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.