Ted Kennedy In The Stewpot

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.

Careful There

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.

Ceiling Fan Attacks Twin

As a dutiful homo-ner (translation: gay owner of a home), I recognize and perform according to my duty to work on my abode. And so with Head Chef laboring over the power tools, I do the more menial tasks that must be done even though they require a bit more patience and perhaps a little less emotional return for the effort.

And despite the fact that it was he, not I, who operated the power tools, I still found my way to the hospital with a gushing head wound.

See, the ceiling fan attacked me in cold blood. I was innocently patching pukas in the ceiling and the wicked thing reached out and lacerated the back of my head. The impact resonated with a huge “WHAM!” through my head. I fell to the bed I stood on, and heard Head Chef turn off the power tools outside in the garage.

“Are you OK?” he called in. I got up from the bed and put my hand to the back of my head for the blood check. Sure enough, my hand was covered in beautiful red.

“I’m bleeding,” I responded as he came into the house and I went out into the hallway. Although the pain was subsiding quickly, he reported that the cut was an inch or more long, apparently deep, and covered in dust bunnies that had collected on the fan blades since their last cleaning.

So after some convincing, he took me to Kuakini hospital for cleaning, stitches, and a fashionable bandage.

And it was there that it happened again. The admitting nurse asked me my name. She asked me my occupation. She wanted to know if I had any other injury or had fallen to the floor. And she wondered if Head Chef and I were twins.

No? Perhaps brothers? Cousins? Step in-laws thrice removed? I held a cool, damp rag to my head with my right hand, and it was significantly streaked with blood. I looked over at Head Chef and rolled my eyes. Clearly, all bearded, bald men are related.

It was the first time I had ever been irritated by the question. Up to this point over the past nine years, I was fine with it. It even amused me. “Brothers! Ha! More like kissing cousins,” I always wanted to answer. But in this context, the nurse’s question wasn’t amusing at all. It was tedious.

And it was stupid and obvious that we are not brothers. I’m taller, more fair, with narrow shoulders and a gigantic head. I look English/French. Head Chef is shorter, darker, with broad shoulders and a decidedly Czech look to him, and yet again, “Are you brothers?” You should see the family get-togethers.

The bad news was that I needed stitches and a tetanus booster. I braved both, and brother Chef smirked at my discomfort and embarrassment. I was stoic in the face of hypodermics and self-effacing for foolishly standing up into a ceiling fan on high.

My twin (he has teeth and a spinal column) and I left the hospital and returned home to find the fan still spinning. With my head dressed in bandages, I stood there menacing it from the room’s doorway, “spin all you want, but I’ll get you in the end.”

Wistful For Bloodletting

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.

Dial E For Murder

No, it’s not M. It’s E, baby. E is the true letter to dial for murder.

I work in a security-related field, and as such I have need for encryption in various situations. If you don’t already know what it is, encryption is a term for technologies that scramble information so that it is unreasonably difficult for someone to read unless they are authorized to do so. If someone who isn’t supposed to wants to read encrypted data, they had better have a lot of expertise, a large number of computers, and be in no rush.

Since encryption is so great at protecting information from prying eyes, people in my industry start to use it for the really important things first. When exchanging critical financial data with a client, for example. But then we start using it for less critical things, like placing an order for pizza, and it becomes a slippery slope all the way down. Soon, we’re using types of encryption to prove our emails to Mom really are from Sonny Boy. Like Mom’s checking.

So today I was chatting with the Boulanger, discussing encryption for our instant messaging chats. She didn’t know what it is, the poor dear. So I explained it and its purpose.

Boulanger is the sort of woman who cannot be bothered with the boring realities of certain things, most especially when there is a more entertaining alternative to discuss. No matter that it’s fictional, let’s explore it. So hearing my explanation of encryption and attempting to determine how and why it might be applied to instant message chat, she came upon the best reason ever.

“So you want to chat using encryption because you want to talk about … MURDER,” she stated. Because she is so literate that grammar literally inundates and colors her speech, you could practically hear the capitalization.

Faced with such a dangerous and tantalizing alternative reality, how could I disagree?

Channel Crossing

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.

Team Spirit

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?”

Sad Song

Sometimes I’m in the mood for a sad song. Sometimes I need the minor key because nothing else interlocks with my reality. My body chemistry. The little aches and pains.

And sometimes, when I hear a song that is sad, I feel like I hear the words. No, not the words - that’s not it. I feel the meaning. The way the hurt collects in the throat and in the heart, constricting them - tingling sour in the corners of the jaw and fluttering in the tummy like nervousness. Nervousness and loss.

Sometimes I’d like to write a sad song too, just so someone would hear it. And maybe the right person would hear it, someone who heard the story I was really telling. They could lie on their bed or sit in their cubicle and let a single tear drop because they realized someone else felt the same hurt.

And we’d never meet and it wouldn’t matter. Because that little truth would rescue us both.

Fond Farewells

Head Chef’s parents came to visit, and although it was the source of some frustration, it ended very nicely. We returned from Big Island together and had fast food in the terminal while we waited with them for their connecting flight. Then we walked them to the Wiki Wiki shuttle and Head Chef hugged his mother while I shook his stepfather’s hand. Then we switched, and I got a hug from Mama while Head Chef got a handshake from his stepfather. And we stood there for a second.

At this rate, this might be the last time we’d see them again for another few years. I had just had that moment during Christmas with my own family, and it felt like deju vu. Mama Chef started to cry. We had to hurry and get the goodbye over with, or Head Chef would be next. So we waved and parted.

For all the things that can go wrong or did go wrong, I find it easier to forgive it all in those cases when we love each other enough to drop our guard upon parting. To get just a little bit overwhelmed by goodbyes.

I Am A Visionary

While recognizing that my proposal for how to fix marriage is "absurd," the Washington Defense of Marriage Alliance clearly reads my blog and they've presented a watered-down version to the Washington State Legislature. I don't mind my ideas being used for such ends, I just wish they'd given proper attribution.

And you said I wasn't ahead of my time. At this rate, I expect to be jailed for political reasons within eight months.

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.