Lust Life

I've always maintained the philosophy that life is short. And you don't know what happens afterward, so you gotta make sure you enjoy it, right? Well, my problem is that I seem to apply this same philosophy to credit cards. Financial responsibility is not one of my strong points. I mean, I always start out with the best of intentions. Honestly, I do. But then I see something pretty and shiny and before I know it, it's in the shopping cart. And of course once it's in the shopping cart...

Now I say shopping cart because it's not so much clothes that make me happy. Or jewelry or shoes or the latest iPod accessory. I have an undying love for crap. Little things that you believe for one brief, shining moment have the power to make your life more enjoyable. I'm not one of those people who stays up late watching infomercials with cracked-out eyes. Seriously. Stop laughing..I'm not. But I am one of those "perfect consumers." I will try anything once...or twice...ok, fine probably several times until I'm sick of it. Free cheese sample at Bristol Farms? Thanks, I'll have three. "Vintage" boots worn by all the male members of a Mexican family at one point? For five bucks, they're mine. Gigantic canopy leaves from Ikea meant for a six year-old girl to hang over her bed? Priceless.

Now, I'm not saying I don't feel bad and that I don't suffer for my choices. I do, I really do. But in the end, it's always worth it. Because that cheese became my favorite Sunday evening snack with a good wine. Those boots have given me many comfortable travels across the US. And the leaves? Why, I can almost see the stars above them as I close my eyes and drift off to sleep...

Life on a Boat

I let go of religion a long time ago. In my younger years I felt like I gave "a good go" at it. I tried hard to learn the rules, opened my heart to a couple of gods and tried to immerse myself in a couple of cultures. But it just never took. I found I like to question too much. And religion always seemed to me merely a way for people to have hope for things to get better and then have something to blame when these things didn't get better. I saw it as a total lack of personal responsibility for one's actions.

It was when I first read The Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice that I seriously considered what could be an awful truth: that there is no god. We are all alone and when you die, that's it. There is no more. And to a person whose memories, whose connections to others, are everything to him, well..it became my one true fear.

I decided rather to focus on what I DO know exists: life and all its wonders. I looked at the world with fresh eyes and believed myself awake...heightened somehow. I kissed flowers, became a thrill-seeker. I tried harder to notice and appreciate my friends' laughs more.

One time, I was smoking pot at a friend's house in San Francisco (I wonder how many times that sentence has been uttered by someone) and I had another awful revelation: that none of us are real. That god is the only being. Driven mad by the overwhelming loneliness, he separated himself into several personalities in his image. And these personalities are manifested in our races, in our cultures. We like to claim that we are all unique individuals. But if you look at people closely enough, we all seem to be molds of a particular archetype. So we don't really exist as we think we do. We are all part of the cold, lost and lonely light that is god. Completely morbid, I know, but I have been unable to shake this idea from my consciousness.

Frightend into hiding, my heart has lain quiet on this for many years. I have never been able to even understand the concept of faith. I mean, how do you blindly believe in something that you can never really be certain is there?

I recently read The Life of Pi by Yann Martel. In it, he writes something that truly spoke to me because he challenged what I thought was my unshakeable zest for life.

He writes: "I'll be honest about it. It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while...But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation."

I think maybe it's time to get back on the boat.

Fag Stag

Now, for those of you who don't know, the fag stag is a truly exotic breed. He is that straight guy who loves to hang out with gay men. Sometimes for fashion advice, sometimes for easy access to the hot, yet allusive, fag hags and sometimes simply for attention.

In moving to a small beach community, you'd think I had left behind the gay world of tight t-shirts, cosmopolitans and protein shakes. But as the metrosexual phenomenon has raged into a true epidemic, fag stags are blooming everywhere. It's no longer cool to put down "sissies" or try to dress as sloppy as possible. In fact, it's just the opposite. Straight guys will go out of their way to prove to you that they are "okay" with you being gay. They'll even go so far as to compliment you on your shoes, help you check a guy out in their most jocular tone ("Dude. Check out the ass on that guy! I bet you'd love to pound that, huh?")...or even unabashedly flirt with you. Which while every gay man claims this as their favorite fantasy, in reality it can be pretty creepy.

Case In Point #1
I am now my gym's official "spotter". I've never had so many boys ask me, "Hey, man. Can you spot me a couple reps?" Now, normally I'd be put off being approached at the gym. I'm there to work out, not chit-chat. So when I irritably pull out my iPod mini ear buds, I'm surprised at how quickly my mood changes. Especially when he's cute. Especially when he's smiling. And especially when I realize I'm wearing a t-shirt that says: "I'd rather be cock fighting."

Case In Point #2
While at the airport recently, my gay friend and I noticed a muscular guy in a Metallica tank top cruising us. One minute we were convinced he was gay. The next, he was straight. Putting on my detective hat, I affected my best devastatingly-charming-yet-indifferent attitude and flirted with him. Sure enough, he took the bait. He begain chatting, smiling and (I swear I am not kidding) he even leaned forward, allowing his shirt to ride up so I could see his underwear. That's when I thought: wait. something is not quite right here. Eventually he started talking about how he's a "musician" (translate: drifter with no job) and how he'd met a couple of nice people the night before who let him stay at their house for a bit. *Little red flag goin off* This was no gay man! This was one of those "gay for pay" guys you hear about. Only in this case, I feel like he would have been "gay for a #3 meal at McDonald's".

Case In Point #3
This morning I went to brunch with some friends at one of the cheesy, Sunset Strip staples, the Saddle Ranch. This is one of those truly American establishments where they throw peanuts on the floor and try to make you ride a mechanical bull to everyone's enjoyment but yours. After our meal, the waiter comes up to us and says excitedly, "Hey! You guys come over here! I'm gonna ride the bull!" Rolling our eyes, we oblige and follow him. And let me tell you, this boy made 8 seconds on a bull look like 8 seconds on Colin Farrel. At one point, he even lifted his hands free, using only his thighs to grip the steel steed. Afterwards he came over to us, proudly claiming, "You know, a bunch of gays come in every weekend and give me $50 to ride that bull. I've gotten really good at it!"

This weekend, my boyfriend and I went out to drinks with a straight couple. I was immediately annoyed when I realized that this straight guy was dressed better than I was! I mean, if this gender blending continues...will women need their gay boyfriends at all anymore? How will they even be able to tell us apart? Will Barbie and Ken eventually be able to share wardrobes?

Still, it seems there is a small ray of hope. As we walked out of the bar, I noticed the guy's outfit again. Brown shoes, black belt. I suppose some things you're just born with.

The Kindness of Repairmen

Ah....the inconveniences of modern life. I never knew what an old-fashioned heart I have. Cell phone at the age of 27. Cable TV, Moxi (Tivo's younger and less articulate step-brother) and internet at home...all at the age of 28. We are in the age of communication! I work in the FIELD of communication. And yet I find myself sweetly satisfied playing the role of the crotchety hermit who lives in the bungalow (code word: closet) by the beach. The voice mail, email, snail mail and every other kind of mail messages taunt me: "helloooo...friends who care here. conversations waiting to be had." But my introverted soul seeks to hide in a book with a glass of wine..relishing the red velvet drops on the lovely pages as I underline seemingly meaningful passages. The characters become my friends for awhile and I'm sad when the last page is turned..but also a little relieved.

I have been without a phone in my home for a month now. I have tried wireless, voiceover IP and finally, the nearly extinct "land-line." And with each "no" or "we'll have you connected in just a few more days" my anxiety grew from a latent insecurity of loneliness to a desperate and unashamed cry for human contact. The days of my hiding from the phone seemed distant and laughable. Where was everyone? Were they trying to call anymore or had they given up by now? After all, how can they tell the difference if my phone isn't working or if I'm simply on another of my vacant vacations...

My repairman lounges on the floor, complimenting me on my choice of bright colors for such a small apartment. He says they breathe life into it. He's been here for an hour already and so far he hasn't been able to figure out the problem. He is easy to talk to, and before I know it, I'm voicing all of these thoughts...these confessions, to him. He smiles at the growing look of panic on my face, hands me the phone and says as I hear a beeping noise, "Looks like you've already got voice mail."