."

To which I add -- "Take your children to therapy immediately for PTSD and the ill-effects of being completely lied to by pseudo-science."

Let's get back to that pesky, pesky topic of incest. Answers in Genesis, the brains (sic) and brawn behind the Museum, have an "Answers Department" that spends its time randomly quoting scripture and uses circular reasoning to back up its preposterous claims.

From the website itself: "We’re not told when Cain married or many of the details of other marriages and children, but we can say for certain that Cain’s wife was either his sister or a close relative."

What ... the ... fuck ... ???

There's even a diagram depicting how genetic mutations increase over time until God decides to outlaw incest. Seriously, Creator, this is not some 5-year-old make-up-the-rules-as-we-go infantile game! We are talking about brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews making babies together! *more vomiting*

Seriously -- why not just cut the crap and say it? ... "Hmm, maybe incest just ain't cool, and we shouldn't take this thing so literally, after all" ...

It isn't rocket science, now is it ???

http://www.creationmuseum.org/
http://www.answersingenesis.org/articles/nab/who-was-cains-wife

Health Care (sic .... or sick?)

2008-09-22T13:03:00.000-04:00

The following is a meddlesome dialogue between myself and the insurance company, taken almost verbatim from a conversation a while back:

**********************

Automated British lady: Thank you for calling United HealthCare. How may I mis-direct your call?

Me: Um ... 'benefits' (with emphasis)

AB lady: You wanted (pause) gastro-bypass surgery. Is that correct?

Me: Grrr ... 'BE-NI-FITS' (loads of emphasis)

AB lady: You wanted (pause) Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Is that correct?

Me: Sigh ... 'representative'.

AB lady: Hold your horses, you little bitch. You gotta tell me who you want to speak to and then I'll transfer your sick ass.

(after much negotiating, a live person answers the line)

Live Person: Thank you for calling United HealthCare, how can I waste your time today?

Me: Yes. OK here's the deal. I tried to go to a walk-in clinic yesterday, one that was listed on your website as covered in your network. When I got there they said they wouldn't take my kind of UHC. WTF, UHC?

Live Person: Well, sir, let me explain it to you as if you were 5 years old and have recently suffered a severe trauma to the head. You don't have United HealthCare, you have MDIPA, which is a subsidiary company of UHC. However, since you have MDIPA preferred, you still have access to that specific clinic for urgent care.

Me: Oh. So, I don't have the United HealthCare that's printed on my card here?

Live Person: No, you don't.

Me: And you are a customer service representative for ...

Live Person: United HealthCare.

Me: Then ... shouldn't I speak to someone from MDIPA?

Live Person: No, you dumbass. MDIPA falls under the umbrella of UHC, but not all parts of the umbrella are covered.

Me: OK ... so I can go to this clinic, right?

Live Person: Yes ... but only for urgent care. And you'll need a referral from your primary care physician.

Me: I haven't set up my PCP yet.

Live Person: *tsk tsk* What kind of idiot hasn't set up his PCP yet? UHC and MDIPA are not liable for consumers' ignorance.

Me: So I need a referral from a doctor to see a doctor in urgent care? Doesn't that seem a little redundant and silly considering the fact it's called 'urgent'?

Live Person: Sir, your incompetence is petulant. We are a business, and too busy to mettle with petty matters such as patients' care.

Me: Could you call the clinic and verify that my insurance will cover the visit?

Live Person: Oh, absolutely sir. I could also come to your house and clean it from top to bottom, scrub all the floors with a toothbrush, and, for good measure, personally and affectionately wash your skanky feet. I could, but I'm not going to.

Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can not do for me today?

Live Person: The list is longer than you can possibly imagine. Have a lovely day and thank you for choosing United HealthCare!

Me: My absolute pleasure. Seems I'll be under the weather for quite a while. Fortunately, though, I have your silly umbrella to keep me dry.

Consolation Prizes

2008-09-19T13:01:00.003-04:00

Sometimes people don't know what to say when they try and comfort a person who has experienced a loss. Over the past month I have been the unwilling recipient of consolation prizes dished out by the bucketful from those eager to express their condolences.

Some strike a tender chord, harmonizing with my sadness. Others strike me angrily, like a 5-year-old banging on a piano.

Some of my least favorites include: “She’s rejoicing with her Lord now”. “She’s making great music in heaven”. “God has taken her home”.

The audacity of help …

For some of the prize-givers, little or no thought is given to how inappropriate or insensitive their remarks may be. Take, for example, my position on religion. It’s quite presumptuous to automatically assume my mother and I shared the same religion, or that I would be comforted by talk of heaven, and Jesus, and God’s plan to pluck people in their prime.

Personally, I lie somewhere in between the grey mix of agnosticism, atheism, and Unitarianism.

Can you imagine me going up to someone at their relative’s funeral and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Hopefully it will be of some comfort to know that your relative was merely a complex biological organism that has stopped functioning and will never exist again.” … or … “I hope it brings you peace to know that your relative is now part of some nondescript comprehensive epistemological existence that cannot be truly named or identified.”

Can you imagine?

The Wednesday after my mom died her school had their regular chapel meeting, only this time they devoted the service to my mom and they invited my family to attend. There were children everywhere- some performed songs, rang handbells, or walked about the sanctuary singing “Butterfly” and flapping their arms. It was all really touching …

… until one of the pastors got up and delivered his message.

“Boys and girls, I know without a doubt, if Mrs. Bruce were here today and she only had one thing she could tell you all … it would be that she loved Jesus and wants you to tell everyone you know about Jesus.”

My jaw hit the floor. My left eyebrow etched itself like a mountain peak jabbing into my forehead. I sat, transfixed in anger, while the pastor went on to further use my mother’s death to promote his personal agenda. He quite literally turned her passing into a springboard to catapult his religious propaganda into the impressionable minds of young children.

Way not cool …. Waaaaaaaaaay not cool.

She never would have said that. Instead, she would have said "I love all you children so much, and I'm really going to miss being your teacher. Keep practicing, be nice to your teachers, and eat a lot of coffee ice cream".

Sadly, none of these non-consoling consolation prizes come with a return receipt for me to exchange them. But, if they did, I know exactly what I would exchange them for- and in abundance:

a hug,
a smile,
a promise of support,
“my thoughts are with you”,
“she was such a kind and caring woman”, and
“when all the sadness passes what will be left are the amazing qualities she had that are still alive in you”.

The last one still makes me cry … these are the prizes that win first place.

BE-ing blunt about BE Bar

2008-09-18T10:07:00.000-04:00

The DC gay nightlife is peppered with bars and clubs for every niche of the gay male community (sorry ladies, we got the lion's share on this deal ... irony ... a lion is just a big pussy-cat). Leather at the Eagle, cowboys at Remington's, sports at Nellie's ... and, my personal favorite (insert sarcasm), the skinny young bitches at Be Bar.

Upon entering Be Bar, the last thing you can think of is simply Be-ing ... which for me is a young guy with a beard and a healthy weight (shaking-body-in-front-of-mirror flab test is showing improvement). Rather, when confronted with the clientele of Be, I am suddenly more conscious about my age ... my weight ... my man-beard ... and my lack of fashion.

At the front door you are carded by a prepubescent boy who is in dire need of a sandwich. Inside you are forever waiting for a bar tender who doesn't serve people who can actually shave. Feeling like a giant among insects, people can't seem to help but spill beer all over your jeans ("but the bearded man's just SO big, I couldn't avoid his mammoth-leg!").

And you're going to charge me a five dollar cover? On a weekday?

In a somewhat narrow space that never seems big enough to fit its patrons, despite their delicate proportions, Be Bar has a chic dance floor where you can watch the exertion of anorexia in action. Their limber bodies, clad in admittedly well put together attire, shake fervently to the beat of deafening music in order to burn off the square of cheese they scarfed down for "dinner". And, most conveniently, the bathrooms are located near the front door so you can purge and polish before stepping out into the night air.

Once outside, completely deaf and a little weary, you're greeted by a wall of smoke that resembles a tear-gas raid by police. Apparently a little lung cancer goes well with a Ghandi-like physique. But hey! They're dressed up to the nines and look absolutely hip.

Damn! This blog is a perfect example of how my personal insecurities are projected as bitchiness! Maybe I should shutup, remember that thin is in and muscles are on their way out, drink a bit more, admire the fashion, and not be so damn "old".

Thank you, Be Bar, for letting me just Be me ... which is to say, uncomfortable.

Death is a matter of life

2008-08-26T20:49:00.005-04:00

It's hard to believe that just one week ago I was wearing my black cherry boots and prepping my sister for her inaugural visit to Remington's for linedancing lessons.

And then there was a phone call that sent everything spinning in an endless whirl of tears, friends, family, cards, flowers, condolences, food, more food, and much more food.

I knew something was wrong when I called my mom's cell phone back after a missed call- and a man answered the phone.

15 minutes later I was sitting silently on my couch, repeating over and over in my mind "I can't do this ... I can't do this" while my sister's bright blue eyeliner was running down her face like hot fudge on a sundae.

We rode to the airport, seemingly typical DC-ites with our cell phones burning minutes and our responses to the cab driver curt and emotionless. We sailed to Dulles, the sun serenely setting on what shall always be remembered as the day I unexpectedly lost my mother to death- August 20th, 2008.

Within hours I stood collapsed in my father's arms ... the kind of hug where you become weightless and immediately fatigued ... while he stood and stared straightforward with the most eerily vacant expression on his face.

Weightless is probably the best adjective to describe the past week. I feel like I've been coasting directionless out in space, while the "should-s" and "have to-s" and "supposed to-s" have been suspended around me just out of reach ... mindless and delicately spiraling around my body- perfectly in sight, and absolutely nothing I can do to manipulate them. I don't have to do anything. I'm not supposed to be anything.

But for some reason I feel like I do. I have to be strong, organized, attentive to life insurance policies and bills due and clothing that needs to be donated and lunch boxes that remain unpacked and jewelry that stays untouched and photos that need to be sorted and- a life that needs to be lamented.

My family has been inundated by a flood of support via letters, cards, emails, messages, flowers, and food; welcome distractions, and luxurious burdens.

And the grieving is so completely unique to everyone who expresses it. My father has lost 6 pounds in as many days, and I have probably gained just as much or more. My father cries more in the morning, my sister and I more at night.

We are paradoxically helped and helpless- a wealth of support from the richness of ample friends and family, but a cold silence continues to fall upon the house once the pomp and circumstance of grieving has marched itself out the door. Thankful to all those who have shouldered the boulder that is our loss, our emotions are left to clean up the pieces of broken rock that was the cornerstone of our family- my dear sweet mother, rest and bless her soul.

There's so much more to say. I guess that will come in time.

A heartfelt thanks to all of my friends and family who have blossomed in love and support during a time where sunlight is still struggling to find its way through the overcast sky of life's circumstances. You cannot know how much it means to me.

Morale of the story- life matters.

I'll remember my Pride

2008-06-17T11:57:00.006-04:00

This past weekend was my 3rd experience of DC's annual Gay Pride celebration (well, not just Gay -- really it was the Pride of the GLBTQQA community ... I'm proposing we add the acronym 'WTHE' to the long string of letters, signifying "Who The Hell Else?"). And although I have been a member of the GLBTQQAWTHE community for a short 4 years, this small amount of time really accounts for the bulk of my 'life'; the previous 24 seeming like a forgotten dream.

Yes that's right, I said it -- FOUR years ago. I was 24 when I officially came out -- and I took my sweet-assed time doing it, too. Circumstances being what they were growing up, there was no fertile ground in which to tend this delicate flower. But hell -- listening to Christina Auguilera's "I Am Beautiful" enough times can compel anyone to come to bizarre and dramatic revelations ... and disclosures.

So now, 4 years into my personal renaissance, I feel that the myriad of gay experiences packed into my brief history has brought me full circle; I have come back to analyze that previous thrust of pride in myself that was necessary to finally come out of the closet.

Coming out to friends and family requires a paradigm shift, and a braveness to stare into a vast unknown and say "Eh ... screw it, I'm moving forward!". Despite our personal doubts, and those quiet voices inside our heads that say "AH! Be careful, this might not be safe!" ... we leap ...

... and hit the ground running, a whole new world to explore. What interests me is that the personal doubts and often problematic negative self-talk do not go away with coming out; there is an entirely new set of problems that challenge how we view ourselves. Namely dating.

I find that the internal conflict which postponed my coming out is somewhat similar to my current struggle in identifying a place in the world of male relationships. Will I be rejected? Will I lose my dignity, will someone care (sing it girl)? Isn't it better to never show my feelings? Isn't it easier just to keep everything inside? Won't I avoid pain if I never connect with someone else ... again?

This pattern of thinking has led me down the slippery slope of cynicism. It is the fear that things won't turn out right in the end, and then becoming disenchanted with the dating process altogether.

In opening the closet door, gay people become vulnerable. We cannot control what others think or how they will react to us. Similarly, opening the 'relationship door' brings its own trials of dealing with people who do not treat us the way we want to be treated -- and sometimes that stings.

I've been trying to talk down that cranky cynic in my interior monologue by reinstating the pride it took to finally come out to friends and family. Coming out came with a price: stress, difficulty, some pain, and an opening of self that required a genuineness which was sometimes hard to swallow.

Relationships come with a similar price; I have to sacrifice myself to the occasional sting of the beehive to finally reach the honey. Accepting this as the way of things continues to give me the pride to open that relationship door just a bit further. It is an affirmation of self that says, "I'm a good person, even though people don't always treat me that way."

... and I'm pretty damn proud of that ...

Spreading my seed

2008-06-13T11:38:00.007-04:00

Now really, it is quite tacky to put a suggestive title on a blog just to confuse (and entice) the reader into thinking that we will be talking about sex ... but since we're on the subject, why the hell not?!?

Rest assured- this gardener has done precious little germination in months past, so the seed that I intend to spread has nothing to do with my irrigation system. Oh no friends, we are talking about love here. LOVE.

The 'heart' shape is the ubiquitous symbol of love, and its origins have been debated by historians for years (particularly because it looks nothing like a real heart). The most likely (and sinfully delicious) theory is that the shape comes from the silphium (syphilis?) plant in northern Africa, around 500 B.C.E. Used as a one-stop shop for common ailments and disease (like Windex in My Big Fat Greek Wedding), silphium was also believed to prevent undesired pregnancies. The seeds of the silphium plant are the shape we have adopted as the 'heart'.

Basically, our symbol for love is a prophylactic.

It makes sense ... love meaning we want the pleasure of sex without the pain of raising little shits. But the transition from the symbolic "no baby here" to "oh baby be mine!" is interesting, and further complicates the mysterious dynamic between emotional and physical love, sex and genuine caring. Throw "I 'heart' you mom" into the mix, and it just gets plain gruesome.

But, like many symbols, its present-day meaning has morphed from its original intent. When I see a heart-shape the last thing I think about is birth control. Instead, I think of compassion, intimacy, and sometimes vomiting in my mouth.

Apparently the need to stop popping out little brats overwhelmed the supply of silphium- it is now extinct (hence it was a commodity, quite like the sponge-worthy Seinfeld episodes). Perhaps it is time to reconsider and change this antiquated symbol of love ... why not something more modern ... like a condom?

*Cupid shoots arrow into a Trojan ... extra-large*

So the next time you're strapping on a rubber to hold back the seed, consider the jocular link between the latex and love. And for god's sake, pray that your 'heart' doesn't get broken.

in a (540) New York minute(s)

2008-06-11T14:11:00.004-04:00

*cue Rhapsody in Blue*

9 hours ... one city. Mission? Consume a despicable amount of calories, slow down traffic with asinine parking maneuvers, and pay an absurd amount of money to watch people sing and dance on stage.

Mission accomplished.

-Rice to Riches: Think Ben & Jerry's, only for rice pudding aficionados. Adorned with humorous signs like "Eat more, you're already fat!" and "Calories don't count in rice pudding", you hardly need the encouragement to stuff yourself silly with varied flavors such as- pecan pie, mango, almond and coconut, rocky road, raspberry ... the list goes on for about 20 different tastes. And for those of you who can't tolerate something milky and gooey in your mouth (down boy!), you can just have a banal cappuccino.

-GLBT Community Center: I know, I know. Why the hell wouldn't it be called the YMCA? Aside from a refreshing pause from the blistering heat, the community center is home to meetings, support groups, 12-step programs, social events, and more. Imagine, a gathering of gay people together in one happy place ... without alcohol ... *crickets chirping*

-Pommes Frites: Aside from its ability to never be recognized by automated-411 operators (What listing? Pommes Frites. You wanted *pause* 'library', is that correct?), this french fry joint is easy enough to find because of the long line of persons who risk heat stroke outside just to consume oily-hot potato wedges. There is an even longer list of dipping sauces in case your cholesterol just isn't quite high enough- I got the parmesan peppercorn.

-"Lesbian bar": I began doing a search to try and get the name of the actual bar we went to, but being a lesbian bar I figured- eh! Who the hell cares?!? (*dodges salmonella-laced tomatoes*) Two vodkas later, and having endured Barbara Streisand internet-jukeboxed in a bar (...lesbians! *throws hands up in the air*), the prospects of dessert drew us once again into the muggy streets.

-Magnolia Bakery: Famed "Sex and the City" bakery, and host to plenty of tourists acting like they've never seen a cupcake before ("oh my god! that one has frosting! FROSTING!!!" *snaps picture of friend smiling with V-handshape*), Magnolia is a happy host to 3 post-bar scavengers in desperate need of dinner. A chocolate wafer cake layered with whipped cream, a cupcake or two, a slice of carrot cake (somewhat disappointing...) -- and god knows what else, passersby in the street were not surprised to see us scarfing down sugar like Coney Island hotdog competitors. One girl even said to her friend, "You hit him on the head, I'll grab the cupcakes". But honestly, they aren't good enough to inspire violence.

-The Lion King: Barreling through Times Square in desperate search of street parking (along with unicorns, elves, and other fantastical creatures), we finally made it (on time!) to the theater. This is the part where words completely fail me -- in all truthfulness, you have to see it for yourself. While the audience clapped and cheered in between scenes, I found myself transfixed, gaping uncontrollably towards the stage- unsure if I had imagined it all, but convinced that even my musically-minded mind could not even begin to construct that perfect synthesis of music, dancing, and culture. Oh- and Simba was fucking hot!!!

Having conquered the Apple and dazzling all senses, we made our way back to DC along the dark, un-twinkling lit interstate. My only source of consolation was the bathroom at a New Jersey rest area, where I saw a "macho" man turbulently wrestle to get his (apparently) ginormous penis back into his pants -- it was like watching someone try to stuff an angry cat into a paper bag. Certainly nothing in this world should be that strenuous ... but if so, can I have your number?

And after the looming skyscrapers and uncountable march of humanity through the streets of New York, returning to DC was like a peaceful nightcap at the end of an exhausting day; slower, gentler, and a soft pillow that ate me up as if calories didn't count.

Phew. What a day ...

The mean of averages ...

2008-06-04T10:05:00.004-04:00

Mean people exist - it's a cultural universal. Where 2 or more are gathered, there is a high probability that one of these persons will be a nasty bitch at some point.

We expect this level of animosity among the rich and famous; that is, after all, what we are exposed to on TV everyday. Lou Dobbs, Judge Judy, Rosie O'Donnell when dieting ... the inner bitch becomes a media stunt to draw in viewers who are captivated by the cantankerous and cranky.

But what about the average Joe & Jane? Are we crabby with each other simply to appease our own personal audience? What benefit do we receive by being ill-tempered?

DC has its fair share of quarrels and spats, as was demonstrated to me in the past couple of weeks:

-CVS-PMS: One evening at a CVS a very disgruntled woman was anxiously waiting in line to check out. Due to some confusion by the manager and other store clerks, some customers were waiting longer than usual. Livid beyond imagination, she began chucking her items this way and that, kicking things across the floor, and stomped out. Wow- no need to get that upset about over-priced gum and Aleve!

-Giant bitch: While waiting in line to check out at a Giant food store, my cashier began speaking to another customer in line using her native language (not English). A short, grisly old white lady looked at both of them and indignantly asked in condescending tones -- "What country am I in???" Shocking ...

-Metro blockade: A man with 3 extra-large suitcases held a train at Union Station an extra minute during rush hour while propping the car doors open and laboriously hauling his stuff on to the train. He pushed his suitcases to the back of the train, cornering me and my friend in our seats so that we couldn't get up. My friend, in a fit of laughter at the audacity of this man's inconsiderateness, began to draw the attention of several people on the train. Suitcase man looked at one of the male passengers and growled "Stop looking at me, or I'll claw your fucking eyes out". Whoa.

.... So what fuels this phenomenon?

Maybe it's fear. Fear of feeling inferior and unappreciated, fear of diversity and sacrificing privilege, and fear of embarrassment and the opinions of others. We are mean to others because we feel ... and we feel because we are mean ...

... average or otherwise.

Holy copyright infringement

2008-05-27T15:01:00.001-04:00

"When God saw the wicked he knew what to do
Told Noah bring the animals two-by-two
Cuz I'm gonna keep your boat afloat for forty days
Yes the good Lord works in mysterious ways"
-The Color Purple

The story of Noah's ark is a staple of any Christian Sunday school class. And hell, Noah's "leave it all behind" legacy is really quite appealing. Much like a modern-day pleasure cruise with a gigantic zoo on deck, the ark was an escape from the cruel reality of a wicked earth and it brought its passengers to an exotic and unknown destination. Imagine-- soaking up the sun, going for a dip in the rain, and kicking back with your loved ones while wondering how this whole "re-populate the planet" thing is gonna work with your aunts and uncles. Ew.

Well you gotta hand it to Noah- a schizophrenic carpenter with animal-taming instincts like Steve Irwin is hard to find. How did he prevent the crocodiles from eating the soft bunny rabbits, anyways?

But wait- before you start pondering the consequences of intra-familiar procreation, first remember that the story of Noah's ark comes 2,000 years after the same tale had been spun in Mesopotamia by the Sumerians (do what now?).

What the Sumerians failed to realize was that this story had great marketable potential and it should have been copyrighted immediately. There are several major world religions that depict a story similar to Noah's. And watching the animals march two-by-two to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance in Fantasia 2000 is just damn CUTE!

The Bible Archaeology Search and Exploration Institute is a Colorado-based non-profit organization that seeks to "help validate to the world that the Bible is true", because apparently the Creator can't handle that task on his/her own. The BASE Institute has spent a considerable amount of time and money on research to locate the ark ... and defy the principles of science (wood decay, atmospheric/barometric conditions, and a human being's ability to survive it all).

But in an age where Biblical literalism is more important than equal rights and the fight against discrimination, it makes sense that the BASE people are on a quest to validate incest and the gross potential for genetic mutations.

This July I'll be going on the Rosie O'Donnell Family Cruise, and it got me wondering about the similarities between a Rosie and Noah nautical experience. Both cruise liners are trying to get away from a world that is different from them ... that doesn't understand them. Both are seeking peace, and a fresh new beginning for the world.

And both are sailing out into the distant blue sea, with a rainbow banner flying high overhead.

E.T. replaced by W.W.J.D. alien

2008-05-14T14:46:00.005-04:00

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24598508/

The Vatican's top astronomer has given a hearty two thumbs up to the belief that extra-terrestrial life could exist on other planets due to the universe's enormity and the limitless power of God's creativity.

Reverend Funes is the director of the Vatican Observatory (which immediately springs to mind a giant eyeball ... quite like Sauron's in Lord of the Rings ... *cough* ... Holy See, indeed....), and believes that alien life would not contradict the Catholic faith.

Had this been the 17th century, Funes would probably have been burned at the stake or placed under house arrest like Galileo for his astronomical views. But in an age where pollution is a sin and indulgences are just an old-fashioned fad, perhaps it is time to readjust our telescopes to see how religion, science, and reality can become the new holy trinity of the 21st century.

Following the precedent of the Vatican, we can expect to see a religious race into the galaxy quite like the great space race of the 1960s -- except this time it will be with the Pope at the helm ... like Jean-Luc Picard with a very tall head-piece.

***Space ... the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Vatican-O ... Its continuing mission: to explore strange new worlds (provided they do not challenge its theology or doctrine), to seek out new life and new civilizations (unless they are witches, in which case teleport some more firewood), to boldly go where no Pope has gone before!!! (excluding nude-y bars and 3-star hotels) ***

Bishop #1: "Captain!!! We have an enemy craft approaching sector 8.27"
Pope: "On screen."
***appears a tan, muscular man with elaborate machinery in shades of pink and lavender scantily covering his private parts***
Homo-Borg #1: "We are the Homo-Borg. You cannot resist us. You will be ASSimilated. Resistance is futile."
***the two spacecrafts exchange firepower of holy water, rainbow-painted missiles, crucifixes, CDs of ABBA and the YMCA, flaming candles, and Martinis***

Yikes!!!

Upon discovery of intelligent alien life, the Pope descends from his spaceship and extends his arms ... "I have come to bring you the good news of a savior who is a carbon-based life-form completely dissimilar from you and everything you know -- but nevertheless you must believe in him or perish in the fire of eternal damnation ..."

Upon quick review of the Church's oopsies! and boo-boos! during the Inquisition and the unfortunate killings and blatant corruptions throughout its history, the aliens decide that the best course of action would be to vaporize the Silly-Hat Man immediately and then go get some breakfast.

Perhaps we should hold off on the whole "intergalactic missionary work" thing for right now, and concentrate on things closer to home. After all Mr. Pope, things like Mars, Jupiter- hell, even Uranus- are yet to be explored ...

Rain, man!

2008-05-09T14:36:00.004-04:00

Washington DC can be characterized by the following pissy items: a piss-poor political administration, the mysterious odor of piss on the Metro and in public buildings (most notably the White House), and the contemptuous pissing down of rain. From misty to torrential downpour DC has got you covered, quite literally-- covered head to toe with water, despite your vain attempts to direct your petty umbrella in the direction where the most rain is coming from.

The umbrella is almost pointless in DC's malevolent wind and rainy season. The rain, guided swiftly by DC's obnoxiously unpredictable gusts of wind, sends cascades of moisture scurrying this way and that like a herd of antelope evading a predator. No matter which direction you point your umbrella to combat this precipitating attack by mother nature, the wind somehow manages to circumvent every inch of polyester and soak your legs, torso, and aspirations of arriving to work without your clothes cementing to your body.

I have to wonder ... what's the point? I may as well just wear a plastic grocery bag over my face and call it a day.

And what is the deal with the extra-large umbrellas??? I am for serious-- umbrellas should be regulated so that they are a size proportional to the carrier's body!!! I saw a 90 pound 5'3" lady walking around today with an umbrella that looked like China on a stick. As she was cruising down the street, her dark dome eclipsing almost all of the natural light beneath itself, she continuously rammed every other regular-sized brolly like bumper boats in the air.

Water flying, people whipping around angrily to see who was piloting the polyester vessel, short utterances of surprise and consternation ... unfortunately this woman couldn't hear a blessed thing as her umbrella acoustics only allowed for the reverberation of her own ignorance to the world beyond her 10-food diameter dry zone.

It all ties into the American value of "happy me, screw you hippies". Dry, content, and oblivious to anything other than what is dry and content, we are pleased ... and anyone in the way can take a supersoaker up their arse (why did the song "Superman" just pop into my head). The greater good, i.e. civility and courteousness, can drown itself in its own tears of impertinence; my rights come before yours.

So as I steer my umbrella in the DC breeze, more like a kite than anything else, and enjoy a good lashing of a rain that travels sideways and on occasion from the ground up, I begin to wonder if that lady is also the line-cutter at the grocery store, the intersection-blocker at a stop light, the person who boards a Metro car before others have exited, or the cell phone talker at the movies ... Could they all be the same person???

Not to rain on anyone's parade, but unfortunately there is more than just one umbrella lady out there ...

The Perfect Man

2008-05-06T10:23:00.004-04:00

"You've got the charm
you simply disarm me
every time ..."
-Effie

The perfect man, amongst other nonsensical oxymorons like "Microsoft works" and "good morning", is an ideal generated in the human psyche from a lifetime of watching romantic comedies and Disney classics. Ariel falls in love with Prince Eric just by fanatically watching him dance with a dog, Leonardo yearns for a suicidal forward-thinking aristocrat and steams up a fancy car (and I bet the owner didn't appreciate those stains ... no worry, I'm sure they washed out), and Princess Leia kisses her brother --err, um ... oh dear, ok let's just skip that one.

And we fall for it every time ... We know it's foolish, impossible, and void of modern day realities like prenuptials and emotionally-unavailable partners. But subliminally imprinted in the subconscious is that wish for the easy, extreme, and impregnable companionship that defies all logic and reasoning.

So here it is; my attempt to juggle the ingrained lavish longings of the Freudian id with the principles of realistic living -- the definition of the perfect man for an imperfect world.

-thoughtfulness: it's different for everyone ... for some people it's a gift, a text message, a phone call, or an extra minute's embrace. So the perfect man is able to identify his own way of thoughtfulness, deliver, and then recognize it in others ... abundantly.

-listening: hearing what you say, seeing what you do, and sensing what you feel.

-humor: letting your hair down, if you have any, and being ok with embarrassment. The ability to laugh at chickens, merely because they walk funny and make unusual sounds. Farting and then blaming it on the old lady sitting next to you on the Metro with puzzled and accusatory glances in her direction.

-persistence: not giving up when challenged with hardship in the relationship. Fighting the urge to detach emotionally, and staying the course.

-time: to exist in a place where time is generous. Content with a movie on a Friday night and a bedtime of 10:00 if that means an extra hour of cuddling in the morning. To spend an entire day without accomplishing much, yet doing-- or being more than you anticipated.

-insight: to see in yourself and in others that special something that usually goes unnoticed.

It's funny ... after re-reading this list, I was surprised to discover that I'm actually describing the qualities of my own self that I'd like to improve upon.

Perhaps the quest for the perfect man is really the search for the perfect man inside of me.

So I guess, in short, what identifies the perfect man in my mind is simply his struggle to do better-- by himself, and for others.

I suppose it's not as oxymoronic as I thought ...

The Dentist

2008-04-28T11:23:00.004-04:00

Dentists are evil and must be destroyed.

This morning I had my first cleaning with a new dentist in Silver Spring. Granted, I hadn't been for a dental cleaning in a long while because Gallaudet's health insurance covers its students about as much as Britney Spears covers her no-no parts. Still, I feel that my cleaning was unusually harsh and unnecessarily painful, like spraying alcohol on a paper cut when all you really need is a band-aid.

The year is 2008, people. Teeth have been around quite a while; they are not a new phenomenon in the evolution of our species. Therefore, I believe it is a serious disappointment that in our advancement as conscious beings we have not yet invented a more suitable way to bring our molars and bicuspids up to their hygienic par.

It's a very compromising position to have your head tilted back and your mouth gaping wide open, like a baby bird in a nest waiting for its pre-digested meal from mommy. You are at the complete mercy (or lack of mercy) of the hygienist or dentist- who could obviously use a seminar or two on empathy and compassion for human suffering. What ever happened to "do no harm"?!?

That little scraper they use to grind in between the teeth and gums is barbaric yet surprisingly legal. I swear my dentist was using it like a pickax going after gold in some cave. I was clutching the sides of the chair and wincing when I opened my eyes and silently pleaded with the man to leave me in peace- in peace!!! And the only thing this bastard could say was "Wow, the rain is sure coming down hard, isn't it?" Yeah, the rain is very interesting, especially when you're trying to saw my face in half.

I think dentists take it personally when you haven't been for your checkup in a while. They're like a disgruntled date who is steamed that you didn't call soon enough, only in this situation the date has unlimited power to maximize your pain-- and then you actually pay for it!!! They always give you that look like "Oh ... you haven't been back promptly at 6 months ... well, I hate to see you suffer, but I have a contract with Satan and must do as he bids ..."

It must be a very dissatisfying experience to know that your entire career is disliked by the general public- quite like auto mechanics, telemarketers, and Richard Simmons. But dentists are consoled by the mantra they say to themselves every morning-- "Because of plaque, they'll always come back".

And so we do, and so we shall, until modern medicine actually becomes modern. Until then, I fear that these closeted S&M fetish-ers will have free reign over our cake holes and continue to manipulate the population with their scrapers, water pics, and saliva-slurping vacuums that always seem excessively loud ...

Perhaps that noise is there to drown out the wails of despair from another schmuck down the hall who is suffering an all too familiar fate at the hands of a monster we affectionately call the dentist.

Water into wine ... and beer

2008-04-22T15:25:00.004-04:00

Express, April 22, 2008
"Tapping the Keg of Life"
Beer was on tap as a new church held its inaugural service in a Sidney, Ohio, bar. The bar-room church is an offshoot of Sidney United First Methodist Church, whose head pastor says he's been looking for creative ways to reach people. The church's Web site for its new branch advertises "Top regional bands, pizza, wings, rowdy fun and a short message." The Rev. Chris Heckaman's sermon compared staying on the bar's mechanical bull to learning how to get along in life.
Church website- http://www.sidneyfirst.com/Discover/CountryRockChurch/tabid/140/Default.aspx

OH MY GOD ... where do I begin?

A few months ago I wrote a blog about a minister who challenged the married couples of his congregation to have sex every night for 30 days ... and now we are worshipping in a bar. Reverend Heckaman, head of the church sipping the head of his beer, has decided that alcohol consumption is definitely the new direction for Methodists.

Just imagine ... for communion there will be shot glasses filled with Bloody Marys, bar nuts will replace the body of Christ (why not?! he never used his own!), and the choir will take a back seat (or stool) to the whims of drunken karaoke-ers singing "Summer Lovin' ... from Jesus ".

I suppose that regular church protocol would not apply to congregants while worshipping in a bar; it doesn't matter whether you're standing, sitting, or kneeling since the room is spinning anyway. Baptisms will be replaced by the minister gently lowering the person's head back and letting them chug directly from the keg. And the following morning, people won't know if that pain in their head was caused by an atrocious hangover or from the smack they received when filled with the spirit.

One major concern is how to discern drunken bar-speech from those actually speaking in tongues. Put a little tequila in Granny McAllen and suddenly you can't tell the difference between her and an evangelical on speed. Once she starts dancing around and raising her hands in the air ... well, let's just say y'all better move the darts out of the way in case she decides to smite the wicked.

While the bar is hushed in reverence during quiet prayer time, one can't help but be distracted by the sound of someone blowing chunks loudly in the restroom, reminding us all that everything- even communion- should be taken in moderation.

And then the sermon- "Life is like riding a mechanical bull". What, if you continue doing something for only 8 seconds you get a medal? Life is full of bullshit? Life can can make your ass sore? (giggle)

Finally the reverend makes one "last call !!!" for congregants to come to the front to accept forgiveness -- your sins are now washed away, compliments of Smirnoff.

Go in peace. Amen. And call a cab ...

Polk County - a news magnet

2008-04-21T13:54:00.008-04:00

"The National Face of Polk County"
http://www.theledger.com/article/20080420/COLUMNISTS0301/804200330

A recent article in the Lakeland Ledger, Polk County's finest news source (their coverage of the 1987 Lake Morton mysterious swan disappearance is legendary, almost got the Pulitzer), came about in response to the the surge of negative press surrounding the P.C. in recent months.

Lakeland, my home town, has gained national attention due to a YouTube video that shows some white-trash girls beating up a fellow cheerleader, smacking her around a good few times, and having a jolly laugh about the whole thing. Slapping, shoving, and punching are Polk County's preferred methods of conflict resolution, and can often be observed in vivo at home during domestic disputes and then reproduced for the general public via networking sites.

The author's biggest complaint in her article was the shocking "cheap shots" other newspaper giants and news sources around the country have taken when describing Polk County, namely-- "rural Florida" and "Lakeland, a lower-middle-class town".

Well guess what? Polk County IS rural, the opposite of urban (New York, LA, Chicago), and it IS a lower-middle-class town (and the last thing those cheerleaders had was class!).

But why get caught up in labels for a county that has violent cheerleaders, cop killings (which resulted in the suspect's untimely death by a disturbing 110 shots fired by authorities ... apparently 100 bullets aren't enough to kill someone?), and bloody parent-butcherings. Hey, what can you expect from an urban upper-class town like Lakeland???

A general search for Polk County on CNN.com reveals its impact on a national level:

April 10 - YouTube video cheerleaders could get life in prison

Feb 16 - The North Illinois University shooter's father lives in Lakeland, FL

Oct 6 - Registered sex-offender in Polk County arrested for allegedly luring a 15-year-old girl through MySpace

Sept 29 - "Florida police kill suspect in deputy's slaying" ... (referenced above) I'd like to call attention to the word "suspect", I'm just saying ...

Sept 13 - "Judge warns victims' mother not to cry on stand" ... oh yeah SURE she's only telling about how she came upon the bloodied bodies of her children, how inappropriate to tear up over that ...

There are more, but I got bored ...

How can one small county gain such infamy? Perhaps the Ledger article should be re-named "The National Egg-on-Face of Polk County" ...

The Little Mermaid: A Critique

2008-04-18T09:45:00.004-04:00

"If only you would notice
how I ache behind my smile..."
Ariel

The Little Mermaid sailed into Broadway last fall in Disney's attempt to make yet another animated classic come to life. The smash success of Beauty and the Beast, The Lion King, and Phil Collins' Tarzan .... ok strike that -- xxxx the smash success of just Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King have certainly upped the ante for stage productions to max out their visual effects, as well as enticing younger audiences to dip into the deep end of the theatrical world.

Does anyone find it interesting that The Little Mermaid highlights a young girl's struggle to obtain "true love" at the risk of losing everything she values- her friends, her family - her FINS, for cryin' out loud. Ariel is willing to sacrifice her entire life- even her body and voice- at the shot of being with a man she hasn't even met. What a gamble!! (heads or tails? ... I mean, legs or tails?). Is this the message we want to be sending young girls and gay boys?

Naturally I was thrilled when I heard the LM would be making a splash on the big stage, and I was on iTunes the day the album was released to hear the pumped up and boisterously-belted showtune version of a childhood fascination.

Alan Menken, who is largely responsible for the Disney renaissance beginning with the LM and declining with - damn, that Tarzan again - delivered (as usual) with clever and spunky songs that swim in circles around your head all day long. And then pair up the lyrical genius of Howard Ashman with that of Glenn Slater and you get .... a tsunami.

Honestly- how can you compare Ashman's
"each little clam here know how to jam here,
that's why it's hotter under de water,
yeah we in luck here down in the muck here
under the sea"
with Slater's
"If only you could know the things I want to say,
if only I could tell you what I wish I could convey" ???

Now let me try! ... "Roses are red, violets are blue ..."

Slater!!! You are dealing with a Walt Disney masterpiece ... be careful!!!!

Which is not to say the entire production is like a fish out of water. Despite its simplistic vocabulary and a rudimentary rhyme scheme, Menken pulls through the swishy-washy words and has me singing "She's in Love" to the rhythm of jackhammers during my morning commute.

And despite its message that abandoning your family and friends can ultimately bring you to true love, there is a lot to be said about a heroine who isn't comfortable in her own scales. I remember singing Part of Your World as a kid and wishing that I, too, could cast aside my gills and breathe easier in a world where I belonged ... i.e. a world where I was "normal".

But now I can walk (in Dupont Circle), now I can run (at the gym), now I can stay all day in the sun (at Rehoboth) ... no fear of drowning here *takes in a deep breath*

I still gotta find a pair of those purple shells, though ...

A visit of Papal proportions

2008-04-16T09:38:00.007-04:00

"I know we've come so far, but we've got so far to go ..." -- Hairspray

Radio, TV, internet sites and almost every news source have gone ga-ga over the Pontiff's arrival in America - quite like a mob of jittery Japanese teenage girls trailing after Justin Timberlake. It is inescapable- the only competition for some limelight on CNN is the presidential election, and probably only because the primaries are beginning to resemble a WWF match ("you BITTER frigid bitch!" followed by Obama-bitch-slap).

WE GET IT ... the Pope is here. He's old, he's introverted, and he has never had sex. Talk about a crowd-pleaser!

And what a busy schedule for an aging direct link to god ... birthday at the White House, visits to Catholic University, mass at the National's Stadium ("Play ball !!! Just not with his !!!) ... and all the while he is rebuking the American priest sex scandals and hoping to reunify the Church and abate declining revenue.

In his pre-Pope days, Ratzinger ... which incidentally sounds like the name of a villain in some Disney film (and prompting me to coin the phrase "I don't give a Ratzinger's ass about the Pope coming to town") ... had a notorious anti-gay record of denouncements and blatantly discriminatory acts of Vatican law. And so his arrival in DC could not be met with less scorn on my part.

Ratzinger's paw prints have plagued numerous documents issued by the Vatican declaring its stance on homosexuality- not only in homosexual practice but also in terms of support, i.e. non-discriminatory behaviors. Ratzinger's influence in several Vatican organizations has resulted in statements such as- "the Church may not admit to the seminary and Holy Orders those who practice homosexuality, show profoundly deep-rooted homosexual tendencies, or support the so-called gay culture".

How about some more Vatican statements: "There are areas in which it is not unjust discrimination to take sexual orientation into account" - namely: adoption, education, medical (contagious diseases), and mentally ill persons.

The Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith (led by Ratzy) stated in 1992 that homosexuality itself "must be seen as an objective disorder". Well ... as an aspiring clinician, the only real disorders I can see are a lack of compassion, an inability to tolerate/appreciate differences, and the audacity to use religious doctrine in masking personal agendas which consistently fuel discrimination on all levels of society.

It's just plain gross.

I remember when the new Pontiff was elected- I was living in Rome at that time, not even 2 miles from the Vatican where all the whoop-de-do was occurring. Thousands of people had come to pay their tributes to the recently deceased Pope, and thousands more gathered in St. Peter's Square to welcome Benedict as the new head of the Catholic Church.

During the service, I was jogging on a treadmill in an empty gym that was normally bustling with Italian life. Everyone had gone to St. Peter's to get a glimpse of the new Pope ... quite like the masses that will descend upon DC in the next few days, trailing him like group-ies, following in his footsteps...

I just pray that most of us are truly wise enough not to follow in those footsteps ...

Life & Death

2008-04-07T11:40:00.005-04:00

Nothing brings people together quite like a death in the family. Funerals do not discriminate- young and old, relative or otherwise, interested or required--- a funeral is like a social black hole. You can either swim against the rip-tide, and wear yourself out, or roll with it and enjoy the plunge out to sea (so much for being led beside still waters).

And so my family survived a 3-day weekend without much drama or shocking family secrets revealed (Jerry Springer audience sighs and dejectedly sits down); nevertheless, there was enough activity to keep me on my toes and attentive despite my sleep-deprived state:

-Cousins: I have 5 cousins on my mom's side. Three are about my age, and the other two are youngins (aged six and nine). This was our first chance to meet (well ... meet as speaking and conversation-holding people, not while changing diapers and smelling poo). We played, ran, laughed, and sang songs from Enchanted (I challenge any of you to find another 27-year-old cousin who is cool enough to know all the words).

-Mischief managed: I forget that the ideas I come up with are not always appropriate for children, including: trying to fly a kite inside the house using wind generated from a standing fan, catching bubbles on your tongue (which are carcinogenic, I was later informed), sneaking cookies 10 minutes before dinner, doing line dances in the middle of the grocery store aisle, and claiming that Lufthansa airlines is the best because they serve free alcohol.

-The art of Haiku: In honor of our late grandfather, an avid haiku poet, the following were constructed:

Drinking with cousins
And watching Lord of the Rings
What is malt made of?

Granddaddy is dead
We come here now to mourn him
His neighbor's a queer

-Gay gay gay: In reference to the previous haiku, my gaydar spiked to unprecedented levels after the memorial service while munching on "Thanksgiving-stuffed-between-two-buns" type sandwiches provided by a local church. My grandfather's neighbor, who pinged on my boy-barometer way before the stereotypes began to kick in (lover of music, noticed I had lost weight compared to my photo 6 years prior, and a 1st grade teacher), indicated that his wife had gone with him to some flower show a few weekends before-- which promptly caused me to choke on my food and cough hysterically (gag reflex, you'd think I'd have had that fixed by now).

-Gay gay gay (part deux): My six-year-old cousin turns and asks politely, "Do you have a girlfriend?" Used to this question from kids, I didn't bat an eyelash and honestly replied, "No, I do not have a girlfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?" ... "No, I'm a girl!" ... "Well girls can have girlfriends, too." ... "Yeah ... when I asked you that question something weird happened. I don't know what, but something weird happened". Damn perceptive six-year-olds!!!

-Somberness: Funerals are not always such a sad affair. My sister and I were jamming to the Lion King's "Circle of Life" on the way to the service (appropriate), as well as Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied" (somewhat less appropriate). The Starbucks barista, amused by our glimmer and giggle as we eagerly dived into our morning mochas, suggested we try on our somber hats before we arrive at the grave site.

-Albums and photos: The time-honored tradition of pouring over the pictures and moving pictures of years past. It's embarrassing, like that feeling you get when someone walks in on you in the bathroom-- you haven't done anything wrong, but you feel awkward nonetheless. Moreover, in the home-made movies, you re-experience the idiotic and extremely flamboyant things you said as a child that should have clued your parents in to your sexuality about 15 years prior.

We sat around and swapped stories, as families tend to do: the one with granddaddy fighting with the bakery delivery woman for bringing stale cinnamon buns, the one where a 3-year-old David puked all over granddaddy's table after tasting bad Chinese (and thus instilling a fear of Chinese food until the age of 19), or the one where granddaddy tolerated the fancy of his adolescent grandchildren and wore a bicycle helmet while assuming his role as the Good Wizard in an amateur production of insanity.

The entire weekend reminded me that the memories we leave behind continue long past our brief mortality. So ... what will my legacy be???

The Tooth Fairy

2008-03-13T13:30:00.006-04:00

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

2008-03-10T09:11:00.005-04:00

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 #&%#?!?!?

2008-03-06T10:27:00.006-05:00

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

2008-03-05T08:41:00.002-05:00

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

2008-03-04T11:31:00.002-05:00

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.

Leapin' Lizards !!!

2008-02-28T16:14:00.005-05:00

It's weird-- Leap Year Day is one of those "special" occasions, where you say "Oh my gosh -- it's Leap Year Day! Yay!!!!.... *cough* ... " - and that's about the end of it. It's just like the Olympics; it cycles in and out of our lives every 4 years and afterwards we wonder "now why the hell do we do that, anyway?"

Well the human race has not really come to a consensus about what to do with this pesky equinox solar rotation blah blah insert astronomy here dilemma. In fact, the approaches at trying to adequately quantify the number of days in a year is as varied as the languages we speak and the currencies we squander. For a variety of religions and countries there are distinctive calendars, all periodically revised and altered for this or that purpose.

According to the Islamic tradition, it is actually immoral to add a leap day because it is a violation of what Allah has created as sacred (Allah: "12 months and that's it, bitches!!!"). Holy crap! So in America we've got it all wrong!!! We've focused so much energy on chastising abortion and homosexuality that we have neglected to reject that nettlesome and vile 29th of February! Everywhere I turn I see sin and debauchery, all those immoral calendars flaunting their leap day lifestyle in my face! 666?!? Oh no friends, it's all about the 29 ...

Do not fear, children of the Gregorian, because there is plenty of other folklore afoot to entertain and confound. For example (if the folklore is true ... and it generally is of course)- in the 13th century it was an accepted practice for women to have the right to propose marriage to a man-- but only during a Leap Year (and the penalties for the man's refusal were stiff - or un-stiff? He paid the price of a "kiss" or he had to buy the damsel in distress a nice pretty gown- damn that's harsh). Apparently they were running out of kisses or gowns so some changed the rule so that it was only on the Leap Day itself that women could propose.

Revered or feared (in Greece it's bad luck to marry during a leap year), there's even a special name for leap years- "intercalary years". However this special name comes at a price- the non-leap year years are dispassionately referred to as "common years" (I guess leap years are like the Prodigal Son - "It's February 29th, kill the fatted calf!!!!" *moooooooo*)

There is an intricate set of rules that go into our current Gregorian calendar. We're used to the fact that leap years come every 4 years, however-- Years which are divisible by 100 are not leap years, unless they are also divisible by 400, in which case they are leap years.

What? What?? What person is sitting around making up all this stuff?!? "Yes, it is not a leap year if you can divide the year by 100, unless of course your sister was born on a Tuesday and the groundhog saw his shadow. In that case, but only if mauve is your favorite color and the words "diaper rash" make you cringe, then divide the year by the square root of your neighbor's insolent son's age and add your weight- in kilograms. Um ... yeah that'll about do it."

Well it could be a hard knock life for those calendared systems that do not align with the monopolizing Gregorian calendar; nevertheless, they are an indication of each group's individual cultural perspective on time- and I think that's pretty darn cool.

So I have to wonder... if a gay man proposes marriage on the 29th, he's doubly doomed according to the Islamic faith and the Bush administration. Yikes!!!!! And as we all know, two wrongs don't make a right ...

Indeed- I have never liked the right. I shall always be a left-y.

Return to Gallaudet

2008-02-28T14:57:00.003-05:00

It's been a while since I've had the chance to return to my soon-to-be-Alma-mater, right there on the magnificent Florida Avenue in NorthEast (excuse me, crack whore, but which way is the Metro?). I haven't had much reason to go back to campus since I finished my courses last May; my internship was off-site and most of my friends had graduated and cut loose.

And so there I was yesterday, 9 months later, back at a place which was so incredibly indescribable when I left it. My last dwindling moments at Gallaudet were tedious and disturbing ... like waiting for a relative in a coma to finally pass and be out of pain. That's exactly how I felt that final semester at Gallaudet- like I was in an emotional coma.

Yesterday there was the usual ritual of reuniting and catching up that always accompanies any event/location that involves Deaf people- within a half-hour I had already "bumped" into 6 people that I knew. I do miss that part of Gallaudet; there is always someone close at hand (wink) that you're connected to in some way. It's such a social place- like a dog park where you can fervently sniff all the crotches you want to and ignore the world just outside the park gates.

I went through the lines at "Gradfest", Gallaudet's one-stop shop for all of your graduation needs (4-hr long DVDs of identically-dressed persons taking fake diplomas, paying library fines, ordering rings that you'll never wear, cap and gown, etc.). And as I looked around, I realized how lonely it was to be the only person from my academic year not graduating with the rest of my class.

The problem with an institution that has left such a memorable mark in my emotional memory is that it's hard to separate the good from the bad-- like mixing a cup of cow manure into a batch of delicious cookie dough. No matter what you pull out of the oven, it will still have that unmistakable stench. So it goes with Gallaudet.

So here is the question: to go or not to go to the graduation ceremony? If I'm having a difficult time keeping my mind off of the negatives, why put myself back in that situation? When my department gives me my graduate school hood and says "Yay you finally made it!", I'll only be thinking "Yay you finally noticed who I really am!" Can I genuinely smile and thank the people who made my experience so unnecessarily painful?

Two and a half years and $50,000 worth of debt later (Galladebt is the correct spelling, FYI) I stand strong and composed at the gates of a small university while the whisperings of extinguished memories sift softly into my consciousness: the best friend turned enemy (yes officer, she did in fact say she would be relieved if I died), the department that insensitively withdrew its support and warmth from my education (the counseling department- the irony), and the first guy to ever break my heart.

*somewhere a violin plays* ;-)

"Who can say if I've been changed for the better, but because I knew you I have been changed for good" -- all the gay boys sigh ....

Well the good news is that I'm happy now- and all's well that ends well, right? Hmm ... well then perhaps it's best to leave that dusty box of mixed Gallaudet feelings on its shelf in my emotional storage locker- and never unpack it again.

:-) It's amazing how quickly things change ...

Take me baby or leave me

2008-02-27T15:32:00.003-05:00

10 points to anyone who started singing "Take me for what I am" from Rent upon reading the blog title ..... *golf claps*

Here's a random assortment of things that people generally LOVE or HATE:

-rain storms
-coconut
-Hillary Clinton
-filling out your 1040 or 1040EZ
-diet beverages
-rice pudding
-Seinfeld episodes
-dogs
-Rosie O'Donnell
-exercising
-Backstreet Boys
-gardening
-mathematics
-high-fiving
-people who say "Ciao"
-Starbucks
-whoopie cushions
-licking stamps
-lawyers
-sick days from work
-bubble-wrap
-results from the Clinic
-tequila
-spicy foods
-dropping down low and sweeping the floor with it
-children
-reading
-a persistant suitor
-British comedy
-Hooters the restaurant
-hooters the anatomy
-anchovies
-S&M
-silent letters like the "b" in "lamb"
-gossip
-root beer
-getting mail
-Tickle Me Elmo
-Taco Bell
-blogs with no real point

The Confederate Flag and Floridian Ignorance

2008-02-26T13:44:00.005-05:00

I know, I know!!! Silly to put a redundancy in the title of this blog (hint- it is not "confederate flag"), but I mention the great Sunshine State only because it is the newest state to consider issuing Confederate Heritage License Plates (http://blogs.usatoday.com/ondeadline/2008/02/fla-legislator.html). Proceeds go to the Sons of Confederate Veterans (Florida division: http://www.florida-scv.org/index.htm).

Hmm ...

According to the main SCV webpage, "The citizen-soldiers who fought for the Confederacy personified the best qualities of America. The preservation of liberty and freedom was the motivating factor in the South's decision to fight the Second American Revolution. The tenacity with which Confederate soldiers fought underscored their belief in the rights guaranteed by the Constitution. These attributes are the underpinning of our democratic society and represent the foundation on which this nation was built."

Now, I know that the Civil War was fought for reasons in addition to slavery, but I think we can agree that Abraham Lincoln and slavery are the first images that come to mind when we mention the Confederacy.

And so, a few comments on the SCV's opening paragraph:

(1) "Liberty and freedom"- for WHO? The irony ...

(2) "Rights guaranteed by the Constitution"- now I don't remember my high school government classes all that well, but I do recall something our founding fathers said about "promote the general welfare", which I assume can be applied to all persons regardless of color ... hmmm perhaps the Constitution has footnotes or clauses I am unaware of?

(3) "The foundation on which this nation was built"- yes, a racist foundation that continues to divide and weaken American communities to this very day. Lovely.

I believe in honoring those who gave their lives fighting for what they believed to be moral and true. I believe in looking at history that is not written by the "winners". Most of all, I do believe in preserving history-- but only as a means to remind us of past mistakes in an effort to improve ourselves as a humane and justice-seeking nation (obviously Vietnam didn't do the trick).

The Confederate flag is a significant feature of American history. It is also one that represents a very dark period of time in the collective consciousness of present-day Americans. The pink triangle, once a horrid mark used to identify gays in concentration camps, is now used with pride and assertion in the gay community. However, the Confederate flag is a different kettle of fish (and I really wonder where that expression comes from).

Furthermore, the Sons of Confederate Veterans will only accept people to be members that are "male descendants of any veteran who served honorably in the Confederate armed forces".

Now wait a minute ... isn't this aforementioned "democratic society", one that boasts such supreme qualities and values, made up of men and women of almost every race and nationality? Aren't all of these persons able to unite beneath a banner that promotes its ideals as the foundation of our country? A country in which all of these persons live, work, and have families???

And lastly:

Charge to the Sons of Confederate Veterans
"To you, Sons of Confederate Veterans, we will commit the vindication of the cause for which we fought. To your strength will be given the defense of the Confederate soldier's good name, the guardianship of his history, the emulation of his virtues, the perpetuation of those principles which he loved and which you love also, and those ideals which made him glorious and which you also cherish. Remember, it is your duty to see that the true history of the South is presented to future generations."

Lt. General Stephen Dill Lee, Commander General, United Confederate Veterans
New Orleans, Louisiana, April 25, 1906

************************

Please make the right decision, Florida, for once in your life.

Thunder from down under

2008-02-21T14:16:00.004-05:00

Article: http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-3509263,00.html, entitled "Homosexual activity cause of earthquake, Shas MK says"

Sigh ... oh this is too much to pass up.

Apparently "homosexual activity", which can be broadly defined as any activity that a homosexual does (like public service, establishing a non-profit organization for education, and attending church), is the cause of a recent earthquake that has shaken several towns in Israel.

This particular earthquake only hit 5.3 on the Dickter scale (is that all? *disappointed* I need a measurement of at least 6.0 to get me going haha j/k), and lasted 19 seconds (typical *tsk*- all that trembling and then nothing!). This shift in the earth's tectonic plates is indickative of the consequences brought on by a country that is tolerating a gay movement (meaning limp wrists? I don't know...) that has been likened to the bird flu epidemic (what bird? a cock?).

Do whaaaat? The gay movement (and hell, we've been moving since the beginning of time!) is a "plague that could destroy Jewish Israel" and should be treated "just as the Health Ministry dealt with the bird flu epidemic." *car tires screeching to a halt*

Well, gay people have been victimized by oppression and attacks from "outside" peoples for centuries - of course a person who's Jewish wouldn't understand how that feels... *coughing profusely*

So how do we eradickate this most vile and dangerous disease? Well the last time Jewish people dealt with a ghastly plague they were protected by painting sheep's blood over their doorways (to which Mr. Sheep abruptly looks up and says "I beg your fuckin' pardon? Oh hell no! Baaaaaa!!!"). Suddenly an image of Moses came to me, him standing on a mountaintop stick-in-hand demanding "Let my homos go!"

Perhaps the persons who agree with this condemnation should reconsider the Old Testament passages that deal with the justification of slavery and limited women's rights? Yes, yes- "all of those are taken out of context". Yeah well, when y'all decide to stop playing scripture-a-la-carte with holy texts, you just let me know.

For serious, how much more ridickulous can this get? First gays are responsible for the burning of Sodom and incurring the wrath of god, and now we are to blame for natural-- err, I mean (super)natural disasters! Are we that powerful? Do we piss off the Creator that much?

Damn ... I should start building that ark I've been planning right away! First things first, though- I need a crew that's got plenty of seamen.

Sex in church

2008-02-20T13:46:00.006-05:00

This week a particular headline turned heads (and heads) and almost slayed a few in the aisles with the story: "Minister urges congregation to have more sex".

Now, certainly the minister is leaving himself wiiiiiiide open (to altar boys?) to criticism and speculation about the appropriateness of the church barging down the bedroom door and discussing sexual issues with the general public (after all, sex is taboo- quite like molestation scandals and pastoral "conversion" therapy ... oh wait, both of those have to do with sex!).

The minister's rationale for his unexpected ejaculation from the pulpit is that divorce is on the rise, quite like his male congregants, and that the easiest solution to put out the flames of sin is to ignite the flames of marital passion (oxymoron? - oh, and who's hose is in charge of putting out? *ahem* I mean- putting out the fire?) for 30 days straight (emphasis on the word straight).

Certainly the Mormon males are starting to cringe ("Dammit, women, I need at least 20 minutes to recharge!"), and females across the country are considering the very same question- Doesn't that damn minister know about a lady's cycle? (perhaps he doesn't spend all THAT much time in bed with his wife, what a shocker)

Well naturally the minister's challenge to the congregation cums at a time when the church is battling to stay in the mainstream (yes, Hebrew fish, swim towards the egg silly!) and keep up with the competitive worldly pleasures that are all too familiar to us (like condoms, porn, and pre-commitment-ceremony sex).

Honestly, though- aren't we confusing the children that are being raised in the faith? Masturbation is bad, sex is good, but oh wait you have to be married, oh oh wait and you also have to be a man and woman, oh oh and ... Lord! I'm 27 and already with these rules I don't know my ass from my elbow (but I'm sure one of them has to do with sex, just ask the minister).

And why is it THIS particular headline making the news? What about the sermons and messages of all the other faiths around the country that are reminding us of peace, love, and friendliness to all mankind? (perhaps the sermon topics should be changed to "peace of ass", "making love", and "friendliness with benefits" -- CNN would be all over that like a prison gang on dropped soap)

So what's next? In depth discussion about the missionary position? Substituting hard liquor in those grape juice shot glasses on communion Sunday? Wet T-shirt competitions in the baptism pool?

Phew ... lucky I gave up abstinence for lent !!!

Things that vex and disturb ...

2008-02-20T08:47:00.003-05:00

Pet peeves, annoyances, freaky shit- whatever label you assign them, here is a small list of odd or bothersome things that continue to haunt me:

-That hair on the wall of the shower (how did it get there, and how did it climb so friggin' high? Mr. Hair: "Must ... keep ... climbing ..." - and what the hell am I supposed to do with it now?)

-That slightly disturbing feeling you have when you are sipping from a water fountain and the flow of water changes precisely at the same time you hear a toilet flush in a public bathroom

-The wind of Washington D.C. -- seriously, I have begun to curse the wind out loud, much to the surprise of passers-by on the street (quite like a Celine Dion song, the wind is pervasive, transparent, intangible, ubiquitous, and just friggin' annoying as hell)

-Supersize Fries and a Diet Coke- if you're gonna do it, just go all out! That's like strapping on a prophylactic and then immediately falling asleep - What's the point? (whatever it is, it isn't in the direction of north)

-Scalding coffee: Would you serve a person a hamburger that is still on fire? Or a glass of milk that's completely frozen over? Temperature counts! Should coffee have to come with a warning label? (well, the Celine Dion songs should)

-English gone bad: For example, "I know it's a lot of information, so if you don't understand anything just cut me." (rather than "cut me off")

-Gendered pronouns: I know it's not "proper English", but can we start saying "they" and "them" when we're referring to a person of unknown gender? Stop switching between he and she, it messes me up!!! (note this does not apply to the shows at De Lounge)

-People who pretend they didn't just trip and about bust their head open on the cement-- take pride in your fall! (it has goeth-ed, anyway) It's funny! And don't turn around and stare in perplexed amazement at some invisible thing on the pavement, some apparent monstrosity of an obstacle, that was able to bother your balance for a step or two (cuz it isn't there, you're just a klutz!)

-Dogs wearing argyle sweaters: It's embarrassing enough for a dog to be wearing a sweater when it has a full coat of fur to protect itself from the cold ... but when a big butchy dog is wearing a cutsie diamond-patterned argyle one-sy, well ... dignity is gone with the DC wind.

-Violently offensive farting: Seriously, sometimes I need to lay off the vegetables because the fumes that occasionally funk out of my body are enough to initiate a chemical spill evacuation in any government facility (Comments that have been made about my farts when they are anonymous: "Damn ... what the hell is that stench?" -- "Ew ... something smells like diapers!" -- "Lord someone needs to empty the garbage around here!")

Balding

2008-02-16T10:51:00.000-05:00

Hair hair hair. We are a nation obsessed with the hair. Moreover, we are obsessed with losing it in places we want, and gaining it in places we don’t want (for example, ear lobe hair-- seriously, the old men in Italy look like they had Princess Leia Chia Pets on their ears or something).

Our national symbol is the bald eagle (although “bald” comes from the old English “balde”, which means white – so what happens if I’m white and bald? I'm a baldie balde?). There are products galore that promise to turn any patch of empty skin into a rich prairie of hair-fibers, blossoming unrestrained like a savannah. We want that thick mane of shampooed-goodness so badly we'd pull a Van Gogh just to keep our heads covered.

As hairy as this situation may be, there are organizations out there in the world committed to bring an end to our fervent fascination with the fluff stuff. BALD R US, whose website (http://www.baldrus.com/) is headlined by an American flag complete with beaked eagle, provides a wealth of information for those seeking solace for their scalp. There are T-shirts, bumper stickers ("Bald men don't need viagra", "I'm too sexy for my hair"), transplant terror stories, hairpiece horror stories ... the list goes on and on like Rapunzel on Rogaine.

There's even empirical evidence that proves bald is better- the website says "The facts don't lie: Survey proves that bald men are the best dressed and most romantic." Do whaaaaat? Oh and wait! Tips on how to shine or de-shine my cue ball head (is that why we have ear wax?)! Well, the "naked noggin" certainly does have quite an impact on modern society. BALD R US has even partnered with E-Harmony to get "Bald" listed as one of the search criteria for matching partners! (*enters short, stocky, slow-witted bald man into search engine* -- oh wait I can't cuz I'm gay)

Oh but wait- there's more! Even the Divine Powers that Be weigh in on this furry matter. Perhaps god is bald as well, and on the 8th day he got plugs and stopped the comb-over.

2 Kings 2:23-24: "From there Elisha went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, some youths came out of the town and jeered at him. "Go on up, you baldhead!" they said. "Go on up, you baldhead!" [24] He turned around, looked at them and called down a curse on them in the name of the LORD. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths."

Holy shit!!! The LORD gets testy when hair falls prey to insult and badgering (is it really a burning bush, or does god just have fiery red hair?). But I know I'm safe-- the last time I ran into two bears in the woods they were actually quite friendly to me- in fact, they weren't interested in the hair on my head at all !!!

Jolly Old Saint Valentine, Lean Your Heart This Way

2008-02-14T08:39:00.002-05:00

Well the day is here! Valentine's Day! Anti-Valentine's Day! Singles Awareness Day! (abbreviated S.A.D.) But honestly people, is it so terrible to be single? And aware?

And much to the hearty disapproval of the corporate conglomerates that would prefer us to shell out millions on chocolates and heart-shaped sugar candies, many people have snubbed this holiday and called it a glorified commercialization and mockery of the true experience of love- which is shared between 2 people on every single day of the year. Indeed, for some of us every day is a single day.

Perhaps if we look back at history then we can begin to appreciate the true origins of this heartfelt day. Scholars debate on the actual identity of St. Valentine himself- some even believe he is the "combination" of two or more persons, or two or more persons with the same name. What is known, however, is that some time way back when some random Roman dead dude was put in the ground on February 14th, inaugurating the feast and festival that has evolved into our modern Valentine's Day.

So in reality we are actually celebrating someone's funeral (well love is dead, right? *wink*) with our Werther's and "be mine"s and flowers galore. And just like the deceased St. Valentine himself, what we often bring to the metaphoric casket is a heart that has stopped beating in some way. Either the heart is suspended mid-beat and frozen in some foggy rose-tinted dreamland ... or it's been broken.

Another interesting historical note is the link between Valentine's Day and romanticism. In the 14th century Geoffrey Chaucer and his gang in England began to associate the two together, creating the celebration of love in shades of pink (blush and bashful), red, and white.

Romanticism- ahh, an idea that for some of us has taken a journey 6 feet under (a.k.a. cynicism). After all, if you are dressed in only allegorical black then a bleeding heart can't leave any stains. Still, we usually manage to eventually change out of those dreary funeral frocks and give that bright white suit another chance. Just make sure you bring some Shout or bleach to the funeral.

But should the white suit be blotched and blemished again, don't worry-- like most things, in the end everything turns up roses ;-)

Pre-War Man

2008-02-13T17:42:00.002-05:00

Here is a photocopied essay, printed on bright green paper and conspicuously placed in the wedge between seats of a Metro car today. Seems whoever printed and left it wanted to make sure it was discovered. It was so amusing I decided to share the joy with all of you:

The "Pre-War Man"
"CIA GOD FATHER"

"A lie detector test can discover the truth"

To cover up the U.S. Homeland civil war that all began around the middle of May 2006. AND to cover up the fact that I overthrown George Bush the 1st, the 2nd and Donald Rumsfeld back in 2006:

The spies supporting George Bush have been using "CIA spy technology" to mis-lead the public about me and my facts stated. I am also the person that invented the "Pre-War plan". George Bush and other people emulated my "Pre-War plan" and called it "Pre-War Intelligence.

*How it feels when ever someone is being mind washed

1. Sometimes it feels like a smaller version of how your face and head feels when standing up after you did a head stand for at least 5 minutes. Kind of like a head rush.

2. Sometimes it feels like fluid running through parts of your face or head the same tempature as your blood.

3. Sometimes it feels like your head is moving when it's really not.

4. Sometimes it feels like your head or face is shifting composures. You would have to stand still for at least 2-3 minutes after the time a feeling is transfered into your mind in order to be aware of being mind washed. You will either feel these kinds of feelings at our nose, mouth, fourhead, the top of your head or the back of your head.

They will mind wash someone with good feelings about me to cover up how it feels when ever being mind washed. They will mind wash you to feel turned off, bored or out of touch about my info. Even strange feelings can be transfered into someone. They can also mind wash people while sleep.

They also have "CIA spy sound travel devices" used to create people talking in public and over the phone. Sound travels of people talking are usually created to start rumors and negitive talk about me and to stall time. Sound travel devices can record any ones voic......

***
End of transmission from Mars ... *ahem* I mean from the green Metro paper.

Well, I've never been one for conspiracy theories, but if the current administration is resorting to torture and lying about it, perhaps this guy/girl isn't that far off track...

Man- suddenly I feel dizzy ....

Why my bank can kiss it

2008-02-11T12:59:00.000-05:00

"Welcome to Peoples First Community Bank of Florida, where we always put the customer first ... that is, of course, unless you actually want to DO something with your accounts. In that case, please stay on the line and we will send someone over right away to bend you over and force you to take it brokeback-mountain-style but without the spit. Thank you."

It isn't far from the truth. Peoples First has officially been bumped to the top of my "To Be Eliminated" list, just behind left-standers on the Metro and Splenda-made cookies.

I called PFCBoF today to inquire how I might go about closing my checking and savings accounts with them. After I had personally offended the customer service representative by choosing to close an account -- something apparently as rude as selling her first born child to hungry gypsies -- I had to explain my rationale.

"Well, I no longer live in Florida. And your interest rates aren't very competitive. And the online banking security is a real nightmare and not very user-friendly."

I spent the next half-hour consoling the poor woman as if we had just ended an engagement the night before the wedding. But as we all know, hell hath no fury like a customer service representative woman's scorn ...

"Well, sir, you have to come in in person to verify your identity to close any account. But since you live in DC, when you close the account we'll have to send you your money by mail. Is your address current with Peoples First?"

"No it isn't. I moved to DC"

"Ah, well in that case you'll have to mail in a notarized form with your social security number on it verifying your identity before your mailing address can be changed."

"Can't I change my mailing address online?"

"No, you silly ass. That would be efficient customer service, and at Peoples First we believe that the customer should always suffer, you insolent bitch."

"I see. Well, your online security is very strict (and antiquated), so I'm surprised that Peoples First would ask its customers to send a paper form through the mail which has their social security number printed clearly on it. That doesn't seem very secure."

"Well that's what you get for breaking my heart, you hateful monster. MONSTER!!!" *click*

Immediately after, I entered an incorrect password on their online system and was permanently locked out of my account until I called customer service to reinstate it. *slowly bends over again and winces*

"Please hold, I'll transfer you to the next representative. Yes, I'm speaking in a very cheerful computer voice. That's because I take an unprecedented amount of SSRIs before drinking hard liquor every morning, and I am tickled pink with the satisfaction that you'll be sore every time you sit down today and that you'll be walking somewhat bowlegged. Please hold."

And then I got a voice mail message. A voice mail? A FRIGGIN' VOICE MAIL IN CUSTOMER SERVICE?!?

So to ensure that I always remember my password and avoid future lock-outs from Peoples First, for my password I have selected a string of expletives that accurately describes this financial institution.

However, just to be on the safe side, I'll avoid the use of the word "asshole" in any future interaction with Peoples First *reaches for soothing ointment*

Hey there, cowboy

2008-02-03T20:41:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday I completed a rite of passage that is only experienced by persons who are determined to spin and twirl in style on the country-western dance floor. Yes, I have finally purchased a pair of cowboy boots (to which my mother said "Oh great, now you'll have something to wear when it snows" ... *sigh*, obviously I am not actually her child).

Carol's Western Wear, the recommended outlet for boots and other related paraphernalia (really its sole purpose is boots *wink*), has been Maryland's leading dealer of the only acceptable things to come out of Alabama since 1962. It was charming- except for the "Yay Department of Homeland Security is fabulous!" shirts that instantly smack your attention upon entering the store (gayness added by blog author).

After finding the perfect pair of pumps- *cough*, I mean, burly man boots (yaaaay!!! *claps*)- in black cherry size 10.5, and leaning over my new babies and welcoming them into my world (the shop assistant gave me the strangest look when I stroked them and whispered hoarsely "My preciousssssssss" - weird), I was ready to check out.

BUT WAIT - there was already some checking out that was a foot (*wink again*, love these pedestrian references **wink again again**). My friend and I had stumbled upon a young black guy dolled up in very trendy metrosexual-meets-Mississippi gear, complete with boots, jacket, and cap all in complimenting dark grey, black, and white colors. Amazing smile, friendly disposition, and hopefully gay.

After a short attempt at flirting, my friend and I left Carol's with a slight regret that we had not saved a horse and ridden the cowboy behind us in the checkout line. In a fit of madness, obviously due to sniffing the leather cleaner while in the store, I stormed back into the Boot Palace to fetch the cutie's phone number for my dear friend (something I would never do for myself, unless I had actually been drinking the leather cleaner).

Fearless and uninhibited by asking a question that would definitely get you whipped in the Bible Belt, I began my hunt for digits and potential embarrassment.

"Hi there. Yeah ... Um, I'm not really sure if this is your thing, but my friend is very shy and he kinda wants to have your phone number."

Huge grin (awkward or flattered???).

"Yeah um ... so he wants your number ..." (scanning face fervently) "... but uh, I don't know if that's how you roll so ... um ........." *cough*

Missi-Metro responds: "Oh, haha ... well, you see, about 4 or 5 years ago-------------"

In the span of a few nanoseconds I had already completed his thought with a million hypotheticals::: "----I used to be in the closet." or "----I had a near-death experience that made me realize that penis is hot." or "----my heart was broken by this queeny bitch and I've been looking for a soul mate ever since."

Instead, it was "----I started going to church and was saved and all ...."

Me: "Ah, I see. Well, you know, you can be saved and be gay all at the same time."

*uncomfortable laughing* "Haha well *random words of little importance as I had already given up*" .... blah blah blah basically he keeps his donkey parked in the stable where it can't (or won't?) do any man-bucking and thus he is dead to me *spit Jack-style*.

A very interesting response, wouldn't you say??? It's like asking "Hey there, sir, do you like chicken sandwiches?" and getting the answer of "Well I started eating tofu a while back." Notice that the question goes mysteriously unanswered ...

The only shame I experienced, since apparently I don't have much at all, was returning to the car to inform my red-faced friend that Mr. Poser- ahem, I mean Mr. Random Cowboy Man, had rejected his request on account of a religious experience.

My only conclusion on this ambiguous man is this: obviously he's never done any proper riding while in stirrups.

Interpreting

2008-01-31T11:25:00.000-05:00

30,000 professional sign language interpreters across the United States experience something on a daily basis that most other professionals do not have to face. Like a mouse in a maze, ASL terps are sent through a dizzying array of twisted passageways, dead-ends, frustrations, and conflicting instructions before we finally reach the end of our hunt and secure our prize. Although instead of a piece of cheese, interpreters get a person who is deaf.

David's Story: Deaf patient at a medical facility

"Oh what a good day to be a communication facilitator and provide access to language!" David takes in a deep, satisfying breath and asks the front desk attendant where he can find Mr. SoNso to provide him with the interpematation.

"You're a what?"

"A sign language interpreter."

Blank stare.

"I interpret for people who are deaf."

"Dead people? Why do they need an interpreter? They're dead!"

"No sir, DEAF ... as in a person who cannot hear? Namely yourself?" (last question was interior monologue)

"Hmm ... yes ..." *ruffles papers and tries to look knowledgeable* "Yes ... oh here we go. Yes, go to the part of the hospital called 'International Relations'."

Blank stare ... this time from David.

The interpreter, puzzled and quite confident that International Relations has nothing to do with deafness, spends a significant amount of time hunting down the IR office. Upon entering, David sees flags of multiple nationalities adorning the wall, as well as informative pamphlets on foreigners' rights (or non-rights?) to medical care in the great U.S.of.A.holes.

Two individuals, speaking with accents that are definitely of foreign nature, turn with helpful expressions to the interpreter.

"Ah ... yes ... I'm a sign language interpreter and I'm here to interpret for a person who is deaf."

Blank stares.

"Is this the right place?"

They look at the interpreter as if he had just undid his pants and started using Jim Carrey ass-speak. "Sir, what you want is Patient Advocacy."

Another 10 minutes later David finds himself in the Patient Advocacy office, only to find that the assignment had been cancelled.

This cheese stinks.

Metro responds

2008-01-31T09:34:00.000-05:00

Last week I wrote a blog about a very disturbing Metro experience that apparently isn't all that uncommon. After reading through some other blogs and news sources, it seems that Metro has faltered in several areas of customer safety. I wrote Metro with a formal complaint, and then forwarded that email to the Blade, Metro Weekly, and the GLBT Liaison Police.

I received a phone call from Metro 2 days after my email, and a very VERY professional and courteous man spent a good amount of time discussing the situation with me.

Basically, the Metro transit police has about 400 officers employed to monitor over 80 Metro stations, 1,600 bus lines, and over 100 miles of railways throughout DC and the metro area. He explained that their resources are spread thin, and so every Metro station cannot be manned with an officer at all times (I just realized how sexist the verb "to man" is ... correction-- "every Metro station cannot be person-ed with an officer"). Therefore, it is sometimes faster to get the train to the officers rather than get the officers to the train.

Staffing, budget constraints, etc. etc. etc. and certainly not the answer I wanted to hear. Unfortunately, there was absolutely nothing this man could do to magically fix the problem.

So money and staffing aside, my biggest concern was the lack of communication on the part of the train operator. If the train is being moved and transit police have been (or will be) notified, shouldn't the passenger(s) know about it? Wouldn't an announcement by the conductor potentially deter the harassers?

Mr. Red Line Security Manager Man said that this was definitely a concern of his, and they were currently using the information I provided to identify which operator was running the train at the time. I think he'll get in trouble, which I'm not too happy about, but safety supersedes my guilt and hopefully this operator will not make the same mistake again.

Metro's advice? Ride in the train car closest to the operator.

I feel so safe.

Field of Clovers ...

2008-01-30T10:56:00.000-05:00

Movies movies movies ... Hollywood never ceases to disappoint. Well ... except for Million Dollar Baby (I dare ANY of you to explain why that movie was popular, as I literally began plucking the hairs on my arm during the movie to entertain myself). But generally there is at least $10 worth of entertainment from anything that brightens the silver screen.

And so it goes with Cloverfield- the newest thriller that shows the buildings of New York City being tossed about like the Lego's of a temperamental 2-year-old on speed. First of all, why is it always NYC? Between The Day After Tomorrow and Artificial Intelligence there are hardly any buildings left to destroy! I guess it's more exciting to watch human beings running and screaming for their lives instead of cows going for a swim in a tsunami. But still, let's give NYC a rest and wipe out an area of little worth ... like, um ... Texas (minus Austin)?

Anyway, Cloverfield is effectively the combination of Godzilla, War of the Worlds, and The Blair Witch Project. Persons who are motion-sickness-challenged, please be advised- the blurred images and jostled scenery feel quite like Mel Gibson out for an evening drive. The lady behind me in the theater said "I'm gonna puke", and that is the kind of immersing movie experience that I would prefer to forgo (leave the surround sound to the speakers, sweetheart). Luckily she kept it together.

The characters of Cloverfield, however, had some trouble keeping it together. When I say "it", I'm really talking about their friggin' common sense and decision-making abilities. "Hmm ... my girlfriend is trapped in a region of Manhattan where an unidentified biting object is reeking havoc on the city, certain to result in death and unpleasant dismemberment of all appendages.... LET'S GO !!!!!" Sigh ...

It could be the love of my life trapped in the Trump Towers- I am out of there, bitch ... Well, now that I say that, I have to wonder... If it's the love of your life, is life worth living without him/her? Even if your exit to the afterlife involves a considerable amount of bleeding and tangled limbs?

Regardless, the characters were silly and had delusions of grandeur when they thought they could take on the UBO without losing a few friends along the way. But hey! Lady friend is stuck in the tower. Screw the dragon and rescue the princess!!!

I enjoyed the effects and the 1st person perspective of Cloverfield. Scenes of mass panic and the psychology of crowds has always been fascinating to me, and so I got my fill with this movie. I was also able to leave the theater without being afraid of the sunset, which I cannot say about I Am Legend.

As I stepped out into the (comparatively) quiet streets of Washington, DC, I had to wonder: what would happen if some ginormous monster started causing destruction all around me, ruining lives and crushing the world without a care for the consequences?

Hey wait ... how did I get started talking about the Republican party??? (oooooooh COLD .....) Sorry, that one just seemed too easy, and I'm not clever enough to REALLY insult the beast.

Metro opens doors ... to danger and irresponsibility

2008-01-20T23:26:00.000-05:00

*ahem*

I shall now tell you a very sad tale, particularly on a weekend where equality and differences in humanity are not only accepted, but celebrated.

9:15 on a Sunday evening in the friggin' bitter cold of a windy January (honestly, Dear Wind: we get it. It's windy. You blow. CUT IT OUT !!!! ... so obnoxious ...). Our train pulls into Judiciary Square when a slight ruckus breaks out on our Metro car. One man comes to my side of the car and pushes the call button, informing the train operator that there are two men harassing him and requesting that someone come immediately.

Indeed, they were harassing him- with anti-gay slurs and explicitly sexual remarks that were far from positive. They continued yelling at him from across the car. Everyone else froze- unsure whether they should intervene or not, and wondering how much they could tolerate ignoring this disgusting scene.

After a few minutes, the man pushed the call button again and said "Please help, please help" in a calm but insistent tone. Our train was holding on the platform due to maintenance at another station. The train operator asked for clarification as to what was happening in the car. 5 minutes had past, and no one from the transit police had arrived.

One of the harassers come over to my side of the car, pushed the call button, and said "Don't pay any attention to this mother fuckin' nigga". Still no response from the operator.

Another few minutes passed. The train was still being held at Judiciary Square. The two harassers, continuing their slurs and degradation, finally exited the train and went about their merry business.

By this time it had been 10 minutes since the man's first report to the operator. And still nothing. Then, the car doors closed and our train proceeded to the next stop. Only then did the operator make a loudspeaker call to transit police to come to our car for a reported assault. Two uniformed officers dashed into our car asking who had been assaulted.

The man and I explained the situation-- there was no physical assault, and the harassers had exited the Metro several minutes before and at another station. The officers' response: "Oh ... I'm sorry that happened."

Now ... should it take over 10 minutes for someone to intervene when a man is being harassed on the Metro? What can happen in 10 minutes? What happens when you close the doors on that person and take them to the next Metro stop, not knowing whether or not his harassers are still in the same car with him?

Appropriate letters to Metro supervisors and others are currently being drafted ...

I have a dream, too ... but last night I definitely woke up to reality :-( It's sad.

Flurrying in the snow

2008-01-17T17:31:00.000-05:00

*And it's beginning to snow* (Rent)

For a silly kid from Florida, nothing is more exciting than a fresh snowfall. Hell, even for a 27-year-old pseudo-adult, snow is pretty damn enthralling. I found myself today, like most children across the District, magnetized to the window and staring out at a million flakes that lazily coasted down to a candyland sea of powdered frosting, romanticizing everything they touched. Snowflakes are like upside-down white-laced umbrellas, cascading down in uniform- yet unique- bands of fluff and stuff that caught me spellbound and mystified.

10 minutes later, after trudging through some mud and slipping a dozen times, I was so over that shit.

Haha actually, all the skank that goes along with a gallop in the snow is quite worth it in the end. What's particularly interesting about snow, especially for someone who wasn't raised in it, is all of the symbolism tied to snowy days and winter wonderlands.

I immediately think of: warm fireplaces, getting some chapters done in a book, wooden cabins, soft candles, and snuggling under a warm blanket with that special someone.

But what if you don't have a fireplace, you're reading a book that bores you to tears (LOL actually, I'm currently reading "So you want to be an interpreter?" which I quickly have to shove in my bag when my deaf clients approach me on my interpreting assignments *cough cough*), your house is made of brick, your candles may set off the smoke detector, and you don't have anyone to snuggle up with (sorry, Henry the Turtle, but you are a cold-blooded creature...)??? What then, snow ... what then?!?

What's surprising to me is that sometimes when we are presented with the most spectacular sights, the most brilliant sunsets, the most immense canyons -- all of those things which make up the essence of being a conscious being -- we then wish for something on top of that. We sometimes wish we could share that experience with someone else (again, Henry, I'm so sorry but your softness can only go so far).

I thought about that today as the snow relentlessly proved its cuteness for hours and rested itself gently on every single tree branch in Fort Totten Park. To which I thought: "no ... actually, this is quite enough".

I don't need a fireplace, I don't need a novel, an isolated cabin adorned with sweet-perfumed candles, or even a cuddle buddy.

This sight is so perfect... so serene, so gently exquisite- why complicate it with all of that? I am privileged enough to enjoy it, perhaps more so than the people who've grown tiredly accustomed to a first snowfall.

So let it snow, let it snow, let it snow ... come here, Henry.

Franklin's in Hyattsville

2008-01-14T09:11:00.000-05:00

The de-suburbanization of townships and the renewed interest in a "downtown" art's district with loft spaces and apartments for budding talent has taken hold even in Hyattsville, Maryland. At the center of this revitalization is a restaurant called Franklin's -- a general store turned microbrewery and ... well, a "general" store.

Do not be fooled by its title- "general" to "Franklin's" is like "black and male" to "Michael Jackson". The store is a large space jam-packed with colorful toys, games, and random oddities for the young and old. And I also found that the store was quite gay-friendly. Items of note included: a healthy selection of boas, Hallmark cards turned queer (something about a birthday gone wrong by the hands of some angered drag queen? I can't remember...), magnets (those kinds with old photographs, usually depicting some 1950's mother ladling martinis down her throat and all), and even gay gum (um ... always fresh?).

Our waitress was Shannon from the Midwest (oh my gash oh yeah you betcha), who's spunk was as addictive as their homemade bread pudding (however, there were just too many damned raisins, I must say). The dining area is very spacious, spread out over 2 floors with booths and tables decorated with colorful rainbow-checkered tablecloths. It still has the feeling of a large general store, or almost like an enormous modern loft, with enough hardwood and brick to deserve the label "quaint" and two thumbs up from this hungry bitch.

Speaking of food: the mixed bread basket was quite tasty, and my coconut curry chicken was certainly enough to fill this belly and consider not getting dessert *GASP*. They also have a great selection of beers- try the sampler (choose up to 9, I had 4 for $4.50) which comes on a round wooden board with numbered circular inserts for the glasses to identify which beer is which.

The cuteness just goes on and on, like watching Zac Efron scene-by-scene in Hairspray over, and over, and over, and over ... *ahem* - yeah just watching it once, that's all, and not more than once of course don't be silly what do you think I am a freak shutup.

Next visit to Franklin's I will try one of their famous pizzas and perhaps, if I'm daring, a slice of carrot cake (but I'll feel like the food critic in Ratatouille ... don't mess with my cake, bitches). Then I'd like to spend some more time in the general store, wading through pirate rubber duckies, candies that you cannot find at 7-Eleven, kitchen cutlery that is just damn cute, and a host of other items that scream gay, gay, GAY!

It's like Cracker Barrel- only more colorful and without the rockers and inbreeding.

The Palace of Wonders

2008-01-13T15:01:00.000-05:00

In yet another effort to seek out an "undiscovered" area of DC and transform it into the "hip" part of town (thereby interesting investors, driving out the locals with higher property taxes, and building obscene condos), H street NE has had an amazing face-lift -- one that would rival even Cher -- over the past few years. Cute little bars that serve risottos and delicious sweet potato fries are drawing white bohemian-esque persons from all over the District (they mostly arrive via taxi ... the 1200 block of H Street looks like a hornet's nest of yellow, black, and orange vehicles spinning about to shuttle bus-shy people to and from Union Station).

The Palace of Wonders is a recent addition to what is now being referred to as the "Atlas District" (nice ring to it, right? Well, Atlas struggled, didn't he? Just like the locals who won't be able to keep up with the Jones' once businesses realize the potential of this region ... it's actually really sad).

This palatial bar is a trendy mix between a circus, Moulin Rouge, and Ripley's Believe it or Not. Last Friday, after using my feminine wiles to convince the bouncer-lady to give me a discount on the cover (score ... wish I were equally convincing in other arenas), I was treated to a fire-eating-dancing burning-sword-swinging fire-hula-hooping extravaganza. Quite unlike anything I've ever seen at JR's or Cobalt (although both featuring "flaming" individuals).

It was quite refreshing to watch a talent show - albeit a somewhat odd and unexpected show - on a Friday night with mixed company and mixed drinks. There is a small stage on the ground floor, barely visible through a sea of heads that usually sport spiked haircuts and braidings of uncertain origins. The second floor has display cases showing the various anomalies of the human species (for 2 seconds I SWEAR I saw Richard Simmons) and other mythical creatures of the world (a date-able gay man, for example).

All in all, it was very trendy and quirky and fun ... which basically means that once this place is discovered by the NW inhabitants (and if they are strong enough to brave the mysteries of H Street and/or the X2 bus), the Palace of Wonders will be packed to the brim, line stretching down the block, and appeal entirely lost due to the lack of spunk from its former attendees.

Odd ... quite like the fire-dancers, I too must be wearing some sort of flame-deterrent oil. Come on baby light my fire ... *poof* ...

New neighbors

2008-01-10T10:03:00.000-05:00

First impressions are important- getting off on the right foot is essential to effective relationship-building. Yeah- this bitch has two left feet, apparently. And my first social encounter with my new neighbors was about as awkward as two strangers at a middle school dance.

When I first came to the house to move in, my new roommate cleverly hid my set of keys in an inconspicuous location where no thief would ever dare look - under the flower pot off the front porch (clever, like a wallet in the toe of your shoe at the beach). So after receiving my instructions to retrieve the keys from this amazingly confidential spot, I pulled up to the house and had my first look at my new home (yes, I signed a lease site-unseen ... I've lived with enough psychos that I'm sure I've exhausted the mentally-insane population by now).

I began the hunt for my hidden keys. What my roommate forgot to tell me, however, was WHICH flower pot I should look under- there were about 6 altogether. So I went up on the porch and tried the first on the right ... and nothing. Then the one in front of the porch- again, nothing. I lifted each flower pot, and then again a second time, frantic and concerned that our secret exchange had been compromised.

Until the front door slowly opened, and a middle-aged woman suspiciously cocked her head out of the door, and sternly inquired- "Excuse me! Can I help you?!?"

*ahem* "Um ... yes ma'am, I'm your new neighbor, and I happen to be looking for my keys on the wrong porch."

"Mmhmm." *door slams*

Well, screw first impressions. It's like the first time you have sex- you think it's allllll important and everything, but after a few awkward motions and avoided eye contact you realize it wasn't enjoyable for either party.

Round 2, only this time it was with her son. Yesterday I was enjoying a PB&J on the front porch (neighbors comment- "Hey look! White bred eating white bread! The irony!"), when the same front door swung open and an 8-year-old boy meandered out on to the porch. He was dressed in his pajamas, and I believe he is mentally retarded or developmentally delayed in some capacity.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm enjoying a pleasant peanut butter and jelly sandwich on this fine day, dear neighbor. And how about yourself?"

"Get the fuck inside the house."

Silence.

"Um ... I'm sorry?"

"You heard me, get the fuck inside the house!"

More silence. "Well, um ... no, actually, I'm eating my lunch and I intend to finish it."

"Do you have a bike?"

(this conversation was like chimpanzees playing ping pong) "Nope, don't have a bike. Do you?"

"Mine's broke. Do you have a bike?"

"Nope, I sure don't."

"Get the fuck inside the house!" *door slams*

Sigh ... Well, it's not Mister Roger's Neighborhood, but at least it's home. And honestly, I wouldn't feel comfortable unless I had some amount of insanity living nearby.

OMG ... I just realized how gay Mister Roger's was. The clothes, the spotlessness, the singing and cheery disposition ... however the difference between Mr. R and myself is that if I went parading down the street singing "Won't you be my neighbor?", I'm liable to get shot.

But hey, even Mr. R liked a good pistol-whipping every now and then.

Conversations on sex, dating, and nothing in between

2008-01-10T08:52:00.000-05:00

This morning I took a minute to sit down and really think about the conversations I've had in the past few days- alarmingly, there seems to be an obviously recurring theme in all of them. Different friends, different scenarios, different settings- one pervasive issue ... relationships. I turn on the radio- it's there. I pull up my favorite movie- hmm, there also. Every phone conversation, every dinner and mingling and chat at a bar. Relationships are the Starbucks of our discourse.

Which makes me have to wonder about our society-- what the hell is wrong with us?

"Small people talk about other people. Average people talk about things. Great people talk about ideas."

Hmfph. Well, I suppose this snotty quote isn't all that far off the beaten track. In fact, most of the discussions on relationships and dating involve the search for the unobtainable- an idea, if you will - for that "thing" we seek as a companion. I am surprised by how many truly amazing single people I know, who are usually not single by choice.

If we're all talking about it, and we all want it- then why can't we get it together, people?!?

These aren't joyous discussions about seeking a partner, either-- they are filled with scary dates (I recently heard one about being held hostage, in a oh-no-I'm-not-really-in-to-S-&-M-but-thank-you kind of way), heart-wrenching break ups, complaining, whining, yearning, hallucinating, dreaming the impossible ...

We are a complex synthesis of emotions and biology- one dictating what we need, another concluding what we want, and all of the drama that ensues when these collide.

Now talk amongst yourselves ...

2007 ... and DreamGirls (huh?)

2008-01-08T17:17:00.001-05:00

Last January I was fully inducted into gaydom (or queendom?) with what would immediately become a personal obsession that rivaled previous affairs with great Broadway productions like Evita, Annie, or even the tireless Wicked. Three smooth, strong, black voices in chorus together, bright lights and shimmering costumes that hung closely to swiveling hips as performers extravagantly peacocked their way around the stage -- heaven on the silver screen, my dream Girls, indeed.

And even though iTunes hasn't invented a digit high enough to count the number of times this soundtrack has poured itself soothingly into my life, the obsession brings itself full circle to another January- another year. Personally, this music brings with it a surprising amount of emotion interlaced in the fabric of eloquently crafted and performed songs that represent the very essence of what it is to be human- or, at least, what it is or felt like to be me in 2007.

Some excerpts, in no particular order:

"move right out of my life": a boy, a department, an ex-bestfriend, and a landlord (sounds like the Real World, although I would have to re-name it the Real Shit World)

"putting all my trust in you, cuz you ... you'll always be true": for a very special guy, although my heart just wasn't in it :-(

"you've got the charm, you simply disarm me every time": a silly 3-month ordeal of buckling knees and cowardice, which eventually gave way to friendship and quite a bit of confusion

"What about what I need? What about what's best for me? What about how I feel?": my pleas to a department intent to cast aside any request that proved to be in my interest- FYI ... if you leave a person out in the cold, they do get frostbitten...

"Heavy heavy, you got so heavy baby ...": OK OKAY, yes, an extra pound or two wiggled its way on to my sensitive muffin-top waist. Fortunately the metal zipper that securely binds my jeans together is stronger than my resistance to cookie temptation ...

"I don't wanna be free ...": You know that feeling of quasi-relief when you break up with someone you weren't really into, and you suddenly find more of yourself in your free time and friendships? Yeah, the opposite of that.

"Stop all the rivers, push- strike- and kill ...": That feeling when you've been burned unfairly, or judged unscrupulously, and nothing you can say or do can make it right. Even though those persons were there to teach, instruct, and guide.

"Patience - it's gonna take some time": Finding hope and inspiration in unlikely places/persons, and trusting in the ultimate power of the human spirit that refused to wither.

"All those years of darkness could make a person blind ... but now I can see": Like a benefactor of Jesus' miracles (he was a skilled optometrist ... "Read that eye chart over there, mortal human" ... "W ..... W ..... J ...... D ....."), I remember feeling a huge change coming on about September as I began to prove my potential not only to my department, but to myself.

"finding myself, and getting a hold of the anger in me": Well ... learning it was there in the first place, and then trying to get a hold of it -- like unbridled horses who have had too much Starbucks.

"the only trouble is you really don't have the time": Ahh, yes ... if there was one thing in this universe I would like to give to others and myself, it is more time. But I assume we'd waste it on shoe shopping, reality TV, and fretting about tomorrow- instead of what's right in front of us (carpe diem, in a breathy voice).

"I'm not at home in my own home": Well, honestly, who would feel at home when their roommate said "If you died, I'd be relieved" ... and you lock your door and blockade it with a chair every night (insert Psycho music now). And then if at another residence you were badgered by a non-tenant "tenant" who lied about you to your landlord, resulting in the loss of $500. Sigh :-)

"Listen to the song here in my heart": A simple but honest tune put out there that remains unheard-- perhaps I should pluck my heart-strings harder? And as the echo comes back to me without a harmony or "fine", I have to wonder- why do I find myself playing for the wrong audience? *no applause, please*

And, quite like Effie singing "And I am telling you, I'm not going", yes--- obviously I, too, can be a melodramatic diva.

Returning home ...

2007-12-30T10:40:00.000-05:00

Two days ago I loaded up an SUV with my entire tangible life- clothes, bread machine, miscellaneous stuffed animals (and yes, I am secure enough in my mascu-femininity that I can sleep with a stuffed turtle named Henry should the mood strike me- he’s warm and comes accessorized with a bathrobe and boxers!).

My arrival in DC marks the beginning of another chapter in this tireless novel- I’m on the precipice of a ginormous cavern filled with millions of question marks, swirling about like an ensemble of bubbles caught in a breeze. It’s dizzying; each answer leads to more questions, like a clue-ridden DaVinci Code movie that never ends. It is life unfolding to its fullest- a shining new day, illuminated by an infinite number of colors and pigments that are forever growing and changing.

Basically, I’m scared to death …

As Philadelphia faded into the distance of my rearview mirror, I was still dabbing at puffy eyes after saying goodbye to my roommate, Tanya. Well … she was much more than a roommate. A colleague, a mentor, a confidant, an advisor, a role-model, and a friend. It’s her I’ll miss the most-- our chats in the kitchen over wine glasses that refused to stay empty, our sprinting across the school parking lot to avoid missing the sign-in sheet for staff members, our engaging discussions on Harry Potter and the sexuality of Dumbledore ... It’s all gone.

As I sat in the food court at the Pentagon City mall, I stared at the post-holiday crowds rushing about to return gifts and take advantage of the latest sales. There could have been at least 500 people there- probably a lot more. And, surprisingly and disturbingly, I felt so completely alone. Returning “home” had never felt so strange.

And so, as any gay man would do, I consoled myself with a lavish shopping spree at Bed Bath & Beyond. Homo-therapy, ahhh …

I’m sitting here amongst a micro-city of boxes and storage bins, wishing I could Mary Poppins everything into its proper niche. I wish I could fast-forward through the next few days- hell, through all of the ambiguity that awaits me in the upcoming weeks. But missing the journey devalues the destination, as evasive as this destination seems to be. I’ll close my eyes, leap into the cavern, and hope the question marks are sensible enough to break my fall.

Sleep tight, Henry.

A Japanese Christmas

2007-12-26T12:56:00.000-05:00

They say that to really appreciate your own culture and customs, you must first step out of your box (ladies please don't be concerned - I mean your "comfort zone") and see the world from a different perspective -- like standing on a desk in Dead Poets Society ... and being able to stare down at crotches in the classroom from an aerial view instead of sideways glances in the shower. AHEM - woah, derailed there for a second.

Another way to shake up your paradigm (ladies, keep calm) is to have someone else come into your box and take a look around (OBGYNs are cultural pros!). In the metaphorical sense, having my Japanese friend in Lakeland, Florida, for 2 days during the Christmas holidays was a unique opportunity to take a good, hard look at my own box.

Here are Makoto's observations of an America VERY different from the Washington, DC he has become accustomed to:

-We put trees in houses and decorate them. It's like a bonsai that has decided to take over the house.

-There is an over-abundance of religious institutes, particularly those with schools conjoined.

-There is a shocking over-abundance of old people clogging traffic as they purposefully try to lower the nation's speed limit to approximately 25 mph.

-We spend a surprisingly large amount of money on gifts and exchange them, and then hug! Why do we hug each other?!? What's the point???

-Lights on houses are simply spellbinding. It's like a small scale Tokyo.

-Every meal is to be photographed from multiple angles.

-Gay bars must be photographed inside and out (lots of flashing *wink*)

I think my favorite part of the evening was when Makoto was completely surrounded by Americans hanging on his every word (sign), asking all kinds of questions about his home and heritage. And when asked by a little child "Do you like girls???", he turned the darkest red I've ever seen.

Gay, deaf, and Japanese? He's a one-stop shop, filling the diversity quota for any American gathering.

And in case you're wondering- no, he did not have any business to do in any literal boxes.

Do you reuse your shopping bags?

2007-12-24T11:42:00.000-05:00

Every Christmas I have the ultimate pleasure of perusing The Lakeland Ledger, the ultimate comprehensive guide to national news and the local to-do-s of Polk County.

Everyday The Ledger poses a question to the general public in their special segment called "Polk Pulse" (please note that The Pulse is the most frequented gay bar in Lakeland -- coincidence?). Yesterday's question was: "Do you reuse your shopping bags?"

I pray, pray, PRAY on bended knee that this person's response was really a satirical spoof, cleverly poking fun at conservatives. If this is a real person, may god have mercy on our souls.

I quote: "No, I don't reuse my shopping bags. I love it the way it upsets liberal idiots that think that 'Oh, you're going to save the trees, you got to reuse your plastic bags because our resources aren't infinite.' Actually, they are. I don't reuse my bags. I think anybody that says you should ought to be shot."

I find myself, probably for the first time in my entire life, completely speechless.

I'm imagining a world where everyone wanders around assuming that natural resources are automatically replaced once tapped, and that people who care about the earth we live on should no longer have the privilege of existence.

Peace on earth, but screw the earth itself. Huh???

The Golden Compass Points Straight ... TO HELL !!!

2007-12-23T16:03:00.000-05:00

The Vatican has decided to use its influence and power to dictate where we should (or shouldn't, rather) spend our money this holiday season. In fact, the Christian community at large has called for a boycott of The Golden Compass.

Pastors and preachers alike have cautioned the general public not to support a film with obvious non-Christian themes. This tale of witches, talking creatures, and wrestling with the powers of evil marks a strikingly eerie comparison to the release of Harry Potter (hugely popular in England, and branded as evil in America). Is there something Britain knows that we don't?

The Vatican has called The Golden Compass "the most anti-Christian film possible" - obviously the Pope hasn't seen the South Park movie (yikes!). "The film portrays the church as an orthodox dictatorship, which conducts cruel experiments on children and tries to suppress free will".

Hmm ... "free will". Like the free will of choosing what films you will and will not see??? AH, the irony!!!

The anti-religious elements of The Golden Compass are obvious: there is a large, organized entity that controls what information is passed on to the public (in the movie this is called "dust", i.e. the truth), and calls whatever is against the messages of this entity "heresy".

But the ironic twist is that the reaction of the Christian community is precisely what the movie is about-- restricting the public's ability to make decisions for itself, dictating what information should and should not be passed around, and avoiding any kind of discussion that would actually challenge the views of the Church.

Fear of challenge? Seems this house might actually have been built on the sand, in the end.

And please don't bring back the Inquisition, because that was just plain rude.

Between DC and Philadelphia

2007-12-09T22:40:00.000-05:00

This past week I had the unusual pleasure and honor to make a delightful sojourn down to the District for reasons yet to be disclosed (although I'll give you a clue- prospects for a "boj" spelled backwards! See how clever you are!!!). And due to the unreliably freakish time-tables of Septa, and the apprehension I have of ever riding the Chinatown bus again (last time I endured the Chinese-stampede, a common ritual when you have a "reservation" to travel economy-style), I decided to rent with Enterprise.

Quite like the professionalism displayed by the Chinatown bus people (I think the company was called New Century Travel, which is somewhat misleading and ironic considering the stampede looked like some Medieval-aged mob trying to storm a castle because our food rations had been cut), Enterprise also has a loose interpretation of the word "reservation"-- and when I say loose I mean like Monica Lewinsky on poppers. In essence, "reservation" means nothing to Enterprise.

So rather than a compact car as requested, for gas purposes, I was given the option to take a percentage off my bill and drive-------- a Dodge Ram (environmentalists gasp in horror). With regard to Mother Earth, I feel as good driving a Dodge Ram as I would harpooning the last whale of its own species ... however it was snowing and I had no other option to get my butt to DC.

You can picture the scene clearly, can't you? Barreling down the road in a truck that eats gasoline like a Weight-Watchers member at a buffet on their cheat day, blasting the tunes of Hairspray, Wicked, and Enchanted, and singing exuberantly like an insane-asylum escapee while children and adults alike stare up at me in the cab with uninhibited horror and surprise. It was delightful.

There are many things to help you pass the time on your journey up and down the interstate. There is the section of I-95 that has large yellow signs indicating a "weave area", which instantaneously puts me on alert to see if I can find Beyonce patting anywhere in the immediate vicinity. There is the large rest area with people scrambling to ingest as much fat as possible before they sit completely sedentary for the next 4 hours of their lives. There are the New Jersey drivers who had to take an oath to "Do-no-harm-haha-screw-that" before obtaining a license from the DMV (seriously those people are the WORST).

The trip was like taking off a band aid- quick, stinging for just a moment, and then discarded into the trashcan of my memory as I try to prepare for my last 2 weeks here in Philadelphia. As I was driving back through the maze of cars and SUVs, I couldn't help but feel I suddenly didn't belong in either place-- and I wasn't sure if the road I was taking or the direction I was going was the way to my future or to my past.

I'd almost rather stay in between-- singing Dreamgirls, imagining the impossible, and remaining contently unaware that the world can actually see me when I'm lost in my own world, in my big Dodge cab in a large red bullet that is sailing down the highway of life.

Don't touch me there!!! ... Touch me here!

2007-11-04T22:59:00.000-05:00

A few months ago I attended a birthday celebration extravaganza at a rollerskating rink where most of the people were black (aside from me, there was only one other white guy- he was very old, skated alone, and may have been entirely insane).

After taking to the rink and forgetting that my ankles are actually made of jelly, I took a breather on the side to enviously watch little 9-year-old shits who acted like they had skated out of their mothers' wombs (I did the Slip 'n Slide method, old school).

Now ... I am quite used to being around straight people and seeing couples engage in slightly disturbing behaviors such as hugging, hand holding, and kissing (the older I get the more puzzled I become at how straight people are attracted to another human being whose anatomy is so entirely different ... how are you supposed to know what to do with that thing?!? Very odd, I must say).

What is not often observed, particularly outside of Dupont Circle and Minnesotan airports, is the PDA of gay couples. There are few places where you can get away with it- New York, San Francisco, DC - and only in certain sections of town. Wait ... I take all that back. In the world of sports you can hug, embrace, ass slap-- lord, anything short of actual penetration -- and that's acceptable. Anyway, non-athletic displays of affection are rarely tolerated.

So imagine my surprise when I see two guys skating around the rink holding hands! (obviously they forgot that we were in Virginia) My jaw dropped, and I violently shook my head back-and-forth in a very cartoon-like manner ... oh my heck, there are 2 guys holding hands and they have not yet been lynched by the breeder mob!

But wait a minute ... there goes another pair of guys holding hands! Oh my sweet lord in heaven, there's another! What is going on here? Why are all the gay boys congregating at this rink? Did Sarah Jessica Parker promise to swing by or something?

Apparently in black rollerskating culture it is perfectly acceptable for grown men to hold hands to aid them in performing skating "tricks" across the rink. I saw a number of male and female pairs spinning around the rink uninhibited by their casual retaliation against society's rigid roles and definitions of appropriate same-sex behaviors. Suddenly the rink became very peaceful, and this sense of community and friendship gently embraced the rink like a child squeezing a stuffed teddy bear.

I must say, I have never seen anything like that. And I think it's absolutely brilliant.

Another week of weird

2007-10-01T22:12:00.000-04:00

Every morning I pour myself a cup of crazy; it's the only real way to start your day. At least if you feel slightly psychotic when you leave the house, the following random happenings and snippets of American culture don't seem as strikingly freakish or appalling:

-Grocery store ad: "Turkey butt -- 2.39 a pound". Now, since I am quite up-to-date on my slang, I am privy to the knowledge that in the world of colloquialisms "turkey butt" also means a wedgie, a.k.a. a camel toe from behind (but hopefully less moist ... wait, is a turkey ass moist?). According to this grocery store, wedgies cost approximately $2.39 per pound. But seriously, if your wedgie is large enough to be measured by the pound, then your ass is doing the gobbling- not the turkey.

In actuality turkey butt in the culinary sense refers to the fatty part of the bird that sticks out from its ass, and is also called the Pope's Nose, the Parson's Nose, or the Sultan's Nose (brown nosers, if you ask me).

-"I accept boobs in the face..."- random quote from a party: yeah, I don't remember why but for some reason after a few swigs of vodka the love pillows in the act of suffocation was deliriously hilarious. There was no mention of splinters from the twig and berries, but boobs are just funner to tease.

-Bear Bottoms Diaper Changing Station: to those not familiar with the gay community, be fortunate that this does not immediately bring to mind the damp and musty bottom (wink) of some geriatric fat queen that either cannot control his bowel movements or is into a fetish that I would rather not comment on. Regardless, posting such an obscene display (that comes complete with a table and straps) in the "family bathroom" is insulting as it only targets one narrow sub-culture of the cruising bathroom world (however, the tables are kept quite far off the ground for all of those really long-legged Idahoans). Haha ... I da ho? No, you da ho, Senator ... you da ho.

-A trash can in the Wal-Mart bathroom that had a sign taped to its front which read: "Out of order". Although this same sign is often seen in my imagination floating ominously around the heads of many Wal-Mart patrons, I found it hard to believe that a container designed to carry objects and with no electrical or mechanical components could actually be "out of order". Are they going to fix the trash can? How long will it take to order the parts? And who the hell purposefully puts garbage IN the receptacle of a Wal-Mart bathroom anyway?

-A religious sign outside of a church that said "God has not forgot". Indeed, that may be true, but he has clearly forgotten his English grammar and correct use of the past participle. Perhaps Moses would have gotten further with Egypt if he had simply said "Let my people went!"

-A dump truck that had the following self-advert on its side: "Our landfills provide 17,000 acres of wildlife habitat". It's an oxymoron - wildlife landfill. I'm sure the deer don't appreciate prancing over broken toilets and garbage bags spewing open with bear bottom diapers. Why don't they do the animals a favor during the winter and just burn an entire forest to keep them warm?

-The "Friends Free Library" in Germantown. It made me feel very sad to think that every single person inside that library did not have any friends.

Freakishly interesting websites

2007-09-26T21:28:00.000-04:00

http://www.urbandictionary.com/
Sup, yo? What's good? What it is? I'm straight (whaaaaaaaat?), dude. Peep this while I freak this, yadadamean?

http://locker-room.com/fl/vanilla/?nats=MTAwMDU1ODo1OjE,1,0,0,0
WARNING !!! Do not open unless you are ready for a laugh, but for god's sake keep the children (or your partner) away from the screen. 3 simple steps: choose orifice, choose sensation, choose color (it's like shopping for any regular purchase, only this time you have the chance to give something back)

http://www.nationalpeanutboard.org/
Just in case you aren't sick of nuts from the previous website, here's an opportunity to indulge yourself in yet another salty substance. You can even click on the cartoon peanut "Buddy MeNutty" (why does that sound like something a Catholic priest would say?)

http://www.clubdeibrutti.com/index.html
The World Association of Ugly Persons. Come again? (I can't after those last two sites!) Sigh, leave it up to the Italians to create a club that goes against everything Italians treasure: beauty, beauty, and scantily-clad women in sparkly outfits. This organization fights the tidal wave of ugliness-discrimination (hey talk to Darwin about that one), and despite the bizarre name it actually sounds like a decent group that's fighting for a good cause! Website's in Italian, however :-( But check out their gift shop for boxers ("bello sotto", loosely translated as "handsome down under", and T-shirts designed to seduce).

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
Shocking, stupefying, and downright unbelievable! (what is, Michael Jackson producing offspring?) Check out some dirty laundry being anonymously aired (not MJ's), and some truly heartbreaking confessions.

http://www.galenfrysinger.com/quaker_steak.htm
This restaurant is named "Quaker Steak and Lube". Um ... um ... *sigh*. Where to begin? Well, at least there is a drive-thru for those who like to get in and get out. And get in and get out. And get in and get out.

http://www.yodcards.com/
Custom printed playing cards, initially founded by a teenager entrepreneur. Slogan? "With us, you're on deck". Sounds like an ace in the hole (ooh, spades are rather sharp).

http://www.daretowearwhite.com/
Dare to wear white? What, before or after Labor Day? Ooooh, this website is for the ladies, or those having difficulty controlling their bowels. Hoping to take the tampon out of taboo ... wait, I got that messed up, sorry - take the taboo out of menstruation, this website hopes to unite women by sharing stories of how they bleed for 3 days but still don't die (stolen from South Park, but I had to say it).

http://www.threadless.com/
Original T-shirt designs, or submit your own! You can even have it imprinted on white, should you be so daring!

http://www.cleanbutt.com/
Quite different from http://www.wipeyourassproperly.com/, this website gives us a unique look into the world of the bidet. Check out the links under "Resources", including: streaming video (um, if I wanted to see that kind of video I'd go to Xtube, thank you very much), and Quality and Safety Assurances (we've all seen what fire hoses can do to solid structures, and I for one am very delicate back there...). Slogan? "A Happy Butt is a Clean Butt". Hmm... can anyone think of another word for "happy"? Ergo, the slogan (hopefully) remains true.

Random thoughts

2007-09-15T16:51:00.000-04:00

The following is a collection of random thoughts and questions I accumulated over the summer. I need to find something better to do with my time, like take up bass fishing or learn how to do pottery like in Ghost.

-Does the National Institute for the Blind in Baltimore care about its building's architectural design? Was the architect blind? Are there statues of 3 mice on the front lawn?

-Why is a firetruck considered a hazmat? Is water hazardous? Or are the men inside the truck "dangerous"? *Sweating*, 4-alarm fire, someone put me out with their hose ...

-Krispy Kreme bacon cheeseburgers (the donuts are the bread); an unnatural combination of foods that were never intended to be united as one (quite like pickles and ice cream, pineapple and pizza, and Richard Simmons with a woman).

-Digestive disease week, May 19-24. Examples: (1) cyclic vomiting syndrome (woah ... is that like when dogs eat grass, puke it up, and then eat it again?), (2) intestinal obstruction (when this happens repeatedly over the course of a few minutes, the anecdote is keeping your clothes on), and (3) Whipple's disease (what a cute name for a baby!).

-What do they do if you're so overweight that you can't fit through the frame of a metal detector anymore? Is that why they keep a can of Crisco at every checkpoint in Washington DC?

-Why is that tourist woman taking a picture of her husband when all he's doing is drinking from a water fountain?

-Why did they change the name of "Uh-Oh Oreo" cookies back to "Golden Oreos" and then label packages with either chocolate-filled or vanilla-filled? Maybe people thought the Uh-Oh Cookies were actual mistakes of the Nabisco factory?

-When you're in a locked one-person public bathroom and someone knocks on the door, what are you supposed to say? "You're just gonna have to hold it buddy!" or "I hope you brought something to read cuz this might take me a while!". Or perhaps "One word there for ya mister ... Lysol. LY-SOL!"

-Why does Caribou Coffee have pictures of outhouses in their bathroom? Do people put pictures of Porta Potties in their outhouses? Do people put pictures of a hole in the ground in their Porta Potties? What do they put in Porta Potties? (certainly not an air freshener)

-Why is the company that provides fuel to the Greyhound busses named "Gas Boy"? I thought I had already claimed this title ... I smell copyright infringment, and it stinks.

Week 1, Philthydelphia

2007-09-10T19:55:00.000-04:00

Ok OK Okay OKAY it's not really that stinky - except for that elusive smell that comes from my one empty kitchen cabinet (and only on Mondays ... weird). When I asked my housemate to explain, the only logical explanation was that we are in Philadelphia, and everything in the City of Brotherly Love smells like ass (you can take a minute to think about that one ...)

I live 2 miles from the Pennsylvania School for the Deaf, so as an eager environmentalist (or just a cheap bastard? well even money is green...) I have decided to shun the 23 bus (the equivalent of the X2 in DC - yeah mmhmm where's my mace for the crazies?) and stroll my fanny down Georgetown Avenue. Being the only white guy within a 3-4 mile radius, I am certain to draw attention. Even the sweet and lovely Gina of the neighborhood diner asked "Um... why are you here?" :-)

But this 4-mile per day hike gives me an opportunity to reflect and ponder the meaning of life, as well as take note of the following:

-Germantown Avenue has the sort of faded-glory look of an old colonial village that regrettably met a 20th century building boom. Unused trolley car rails run the entire length of the street and are cushioned from the curb by cobblestone. Shops that were certainly elegant in their time are now just a shadow of their former grandeur- you have to wonder why so many were abandoned.

-A bow maker shop. I ... lord, I don't even know what to say. The shop oddly reminds me of Ollivander's wand shop in Harry Potter. But I have to wonder- there's enough bow-making business in the world to support a family's bread and butter? How many people in Philadelphia play a string instrument? How do horses feel about losing all their hair, and then being killed for glue?!? Well, it's a sticky subject ...

-A street named Slocum. Give it a minute, it'll come to you eventually.

-A store named "The Candy Shop" but which does not sell candy, only hair care products and extensions (sweet! ... um... never mind).

-A parking lot sign where the view of "Park-" is obscured, leaving only "-king in Rear" (random trivia fact: King Edmund the Second died in 1016 with he was stabbed from behind).

-A lot of Muslim women dressed in full-length black robes with their heads covered. One day I saw one cruising along with a large pair of headphones on and jamming to some tunes (the scarf veils and screens the women's head, the Bose headphones screen out background noise - both aim for purity).

-Eminent death: Philly drivers are obnoxiously inconsiderate, or perhaps everyone in the city has simply gone blind (probably from the smell, no doubt). Almost every morning I have to keep my wits about me to avoid being pummeled to death as I cross the streets (the white man on the crossing sign LIES!)

-A man walking 10 paces ahead of me repeatedly turned around and pointed directly at me without saying a word. He would then swing back around and continue on his merry way. This went on for 10 minutes before he stopped completely and hurriedly ushered me past.

-A package in the window of a shop that reads "Moist and Meaty #1 Burger!", in which directly below the statement there is a picture of a dog.

Haiku mania (575!)

2007-08-19T20:35:00.000-04:00

As always, a weekend in the company of Matt and Paul brings about a trip to Remington's to shake and shimmy it a bit, multiple restaurant visits with large portions of dessert, and a modest amount of alcohol. This trip was markedly special because of the latest trend in haiku-making, inspired by Matt's original haiku creation that for some reason involved excrement located inconveniently in the corner. I wish I could explain it further, the laws of sanity complicate things a bit.

Matt's original haiku
I wrote a haiku
And it was started like this:
Poop in the corner

Sleep-deprived haiku
Three hours of sweet sleep
Translating god's words for you
Damn you homo-fries !!!
(Composed in remembrance of a 4:00a.m. trip to get hobo-fries ((a.k.a. disco-fries)), which resulted in a pun by changing the word "hobo" to "homo" due to it's striking similarity in texture and color to male homosexual behavior -- the debauchery that ensued at the 24-hour diner resulted in me only getting an inexcusable 3 hours of beauty rest before standing by the altar of the Spirit at All Soul's to interpret the following morning)

Falcor haiku
Falcor was a dog
Well he was a dragon dog
Maybe just my dog
(for a full understanding of the hilarity that it so caused by a small dog named Falcor, please visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pC3n-LC3Em4 )

Random carnivorous haiku
Can I have your meat?
Your bacon for a dollar
Take it up the front
(On a previous trip to the 24-hour diner a drunk frat boy ((redundant?)) stopped at our table to inquire about Matt's meat, a.k.a. his bacon, and attempted ((successfully)) to purchase the strips. Later, when presented with the bill, our waiter instructed us to "take it up the front". Naturally, everyone at the table was quite puzzled as we had always taken it up the ... ok you get the idea)

Erectile dysfunction haiku
Penis malfunction
Modern science has the cure:
Mycoxaphlopin
(A clever play on words by Dr. Paul on an imaginary medicine to relieve the most grievous of maladies that infects the male population)

Menstruating haiku
Christie and her box
Birthing hips unfulfilled
It weeps tears of blood
(At the diner a certain eruption occurred due to a waiter's failure to bring a take-away box with the meal, and instead bringing Christie's entire meal in 2 separate take-away boxes without a plate. Christie, while experiencing a flux in hormones and neurotransmitters that induce calmness, was less than pleased)

Here's my haiku blog
I hope you found it funny
If not then f#&@ you!

A Weekend with Dr. Paul

2007-06-12T16:43:00.000-04:00

Random quotes/tid-bits from a fun-filled weekend with Dr. Paul last March:

"How would you feel a lump in that?"
Referring to ... oh god only knows what. Either a banana or a melon, but it involved fruit in some capacity!

High school Latin Club scavenger hunt
Certainly a way to carpe diem- Paul used to be a member of the Latin Club, "Latin" being short for "Less Awkward Than Introverted Nerds" (or are they?) that led earnest scavenger hunts throughout the city in search of clues, declensions, and a reason to wake up the following morning.

Aerobics room
While attending a fancy-schmancy reception for the hospital, one couldn't help but notice that the area/room used for dining was marked in one exterior hallway as the aerobics room. This is the one area of the hospital where I imagine bending over won't result in a sharp needle being shoved into your buttocks (what happens in the showers, however, is anyone's guess).

"We are the gayest people in this church!"
The aforementioned aerobics room was actually a church converted (wink) into a multipurpose room (eat, sweat, and ... well, whatever happens in the shower)

"Oh my god Norah!"
As Dr. Paul and I were practically the only two gay men in a room of complete WASPs, we felt it our duty to gasp and clasp hands like 12-year-old teenie-boppers at an NSYNC concert and scream.

"That is what you use alpaca fibers for - feel it bitch, feel it! That's what alpaca's for!!!!"
An exuberant Dr. Paul was insistent that I feel his scarf made of alpaca fibers. Immediately after, he took me to his backyard where his neighbors keep their alpacas. It was like giving me a beautiful emerald necklace and then showing me the dead grandmother's body where he had ripped the jewelry from. Nice.

"Are you saying we have gay alpaca?"
Perhaps it is in their nature, or the contagious gaiety about me, but upon notice that they had visitors to the backyard the alpacas began sniffing and moving in slightly erogenous ways.

Deaf child area
After seeing this sign on the road I kept my eyes peeled for a gathering of deaf children. It seemed, however, that the herd (wink) had moved on...

My to do list: learn Chinese, testicular exam
After consultation with Dr. Paul it was very clear to me that there were two things on my extensive and ever-growing to-do list that needed to be completed before the end of the weekend. Learning Chinese was a breeze, but that testicular exam proved to be long and hard.

Blueberry pancakes and my new wife....
It is rare that I would promise my affections to the opposite sex. The blueberry pancakes of a local diner, however, had me in a matrimonial tizzy on Saturday morning. I could live out the rest of my sex life depending on alcohol and a face-mask of Brad Pitt, right?

"I'm gonna get loads and loads of juicy bloody cootch"
By far the most outrageous quote of the weekend, in vulgarity and in just plain ewww-ness, Dr. Paul comments on his next rotation in his residency. Sadly, this would also be the fate that befalls me should I accept the offer of free blueberry pancakes for life. But I got the better end (wink) of this deal; at least I can practice medicine in the dark.

What the f*#%???

2007-04-22T17:59:00.000-04:00

-Passing a group of tourists who were on a paid professional tour … and admiring the features of a parking lot.

-Two signs: the first, “Traffic calming area”, followed quickly by “Humps”. What’s so calming about that?!?

-A deranged man on the Q2 bus, who chuckled at invisible objects for about 30 minutes and then abruptly turned to me to ask, “Are you Jewish?”

-A man in the Greyhound bus station doing unnecessarily loud yoga in the middle of the waiting area (pants, moans, and other uncomfortable noises that you would rather hear in a porno, and not while sitting next to a scary homeless man picking his feet)

-Wondering what “folate” is, and why there is 30% of it in an orange juice bottle.

-A man on the Metro carrying a sign and swinging it in a hypnotic fashion, reading “The Vatican hides pedophiles”.

-Quote from a Wheat Thins box: “try this delicious, entertaining recipe with your family and friends … refried red beans with tomato and poblano”. I suppose the aftermath of this recipe would be entertaining to some families, like that of the Nutty Professor.

-Seeing “valet parking” at a hospital

-Driving past the Happy Tails dog spa … what?

-Passing a group of young blondes on the street, when one of them comments, “Oh my god! I don’t even know what a good IQ is!!!”

All breads are not created Così (the same)

2007-04-09T19:30:00.001-04:00

*DING*

And the pressing duel between the oven-baked delights of the chain
restaurant conglomerates begins!

In one corner we have the tried-and-true baguette from Au Bon Pain(which, as the name suggests, should at least be "good"). In the othercorner is the multigrain flatbread by sandwich extraordinaire Cosi (Italians pronounce it /koh-ZEE/).

Strangely, the bread from Au Bon Pain sets up an unexpected cognatebetween "Pain" in the company name (French) and "pain" (American Englishfor "ouch" or "watching Keanu Reeves act") in the process of consumingthis seemingly innocent baguette. "Faux amis", indeed.

The manner in which one must eat a baguette from ABP is analogous toripping the uncooked chicken meat off of a thigh bone that's been leftin the freezer. You clamp down with all your might, squeezing andwiggling your dainty baguette until the seemingly welded pieces of flourfinally cave and send your head in a backward thrust that resembles thetrauma of whiplash victims (there is rumor that the CEO of ABP sits on the board of the American Chiropractor Association).

Così offers a non-violent approach to bread-consumption: soft, chewy,and wholesome goodness that massages your taste buds with every bite.

Perhaps the breads are symbolic of their native peoples: the Italianflatbread (pleasant, palatable, and memorable), and the French baguette (stale, rough, and painful).

Incidentally, while in France in 2005 I met a random guy who took me ona romantic stroll of the city. Towards the end of our Tour de Nowheresville (and after some kissing of the French sort), we came across a discarded baguette in the street. Frenchy-boy stomped feverishly on it and yelled "This.... this is the.... the SHIT of France!!!"

Merde!!! Even the French don't like their bread.

Oreos are not gluten free

2007-04-08T21:46:00.000-04:00

Easter dinner, 2007

A very interesting idea for 21st century cuisine and dining, especially with food allergies and preferences running amok. Why not include a label for every item in a buffet, indicating which foods are gluten-free, vegetarian-select (watch out for marshmallows, do not be fooled by their seemingly herbivorous qualities!), and choked full o' nuts!

David: "But ... why are food allergies all of a sudden all the rage? Where were all those people 100 years ago, and what did they do?"

Brayde: "Well ... all those people died."

Problem solved. Until we get back to compliance with Darwin and laws of natural selection, post-it notes will have to suffice.

KFC (Kite Flying Club)

2007-04-07T16:51:00.000-04:00

Very interesting photo: the lady bug, free to flow in the fluttering frenzied wind is teetering between the ominous stormy clouds of winter and the striking sapphire skies of spring. The wind, like the weather of DC, is unpredictably harsh.

Cute Easter Food

2007-04-06T18:15:00.001-04:00

Cutest idea, stolen from Bread & Chocolate:

"Bird's nest" cupcake, eggs are jelly beans and grass is died coconut
shreds.

Disturbingly Informative

2007-04-05T15:44:00.000-04:00

http://www.collphyphil.org/mutter.asp

Disturbing- yes. Informative- sure. And no, we aren't talking about Fox News (well, the "informative" part should have tipped you). The Mütter Museum of Philadelphia is not all bells and whistles like the newscasts of the information age; rather, it is a splendid educational journey into the depths of human deformity and anomalies.

"But wait, David," you say. "If we wanted to watch the human race at its worst, couldn't we just catch an episode of Big Brother?"

Yes friends, you could. But in going to the Mütter you could simply imagine that the skeletal remains laid out before you are the skinned carcasses of those very beloved Big Brother characters-- or anyone from a reality series, for that matter.

Most of the displays at the Mütter involve the field of teratology, meaning: "the study of malformations or serious deviations from the normal type in developing organisms".

Wait... isn't that the same as gynaecology??? "Oh no he didn't !!!" Just teasing ... *dodges fruit*

At the exit of the museum there is a guest book where visitors can write their candid reactions to the exhibits; here are a few that I considered worth of note:

- "shriveled penis is gross"
- the following adjectives: "rank, gnar, sexy, rocks, barf, nasty"
- "it's like a car crash- you want to look away, but can't!!!!"

- "I see dead people"
- "yay dead babies!"
- "Where's Bush's brain?" (silly question ... and where's that unicorn while we're at it???)
- "Loss of appetite and erectile dysfunction"
- "I could go for some applesauce"
- "I love Ben Franklin!"
- "Being an undertaker, this was lovely to see!" (this also reminded me that I've always wanted to meet an undertaker ... guess it got buried on my to-do list...)
- "Bob Dylan should come here!"
- "I want to shower with the soap lady!" (there was a display with an obese woman whose body had "fossilized" into soap)

- "I keep skeletons in my closet and nobody knows" (um..... what?)

So let's sum up the Mütter experience: you come, you're intriguingly appalled, grotesquely fascinated that these things could ever happen, lose your appetite, and you are in dire need of a good shower.

Quite like attending the Republican National Convention, I imagine ...

Bacon and Scrapple

2007-02-19T11:35:00.000-05:00

I was enjoying a bowl of tepid tomato soup (that was in dire need of flavor) and a hearty biscuit (with that Bisquick aftertaste) at a small diner in Philadelphia when I came across a wealth of blog material printed on small cards for patrons to read at their leisure.

The first bit was a comment on "bacon", the staple food of any good diner: "Bacon is not a euphemism for money; rather, the phrase has its roots in 12th century England. A church in the town of Dunmow promised a side of bacon to any married man who could swear before the congregation and God that he had not quarreled with his wife for a year and a day."

Wow! Bacon must have been quite a commodity in those times! Now you can get a side of bacon at IHOP for a lot less than a vow of peace with your partner (although it might result in a war in the bathroom). And what's with that year and a day? Lord … a man who brings home the bacon in Dunmow does more than just bread-winning and promising harmony; he's probably a lying pig.

The next item for my reading pleasure was a discussion on "scrapple", a popular concoction of vomit and intestines that is ravished by northeasterners and gutter rats alike. "Scrapple: The Pennsylvania Dutch call it Panhas, southerners call it Poor-do, and in Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina it's called Liver-mush. Scrapple is a medieval word for leftovers mixed up with the German word Panhaskreppel and the Netherlands Dutch word Schrapelkoekeje."

So not only is scrapple itself a mush of shit and gravy, but so are its semantic origins.

Scrapple wrappers in the grocery store are at least honest about the contents of this scrapple-diddle-ee-umptious delight (usually pig brain, whale carcass, sheep toe-jam), but this Philly diner challenged the commercialized version of scrapple to provide a more wholesome, healthier alternative: cornmeal, buckwheat flour, seasonings and meat broth cooked until thickened, sliced thin and fried until brown, good with ketchup or syrup. Now that doesn't sound too bad.

I paid my $4.50, wished I had spent it elsewhere, gathered my belongs, and finally gave into the desire to buy a local "Eat more scrapple" shirt at the register. I'm a schmuck from Delaware, what can I say? Table scraps are part of my blood.

(for a complete list of diner-ese phrase-ology, visit http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A890589)

The Greyhound Experience

2007-02-15T10:45:00.000-05:00

This semester I have the unique privilege of traveling back and forth from DC and Philadelphia via America's most prized form of public transportation: the Greyhound Bus (or the Peter Pan Bus… coincidentally, I am currently working on a blog that compares a man's inability to form emotional attachments with others to the story of Peter, watch this space!).

There are a few pointers that I can dish out to any of you who are brave enough to ride a contraption that bears the name of an animal that is often shot to death when past its prime (which, strangely, all of the passengers have reached). Lucky the drivers of the Greyhound busses are not put up to the same standards of actual race dogs; just in case, the driver is nonetheless seated in a bulletproof enclosure.

If you buy your tickets on the internet you can "skip" the hassle of waiting in the speedy (like molasses) line of customers by circumventing them at the electronic "Will Call" booth (and, no joke: there is an actual red carpet leading up to the booth). There is a modest $4 fee for this service, and for the man who has to clean the red carpet. Sadly, it is a four dollars better spent elsewhere, as these booths are always broken and you end up waiting in the regular line besides- and, with no carpet (oooohhhh!!!).

Do not consume any liquids an entire 3 hours before your Greyhound ride; you will regret it if you do. Going to the bathroom on a bus is about as pleasant as riding home completely drunk and sick in the back of a cab driven by a blind person.

One highly disturbing aspect of the Greyhound voyage is their list of prohibited items; a list that would suggest that these items have been carried on board in the past and have been met with displeasure from other passengers.

They include: ammunition, combustible liquids, fireworks, hazardous materials, and other reasonable limitations. However, there is also mention of cremated remains, materials with a disagreeable odor (however no mention of humans with a disagreeable odor), and my favorite- corpses. Yes friends, you heard it here first: please do not check any baggage containing corpses on the Greyhound.

Naturally I am respectful of these baggage restrictions, yet while riding the doggy-style bus I have to wonder—man, some of these people aren't moving and may have actually become corpses in transit (chuck 'em at the next stop?), and "disagreeable odor" is the understatement of the year when you get a whiff of that damned onboard bathroom.

Santa Psychology

2007-01-22T10:52:00.000-05:00

We are obsessed with big, old, fat, hairy men in red suits, aren't we? And no, I'm not talking about the bears' float in the Pride Parade; rather, Father Christmas, Pere Noel, crème fraïche, the big cheese, or Sinterklaas (sounds like a weapon from Star Trek—Mr. LaForge, blast that Borg with the Sinterklaas, then we can blitzen out of here and follow that comet!).

Apparently, the phenomenon of children gullibly accepting the lies of their parents and adults alike has been remarkably unchanged since this subject was first studied in the late 1800s.

Carl Anderson is a child psychologist who specializes in the field of lying and falsehood-spreading to innocent toddlers and youngsters that blindly accept the notion that strangers who eat cookies and milk are permitted into their homes … provided they leave a wrapped present behind.

First of all, a comment: how typical of a man!!! Rushes himself up and down the chimney, grabs a quick snack, dribbles, and leaves behind a "surprise" that is quite difficult to get rid of. Yeah, his cheeks are all rosy from getting smacked a few times by Ms. Claus for hopping a few too many chimneys. Bitch … ho ho ho, indeed.

And now we return to my commentary where I am transferring my anger towards my lying parents on to child psychologist Carl Anderson. Mr. Anderson amuses his shrink-freak mind by dressing as Kris Kringle and blatantly deceiving the puppy-dogged eyes of hundreds of children at the Dallas NorthPark Center (go figure, Texas …).

Anderson states that the Santa "set of beliefs" has remained intact over the past 100 years. I wonder if he's at all surprised by this? Certainly children should be taught at an early age not to trust what is told to them by their parents and caregivers. How are children supposed to understand genuine from not? Truth from fiction? Fat man in house from armed burglar with an appetite?

I firmly believe that you should only lie to children when you can profitably gain from their naivety, quite like taking candy from a baby. Spinning a tale about Santa Claus actually costs you more money to buy gifts and presents; why would you do this to yourself?!?

Alas, not much can be said for a big fat white guy that goes around and spreads lies to the people of America. Oh wait … how did we switch from Santa to Capitol Hill?

Air & Space Museum

2007-01-13T10:47:00.000-05:00

A National Museum is the best place in the world to collect interesting blog material. It is a collective embodiment of American life; the feats, the accomplishments, the horrific acts of human cruelty … nothing could be better.

And what more?!? The throngs of people who come to gawk at the enormous displays … or to sit in the McDonald's food court and wearily rub their trampled soles (maybe some soul-rubbing would get them out of McDonald's?).

Ramblings and Observations of the National Air & Space Museum:

Highest jump every recorded: 8 feet and one-half inch.
Now that is impressive, and an excellent way to get around those damned tourists who stand tenaciously on the left-hand side of escalators during rush hour.

"Jellyfish project themselves by contracting their bodies and expelling water"
Well, the last time I peed in the ocean I didn't project much, except for a warm patch that was still observed 5 minutes later by an old lady who mistook it for a hot spring.

Diapers for astronauts
In flight and spacewalks astronauts wear a "fecal containment system" (isn't that basically just a big toilet strapped around your waste? er … waist?) and a "urine collection and transfer assembly". Damn … those are fancy names for a crapper and piss tube, lord. Incidentally, there was a fecal bag on display just below a toothbrush … skank-nasty, friends.

Virginity rocks
I passed a post-adolescent male wearing a shirt that proudly stated "Virginity rocks!" My immediate thought was, "No it doesn't! It blows!!! Wait … then again, no it doesn't …"

Packing for flight
Astronauts take more care packing for their missions then we do for our flimsy 30,000 foot adventures in the air:
-Shark repellent – holy crap!!! We can send a man to the moon in search of extra-terrestrial life, but we still haven't found a way to solve that pesky "fish-eat-man" issue.
-Nylon parachute line – this thing looked like a mini-noose. Perhaps it is the more pleasant option should the repellent run dry.
-Waterproof matches – you've fought off the shark, hung your fellow astronaut friend so you don't have to split the rations, and now you really need a smoke.

Wright brothers
Did you know that the Wright brothers repaired bicycles before learning to defy gravity? Bike boys in flight; suddenly I'm reminded of E.T.

Planet Symbols
On one large wall of the museum there are the various symbols for the planets. Not surprisingly, the symbol for Venus is the traditional "female" sign (circle plus cross), and for Mars it is the sign for "male" (circle plus arrow).
What caught my attention was the sign for Uranus: an exact copy of the "male" symbol, except with a big dot (or puncture?) directly in the center of the hole. In essence- a pierced male. Coincidence? I think not. Copernicus knew what was up. No astronomer could possibly fondle a large cylindrical object all day without getting a bit dirty.

2006 Cutting Room Floor

2007-01-08T10:54:00.000-05:00

Random blog comments that didn't make the cut for 2006

-DC is way too small if I'm running into girls that I've kissed from house parties when I'm at the gay bar.

-being aroused by a carwash sign: "Hot lustra triple foaming polish"

-20% of the world's helium is used to cool MRI machines; 8% is used for balloons

-Comment from a grocery store cashier that made me stifle a giggle: "Do you mind if I put your raw meat in plastic?"

-Random quote: "If there's room for doubt, there's room for hope"

-A first "date" where the following were discussed: symbolic circumcision for admission to the Jewish faith, yeast infections in one's mouth, Pious Potato (name of an imaginary potato-only hut), and effective use of pepper spray … che romantico, eh ragazzi?

-Spinach scare of 2006: I often wondered if the other leafed salad components were like "finally, my chance in the spotlight! 2006 will be the year of rugola!!!" Do salad leaves get jealous?

-When some straight men dance it looks like someone administering the Heimlich maneuver on himself

iTunes count, 2006

2007-01-04T15:59:00.000-05:00

The most popular songs on my iTunes for 2006 …

Irreplaceable, Beyonce
Angels, Jessica Simpson
A Public Affair, Jessica Simpson
All You Wanted, Michelle Branch
Life is a Highway, Rascal Flatts
Cleptomania, Sugarfree
Everytime, Britney Spears
Don't Leave Home, Dido
Dirrty, Christina Aguilera
Plane, Jason Mraz
Not Ready to Make Nice, Dixie Chicks
Unwell, Matchbox Twenty
We Kiss in a Shadow, Gay Men's Chorus of DC
As Long as You're Mine, Wicked
Collide, Howie Day
Defying Gravity, Wicked
Get Me Bodied, Beyonce
Put Your Records On, Corinne Bailey Rae
Over the Rainbow, Jane Monheit
Light in Your Eyes, Blessed Union of Souls
Kiss Me, Six Pence None the Richer
Vuoi ballare con me?, Cesare Cremonini

Comments:
Beyonce: comforting *snap, mmhmm dammmmmnn girl*
Dixie Chicks: good for angry days
Jessica Simpson: excellent for … um … uh … like, was I talking? Oh it's not chicken?
Howie Day: great for pensive days
Six Pence: so cute for romantic days … and commentary for drag queens (you wear those shoes and I will wear a dress)
Wicked: inspiration to defy gravity on the days when everything seems to be pulling you down from flying
Corinne Bailey Rae: for tranquil days … and for schizophrenics who listen to consoling 3 little birds

High & Low, 2006

2007-01-01T16:01:00.000-05:00

2006 was crazy! My longest year yet, I believe. How do 365 days go by in such a flurry of drama, emotion, and … alright, even more drama. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times … but god bless us, everyone (sorry, had a Dickens moment ((or two? *wink*)) ).

High: hmm … there's a lot to choose from. Some great times with friends: chatting, laughing. A trip back to Italy. A lot of life lessons, and a lot of smiling. Really amazing people who were always there for me (cue audience "awww" …), and, most importantly, finding what I had been looking for: some friggin' positivism.

Low: hmm … my first "C" in school, and some undesired relationship drama (cue audience "booo" and hurling of fruit … "aim for the gonads!").

And here are some life lessons learned along the road from a wanna-be epistemological thinker; nothing particularly brilliant or amazingly novel, but surprisingly insightful and enormously helpful to me along the way:

-people do what they can
-people don't intentionally hurt me
-kindness can be found in the most unusual of places
-be selfish and unselfish as needed
-appreciate what people CAN do
-open up, be vulnerable, take chances with feelings
-be more curious about others
-pain is normal, pain is healthy
-don't detach when expectations aren't met
-have hope, inspire change, ask for what you need
-let go of anger; it's there to protect you from pain, but will only hold you back from growing
-don't judge: people are doing what they need to survive
-don't judge: people are doing what they think is right

Predictions for 2007? Promises for a better me? A renaissance, I suppose …

The process of a rebirth: my water has broken (some tears), contractions have come and gone (pain, aggravation, and a promise never to let another man touch me again … ok, who am I kidding?), reassurance from friends and strangers alike (while being exposed … figuratively!), and one final push: for happiness, for calmness, and for love.

Geico, gecko, and Gayco

2006-12-30T16:10:00.000-05:00

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)

2006-12-27T16:36:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-24T20:17:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-21T07:30:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-19T07:33:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-13T07:34:00.000-05:00

-"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

2006-11-25T07:35:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-23T07:37:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-19T07:39:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-22T08:41:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-18T08:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-27T08:43:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-31T08:44:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-27T10:47:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-20T10:51:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-19T10:51:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-18T10:58:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-13T10:58:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-10T11:03:00.001-04:00

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.