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.

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!

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.

Sailing Sick-up

I grew up on the water. My grandmother had a lakehouse before I was a baby (she threw my bottle, aka "ba-ba," to the fishes when she thought I was too old for it) and my parents got one later on. We went through several boats, from pontoons, to speed boats, to mini yachts to house boats to sail boats. And let me tell you, there is nothing like sleeping on a boat. You fall asleep on a gently rocking blanket of waves, the small splashes on the bottom of the boat second only to the soft hum of cicadas in the summer. It makes for the most amazing dreams.

So I've always appreciated boating - I never really had a choice. But I often forget that not everyone feels the same way I do.

A group of us went sailing in the Pacific recently. It was my first time on a boat in the Pacific and I was excited beyond belief. We had wine and cheese, good company, and a captain rivaling Chief Brody in Jaws. We shoved off from the port in Marina del Rey full of the wind in our hair (yes, I can still feel the wind in what little hair I now have left). Immediately, however, we realized we were probably in for more than we bargained for.

It was a rocky start. The boat lurched left, then right, the sails pitching from side to side. You had to duck frequently in order to avoid getting clocked on the head by the. Once out in the ocean, however, it was smooth sailing, as they say. Though the boat leaned practically on its side the whole time, most of us were enjoying the spectacular coastal views and the electric zing of life through our spirits.

It was on the way back from Malibu that the action happened. One of the seat cushions fell overboard and our fearless captain swung the boat around after it. Our motley crew made several attempts at nabbing it, all the time the boat flipping back and forth along the coastline as our captain stood over the edge with his harpoon. And we were almost about to catch that cushion too...when it happened.

A guy I'd just met all of the sudden flung his head overboard and commenced yacking full throttle. As others turned away in disgust, trying their best to pretend they didn't notice him, I stared directly at him. I couldn't help but crack a smile, glad that all those years around boats had made me sea worthy. I turned to another girl to comment, but her face looked green. And I'm not kidding...it was GREEN. She managed to mumble out, "I'm not feeling well" before going below for a bit of reprieve. At this point, I heard a soft chuckle escape from my mouth. Horrified, I forced a serious face to match the concern of the others. And that was when I turned around to see a girl on the other side of the boat, blowing chunks all along the starboard side.

It started as a feather in my gut. A light flutter that bubbled up, gaining strength on its way up my throat. And before I could even think to attempt to shove it back down, it came: great bellows of laughter erupting from my mouth. And there was no stopping it! I knew it would be one of those laughing fits that you are powerless to control. The kind that make others smile for awhile, but eventually become annoyed with you.

I rolled around the boat, my face in my arms. Red-faced, tears streaming, I looked to the others for or at least sympathy, but found none. I was on my own and it wasn't funny. But I just couldn't help it! It seemed like every time I turned around, someone else was puking! Every time I started to settle back down, the image of the back of someone's head would pop into my mind and I was done for again. Oh, the humanity of it all!

The fit finally petered out as the boat motored in to dock. We never did get that damn cushion back...but if you ask me, it's a small price to pay for a good giggle.

Inn Ocence Lost

There's nothing like hotel living. Don't get me wrong, I'm a bigtime homebody. I love the familiar comforts of home and, no matter how social I can be, nesting is a specialty of mine. But there's just something primal about invading a space and claiming it as your own.

First of all, it's exciting to be in a strange, new place. The first thing I do when I check into a room, is go exploring. I sniff around in all the drawers and snoop in all the closets, fully aware that I won't find anything all that interesting. Still, there's a certain satisfaction in the act. As if I were suddenly transformed into a wide-eyed cat, testing my claws on every surface, doing everything but spraying the curtains to mark my territory.

Secondly, I love the sheer abundance of it all! The place is yours to use and abuse. After all, a magical maid will slip in when you're not looking sometime the next day. She'll set everything perfect again with just the wrinkle of her nose. So, without a care in the world, you can go through several shampoo bottles during your stay. Brand new full ones will appear before you've used even an eight of the first one...and there'll be one leftover for you to take home for your troubles. You can leave trash lying on the floor just outside the wastebaskets. Who cares? Your whole room is your wastebasket now!

Then you can down baby bottles of booze from the mini bar, oblivious to any credit card damage they incur. Once you're nice and buzzed, you can order room service, feasting on hamburgers and cheesecake in bed. And you don't even have to bother to brush away any crumbs...why, you can even use the comforter as a napkin! And towels? Those are my favorite! As soon as you've dried off your satiated body, you can simply toss that nice, fluffy white towel on the floor. Maybe you'll even make the effort to kick it behind the toilet. You know, to make sure the maid understands that you are no longer in need of its service.

During a recent hotel stay, something happened to deprive me of all these wonderful joys. As I made my way into the bedroom, I noticed a card on the plush pillow of the neatly made bed. I leaned down to read it and it all but screamed back at me: "Help protect our environment! Conserve your towels, sheets and toiletries!"

At first I felt a softening in my soul, followed by a small pang of guilt for how much I had planned to reek havoc in this sweet, unsuspecting suite. But eventually, the guttural, gluttonous part of me won out and I found myself drowned again in all of my usual habits.

But on the final day, I stepped out of the tub and turned to the vanity in sudden shock. There, in the reflected fluorescent light of the bathroom mirror, was the horror of what I had become. A creature with bloated, paled skin. Pimples as large and as colorful as M&Ms covered my face. My eyes were bloodshot, my chest sunken. But most frightening of all was the look of pure greed that had been quickly etched into my face over those few days.

Slowly, I picked up a dirty, damp towel from the floor and dried myself off. I returned the shampoo bottles from my suitcase to their rightful spot beside the faucet and cleaned away all of the crumpled paper and rotting food. I resolved that next time I would remember the lesson that "complimentary" doesn't mean "take anything that isn't bolted down". I'd do it not just for the maid or the environment, but for myself.

And I'd also remember to bring a few candles to bathe by. Those fluorescent lights really are hell in a hotel.

AnybodySpace.com

Meet Carrie, a tertiary acquaintance of mine who I added to my myspace page early on in my haste to accumulate friends. Carrie is a 40 year-old bisexual who hearts pussycats, Dr. Pepper lip gloss and posing provacatively. But if you actually take the time to read her extremely lengthy "about me" section, she reveals that she is also coping with cancer, adores her autistic daughter and has a heart of gold. Carrie has also managed to amass over 12,000 friends.

It's called myspace.com, a place to harbor all of your dreams, fears, sins and secrets. But once you post all of these things, they don't really belong to just you anymore, do they? Anyone can peek into your private world. Anyone can steal your thoughts or take your photos (much like I stole the one above for this blog entry). Everyone knows what myspace is and lots of people have their very own smiley-face infested pages. All for the sake of innocent entertainment of course. But what's it really doing to us?

At first, I saw myspace as a sort of personal paparazzi. My crew could keep up with what was going on in my life. They could post pictures and comments about me...you know, share the love. Make me the celebrity in my world. But it also allows you to keep score of how many "friends" you have, which begs the question, "Do I have more than you?" And if I comment on your page, I expect an immediate, glowing comment back on my own. Or else I might just remove you from my Top 8. What's more, you have the power to approve or deny requests from would-be new friends. It's like playing a virtual game of God.

I also thought it was a good way to reconnect with old friends. Like random people in college you hung out with a few times but then lost touch with. Naturally, I found a few fun ones. But after requesting a few others to add me, I noticed that my number of "friends" didn't go up. Well, perhaps these people simply hadn't seen my request yet. After all, not everyone checks their myspace page for updates every 30 minutes, right? This logic kept my ego safely coddled for awhile...until three weeks passed and I realized the awful truth: I had been "denied." But why? Why don't they love me?

As a mature adult, I considered myself impervious to the negative side effects of myspace. I'm not some kid in high school anymore, desperate for attention and praise. The football jock can't check my page for catcalling fodder the next day. But myspace does have the potential to affect me as a career-oriented young man. Recently I've heard rumors that myspace, Lord help us, has become the go-to tool for career headhunters and HR directors. Who even needs a private detective anymore? Myspace seems to have eclipsed even Google as the perfect stalking device.

Myspacing is a popularity contest akin to a baby beauty pageant. The judging can be extremely superficial and overly critical. Anyone and everyone can sentence you in an instant, deciding whether to approve, deny or simply leave your friend request in the limbo called "pending".

So while it's fun to promote your personality, I'd take a second glance at everything before you post it for public viewing. And while you're doing that, don't forget to leave a comment on my page letting everyone know how creative and philosophical I am...

Everyone Poops

You know, everyone poops. And yet we all pretend we don't do it...that we're above it. Cats and even dogs get embarassed by pooping. Cats wait until they're alone and actually hide it and dogs, though they'll poop right in front of you, seem to hang their heads in shame. What is it about pooping that is so mortifying?

It always makes me smile when you hit that point in a relationship where you can poop at the other person's house. Sure you might take a match in with you or turn the faucet on full blast to cover any smell or potential noise (not that YOU are actually capable of either) - but at least you've gotten to that comfortable place where you can admit that, yes you do poop. But then just when you are congratulating yourself on being so honest and real, you realize that your significant other has thoughtlessly left you with very little toilet paper. Or, God forbid, the plumbing backs up causing instant, escalating panic.

A friend of mine has this book called, Everyone Poops. It's a kid's book that's meant to teach them not to be embarassed about pooping. That everyone does it from flies to florists. I picked it up out of, um, curiosity and found myself enthralled...then enlightened. Why, everybody poops! It's okay! Who knew?

I recently volunteered on a 5k walk (I'm no martyr, it's only like 40 minutes) for a disease called Colitis that attacks the intestines. People afflicted with the condition have frequent and sudden urges to poop. (I affectionately called our team the Ass Blasters.) Well, in order to avoid these symptoms, sufferers must take anywhere from 8 to 10 pills a day. I spoke with a couple of these people and I was surprised at how embarassed and reluctant to share their story they became when I asked. I mean, they were out in public, wearing "Guts & Glory" t-shirts to raise money for it! And still, the shame was evident.

But then I let my mind wander a bit, searching for the root of this shame. I began to think of the few people I knew who I've caught not washing their hands after going to the bathroom. The people who leave dishes in their sink for days on end. The people who let their dirty underwear lie on the floor, not bothering to pick them up when you visit them. I thought, what if we didn't have all this poop guilt? Would some of us fall prey to not flushing the toilet? To not bothering to close the door when doing number 2? Dear God! The sights! The SMELLS!

So while it's good to know that everyone poops, maybe we should just accept the shame that comes with it as just as natural. After all, it might even be better if we felt a little bit of shame for other things, like leaving those dirty undies lying around.