skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Obama knows what Californians forgot. From his acceptance speech last night:
If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.
It’s the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.
It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled – Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.
I actually gasped upon hearing that. Gay? Gay and straight? The forty fourth president of the United States acknowledged that I exist, and that I am an American. I didn't even hear his next few sentences. I just felt so included that nothing else mattered for some moments.
Not even Proposition 8.
Obama opposed Proposition 8, the one that Californians passed last night. The one that, like so many others, defines me as less American than the straight people President-elect Obama also acknowledged. It's desperately sad to me that Obama knows about the American dream - about equality and liberty and the pursuit of happiness - but that the people who elected him don't.
Californians forgot that we're all Americans. Californians, of all people.
Or did they? Going into election day many polls indicated that No on 8 still had a lead. And that means anonymous Californians lied to pollsters. Why would they lie if they're anonymous? Because they were too ashamed to tell the truth. Californians knew what they were about to do was wrong.
Obama knows that to bouy the country, we must lift all people up. And that to discriminate against any group drags us all down. Part of me thinks that Obama has the power to bring us together. Part of me believes that in time, if he remains persuasive and dedicated to that ideal we will realize, as a people, that to truly prosper we must uplift all Americans.
To do anything less hurts us all. And although on this day I am not a full American, I still have hope.
I know that, by and large, if you read my blog, you're a part of my choir. Which is to acknowledge, of course, that if I make a point and I intend it to be public, I'm just preaching to the converted. Which is probably pointless.
But I can't help it. No on 8. No on 8. NO ON 8!
What I am most struck by is this:
Those who would lay claim to the greatest achievements of piety and grace are bearing false witness in order to hurt and oppress others. And, it would seem, they are doing it for at least partially prideful, even gluttonous purposes. They want marriage for themselves, and they don't want to share.
I have a much easier time with high school jocks yelling 'f*!^king fags!' out a car window. They are grappling with what it means to be themselves, and part of that is demonstrating their idea of who they should be to their peer group. They're immature and it's shameful, but it's not who they are.
But these 'Christian' people tell lies to change public opinion and actively and at great expense try to hurt other people. How on earth are we supposed to accept that they are loving and pious? How in their god's name could anyone - including their god - think that the path to righteousness is paved in lies and the oppression of their neighbors?
They believe in this afterlife filled with reward or damnation and for their sake, I hope they're wrong. Because if there is an afterlife and we are each judged as they believe we are... Their afterlife is gonna be all kinds of hell.
------- Part 2 --------
Dear No On 8 Christian,
I know, I just painted you in a terrible light. I just lumped you in with Christianists, people who are not merely content to worship the way they choose, but whom wish to force all citizens to live by their tenets. People who wish to abolish the separation of church and state, as well as freedom of religion.
That was unfair. And I'm sorry. But you have to understand.
You mention your gay buddy or sister to a coworker and in their minds they picture a category, not a person. I personally think categories are useful, but they come with burdens, too. As a gay man, I have to constantly combat any number of stereotyped behaviors associated with men in my category. Drag queens, ACT UP clones, park cruisers, etc.
But I do, through my own example and words, illustrate that I, as a gay person, am not like those people, and that they do not represent all gay people.
Blacks, Jews, Hispanics, Republicans, Liberals, Women, and Teenagers also have to deal with these categories. It's no big deal, and it's not personal.
You are voting No On 8. And for that, I thank you. But you are a Christian and that puts you in a category, too. So it is your burden to illustrate that you do not lie. That you do not oppress others. And that you do not wish to legislate your faith and in so doing eliminate Americans' rights to worship or not as they choose.
This is your burden. The voting ends on Tuesday. I'd recommend you start now.
There's the phone. Start dialing.
Thanks,
Pastry Chef
I had a boyfriend many years ago who was incapable of driving past a reservation without stopping for a few pulls on the big money slots. If we didn't stop, he got edgy like a smoker on a long flight. But I always thought he had many other better ways to spend all that money, and I think I've found one he might even enjoy.
I was never a gambling man myself. Oh sure, I could understand playing nickel slots for a couple of hours. I could see spending fifty dollars and calling that the price of entertainment. But hundred dollar slots? Thousands of dollars gone over the course of a single evening?
No way, that's not my idea of fun. That's what I call stress. Just the simple knowledge that I could be spending that money doing something useful or more lasting is enough to ruin the fun. But then, add in the pressure. Given the much higher stakes, I am painfully aware of the importance of winning back what I am losing.
Out here we have casinos too, but we have no municipal water source. Instead, we buy our drinking water in town and we rely on surface springs that run all year, water tankers that come up every few weeks, and wells. But year-round springs are rare and the endless parade of tankers can become expensive over time so a well, if you can get a productive one, is a wise investment. Since my spring gets thin each summer and access to it is shared with fiercely competitive neighbors who wish to usurp my water rights, a well seemed imperative.
But well drilling is just like gambling. There might be water a few feet down, but you'll never know unless you drop some cash into the hole and see if it floats back to the top.
We've been drilling a well for weeks now. And we definitely have water on our property. Each time we put the drill down into the soil, we have water bubbling up after a few dozen feet. But oh, the complications.
At the first location there was the dreaded black sand that you can drill through but then collapses and settles into an impermeable concrete layer, ruining the well after you've nearly finished it. The eighty foot shaft filled with water by itself to only fifteen feet from the surface, but we couldn't get the water out. So we moved to a new location.
Then there was the diamond vein that couldn't be drilled through at all. So we moved to a new location.
And then, most recently, we set up the rig on the drive loop. It seemed like a good spot. And sure enough, we drilled to only thirty feet and signs of water started trickling in. But there were problems. The rig was vibrating off its footings, causing the drill stems to flex inside the drill shaft and destabilizing the well as it went.
And then, after correcting the drill's positioning twice, the drill bit and ten feet of drill stem separated from the rest of the machine forty feet down. And as we prepared to give up on the location and abandon the equipment at the bottom of the well shaft, the water level rose four feet in an hour. More water we couldn't have.
So we're going to throw the dice again in a new location. And as we prepare to grind away eighty or one hundred more feet of rock, I cannot help but be reminded that I am no fan of gambling. Especially when the stakes are high.
Many years ago I came into possession of a red shirt with a subtle pattern printed on its front. But it wasn't just the flattering cut that was so appealing. The color was perfect. It was red, yes, but it was just burgundy enough with just the right pinch of fire engine, and this ideal red among reds made me feel like I was brilliant without being overstated. I could've painted my world in that color and been so content. And on the front was a printed hibiscus blossom so subtle as to be all but unidentifiable.
It was flawless. And to reward this red shirt for its extraordinary nature, I wore it constantly. First out of the dryer, first into the wash. It was perfect with jeans, cargos, shorts, or just socks. I wore it for years with such frequency that I'm sure friends thought I owned few others. But it was no matter to me. This shirt was so simple but great in the pleasures it brought me.
As we grew together, the red shirt developed little signs of wear. The telltale pinprick holes around the belly button signaled a truly beloved garment that might have been discarded had it been less. But this was a red shirt, and I wore it and its age with pride.
One day I met a new friend for lunch, and we were chatting easily when he commented, "that's a cool old pink shirt." I laughed and corrected him without even looking at it. It's red. Haha, how silly. And then I realized it wasn't red. It had been loved so much, laundered so often, that it had become pink in its old age. It wasn't a red shirt any more. But in my mind's eye, my red shirt was always red. Had always been red. And I would always love it.
--------------
Head Chef came home from work one day laughing about a conversion he'd had with his coworkers. They had been chuckling with him about life as a bald man and they'd asked him how I felt about being bald. And he laughed and corrected them without even thinking about it. I wasn't bald, he told them. Haha, how silly.
So, as we drove to dinner, I pointed out to him that for all practical purposes, I am basically bald. And I told him about my red shirt.
He looked at me with astonishment and realized that in his mind's eye I had always been the one of us with hair. That he still saw me as that 26 year old kid with the blonde hair.
And he reassured me that no matter how far into pink I faded, I would always be his red shirt.
I was going to the wood shed to chop wood, and I needed a flashlight as it was already dark. Sadly, the electrical in the shed doesn't work, and no one could come with me, so a visitor offered her head lamp. It's a tiny LED flashlight mounted to an elastic headband, and it's pink and very fancy.
"Oooh," I swooned facetiously. "The fancy pink one, no less!" I turned it on and pulled it around my head.
She smirked and took on a regal air and said, "Oh yes. Don't you just feel like a princess?"
I responded with a simple affirmative and went out to the shed to batter the wood into usable shapes for the furnace indoors. But as I swung the axe over my head and tossed the split logs into my wood tote, I wondered if I really did feel like a princess, or if I even could.
I wondered whether people who feel like princesses even know. How would I know if I felt like a princess? So I imagined what a princess would feel like. And I developed a mental list, some of which I've surely forgotten by now.
1) Very important, like her opinion really mattered.
2) Like she could say or do almost anything at all with few repercussions, if any.
3) Universally loved.
4) In charge - like she could delegate things she didn't want to do.
5) Kind.
6) Generous.
7) Like she had a certain lightness in her step and a rare grace.
8) More intelligent than most people, if not everyone.
9) A greater judge of fashion than just about everyone.
10) Enviable.
Based on this list, I found myself lacking in the proper qualities a princess might possess. Out of the ten possible princessly properties I imagined, I could only lay claim to perhaps four. And even in some of those, my credentials seemed weak, making my claim to feeling like a princess a dubious one.
It was with great shame that I returned with my wood tote full, but my heart empty. For I had to admit that I did not, in fact, feel like a princess. And all the pink LED headlamps in the world could not help me.
Head Chef and I have been so busy moving out, moving in, shuffling around, driving both to and fro, and just generally finding things to occupy us outside the common current of human civilization that we've become a little more authentic.
Authentic? Oh, that sounds euphemistic, and I suppose that's a fair criticism. But while not completely unkempt, we're definitely a bit less kempt. You might say we've allowed our appearance to get a bit rugged, without going so far as to call us feral.
My mustache has gotten rather long and my neck goes well more than a week without shaving, granting me a wilderness creature affect that is actually quite fetching if I may say so myself. I bathe daily, but I might pull on yesterday's shirt because it's not visibly dirty and isn't malodorous yet. And Head Chef is no more or less relaxed in this way than I am. His normally smooth pate may get a bit of shadow, then a week's worth of stubble before we assault it with the razor again.
And so forth. But this is not terribly shocking in what passes for public in these parts. Rural California cares not for the well-heeled gentleman. No sir. So there's no need.
But the other day, we found ourselves in need to visit a mall. Yes, a mall in a real city. Imagine our horror. Just a day or two after Christmas, we pushed ourselves into a mall and strolled along amongst tightly primped teens, cute couples on second dates, and businessmen on their lunch break.
Smartly dressed in our dingy jeans, yesterday's thermal tops, and Wal-Mart's most bleeding edge $20 fashion footwear, we walked about, shopping for a French press. You'd be surprised how hard they are to find these days, and so we hit store after store. As our hunt wore on, we brushed ladies who were wearing perfume of all things. And men with not just a haircut, but a hair style.
At some point throughout this experience, my discomfort grew to a tangible level, and I realized that I was not of this world. In the span of a mere two months, I had moved from the above-the-bed realm of children and pleasant dreams to the under-the-bed, hiding-in-the-closet realm of monsters. And I announced my discovery to Head Chef.
"We're monsters." I carefully measured my delivery to indicate a statement of fact.
"We are?" he said as one who's just been told an obvious truth but cannot believe he hadn't come upon it himself.
"Oh yes. Don't you feel it?" I asked.
"I do! But I'm experiencing it more like being an alien dropped into the shopping mall. Disturbing." He shuddered for effect, then assumed a stiff-legged alien walk and posture for a few strides. Just enough to make us both laugh through our beards, but not enough to make us stand out any more than we already did.
For myself, I think I'll stick with the monsters. Although Head Chef would look adorable in antennae.
Gay Bomb, Gay Schmomb.
I'm tired of hearing about the proposed but abandoned military "gay bomb" that was supposed to turn enemy armies into bands of lawless homosexuals. I'm tired of it because it's been reported before and because that wasn't what it was.
It was a "horny bomb," people, not a gay bomb. It was supposed to make enemy armies so sexually aroused that they would immediately have sex with anything or anyone, thereby effectively rendering them incapable of combat. I think we can imagine how effective that might be.
But everyone's spinning this thing like it was supposed to make people gay. Let's get this straight (so to speak). Being so uncontrollably aroused that you'll fuck a member of the same sex doesn't make you gay. If it did, there'd be a lot fewer heterosexuals out there. In fact, if that were true only 40% of the population would be straight. Gay isn't something that happens to you, or something you do, it's something you are.
No, it was supposed to make them so frickin horny that they'd stop what they were doing and get it on with the nearest human, animal, or object. So yes, there would definitely be some same-sex contact going on. Oh, definitely. And the military masterminds of this plot did acknowledge that the best-case scenario would include enemy troops gettin it on with each other. But that wasn't the only point.
So please, stop crying out about how it's offensive to think that turning people gay would cause armies to collapse. It certainly wouldn't. But making them all drop their guns and fuck definitely would. Military intelligence may be an oxymoron, but they're not actually that stupid.
If you're not perfect, how do you tell a friend that they've really let you down? That they've undermined your trust? That they've made you rethink who they are and what they're really about? Do you, even - do you even tell them? Or do you just carry on, pretending nothing's changed.
If you're Ted Kennedy, do you ask a man how his wife died in the car accident?
I guess this is really just about being very disappointed in people not living up to my standards. Two people, specifically, from opposite ends of an ocean. But fear not - neither could be bothered to read this blog, so you're not one of them.
That's not to say that I always live up to my standards, either. No, for all my principles and boisterous pronouncements of ethical concerns, I stray. I am Ted Kennedy, and I am not without sin. I have not killed a man yet, but I'm sure I've hurt one or two.
Since these things move in karmic cycles I will be hurt, too. And others will be hurt as well, and we'll all hold onto our pain and disappointment and let it simmer in a little stewpot. We'll drop in the sacred promises not kept, secrets told to gossips, and political maneuvering by our confidantes, and we'll just let it cook on low. And then we'll hop in. We'll keep the heat down and let the salty brine of our personal disappointments just cook till all that's left is a little crusty reminder at the bottom of our stewpot.
It'll be a mere scab of what it was when it was fresh, and easy to overlook. But it will always be there, reminding us of our dashed hopes and the fact that we dare say nothing because we're Ted Kennedy.
As too many people have already noted, so-called Dr. Holsinger, Bush’s nominee for Surgeon General, is a crackpot. He’s a bigoted ideologue who ignores increasingly voluminous scientific evidence that gayness is a naturally occurring phenomenon and then turns around to distort science in order to villainize us. And he’s a nominee for Surgeon General?
Yeah. 'Cause paying attention to medical science is, like, totally not important for the country’s head doctor.
This is so obviously a doomed nomination it makes ya wonder how it could come to be. Well I’ll tell ya how.
Did you see the Democratic party presidential debates? Did you catch how every single one of them, without exception, is progressive on issues of gay citizenship?
So “Dr.” GaysArePervs gets nominated even though he can’t possibly be confirmed. And three different Democratic party contenders are on the committee that will turn him down.
Two plus two still equals four, right?
Bush – or more likely, Rove – is putting Holsinger in front of this committee not because they think he’ll be confirmed, but because they’re counting on Clinton, Obama, et al to go on record saying something pro gay. Something the next bigoted, fear-mongering, middle-class-eliminating, war-drum-beating Republican can use to excite their exhausted, alienated base.
So careful there, Hil and Bar. It’s a setup, and they’re watching you. And we are, too.
I have learned from the great and wise GoB that the FDA is upholding the ban on gay men giving blood despite statements against the ban by the Red Cross itself. But unlike he who holds domain over scones, I am not angry. I just miss it.
See, I used to donate blood regularly in college. And I loved it for two reasons: I was deathly afraid of hypodermic needles but not the pencil-lead variety used for blood donation, so it was a sort of personal triumph each time. Plus, I walked out feeling like somebody somewhere might live because I made this minor sacrifice of time and resources.
It helped my mood in a truly unique way. I felt like a little hero, and I smiled for not just no reason at all, but for every reason. I felt generous and benevolent, and yes, even powerful.
I have a fairly rare blood type and great veins so my donation was always met with a peculiarly greedy but grateful welcome. It almost felt as though they might ask to take a little extra just this once. And each time I went in for a bloodletting, I answered the question "have you had sex with a man even once since 1977" truthfully.
I always said, "no." And silently in my mind, I followed my response with "...not yet." So the morning after I finally did go home with a man after a night at a bar, I took stock of what was next. And amongst all the other realizations I had that morning, I knew that my little pleasure of donating blood would be a memory. And I knew I would miss it more than anything else.
Some weeks passed, and I got my customary call from the Red Cross. "Mr. Chef," they started. They always addressed me so politely. "We just wanted to let you know that we're hosting a blood drive in your neighborhood and would appreciate it if you could make another donation because your blood type is so uncommon."
I thanked them and hung up, but I did not go. This happened two more times. And on the fourth call, they seemed puzzled. "Mr. Chef, you had an amazing donation record prior to nineteen ninety (something!), but we haven't seen you at the last three drives in your area. Is there anything that we can do to make it more convenient for you to donate?"
I was hesitant to describe the real reason I'd stopped coming in. "Well, you see, it's just that you don't want my blood any more," I explained.
"Oh, quite the contrary, Mr. Chef, you have an uncommon blood type and we're having a particular shortage of rare bloodtypes in our area," she pleaded. It was clear I had to be direct.
"No, see. You don't want my blood any more because I've had sex with a man since my last donation."
"Oh, I see. Thank you, Mr. Chef. We'll remove you from our call list." She hung up without so much as a goodbye.
I am still HIV negative, and even if I weren’t, the Red Cross says they could tell before my blood went into someone else. Someone who might need it badly.
I still miss giving blood. And I would again if I could. In a heartbeat.
Head Chef and I are best when we’re racing toward some distant point. We hop in our canoe - our wa`a - and we paddle toward the same spot on the horizon. That’s when we’re at our best.
Sometimes he steers and sometimes he paddles along with me, putting his lower back into it because he knows where he’s going in his heart. He steers because he sees our destination with something that I don’t. I think he feels it like I feel musical notes. Part vision, like a bird who actually sees magnetic North as a visible spot, and part tactile sensation. Like an ice cube rubbed across your back – shocking at first, but exhilarating and full of contrast that wakes up your senses and leaves you smiling and laughing.
Because I am strong in that way, I paddle. I stroke, stroke, stroke, putting my energy into the water and moving our boat along. And I watch. I watch the water beneath us moving past, noting how our movement across its surface leaves such a small wake. I watch the landmarks on the shore as they approach and move past. I make small adjustments to the depth or strength of each stroke to keep us pointed toward his destination.
When I stop to rest, I am the one who checks the stars for our bearings. Head Chef has no need for such things because our destination is part of him and he trusts that. But I need to observe that we are on course using facts and equations. So I check my data and reassure myself that the route he’s chosen is best. And it is, most times.
So we paddle on, making minor corrections and crossing that next channel. And we’re crossing the water in the same direction. Each does his part and we synchronize our strokes. Together, we’ll get there. That next island, wherever it is. Because this is how we’re best.
I don’t know whether it was my upbringing or my genes, but I’ve just never really gotten into team spirit. I can play on a team, participate in a team’s activities, and even earnestly collaborate with my teammates toward a mutually beneficial goal. But ask me to root, root root for the home team, and you can bet I’m going to be yawning in between asking why I should bother.
I remember being in a freshman high school assembly and being taught about how to show my school spirit. Three hundred of us were coaxed and cajoled into screaming at certain cues, and a good number of the kids really seemed to get into it. But a contingent of senior classmen was there, and even despite their smaller numbers, they were louder. Oh noes, we had to beat them, how could we let them beat us??!!
I distinctly remember thinking “but what’s the point,” to myself as I stood in the bleachers with my comrades. Yes, yes, the seniors were louder, but how did it matter? What if they did love our school more, what then? What was the point of school spirit? Did it get me better grades, less homework, or out of school an extra period early? How did my allegiance to something I had no part in choosing for myself benefit me at all? Was I really supposed to be bloated with school pride just because it was the one I went to, and not based on its merits?
This internal dialogue has echoed in my thoughts time and again, and has informed many of my decisions. Religion, military service, and any significant sort of plebian nationalism have all been considered and dismissed. Autonomically doing as god says without personally talking to it, sacrificing my life for an economic system, and accepting the poor choices of my government without comment seem like foolish and dangerous paths to choose. Especially when the merits are dubious, at best.
But faced with these same choices, so many people still seem particularly eager to show their school spirit. Sometimes I feel like I’m still standing next to them in our high school auditorium looking at them, shaking my head, and wondering “why?”
You are being watched.
Oh, yes you are.
By me.
You are hurriedly putting your bags through the agricultural quarantine scanner at the airport, and you just look like a guy from San Francisco. Like a guy I might even know. But you are trying to dress like you’ve been to Hawai`i. And naturally, because you are who you are – you there, with your appealing, stocky build and your good hair and short beard – you have done a good job. I’d almost think that you were local by your choice of aloha shirt. But of course you’re not.
You nod and smile. You know.
And you, with your plucked eyebrows - I know you do drag when you’re not in that uniform. The way you pull the curtain back using only two fingers and never, ever using your pinky. I know. And the rest of you, with the proper gait but just a bit too much lift in your step. I can recognize which one of you said, “Welcome aboard United flight 72 to San Francisco,” without even hearing you speak in person. And, sir, when you do speak to someone face to face, you still sound like Bea Arthur doing voice over for a Discovery Channel special.
Such a shame you couldn’t get the video system running properly. The movie was cute.
I don’t mind watching you. The guy who reads while biting his tongue. The tongue that just hangs from between his teeth, thoughtlessly resting between his lips. Or the guy who gets a nicotine fit and has to dip to calm his nerves.
I even enjoy it. But I’d give it all up to spend the day at home, play the game, work in the yard, and go to bed together tonight. I won’t do those things for a month, and I’m not happy about it, but it’ll be OK, and I’ll do those things again soon.
There are times when I am so blank that my senses change. My skin feels like it’s been dipped in ice for a nanosecond. And I can see in my peripheral vision the striations in the fabric that holds the universe together. Like a shirt too-tightly stretched across an ample chest, with the feeble but brave button – my focus – the only thing keeping the whole thing from bursting out.
Universe bursting out all over. Holsteins, atoms, skyscrapers, butterflies, polyquaternium-11, pomeranians, and yes, even ample chests. All over. Chaos and disarray and entropy just the way it wants to be. All in an instant, if I blink and lose my focus.
When my brother was a young boy, we all sat to eat at the dinner table one particular night. But like any other, we talked about everything and there were no forbidden gross-out topics. Except bell peppers. Those were strictly taboo.
He was then as he is now, but shorter, well cushioned by a short-lived layer of baby fat, and blonde as snow. He sat on two phone books to adjust his height upward toward the table. And at some point, he announced that he could make the world fuzzy. Puzzled and curious we asked him what he meant, and so he showed us. And as we looked on, he crossed his eyes.
My parents laughed politely and explained that crossing his eyes didn’t make the world fuzzy, it just made it appear fuzzy to him. I don’t know if he understood then, but of course the story is laughable now.
Funny that we’re all so sure that the world isn’t fuzzy. Or that something simple and fragile isn’t holding the whole thing together.
We hurriedly had Grillardin over for dinner last night. We barbecued and watched "Defending Your Life" with Albert Brooks.
Grillardin hates Albert Brooks. She just hates him. As we watched the film she was so overcome by her hatred that she couldn't bring herself to comprehend what Meryl Streep could see in him. Or how just maybe there were some valid questions and opportunity for self-examination buried in there.
I always watch that film and think about the machinery it puts upon The Universe. The bureaucracy, and how perfect it would be, in that dark ironic-Jewish-humor sort of way.
But even more, I wonder if I would go forward, or return. I have not lived a life without fear. But I think about the moments of courage I've shown in my life, too, and I think that I'm not without a defense. And I think that, as the court went over my life, they might want to review nine days. Or maybe even more. But perhaps less.
I also think about Head Chef, Friturier, Grillardin, Boulanger, and my other friends such as yourself, and I think about your courage and wisdom. And I think that it would be a shame to return when you moved onward. But if I need to face my fear, then there's work to be done and I'll just need to pull up my bootstraps and get moving.
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
When I am faced with a difficult decision and I don’t know what to do, I go through my own sort of coping mechanisms in a specific order. It’s like the grieving process, but most likely without any precipitating, concurrent, or resultant deaths. Usually.
Remember, this is an important choice I’m preparing to make, so the stakes are theoretically high. As a result, the first thing I do is nothing at all. I seize up. At this first, critical stage of the decision making process, I try to put it out of my mind. I work in the yard, breezily talk about social affairs, and play a video game. Anything to not be distracted by this important matter. And most important of all, I take no action.
Then, when the pressure gauge is starting to read into the red zone, I agonize. I agonize over my choices and most especially the minutiae. How will this affect my balding pattern, who will pick up the dog droppings, and what will the impact be upon the Uncle whom I haven’t seen in 15 years. I also formulate answers to these questions in the form of worst-case scenarios. As an example, my answers to the above might simply be Nuclear Holocaust, Hitler, and Nuclear Holocaust.
Having determined that the worst possible outcome is also the most likely outcome, I decide not to bring about the end of the world by facilitating Hitler’s Nuclear Holocaust and I seek support for my choice. I nervously present my dilemma to everyone who will listen, attempting to seem undecided while passively portraying the nature of the frighteningly likely Nuclear Holocaust. If they agree with me, I am relieved. I have made the right choice and averted certain Nuclear Holocaust. If, however, they rudely insist on not seeing through my façade of objectivity and seem to think Nuclear Holocaust is only remotely likely, I am dismayed.
At this point I have either decided not to perpetrate the Nuclear Holocaust and my cycle of pain is over, or I am required to agonize some more. If the Holocaust remains on my plate, I grow a few more grey hairs in my beard and fret endlessly until I finally come to a choice. This could take a while.
But once my mind is made up, don’t bother to attempt to dissuade me. You had your chance, Mr. Oh-No-The-World-Probably-Won't-Really-End. No, you missed your chance, and I didn’t suffer over the decision for so long just to start again. My mind is made up, and my course is set. Stand aside, for no one shall impede me.
Unless they present me with a difficult choice.
This Sunday was much like the previous, but sunnier. I was never cold in my short sleeves and I was warmed by friends I’d known for between 15 years and 20 minutes.
San Francisco is a lot like Honolulu in more ways than one would think. Pay no mind to the allegations that San Francisco is attached to some larger body of land, it is an island. It’s true, even if you insist it is an island of its own choosing. And just as any place that is disconnected from the larger world around it, San Francisco is unique. Its geology, architecture, politics, art, history, and current residents reflect and perpetuate its uniqueness.
Like islands are, it’s dirty, too. But all the dirt and grit doesn’t really bother me, as there’s so much other beauty.
On the way up the first significant slope to the God of Biscuit’s house, we passed another house of god where an authentic supposed miracle occurred. But I would never have noticed the church itself, because I was always caught up in the brilliant Christmas-red swaths of fabric looping and draping from the limbs of the giant tree out front.
So sayeth the GoB, a silhouetted image of the virgin Mary appeared in a weathered sign at the little Catholic house. We mused that Mary’s silhouette looked a lot like the shadowy image of the Emperor of the Galactic Trade Federation. And we noted with mock suspicion that we’ve never seen them together... I’m not saying they’re the same person, but of course, no one’s saying they’re not, either.
We drove right past the site of the "miracle" for our current version of church: Beer bust with the bears. Not really bears ourselves, we still find the easiest company with the hirsute jolly men. I nursed a beer or two while they indulged, smooched, and groped. I held hands with men so familiar that I could call them family, and laughed louder than was probably even appropriate. I was assaulted by cigar smoke from one side and pakalolo from another and rather than cringe or crave, I just basked in it all.
I left feeling full. Reinvigorated. Connected.
Head Chef will join me for more of this next weekend, and I cannot wait. The island of San Francisco is holding its gay pride celebration then, and it sounds like the Pink Saturday block party is the biggest attraction of all.
The forecast is for sun. I’m going to hold my Chef’s hand amidst thousands of other island people and just bask and bask.
It’s gay pride month all over the nation, and that means controversy. Probably this year more than many others, gay pride is disgusting, offensive, and a threat to children and the American way of life.
So what I want to ask is this: Why not do something about it? Show your side! Have a Straight Pride Parade!
I have said for years that heterosexuals should get their own parade, too. Despite everything they say in the media, there’s nothing shameful about gettin it on with a member of the opposite sex. You were born to love the way you do, and you should be proud of your opposite-sex attraction. So have a parade!
Gay pride parades are a little shocking to suburban dads and church ladies, and I understand why. For one, the gayness gets on their nerves. Boys kissing boys like they mean it – well, that’s not something they see on tv. But then heap upon that the topless women, the nearly bottomless boys, the dancing, the displays of bizarre fetishism, and the politicians, and it’s all just too much for even God to witness.
So I say have a straight pride parade. Set up a nonprofit, get sponsors, file for a license, and get those volunteers working. We need floats for soccer moms, the PTA, the Southern Baptists, and Republican gubernatorial candidates.
Sound boring? Well, of course it would be. There’s nothing there to shock you. That’s why, in order for the straight pride parade to be a success, you’d have to welcome all interested groups from all facets of the heterosexual spectrum.
Bring in the shock value.
Bring in the swingers, the National Order of The Dominatrix, furries, bondage fetishists, and a huge float of a woman’s foot with two dozen guys licking it. The Polyamory Society could enter a huge free love exhibition on wheels, and just think how much the children would love to see that. Strip clubs could have floats with scantily clad dancers on poles, and the local sex workers union could hand out flyers on why prostitution should be decriminalized.
Now that’s a parade I would go to. All straight, all the time, and plenty to see.
But that’s why there’s no straight pride parade. If they held a straight pride parade, it would be too boring to see, or too titillating not to, and nobody who’d organize one wants either of those. Because each of us is just as obsessed with strange sex as the next demographic, and straight pride parades would show that once and for all. They’d show how multifaceted heterosexual sexuality is, and that’s not good for the party line.
Even if it might be good for humanity.
Normally, I say too much.
Sometimes at work I become a running narrative of my work. I don’t know why, I just find myself so incredulous that I feel compelled to share. Or, at least, I’m too friendly and not straight.
But how dare I reduce this to a gay stereotype? Probably the same way anyone else would, but shouldn’t I be better than that? Maybe not. Lately, I’ve been enjoying stereotypes.
Just an hour ago, the client stepped in to ask what we were listening to on our headphones. I was listening to Raiatea Helm, a Hawai`ian beauty with incredible talent and skill. And the client immediately thought he knew what my co-worker was listening to based on his preconception of what/who my co-worker is.
I work with a Good Mormon Boy out here in the Valley of Silicon, and he is so very, excruciatingly Mormon. I just love how he doesn’t drink alcohol, has a fierce work ethic, and blindly obeys. How could you not love that? Really?
But I also love how GMB jokes about having an open relationship with his wife. How hilarious, stereotype-busting, and progressive of him! How obviously absurd - or not - and sexually subversive he is! How brazenly he doth simultaneously violate his stereotype and reinforce it! To him, I say, “You are the Mormon we need, with your compliance and sly nod to rebelliousness.”
I would like to slyly nod to rebelliousness, too, but I am not doing it. I, who say too much, am staying mum about certain things like wives. And where I hung out during the weekend…
And so I wonder which stereotypes I’m adhering to, here. Am I suddenly the eidos of mid-thirties professional closet cases? Or am I failing my stereotype as the shows-no-shame-gay-man with a sense of self? Is it shame, a lost opportunity, or just discretion?
I wonder if I am just not saying too much, or if this time I’m saying too little.
Recently, in the midst of laughing at something a witty houseguest had said, I dismissed my devoted hound. She had pushed her nose up into my face to try to say hi and to express how much she adored me but I was too wrapped up in my People Things to be bothered at that particular moment.
Rebuffed, she walked directly to the couch and began rubbing her head against the cushions. Not to scratch an itch, mind you – no, this was slow and methodical. Her ears and eyes weren't bothering her, and it was then that I realized she had made a truly remarkable breakthrough.
She is a self-petting dog.
This could change everything. And it goes way beyond the age-old cat vs. dog dispute. Friturier - an avowed dog hater - has already acknowledged a special affinity for Bella. Witnesses can attest that he pulled her lanky, 55 pound body into his lap one golden afternoon. Indeed, that little conflict is kaput. And yet there is much more to it than simply winning over a fussy cat person.
For if Bella, a mere hound of 7 years, can take responsibility for her own happiness, then we all can. If her basic need for a scratch behind the ears isn’t met, then she scratches behind her own ears. She does not suffer, and she does not complain. Yes, she certainly does still prefer to sit at my side being hugged with one hand and scratched with the other. Doubtlessly, she still prefers to stretch across the couch with her head in my lap.
And when we play fetch together she looks me in the eyes in a way that says, “this is not about the toy. It’s about fetching it with you.” You can’t fake that, and I know that nothing replaces that for her.
But she understands that sometimes those things can’t be done. And she’s OK with it, and she’s taking care of things on her own, thank you very much. She’s self-petting. And that’s no replacement for the real thing, but it’ll do. It’ll do for the moment.
Now I’m not a big fan of pet people claiming “Everything I Ever Needed To Know I Learned From My Dog” but I’ve got to give this one to Bella.
I think more of us could be self-petting dogs. Codependents, nosey neighbors, road ragers, bitter schoolteachers, presidents, Christians, kingpins, and kingpin Christian presidents could all take a lesson from Bella. Yes, yes, yes, you want it your way. But is it your turn? And can you see to your needs on your own for a bit? Just for a little while so that the rest of us can finish what we’re doing? We haven’t forgotten you and you’ll get what you need, but just not right this second.
If they would just go rub their heads against the couch cushions for a moment they might realize just how self-sufficient they really are.
