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Air travel

“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

"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

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?

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

“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 ...

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.