Explanation For A Friend

Some months ago my GoB needed an explanation for lipstick in his old jacket pocket. He could not remember where the lipstick came from, and asked for possible sources. I replied. Browsing through his old posts I rediscovered my reply, was amused, and thought I'd share it. It goes a little something like this:

"Your name was Kazimir Svobodnik, and you were on the westbound train in Munich with your lover and fellow spy, the ravishing but deadly Liesl Eberstark. Leisl had just emerged from deep cover as a double-agent with a splinter group of former KGB who had entered into a dangerous game as arms traders. Liesl had stolen blueprints for a heavily-guarded missile technology and a kilo of weapons-grade isotopes, which she now kept inside her makeup case under her seat.

Suddenly, shots were fired in the car behind yours. Without looking back, you and Leisl lunged from your seats and ran for the next car, pulling your weapons from inside your dress jackets.

As you burst through the doors to the next car, a startled woman screamed, and then began to panic when she saw the weapons you both held. Having no time to quiet the innocent, Leisl gracefully shot the woman and her two companions in the forehead, silencing them and leaving the two of you alone in the train car.

Croutched behind the door listening for your pursuers, you and Leisl locked eyes. You'd been here before, and she was a powerful ally. Moments like these made you love her ever more powerfully. You needed her flesh, right then and there, and she mocked you with her eyes when she spied the erection in your heavy woolen trousers.

'Oh, darling,' she whispered. And that was all. She looked up to the window in the door as a sound came from the previous train car, and your eyes followed the direction of the sound, as well.

Suddenly you felt a mist in your face, and looked to see Leisl screwing the fake bottom back into her lipstick.

'I'll miss you, Kaz,' she whispered.

At once, the horror of your situation was apparent. Leisl had obtained the banned Soviet memory-eradication spray, and had used it on you. She was going to keep the isotopes for herself. You had only seconds, and your consciousness was fading already. There was no time for your anger or betrayal.

'I love you, Leisl. For now,' you muttered, and watched as she carelessly tipped the lipstick container off her fingertips and into your jacket pocket. She gave you a regretful look, stood, and ran through to the next car. You watched her, knowing that as your consciousness left you, so did your identity.

The next thing you knew, you were a homosexual computer programmer living in San Francisco."

Takedown

We were late for a lunch meeting so we were hurriedly walking to the restaurant through the historic part of downtown Honolulu. On our left we passed the Kawaiaha`o Church and a Japanese wedding party descending down its steps.

We rushed down the empty sidewalk, mindlessly navigating around a bus stop or other obstacle and talking about Churches and my buddies’ marriage-minded girlfriends. As we did, we glanced over our shoulders periodically to watch the bride bask at the top of the stairs like Makapu`u Lighthouse shining amongst a night of dark Japanese suits.

We approached two elderly women standing on the edge of the sidewalk waiting to cross, but they stood still and were well out of our path. I glanced over to the Church again as we talked about its popularity with the Japanese.

And then I was tested.

The more elderly of the two women was once a powerful but evil master of sciences and Kung Fu, and she used these tools to achieve her sinister ends. Using complex calculations based on her vast knowledge of physics and informed by her studies of Cheetah style martial arts, she timed her attack perfectly. While my head was turned to see the bride giggle and sway, Auntie launched herself into my path in an attempt to undo me for the last time.

But devious Auntie Cheetah was no match for my years of training at Shaolin Locomotive Monastery.

I never saw her coming and I barreled into her like a steam engine hits a cow. All I knew was that I had struck something with my chest that shouldn’t ought to have been there. I came to an abrupt halt, but Auntie absorbed my kinetic energy and began to crumple downward and toward the Church in a desperately pleading sort of slow-mo. Foolish mortal. As though the Church could save her now.

I stood in shock, almost completely unable to react, as my 70 year old nemesis collapsed. My friends, who had seen her leap at me but had no time to warn me, tried to slow her fall, but it was no use. No mere Grandma can stand after being struck by a man in Locomotive Stance.

We helped her up from the concrete and immediately began to abase ourselves. Auntie’s sidewalk companion yelled accusations of premeditated assault and attempted foul play. Finally, after everyone was confirmed uninjured and we promised for the fourteenth time that it was an accident, we were allowed to leave.

But I’m keeping my eye out for Grandma. She may be frail, but she is wise, vengeful, and she has powerful allies. Thank goodness for Locomotive Stance.

Shame On Me

The New Jersey ruling came down on Wednesday, and as predictably as a goofy, snorting laugh from Chrissy on Three’s Company, the Republican Party is back at the pulpit, stumping on the evils of homosexuality and gay marriage. And why not? They can't run candidates on the economy, or war, or terrorism, or domestic policy, or healthcare, or anything else you can mention. They've got nothing but bigotry left in their bag of tricks.

The only question is will their target audience fall for the bait, or have they learned enough to know better?

The Republican Party has cynically played their conservative constituency for fools, and done so quite successfully now for years. But lately it seems they’ve had a change of heart. Their cynicism has been exposed on television, in print, and in public appearances, they’ve backed off the bigoted message the Christians want to hear, and they've been shown to be hypocrites on the issues that matter to religious fascists most. As a result even the most venomous, hateful members of the religious right have started to withdraw support.

But will those same Christians who’ve seen their issues fall gradually by the wayside come back into step if the Party reverses course? Surely not all Christians are stupid, and surely they can see they’re being played for fools a second time.

George W. Bush once said, “Fool me once, shame on you… shame on you. Fulma – you can’t get fooled again.” But it seems clear that he and his party’s leadership don’t believe that. Amidst all the lies, and despite the fact that the Christians they so disingenuously pander to have called their bluff, they’re back at it.

It’s entirely possible that the foolishness they’re counting on in their constituency is matched in volume by their own. The political climate has changed and Americans and Christian bigots alike are savvy to Bush politics and strategies.

The saying Mr. Bush so deftly attempted to quote is, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” So will the bigots fall for it twice? Only after the elections will we know where the shame lies.

Being Greeted

When I walked into the office for the first time the space was womb-dark and smelled like warm food. Halloween decorations were liberally strewn across the ceiling and draped over unmanned, makeshift computer workstations. I stood there for a moment, and was quickly met by my friends who are my new employers. They apologized about the mess, and I thought to myself that it reminded me of a familiar place.

We walked together through a doorway into a bright room where I was noisily greeted by the owner and the entire staff of eight or so people. They all cheered at once, as though it were a surprise party. Someone even applauded. And I was so confused by this reaction that I thought I had just happened to walk in at the precise moment they began celebrating something for one of their existing staff. But they were looking at me.

“Who?” I asked with absolute sincerity.

“You!” they said, and laughed.

“Oh, me?” I replied. I was so surprised by this atmosphere – this unreserved, boisterous welcome – that I was still only partially capable of comprehending it.

You see, I received polite, professional, but concerned greetings when I joined my current job. People delicately made small talk one at a time and used carefully chosen words in unexpressive tones portending of danger.

It was dramatically unlike the local kine version of an Olive Garden commercial I had just walked into.

Now that I’ve had it both ways, I think maybe you can tell a lot about a place by the way people greet you. And I’m going to watch for that, and choose carefully. Life is too short. I don't want to spend it where people aren’t happy enough to be excited to share.

Quitting Day

I almost didn’t quit today.

I didn’t get the offer letter I was expecting over the weekend, and so I was prepared not to quit. But I had some business to do, and when I returned to my desk, it was waiting there. The offer. Huzzah!

It was a brief apologetic email and a series of documents that, to be honest, were practically irrelevant. My decision had been made months earlier. But I read them anyway, and they didn’t ask for my first born. So the deal was done. Now all I had to do was quit.

But I had no time for quitting. I had things that needed to be done, and then suddenly my office’s managing partner (picture your small company’s President or CEO) asked my manager and me to lunch. There was no time to quit before lunch; it would simply have to wait.

We went to a wonderful restaurant, but there was a heart audibly beating beneath the floorboards. I knew I had something to say, but another manager had come along and so even though the two men I needed to quit with were there, there was this obstacle. The obstacle told stories and we laughed, but I did not laugh inside. Only my veneer laughed.

And then the phone rang. It was a knowing ring. It started as a vibration in my pocket that was so determined it would not be ignored that it finally resorted to becoming audible. And just as knowing as the ring was, so too was the departmental partner on the other end of the line. He started with his clever salesman’s voice, “So, hehe, I’ve been hearing some rumors, hehe, and I wanted to find out from the, hehe – you know – the horses mouth.”

How could he know!? How could have cracked into my secret quitting world? But right he was. And so he was the first to hear me quit. And quit I did. Firmly, assuredly. Grateful for his kind words and attempts to dissuade me, but confident of my decision and its correctitude.

And then I sat back down and finished lunch. Chinese. Delicious.

But no sooner did I step back into the office than my engagement partner called. He too had broken the code. And he too was flattering and attempted to dissuade me, but he was also bizarrely worried that I had quit over him. Ummm… no.

I was shaken. I had been ambushed twice by my own resignation and I had not even officially given it! The adrenal roller coaster had been quite a ride up to this point.

Clearly, the gig was up, and it was time to write my letter and hand it to my manager. I edited something simple and decent from a website containing samples, and he was considerate but disappointed. My office’s managing partner, too, was disappointed and curious and so I tried to be honest and helpful. I truly felt bad for the inconvenience of leaving them right before busy season.

But someone… she had to pay for my day. My friend the audit manager had clearly played a part in the day’s drama. But she was weak. When I confronted her she broke down quickly and admitted that she had tricked my new employers into telling her my plans. She then ratted on me to her partner, who told my partners, who in turn called me and made my day very very interesting.

Very interesting indeed. What a day of quitting. What exciting new beginnings.

The Watcher Leaves

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.

Turning Around

That fateful night in the hot tub, Head Chef’s eyes blinked and glistened with sadness stemming from recent losses and an older yearning I had seen many times before. He pined for Hawai`i and for the life he’d led when he lived here as a younger man, and he foresaw his unhappinesses resolved if only he could get back to this physical place.

I loved him as much then as I do today, so I said yes. After six some-odd years, I abandoned my well-practiced rejection and said, simply, “OK.” And we moved. What has followed has been heartache, harder work than I have ever known, isolation, and too few of the rewards he believed in.

And he believed in so many inevitable rewards. More relaxed work lives, bounteous gardens, and endless aloha were ours for the price of being here. Everything would be fine because we were here.

Since I had committed myself to him and this dream, I took up the faith along with him and prayed on my mat four times per day and chanted each evening as I clutched my beads. Work lives, gardens, aloha. Work lives, gardens, aloha.

But that’s the problem with faith. Belief doesn’t make it so. Trust doesn’t make truth. And while not necessarily Jones Town, this is not The Promised Land, either. Not my Promised Land, and sadly, not even his.

It’s time to go. I’ve been away from Home for too long. I miss It.

Databases Of Divinity

Once every sixth Sunday or so, door-to-door salespeople in dresses and ties canvas my neighborhood. Always the same people, they park two cars at the other end of our dead-end street and walk the block or two to my end. The women take the makai side of the street and the men take the mauka side. They knock on each door and politely announce themselves “hello?” over locked gates.

I’m pretty confident they’re selling God. But I’m not sure, because they have never once stopped at my home. Not once.

They were on the street yesterday as I was washing the car. My arms were soapy to the elbow and my shorts were wet in several places and I was getting a little achy from all the scrubbing. And after stopping at every one of my neighbors’ homes, they simply nodded as they walked passed me.

I nodded in return.

While it’s true that I’m not in the God market at this time and I’m not really a fan of salespeople who knock at my door, I still wonder how it is that they’ve determined I am not the kind of customer they’re looking for.

As best I can figure, the makers of God and God related products must be watching demographics, monitoring their marketing efforts, and keeping precise records. They know your purchasing history and they take referrals from other customers. They buy mailing lists from the Republican party. They know whether your soul is worthy of saving – or not – based on their records and referrals. And then before each series of sales calls, the merchandisers send out a comprehensive list. Denominations, notable sins, tithing habits, and of course a list of households they don’t want to do business with.

Accurate though it may be, our home ended up on their list of the unredeemable. I just don't know how. I figure a neighbor member of their church saw us kissing on the front step and it was all over at that point. But I still kinda wish they’d come to the door just once.

Because by the time Head Chef and I were done, they'd be tripping over themselves to get off the property. And the congregation's marketing database would recount terror so unholy there would be wailing in the pews.

What I Did On My Bi-Annual Vacation

What I did on my bi-annual vacation
By The Pastry Chef

This biennium, Head Chef and I went to Russian River to the little town of Guerneville to participate in Lazy Bear Weekend, and it was fun. We shared a house with a friend I’d only met once before, and he was really nice. And his friends who shared the house with us were super guys, and Head Chef and I really liked them a lot.

OK, OK, this isn’t a back-to-school essay, but seriously, I kinda feel that way about the trip. It was wonderful and I did make – or at least better secure – three to six people whom I’ll call friends. In fact, I’ll even call them.

But now that it’s passed, it’s almost like a back-to-school essay. Or someone else’s memory. Like a story someone told so vividly that it’s as though I were there myself. And of course, I was, but I already feel distant from the experience.

I think Lazy Bear was better this year than it was in 2003. I spent a lot more time sober, and a lot more time resting and eating, and I think that these things are good. I also spent a moderate amount of time indulging in excess. As I am an advocate of excess in moderation, I approve of my behavior.

Others were not so lucky. Head Chef got a case of perhaps-almost-alcohol-poisoning and fell down went boom on his little head. While the physical wounds to his ear and brow have healed, the night stand he bludgeoned with his skull will doubtlessly carry emotional scars for years. I don’t know where furniture seeks therapy, but I hope it gets the best care available.

And so now I have returned to my workaday work each day, and I’m already looking forward to 2008. Perhaps that year I will spend more quality time with the friends I had before I arrived, for that is my only regret.

Well, not my only regret. Try as I might, I couldn’t snap my fingers to summon everyone I love to that one place at that particular time.

But for that, I need to apply for additional super human powers.

See The World

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.

Dinner and an Introspection

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, 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.

Islands of Sun

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.

Straight Pride

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.

Saying Too Little

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.

Dante's Business Trip

Like last year, I am being shipped off again to work the summer far away from home. It’s something I am loath to do, and very resistant to.

And I have found that although most people seem to agree that business travel is not something they’re excited about, I am of an apparently small minority who would prefer none at all, regardless of the destination. In mentioning the locales to which I may be sent, I have had “Oooh!” and “Awesome!” responses when all I can think of is how disruptive the travel is. How it keeps me away from a routine that is important to me and a man who is even more so.

Still, this year’s options are admittedly more favorable than last year’s.

Utah was smoggy, hot, and a cultural desert. I spent nearly two months in a concrete warehouse by day and a concrete hotel by night. It was odd to think of Utah Valley as the Promised Land for God’s Chosen People. It made me wonder what those people had done wrong to have that be their reward. That question remains unanswered, but my guess is that it’s their reward for being interminably dull.

This year, I may find myself in another desert, but not the cultural kind. Oregon and California are high on the list of probable destinations, and I’m relieved.

So although this sort of extended trip away from home is a Danteian nightmare for me, it is more palatable than it has been in the past. Rather than being sent to the Seventh Circle’s inner ring, for example, I’m merely headed for the Second or Third Circle. It seems reasonable to me, as I am not violent, but I love food, drink, and men. So I’m not thrilled with it, but at least it makes sense.

Still, who wouldn’t rather spend a summer in even the first sphere of Paradiso?

Today's Choices

It’s always been my feeling that every day we make all our decisions all over again. Decisions we don’t even consciously consider, but that we could make in a different way. By not changing our minds, we choose to continue our current path.

Such is life. I continue to choose not to quit my job, leave my beloved Head Chef, or go on a murderous rampage. I may consider all or none of these things consciously every single day, but the choice is made by not choosing to change course.

And so it is with being here in Hawai`i. Some days, I consciously reconsider the choice I made to come here, and carefully weigh the possibility of changing my mind. Because living in Paradise is not without its taxes.

By taxes I simply mean those tradeoffs that are made to be here. The well-run city in exchange for the good weather. The friends I could see daily in exchange for the good weather. The cushy job I had, the big beautiful old house, the crunchy culture and the ability to travel in exchange for the good weather.

And I do kid, of course. Hawai`i is magical in so many ways, and good weather is only a part of it. Beaches, lively beach towns, and Waikiki at night are glorious. And there are other things, too. Hula is extraordinary and beautiful. Hawaiian music doesn’t sound as good anywhere else. I eat sushi now, and it was caught that same day. I’ve never grown houseplants in my yard and watched them mature into trees before. And a new batch of eager untanned faces ready for fun shows up every week just ready to make new friends.

But sometimes these gains are small consolation for the losses I had to incur to access them.

When I think about these trade-offs, or I’m putting in another 60-hour work week and feel ready to officially regret my choice to live here, my thoughts settle on recurring themes. Am I ready to admit to myself and to those who said I shouldn’t move that I made a mistake? Am I just being impatient, or should I stick it out and work to make it better?

So far, I have chosen to stay - to work toward making this experiment a success. To not run from the uncomfortable parts of this move because even though it’s now two years in the past, it’s still rather fresh. I am not ready to accept that this was a mistake.

Yes, yes, emphatically YES I miss home. Nothing is more telling than the fact that it is still home to me, and not this string of lovely warm islands. But I am not ready to give up, and I am hopeful that this will be home some day if I am just patient and diligent.

Laughing While Bathing

This morning as he trimmed his beard in the shower, Head Chef buckled forward just a bit and made a loud, “Oh!” sound. Razor in hand with his back to me, I couldn’t tell if he’d cut himself, had an epiphany, or been punched in the stomach.

When I realized that I had not punched him and no one else was there, I narrowed the options to cutting or epiphany.

“Are you OK?” I asked. He started to chuckle.

“Oh, my god, yes. I just remembered that I talked to my mother yesterday,” he said with a smile in his voice.

I didn’t know why his sudden remembrance of a conversation with his mother would cause such a confusing pain-like sound. From my perspective, she's just a wonderful in-law. About as good as one could hope for, certainly. And she says some funny, funny things. When she walks around something, she’s walking the parameter, not the perimeter. She warshes her dishes in the zinc. Other people are specific, but she’s very Pacific. And, according to her, the native Australians are Aberneeshuns.

“I was talking to Mom,” he continued, “and … oh, I don’t remember what we were talking about, but I said - Oh, I remember now, we were talking about the new cabinets, and the holes at the top that we have to fill before we can cover them – and I said that they were ‘pukas’ without even thinking about it.”

A puka, in local parlance, is a hole. Any sort of hole – in a boat, in the ground, in the top of a cabinet.

“And so,” he said, “she starts giving me crap about saying ‘puka’ ‘cause she doesn’t know what it is. So when I told her, she’s all, ‘Oh, what, so you’re so local you’re speaking Chicken now?’”

Standing there in the shower, we both burst into laughter. Through his own laughs and over mine, he exclaimed, “So I said, ‘Mom! It’s not Chicken! It’s Pidgin!’” And we laughed some more.

Hell

When I came to work today I must have gotten off the elevator at Hell instead of floor 21.

In this conservative and stuffy financial office, there are children. Two, I believe, though it's hard to tell since they move so quickly and make so much noise relative to their size. They are running, screaming, and throwing things.

I was on the phone with a client, and one of them crash-landed itself noisily under my desk. Trying very hard to focus on what the person on the other end of the line was saying, I plugged my finger into my other ear and trained my brain on his words. But the shrieks of evil laughter and glee from under my desk would not be ignored. Another adult - perhaps the one responsible for delivering these little devils to our quiet workplace - appeared behind me pleading "come out, he's on the phone" in hushed tones. She had to say it more than twice. I never looked at her, for I could not have looked kindly.

This is not my work. It looks like work, but it's been inhabited by child-sized demons and we do not have those at my work. They would exist in Hell, but not here.

I think I may get my things and go back to the elevator.

The Ponytail Club

So there's this club, see. It's the Ponytail Club. And everyone in the Ponytail Club wears a ponytail and believes firmly that the ponytail is the superior hair style. It is their belief that all other hairstyles - or indeed, head adornment - are inferior to the ponytail.

They meet periodically to admire one another's spectacular ponytails, and to hold sessions wherein they extoll the virtues of the ponytail to one another. They write letters to fashion magazines and they shun those who do not share their chosen passion for the ponytail.

But they save their visciousness for bald people. They believe that bald people secretly shave their heads in an effort to ruin ponytails forever. They think that bald people would be happier if they'd just try to grow a ponytail, or wear a wig.

And some bald people do try. But most of them are just kinda sad. They have a comb-over, or an obvious Hair Club number that doesn't really look like real hair.

But some bald people wear their smooth scalps as proudly as Ponytail Club members wear their chosen hairstyle. And that infuriates the Ponytail Club. They issue press releases, have talking points, and even promote their own hair club products. But none of it has helped bald people who just can't grow a ponytail.

In the end, it's kinda sad when you think that people who chose to be in the Ponytail Club would persecute people who are bald and just can't help it.

(I first posted this to a contentious thread at The Language Guy. I just liked it enough to share)