So here we are at "relationship status: single" again and it's cause for reflection. I've come to a point in my life where I've got plenty of experience under my belt (pun intended) and I'm edging closer and closer to being ready for the real deal. Yet at the same time, I hate wasting weekends on dating when I could be out exploring or being with my friends. The conundrum is: if you spend all your time with your friends having a blast, when do you leave open the opportunity to meet someone?
I find dating not only tedious, but premeditated. There's absolutely no romance in it. I've got dating down to an art. I have a wide array of intimate dinner recipes to cook from. A collection of mood music that could make even Ella's voice tremble with longing. And a penchant for twirling someone around for an impromptu ballroom dance that really is irresistible. I know just when to reveal a devilish smirk, launch into a charming story or catch someone off-gaurd with a subtle compliment. Perhaps it's that I've been approaching dating less like art and more like science. Too much method.
But you see it's not completely my fault. I learned from my parents, high-school sweethearts who, to this day, are exhaustingly endearing. There are times when I go back home to be with them, only to realize at some point during the first evening that I've become an outsider. A voyeur of their continual romance. I mean, these are people who rarely get out of the house and who should, by all accounts, have nothing to talk about. And yet, they can still have heated discussions for hours about, well nothing actually. My mother still understands exactly how to coyly tease and my father still delights her with gift-giving escapades that are more akin to hunting expeditions. What choice do I have but to want the same seeming-perfection for myself? What I want is a romance that is endless and ever-repeating.
The evidence can be found in my choice of movies. There's Overboard where Goldie Hawn's character is fooled into thinking (after a bout of amnesia) that Kurt Russell's character is her husband. And despite the fact that he's really just trying to get even with her, she falls in love with him anyway. She despises him until halfway through the movie he tells her a beautiful sea story about Caterina and Arturo and it's clear the magic is happening. Annie asks, "Oh Dean, was it always like this?" To which he replies, "every time with you was like the first time."
In 50 First Dates, Lucy is a character who has been traumatized in an auto accident and can only remember her life up until the day the accident happened. Every new day is like starting over for her and she cannot create any new memories longer than that day. But of course Henry loves her on sight and decides one day is all he needs. Every day for her becomes like a first date at the end of which she always says, "there's nothing like a first kiss." I mean, really. Do I need to have brain damage to find a love like theirs?
But I think my favorite story is not told through a 90-minute movie but through an 8-season TV show. For eight years of Who's The Boss, Tony and Angela's undeniable but never quite requited chemistry unfolds. In one episode (a dream sequence, not even a real TV life one), Tony finally asks her, "Do you wanna dance?" She replies, "Only if you don't think we're moving too fast." And, here's the kicker, he's says, "It's okay...it's a slow dance."
I guess I'm learning that for me it's not about finding a perfect relationship, but a relationship filled with perfect moments. After all, I wouldn't call myself a hopeless romantic so much as a hopeful one. I'm not looking for an amazing one-night dance...just a simple, slow one.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Flying Without Dreaming
We sat in a trailer watching an old VHS training video that kept skipping. One of our classmates said, "Did that guy just say something about 'if the parachute doesn't open'?" "I have no idea," I replied. That's when the video decided we'd seen enough and spit itself out of the VCR. It was my first time skydiving. I guess we'd be winging it.
That's when the secretary, a girl who could not have been more than 18, came in with stacks of waivers. No Responsibility Of Ours. You're Taking Your Life In Your Own Hands. Form after form shouted these warnings out at us. Yet still we signed them and obediently followed her out to the hanger area.
I was with my friends, Rob and Susan. Together we make up what we now call our own little adventure club, "Tres Leches." I'd thought we'd all be able to go together, but apparently only two an go up in each plane. We rock, paper, scissored it and Rob lost. He said it was fine, but that incredible pout his lips made said otherwise. So I manned up and volunteered to go solo. As a reward, my name was called first, of course.
As the attendant strapped me in I had plenty of time to think about what I was doing. But I chose not to. Instead, I just said, "Would you mind just triple-checking these things?" He laughed and guided me out to the plane.
Now, when I think of a puddle jumper, I think of the little planes that take me from Atlanta to my small hometown of Augusta when I go back home. You know, the kind where you almost expect chickens to be running up and down it. But there was no room for even chickens in this thing. Following orders, I scooched in, back-first to the instrument panel, right next to the pilot, another kid not more than 18. He grinned at me broadly and told me to try not to move. He didn't want me elbowing the gear-shift or backing my head onto one of the many buttons that did god knew what. I braced myself not to breathe and off we went.
The "plane" climbed up and up and up, just like the little engine that could. Now, normally I love the part on rollercoasters where you climb the tracks on the way to the first drop. But this climb was neverending. We went on for nearly 30 minutes. I tried to enjoy the view, but this queasy feeling in my stomach refused to quit me. I asked my instructor, Jack, if anyone ever puked while skydiving. He said, "Oh yes, definitely. Don't do that." Great. My last few moments on earth would be spent ralphing up the burgers and milkshakes I'd stupidly eaten only hours before.
Finally, Jack leaned in and told me we had 5 minutes to the jump and told me to turn around. Turn around? Uh uh. If I did that I was certain to knock that gearshift and we'd all be sent plummeting straight down. But he persisted and pulled me toward him so that I was sitting right in his crotch. He strapped me in tight to him, legs wrapped around me, arms settled on my shoulders. He seemed to sense my hesitation and leaned in, whispering lowly and confidently, "Don't worry, I've got you." That's when I knew I'd jump out of that plane with him anywhere, parachute or not.
"Two minutes," he said. The plane circled and I began to get excited. "One minute." He flipped open the tiny hatch and a cool burst of wind blasted our faces. "30 seconds." My heart raced and he told me to put my foot out like he'd taught me to. I saw the tiny little platform above the plane's wheel, no bigger than my actual foot. Resignedly, I pushed my right foot out and down toward the platform. The wind pushed my foot right back, seeming not to want this to happen and I tended to agree. But I resolved to do this thing, forced my foot downward and it hit. Proud of myself, I turned back to grin at Jack, but he didn't seem as impressed with my accomplishment as I was because he was immediately pushing me forward, counting "ONE...." I resisted, what? That's it? No foreplay? He pulled me back, "TWO..." He can't be serious. I hadn't had anytime to prepare for this! "Three!" and then we were out of the plane and into the sky.
Every fiber of my being cried out for this crime against nature herself. And it did not matter one bit that some supposed expert was strapped to my back with a parachute. I was FALLING. White, white everywhere and not thing to stop me. Clouds rushed past at an alarming speed. All i could do was grip myself...I was the only thing to hold onto.
My body shrank in on itself. My hands clawed the straps. My teeth gritted, but the wind forced my lips open so that I felt like some idiot-grinning chimp. What had i gotten myself into? What if the buckles broke? What if the parachute didn't open? All of these thoughts raced through my head in a matter of seconds and then something snapped within me. I wasn't falling at all. I was FLYING! I had only ever flown in my dreams before. But this was it! And that's when my idiots grin became a true grin. I relaxed into it. The air seemed to cup itself around me. My guide tapped me on the shoulder and I obediently spread my arms. Oh yes! The parachute flew out and we were yanked back upward. I was superman!
The rest of the way down we floated, spinning gracefully toward the ground. Bright green hills and crystalline lakes twinkled at me. I yelled, no I hooted in pure joy! The rush was incredible. Richer than any rollercoaster, higher than any drug. My instructer asked me if I liked it and I literally replied back breathlessly, "Jack, I'm FLYING!" He just laughed in my ear and told me he was going to do some tricks now. I nodded and he proceeded to turn left, then right in wide loops. Together we road the wind, the sky.
Jack felt so confident with me that he wanted to try a standing-landing. I braced my legs for the impact, but it was not as forceful as I expected. So instead my legs buckled and we rolled forward, Jack flipping right over me. We were laughing uncontrollably as we got up and he unhooked me. "You never get tired of that, do you?" I asked. He just winked at me and sent me on my way as he gathered up the folds of the parachute.
I was completely disoriented after. Adrenaline sweat poured down my face and neck. I couldn't seem to walk straight. I didn't know where to go. The ground seemed to be too much. I wanted the freedom of the air again, no boundaries on any side of me.
Later, as I watched my friends sail downward from the clouds, I smiled knowing what they were feeling. We had been flying...without dreaming.
That's when the secretary, a girl who could not have been more than 18, came in with stacks of waivers. No Responsibility Of Ours. You're Taking Your Life In Your Own Hands. Form after form shouted these warnings out at us. Yet still we signed them and obediently followed her out to the hanger area.
I was with my friends, Rob and Susan. Together we make up what we now call our own little adventure club, "Tres Leches." I'd thought we'd all be able to go together, but apparently only two an go up in each plane. We rock, paper, scissored it and Rob lost. He said it was fine, but that incredible pout his lips made said otherwise. So I manned up and volunteered to go solo. As a reward, my name was called first, of course.
As the attendant strapped me in I had plenty of time to think about what I was doing. But I chose not to. Instead, I just said, "Would you mind just triple-checking these things?" He laughed and guided me out to the plane.
Now, when I think of a puddle jumper, I think of the little planes that take me from Atlanta to my small hometown of Augusta when I go back home. You know, the kind where you almost expect chickens to be running up and down it. But there was no room for even chickens in this thing. Following orders, I scooched in, back-first to the instrument panel, right next to the pilot, another kid not more than 18. He grinned at me broadly and told me to try not to move. He didn't want me elbowing the gear-shift or backing my head onto one of the many buttons that did god knew what. I braced myself not to breathe and off we went.
The "plane" climbed up and up and up, just like the little engine that could. Now, normally I love the part on rollercoasters where you climb the tracks on the way to the first drop. But this climb was neverending. We went on for nearly 30 minutes. I tried to enjoy the view, but this queasy feeling in my stomach refused to quit me. I asked my instructor, Jack, if anyone ever puked while skydiving. He said, "Oh yes, definitely. Don't do that." Great. My last few moments on earth would be spent ralphing up the burgers and milkshakes I'd stupidly eaten only hours before.
Finally, Jack leaned in and told me we had 5 minutes to the jump and told me to turn around. Turn around? Uh uh. If I did that I was certain to knock that gearshift and we'd all be sent plummeting straight down. But he persisted and pulled me toward him so that I was sitting right in his crotch. He strapped me in tight to him, legs wrapped around me, arms settled on my shoulders. He seemed to sense my hesitation and leaned in, whispering lowly and confidently, "Don't worry, I've got you." That's when I knew I'd jump out of that plane with him anywhere, parachute or not.
"Two minutes," he said. The plane circled and I began to get excited. "One minute." He flipped open the tiny hatch and a cool burst of wind blasted our faces. "30 seconds." My heart raced and he told me to put my foot out like he'd taught me to. I saw the tiny little platform above the plane's wheel, no bigger than my actual foot. Resignedly, I pushed my right foot out and down toward the platform. The wind pushed my foot right back, seeming not to want this to happen and I tended to agree. But I resolved to do this thing, forced my foot downward and it hit. Proud of myself, I turned back to grin at Jack, but he didn't seem as impressed with my accomplishment as I was because he was immediately pushing me forward, counting "ONE...." I resisted, what? That's it? No foreplay? He pulled me back, "TWO..." He can't be serious. I hadn't had anytime to prepare for this! "Three!" and then we were out of the plane and into the sky.
Every fiber of my being cried out for this crime against nature herself. And it did not matter one bit that some supposed expert was strapped to my back with a parachute. I was FALLING. White, white everywhere and not thing to stop me. Clouds rushed past at an alarming speed. All i could do was grip myself...I was the only thing to hold onto.
My body shrank in on itself. My hands clawed the straps. My teeth gritted, but the wind forced my lips open so that I felt like some idiot-grinning chimp. What had i gotten myself into? What if the buckles broke? What if the parachute didn't open? All of these thoughts raced through my head in a matter of seconds and then something snapped within me. I wasn't falling at all. I was FLYING! I had only ever flown in my dreams before. But this was it! And that's when my idiots grin became a true grin. I relaxed into it. The air seemed to cup itself around me. My guide tapped me on the shoulder and I obediently spread my arms. Oh yes! The parachute flew out and we were yanked back upward. I was superman!
The rest of the way down we floated, spinning gracefully toward the ground. Bright green hills and crystalline lakes twinkled at me. I yelled, no I hooted in pure joy! The rush was incredible. Richer than any rollercoaster, higher than any drug. My instructer asked me if I liked it and I literally replied back breathlessly, "Jack, I'm FLYING!" He just laughed in my ear and told me he was going to do some tricks now. I nodded and he proceeded to turn left, then right in wide loops. Together we road the wind, the sky.Jack felt so confident with me that he wanted to try a standing-landing. I braced my legs for the impact, but it was not as forceful as I expected. So instead my legs buckled and we rolled forward, Jack flipping right over me. We were laughing uncontrollably as we got up and he unhooked me. "You never get tired of that, do you?" I asked. He just winked at me and sent me on my way as he gathered up the folds of the parachute.
I was completely disoriented after. Adrenaline sweat poured down my face and neck. I couldn't seem to walk straight. I didn't know where to go. The ground seemed to be too much. I wanted the freedom of the air again, no boundaries on any side of me.
Later, as I watched my friends sail downward from the clouds, I smiled knowing what they were feeling. We had been flying...without dreaming.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Bed Bath and Bemused
It's true. This is the first time I've had a real bed in nine years. I don't really know what happened. In college I had my own bedroom, a dishwasher and a washer and dryer. Then it seemed that the older I got, the more I lost. These niceties were stripped away from me one-by-one. I actually like hand-washing dishes, so that was never a problem. Of course, laundry certainly was a pain in the ass. But I never knew what I was missing with a bed until recently.Oh, it wasn't like I never slept on beds. For five of the past nine years I had a boyfriend. Which meant my apartment became a really large walk-in closet and their apartment became my favorite hotel. For those years when I was sleeplessly single, I had my trusty pull-out couch. This was no ordinary sofa bed, mind you. It had an inflatable mattress. In 45 seconds, I could have that thing pulled out, pumped up and ready for rest. It was fine when I was all alone. Not so romantic for overnight guests.
But now I've truly grown up from studio to one bedroom - a feat anyone in their 30s should be really proud of. And in doing so, I've reclaimed the beauty of beds. There is something so secretly alluring about having your own little chamber to retire to. My favorite thing this winter became jumping on my bed, curling up in all the pillows and settling into a good book. And since I hadn't done this my entire adult life, all of these childhood memories came back to me. I began re-reading a couple of the more epic Stephen King novels I read when I was twelve. Then I started watching old kid movies on my laptop. Huddled up with my computer just seemed a more intimate setting for nostalgia than sitting on my couch with the TV across the room. My favorite one to re-watch was The Never Ending Story. I didn't empathize with Bastian. I was Bastian.
I realized that having your own bed allows you to go on any adventure you want. It's like having your very own flying white dragon to whisk you off into other worlds. After all, beds are the keepers of love, dreams...and stories.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
How the Ginch Made Christmas
My friend Moses and I have developed this habit of getting each other socks and underwear for Christmas. We used to laugh how every year our moms would, without fail, get us socks and underwear. But they'd always get us boring boxers and cheap 12-packs of socks. When what we really wanted was something a bit more fun and stylish. We are 'mos after all.
Well, about four years back, Moses surprised me with what would become my favorite underwear brand: Ginch Gonch. The name sounds silly...and a little dirty. Which is exactly what they are. Basically you can describe them in two words: Adult Underoos.
They come Superhero-style in bold blues and reds. Or with brightly-colored paisleys and bursting stars in the crotch. They even come with black tigers winking from the fly or pink eagles standing erect. And recently, can you believe they came out with little dump trucks and tractors??? I mean, come on. Sign me up!
Ginch Gonch knows what life is all about: living not like a king, but like a kid. As Fellini so lovingly once said, "Never lose your childish innocence. It's the most important thing." In the age of giant Calvin Klein billboards and hyper-glossy David Beckham print ads that showcase well-endowed packages, Ginch Gonch takes a bit of the seriousness out of sex...and slips in a little playfulness. And each new line is introduced with innuendoed (hehehe, in YOUR end-o) advertising along with raunchy, yet completely goofy, videos of supersexy models playing in rock quarries, cowboy ranches and hot dog stands.
Thus, I find myself searching the internet madly for out-of-stock styles and dropping $24 apiece for a pair before dropping my jeans. I love them so much that every Christmas since (and on many months in between), I treat myself to a new precious pair - especially when Moses makes the mistake of trying out other brands that year.
I know it sounds crazy, but I love them because of the way they make me feel. I love being in an utterly professional business meeting knowing I have on cartoon underwear underneath. It just makes me giggle. One time I even got caught by a business partner as I leaned over to unplug my laptop. She said, "love your pink undies." I may have blushed on the outside, but on the inside I was secretly delighted.
To give you more than these visual aids, I will leave you with a video aid (don't be frightened, it's not what you think). It's one of my favorite scenes in a movie (and you better watch it 'til the end) with Cameron Diaz from Charlie's Angels. She dreams of being a dancing queen and wakes up smiling...and ready to bump her booty around in her undies. But a warning: don't try this trick at home! That would be such a waste. Take it out to the clubs. I know I do and it's always a favorite. Sometimes, when it's so inspired, your booty will dance with a mind of it's own. ;)
Well, about four years back, Moses surprised me with what would become my favorite underwear brand: Ginch Gonch. The name sounds silly...and a little dirty. Which is exactly what they are. Basically you can describe them in two words: Adult Underoos.They come Superhero-style in bold blues and reds. Or with brightly-colored paisleys and bursting stars in the crotch. They even come with black tigers winking from the fly or pink eagles standing erect. And recently, can you believe they came out with little dump trucks and tractors??? I mean, come on. Sign me up!
Ginch Gonch knows what life is all about: living not like a king, but like a kid. As Fellini so lovingly once said, "Never lose your childish innocence. It's the most important thing." In the age of giant Calvin Klein billboards and hyper-glossy David Beckham print ads that showcase well-endowed packages, Ginch Gonch takes a bit of the seriousness out of sex...and slips in a little playfulness. And each new line is introduced with innuendoed (hehehe, in YOUR end-o) advertising along with raunchy, yet completely goofy, videos of supersexy models playing in rock quarries, cowboy ranches and hot dog stands.
Thus, I find myself searching the internet madly for out-of-stock styles and dropping $24 apiece for a pair before dropping my jeans. I love them so much that every Christmas since (and on many months in between), I treat myself to a new precious pair - especially when Moses makes the mistake of trying out other brands that year.I know it sounds crazy, but I love them because of the way they make me feel. I love being in an utterly professional business meeting knowing I have on cartoon underwear underneath. It just makes me giggle. One time I even got caught by a business partner as I leaned over to unplug my laptop. She said, "love your pink undies." I may have blushed on the outside, but on the inside I was secretly delighted.
To give you more than these visual aids, I will leave you with a video aid (don't be frightened, it's not what you think). It's one of my favorite scenes in a movie (and you better watch it 'til the end) with Cameron Diaz from Charlie's Angels. She dreams of being a dancing queen and wakes up smiling...and ready to bump her booty around in her undies. But a warning: don't try this trick at home! That would be such a waste. Take it out to the clubs. I know I do and it's always a favorite. Sometimes, when it's so inspired, your booty will dance with a mind of it's own. ;)Sunday, September 07, 2008
As The Globe Turns
Before I set off for the NYC I had a daydream. I imagined myself arriving, having just stepped out of the taxi. Surrounded by my luggage on the street, cigarette in hand, looking wonderingly up at the high rises all around me. And I don’t care how cheesy it sounds (and any self-respecting New Yorker would mug me for saying so), but I imagined the Sex And The City theme song trumpeting in my head as well. I thought: will strangers really pop into my apartment via the fire escape like they do in Breakfast At Tiffany’s or Across the Universe or Rent? Will I feel part of some great musical where people bang on trash can lids and dance freely on the tops of cabs?
I realize now that my life in California was like a sandglobe. All the glittering sand settled within a picture-perfect palm tree scene looking serenely inviting. But noooo that wasn't enough for me. I had to up and shake that globe so furiously that the sand has turned to snow and all I see is a blinding blizzard before me. Ah, the side effects of a relentlessly curious heart.
So now I find myself chanting a chorus of street names and subway stops in my head. Yet still I turn around at least 39 times a day, having realized I've just walked in the wrong direction for three blocks already. And I mean, where do people buy toilet paper for god's sake? I keep looking for Target, but it's eluded me thus far.
People hand out advice like it's candy here. Everyone has their own do's, don't's and even a few never's. Not that I don't appreciate it, mind you. But it can be a little dizzying. Like spinning round and round blindfolded and once the blindfold is crudely ripped off, you're left swinging madly in every direction - apparently nowhere near the damn piñata.
But one friend did give me an especially awakening bit of wisdom. He'd asked me how I was doing and I was rattling on about having lots to adjust to. And he stopped me right there and said, "Adjust? You just got here! Have fun and then adjust." And shortly after that I had a little epiphany. I was at brunch with some friends (one old and one new) and they were talking about all the places they've lived and I was saying how worldly they sounded. And then I realized I've lived in Georgia, Los Angeles, and now New York! It was the first time I considered myself a New Yorker without thinking about it.
So here I am, on my way to becoming a city boy. But you know what? I ain't never gonna forget how to be a country boy or a beach boy either. And while the scene may change within my little globe of a world, I find peace in the knowledge that at least I'm the one shakin' it. And, baby, we're gonna shake the hell outta that thing!
I realize now that my life in California was like a sandglobe. All the glittering sand settled within a picture-perfect palm tree scene looking serenely inviting. But noooo that wasn't enough for me. I had to up and shake that globe so furiously that the sand has turned to snow and all I see is a blinding blizzard before me. Ah, the side effects of a relentlessly curious heart.
So now I find myself chanting a chorus of street names and subway stops in my head. Yet still I turn around at least 39 times a day, having realized I've just walked in the wrong direction for three blocks already. And I mean, where do people buy toilet paper for god's sake? I keep looking for Target, but it's eluded me thus far.
People hand out advice like it's candy here. Everyone has their own do's, don't's and even a few never's. Not that I don't appreciate it, mind you. But it can be a little dizzying. Like spinning round and round blindfolded and once the blindfold is crudely ripped off, you're left swinging madly in every direction - apparently nowhere near the damn piñata.
But one friend did give me an especially awakening bit of wisdom. He'd asked me how I was doing and I was rattling on about having lots to adjust to. And he stopped me right there and said, "Adjust? You just got here! Have fun and then adjust." And shortly after that I had a little epiphany. I was at brunch with some friends (one old and one new) and they were talking about all the places they've lived and I was saying how worldly they sounded. And then I realized I've lived in Georgia, Los Angeles, and now New York! It was the first time I considered myself a New Yorker without thinking about it.
So here I am, on my way to becoming a city boy. But you know what? I ain't never gonna forget how to be a country boy or a beach boy either. And while the scene may change within my little globe of a world, I find peace in the knowledge that at least I'm the one shakin' it. And, baby, we're gonna shake the hell outta that thing!
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Youniverse
My recent fascination with the National Geographic, Discovery and History channels began because I was hungry for more than was human. I found myself learning incredible lessons from all of their scientific programs.
The universe is expanding faster and faster.
The sun is dying day-by-day.
The earth is slowing down its spin.
And the moon is drifting farther away.
They sound poetic enough, but they are all mindblowing and often frightening facts. I keep waiting for one of the anonymous voiceover gods to sneak in the theory of everything just before a commercial break. One equation to solve it all.
But all they tell me about are dark things. Dark Matter, the framework for the very lights of the universe. And Dark Energy, the indomitable force pulling everything apart from everything else. When objects in space get closer together they get warmer. And guess what happens when they pull apart from each other? They get colder, of course. But my question is, will the universe ultimately die in fire or ice?
Every time I have ever looked for God, I have found myself. Or my family. Or my friends. Or the beauty all around me. But I have never felt a being. Once I was in San Francisco (that city out-haunted only by New Orleans) with my good friend Francia. We had a house all to ourselves and started smoking marijuana. It's not something I do often, but it had its place in our adventures that weekend. Well, after seemingly endless bouts of laughter and incomprehensible banter, we found ourselves in a silent moment. And in that moment, I had the most awful vision.
There is a God. But there is no us. There is only God. And He has been for all eternity, lonely. So lonely that He split Himself into twelve archetypes of people who multiplied and prospered and explored and lived as individuals. We are all a part of His, one desperate delusion.
Of course, I was immediately and terribly frightened by all this and told Francia so. We mulled it over, but ultimately found the idea entirely unpalatable and left to go watch the 4th of July fireworks by the bridge. Because it didn't matter if it could be true or not. What mattered is that we didn't want to know. If we are all fools, then let us be fooled.
After that, we were free for other realizations. And I'll end this posting with an excerpt from my journal on that weekend. Cause you see, what matters is us. We are the Light Matter. And it's up to us to come closer and closer together. To get warmer.
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July 6, 2003
"It's been only us for the past few days. We've been purging ourselves of the lovers in our lives and filling up the empty spaces with good food, wine, beer, weed, company, and all the beauty of an uncharted city. We feel independent and free and strong - so ready to take on anything or be swept up anywhere. So I'll go back with a clearer vision and a lightened heart...ah, but the fireworks are breathtaking!"
The Pillars of Creation
The universe is expanding faster and faster.
The sun is dying day-by-day.
The earth is slowing down its spin.
And the moon is drifting farther away.
They sound poetic enough, but they are all mindblowing and often frightening facts. I keep waiting for one of the anonymous voiceover gods to sneak in the theory of everything just before a commercial break. One equation to solve it all.
But all they tell me about are dark things. Dark Matter, the framework for the very lights of the universe. And Dark Energy, the indomitable force pulling everything apart from everything else. When objects in space get closer together they get warmer. And guess what happens when they pull apart from each other? They get colder, of course. But my question is, will the universe ultimately die in fire or ice?
Every time I have ever looked for God, I have found myself. Or my family. Or my friends. Or the beauty all around me. But I have never felt a being. Once I was in San Francisco (that city out-haunted only by New Orleans) with my good friend Francia. We had a house all to ourselves and started smoking marijuana. It's not something I do often, but it had its place in our adventures that weekend. Well, after seemingly endless bouts of laughter and incomprehensible banter, we found ourselves in a silent moment. And in that moment, I had the most awful vision.
There is a God. But there is no us. There is only God. And He has been for all eternity, lonely. So lonely that He split Himself into twelve archetypes of people who multiplied and prospered and explored and lived as individuals. We are all a part of His, one desperate delusion.
Of course, I was immediately and terribly frightened by all this and told Francia so. We mulled it over, but ultimately found the idea entirely unpalatable and left to go watch the 4th of July fireworks by the bridge. Because it didn't matter if it could be true or not. What mattered is that we didn't want to know. If we are all fools, then let us be fooled.
After that, we were free for other realizations. And I'll end this posting with an excerpt from my journal on that weekend. Cause you see, what matters is us. We are the Light Matter. And it's up to us to come closer and closer together. To get warmer.
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July 6, 2003
"It's been only us for the past few days. We've been purging ourselves of the lovers in our lives and filling up the empty spaces with good food, wine, beer, weed, company, and all the beauty of an uncharted city. We feel independent and free and strong - so ready to take on anything or be swept up anywhere. So I'll go back with a clearer vision and a lightened heart...ah, but the fireworks are breathtaking!"
The Pillars of Creation
Saturday, May 10, 2008
A Tale of Two TVs
I wrote the following for my boss. This is her story, but she asked to use my words since she thinks she can't write well in English just yet. I think she can, but then again I'm not about to turn down a writing opportunity. She made me erase the last paragraph for her purposes, cause it was too "over the top." But dammit this is my blog and that last paragraph is just SO ME. ;)
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When I first moved to the US several years ago I bought a TV. It was nothing special, really. Just a cheap old 37” color Toshiba. But it never failed me, and man did the picture look great.
Recently my dad gave me $900 to purchase one of those new plasmas for my birthday. I have nothing against them, but I just didn’t see the point in spending all that money on a new TV when my old one worked just fine. Still, Papi’s coming to visit next week and I knew if he didn’t see a beautiful plasma in my living room, I’d be in trouble.
So this weekend I decided to suck it in, be a big girl about it and drag my husband off to Best Buy. I’d planned on spending as little time on this chore as possible. But finding the right TV quickly became a daunting task. It had to be worthy of replacing our beloved older model. Maybe we could drown our sorrows in a multitude of high-tech features. And surely pristine picture quality would help ease the pain. After all, if we were going to sell our souls, then that TV better be crafted by the devil himself. Before we knew it we were heading back home with a $1,700 piece of plastic and neon in our car.
Bringing it into the house felt like telling your faithful husband you were leaving him for a hot young blond. We’d been seduced by the pretty plasma and we didn’t know how to tell him it was over. We simply shoved him into a corner of the spare room and tried not to look. There was no time to mourn properly. There were just too many new features to play with.
But the hours passed and the enchantment faded. The new screen seemed unnaturally stretched compared with the comfortable little box we’d been used to. And the picture somehow didn’t seem that great anymore. A friend told us that if we left it on for awhile, the picture would get better. But two days have passed and I haven’t noticed a thing. It just stares at us as if defying us not to love it. And we stare right back, demanding its cold robotic face to give us a real reason to love it. A justification for the price of our souls.
You see, I felt like a sucker, a fool. I was just another mortal who had succumbed to the temptations of technology. And we can’t even return it. We don’t have the guts.
Sometimes when I’m alone at night with the fluorescent glow of the plasma on my face, a whispering startles me out of my zombified stupor. I listen closer and I swear I can hear a haunting voice say, “But how could you do this to me? After all my years of service to you...” And that’s always when I reach for the remote and turn the volume up.
PS: This is not my boss' TV, this is mine (You can tell because Dancing with the Stars is paused on it). I put mine up there because when I first moved into my apartment, the freakin' cable guy made fun of me for having such an old TV. He was like, "You must be the only person in Manhattan Beach with one of these old box TVs." I hated that guy.
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When I first moved to the US several years ago I bought a TV. It was nothing special, really. Just a cheap old 37” color Toshiba. But it never failed me, and man did the picture look great.
Recently my dad gave me $900 to purchase one of those new plasmas for my birthday. I have nothing against them, but I just didn’t see the point in spending all that money on a new TV when my old one worked just fine. Still, Papi’s coming to visit next week and I knew if he didn’t see a beautiful plasma in my living room, I’d be in trouble.
So this weekend I decided to suck it in, be a big girl about it and drag my husband off to Best Buy. I’d planned on spending as little time on this chore as possible. But finding the right TV quickly became a daunting task. It had to be worthy of replacing our beloved older model. Maybe we could drown our sorrows in a multitude of high-tech features. And surely pristine picture quality would help ease the pain. After all, if we were going to sell our souls, then that TV better be crafted by the devil himself. Before we knew it we were heading back home with a $1,700 piece of plastic and neon in our car.
Bringing it into the house felt like telling your faithful husband you were leaving him for a hot young blond. We’d been seduced by the pretty plasma and we didn’t know how to tell him it was over. We simply shoved him into a corner of the spare room and tried not to look. There was no time to mourn properly. There were just too many new features to play with.
But the hours passed and the enchantment faded. The new screen seemed unnaturally stretched compared with the comfortable little box we’d been used to. And the picture somehow didn’t seem that great anymore. A friend told us that if we left it on for awhile, the picture would get better. But two days have passed and I haven’t noticed a thing. It just stares at us as if defying us not to love it. And we stare right back, demanding its cold robotic face to give us a real reason to love it. A justification for the price of our souls.
You see, I felt like a sucker, a fool. I was just another mortal who had succumbed to the temptations of technology. And we can’t even return it. We don’t have the guts.
Sometimes when I’m alone at night with the fluorescent glow of the plasma on my face, a whispering startles me out of my zombified stupor. I listen closer and I swear I can hear a haunting voice say, “But how could you do this to me? After all my years of service to you...” And that’s always when I reach for the remote and turn the volume up.
PS: This is not my boss' TV, this is mine (You can tell because Dancing with the Stars is paused on it). I put mine up there because when I first moved into my apartment, the freakin' cable guy made fun of me for having such an old TV. He was like, "You must be the only person in Manhattan Beach with one of these old box TVs." I hated that guy.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Nutjobs at 20,000 Feet
I don't consider myself exactly anti-social, but when I'm flying I'm not there to make friends. Unless I'm in first class, all I want to do is let some easy-read fiction book absorb me into another world. A world where people aren't snacking on chips in your ear and kids aren't kicking your seat from behind.But apparently, I've never told my face this. My face insists on being one of those approachable, inviting ones that says, "Sure, crazy plane lady, please talk to me. I desperately need to hear your life story."
Nearly every flight I get one: a plane crazy. I am invariably the first one to sit down in my section and I always sit there patiently praying for some cute, young professional to sit by me. A guy who will sit there quietly, look pretty and occasionally flirting with me. But no. I always get the plane crazies. I can spot them easily as they come down the aisle, and by now I've learned to just expect them to sit right next to me. They remind me of that gremlin in the old Twilight Zone episode....only my gremlins aren't on the wing of the plane...they're inside.
What gets me is how they never notice (or choose to completely ignore) any sign that you do not want to listen to their endless chatter. I can quite literally stick my nose in my book and I swear to god they'll actually wave their hand in front of my face to grab my attention. Headphones are no use either. They simply tap you and motion for you to take them off so they can keep on talking.
Here are a few of my all-time favorites:
Plane Crazy #1: Elvira, Mistress of the Nutjobs
When I use the name Elvira here it is no joke. Goth dress, nightmare nails, pale skin (powder-caked to be even paler still), jet black hair and thick eye liner arched over bloodshot eyes. I was uncertain whether or not she was drunk when she got on the plane, but by the time we were through our second service, she'd certainly worked her way through two mini bottles of chardonnay easily enough. And the more she drank, the looser her lips became. She told me of her son who was in jail for selling heroine and how she felt she'd failed as a mother. "If only he had turned out more like you," she exclaimed, splashes of wine spilling onto the pages of my open book. But I was thinking how amazing it was that he had turned out so well, considering his mother...
Plane Crazy #2: C'mon'iwanalaya
Ahh, the entrepreneur from Hawai'i. Now he was just a mess. Slightly overweight, mid-40s, clothes far too young for him, gold watch neslted in dark arm hair. Think your dad during his mid-life crisis. He owned an auto parts store on Oahu and had spent the last few years building a house for his family. That is, until his wife left him, their teenage sons following soon afterward. The house was left rainswept and in mid-construction, but that didn't stop him from living there. He was a determined sort. Determined to rub his crotch in my face every time he went to the bathroom. Once he figured out I was gay, he asked me all sorts of inappropriate questions. What positions did I like? Was I into older guys? If I was ever in Hawai'i, I was welcome anytime to stay with him in his "house." I lost his business card somewhere between rows 23 and 14.
Plane Crazy #3: The Brasilian Cougar
She came sauntering down the aisle all in leopard print. Nails one-inch long, red and curling as if beckoning anyone who would take up her plea for affection. I knew I was in trouble when she crossed her legs as she sat and her skirt rode high enough that, had I dropped a peanut, it would have been lost forever. Utterly relentless and inconceivably tactless, the fact that I was gay made no different to her. She considered her breasts powerful enough to capture any man. But I'd already had milk with my cereal that morning. After I breathlessly thwarted several advances, she finally settled on the age game: demanding that I tell her how old I thought she was. I had no choice but to grossly underestimate for fear those red claws would find purchase in my eye sockets. "You'd nevr knoooow iit," she said in her haughty, strained accent, "boot I've had zree plaztyk zurjeries and botox injections evry few monts...don't you liyik my teeets?" I'm certain her teeets were at some point, before the ziplock bag buoys and scissored battle scars, very nice.
I've considered taking my book into one of those pocket-sized bathrooms for some peace and quiet. But of course then I wouldn't have as many interesting stories to tell. So I'll soldier through future flights, always anticipating that positively melodic phrase, "Ladies and gentlemen, please place your tray tables up and bring your seat backs to their forward and upright locked position."
I hope you've enjoyed your flight.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Perez “Call Me Latino” Hilton
I wrote the following for my company nusletter about Perez Hilton. And here's a little secret: I went on a couple of dates with him back in the day. But that's a story for another post... ;)
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He’s taken many titles, The Queen of All Media, The Gossip Gangstar, The Gossip Queen, but his original alias says it all: Perez Hilton. Capitalizing on the fame/infamy of his idol Paris Hilton, he added his Latino heritage. And he’s been true to his name ever since.
A Cuban raised in Miami, Perez bounced around odd and colorful jobs until he started a celebrity gossip blog that quickly came to be known as “Hollywood’s most hated website” with millions of page views every day. But even as his popularity exploded he not only kept a strong Latino identity, but is introducing bits of the culture to the mainstream. On any given posting, you’ll see words and phrases like “Caliente!” and “Pollo Loco” in his signature chalkboard scrawl over Latino and non-Latino faces alike. He also has a special “Latinolicious” section in his blog where viewers can find archives of all the latest postings on everyone from Thalia to the more mainstream Gloria Estefan. He’s courted and been featured in major Latin magazines such as Ocean Drive and People en Espanol. And he’s the first to praise other Latinos who embrace their heritage. Eva Mendes and Eva Longoria, both out and proud Latinas, often receive his hard-to-come-by positive raves. But once Jessica Alba mentioned in a magazine that she didn’t want to be labeled Latin, Perez immediately christened her Jessica “Don’t Call Me Latina” Alba.
While some find Perez’s posts too controversial, he defends himself saying, “I think Latinos don’t necessarily look at gossip as a bad thing. Us Latinos love the chisme (gossip).” Just flip through gossip rags like ¡Mira! or Fama and you’ll see exactly what he means. But for Latinos, it’s all in fun. Hispanic culture is a more direct one; they’ll tell you how it is to your face. Chisme is simply a part of life…un mal nessecario (a necessary evil).
Nobody understands the power of chisme better than Perez. His comments have helped bash the careers of Avril Lavigne and Kelly Clarkson and bolster the careers of Mika and Amy Winehouse. Other Latino bloggers recognize this same power. Trent Vanegas, a “nicer” version of Perez Hilton, has a loyal following on his entertainment column Pink Is The New Blog. And Guanabee (pronounced “wannabe”) is a more intellectual, those just as scathing, commentary on all things Latino.
Still, in the Latino blogger world, Perez is the reigning Queen. But Perez isn’t all sex tapes and rehab check-ins. He uses his considerable influence to support causes he believes in. He’s right there with every update on the writer’s strike, back-patting Jay Leno for his support and wrist-slapping Ellen Degeneres for her flakiness. And when Rosario Dawson & Wilmer Valderram attended a recent votoLatino event, he posted their photo with a big “Vota!” (vote) splashed across the front.
Whether he makes you cry in laughter or in outrage, there’s no denying Perez’s power in both Latino and mainstream culture. And with all that influence, we don’t think it hurts that he drives a brand new 2007 Toyota Camry.
But enough about Perez. This author is dying to find out what’s new in the budding Javier Bardem & Penelope Cruz love affair…
----------------------------------
He’s taken many titles, The Queen of All Media, The Gossip Gangstar, The Gossip Queen, but his original alias says it all: Perez Hilton. Capitalizing on the fame/infamy of his idol Paris Hilton, he added his Latino heritage. And he’s been true to his name ever since.
A Cuban raised in Miami, Perez bounced around odd and colorful jobs until he started a celebrity gossip blog that quickly came to be known as “Hollywood’s most hated website” with millions of page views every day. But even as his popularity exploded he not only kept a strong Latino identity, but is introducing bits of the culture to the mainstream. On any given posting, you’ll see words and phrases like “Caliente!” and “Pollo Loco” in his signature chalkboard scrawl over Latino and non-Latino faces alike. He also has a special “Latinolicious” section in his blog where viewers can find archives of all the latest postings on everyone from Thalia to the more mainstream Gloria Estefan. He’s courted and been featured in major Latin magazines such as Ocean Drive and People en Espanol. And he’s the first to praise other Latinos who embrace their heritage. Eva Mendes and Eva Longoria, both out and proud Latinas, often receive his hard-to-come-by positive raves. But once Jessica Alba mentioned in a magazine that she didn’t want to be labeled Latin, Perez immediately christened her Jessica “Don’t Call Me Latina” Alba. While some find Perez’s posts too controversial, he defends himself saying, “I think Latinos don’t necessarily look at gossip as a bad thing. Us Latinos love the chisme (gossip).” Just flip through gossip rags like ¡Mira! or Fama and you’ll see exactly what he means. But for Latinos, it’s all in fun. Hispanic culture is a more direct one; they’ll tell you how it is to your face. Chisme is simply a part of life…un mal nessecario (a necessary evil).
Nobody understands the power of chisme better than Perez. His comments have helped bash the careers of Avril Lavigne and Kelly Clarkson and bolster the careers of Mika and Amy Winehouse. Other Latino bloggers recognize this same power. Trent Vanegas, a “nicer” version of Perez Hilton, has a loyal following on his entertainment column Pink Is The New Blog. And Guanabee (pronounced “wannabe”) is a more intellectual, those just as scathing, commentary on all things Latino.
Still, in the Latino blogger world, Perez is the reigning Queen. But Perez isn’t all sex tapes and rehab check-ins. He uses his considerable influence to support causes he believes in. He’s right there with every update on the writer’s strike, back-patting Jay Leno for his support and wrist-slapping Ellen Degeneres for her flakiness. And when Rosario Dawson & Wilmer Valderram attended a recent votoLatino event, he posted their photo with a big “Vota!” (vote) splashed across the front.Whether he makes you cry in laughter or in outrage, there’s no denying Perez’s power in both Latino and mainstream culture. And with all that influence, we don’t think it hurts that he drives a brand new 2007 Toyota Camry.
But enough about Perez. This author is dying to find out what’s new in the budding Javier Bardem & Penelope Cruz love affair…
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Dancing with the Scars
Be a clown, be a clown, all the world loves a clown. My secret shame is my dream to be in entertainment. I was so introverted throughout my childhood. Always the shy, quiet one. The one to hide in his room with the door shut. Locked. I wasn't yet ready to introduce myself to the world, but within my walls I was everything I wanted to be. My remote control became my microphone. My bed, the pulpit of my audience. And of course my closet was wardrobe for my many costume changes.
I remember when Madonna's Blond Ambition tour went live on HBO. I was twelve and I was entranced. I taped it on my VHS recorder and played it over and over again, memorizing the lines, the set, the costumes and the choreography. And then I set out to completely recreate it for my audience of one. I pieced together the costumes from clothes in every member of my family's closet...as closely as I could resemble the originals anyway. I cut holes, sewed stiches. Practiced moves until I twisted ankles. And when I was ready, I played the tape and covered the TV with a blanket. The better to realize my lip-syncing illusion.
I'd always wanted to sing, but even at that early age, I had accepted the fact that I did not have the gift of voice. But I could move. I understood intrinsically the rhythms beneath and between the beats. My mind never had to think about it. I just felt it and went with it. Had I more, ah-hem, ambition, I might have asked my parents for dance lessons. But I copped out, deciding that I was too short to ever make a career out of it.
But then a blessing came. In the South, families of a certain breeding take what is called Cotillion, or more modernly, Social. You find a partner and once a week, attend ballroom dancing and etiquette classes. How to hold your fork, which side to present the lady on, how to properly greet and introduce. My partner was Jean. Along with four other friends we made up a little band of gypsies, feigning propriety for those two hours only to wreak havoc in McDonald's or the Augusta Mall afterwards. But during those two hours, the magic happened. Jean and I got chosen to dance center circle for the Jitterbug, and man was I in top form. I shed my skinsecurities and just went for it. Breathing erratically, sweating nearly unnaturally, and well just generally making a fool of myself. But it was pure and I was happy. For once I was the center of attention and I ate it up.
With this newfound confidence I thought I could take on the world. And so later, at a dance in our school gym, I danced my heart out to the B-52's, "Roam". My real friends surrounded me in delight. But then the others came in. Patrick Parquette took of his baseball hat and made as if to offer it to me for an autograph. Ashley Ingram stood next to me with her pretty auburn curls and copied my moves. But the saddest part was that I didn't even realize they were making fun of me...until the song ended.
Years later in college, I finally regained that confidence. I found a world I fit in. I could dance at gay clubs however I pleased and no one cared. The first time I went to Boneshaker's, I found myself, center-stage, grinding in between a bull-dyke and a black drag queen. It was raw freedom. And I wasn't the only one to notice how happy it made me. It wasn't long before the boys noticed too.
So I took a ballroom performance class a year later. I liked it - once I got it. But I hated following steps. I hated dancing how others told me I had to. Still, I knew that if I stuck to it and learned the skills, I could use them however I wanted. I lived for the weekly dance parties. I even learned to love the rules of the ballroom discipline - and I am not a person that responds well to rules. But I stuck to it, tried out for the Apprentice Group, and got in. I thought, "This could be it! Maybe I will now become a great ballroom dancer!" But I quickly found myself slow to pick up the choreography compared to everyone else. And this was compounded by my constantly having to miss practice for work and school. Eventually I gave in. No. I gave up - and dropped the elective. I was disappointed in myself, but I simply had other responsibilities.
I still think I made the right decision for my life, but I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if I had found a way to make it work. Especially when Dancing with the Stars comes on and it's all I can do not to jump straight into the TV and twinkle my toes right along with Mario, Apollo or Helio.
But then, I suppose things could be worse. I did not return to the hideout of my room and get all Sunset Boulevard. After all, I can single-handedly spark a wedding into life, and when I still grab the eyes of those boys at gay clubs. But poor Ashley Ingram ended up getting pregnant and married our senior year and Patrick Parquette is now an overweight policeman with a dead-end life.
So I took the lesson and simply resolved never to sell myself "short" again. And I hope that when you get the choice to sit out or dance...you dance.
I remember when Madonna's Blond Ambition tour went live on HBO. I was twelve and I was entranced. I taped it on my VHS recorder and played it over and over again, memorizing the lines, the set, the costumes and the choreography. And then I set out to completely recreate it for my audience of one. I pieced together the costumes from clothes in every member of my family's closet...as closely as I could resemble the originals anyway. I cut holes, sewed stiches. Practiced moves until I twisted ankles. And when I was ready, I played the tape and covered the TV with a blanket. The better to realize my lip-syncing illusion.
I'd always wanted to sing, but even at that early age, I had accepted the fact that I did not have the gift of voice. But I could move. I understood intrinsically the rhythms beneath and between the beats. My mind never had to think about it. I just felt it and went with it. Had I more, ah-hem, ambition, I might have asked my parents for dance lessons. But I copped out, deciding that I was too short to ever make a career out of it.
But then a blessing came. In the South, families of a certain breeding take what is called Cotillion, or more modernly, Social. You find a partner and once a week, attend ballroom dancing and etiquette classes. How to hold your fork, which side to present the lady on, how to properly greet and introduce. My partner was Jean. Along with four other friends we made up a little band of gypsies, feigning propriety for those two hours only to wreak havoc in McDonald's or the Augusta Mall afterwards. But during those two hours, the magic happened. Jean and I got chosen to dance center circle for the Jitterbug, and man was I in top form. I shed my skinsecurities and just went for it. Breathing erratically, sweating nearly unnaturally, and well just generally making a fool of myself. But it was pure and I was happy. For once I was the center of attention and I ate it up.
With this newfound confidence I thought I could take on the world. And so later, at a dance in our school gym, I danced my heart out to the B-52's, "Roam". My real friends surrounded me in delight. But then the others came in. Patrick Parquette took of his baseball hat and made as if to offer it to me for an autograph. Ashley Ingram stood next to me with her pretty auburn curls and copied my moves. But the saddest part was that I didn't even realize they were making fun of me...until the song ended.
Years later in college, I finally regained that confidence. I found a world I fit in. I could dance at gay clubs however I pleased and no one cared. The first time I went to Boneshaker's, I found myself, center-stage, grinding in between a bull-dyke and a black drag queen. It was raw freedom. And I wasn't the only one to notice how happy it made me. It wasn't long before the boys noticed too.
So I took a ballroom performance class a year later. I liked it - once I got it. But I hated following steps. I hated dancing how others told me I had to. Still, I knew that if I stuck to it and learned the skills, I could use them however I wanted. I lived for the weekly dance parties. I even learned to love the rules of the ballroom discipline - and I am not a person that responds well to rules. But I stuck to it, tried out for the Apprentice Group, and got in. I thought, "This could be it! Maybe I will now become a great ballroom dancer!" But I quickly found myself slow to pick up the choreography compared to everyone else. And this was compounded by my constantly having to miss practice for work and school. Eventually I gave in. No. I gave up - and dropped the elective. I was disappointed in myself, but I simply had other responsibilities.
I still think I made the right decision for my life, but I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if I had found a way to make it work. Especially when Dancing with the Stars comes on and it's all I can do not to jump straight into the TV and twinkle my toes right along with Mario, Apollo or Helio.
But then, I suppose things could be worse. I did not return to the hideout of my room and get all Sunset Boulevard. After all, I can single-handedly spark a wedding into life, and when I still grab the eyes of those boys at gay clubs. But poor Ashley Ingram ended up getting pregnant and married our senior year and Patrick Parquette is now an overweight policeman with a dead-end life.
So I took the lesson and simply resolved never to sell myself "short" again. And I hope that when you get the choice to sit out or dance...you dance.
Friday, March 09, 2007
The Night the Lights Went Out in California
When I first moved out to California from Georgia, an ex-boyfriend of mine gave me a country song to listen to. He wanted me to go for my dreams...but he also wanted to say "I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean." And with the ocean right in my own backyard now, I'm constantly reminded to keep humble and remember my roots.
The longer I'm away from the South, the more I miss it. And the more of my life I spend studying other cultures, the more I appreciate the beauty of my own. So it's no wonder that I cling to whatever tenacious roots that push through the cracks between all those Hollywood Stars.
That's why when the "new CW" decided to cancel the Reba show, I was devastated. Just hearing those elongated accents every week was like a warm blanket.
Despite the fact that it was the WB's #1 show, the new network apparently decided it was attracting an "undesirable demographic." They didn't want families (gasp!) tuning in...they wanted the same old youth market everybody always goes after. I mean, how many crap teen TV shows set in Orange County or Laguna Beach or some other Californian spoon-fed, hippie-loving, NPR-listening suburb do you need?
So the Reba show re-shot what was originally intended to be a season cliffhanger and painfully forced it into the series finale. No more would I have Barbara Jean's backwoods barbie antics to laugh at. No more would Van be my Southern gentleman TV boyfriend. No more would I hear Reba take the word "crap" from one syllable to three.
But California wasn't through with me yet. Before I'd had a chance to truly grieve for Reba, they pulled my favorite country music station out from under me. One day, I punched the #1 preset on my radio tuner and instead of the comforting twang of Kenney Chesney serenading me, all I got was MC Has-been Hammer still trying to claim he was 2 legit 2 quit. Suddenly my beloved 93.9 KZLA had been "flipped" to the kind of station that plays those 90s one-hit-wonders usually reserved for wedding receptions.
Now all I've got left is Paula Deen. If she weren't still around on the Food Network sending me best wishes from her kitchen to mine, why there's just no tellin' what I'd do. If they take her away to make room for some new Asian-fusion cooking show, I swear to God I'm packing my bags and boarding that midnight train on back to Georgia.
So in honor of Reba, I've got one last story for you. The only gay bar we had at the University of Georgia was called Boneshaker's. And every Saturday night they got our bones a'shakin with a drag show that included the fabulous Cherilyn. Now Cherilyn used to impersonate Cher, but she was never very convincing and usually only performed mid-show when most people got up to refresh their drinks or their dance cards. All that changed one day when inspiration struck and she suddenly donned a red wig, pulled on some boots and took the stage with newfound spitfire in her veins. The resemblance to Reba was uncanny and she remains to this day one of the most impressive celebrity impersonators I have ever seen.
I guess no matter what happens to our "undesirable demographic," the most important thing us Southerns can say at the end of the day is that no matter what: I'm a survivor.
PS: If I've at all moved you, sign your name here. I may not be able to resurrect Reba on-screen, but maybe - just maybe - I'll someday hear her on the radio again.
The longer I'm away from the South, the more I miss it. And the more of my life I spend studying other cultures, the more I appreciate the beauty of my own. So it's no wonder that I cling to whatever tenacious roots that push through the cracks between all those Hollywood Stars.
That's why when the "new CW" decided to cancel the Reba show, I was devastated. Just hearing those elongated accents every week was like a warm blanket.
Despite the fact that it was the WB's #1 show, the new network apparently decided it was attracting an "undesirable demographic." They didn't want families (gasp!) tuning in...they wanted the same old youth market everybody always goes after. I mean, how many crap teen TV shows set in Orange County or Laguna Beach or some other Californian spoon-fed, hippie-loving, NPR-listening suburb do you need?
So the Reba show re-shot what was originally intended to be a season cliffhanger and painfully forced it into the series finale. No more would I have Barbara Jean's backwoods barbie antics to laugh at. No more would Van be my Southern gentleman TV boyfriend. No more would I hear Reba take the word "crap" from one syllable to three.
But California wasn't through with me yet. Before I'd had a chance to truly grieve for Reba, they pulled my favorite country music station out from under me. One day, I punched the #1 preset on my radio tuner and instead of the comforting twang of Kenney Chesney serenading me, all I got was MC Has-been Hammer still trying to claim he was 2 legit 2 quit. Suddenly my beloved 93.9 KZLA had been "flipped" to the kind of station that plays those 90s one-hit-wonders usually reserved for wedding receptions.
Now all I've got left is Paula Deen. If she weren't still around on the Food Network sending me best wishes from her kitchen to mine, why there's just no tellin' what I'd do. If they take her away to make room for some new Asian-fusion cooking show, I swear to God I'm packing my bags and boarding that midnight train on back to Georgia.
So in honor of Reba, I've got one last story for you. The only gay bar we had at the University of Georgia was called Boneshaker's. And every Saturday night they got our bones a'shakin with a drag show that included the fabulous Cherilyn. Now Cherilyn used to impersonate Cher, but she was never very convincing and usually only performed mid-show when most people got up to refresh their drinks or their dance cards. All that changed one day when inspiration struck and she suddenly donned a red wig, pulled on some boots and took the stage with newfound spitfire in her veins. The resemblance to Reba was uncanny and she remains to this day one of the most impressive celebrity impersonators I have ever seen. I guess no matter what happens to our "undesirable demographic," the most important thing us Southerns can say at the end of the day is that no matter what: I'm a survivor.
PS: If I've at all moved you, sign your name here. I may not be able to resurrect Reba on-screen, but maybe - just maybe - I'll someday hear her on the radio again.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
The Psyience of Sleep
Sometimes I feel like what we call real life is just the stuff that happens in between dreams. As if in unconsciousness we find truth, no matter how odd it seems upon waking. While dreaming, things always seem to make sense. In my dreams I have written a beautiful song of the purest melodies...that when I awoke had faded into warbling, random notes. In my dreams I have known the pressure of a bullet punch through my chest and strike my heart, genuinely if not gratefully surprised to find my body intact, my heart still beating once my eyes opened. In my dreams I have met my soul mate, a boy with brown hair and green eyes who I walked with in grass fields, talking endlessly. A boy who I simply understood was the one - yet his face became a white blur and in the waking world, my life moved on.
Some people think that I am lazy and too much in love with sleep. Others think I fear "reality" and seek to escape from the monotony of structured life. And while all of this may be partially true, it's not the core truth. I love life and all of its simple pleasures. Boredom is a state of mind that rarely exists with me and surprises me when I hear it claimed by others. You have to live with a curious heart and an open mind - you have to choose your own adventures.
But dreams allow you to push beyond the limits of the terra firma. Absolutely anything can happen. In sleep I find the antithesis of peace, although chaos is not exactly the right descriptor. What I look forward to most is the anticipation of discovering what imaginative realms lay waiting for me. It's like watching a new movie every night...a movie that I am invariably the star in.
My favorite movies, books and even music albums have always been the ones where there is a sequel. No, strike that. "Sequel" sounds like something produced only to capitalize on the success of something else. It's about a story told in series. All of the plots planned out ahead of time. I love series because the characters, the emotions, stay with you. You travel with them and get to keep them a little longer. You get to know them and they become a part of you.
The same is true with dreams for me. I have many recurring dreams or themes in dreams, some of which pick up where they left off and some of which twist in entirely new directions. Two such types of dreams have been with me for years now: flying dreams and water dreams. In the water dreams I am sometimes nightswimming alone, or else I am on a coastline, or a lake. The water dreams usually take the form of some monster thriller, like the ones my brothers and I remember so fondly from our childhood.
But the flying dreams, I must admit, are my favorite. With each dream, I seem to become more adept at it. I clearly remember the first dream I ever had. I was attached by a long red string to my massive 4-pound childhood Yorkshire terrier, Buffie. She began to run through a field, and my body lifted into the air as if I were a kite. In the next dream, I learned to fly by myself. I flapped my arms up, down, up, down...just like a bird. I didn't need to run - I would simply stand in place and flap harder and harder until finally I began to lift off of the ground. Eventually, through many dreams, I learned that once I got high enough in the air, I could coast and soar downward by stopping my arms...and then flapping them again to soar back up higher. I recall flying like this through cities...narrowly navigating to escape smashing into skyscrapers. And now in the most recent dreams, I fly more like Superman...or the Vampire Lestat. I simply take off quickly, my body gliding through the air - no physical motion needed. It's as if I have learned to will myself through the air.
Recently I saw a movie with one of my favorite Spanish actors, Javier Bardem. In The Sea Inside, Javier's character is paralyzed, but in his dreams, he can run...and fly. When I saw the flying sequence in this movie, my heart fluttered. It was exactly what I feel in my dreams. The sensation came back to me so vivid, so rich.
But what gets me is, though I know I cannot fly, I can always call to mind the sensation at any point throughout my day. It's a beautiful and liberating feeling. One that gives me strength and perspective whenever I need to remember that life is bigger than what we can only see. And that in the blackness of sleep we find ultimate illumination.
Some people think that I am lazy and too much in love with sleep. Others think I fear "reality" and seek to escape from the monotony of structured life. And while all of this may be partially true, it's not the core truth. I love life and all of its simple pleasures. Boredom is a state of mind that rarely exists with me and surprises me when I hear it claimed by others. You have to live with a curious heart and an open mind - you have to choose your own adventures.
But dreams allow you to push beyond the limits of the terra firma. Absolutely anything can happen. In sleep I find the antithesis of peace, although chaos is not exactly the right descriptor. What I look forward to most is the anticipation of discovering what imaginative realms lay waiting for me. It's like watching a new movie every night...a movie that I am invariably the star in.
My favorite movies, books and even music albums have always been the ones where there is a sequel. No, strike that. "Sequel" sounds like something produced only to capitalize on the success of something else. It's about a story told in series. All of the plots planned out ahead of time. I love series because the characters, the emotions, stay with you. You travel with them and get to keep them a little longer. You get to know them and they become a part of you.
The same is true with dreams for me. I have many recurring dreams or themes in dreams, some of which pick up where they left off and some of which twist in entirely new directions. Two such types of dreams have been with me for years now: flying dreams and water dreams. In the water dreams I am sometimes nightswimming alone, or else I am on a coastline, or a lake. The water dreams usually take the form of some monster thriller, like the ones my brothers and I remember so fondly from our childhood.
But the flying dreams, I must admit, are my favorite. With each dream, I seem to become more adept at it. I clearly remember the first dream I ever had. I was attached by a long red string to my massive 4-pound childhood Yorkshire terrier, Buffie. She began to run through a field, and my body lifted into the air as if I were a kite. In the next dream, I learned to fly by myself. I flapped my arms up, down, up, down...just like a bird. I didn't need to run - I would simply stand in place and flap harder and harder until finally I began to lift off of the ground. Eventually, through many dreams, I learned that once I got high enough in the air, I could coast and soar downward by stopping my arms...and then flapping them again to soar back up higher. I recall flying like this through cities...narrowly navigating to escape smashing into skyscrapers. And now in the most recent dreams, I fly more like Superman...or the Vampire Lestat. I simply take off quickly, my body gliding through the air - no physical motion needed. It's as if I have learned to will myself through the air.
Recently I saw a movie with one of my favorite Spanish actors, Javier Bardem. In The Sea Inside, Javier's character is paralyzed, but in his dreams, he can run...and fly. When I saw the flying sequence in this movie, my heart fluttered. It was exactly what I feel in my dreams. The sensation came back to me so vivid, so rich.
But what gets me is, though I know I cannot fly, I can always call to mind the sensation at any point throughout my day. It's a beautiful and liberating feeling. One that gives me strength and perspective whenever I need to remember that life is bigger than what we can only see. And that in the blackness of sleep we find ultimate illumination.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Happiness in a Bag
Okay, seriously. It's gotta stop. Over 99 billion served and I account for about half of those. The golden, crunch of fries that leave salt on your lips and fingertips. The way the overprocessed cheese clings to the paper. Why, it's more than I can bear. And apparently i'm not the only one. Recently my friend Max came up with the brilliant idea of taking double cheeseburgers, chicken McNuggets and fries and plating them up on fine china with polished silverware. It was the best dinner party I'd ever had at 1:30 in the morning.I never really thought much about going to McDonald's until the recent slowing of my metabolism. As I began the final stretch to 30, my body made it all too clear that I could no longer afford to maintain my McHabit and keep a 32 waist. So, I made a promise to myself: only one fast food meal a week. Which I'm tragically aware that, to many, still sounds like quite a bit of "calories from fat." But limiting the frequency of my visits only increased the intensity of my cravings and I found it no longer enough to find contentment in a value meal alone.
Now I have a special order down: a #10 value meal (10-piece chicken nuggets with fries and a drink). And when the friendly cashier asks, mostly perfunctorily, "Will that be all?" - I, being that fat ass that I am, reply without hesitation, "Um, no. I'd also like one double-cheeseburger." Why? Because the oh-so-varied tastes of the nuggets and fries isn't enough...I need some of that mad cow with cheese, please.
I also tried ordering diet coke with my meals for a long while. Until it dawned on me that drinking diet coke with a 1,200-calorie meal was about as healthy as jogging instead of walking down to the store to grab another pack of Parliament Lights. So I gave that up and now throw in a real Coke in an attempt to force all the rest of the food to fit within the confines of my stomach long enough for the digestive process to begin.
But fast-food karma is finally catching up with me and it's not being subtle with the signs. I checked my email inbox today to find my horoscope looking down its nose at me with narrowed eyes: "You know those feelings you get after you gobble down a fast-food meal -- regret, heartburn and lethargy? You can prevent that feeling (and apply this to other, less tangible areas of your life as well). Improve your discipline."
WTF!!!?!??!?!?
But then, it's not really my fault. I blame my mother, a product of all those PTA meetings and Den Mother duties in the early 80s that taught her McDonald's was the God of the easy family dinner - much like the TV was the Goddess of babysitting. But I suppose I must admit, my addiction never would have held if I didn't actually love the whole experience. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of birthday parties at McDonald's. Amazing cakes piled with lovable characters made of pure sugar. Shoveling through the fries on your tray to find that golden ticket to the longest french fry contest. And then there were the playgrounds, like miniature Disneylands where you could roam among the multi-colored balls behind the netting...at least until you showed mom that strange-looking needle you'd nearly stepped on.
But most of all, I loved the Happy Meals. Back then they were much more inventive than the +$3.99 watches or the tiny plastic figurines from the latest straight-to-DVD Disney sequel. Back then they had wacky wall-walkers or wind-up Hotwheels. Or sometimes even the boxes the meals came in were the toy, made of plastic train cars for the sandbox or inflatable boats for the community pools in the summer.
Years later it amazed and saddened me to learn that some children were never allowed McDonald's. They're the same children today who are given the option to substitute their fries with a side of apples...yes, APPLES! Some appreciate the attempt to throw a bone to the childhood obesity propaganda, but I think it's really just a clever PR trick. I mean, what kid in their right mind is going to choose apples over french fries?
To this day, I refuse to watch the fast-food documentary "Supersize Me!" I'm almost entirely sure it would take all the fun out it for me. And maybe that's why I can't give it up. Maybe every time I hit the drive-thru, I'm really just searching for the joy and wonder that only a Happy Meal can bring.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Red, White and Light Blue
The following is an anecdote I wrote for my company newsletter in April 2005. I recently re-read it and thought it worth posting here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Recently, I attended my first fútbol game, Mexico vs. Argentina, at the LA Coliseum. As a gringo, I thought, “this’ll be like attending my first baseball game!” After all, baseball is the traditional American sport, right? I remembered my Dad taking me to the Atlanta Braves stadium when I was little. It was all hot dogs and big foam fingers and red, white and blue t-shirts.
Of course, I’d heard rumors of Latinos’ unbridled fervor and fierce competitiveness at fútbol games. I wanted to blend in as best as possible, so I thought I’d wear something unassuming…something I wouldn’t stand out in. At least as much as one of the very few white boys in attendance could stand out. I chose a light blue sweater and some jeans. Safe bet for sure.
Since the game was held in Los Angeles, most everyone I saw was a fan of the Mexican team. Everywhere I looked, I saw green, white and red. People were wearing colored headbands and face painting, and even wrapping flags about their shoulders. Countless souvenir vendors lined the streets, calling out prices. I smiled at them, my hands in my pockets, so swept up in the excitement…the jovial laughter and Viva Mexico!’s shouted out. But where were the Argentinian fans?
As I started to walk up to the ticket entrance (tiny gates where people were funneled through toe-to-heel), I picked up a conversation behind me: “Oh, man. I’d hate to be that guy here.”. I turned around, still smiling, to see who they were talking about and was met with a row of smirks directed right at me. I was confused until I saw my first small group of Argentinian fans…all wearing light blue. As a series of whistles and catcalls began to ambush me from all sides, I realized I was “passing” for Argentinian. Without any other Argentineans with me.
After finding my seat, I looked around and found myself again surrounded by green, white and red, this time as a vast and turbulent sea surrounding me. Far across the field, on the other side, in one small corner was a group of my “fellow” Argentineans – furiously waving their light blue and white flags.
As the game progressed, I was overwhelmed by the experience. The rivalry was far more passionate than any sporting event I could ever remember attending. Yes, even memories of my old college football tailgate parties seemed lame in comparison. The Mexican team would score a goal and I’d hear an eruption of cheers, temporarily deafening me. I could quite literally feel the sense of pride in the air as goose bumps raised on my arms. Then, the Argentinian team would score. I could see the Argentinian fans waving their flags about madly…but I couldn’t hear them. Not over the cacophony of colorful words assaulting my ears. These people were serious about soccer.
I looked over to see our Argentinian creative director covering the ears of his young daughter. When I asked him what he thought of her experiencing this intensity at such a young age, he replied, “It’s important that she see this part of her culture. Besides, this is nothing compared to what the games are like in Argentina. There you’ll see policemen running about behind glass shields, trying to keep the fans from starting any real trouble.” I recalled my first baseball game again and remembered my Dad grumbling only once or twice when the umpire made what he thought was the “wrong” call. I swallowed a sip of my cerveza, took a bite out of my churro and decided that at my next fútbol game I’d be more careful with my wardrobe selection. While I truly appreciated and felt a part of the experience, I had no intention of finding out what “real” trouble meant exactly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Recently, I attended my first fútbol game, Mexico vs. Argentina, at the LA Coliseum. As a gringo, I thought, “this’ll be like attending my first baseball game!” After all, baseball is the traditional American sport, right? I remembered my Dad taking me to the Atlanta Braves stadium when I was little. It was all hot dogs and big foam fingers and red, white and blue t-shirts. Of course, I’d heard rumors of Latinos’ unbridled fervor and fierce competitiveness at fútbol games. I wanted to blend in as best as possible, so I thought I’d wear something unassuming…something I wouldn’t stand out in. At least as much as one of the very few white boys in attendance could stand out. I chose a light blue sweater and some jeans. Safe bet for sure.
Since the game was held in Los Angeles, most everyone I saw was a fan of the Mexican team. Everywhere I looked, I saw green, white and red. People were wearing colored headbands and face painting, and even wrapping flags about their shoulders. Countless souvenir vendors lined the streets, calling out prices. I smiled at them, my hands in my pockets, so swept up in the excitement…the jovial laughter and Viva Mexico!’s shouted out. But where were the Argentinian fans?
As I started to walk up to the ticket entrance (tiny gates where people were funneled through toe-to-heel), I picked up a conversation behind me: “Oh, man. I’d hate to be that guy here.”. I turned around, still smiling, to see who they were talking about and was met with a row of smirks directed right at me. I was confused until I saw my first small group of Argentinian fans…all wearing light blue. As a series of whistles and catcalls began to ambush me from all sides, I realized I was “passing” for Argentinian. Without any other Argentineans with me.
After finding my seat, I looked around and found myself again surrounded by green, white and red, this time as a vast and turbulent sea surrounding me. Far across the field, on the other side, in one small corner was a group of my “fellow” Argentineans – furiously waving their light blue and white flags.
As the game progressed, I was overwhelmed by the experience. The rivalry was far more passionate than any sporting event I could ever remember attending. Yes, even memories of my old college football tailgate parties seemed lame in comparison. The Mexican team would score a goal and I’d hear an eruption of cheers, temporarily deafening me. I could quite literally feel the sense of pride in the air as goose bumps raised on my arms. Then, the Argentinian team would score. I could see the Argentinian fans waving their flags about madly…but I couldn’t hear them. Not over the cacophony of colorful words assaulting my ears. These people were serious about soccer.
I looked over to see our Argentinian creative director covering the ears of his young daughter. When I asked him what he thought of her experiencing this intensity at such a young age, he replied, “It’s important that she see this part of her culture. Besides, this is nothing compared to what the games are like in Argentina. There you’ll see policemen running about behind glass shields, trying to keep the fans from starting any real trouble.” I recalled my first baseball game again and remembered my Dad grumbling only once or twice when the umpire made what he thought was the “wrong” call. I swallowed a sip of my cerveza, took a bite out of my churro and decided that at my next fútbol game I’d be more careful with my wardrobe selection. While I truly appreciated and felt a part of the experience, I had no intention of finding out what “real” trouble meant exactly.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Kong Dong Delivery
While I adore my little beach apartment, one of its few drawbacks is my mailbox. You see, there's an older couple who occupies the top floor of the house, leaving me the bottom floor. Joe and Laurie are generally quiet and friendly. Of course, if you accept Joe's offer of a Red Stripe beer, you could be subjected to an hour-long monologue tribute to his surfing days. And, yes, Laurie is one of "those" beach people who hangs a giant decorative flag from her porch, exchanging the banners out in honor of whatever holiday or season we are currently celebrating (my favorite to date is the pink flamingo which waved during my birthday in of July). But really, these things are more cute than annoying.
But because we do each rent a half of one house, we must share a mailbox. When I first moved in, Laurie had already designed a PC-printed label with our last names on it, laminated to protect against those seaside winds and complete with a beachy sunset background. I at first thought that sharing a mailbox might be an infringement on my privacy. And, granted, when the occassional issue of Undergear comes with that season's model on the cover - bare naked except for the latest purple, velvet thong - I am the least bit embarrassed. But I get over it quickly when Laurie's QVC catalogue comes.
Now, normally Joe arrives home around 3:30pm from his morning bread delivery job. So he gets to the mail first, sorting out his and Laurie's mail and leaving mine in a nice little pile, all ready and waiting for me when I get home. It's always worked out just fine. Until now.
Most of us absolutely never forget to check our mail. Even if we might only be receiving fliers from Rosa the local cleaning lady or that month's MasterCard late notice, it's still exciting to receive something, specially meant for you. But this particular week I'd been distracted. Having tried introducing Metamucil into my diet, I was, um...under pressure to get into my house quickly. So my mail went unattended for two days. When I finally made it to my mailbox, I found a little gift waiting for me. An official-looking envelope from what at first appeared to be a legitimate business called DILDO RENTAL CLUB. Apparently my KONG DONG RENTAL FEES!!! were DUE IMMEDIATELY.
Horrified, I grabbed my mail and ducked indoors as quickly as possible. I was furious with this company! I'd never done business with them and I couldn't believe they would put such statements next to my name in the mail! Now, if I'd have looked more closely I might have noticed that there were actually two return addresses on the envelope. And even disregarding this first clue, you'd think I would have thought about the actual concept a little more. I mean, who RENTS a dildo? Do they boil them in between lendings to ensure adherence proper sanitary guidelines? And if so, is there a Dildo-of-the-Month option where you can sample various textures, flavors and voltages?
But, no my brain didn't make it that far. I was enraged and fully intent on calling up this Dildo Rental Club located at 69 Cumming Group Circle and giving them a piece of mind. I ripped open the envelope and out fell a letter. A letter from a "good" friend of mine, Steve, wishing me a Happy New Year and asking oh wasn't his little joke so funny?
But he didn't know I shared my mailbox with my thus-far nice little neighbors. He also didn't know that since my return from Christmas vacation, I'd been hounding them for a package that they were supposed to collect for me while I was out. A package which they later found and handed off to me, being careful not to touch any small openings. Okay, maybe the package DID hold underwear within it...but certainly not a rented dildo! It was then that I realized they'd thought that, unbeknownst to them, an actual Kong Dong, possibly double-headed, had been sitting on their kitchen counter under a pile of newspapers for a week.
Needless to say, I've canceled my Undergear subscription and now have all packages delivered to my work address. And every day I come home surprised, yet thankful, to see my name not yet blacked out from having desecrated our cute little mailbox.
But because we do each rent a half of one house, we must share a mailbox. When I first moved in, Laurie had already designed a PC-printed label with our last names on it, laminated to protect against those seaside winds and complete with a beachy sunset background. I at first thought that sharing a mailbox might be an infringement on my privacy. And, granted, when the occassional issue of Undergear comes with that season's model on the cover - bare naked except for the latest purple, velvet thong - I am the least bit embarrassed. But I get over it quickly when Laurie's QVC catalogue comes.
Now, normally Joe arrives home around 3:30pm from his morning bread delivery job. So he gets to the mail first, sorting out his and Laurie's mail and leaving mine in a nice little pile, all ready and waiting for me when I get home. It's always worked out just fine. Until now.
Most of us absolutely never forget to check our mail. Even if we might only be receiving fliers from Rosa the local cleaning lady or that month's MasterCard late notice, it's still exciting to receive something, specially meant for you. But this particular week I'd been distracted. Having tried introducing Metamucil into my diet, I was, um...under pressure to get into my house quickly. So my mail went unattended for two days. When I finally made it to my mailbox, I found a little gift waiting for me. An official-looking envelope from what at first appeared to be a legitimate business called DILDO RENTAL CLUB. Apparently my KONG DONG RENTAL FEES!!! were DUE IMMEDIATELY.
Horrified, I grabbed my mail and ducked indoors as quickly as possible. I was furious with this company! I'd never done business with them and I couldn't believe they would put such statements next to my name in the mail! Now, if I'd have looked more closely I might have noticed that there were actually two return addresses on the envelope. And even disregarding this first clue, you'd think I would have thought about the actual concept a little more. I mean, who RENTS a dildo? Do they boil them in between lendings to ensure adherence proper sanitary guidelines? And if so, is there a Dildo-of-the-Month option where you can sample various textures, flavors and voltages?
But, no my brain didn't make it that far. I was enraged and fully intent on calling up this Dildo Rental Club located at 69 Cumming Group Circle and giving them a piece of mind. I ripped open the envelope and out fell a letter. A letter from a "good" friend of mine, Steve, wishing me a Happy New Year and asking oh wasn't his little joke so funny?
But he didn't know I shared my mailbox with my thus-far nice little neighbors. He also didn't know that since my return from Christmas vacation, I'd been hounding them for a package that they were supposed to collect for me while I was out. A package which they later found and handed off to me, being careful not to touch any small openings. Okay, maybe the package DID hold underwear within it...but certainly not a rented dildo! It was then that I realized they'd thought that, unbeknownst to them, an actual Kong Dong, possibly double-headed, had been sitting on their kitchen counter under a pile of newspapers for a week.
Needless to say, I've canceled my Undergear subscription and now have all packages delivered to my work address. And every day I come home surprised, yet thankful, to see my name not yet blacked out from having desecrated our cute little mailbox.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Net Fix
I'd originally intended this post as a hate letter to Blockbuster, but in the spirit of positive mental attitude decided on a tribute to Netflix instead. Now that's not to say I won't bother with a passing mention of my absolute detestation of the former. After all, that big blue and yellow box merrily swallowed binfuls of my money during my early 20s - a time when I considered spending $20 on a 99cent store shopping spree a treat. Miss one day and you'd be charged the price of the rental in the first place. Miss two or more days and you could have bought copies of the movies for you and a friend to hold and cherish at your leisure forever. Had you been so smart in the first place that is.
But my hatred for Blockbuster extends beyond the late fees. It's about all the times I desperately wanted to rent the already taken single copy of Citizen Kane while 47 copies of a New Release starring Jennifer Lopez cried out for me from the shelves (in a tortured and strained cat-like howl, no less). This coupled with the fact that every time I visited a store as a single person I had to endure all of the sickeningly happy couples, all comfy-cozy in their sweats, making wretchedly wet sounding noises as they kissed and touched each other inappropriately. I tell you it was almost enough to turn me off to rentals forever.
So forgive me if it gives me great pleasure to see so many strip malls reduced to ghost towns, the once-bustling Blockbuster stores now hollowed out, with fading yellow walls and spray-painted obscenities.
But I'm here to exhault Netflix, aren't I? Ahh...Netflix. The name even sounds poetic to me now, like the whispy sound of a butterfly easily escaping the swooping net of an obnoxious child.
Yes it's true, there are never, ever any late fees. And the once-a-month fee can be as low as you want it to be. You shop for movies anytime you want in the comfort of your own sweats at home, your little Cheeto-stained fingers sticking to the keyboard. You add to your queue with carefree abandon, clicking any movie you have ever wanted and could ever possibly want to watch. You can even continuously change the priority of your picks, depending on what mood you're in. And your movie takes about two days to arrive, just long enough to forget about it and be pleasantly surprised with the mail, but not long enough to piss you off.
And when you're finished you just pop it back in the mail, postage-included and excitedly await the next one on your list. In the meantime, you can rate the movie, check out what your decidedly intelligent Netflix friends have been watching, and even browse through the wonderfully recommended "Movies You'll Love" section. And later on, you can scroll through your History, laughing and cooing with fondest memories at all of the movies you'd forgotten you enjoyed.
It's pure genious, really.
And so Netflix has become my cure-all for many an emotional night and my love of renting movies has been restored. And best of all? They're always in stock with any movie you can imagine from foreign films to documentaries. So you never have to resort to a watching a "Blockbuster" movie again.
But my hatred for Blockbuster extends beyond the late fees. It's about all the times I desperately wanted to rent the already taken single copy of Citizen Kane while 47 copies of a New Release starring Jennifer Lopez cried out for me from the shelves (in a tortured and strained cat-like howl, no less). This coupled with the fact that every time I visited a store as a single person I had to endure all of the sickeningly happy couples, all comfy-cozy in their sweats, making wretchedly wet sounding noises as they kissed and touched each other inappropriately. I tell you it was almost enough to turn me off to rentals forever.
So forgive me if it gives me great pleasure to see so many strip malls reduced to ghost towns, the once-bustling Blockbuster stores now hollowed out, with fading yellow walls and spray-painted obscenities.
But I'm here to exhault Netflix, aren't I? Ahh...Netflix. The name even sounds poetic to me now, like the whispy sound of a butterfly easily escaping the swooping net of an obnoxious child.
Yes it's true, there are never, ever any late fees. And the once-a-month fee can be as low as you want it to be. You shop for movies anytime you want in the comfort of your own sweats at home, your little Cheeto-stained fingers sticking to the keyboard. You add to your queue with carefree abandon, clicking any movie you have ever wanted and could ever possibly want to watch. You can even continuously change the priority of your picks, depending on what mood you're in. And your movie takes about two days to arrive, just long enough to forget about it and be pleasantly surprised with the mail, but not long enough to piss you off.
And when you're finished you just pop it back in the mail, postage-included and excitedly await the next one on your list. In the meantime, you can rate the movie, check out what your decidedly intelligent Netflix friends have been watching, and even browse through the wonderfully recommended "Movies You'll Love" section. And later on, you can scroll through your History, laughing and cooing with fondest memories at all of the movies you'd forgotten you enjoyed.It's pure genious, really.
And so Netflix has become my cure-all for many an emotional night and my love of renting movies has been restored. And best of all? They're always in stock with any movie you can imagine from foreign films to documentaries. So you never have to resort to a watching a "Blockbuster" movie again.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
The Importance of Being
LA is one of those cities where there is always a friend of a friend who is displaying their art or playing at a local coffee house. You are sometimes forced to go depending on the level of obligation you feel, which is usually determined by the nth degree of separation between you and artist. I always try to go with an open mind, but more often than not find myself bored, baffled or on rare occasion, horrified.
In one weekend, I had two such obligations which ultimately lead to a great change in my perception and attitude to local creative sampling. The first was a musician playing folk songs with his guitar on a small latte-stained stage in West LA. The music was gentle, which to my hyperstimulated mind made it seem slow. I thought to myself, "no wonder he plays in a place where caffeine is available for immediate consumption." What's worse, he continuously apologized for his music saying things like, "I don't want to put you guys to sleep." Now I'm in the business of advertising, and in my mind this was no way to sell his music.
Still, there he was - in the raw. Proffering his creativity for my entertainment. And gradually I found myself relenting, moved by the music. For his last song, he truly let loose. His guitar became the devil's instrument, his fingers working up and down the strings with preternatural speed. His eyes rolled back, his boots beat wildly on the floor. And by the time he finished, I was the one who was breathless. But one thing struck me hard: had I not already opened my mind earlier, I would likely never have appreciated his work to the degree that it deserved.
The next night, I attended an art show. Ready to appreciate with newly opened eyes, I found one artist in particular who's work caught me. Fascinated by materials, he worked with wood, metal and stone. I loved them all...and was hungry to hear his thoughts, his inspirations behind each. But to my dismay, he could offer me nothing. For him, the inspiration came from within and was no result of a premeditated idea or statement. I was shocked! Didn't one need a muse? Doesn't art need a reason to exist? Ever the inquisitor, I asked him what I thought would be an easier question to answer: which material did he like to work with best? But still he could not answer. He simply shrugged and said that each has it's own beauty.
Disgruntled, I moved on to look at the work of other artists in the show. But eventually I worked my way back to one of sculpture in particular of his. I stood before it without demands. My eyes roamed the curves, embraced the imperfections and caressed light and shadows. Until I woke with halt. It wasn't about the meaning behind it or even what the artist might have intended its purpose to be. It was about me. My reation to it. The changes it stirred within me. All art wants is the freedom to be.
In the novel, The Golden Spruce, John Vaillant writes of storytelling, “each version of a story is highly dependent on a given teller’s memory, integrity, agenda, and intended audience...but it also depends on the current needs of the teller, the listeners, and the times.” Maybe the process of creativity does not end with a fit of passion. Maybe the process actually extends long after the artist has laid down their brush or clicked off their amp. It lives on in the impressions it inspires. Creativity is a continuous process that no one individual can own. Because as soon as it is told to a listener, it is now the property of that listener and thus vulnerable too his subjectification. He now has the right to use it as a paint or a note to create something new out of, even if only for himself.
I am no longer quick to roll my eyes before unestablished musicians or question an unknown sculpture's existence before it's begun to change me. Now, I simply breath in with patience...and wait for the beauty to overwhelm me in its own way.
In one weekend, I had two such obligations which ultimately lead to a great change in my perception and attitude to local creative sampling. The first was a musician playing folk songs with his guitar on a small latte-stained stage in West LA. The music was gentle, which to my hyperstimulated mind made it seem slow. I thought to myself, "no wonder he plays in a place where caffeine is available for immediate consumption." What's worse, he continuously apologized for his music saying things like, "I don't want to put you guys to sleep." Now I'm in the business of advertising, and in my mind this was no way to sell his music.
Still, there he was - in the raw. Proffering his creativity for my entertainment. And gradually I found myself relenting, moved by the music. For his last song, he truly let loose. His guitar became the devil's instrument, his fingers working up and down the strings with preternatural speed. His eyes rolled back, his boots beat wildly on the floor. And by the time he finished, I was the one who was breathless. But one thing struck me hard: had I not already opened my mind earlier, I would likely never have appreciated his work to the degree that it deserved.The next night, I attended an art show. Ready to appreciate with newly opened eyes, I found one artist in particular who's work caught me. Fascinated by materials, he worked with wood, metal and stone. I loved them all...and was hungry to hear his thoughts, his inspirations behind each. But to my dismay, he could offer me nothing. For him, the inspiration came from within and was no result of a premeditated idea or statement. I was shocked! Didn't one need a muse? Doesn't art need a reason to exist? Ever the inquisitor, I asked him what I thought would be an easier question to answer: which material did he like to work with best? But still he could not answer. He simply shrugged and said that each has it's own beauty.
Disgruntled, I moved on to look at the work of other artists in the show. But eventually I worked my way back to one of sculpture in particular of his. I stood before it without demands. My eyes roamed the curves, embraced the imperfections and caressed light and shadows. Until I woke with halt. It wasn't about the meaning behind it or even what the artist might have intended its purpose to be. It was about me. My reation to it. The changes it stirred within me. All art wants is the freedom to be.In the novel, The Golden Spruce, John Vaillant writes of storytelling, “each version of a story is highly dependent on a given teller’s memory, integrity, agenda, and intended audience...but it also depends on the current needs of the teller, the listeners, and the times.” Maybe the process of creativity does not end with a fit of passion. Maybe the process actually extends long after the artist has laid down their brush or clicked off their amp. It lives on in the impressions it inspires. Creativity is a continuous process that no one individual can own. Because as soon as it is told to a listener, it is now the property of that listener and thus vulnerable too his subjectification. He now has the right to use it as a paint or a note to create something new out of, even if only for himself.
I am no longer quick to roll my eyes before unestablished musicians or question an unknown sculpture's existence before it's begun to change me. Now, I simply breath in with patience...and wait for the beauty to overwhelm me in its own way.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Geisha Got Her Groove Back
I've always loved dressing up for Halloween. Digging through closets and rummaging through drawers to find various odds & ends - anything that might help piece together some inventive costume. And then the thrill of rushing out into the darkened streets, hunting under the moonlight. It always felt so wild and deliciously wicked. Putting on a mask or a costume is like putting on another persona - a you that rarely gets to come out. You feel a sense of abandon and freedom to be someone you're not - or perhaps more truly what the deepest part of you is.I have prided myself on the fact that every Halloween since birth I have dressed up in costume - save for one year. The Halloween that I was 13 I thought I was too kool for skool. I stayed in and talked on the phone all night with friends, thinking I was too old for make-up and funny clothes. It wasn't until Midnight, when I heard the last of the mischievous cries of "Trick or Treat," that I realized that I'd missed out on a custom I truly loved. So I made a vow to dress up every year since then. And I kept it effortlessly...until this year.
I was enjoying the more low-key customs of Halloween - hitting the pumpkin patch, carving my Jack-o-lantern, boiling peanuts and watching scary movies. But I wasn't planning on dressing up. For some reason, it just seemed like too much work. For the first time since my 13th year, I felt too old for the tradition again. And I had given in to this concession, ready to settle for the little comforts.
But as I mentioned my plan to longtime friends, they're reactions shocked me. "But you ALWAYS dress up!" "You love Halloween!" It struck me hard and I felt a pang of disappointment in myself. But still I pushed it aside, thinking I'd simply entered a new, more settled phase of life. I was resigned...but the truly frightening part was that I was actually fine with that resignation.
Finally the night of Hallow's Eve came. I sat on my couch eating pasta, cuddled up for a warm night in. Flipping through the channels, I saw a TV special on vampires - the one fabled creature that has always held a special place in my heart. Something to do with the combination of hedonistic spirit and decadent eccentricity. I immediately thought of Anne Rice's Vampire Lestat. "What antics would he be up to this evening?", my imagination wondered. And that's precisely the moment that the spirit stirred within me. Faster and faster it spiraled up and outward, tingling my skin. And all those exclamations from my friends returned ringing loudly in my ears like echoed hauntings. Suddenly it wasn't enough to stay home. I needed to be...ALIVE!
And then I was mad. Rushing to the garage to fetch my costume box. Flinging paints and wigs and fabrics in every direction. I guzzled vodka with plastic spiders in the glass. I cranked up Michael Jackson's, "Thriller," and did a little jig. I tell you I was possessed! So much so that I made not one but two last minute, makeshift costumes that night. A secret, private one for me which never made it out of the house. And a more simple, fun one for the madness of the Boulevard.That night, as I walked the crowded, howling, bleeding streets. I laughed to myself and gave a little wink to the moon. For I realized that my childish heart had prevailed yet again.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Nuts Don't Fall Far...
We all have those little quirks, talents and bad habits we pick up from our family. Never were mine so apparent to me than at my youngest brother's recent wedding.
My brothers and I are spitting images of my dad. Okay, maybe more like full on hawked-up lugi images. We are all truly Masters of Pomp & Ceremony. You see my youngest brother, Brian's wedding was to be the first in our immediate family's. So naturally, all the men felt it was imperative to give a speech, honoring Brian. But secretly, we all knew it was a chance to outshine each other as well. Competition among family can be the most gruesomely fun sport of all - because no one is more important to impress than your family.
My Dad wrote his speech early on, months before the wedding. I practiced mine the week of. And Brad, the middle brother (aka Jan), decided to wing his on the spur of the moment. But a funny thing happened just before we were all to give our toasts...we all became incredibly nervous! For the first time, food before us was left untouched. And not for the first time, alcohol was drained clean from our glasses.
My Dad, the "Godfather," went first. It was short, but truest of all and filled with more emotion than most of us probably give him credit for having. Brad was next, swaggering up to the microphone, ready for the joker's role. He made it through with laughter, ending on an "aw." Then it was my turn. I collected a quote from our childhood favorite, The Wizard of Oz, and pushed it forward with all the finesse of Bob Barker. But as the toasts ended, a calm washed over all of us. We looked to Brian with bright smiles and suddenly it didn't matter who won so much (although my grandmother says I had the best speech, hands-down).
We also have a bit of trickster blood in my family. My aunt Windy is a "good witch," but a crafty one. In early childhood, she convinced me that whenever I had a cough all I had to do was raise my hands high in the air. She explained that the stretching motion causes your diaphragm to rise, thus easing the coughing fit. Who would argue with such logical reasoning? After all I had nothing to lose, right? So not only did I continue this exercise throughout my life, but I dutifully passed the tip on to others.
It wasn't until years later during the wedding that I realized just how gullible I had been. You see, the ceremony was at sunset on the beach and, while beautiful, the wedding party and its onlookers were swarmed with sand gnats. Oh we held our grace as well as we could, swatting our faces and scratching our heads as nonchalantly as possible. But as soon as the ceremony ended, the crowd dispersed and my aunt acted at the speed of lightening. She spread the world, oh so subtly, that all you had to do was raise your arms high in the air. The gnats, attracted by the heat of the exposed flesh, would swarm around your fingers, leaving your face and neck in blissful relief. And one by one, my entire family raised their arms faithfully in the air. We looked like we were praising the Lord on high.
Windy would've gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for one sneaky chuckle to escape her lips. And that's when I called her on it. Why, this was no cure for a cough, no insect repellent! It was all a ruse, just to see exactly how many idiots would fall for the little trick. What's sad is I fell for it twice. God bless her, but I will get her back.
Finally, I have to explain the dancing. Now, for years I thought I was the only dancer. I took cotillion lessons in middle school and was in ballroom performance briefly in college. I've even won a couple of freestyle dance competitions in clubs. But at this wedding, I found the rhythmic roots of my happy feet. The gift had been in my genes all along.
Before my eyes, my Mom became one of the Supremes, shifting her arms and swaying in all the glory of Motown. My Dad suddenly channeled Elvis, pointing, turning and hip jabbing frantically. And then my Grandmama glided across the floor and took my hand. We hustled with ease as she spun under my arms, landing feline-like back on her heels. Naturally, it wasn't long until the rest of the family joined in.
Whether it's nature, nuture or a combination of both, we are nothing if not a culmination of everything that makes up our families. And that's precisely what makes your family so special and so irreplaceable. By seeing yourself so clearly revealed in them, you come to understand that you never have to be alone.
Oh, Auntie Windy...there's no place like home!
My brothers and I are spitting images of my dad. Okay, maybe more like full on hawked-up lugi images. We are all truly Masters of Pomp & Ceremony. You see my youngest brother, Brian's wedding was to be the first in our immediate family's. So naturally, all the men felt it was imperative to give a speech, honoring Brian. But secretly, we all knew it was a chance to outshine each other as well. Competition among family can be the most gruesomely fun sport of all - because no one is more important to impress than your family.
My Dad wrote his speech early on, months before the wedding. I practiced mine the week of. And Brad, the middle brother (aka Jan), decided to wing his on the spur of the moment. But a funny thing happened just before we were all to give our toasts...we all became incredibly nervous! For the first time, food before us was left untouched. And not for the first time, alcohol was drained clean from our glasses.
My Dad, the "Godfather," went first. It was short, but truest of all and filled with more emotion than most of us probably give him credit for having. Brad was next, swaggering up to the microphone, ready for the joker's role. He made it through with laughter, ending on an "aw." Then it was my turn. I collected a quote from our childhood favorite, The Wizard of Oz, and pushed it forward with all the finesse of Bob Barker. But as the toasts ended, a calm washed over all of us. We looked to Brian with bright smiles and suddenly it didn't matter who won so much (although my grandmother says I had the best speech, hands-down).We also have a bit of trickster blood in my family. My aunt Windy is a "good witch," but a crafty one. In early childhood, she convinced me that whenever I had a cough all I had to do was raise my hands high in the air. She explained that the stretching motion causes your diaphragm to rise, thus easing the coughing fit. Who would argue with such logical reasoning? After all I had nothing to lose, right? So not only did I continue this exercise throughout my life, but I dutifully passed the tip on to others.
It wasn't until years later during the wedding that I realized just how gullible I had been. You see, the ceremony was at sunset on the beach and, while beautiful, the wedding party and its onlookers were swarmed with sand gnats. Oh we held our grace as well as we could, swatting our faces and scratching our heads as nonchalantly as possible. But as soon as the ceremony ended, the crowd dispersed and my aunt acted at the speed of lightening. She spread the world, oh so subtly, that all you had to do was raise your arms high in the air. The gnats, attracted by the heat of the exposed flesh, would swarm around your fingers, leaving your face and neck in blissful relief. And one by one, my entire family raised their arms faithfully in the air. We looked like we were praising the Lord on high.
Windy would've gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for one sneaky chuckle to escape her lips. And that's when I called her on it. Why, this was no cure for a cough, no insect repellent! It was all a ruse, just to see exactly how many idiots would fall for the little trick. What's sad is I fell for it twice. God bless her, but I will get her back.
Finally, I have to explain the dancing. Now, for years I thought I was the only dancer. I took cotillion lessons in middle school and was in ballroom performance briefly in college. I've even won a couple of freestyle dance competitions in clubs. But at this wedding, I found the rhythmic roots of my happy feet. The gift had been in my genes all along. 
Before my eyes, my Mom became one of the Supremes, shifting her arms and swaying in all the glory of Motown. My Dad suddenly channeled Elvis, pointing, turning and hip jabbing frantically. And then my Grandmama glided across the floor and took my hand. We hustled with ease as she spun under my arms, landing feline-like back on her heels. Naturally, it wasn't long until the rest of the family joined in.
Whether it's nature, nuture or a combination of both, we are nothing if not a culmination of everything that makes up our families. And that's precisely what makes your family so special and so irreplaceable. By seeing yourself so clearly revealed in them, you come to understand that you never have to be alone. Oh, Auntie Windy...there's no place like home!
Saturday, October 07, 2006
SuperGay
What is it with the gays and their superheroes? I've always been vaguely aware of some intrinsic connection between the culture and the fiction, but what is it about exactly? Does it go beyond those colorful capes and contoured phallus pouches?
In the beginning, there were our original Marvel & DC Comics heroes. I mean, how many Ambiguously Gay Duo jokes can one endure? Sure Batman resembles the stereotypical older, well-off gentleman mentoring the eager, young chick, Robin...ohhhhh. Okay fine, I see your point.
Well, maybe it's just a connection with gay male heroes. No lesbians allowed? Hmmm....think again. Wonderwoman, is one of the first dyke icons, crossing femininity (her long hair and gigantic breasts) with more masculine traits (her Amazon's frame, cold metallic forearm plates and, of course, her cowboy's lasso).
But it doesn't stop with that original brood. They've actually evolved into even stronger stereotypes. Today we have Xena, the modern day warrior princess, beloved poster woman of many lesbians. We also have the X-men lead by Wolverine, a hairy, well-muscled leather daddy-bear if ever I've seen one. Why, he even comes equipped with S&M devices in the "form of!" blade-like claws that shoot out through his fingers.
It's not just the characters themselves that are gay-like. It's the gays who simply adore them too. Enough to daydream well beyond adolescence that some mysterious benefactor will one day fly them away to some secret cave where a special power will be revealed to them.
But what's really underneath that torso-clinging spandex? Who's the man behind the mask?
As a gay man, I understand what it's like to grow up different. You feel like no one else can understand you. There's no one else like you in the world and you must endure it all alone. You have to hide your secret identity at all costs, for fear that others will shout, "Freak! Unnatural!" So you cower in your cave or hide behind your flawless facade, until one day you don your black leather boots, your tight shirts and your utility belt to unmask yourself to the world. It's about the need to believe that you have been dealt this fate for a reason. You're not an outcast...you're "the one!" You come to believe that you've been given a gift and that it is up to you to use it for good...or perhaps in some cases, for evil.
But was I the only one, or were there others like me after all? After some light research, I found Gay League - a community specifically for gay comic readers and creators. In the site, they list the entire of collection of out superheroes, including those of "uncertain orientation" and even transgendered heroes. And these aren't characters created by small, independent comic companies...they're developed by the two who've been doing it all along, Marvel & DC. In 1992, Marvel revealed that, after years of implication, their hero Northstar was indeed homosexual. Northstar was the first openly gay superhero to have a permanent presence in a continuing series. And more recently, a few characters were revealed gay in two Marvel titles: the Ultimate Incarnation of Colossus in Ultimate X-Men as well as Wiccan and Hulkling of the Young Avengers. Meanwhile, the new Batwoman has been unveiled as a lipstick lesbian. So whether it's the secret identities are simply those buckled boots, there's no denying that the comic book genre is definitely SuperGay.
In the beginning, there were our original Marvel & DC Comics heroes. I mean, how many Ambiguously Gay Duo jokes can one endure? Sure Batman resembles the stereotypical older, well-off gentleman mentoring the eager, young chick, Robin...ohhhhh. Okay fine, I see your point. Well, maybe it's just a connection with gay male heroes. No lesbians allowed? Hmmm....think again. Wonderwoman, is one of the first dyke icons, crossing femininity (her long hair and gigantic breasts) with more masculine traits (her Amazon's frame, cold metallic forearm plates and, of course, her cowboy's lasso).
But it doesn't stop with that original brood. They've actually evolved into even stronger stereotypes. Today we have Xena, the modern day warrior princess, beloved poster woman of many lesbians. We also have the X-men lead by Wolverine, a hairy, well-muscled leather daddy-bear if ever I've seen one. Why, he even comes equipped with S&M devices in the "form of!" blade-like claws that shoot out through his fingers.
It's not just the characters themselves that are gay-like. It's the gays who simply adore them too. Enough to daydream well beyond adolescence that some mysterious benefactor will one day fly them away to some secret cave where a special power will be revealed to them.
But what's really underneath that torso-clinging spandex? Who's the man behind the mask?
As a gay man, I understand what it's like to grow up different. You feel like no one else can understand you. There's no one else like you in the world and you must endure it all alone. You have to hide your secret identity at all costs, for fear that others will shout, "Freak! Unnatural!" So you cower in your cave or hide behind your flawless facade, until one day you don your black leather boots, your tight shirts and your utility belt to unmask yourself to the world. It's about the need to believe that you have been dealt this fate for a reason. You're not an outcast...you're "the one!" You come to believe that you've been given a gift and that it is up to you to use it for good...or perhaps in some cases, for evil.
But was I the only one, or were there others like me after all? After some light research, I found Gay League - a community specifically for gay comic readers and creators. In the site, they list the entire of collection of out superheroes, including those of "uncertain orientation" and even transgendered heroes. And these aren't characters created by small, independent comic companies...they're developed by the two who've been doing it all along, Marvel & DC. In 1992, Marvel revealed that, after years of implication, their hero Northstar was indeed homosexual. Northstar was the first openly gay superhero to have a permanent presence in a continuing series. And more recently, a few characters were revealed gay in two Marvel titles: the Ultimate Incarnation of Colossus in Ultimate X-Men as well as Wiccan and Hulkling of the Young Avengers. Meanwhile, the new Batwoman has been unveiled as a lipstick lesbian. So whether it's the secret identities are simply those buckled boots, there's no denying that the comic book genre is definitely SuperGay.
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