Times Worth Having

Curiously, I am finding myself in the holiday spirit.

Perhaps I’m cheerful and holidayish because my work days are looking shorter, and the end is in sight. I will go home at 5:00pm and eat my dinner with my handsome Head Chef, and whisper to my dog, and watch a movie or play a video game. I will walk through my garden before the sun goes down, and it will be good.

I’ve even started to voluntarily play the Hip Holidays and other seasonal music in our collection. Mind you, this is as significant a step as when I first fail to object when Head Chef puts on his holiday favorites on Thanksgiving morning. Indeed, I myself have chosen the “Holiday” genre for iTunes to use on my computer’s Party Shuffle. And I have done so more than once.

I am ready for Christmas. And I don’t mean shopping. I am ready inside, and that is where it really counts.

As for my shopping, I never really started. Distant family – even Boulanger – have shamed me by sending something, but I have sent nothing. Far-away friends whom I miss almost daily will get nothing, too.

But I miss them all right now, so very much, and I think they know. And when I see them again, we’ll hug and smile, and it will be just like yesterday. We’ll be older, fatter, thinner, and almost certainly a little greyer, but our hands will touch and we’ll talk, and it will feel like home.

I am also ready to laugh and enjoy. The video game we play sports peculiar Christmas iconography at this time of year, but calls it by a different name. And yet, rather than fuss about how similar to Christmas it is, I busy myself preparing gingerbread cookies to present to Greatfather Winter.

And then Sean sent me this, which I marveled and laughed at. Such a feat of technical mastery could only be achieved by a lighting special fx artist of great skill. I am amused to think of a fictional collapse of the broadway, rock, and other stage show industries that leaves such accomplished and comedic people with equipment and spare time on their hands. Kudos for their remarkable humor through these hard times.

On Christmas morning we’ll be up the mountain at Friturier’s house overlooking Honolulu on what will no doubt be a sunny and beautiful day. We’ll be in shorts and flip-flops, drinking gin fizzes and eating fatty foods, and living life on Friturier’s terms. Which is to say, living today as if tomorrow was of no consequence. Laughing loudly as if everyone should hear, and enjoying our island family from way out in the middle of the ocean and up on top of the world.

These can be difficult times and they can be good times, worthy of being had.

Extremists That Lose

They will wail. Oh, and they will howl. They may even boycott Ford Motor Company after all. But in the end, they lost because American businesses know that the bigotry, hate, and lies peddled by the American Family Association are bad for business. And when they forget, like Microsoft did before them, we’re here – their customers and employees – to remind them.

That’s right. Ford has rescinded their agreement with the AFA. On every single point. Every one.

You may commence consideration of a Ford Motor Company brand for your next automobile purchase. In fact, if you wrote your local dealership a letter telling them you were disgusted by their headquarters’ decision last week, you might send them another to let them know you’ve changed your mind. Just like they did.

Because fairness should be rewarded. And forgiveness, as they say, is divine.

But to the AFA and their ilk, I say: You're fighting for the wrong things. You will continue to lose, over and over again, and become more and more marginalized. You will lose because you're trying to hurt people, and we were all told as children that trying to hurt people is wrong. No one likes a playground meany.

Do Something, Something Small

From: Why, the Pastry Chef, of course!
To: sales@honoluluford.com
Subject: Not Visiting Ford Dealers
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: multipart/alternative;
boundary="----=_Part_19521_24179854.1134070088953"

Just wanted to leave a short note with you.

I drive two aging vehicles that will be replaced over the next two years. Due to Ford Motor Company's negotiation with the American Family Association and Ford's resulting new anti-gay policies, I will not be visiting lots that sell Ford Motor Company brands. I have too many other choices that support American values to drive a vehicle made by companies associated with hate and bigotry.

It hurts me to know that local people have to suffer for the bigotry of your headquarters, but I cannot in good conscience patronize Ford Motor Company with its current policies in place.

With Regrets,

Why, The Pastry Chef, of course!
Pauoa, O`ahu.

Ford: A Coward For The Modern Age Part I

John Aravosis of AmericaBlog is making a loud noise about Ford Motor Company’s decision to stop advertising some of its brands in gay publications. And while I’d like to acknowledge that it’s basically his job to blow things out of proportion, it is a big deal. Just not for the reasons John has cited.

First and foremost, even though I am deeply distrusting of large corporate entities, I do believe that it’s strictly a business decision on the part of Ford. They were facing a boycott from the American Family Association (I will not link to them). They are closing several assembly plants in the US, and they have horribly sagging demand for their products. Combined with the high cost of advertising and the potential for even more loss of sales, they ran the numbers.

I don’t mean to minimize the importance of the company’s Aryan-supremacist past, as that should never be forgotten. Rather, I’m suggesting that Ford Motor Company did what many mega-corps would do these days. Faced with market impact, they ran the numbers against their demographics. They compared revenues from sales to gays and lesbians to sales from conservatives, and evaluated the impact of a boycott against the impact of a gay backlash should they pull their advertising.

Obviously, the gay market is smaller. At least for the Jaguar and Land Rover brands. But not for Volvo, which will continue to advertise in gay publications.

What I find shocking is that Ford Motor Company actually had what it has called “a constructive dialogue” with the American Family Association (AFA). This is the really big deal, because it can be effortlessly equated with entering negotiations with the Ku Klux Klan or the Taliban. No responsible corporation would acknowledge negotiating with either of these entities, yet Ford has admitted it. And they may have set a dangerous precedent in doing so.

The AFA knows that American auto makers are suffering hard times and it needs symbols of political success resulting from its strategies. Its attempts to boycott major corporate businesses usually fail because the businesses are strong and don’t really suffer. Too many failures might weaken the AFA’s support and reduce its political power. In light of this, the AFA got smart. It seized on Ford – an American icon – at a moment of weakness and threatened to hurt it further. It was a lose/lose scenario for Ford, but it was an opportunity for a badly needed success for the ruthless, dogged AFA.

Frankly, it was a brilliant move on the part of the AFA from a strategic perspective. Based on the success of their Ford effort, I’m sure we can expect to see the AFA watching American markets for weakness, and threatening other boycotts in vertical markets where they can have an impact. This could signal a huge change for the AFA and other hate groups like them, and could reap even bigger rewards for them elsewhere.

Ford: A Coward For The Modern Age Part II

Unfortunately for Ford, it was in a bind. Doubtlessly, Ford will lose a great deal of business over their choice to end gay-friendly advertising for the Jaguar and Land Rover brands. They will lose market share to Subaru and others who stand out more sharply in these publications. But they stood to lose even more if the AFA enacted their boycott.

Faced with this choice, Ford chose the path that they predicted would hurt them the least. But when considering whether to harbor animosity toward them, we must consider that their choice to advertise in gay and lesbian publications was never an act of charity. They were by no means obligated to do so, and did only because they saw it as a means to generate sales revenue. Faced with a weak market for their products and a boycott from a powerful political entity, they had to review their activities as a corporation. And due to financial weakness, they probably needed to trim their advertising budget anyway.

But since the Volvo brand is still advertising in The Advocate, we can deduce that, rather than being a blanket statement against homosexual consumers, the change to their other brand advertising is a purely business decision. I can’t speak for every gay man out there, but Jaguar and Land Rover really aren’t attractive brands to me anyway, while Volvo is. If revenue from the gay and lesbian market was low to begin with, it makes basic business sense to either cut back advertising for those brands, or to do something radically different. Faced with the possibility of a boycott, they made the safer choice.

And while I don’t blame them, I will say this:

Head Chef and I want a new high-efficiency commuter car like the Toyota Prius, and we need a truck for our home remodeling projects. If Ford had chosen to be a responsible global automotive player and had put more resources into competing in the low-emissions market, we might hold them in consideration. But they didn’t. They pandered to gluttony, and now they’re left holding the SUV bag.

If Ford had stood up for principle over profit, Head Chef, I, and countless others would have considered them an honorable business that does the right thing even if it hurts. If they had announced a bold new marketing move for the Jaguar and Land Rover brands to coincide with their rejection of the AFA’s demands, we might have considered a Ford truck. But they didn’t.

And finally, if Ford had chosen not to negotiate with the AFA at all, Head Chef, I, and countless others might have equated them with those who stand up for freedom instead of those who fight it, like the Taliban and the Ku Klux Klan. We might have equated them with old-America values like honor and courage instead of new-America values like fear and greed. And we might have stepped foot on one of their lots. But that won’t happen now.

Because ultimately, image does matter. And I’d rather be seen driving a vehicle that symbolized enterprise and tenacious freedom rather than one that symbolizes weakness, cowardice, and by association - hate. I know it’s superficial, but I just like what freedom says about me.

Potter Schmotter

I am desperate to see Brokeback Mountain.

It’s just a movie, and it’s certainly not my story. And yet, it can’t help but be my story.

I have read everything I can find about the film, watched the trailer a dozen times, and I actually check rottentomatoes on a daily basis, looking for affirmation. "Yes it is a good film," I want to hear them say.

Please, let it be a good film.

See, I believe in this movie. Not just because Ang Lee has directed the other most beautiful film ever, but because when I read "Love Is A Force Of Nature" in that context the hair on my neck stands up, and I can tell that even my skin agrees. Ignoring the toil and sacrifice that relationships take, love is the thing.

It’s the thing that matters, that leaves its aura like a residue on mountain paths, in buildings, songs, and on yesterday’s shirt. Have you ever felt it in a place you've never been before? That the place had been blessed by love?

There are three things I need from Brokeback Mountain. I need to it be the story it is purported to be; a love between two men that is beautiful and complex and tragic, as love often is. I need it to make me feel. To make me cry the way movies are supposed to when you relate to the characters. And I need it to show the world – or at least the willing – that I'm not so different or aberrant after all.

I read a hopeful review that said this film is so powerful that it could change our national dialogue about what it is to be gay. And I longed for it to be true.

But I worry that, in the public's eye, no amount of Ang Lee's mastery can legitimize this as anything other than a gay film. The most I can hope is that it’s a sleeper hit – critically acclaimed to such a degree that cinema buffs see it even if they’re uneasy about the subject matter. That women go to see it, as the studio is hoping, and maybe they see themselves in one of these men, loving someone impossible.

Maybe they feel that ache in their chest, the ache they remember as a longing for someone they cannot have. Maybe, in this way, they relate. Because that could change everything.

But I'm not counting on it.

Immunity

I have had a long love for the life sciences. I actually had a college counselor say, “Chef! Stop taking biology courses! You’re not a biology major and you’re just hurting yourself.” And she was right, too. But she didn’t call me Chef.

This whole bird flu thing, although not an above-the-fold headline any more, still has me thinking. And not of my own life as much as marveling at the way the human organism responds to such threats.

There was a time when immunity was a matter of how strong your immune system was. If you contracted a disease, you lived or died, end of story. Immunity was based on the individual organism’s ability to fight off disease once it got inside.

But that’s changed, at least for homo sapiens. Starting a few millennia ago and escalating in the past hundred, humans have started fighting disease at the population level as well as inside our individual bodies. We started with simple steps, like rudimentary quarantines, and have come so far that we have global systems to identify diseases, disease pathogens and vectors, and ways to control them.

This is something that most people living today take for granted, but consider the ramifications for a population of living things when such things become possible. Think about how dramatic it would be if frogs, gazelle, or goose did that.

We have representatives of our species monitoring the overall health of the rest of the planet’s population. They’re watching for illnesses, and issuing warnings when a handful of our fellow creatures in a small, crowded corner fall victim. And as a species, we respond. We shift our resources, plan for outbreaks, and take preventative measures. We even change our environment to limit disease vectors.

I’m sure there are some animal populations other than humans that do this to some limited degree. Birds that discard a sickly chick, predators that instinctively destroy a sick member of their pack.

But we're doing something entirely different. Here we are, an awkward primate species with a large brain, proactively looking for disease, developing means of prevention and even cure. We still rely on the individual organism’s immune system, but it’s almost like a last resort. We’ve developed a new, primary immune system, one that protects us as a species, and not just as individual critters crawling around spawning and eating.

In terms of evolution, I think that’s revolutionary. It’s like the appearance of the first rudimentary feathers, or even a blood-rich lining that permits an occasional gasp of air for breath. I only wonder if it can persist. But I guess none of us is permanent.

The Holiday That Merely Happened

This Thanksgiving was a piece of frozen cheesecake at Costco.

The pleasant woman cut the small wedges for eager passers-by. We thanked her and she smiled and we stepped a few feet away so that the next admirer could crowd in for their slice. What luck, to be there on that particular day, when samples of such a delicacy are available.

I’ve adored cheesecake for ages, you see. And so just the idea of cheesecake was titillating. I had scored a significant prize, and the decision to eat it or just to bask in my unexpected fortune took a couple of moments. Oh, to revel in it, so smooth and sweet with just the hint of sourness and a crunch of spiced crust.

Standing there in the aisle with large, impersonal glass freezers on each side of me, the vast grey concrete floor sprawling off in all directions under displays heaped with discount merchandise, I made a conscious choice between eating my small chunk of cake in one bite, or in two smaller ones. But my gluttonous nature won out, and I popped it into my mouth with an eager satisfaction.

And it was nice. Fine, even. I pressed it against my palate with my tongue, testing it for flavor and texture. It was a bit doughy, and the crust wasn’t really firm enough to provide contrast for the filling. It was mildly sweet, but that hint of cream cheese I anticipated was not there.

It was pleasant, but not enough. The woman who presented it was kind and the other customers there in the warehouse were polite. But taken as a whole, this year Thanksgiving was a disappointing cheesecake.

Nearly Sinless In The Garden

I had promised myself that I would sin this past Sunday. I dressed for sinning, and brushed my teeth and ate my breakfast fully intent on sinning. But I went out to the car to go sin, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Head Chef had been working on me all morning to play “hooky,” and I finally caved.

An apparently Christian woman at my office admonished me a few weeks ago for having worked the previous Sunday. “Oh, dear,” she said with grave disapproval, “that’s a sin.” I suppose she would take heart knowing that I neither worked on Sunday nor coveted my neighbor’s wife.

I’m hoping that perhaps I can avoid being stoned to death since I observed the Sabbath. Instead of committing a grievous sin, we went to the Foster Botanical Garden and observed beautiful specimens of tropical trees and plants, many of which are legally designated as “exceptional” and thus magically protected by a bronze plaque nailed to their trunks. I imagine them being infused with strange powers that selectively turn the blades of saws and indiscriminate pruning shears, but not the nails accompanying bronze plaques.

My co-worker might also be pleased to note that I did not create or worship other gods while there at the Garden. Well, OK, there was this one baobab tree that was particularly massive. Head Chef and I discussed that it seemed so logical for native cultures to see it as a link between the earthly world and some other plane. I could almost feel that link, myself, but I did not create a false god in the process.

I also did not: dishonor my parents, kill, commit adultery, steal, lie, or covet my neighbor’s property or his wife. I mean, please – like I’d covet his wife. Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice, but I’m not even into him let alone her.

OK, I may have blasphemed just little bit when I spotted that baobab tree. It’s really big, you gotta understand.

But I did not work on Sunday. Now that it’s Monday, I’m kinda wishing I had.

Hungary Was Even Worse

"You know what, sir," she asked in a vaguely ethnic southern accent.

I glanced up from my falling blocks of color, missing a key placement, and noted the stout woman angrily hunkered in the seat next to mine. Tight coils of salt-and-pepper hair bunched around her head, and she set her jaw, getting ready to tell me what. The busy terminal gate was crammed full of people, none of whom paid either of us any mind. We could have just as easily been completely alone.

"I was stranded there in Oakland," she announced. "Oakland!"

"You were stranded there?" I queried, puzzled. What an awful thing to have happen. And in Oakland, of all places.

"I ain't lyin. It really happened."

I nodded, more to confirm I’d heard her than to express understanding, and she continued.

"I think I’m going to have them call this time. The, the, you know – them ticket agents. Then I won’t have to sleep at the gate while they wait in the lobby!" She was quite upset. "Nobody told me they were gonna to be in the lobby," she offered. And then after a moment of thought, she conceded, "Although I s’pose I could have gone down to see if they were there."

I nodded thoughtfully, still not clear on what she was talking about. My game had become a disaster while trying to be polite, and my neat rows of squares were now in disarray. I closed the lid.

"And then the stewardess comes up to me and says that three men are waiting for me in the lobby, and I tell her, 'why you wait till I'm getting on the plane back to tell me that?'" I furrowed my brow in genuine concern. Genuine because I simply didn’t understand her circumstance, and because whatever it was seemed to be very stressful.

"I ain’t lying. I’m definitely gonna be tellin them in Honolulu to call so I don’t have to sleep in the, the – the terminal. And maybe they’ll be there this time."

We were no longer alone at the crowded gate. Other strangers – none so strange as my sudden conversation companion – were now covertly smiling and emitting expressions of sympathy. One man seemed to be suppressing the urge to join our talk and he fidgeted forward and back, glancing our way and grinning.

To comfort her, I assured her that they (whoever they were) certainly would have learned from their previous mistake (whatever it was) and would not repeat it. She seemed grateful.

"And you’ll never believe what happened when I was in Europe. You know about Europe?" she asked, her flat brown features scrunched into concern. I wasn’t sure if she was asking whether I knew of its existence, or about how it runs.

"Sure, Europe," I confirmed.

"Passport! Passport!" she yelled above the din of other conversations in the terminal. The newspaper held by a woman nearby seemed to be taken by surprise, and it shuddered just briefly. I looked on, puzzled more than ever.

"And I told the man, 'I don’t understand,' I’d say, and he’d come running after me yelling, 'Passport! Passport!'" With each incantation of the word, she’d wave her hand in the air like a customs official chasing her through the airport.

"And I told them, everywhere I went, 'I don’t understand, what’s this passport?' and he told me he’d arrest me if I didn’t show him a passport." She laughed, but I was unsure if I was supposed to laugh along. "Everywhere I went! It really happened. I ain’t lyin," she explained.

"And Hungary! Hungary was even worse," she warned.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her you’re supposed to meet your ride in the lobby or at baggage claim these days. Nor that you really do have to show your passport at international airports.

I just hope she didn’t really fly back to Oakland just because her ride didn’t meet her at the gate in Honolulu.

Home Work

We here in the Kitchen are home owners and home makers. To achieve our goals associated with those titles we become armchair botanists, technophiles, lay zoologists, hobbyist designers, craftsmen, and procrastinators. In short, we are distracted and lazy.

As such, our great home remodel project of 2005 has taken significantly longer than the three months that Head Chef once said it would take. Oh, and there are excuses. Some of our excuses are even reasons. But not all.

Despite our collective attention deficits and lethargy, Head Chef and I are motivated by nothing more effectively than the looming threat of visitors. We look forward to their arrival and the beach time we will take with them and the meals we will share. But we also stand on the steps to our little home in Pauoa and look around us with the eyes of a third person. And we shake our heads and think, “oh fuck.”

So this weekend, I eschewed my workplace responsibilities and we worked on the house. We floored the remainder of the hallway and the entire master bedroom. We cleaned. We investigated local options for kitchen cabinetry and planned the bathroom remodels. And then we worked in the yard.

If you know us even casually enough to have visited our home only once, you know our love for gardening. The front garden, now only 6 months old, is already reaching epic status. The gingers are getting taller, the brugmansia is blooming, and the Rangoon creeper already hides the stone wall. The ensete banana threatens to rule the world.

We dug in to our elbows, getting filthy and doing what is arguably one of my favorite things about gardening… discovery. From beneath four feet of shiny fern foliage, Head Chef produced a long-forgotten vanda sporting two spikes of shiny purple blossoms. Anthuriums that had tipped over were rooted, thriving, and blooming. And our new trees had fresh new growth popping out at the branch tips.

We planted a new torch ginger - one of my favorites - on the side of the house, and stood back to admire it. Now only 6 feet tall, it will one day reach as much as 15, with bright red flowers the size of large apples atop sturdy stalks jutting from the ground.

We do this – I do this, and I stand back and see what is done, and I feel full. I see the new floor in the bedroom from atop the living room stairs and the thriving garden and all the little improvements that are made over time, and I witness proof that things do get better, and that we have a hand in that. I see a sort of time lapse progression in my mind, from then till now, and I project outward just a bit – a skill that Head Chef teaches me each day – and I know that this is good. That this life is worth it, and that all the tediousness and doubt is made moot by these moments of doing this with him.

A Simple Wish For Texas

Here in Hawai`i, I am almost as American as you are.

We could dress the same and stand on the street corner shoulder-to-shoulder, and the average person would think we’re both the same. Equal citizens of this great land.

But we’re not. Not here in Hawai`i, and not in Oregon. Nor Montana, Nevada, New York, and Michigan. And certainly not in Texas. I couldn't fool you, though. You already know you must protect your marriages against me.

I only wish I were out to get you, and that I had the means to do so. That I wielded the insidious power that you have attributed to me. Then, at least, I could stand next to you on the street, looking the same and dressing the same, with the same daily concerns and similar exhaustive routines and understand why I am oppressed. And I could smile wickedly and know, deep inside, that nothing you could do could stop me.

Because then I could give you a taste of your own medicine. So you could know what it means to be declared a lesser citizen by your peers, and to have a neighbor sneer at you as she hastens away. To be told that your family is undeserving but that the next one is.

If only I could just brush you ever so slightly, and make you less American, too.

Working In Mililani

Listening to the online radio as I work through lunch, I hear the DJ say, “And for our fifth caller, we have a free lunch from Maruju Market. A pound and a half of fresh poké from Maruju Market - what a nice lunch.”

Poké. Heh. Try finding that anywhere else.

Also at this client site, I overhear things such as:

“We havin one lunchtime meeting, ya?”
“Try hand me da kine?”
“Oh, he no stay here no mo. He wen stay in Ku`unani’s ol’ cube.”

Makes working here worth it, to watch a Vice President of a major bank talk story Hawai`ian style. Well, that, and the drive across the island under bright skies dotted with white puffy clouds. And getting out of the car to be bathed in the fragrance of Eucalytpis leaves recently pelted by rain... And... And... And...

EDIT: And... on the drive home, there were not one, but two rainbows arching over the freeway on the way into town.

Shaving Off The Weekend

I can always tell what kind of weekend I’ve had when I shave for work on Monday.

It’s the simplest kind of litmus test. If my beard has grown a lot, I was most likely very stressed. If it didn’t grow much at all, I was unusually comfortable with my world.

This morning, the stubble on my neck and cheeks was extraordinarily long. And I know why. Stability was threatened. A perfect (“perfect perfect,” we agreed with one another over the phone) opportunity presented itself along with the threat of ethical complications and terrible loss. The conflict of the two wracked my nerves all weekend.

Just the very thought of realizing this goal in such an excellent (“perfect perfect”) manner was so tantalizing that when I told Head Chef about it, he donned an uncharacteristic project management role to make sure I followed up. He became so businesslike about it that it made me want to tell him, “Hey, quitit, that’s my job!”

But always, in the recesses of my consciousness, I knew of the risk inherent in even investigating this possibility. And then, in the course of a third call late Friday, I found myself face-to-face with it. The ethical challenge, the potential of loss. Of actually making things worse, not better. So much worse that I actually experienced a moment of panic as I itemized the horrors that could befall my little family if my delicate proposition failed. Head Chef witnessed my abject terror, which humbled me.

But he was all business, and so were others who knew of my plight. And so I repeated their reassurances to myself over and over again to calm my nerves. It worked, much of the time. Yet, left alone without the distractions of an imaginary world, an immediate remodeling challenge, or a pet-management task, my breathing became constricted. That knot of nausea welled in my chest. While mindlessly painting baseboard molding in the garage, my thoughts turned to worries of imminent doom, and I nearly had to sit down.

I walked through Home Depot and drank with friends like a man who’d received a Diagnosis. Playing the social games and going through the motions, behaving appropriately but never taking the fullness of my thoughts off the delicate concern that would face me Monday.

So when I shaved this morning, I took note of what my weekend of anxiety had wrought and made a decision. At 8:47 am, I made a fourth call. I was logical and clear, and we talked about how disappointing it was that this chance was not to be explored.

It’s not that I hate shaving. In fact, I rather like it when my beard looks full. But the anxiety necessary to achieve the affect is just not worth it.

I Wanna New Drug

Head Chef and I were talking about the age old Mac vs Windows debate last night.

Just for fun, I launched World of Warcraft (Oh, and could you hand me the tourniquet and syringe?) last night and turned up the video settings as far as our current Mac would support them. My character could basically only stand there and look around a bit because the animation became choppy and unbearable. But the view was amazing. I think Head Chef may have actually gasped. "There are mountains in the distance," he exclaimed. "I've never seen those! Is that a cave up there?"

And thus began the lament. I knew about this hidden view that better video hardware could bring, but he had never experimented before. Undoubtedly, such higher-quality video makes the game more immersive. Perhaps even more effectively playable. Hence, more fun. Possibly, even move it up a notch on the federal schedule of controlled substances.

So it’s official. We want gaming-quality machines, now, and the Mac mini and eMac aren't suitable for such tasks. Almost. Just barely, but not quite. Such a shame, since the Mac Mini's not even a year old. And so cute.

So I launched Firefox and did a comparison of the low-end Power Mac tower against a gaming machine sold by Dell. Naturally, the Dell has a better video card and faster hard disks and a monitor for about the same price as the stand-alone Mac tower. So, add faster disks, upgrade the video card, and buy a display for the Mac, and it costs almost $1000 more than the equivalent Dell. But Head Chef *likes* the Macs and wants to stick with them, and naturally, it's my religion. And yet, even as devout as I am, economics like that are hard to argue.

"Why the difference?" He asks. I answer by telling him that it's the difference between a very fast Hyundai and a Lexus that goes the same speed. He understands, but it's disappointing nonetheless. Still, he's willing to pay the price, and starts working numbers.

But there's another issue: He wants these to be investments, not machines we replace in another year. And so that brings up the question of whether these machines will last - will they be upgradeable and suitable for this purpose for a longer period than an iMac would?

Yes, I say, and Macs are kept longer by their owners than Wintel boxes. But there are also catches: Video cards, RAM, and hard drives can be upgraded readily, but CPUs and motherboards aren't replaceable on most computers, let alone a Mac. Add to that the question of Apple's switch to an Intel architecture over the next year, and that leaves a big question about future software compatibility, from an investment perspective.

What to do, what to do. I don't think we'll do much of anything in the short term - the Mac Mini and eMac are fine. Not good, mind you, but fine. Too bad I had to show him that view of the mountains.

In A Name

Every time my subconscious overhears someone saying, “Hi, Sean,” I experience a deluge of memory and nostalgia.

When Head Chef and I made our journey to China for that long week of adventure, we experienced a lot more than we realized. In the frozen Chinese North, we ate dumplings in buildings made from plywood and cloth and witnessed teams of traditional dancers on the side of the road performing for no one but themselves. But those are only the things you do and see.

We also got names. Well, at least Head Chef did. He got a name that is memorable because it sounds like English. It sounds like “Hi, Sean.” And so every time I overhear a phone conversation with a man named Sean I picture myself sitting in that hotel room in Beijing.

I sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, watching as Head Chef got his name. He bounced about, not attempting to hide his enthusiasm, and it seemed as though perhaps the small room with the odd Western decor might not succeed in holding him. I remember how the rest of my family sat as they chatted with the poised Chinese girl. She perched on the edge of the bed with her two books at the ready while she worked studiously and with great humor at naming the Americans. Her posture was flawless and she seemed to be enjoying the excitement in the air. It was her first time to Beijing, too.

I didn’t get a name then. Since my own name sounds like the Mandarin word for “zombie,” I got a lot of laughs, but no real name. Not for a long time. Too long. Because terrible, terrible things befell That Lovely Chinese Girl.

From across the ocean I timidly made a desperate request. I needed that name, and I needed it before it was too late. I needed it from That Lovely Chinese Girl, or it would be useless to me. Boulanger, strong and understanding even as she braved another chapter of grief, took my message to the dying girl, and I was named.

It was a name that astonished me. Its meaning was flattering beyond all measure and the importance of it took me by such surprise that I was struck dumb. It was something to live up to. Something grand, and bold, and strong. It was as though an angel had taken me into her wings and said, “I believe in you” just before letting go. I am still humbled.

But I have lost the words. I’ve lost the paper I wrote them on, all those times. And I’ve forgotten how they are pronounced. I have forgotten my own name. But I have not forgotten how it feels to be given one that is greater than I am. It vibrates inside me like a triangle that is struck gently in a great concert hall and never stops ringing. I think that’s what you call a legacy.

So if I should catch my breath when someone nearby greets their friend Sean, it’s just the deluge washing over me. Just a memory of beauty and wisdom, and that ringing that never stops.

Paths We Take

Coming out to my family and friends was so much easier than I could have intellectually expected, and vastly less traumatizing than my emotional fears had prepared me for. When my Mother said, “Well, Honey, you know I don’t give a damn,” I cried. Just because I was prepared to cry, because I was expecting something awful. I cried even though she was right – I did know she didn’t give a damn.

I was 21. I am now 33.

This year, Coming Out Day came and went. I read a little blurb on a website and read a friend’s blog entry, but I did not come out. I can’t think of anyone I could have come out to. And I wanted to add to the day, to somehow contribute in these important times, but I couldn’t think of anything relevant.

Then this morning I found myself thinking of someone I know who is contributing. He wrote me months ago, asking for help. He was 32, local, and in desperate need of happiness he’d been unable to find in his church, on Christian dates, and living with shame. He was gay, he said, but didn’t know how to come out. He signed his letters anonymously, and said that he’d give me his name if we ever met in person.

We exchanged a lot of emails, and I tried to be as honest as I could. Coming out is terrifying for most people. While some may not experience difficulty at all, many experience a lot of rejection from their families or friends. And then there are the problems associated with being newly out amongst other gay men. Predators, heartbreak, rejection based on your inexperience. And for him as a Christian, drinking and drug use would make a lot of the social scenes I was familiar with uncomfortable.

We finally met for lunch, and naturally, he was frightened. Hell, I was meeting a strange man at a difficult time in his life and I was nervous. I could only imagine how he must have felt, having lunch with another gay man in open daylight. What if someone saw us? What if he bumped into someone he knew? What would he say? Surely, they’d know!

But the meeting went well. We talked about fears, plans, hopes, and we decided that everything was going to be OK.

I’ve talked to him since, and he is as I promised he would be: alternately elated, heartbroken, ecstatic, and crestfallen. He is going to a local gay church and meeting real, live men. Some, he says, are very handsome. He is having crushes and suffering disappointments. Such is the path of one learning to love, and it is difficult and exhilerating beyond description.

But oh, is love ever worth it. Everyone should know how that feels, shouldn’t they?

Golf Opposition

I do not wish to like golf. Golf is expensive, time-consuming, and fussy. It’s a tool of the insider’s old-boy network and it has been co-opted by the rest of the world so that they can feel like they’re in on the joke. Or, at least, to enable them to get an angle on the deal.

It’s popular because it’s a business skill used in lieu of physical combat. I would much rather engage in some old-fashioned wrestling match than dress up, spend all that money, and swing a stick at a ball. At least then you could justify the competitive tempers that have to be suppressed for the civility of the golf course.

But I did have a good time. Still, if it’s all the same to anyone, I’d rather not like golf on principle alone.

Quietude in Motion

I walked home through the rain wearing my work clothes.

We’ve had a rainy spell here as the result of a tropical storm that (thankfully) dissipated before it reached us. We had flash flood warnings, even. But as the storm’s remnants have passed over us, the bands of rainclouds have become less and less remarkable.

And I don’t mind the rain one bit. I turn off the water on the garden, yes. I stand at the windows and envision the green that will soon cover Puowaina at the other end of Pauoa Valley. I feel the great big sigh of “Thank You” that everything seems to say.

And I walk home in the rain. Head Chef isn’t available to give me my ride home, so I walk. Just a half an hour on foot, I take it as an opportunity to get exercise. I walk with purpose. The rain is incidental. It’s not a factor; it’s just the environment I must perform this task in. And still I relish the feeling of the sprinkle of moisture on my face, the observation of headlights blurred by drops of rain so small I don’t feel them alight in my eyes.

I walk almost the whole way home without thinking a thing. Feeling visceral and damp. Pointed at my destination, walking, watching, being. It’s a pleasant thing, to move blankly through the rain.

Time Travel

We were waiting for new tires on the white car when we inadvertently stepped into a world I’d almost forgotten.

To call the Dole Cannery complex in Iwilei a mall is to be unnecessarily generous. Yes, it was definitely intended to be a mall. The structure is there. The theatre still operates. But the signatures of a mall – people, teenagers (if you must make the distinction), and open shops – they are simply not there.

Like the sad little shopping complex across the street from Temple Square in Salt Lake City, it is no longer a mall. It is a ghost mall.

But it is also across the street from Costco, one of O`ahu’s busiest businesses. While our car got new shoes we were on foot and hungry. So we entered the empty corridors of the Cannery Ghost Mall in search of food and an hour to kill.

Fitting, then, that we lost track of time.

After our disappointingly successful attempt at food, we stopped into an unmarked Asian imports store near the Cannery’s exit. The front room was what you’d expect. Some Chinese wedding chests converted to entertainment armoires, tea sets, fabrics, lotus pots, and more Chinese tchochkes than you could shake a stick at. The proprietor was behind a desk, and she greeted us wanly.

Head Chef made it into the back room, and dug in. Here were the gems. Beautiful decorative planters in rare glazes at ridiculously low prices. Gear for the discerning Bonsai gardener. Chinese teas, and more classic Chinese furniture than appeared in the first space. I spotted an unpriced pot the right size for our night-blooming cereus, and mentioned it to Head Chef.

At that moment, the proprietor peeked into the room. She was a Chinese woman in her fifties or sixties with salt and pepper hair, perfect posture, and a beguiling grace. In her mild Chinese accent, she asked, “Do you bonsai?” Our bond was established.

Head Chef negotiated a wonderful price for the pot I had found, and I unearthed it from beneath the stock of other items that had been stacked upon it. And all the while, we talked of gardens. Of common shared fondness for China. And as I pushed our new find to the register in the next room, they talked of teas.

When I returned to find out where the conversation had lead to, I was ushered to a chair at a little table in the back room. “Shoshi shoshi ba,” she said, and warmed hot water for our tea. And there we sat, chatting and drinking the best oolong tea I had ever had. We talked of palaces, gardens, walls, and the exceptional individuals from Old China who touched us.

She spoke fondly of family, friends, and places she longed to return to, and spun our memories into new imaginations of the places we had not yet seen. Of another Star Pupil who would make an impression we would never ever forget. Time passed only when the bell on the shop door marked the entrance of a potential customer who then left without a word. Our proprietor never stood and only barely glanced their direction.

Finally, after a third cup, we had to go. We bought some teas to take home with us, exchanged phone numbers, and then returned to our newly shoed car in the bustling parking lot.

The contrast was jarring.

It Matters Not

If you haven’t been following the news, the California legislature passed a marriage equality bill that would have made gays and lesbians truly equal in the eyes of the law of that state. And their governor, The Governator, vowed to veto it immediately, noting that it should be the courts that decide. He likes him some activist judges, that Governator.

But it took him over a week to get around to his veto paperwork.

A journalist whom I really respect supposed in his blog that The Governator was postponing his veto of this bill passed by the representatives of the people for a good reason. This journalist supposed that Arnold was worried about his place in history. That maybe his conscience was getting the better of him.

But, of course, The Governator did veto the bill. Naturally.

Men of power and ambition are willing to hurt anyone as long as it benefits them. Arnold may have actually wanted to sign the bill. No, really. Maybe he did. But I imagine he didn’t really care one way or the other.

What Arnold cares about it is him. What Arnold cares about is getting where he wants to be. He wants another term, to make his rich friends richer, and to amend the US Constitution so he can do it all for them again from the comfort of the Whitehouse. This is what The Governator wants.

And make no mistake about it, any principle he has is for sale if it will get him closer to his goals. There is no one he wouldn’t hurt. No one.

As for the journalist… he may have been right. I do hope that the Governator cared about his place in history. I hope he saw the ad comparing him to George Wallace and felt a pang of guilt. I hope he looked at his signature line over and over again, delaying the act of vetoing because he knew it was wrong. I hope he had long talks with Maria trying to justify what he knew was nothing more than a career move.

But what if he did? Does it matter?

Sodomite Companies Want Your Children!

The lovely, witty, dirty-minded Wonkette posted today regarding an article at the World Net Daily website about corporate America’s pro-homosexual cuddling.

The World Net Daily is what is increasingly called wingnut, or extreme right-wing. For those of you who wish to know what the opposite of that would be, that’s moonbat. I have no idea what moonbat comes from or what it implies, but wingnut seems pretty obvious.

Although I don’t recommend anyone else do this, I actually took at look at their related reader poll and a handful of linked articles.

As I said, I don’t recommend it for the faint of heart. I am a calloused, jaded homosexual and reading vitriol about people like myself doesn’t shock or dismay me the way it might someone who were simply a friend of equality, say. Think of this as your “Do not attempt. Professional driver on closed course” warning.

One thing I noticed, however, was the repeated use of the term pro-homosexual. Now don’t get me wrong, I definitely advocate for my fellow sexual outlaws. I loves me my homo homies. However, I wouldn’t even describe myself as pro-homosexual, let alone America’s Fortune 100.

To me, pro-homosexual is a lot like the term you used to hear for reproductive choice advocates. Back when, they were “pro-abortion.” But saying someone is pro-abortion is like saying they advocate for abortion in all instances of pregnancy, which is clearly absurd and very misleading.

Similarly, I would expect a company that takes a pro-homosexual stance to be holding classes on homosexuality to teach people the upside of being gay, and discouraging heterosexuality. They could perhaps have a same-sex mentoring program where women taught each other proper cunnilingus techniques, and gag reflex suppression sessions during lunchtime for the boys. They might feature an article in their company newsletter that talks about the diseases you can get from heterosexual intercourse and the horrors of child bearing/rearing, noting that people who date same sex partners need not worry their pretty little heads.

And then, of course, they could throw separate company parties for women and men. The boys would be treated to a white-party styled dance, and they could give out ecstacy and condoms and make sure there’s a back room lit by a dim red light. I don’t know what would be the equivalent for lesbians. Maybe an Indigo Girls concert.

Now that’s what I call a pro-homosexual company. Down with all the trappings of heterosexuality, up with sodomites!

No, instead all we have are these rich firms who simply acknowledge that homosexuals work for them, and promise not to treat them any differently than straights. Although that’s really quite kind of them, it’s hardly what I would call pro-homosexual.

But oh well.

Coincidence?

Salary and Slavery have all but two letters in common.

Coincidence? I think not.

Rededication

Call it a crisis, call it what you will. I am rededicating myself to myself.

Over the past 9 years or so I developed a body I was not ashamed of. A taking-the-shirt-off-in-public(-sometimes) type of body that I liked. I put on 50lbs of mostly-muscle over the course of those years and I liked it.

But my ectomorphic body relishes the opportunity to drop weight and has shed 15 of those pounds this year. It has been maliciously rejoicing the entire time. I am not amused.

So this morning I dragged my shriveled and smug body back to the gym for a reasonable (re)starter workout and a stern talking-to. It was a rude awakening. I forgot my sweat towel. I realized my workout shorts did not stay round my waist the way they did before. This eliminated the possibility of cardio lest I provide an entirely inappropriate and potentially illegal erotic exercise show. I pressed weights, and realized just how much strength I’ve lost. The mirrors mocked me. I did not step on the scale for fear the alarms would go off.

Disappointing, yes. But this is where it starts. I’ll be sore, and I’ll build the strength and size back. Quickly, even. I will defeat my nature yet again. I might even be in better shape than before.

I’m only telling you so you’ll hold me to it. I mean, we have guests coming for the Holidays!

What I Am Doing

I am wasting away a bit each day, but I am doing it for a good cause. I am running into battle and swinging with all my might. I am falling behind schedule before I even begin, and going home on time anyway. Some nights I send my animal in to do the dirty work while I thumb at the trigger of my rifle. I am making grand plans and procrastinating on their execution. I am distressing at the condition of the carpets and replacing them even as the menagerie atop them runs amok.

I am watching my expenses. But I am not clipping coupons.

I am standing at the garden silently, watching the life unfold even as my intellect tells me I can’t. I am seeing change that is not yet there.

Someone Truly Remarkable

What a lot of thoughtful, amusing, absurd, and delightful fiddle-dee-dee!

We do so miss the Boulanger in all her prickly pearishdom.

Help John Mayer Find A Boyfriend

I guess he’s a really 00’s man, that John Mayer. His song “Daughters” is a touching lesson on how important it is to treat daughters well. Because the wrongs parents impose on their girls scar them forever.

And isn’t it true? Really? I mean, think of the stories you know. We can all tell one.

But John Mayer is overexposed. On local Hawai`ian (and Utahan) pop radio, “Daughters” has been on a twenty minute rotation for weeks and weeks. And weeks.

At first, I loved the song. I sang along with the lyrics I knew and enjoyed the warm fuzzy I got. Then it became a little too common. And then I heard this lyric:

Boys, you can break
You'll find out how much they can take
Boys will be strong
And boys soldier on
But boys would be gone without warmth from
A woman's good, good heart

And now I’ve had quite enough. Boys, you can break!?

John Mayer has clearly never dated one of those boys who’s been broken. Just like girls, John, they stay broken. And they hurt people – their daughters included. The best wo/man’s good, good heart does nothing to fix them.

So ladies and gentlemen, let’s all help John find a boyfriend who’s been broken to help shake him out of his anachronistic mindset. Shall we?

Unlikely Times

Who would have thought that these days you could elect an actor as your state’s Governor, and then not end up with gays marrying each other?

Maybe The Ocean

When I talk to off-islanders who want to know what it’s like to live in Paradise, the first thing I tell them is that there’s a price to pay for everything. This city is not without the same downsides that are found in any city. Soul-crushing traffic, high prices. You name your gripes about Big Town X, and they’re here, too.

But I begin my list of things that make it worthwhile with the quality of the air. I may be facing another twelve or fourteen hour day at work, but in the car drive to the office I roll down the window and breath deep as I listen to Hawai`ian on the radio. And it’s not just that the air is clean, either. It has magic in it. It has life. And I guess maybe that life seeps into us, because people in Hawai`i live four years longer than people on the mainland.

Or maybe it’s that our own lives don’t seep out as fast.

I also end my list with the ocean. Because no matter what’s wrong, I always feel better if I can just float in the ocean. Just bobbing in the waves for a few minutes does something to the mind and body. It lifts one out of depressions and worries so effectively that sometimes I wonder if it’s my outlook that’s changing, or if the world actually improves as I rock in the ocean’s hands.

So it should come as no surprise that Tuesday came today and I’m a happier man. Lei Bear Day was a wonderful laundry list of goodness. Friends, jovial santa-shaped men, debauchery, late nights, bright beaches, Hawai`ian music, keiki hula, important conversations, invigorating air, and floating in the ocean.

Maybe the Pacific lifted my spirits, or maybe it was just a very excellent weekend.

Lei Bear Day

This weekend we will celebrate Labor Day and Lei Bear Day. It’s not Gay Pride, but, as Boulanger would say, it’s still “Homosexual Weekend.” Some of the friends who will be joining us would have been in New Orleans being decadent, but a certain storm you may have heard about changed their plans. We’re glad they’re here, and not there, needing help.

Our guest is still here, and thankfully, has managed to extend his stay. Apparently, he’s having a good time despite the fact that Head Chef and I are working during the days and the house is in full remodel and filled to the rim with dogs. He’s been the perfect sort of guest, and I’m so glad we’ve gotten to know him better.

I’m still feeling very dissociated, though. And irritable. Getting back into the groove has been very challenging, and I think part of it may have to do with the simple fact that the routine I left isn’t here any more. I have lots of questions and so very few answers.

Head Chef wants to know what the questions are, but there are so many that I keep losing track of them. It’s like walking into a record store with a mental list of everything you want to buy. By the time you get back out to your car with your new CDs, you realize that not one of them was on your list. But the list was also full of good, even important stuff. It’s just that you’ve already spent your money and it’s time to get on with the rest of your plans, so you don’t go back in.

Tour Of The Possum Pie Kitchen

I’m something of a privacy advocate. That may seem contradictory if you don’t know me, since I have a public weblog that will be indexed, cached, and searchable for all eternity. If you know me, though, it may seem even more contradictory, since I can’t keep my mouth shut about every detail of my personal life.

Still, you won’t find my name in here, and you won’t find the names of the other cooks who have a hand in making Possum Pie. People who read the menu but don’t order anything I may refer to by name, and I think that’s fine.

After all, I will be talking about my life, and that will inevitably give the truly clever plenty of information to piece together my identity.

Still, if you’re interested in knowing more about the qualities of some of the people in the kitchen, I will update this entry from time to time for that purpose.

• Head Chef: The most important cook in this kitchen. Bubbly, affable, and imminently likable, he inspires confidence and respect in all who know him. He’s always on the lookout for something fresh and exciting to put on the menu.
• Boulanger: The Bread Cook. As infinitely satisfying for the soul as the fresh-baked goods she prepares, Boulanger is lovely and stylish. She possesses a wicked wit, a hearty laugh, and a fervent drive to make a positive difference in people’s lives.
• Friturier: The fry cook. Living his life by a creed of excessive indulgence, he knows well the finer things and people who simply must be known. Easy to laugh or gossip and always ready to entertain, Friturier lives in the moment.
  
• Grillardin: The grill cook. Grillardin is animated and excited, a lover of food, drink, and a very good time.
• Tournant: The rotating cook. Tournant is someone I like, but not necessarily always the same person. I will probably be sharing the relevant qualities of each Tournant in the entry in which they are named.
• The Butcher Commis: The common cook. Not necessarily someone I’m fond of, and not always the same person. People like co-workers, service personnel, and the like are most likely The Butcher Commis.
• Pastry Chef: The maintainer of this journal.

Aloha

I've been writing privately. Once in a while, as a sort of test.

1) Would I blog if I could?

I've passed the first test, and so, since Blogger is free, I am starting the second test.

2) Will I blog when I have one?

I've posted a few of my past writings from the last few months that I felt fit for public consumption, just to make sure there's some content.

If I pass this test, I get to have my own hosted, customized blog that's more full featured. But that's for the distant and uncertain future. We can plan for that just like everything else we do. Naturally, all plans work out perfectly.

For Grounding

We stayed up late last night entertaining a houseguest, and I’m horribly jet-lagged and possibly hung-over. I can’t tell which, or in what ratio.

My return to Honolulu has not been as triumphant and celebratory as I had imagined. On the contrary, I’ve felt disconnected and like I don’t belong here. My home doesn’t feel like home, welcomes have been scant and from people I needed them from the least.

It’s like I have been granted this overwhelming feeling of dread.

But I just saw something that grounded me for a fleeting moment. And you won’t believe what it was. A nametag. Yeah. Of a co-worker I really like and admire. She wasn’t even there, and I think that if she had been the effect wouldn’t have been as profound.

For that moment I felt like my head cleared, and I stopped walking and smiled. “Oh, wow,” I thought to myself. “Her.”

And then I started walking again, and these familiar but unwanted feelings returned.

What I’m Waiting For

I was sent off to Utah for 2 months, and I was furious. But I calmed down, as I do, and I got used to the idea that it was really just like an excruciatingly long workweek. With one day weekends every 11 days.

For a while, I tried to have a life here. I tried to make the best of the pitiful hotel gym facilities and to be interested in going out to dinner with these strangers that have become my co-castaways. But finally, there was no denying it. The gym is just unworkable and my fellow victims here in exile are not my friends, no matter how much I try. And it’s a shame, really, because they’re not my kind of people and they don’t seem to like one another very much, either.

So I found myself playing my video game, setting goals and being excited for the next milestone. And I knew the whole time that I was really just escaping. Just biding my time till I was permitted to return home.

Isn’t that funny? I’m an adult, but I have to ask for permission to go home.

But I’ve reached my in-game goal and I’m stymied on what to do with myself. I’m waiting to go home, to run a house and work in a yard. To have a dog stand with her nose less than an inch from mine as I intone her name in a sacred chant of praise.

Diary Entry From Above The Pacific

So, I've been away from home for about three weeks now, but I got to go home long enough to have a taste. And it was a good taste, too.

I arrived in Honolulu on Friday night, and was a bit sleepy. On Saturday, Head Chef and I slept in, but of course sleeping in for me is a bit different than it is for him. I slept till 6am. What can I say, I'm on Mountain time. That was sleeping in for me. :)

I had some computery things I wanted to do, and my Head Chef was still tired when he got up. It was still 7:00 and Fred, the contractor we're using to work on the house, wasn't due for another hour, so I upgraded the computer in the living room and Head Chef hung out and napped next to me on the couch with Enzo and Bella and Popoki. I ran the upgrades and then even played the game for a little while during our wait for Fred.

I got some decent pointers from Head Chef on how to play even better, as well as my 25th level. Yay. I like Mormodes, the Shaman. He's a cool dude, and he's powerful when forced to do things on his own. But he's still got a soft side and needs his druid, Kapok, because he just can't do it all himself. Who can, you know?

Fred arrived about an hour late, so we got him set up and then headed out to the beach. We weren't sure which beach we would go to, but we ended up deciding to go Waimanalo beach (say it: Why man ah low). We spent an hour or two on the beach, napping and talking. I enjoyed the sun and Head Chef's presence, and I let my hand rest against his side as we lay there silently.

The beach in Waimanalo is perfect. Wide and bright with just enough surf and never very many people. I'm always nervous about getting in the water there, but I didn't see any jelly fish washed up on the shore, so we went in and of course it was fantastic. The waves there are very fun and once you're in, the water temperature is really comfortable. We bobbed in the waves for a while and watched a turbo prop plane in the distance silently performing aerial acrobatics. And then as we were climbing out of the water, we spotted not one, but two jellies on the beach. But we didn't get stung, so that's what counts, right?

When we got home a bit after 1:00pm, Fred had made a lot of progress on hanging the new door, but he had to completely rebuild the entire frame because the old door and frame were custom but awful. It had been a non-trivial job, for sure, but it looked good. Head Chef and I hung out and helped a little, talked with Fred about the changes he was making, and then surfed the web looking for a new doorbell ringer and thinking about design for the kitchen.

When Fred got the door hung, it was time to tear the kitchen cabinets off the wall he's going to remove for us, so we helped him to hold stuff and move the cabinet pieces outside. Head Chef was really excited. You could see the energy in his eyes in the way one can... As more and more cabinetry disappeared, he was starting to see the kitchen finished in his mind's eye, and his imagination wouldn't let him leave the room for a while. Fred had a couple of beers while he chatted with Head Chef about other plans they're going to work on. Finishing the flooring, replacing the stairs, and adding windows.

Head Chef's plan is to have it done when I get back. Knowing him, I'll be very impressed.

I busied myself with getting ready for dinner and making sure that everything was in place for my departure the next morning. And then Cindy showed up looking for the package I had brought back for her from Utah. She's my co-worker's wife, and she was nothing like I had pictured her. It was kindof awkward and so we hurriedly exchanged our items. Her husband's package went with her, and the shirt I was to bring back to Utah with me went into my carry-on bag for the next day.

Finally, Grillardin showed up and it was time to go to dinner. We had chosen to go to Gyu Kaku, a fun Japanese barbecue place that we knew Grillardin hadn't been to and would love. She's new to the island and needs to be shown around a bit, so we took her out for an "E komo mai" dinner, and naturally, she loved it. I leaned forward and reminded Head Chef, "Boulanger's going to LOVE this place," and he heartily agreed. Everything was delicious, including the yakidori dessert. I was content.

But I had a plan, and we couldn't linger to savor the sensation of full bellies. So we headed down into Waikiki to catch the movie on the beach. They never play old classics like "Some Like It Hot," so I was kindof excited to check it out. We got a great area in front of the big screen, and from observation of others, learned a new technique for digging into the sand and getting comfortable. We drank pre-mixed cocktails while the sun was setting. The Honolulu Jazz All-Stars performed magnificently from the movie screen stage, and we agreed that everything was better when enjoyed in the light of a Honolulu sunset.

When darkness set and the movie started, Head Chef nudged me out of sleep. I was still on mountain time, and it was nearly midnight according to my body clock. I watched Jack Lemmon for a while before my eyes closed and Head Chef woke me again. And after a third time, Grillardin volunteered that she was tired, too, so we gathered our empties and our beach mat and headed for the car. I was all yawns and when Grillardin dropped us off, I had only enough energy to stack my items near my bag and curl up next to Head Chef.

He wanted to chat as we lay in bed, but I must've fallen asleep in mid-sentence at some point. He said something that woke me, and I opened my eyes and he smiled before turning off the light. He has such a nice smile.

Now it's Sunday, and I'm back on the plane on my way to San Francisco to catch my connecting flight to Salt Lake City. All my friends from the area - and many from Honolulu, Portland, Seattle, Texas, and elsewhere - are finishing a week-long camping trip/binge in Guerneville, not far from The City. I've heard from many of them, and it sounds like they're having a good time. Head Chef and I will plan well ahead, and we'll meet them there next year.

Head Chef and Fred are going to tear down the wall today and finish some touch-up work that needs to be done on the new front door - which looks beautiful, by the way. I begged Head Chef to send me pictures, but he wants the new lofted second level to be a surprise for me. Already, the suspense is killing me.

I won't arrive in Salt Lake until almost 8:00pm. My co-worker, The Butcher Commis, has said he'll pick me up, so I won't have to take a taxi down to Provo. Hopefully the air quality will be better in Utah Valley this week. I'm supposed to have a better hotel room for this next stay, too. Much more like the condos in Waikiki.

In the meantime, I've been listening to the new Coldplay album while I work on the plane. I only have a few albums on the computer to listen to, but this one is a gem. I might never have heard it if it weren't for my friend Tournant, who shared with me one of the two finest tracks on the album. And now I listen to the track and think of the people I'm so far away from, and think about how... I don't know - accurate - it is.

Behind The Choice Claim

After all these years and despite scientific evidence to the contrary, anti-gay extremists still base their positions on sexuality-related issues on their belief that homosexuality is a choice. They believe it very fervently, and no amount of evidence to the contrary will dissuade them. In recent weeks, I’ve stumbled across various pieces of literature that have helped me get inside the head of the anti-gay activist. To understand, even if I cannot agree.

Poor Mayor Jim West of Spokane has struggled with sexuality issues his entire life, it would seem. Even if the allegations of predatory sexual abuse of boys aren’t true – we may never know either way – it would seem he’s spent a career profiting off of what closet cases do best. Denial. In the eighties, he was one of the most vociferous anti-gay voices in Washington State and had a brief abortive marriage to a woman. Now, the guy has been caught having virtual sex with young men over the internet. With his hypocrisy now laid bare, he is suffering demonstrably.

Jim West’s story has been potent for me, in no small part because of the luridness of the detail with which it has been told. I never had to deal with the denial Jim did because I came out as a relatively young man. But Jim – well, he was in law enforcement, then political office. A conservative man, he couldn’t even come out to himself, and reacted against what he felt was wrong with him, voicing his self-loathing as a public position against others like him. And as the classic scenario goes, we find him coming out at the age of 54, struggling and embattled, as conflicted with himself as ever.

Neil Horsley was on the Alan Colmes show on the Fox Radio Network twice during the past couple of weeks. If you’re not familiar with Neil’s work, he’s an aggressive anti-gay, anti-abortion, anti-everything Christian extremist who has a lot of opinions about just about everything. And he’s an expert on sexuality, it turns out, due to his experiences with men and mules alike. Yes, I said mules. On the Alan Colmes show, he said he’d have even had sex with a watermelon or a washing machine under the right circumstances.

Neil has found god, of course, and so he condemns all that which he once enjoyed because the Lord doesn’t approve. I can’t say I approve of sex with things other than humans, either. However, in reading about Neil and the prevalence of bestiality, I learned that about %13 percent of men have had sex with an animal at some point. That was a big surprise to me, and it validated Neil’s assertion that sex with farm animals is actually common.

Reading Jim’s story and hearing Neil talk, I found myself thinking about sexuality and choice, and how it fit for these two men. Both have had sex with men, and both have dealt with it in different ways. Neil appears to have chosen to abstain from sex with men, animals, vegetables, and machinery for religious reasons. Barring contrary evidence, we can only assume he has been successful. Jim, however, has tried to be with women and failed. He’s acknowledged that he seeks men for sex and engages in romantic discussions with them online.

To me, this fits perfectly with Kinsey’s continuum of human sexuality. Jim is predominantly attracted to men. Like me, Jim may be a five out of six on Kinsey’s scale, indicating that he is almost exclusively attracted to men for sexual relationships, and is only incidentally heterosexual. What is currently known about his relationship history supports this assertion.

Neil, on the other hand, may be a two or a one on the Kinsey scale. He’s had sex with men, and so he obviously finds them sexually attractive at least part of the time. This excludes him from being classified as a zero on the scale, the point for a person who is exclusively heterosexual.

Obviously, then, both men are attracted to both sexes, albeit to different degrees. And they did not choose this for themselves. Most likely, both would have chosen to fall onto the Kinsey scale at the zero point. But both have had to make a choice as to whether to honor their natural tendencies or to suppress them. For Neil, this might simply have been like turning down chocolate for someone who only likes to have it once in a while. Neil’s choice to give up men may have been an easy one.

For Jim, however, his sexual attraction toward men was too strong to deny. He tried for many years because social mores and his own beliefs told him he should, but he was unable to succeed. Jim clearly struggled with his options for a lifetime, and ultimately decided that he could not suppress his innate sexuality.

Both men did choose, based on the sexuality they developed. Neil chose to lead a straight life and Jim chose a gay, albeit closeted and contradictory, one.

Neil and Jim are interesting because they represent voices opposed to societal acceptance of homosexuality despite their own histories. According to Kinsey’s research, they are among the roughly 60% of young men who have a homosexual experience or relationship during their youth. But if only four to six percent of them turn out to be gay, what happens to the rest?

Presumably, most find that gay sex is not as satisfying to them as relationships with women. But that’s no different from discovering that you prefer chocolate over vanilla. The choice is easy if you have a clear preference. But they carry that memory. And in the context of strong social mores against homosexuality, they attribute their experiences and resulting choices to their own strength of character, or to the wisdom and influence of their God.

The rest – those like Jim – make a choice to be less happy. They take vanilla, even though they’d prefer – through no choice of their own - chocolate. Perhaps even if they hate vanilla, they’ll deny themselves the happiness that only chocolate could bring.

The “Yes or No,” “True or False,” “Black or White” crowd would say that I am in essence agreeing with my Christian adversaries, but they’re wrong because the underlying preference for male or female is never a choice. And so the key to my understanding of their perspective is that, statistically, men who claim that being gay is a choice think they know first hand because they themselves have made that same choice. They just never say it. And they don’t disclose their classification on the Kinsey scale, either.

My father occasionally repeats his advice to me when I’m facing a dilemma. “Make the choice that will increase your happiness,” he says. Given that Jim and I are fives on the scale, the choice that will make us happiest is to be with men. We did not choose to be fives, but we did have to choose between acknowledging our nature and suppressing it. To different degrees, we made the choice that increased our happiness.

Anyone who asks someone to reconsider their choice, more than half the time, is asking him or her to make a choice they themselves have already made. One that was either easy for them, or makes them unhappy. And it’s funny how so many of them seem so very unhappy. Makes me think that misery really does love company.

Fixing Marriage Once And For All

Just about everybody seems to agree that marriage is broken. Progressives see it as discriminatory by design, inappropriately regulated by the government, or too limiting to encompass the full spectrum of loving commitment between people. Conservatives see it as plagued by divorce born of temptation and vice, under siege by sinners who wish to disgrace it, and not defended or supported ardently enough by governmental bodies. Just about everybody seems to have an opinion.

One of the key assertions currently being used by conservatives to argue their perspective in the media, courts, and legislatures, is that marriage is a sacred institution designed to create children. That the one man, one woman tradition and federal and state recognition, protections, and responsibilities they wish to have exclusive access to are justified by the Nation’s interest in promoting the rearing of new generations.

Frankly, I don’t have any way to dispute this. But I was raised thinking that marriage was about love, not procreation. As such, I feel that the contemporary function of marriage is to bond with a chosen mate for life more than it is to rear offspring. However, I recognize that the health of economies is tied closely to population growth rates. And so beyond my own personal belief that marriage’s function is for acknowledging love rather than creating a support structure for child rearing, I can’t really argue against conservatives on that particular point.

(Of course, I also think that birth rates in the US might actually go up if marriage were abolished. While the quality of child rearing might also drop, I imagine the value to our economy of a population surge would outweigh any dip in deficits in child upbringing.)

Despite this, I still feel that current marriage laws unfairly discriminate against gays and lesbians. Nowhere in marriage laws does it state that marriage is defined for purposes of raising children. Furthermore, lots of heterosexual couples get married with absolutely no intent of birthing or adopting a single child. Not one. So where’s the equity there? Marriage is for raising children, but people who never intend to have kids can reap the benefits? Aren’t they abusing a loophole in the system, in that case? They’re taking advantage of benefits designed to support those raising children without contributing to society as expected, and this puts an undue burden on legitimately married people, singles, and couples that cannot be married.

My thinking on this matter has brought me to the point at which I feel I can propose a reasonable solution:

Marriage is defined as a union of no more than two persons who are primarily responsible for the rearing of at least one child, for the duration that children are dependent, and no longer. All marriages performed prior to the conception, adoption, or other acquisition of a child for rearing are void. All marriages persisting past the termination of child dependency are also terminated. This law is retroactively effective on all current marriages one year from its passage and all those henceforth.

That may be harsh but it’s totally fair. If marriage and all benefits of marriage are for the purpose of raising children, then this protects all couples raising children, regardless of whom they are, for the duration of the dependency of the children. This means that both John and Mary and John and Mark can get married if they’re raising a child, and they are assured of all the protections of marriage for the duration of their parenting.

And yes, this means that both couples’ marriages terminate when the bouncing babies grow up (unless they’re dependent for life due to various factors) or die. Remember, the benefits of marriage are there for supporting the rearing of children. Love alone is not justification for government benefits, and 18 years worth of tax breaks, hiring preferences, and special treatment aught to be enough reward. Thank you for your service, Parents, but your service is complete.

Not only does this ensure that marriage is conferred only on those who really need it, it prevents the abuses of the system that are currently rampant. Childless couples – even those who are infertile through no fault of their own, unfortunately – do not deserve the assistance of the government that couples with children have earned.

Of course, we could always set up civil unions for childless couples, but those would be mostly for feel-good purposes and the assignment of power of attorney in medical and financial matters associated with death or disability. Childless couples don’t deserve any more protection than that, and they shouldn’t have it.

Unless, of course, everybody can get in on the action.

Enforcing Religious Pluralism

I’m all for Freedom Of Religion. Truly. It seems to me that if I want to be a Buddhist, Taoist, Muslim, Scientologist, Atheist, or Christian, that I should be able to do so freely, and without restraint. I should not be punished for my beliefs, and I should not be forced to suffer discrimination by governmental agencies that prefer a particular belief structure over the one I hold.

This is pretty simple, I think. Freedom of religion is about honoring all beliefs that we variously call religion, spirituality, or lack thereof. It’s about respecting every individual’s means of explaining their existence in terms of that great Other and answering those questions about Why and How.

It baffles me that some people don’t understand this respect, and feel that their particular set of beliefs should be enshrined in law and displayed everywhere in public at the expense of others. This strikes me as being an example of lessons from childhood that were not well learned.

Sharing, see, is important. Not just in pre-school, and not just on the playground. We teach children how to share because sharing is vital to the operation and survival of communities. Without individuals who can share, communities become conflicted and fail.

Separations of church and state as well as freedom of religion are about equal access and freedom to practice our religion, even if that religion is complete rejection of everything outside of our corporeal existence. But the concept of separation of church and state enforces that freedom by acknowledging that there are many religions, and that they cannot all be reasonably represented everywhere. As a result, all religion is banned from promotion via public funds because to promote one religion would be unfair to those who practice any other. It’s a tactic that has angered a lot of Christians for decades.

It wouldn’t have to be that way, of course. But for it to work, individuals and communities would have to be willing to share their space, time, and resources with others who may not practice their particular canon. And that sharing works both ways, because in some places in this country, Christians are the minority, not the majority. Freedom of religion is a concept created to allow them to practice without discrimination or fear.

When the Alabama Supreme Court forced a judge to take down a tablet of the Ten Commandments from public property, there was an incredible uproar. During that time, I watched a video of a man completely overcome, yelling and screaming, “Put it back! Put it back” till he could hardly stand.

I remember watching the video, listening to him repeat himself over and over, and thinking to myself, “Poor guy.” The man was so overwrought that even his fellow protesters were asking him to calm down, but he was so aggrieved as to be inconsolable. He swayed on his feet like he was about to lose consciousness due to blood loss.

But I would not have put the tablets back. However, I would have offered to share. All I ask is for equal representation. Indeed, if the Ten Commandments belong on public property, so do the guiding principles of every single faith in the country. So had I been in a position to bargain with the man who was overcome by the loss of the Ten Commandments, I would have proposed the following rule:

When concepts of faith, religion, or spirituality of any sort are described, displayed, taught, or are otherwise made available using Federal, State, or other public funds, equal representation of all other faiths practiced within the community serviced by the entity must also be present, in an order determined by audited, witnessed lottery.

In addition, entities that engage in any faith-related activities using public funds must publicly designate and maintain personnel responsible for support of faith presentation, and these personnel must be readily available to accept public input. If any two individuals residing within the community (regardless of relation) request the addition of the guiding principles of their belief system, the entity must make all accommodations necessary to complete equal presentation of the requestors’ faith within one calendar year of the written request’s submission.

Entities must fund adjustments to faith presentations through their own budgets, and are authorized to request voter-approved taxation, including taxation of community churches, to support the maintenance of religious presentation.

For the purpose of ensuring fairness in faith representation, the Federal Government will establish the National Bureau Of Equitable Religion And Faith Presentation and will designate personnel in all postal offices who will accept public comment for oversight of local faith presentation. The Bureau will act in an administrative function to support the direction of community complaints to the National Faith Presentation Review Court, comprised of a single representative of each major religion and faith nationwide. Funding for this Bureau will be provided by a national sales tax on items of religious or spiritual nature. This tax will be implemented and enforced by the Internal Revenue Service.

Complaints regarding unequal representation of community beliefs may be submitted jointly or separately by any two individuals within the community (regardless of relation). Entities that fail to provide equal representation of faith in placement, content, and accessibility in the judgment of the Court are required to remove all representation within three months of a guilty verdict. No exceptions are made for space, time, or funding constraints. All entities that fail to comply will be subject to withdrawal of federal funds during the following quarter, Bureau intervention and subsequent presentation removal, or both.

I doubt that the man screaming to Put It Back would have agreed to my compromise. But it would address many issues with the current situation. Yes, it would eliminate some of the aspects of the separation of church and state, but it would encourage the celebration of freedom of religion, rather than prohibiting religious expression altogether. In addition, it would clarify that Atheism, so derided as “freedom from religion” is also a fully valid religion, too. Whether they were the majority or minority, every religion with unique practices could be ensured equal time and validation in schools, parks, public buildings, and any public venue that used public resources to discuss faith. Furthermore, funding for all of this is borne by the religious community as a whole, sharing the burden of protecting freedom of religion equally.

If my proposal is adopted, Christian beliefs can be placed on display in courts, schools, and agencies of all types and Christians can know that their beliefs are protected and guaranteed fair representation, just like Muslim, Wiccan, Hindu, Atheist, Rajneesh, and Satanic principles are. When this proposal is implemented, separation of church and state, while still important for legislative matters, will no longer impose limits upon the public display and practice of faith in America.

Repeat Offenders

One of the peculiar things about being a haole here in Hawai`i is that I am a foreigner. Frankly, most people here are, but it's only a few generations ago this island really did belong to the Hawai`ian people who arrived thousands of years ago. They had their own language and culture, and it was wonderful, unique, beautiful, and even cruel.

But of course, the white men took it. We take a lot of things. Like North America, or South Africa, or Hong Kong. We're conquerors. It's nothing personal, it's just how we are. Everybody else does it too, we've just historically been the best at it. And besides, if the Polynesian people who live here now didn't speak English, they'd be speaking Japanese, right?

You know what? None of that makes it OK. Really, it doesn't. Saying "Oh, well, somebody else would have done it if we hadn't" doesn't make the Trail of Tears OK, and it doesn't make the overthrow of Lili`u`okalani all better, either.

Head Chef and I and a cadre of other haole friends had the (oddly) rare occasion to hang out with a man the other night who is half Samoan and half Hawai`ian, and he was a beautiful, gentle person who embodied Aloha. He blessed us in the ocean, and told us not to worry about the Hawai`ian people, as they'd be just fine.

And of course, he's right. Hawai`ian blood may be diluted now, and the culture may have gone through astonishingly rapid change over the past one hundred years, but the people are still here. Still here, in the form of men like him, gently or even sometimes not-so-gently reminding us that we're blessed to be here, but that they were here first. And letting us feel welcome anyway.

No Votes For Renters

It's an interesting experience being the target of the President’s Hate Of The Union Address. It gives me a sick feeling and makes me angry - it makes me doubt the greatness of this country, and drapes everything else the USA does in shades of selfishness and harm. I don’t feel like a threat to the nation, and I don’t see how my would-be-husband is a threat, either. And so I can’t understand how our successful, loving relationship is worthy of changing the Constitution to discriminate against us, unless that action is based solely on hate, greed, and, fear.

I guess I shouldn’t feel too singled out or shocked about it – arguably less despotic men than George Bush still engage in genocidal binges from time to time, and black men are still lynched in the South. But it still hurts, knowing that I am so hated by so much of America that while the rest of the world acknowledges my human rights, this country’s President can get away with pedaling discrimination in front of Congress. I can’t imagine another scenario in which Bush could advocate for blatant hate-based discrimination without facing immediate impeachment.

I mean, really, can you imagine if he’d said that the nation needs to revoke inheritance rights for widows, or voting rights for people who don’t own land? Or that Latinos should be denied access to public education? He’d be immediately censured by Congress and demanded to resign. He would go down in history as a horrible embarrassment and an example of what to never, ever do. But stand up in front of television cameras and say that my partner and I don’t deserve the same rights as widows, renters, and Latinos, and that’s just fine. That’s just public discourse.

I realize it’s a rallying cry and something that the Republicans are using to “energize their base,” but if it is successful, it also heralds the end of the great American experiment. The President’s Amendment, not two men building a stable home and a loving family together, is the single greatest threat to what it means to be the United States of America, and what it means to say “I am an American.” Because if he is successful, it will mean that America is no longer the beacon of freedom.

And you’d think someone who invokes freedom so much would realize that.