Coming to Terms

The word “faggot” to me has the same level of gravity as the words “homosexual” or “gay.” It’s just another word used to denote me and my gorgeous hair. In my multi-lingual universe, “faggot” does not have the same menace as its Filipino equivalent “bakla,” which even on the screen makes me wince.

Imagine, if you will, armed with this translation, that you were nonchalantly walking (okay, sashaying) down the street when out of the blue, someone yells “bakla!” to you at the top of their lungs as they drive by in their tricked-out, souped-up and chromed Honda Civic. You instantly think: how gauche! how nouveau-riche! before realizing a full minute later that you were meant to be insulted. You belatedly give the finger to a startled 76 year-old woman pushing her walker, the offenders long gone.

When I was in my early teens, I had a crush on Boy George, the colourful and flamboyant lead singer of Culture Club. Ok, “crush” might be too strong a word, maybe “terrified” is more like it. While millions of other people conjectured if George was a Boy or a girl or something in between, I had no doubt that George was indeed a Boy, and the make-up and chapeaux were just theatre, you know, like KISS.

After the infamous Grammy acceptance speech when Boy George more or less outed himself, the word “gay” suddenly had a greater import. It was like I always knew the meaning of the word “gay”, but not what it meant, if that makes sense. Suddenly I connected my confusing feelings toward my friend Charles to love. I was so overwhelmed that I did what every love-struck teen did: I stole Charles’ lunch money and tripped him on his way to History class.

Since then I have come to terms with my homosexuality. After all, it has given me insight to an effective nightly skin regime. It wasn’t easy, there were years of deep torment, loneliness and sub-standard evening gowns.

Come to terms. An interesting turn of phrase. Let’s go through the terms, shall we?

Ass spelunker, bent, butt pirate, cock jockey, cock sucker, doughnut puncher, fag, faggot, fairy, fudge packer, homo, nancy boy, nelly, pansy, pillow biter, poof, queer, sissyboy, woofter.

Auf Deutsch: Schwuler, stricher, warmer bruder, lustig.

In Italiano: Frocio, finocchio, puppo, busone, effe, recchione.

En Français: Pédé, tapette.

Nope, just a distant buzzing.

"motherfucker fagit i fucking hate u.u make me fucking sick. all u homos..fuck all of you!!!!"

These are the words nate left in my tagboard (go look, it may still be there). These terms, possibly meant to arouse my anger, didn’t even register. I truly did not care. I was more upset when Blue Pencil left a withering criticism of my writing in the GuestBook. I left nate’s words on the tagboard but I deleted Blue Pencil’s entries. The vitriol is lessened by nate's broken sentences; his lowercase “u” is definitely not my uppercase “I”.

In Filipino: Mantsutsupa. Bading. Tsupaero. Bakla.

These terms, these slurs once had enormous power over me. Their power is much diminished, but sometimes, they still sting like bees.

Bloodless

First impressions matter. If you don’t believe me, try wearing something white after Labor Day, you know, like a white gown and a pointy white hood.

I read somewhere that people make up their minds about someone they meet somewhere in the first seven minutes, which makes a good first impression crucial. I tend to agree; I generally know whether a guy I meet is someone I will be eventually dumping, dating or stalking.

It sounds contrary to everything your parents told you when you were growing up: "Don’t judge a book by its cover" or "It’s what’s inside your pants that count." After all, nobody thinks of themselves as shallow; you would lie through your teeth before admitting that your Louis Vuitton bag is real.

And it’s even worse in cyberspace (such a quaint 90s term) where online profiles tout qualities that are complete fabrications; that they are funny (not), they go to the gym (one time, six years ago) and well-adjusted (complete and raging co-dependent psycho).

I remember a guy asking me once, in a chatroom, what kind of sports I play. Without a beat, I typed “basketball,” even though the last time I played was when I was fourteen and it was with nine year-old girls.

For gay men, what kind of sports you play is like a barometer of your “butchness” or masculinity. A gay man who plays football is man’s man; basketball, your boy next door; and tennis, the limp-wristed stereotype. And don’t ever admit that you don’t play sports; you might as well say you have a special shelf where you store your tiaras.

Of course, some gay men will overcompensate and play football just to confound you. A friend who was in a gay football league told me that a huddle is where he got a great recipe for German Chocolate cake.

People want to put their best foot forward, make a good impression, which really makes getting to know someone really difficult, if not futile, in the short term. Nobody’s gonna present their real selves. Might as well go along with the fiction and enjoy the ride because one day you’re gonna wake up and wonder how you married this person with the chronic flatulence and $500 a day cocaine habit.

Same thing with interviews. I don’t know how questions like "give me an example of how you handled conflict" or "what are your weaknesses?" are supposed to help find the best candidate for a position. It’s not like you sit in an interview and say "Yes, I will be coming late to work everyday, steal the toilet paper, and eat other employees’ lunches in the refrigerator. And when I’m done with that, I’m gonna sleep with your husband—beeyaatch!"

The way I see it, the most convincing candidates are probably the ones you have to be wary of. Any question beyond experience and qualifications are really not relevant unless you have a lie detector or a nipple clamp.

I was in an interview recently where the woman asked me one hypothetical scenario after another about how I would resolve conflict with people. I got frustrated because I have never met these people that are supposedly giving me a hard time. In real life, I would know whether a bagel, a beer or a blowjob will smooth things over. In an interview, what I may say isn't what I would necessarily do.

It’s like that ethics test that they give potential employees:

You are in charge of petty cash. You forgot to go to the ATM and you need $10 to buy lunch. Do you:

a. Take the money from petty cash.
b. Borrow money from petty cash and return it later.
c. Don’t take the money.
d. Take the money but answer "c" in this questionnaire.

Duh.

By the end of the interview, I was drained, bloodless. My cheeks ached from smiling so much. I knew I didn’t get the job, her first impression counted.

Achy Breaky

Maybe I’m wrong about lottery tickets after all.

I got into an accident today, two minutes away from work. Some idiot driving a tank didn’t slow down as he got on the exit ramp and plowed into the car behind me, which slammed into my car, pushing my car forward and into the car in front of me.

This is the first time I have been involved in an accident involving four cars. Makes ya tink bout dem lottery tickets.

It was weird hearing the loud crash and then watching the approaching disaster in your rear-view mirror, thinking ohshitmom’sgonnafindmyporn before feeling the impact. People say that your life flashes before your eyes but I think that they just confuse it with finding out they have herpes.

I sat there in the middle of the exit ramp, a little in shock. Gawkers drove by, slowly surveying the damage. While waiting for the state trooper to come to the scene, I wondered if I should unbutton my shirt just in case he’s cute.

I’m fine, I think, although I won't really know for sure until I've consulted my lawyer, to be on the safe side. My body’s kinda achy-breaky. I am a little woozy, hyper-aware; wondering if I have a headache and then thinking that this wondering is going to cause a headache. It’s unsettling, being in a car accident--a bit like an out-of-body experience, like noticing that your shoes don’t match your belt, or finding out that the girl you went home with last night is not a girl after all but a man, a man who gave you a blowjob and you enjoyed it, ENJOYED IT and now you’re out trolling for trannies.

Or maybe I’m just hungry.

I guess I got off easy. Could have been worse. I could have been involved in an accident with Zsa Zsa Gabor.

They Found Nemo!

Courtesy of Joe.

Three Hours

I hate being in an airplane. Despite the soundness of the underlying physics of jet propulsion and space-age engineering, my inner caveman is in disbelief: how can tons of metal, plus 722 passengers, plus their suitcases of ugly vacation outfits, be held aloft 50,000 feet in midair? Either most people are in denial or they really believe that Britney’s boobs are real.

Think about it: the odds of getting killed in a plane crash is 1 in 300,000; the odds of winning the lottery is like, 1 in 14 million. Yet people buy lottery tickets. I am not a superstitious person, but if you believe that you can win the lottery, then you have to believe that a plane can crash. I ain’t never buyin’ a lottery ticket. Despite this, the idea haunts me the millisecond I walk through the threshold and smell the sharp, stale, disinfected cabin air up until the final moments of landing when you feel the hard bounce of the wheels against the sweet, sweet ground.

On an airplane, my normal stoicism gives way to a jumble of emotions. I am giddy, tearful, horny, all at once. My feelings are heightened, anything, everything can summon fears or tears. Right is wrong, up is down, Glitter should have won an Oscar. I’m serious. I laughed and/or cried so hard watching that movie in a flight home from Amsterdam. It was intense, like God. I hope the next time I fly they show Gigli.

And flight attendants creep me out. This job is like the equivalent of people buying $500 worth of lottery tickets every week. How can they stand there and greet me cheerily and offer me peanuts when in a few minutes we will be willfully going against the laws of gravity? The only explanation is that these are just the husks of people who have been taken over by aliens. That’s why in long transatlantic flights, the flight attendants will curtain off a section of the airplane, turn down the cabin lights and start the in-flight movie. Inside the curtained area, they slither out of their husks and rejuvenate, feasting on the human waste processed in blue toilet water they siphon from the lavatories.

Then, there’s the weather, that bastion of predictability, throwing its little monkey wrench. You are greedily sipping your complimentary soda and then you choke abruptly as the plane get thrown around. Once, on a trip to Houston, we encountered exceptional turbulence. My knuckles were white from holding on to the next guy. Then he zipped up his penis and I wiped my knuckles off with a tissue.

That trip to Houston was about three hours. Three hours to think about being embroiled in a freak storm, hit by lightning, an engine catching fire, smoke in your lungs, and the nearest exit into thin air.

Three hours. That’s about how long the drive is from my house to work in Naperville and back. The odds of dying in a car crash is 1 in 19,000 per year, 1 in 247 per lifetime. Everyday, those three hours are like lottery tickets bought. In the car, in unguarded moments, thoughts of those odds lodge itself like a bullet in my brain.

Lost Time

One of the things I wish I did earlier in life was to take guitar lessons. I’ve always been a music fan, a child of pop. I went through many phases where I only listened to British bands, hair metal bands, British hair metal bands. I am the kind of music fan that wants to read all your liner notes, collect your esoterica, play "air" instruments with your band.

I played at many a concert, alternating from air drums, air keyboards and air guitar in one swift minute. I was such an adept at the air instrument that I could take an invisible monkey and an invisible organ grinder to a street corner and make some serious money. If I had learned to play the guitar earlier, I might have been a rock idol, instead of a being a legend in my own living room. When I finally summoned some courage, I enrolled in my first class a little over a year ago. In that first hour, I learned to play three chords, and with those three chords, five songs.

Spring forward. We advance the clock one hour, ceremoniously going through the house, coming upon each face, moving each set of hands until each one is set and then we have lost time; the season has changed from dreary winter to exultant spring.

I think about that lost hour, and the other thirty-four hours I have lost in my lifetime. Doesn't seem so much; not even two days or a working week. But then I think about how much I learned in one hour of guitar class.

The movement of the time forward has a tangible effect. What if I watched an earlier show at the movies? What if a troubled couple spent an extra hour in bed together, talking? What if Princess Diana left an hour early that fateful night of her death?

I met Brian two years ago, this month, in a bar, at 2am--the magic hour. What if instead of staying until closing, I decided to leave an hour early? If I had given in to fatigue, I would have missed him, drunken and flirtatious. Then this spring day, I might have been sitting alone at the coffee shop, staring out the window, as he walked pass with some other guy on his arm, in some other lifetime.

Flying Toasters

It is just another cruelty that there is no free coffee at work.

I have never worked in an office where coffee was not free. In the high-flying nineties, caffeine and high fructose corn syrup, believed to be the key ingredients of creativity and productivity, were in abundance. Today, austerity is the rule, cost-cutting the norm. I fear the future of the workplace. First they make you pay for coffee, what’s next? Personal phone calls? I shudder at the thought.

It was only 10am today and I was already getting sleepy. Too cheap to go get Starbucks at a buck sixty-five, I decided to tough it out. Eyelids heavy and drooping, I fought to keep my mind from shutting down, trying to stave off the mental flying toasters.

Realizing I was losing the battle, I instinctively positioned myself so that I wouldn’t look like I was sleeping from the passing, casual observer. With my back to the entrance of the cubicle, a pen in my right hand, and a stack of paper in front of me, I could pretend that I was intently reviewing documents. I leaned back into my chair to prevent my head from nodding.

For obvious reasons, this technique is only used for general short-term sleepiness. Eventually, somebody will notice that you have been in the same position for too long. Most people will be discreet and make noises to warn of their approach and even ignore the dried-up drool on the side of your mouth. Only the truly heinous will gloat in catching you.

Occasionally, the urge is so powerful that it requires a “power nap.” This will involve some absence from your desk. Once, I tried sleeping under my desk, but it was too cramped and uncomfortable, I had a kink in my neck for the rest of the day. It’s not worth it.

For most people, the only recourse is the bathroom. Sure, you’re not supposed to shit where you sleep, but nobody said anything about sleeping where you shit, as long as you’re not one of those people whose bowels move as soon as their ass touches a toilet seat. You don’t have to pull your pants down. But if you’re a stickler for “authenticity,” make sure your badge is not sticking out from under the stall. If nobody else moves into the next stall with Montezuma’s Revenge, you’ll emerge refreshed, ready to tackle the rest of the day.

A friendly note to alla you’s with your own offices, trust me, when your door’s closed, everybody knows you’re sleeping.

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For those who don't remember, "Flying Toasters" was the grandfather of the modern screensaver created by After Dark.

My Inner Doublewide

Is it a highway or is it a parking lot? At 7:30am, the Eisenhower is most definitely the latter. Cars and trucks sit side-by-side, occasionally inching forward, laboriously, like caterpillars. Windows are shut against the unseasonably cold March weather. The sun is my line of sight; bright and low, making my eyes squint and disappear into slanted thin lines, like an Asian caricature. Inside the car—my trusty Helen—I am yelling at the man on the radio.

The man, “Charles,” had called into the Drex Morning Radio Show talking about how he had banned his daughter from playing basketball because she’ll become a lesbian. He claimed that women in sports, particularly the WNBA, are lesbians. The man spoke deliberately, calmly articulating his position. Drex, knowing a good subject when he sees it, abandoned the previous topic of “My Kids are Making My Life Hell” and let the man hold court.

Immediately, the phone banks are full, with people waiting up to twenty minutes to get on the air to respond.

Female caller: I played sports in college, basketball, soccer. I like keeping myself fit and healthy. I have a husband and a daughter. I’m not a lesbian—

Charles: It doesn’t mean you’re not a lesbian. A lot of gay people are married and have children, trying to hide themselves. I think you need to think about yourself... (incoherent screaming)

Affronted by the man, I found myself dialing the number to the show.

The lines were busy, thank God. The anonymity of radio spurs otherwise respectable and sane people to descend to the level of a Jerry Springer audience. Relatively respectable and educated people routinely call and become the equivalent of the guy standing up in the audience to diss the “Overweight Stripper Who Stole My Man.” I normally cringe at the humiliation of people that passes for entertainment these days. Shows where people will air their dirty laundry for the price of a plane ticket and weekend hotel accommodations, where people get in line to be rudely Dismissed, where a t-shirt can get girls doggone wild.

Maybe it’s the boredom of the drive to work that makes people do things. Yes, in boredom I have done things that I normally wouldn’t do elsewhere, like pick my nose. I am not apologizing—you’ve done it too, I’ve seen you! Truckers, mothers, suits or sandals, young and old; I’ve seen you dig for that sweet buried treasure and flick it away with satisfaction!

Or maybe deep down, with my penchant for potted meat and White Castle hamburgers, I really belong in that trailer park. Maybe despite my urbane veneer, it only takes a radio show and long boring drive to work to bring out my inner doublewide.

Does this sound like you? Call me now at 1-800-MILKLESS.

The B-List

I am experiencing something that has never happened in the previous three decades of my life: I am losing friends. Not to anything dire like death or diarrhea, but to changes in circumstance: relocation, marriage, gender reassignment. I am losing friends faster than I make them. How Monica, Chandler, Joey, Phoebe, Ross and Rachel managed to stay Friends for ten years and hang out at same coffee shop at the same time is for me, quite incredible.

In high school, I made friends because I didn't want to be miserable alone. In college I made friends because they owed me money. I had lots of friends.

Just a scant five years ago, I had to juggle my social calendar just to fit in my friends and keep track of them. Sometimes, I had to turn people away. I felt popular and had the tight-fitting, lycra-infused wardrobe to go with it. Now, I have barely a handful of people to call to go see a movie or have dinner with. They’re too busy to fit me into their schedule. The platform shoe is on the other foot.

I have not made a single new friend since. Without school and its general lack of responsibility to throw people together, it's hard to make friends. And I don't care what you say, unless you're fresh out of college or have better than a "C"-cup, nobody makes friends at work. For closeted gay people, it's also hard to make friends when you have to keep the fabulousness bottled up inside.

You know you have no friends when you start hanging out with your brother.

Part of it is my fault, of course. I have been accused of being attached to Brian's hip, unable to make a social commitment without his input. He may have committed us to a Psych department event, a dinner, or a rousing night of Parcheesi. I don't like to make plans to do something he doesn’t want to do and possibly have to deal with "the sulks." It works both ways. I once threw a fit when Brian told me we were going to see Elvira's Haunted Hills. People will put you on their B-list when you become indecisive, unavailable or a flake.

Maybe I have just lost the ability to make friends. Or maybe it is just because I am older. When you first meet someone, like say, in a bar or a party, it's cute to say "I wanna hang with you!?!" when you're in your early twenties. Not so cute when you're in your mid-thirties. The guy will likely look strangely at you and say, "what are you, a homo or something?" It's like you're a weirdo if you're 35 and have no friends. People expect to find you in the basement leering down on some girl you've trapped in a deep hole, muttering in a guttural voice, "It rubs the lotion on it's skin or else it gets the hose again."

Maybe it's the way of nature. When you're young and single, you need to travel in packs, roam about, pee in alleys. When you’re older and coupled, you're preparing to have or already have a brood (of cats, if you're queer). You have your loveable rugrats—you are a pack.

Part of me wishes that I am back in the social whirl, the late nights, the boozing, sporting a thick, lustrous mullet.

Part of me is content to be where I am, falling asleep on the couch, on a Friday night, on the top of that B-list.

Solitary Confinement

My cubicle is nested in the center of the floor, farthest away from the windows. The light in the office is slightly tinged with blue, as if filtered through plastic terrarium walls. There is a faint smell of disinfectant. My fellow consultants are hunched over their computers, spinning the wheels of industry. On this floor, there is no one playing solitaire, no one surfing the Internet.

For consultants like me, Internet access is restricted, strictly for business. To underline this, each time you open your browser, you have to key in your user ID and password, as if to remind you of this restriction. Regular employees have full access. I guess it is fair. For IT consultants, who charge a butt-load an hour for their services, the client wants to make sure that they are getting the most out of their money. It doesn’t make me happy though.

I feel like I am in solitary confinement. I don’t know what’s going on in the world. The stock market could be up or down, a hurricane could be in sight, somebody could have discovered whether that is a hair piece or a comb-over on Donald Trump’s head. Without Instant Messaging, I actually have to call somebody and talk on the phone. I won’t be able to hide behind a :-) anymore. Without smilies, people will hear the impatience, the contempt in my voice. The only time I can look for a job is after work. But after the long drive, making dinner and the after-dinner blowjob, I have no energy left to browse CareerBuilder.

I don’t remember how it was before the Internet. A little over ten years ago when I entered the workforce, we barely had e-mail. We got excited over ASCII porn. Even spam was exciting. Yes, spam! We were hungry for it. Send me more jokes, Reader’s Digest anecdotes, bible verses! Ah, the good ol' days.

I am writing this at work in a Word document and e-mailing it to myself. This assignment is honing my skills of goofing off. The Internet has made me complacent. But I will prevail.

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More ASCII pin-ups, hunks, and porn.

Something Better

Fuck Buddies. How Sex and The City. Everyone’s had them. It’s the new black or orange, or whatever’s de rigueur these days. It’s like if you don’t have one, you’re like shallow or something, too immature to commit to no-strings sex. Some people call it “friends with benefits” but I disagree, there is a very important distinction: a fuck buddy is not your friend, even though you know his last name.

Sometimes, one gets a sense when you meet someone that this person is not going to be your boyfriend. Maybe it’s in his eyes, or his hair or the way he looks at his mom’s picture on his nightstand when he comes. Whatever. He’s clean and he knows how to push your buttons. And it helps that he’s a proctologist.

It’s fun while it lasts, but it is not without its own pitfalls. After all, it’s not like you sit the guy down and negotiate the terms. It’s not like you discuss when you can call or agree on a cover story in case someone other than him picks up the phone. By definition, this type of relationship is short-lived, although a friend of mine found out after two years that he was just a fuck buddy. He thought the reason he never saw the guy before 11pm was because the guy was into Goth.

Here are some signs that your fuck buddy is getting too attached:

You’re on his speed dial.
You have your own toothbrush at his place.
You got a teddy bear that says “I love you.”

If you see these signs you have to break it off immediately. Be ruthless, like Elmer Fudd. Playing the nice guy will only bring about the need for a restraining order. After all, you were only doing it for the sex, until something better comes along.

I had a dream I was at the ATM and all it would give me was Monopoly money.

I decided to take a contract job this week. I had avoided it because I thought it would interfere with my job search. The thing is, the longer you stay unemployed, the more employers will wonder why you haven’t been scooped up even though your resume sounds impressive. The contract is supposed to be for four months. I hope I don’t have to work there that long.

The commute is long, almost three hours a day. The air is crammed with DJs and their wacky sidekicks talking about the same hot topics, punctuated with the same five songs in between commercial breaks. I am crabby when I get home from work. It’s a job. After all, I’m just doing it for the money, until something better comes along.

Halitosis

What is there to write about when there’s absolutely nothing going on? The past week has literally been limbo, and no Caribbean music to dance to.

I have nothing to say. That took ten minutes to write.

After a rollercoaster of being excited about a job, then not getting it, I am pissed off. I don't want to turn on my computer. I don't want to get on the Internet. I am afraid of the flurry of Instant Messages, like mosquitoes in the presence of a warm body, all asking how things are. I am drained, trying to keep an optimistic front.

For almost two weeks, I didn't look at the job boards. The jobs listed all want the online version of Prince Charming. I'm no Prince Charming. I'm not Brad Pitt. I'm not even Chandler Bing. I'm just a guy who wants a job. I'm not asking for too much: an honest day’s pay. "Sick" days. Maybe some Post-It's to take home once in awhile. I'm easy. If this were a bar, you could cough in my direction and I'll give you my phone number.

Everybody's looking for the perfect candidate. Who has these qualifications? Knowledge in sales, finance and production. An MBA and an MCSE. At least six years experience in C++, RPG and COBOL. I feel like I should put down my three week experience with VD as a qualification. I already put in the fifteen minute drunken discussion I had about where to get the best online porn as "attended seminar in E-commerce."

Maybe if my twin Peter and I decided in my mother's womb to become conjoined instead of splitting up, I could get a job. There's no way one person can have all these qualifications.

I feel like I have the job equivalent of halitosis: I look great on paper, but once they meet me face to face, something or other causes me not to get the job. I try to tell myself that the job market is extremely competitive with businesses laying off IT people everywhere. It's hard to keep your chin up when there’s a midget hanging on your necklace.

I'm exhausted. Leave me alone.

Did I?

While sitting with Brian on the couch, he sniffs the air, turns to me and asks, "Did you fart or did I?"

When I Grow Up

I get turned on by people carrying guitar cases. Not the soft ones that you carry like a backpack, but the hard cases, preferably visibly scuffed, well-traveled. The kind of guitar case that says, "Here I am, give me a wide berth, unless you want my nose in your ass." Arrogantly, it takes up space in the aisle of a train or commands a seat on a bus. In the hierarchy of instrument cases, it is supreme. It has heft, a sensual shape--not impotent like a clarinet's or anonymous like a trumpet's.

Carrying a guitar case imbues its owner a sense of purpose: this man is going somewhere. When I go to my guitar classes at OldTown, I will park a couple of blocks away to give myself more ground to cover, more time to perfect my broody gaze, my sullen walk. Not content with my weekly jaunt, I would take my guitar and take a walk around the block a few times. I would hang out at the bus stop. I would set the case down and peer thoughtfully into store windows.

When I first learned to play guitar, I couldn't get enough of it. The last time this happened, the instrument involved was not made of wood. Hmmmn, maybe on second thought, it was.

 

In those days, I played a lot of Oasis. "Don't Look Back in Anger," "Wonderwall," "Champagne Supernova" all involved the same six basic chords. And what I couldn't play, I faked. A few more months of lessons, I learned enough to play songs by the Indigo Girls, Barenaked Ladies and Sheryl Crow. But I still consider myself a novice. I have not mastered the "barre" chords where it's like you are holding down six strings with one hand. It's very frustrating.

There is a young man, maybe about eighteen, who occasionally plays his guitar at the corner of Diversey and Clark, right outside my gym. The guitar is strapped over his shoulder, its case, open, a couple of feet in front. A empty plastic milk crate sits right beside him. I want to be this boy who sings like a young Eddie Vedder and plays like a wet dream. Or maybe I just want to get into his frayed corduroy pants? Or wear his ratty green Kiwanis t-shirt. I don't know, it's all very confusing.

When I grow up, I want to be this boy with his guitar on the corner. That doesn't sound right, he's over a decade younger than me. Am I already grown up? When you're in your thirties, can you still say "when I grow up, I want to be..." Or is all my growin' done?

In the movie Glengarry Glen Ross Al Pacino asks, "What is our life? Our life is looking forward, or it's looking back. That's it. That's our life. Where's the moment?"

When is the moment when we arrive? I don't know, but I will be carrying my guitar case.

Blue Pencil

It feels good to wield a blue pencil, ennit? The power to tear people down, pronounce their feelings and thoughts ridiculous, reduced to a treacle. It is inevitable that some people will not like what I write. Most of the time, I don't like what I write.

I write it anyway. It has been a lifesaver, a little sweet diversion through these days of unemployment. I write because I like the process of writing, the words formed from synapses of the brain traveling down the nervous system, to the tips of my fingers, then making that jump to a keyboard and a screen.

One unfortunate reader had been so incensed that I have written such trite passages that he wrote an entry in my guestbook, crowing of his intent to blue pencil me into oblivion. When I deleted it, he returned and decried my deletion of the original malevolent entry, contemptuous of my lack of mettle to withstand his challenge. I am not sure why he felt that I should leave it up. When you have a rabid dog in your house, you don't just sit there and drink tea, do you?

I guess he has been having an extra bad day at the office that he felt compelled to complain that I wasted his time reading my unfortunate prose when he could be doing something productive like surfing porn. Maybe his boss told him that he needed to sharpen his blue pencil on literary low-lives like me because he's not ready to edit a real manuscript.

Ok, I get it; I am not a million-selling author. If you're reading this, Mr. Guestbook, I would encourage you to move on with your life already, but I suspect you won't. You're like me: easily riled up, quixotic, impetuous. I spent two days spamming Celine after she kept putting meaningless Portuguese quotations in my comments. It was futile, she didn't know any English. But you, you got to me. You got me to write this post. Bet you're itching to blue pencil this comma right here,

If I had a blue pencil, Anne Rice would not have a career. After reading ten-odd books filled with excessively florid passages, I think that I have had enough. Never has there been such swooning over blood flowing than a group of Tampax executives.

If I had a blue pencil, I would remove entire periods from my memory, events from which I physically flinch when I remember them.

If I had a blue pencil, I would tell my friend Julie Harris that I am sorry for hurting her, for writing that damn e-mail, the one she wept over.

Where were you when I could have used your blue pencil?

Rollercoaster

I guess I have been lucky, life has been pretty much smooth sailing. Occasionally, someone will surface, a spurned lover or parole officer. A fly in the ointment, easily remedied. "Be Prepared," advises that old boy scout adage: bring rope, matches, bail money.

My mom warned me that good times will not last forever, that a fool and his money are the best for a sugar daddy. I heeded that advice, saving for the rainy day. I saved every coin I found in the church donation basket. For money I walked dogs and pinched penises. Nipples too, for $20 extra.

Champagne and caviar are fine, but learn to enjoy beer and ramen as well. It ain't gonna be cinnamon and apple pies all the time. The next jellybean from Bertie Bott's could be spinach, sardine, earwax--and no parmesan cheese to make Caesar's salad.

When I go to theme parks, my palms sweat when the rollercoaster is in sight. I often imagine myself being thrown out into the air, body slamming to the pavement. I am scared of heights, I prefer the level ground. I am swayed by friends, afraid to look silly. I get in, locking my forearms around the bars, hands clenched together, like a prayer.

I guess life is like a rollercoaster. We are thrust into the course the second we are born, the ticket bought, no choice in the matter. We could cry and whimper the whole way or learn to embrace the fear and uncertainty. You could miserably obsess about the love-of-your-life-asshole-on-again-off-again-boyfriend or break the cycle and leave yourself open for some real happiness. The circumstances don’t change, only your outlook.

Some days are fine, a hundred and twenty little concerns, other days, a barren expanse. For awhile I was euphoric, a second interview! I would be back in the workforce! I could replace my broken stapler! Two weeks later, no word. Then it's back to square one; the pasted-on smile, the monkey-suit, desperation in check. Like dating, employers are more likely to take you home if they don’t smell the Brut, the cologne of the perpetually rejected.

Here we are clinging to our seats, knuckles blue. Friends, loved ones in the cars, screaming, laughing at the top of their lungs. The wind is rushing, whipping the hair from your face, heart hanging in your throat. Here's the sky, here's the frozen air. Now, there’s the ground; now, there’s the turn--here it comes--

Playing with Legos

My Lego Avatar!

via The Naked Tree. Mini-mize yourself!

A Second Date

First dates are pretty straight forward; you ask for the guy’s name, his phone number and then you get out of his bed and get dressed.

Second dates are more treacherous; you get lulled into a false sense of security since he called you again to ask for his wallet back. You’ve already talked about the humdrum stuff like your childhood, your crazy Uncle Louie, the time you got caught shoplifting. You’ve already done your impressions of Ted Koppel, Howard Cossell, James Earl Jones; maybe it’s time to call in the big guns: Bea Arthur. Or maybe you can talk about the strange itching you’ve been having down there or is that too personal? It’s very nerve-wracking. Still, if you can only get past the second date, you could get to watch his premium cable for a couple of months.

Most people know by the second date whether there will be a third, a fourth or an orgy. By the second date you would know if the strange cologne, the two-inch “lucky” hair on his mole or the barking during orgasm really bothers you.

Hopefully, there is a mutual attraction. Nothing is more pitiful than liking someone more than they like you. If they like you more, then you get to call the shots. If you like them more, then they have to get a restraining order.

I got called in for a second interview for company “T,” a second date, if you will. They are a company that has gone through tough times in the dotcom bust, but are now upbeat in their prospects. After being unemployed for four months, I have had only 3 face-to-face interviews, and this is the only one that had asked me to come back for a second round. In the best economy, this is a job I may perhaps decline because it is located too far, the job too one-dimensional. Should I take the job if it is offered to me? Or take a chance hoping my finances will last until I find a more suitable one? Choosers may end up beggars.

Company “T” has informed me that I am one of the two finalists to whom they are going to make an offer. I feel like a beauty contestant onstage, clutching my fellow contestant’s hands, waiting for Bert Parks to announce the winner. Perhaps I am being hasty. I may end up being the first runner-up, left standing while the winner breaks away to walk down the aisle, to the swelling music of "There she is, Miss America…"

Another Celeb Bares It

Not to be outdone by Miss Janet, Miss Piggy shows her assets:

SuperBowl of Love

I really don't like sports--there aren’t enough sequins in the uniforms. Someday, somebody will make a killing if they invent Viagra for limp wrists, the gay sports handicap. I really wish that there was a sport for making catty comments, and then American Idol would be like our SuperBowl. I would join that. The only sport I was any good at was the 50 yard dash from a gay basher.

I figured that since I am now an American, I should learn how to play football. So, I went to see a podiatrist*…and he told me to register at the Chicago MSA, the local gay sports league. Learning was easier than I thought. I already knew the "Bump and Run", the "handoff", the "sack". I guess you can learn about football from a porn video.

It was fun learning a new sport, but eventually I got tired of it. The quarterback was getting too needy. So, I decided to check out 12" softball; after all, I already had the dildo. However, it didn’t really work out. I decided I liked the balls to fit snugly in my hand.

When Brian suggested that we head over to the local gay bar, Roscoe's, to see "the Cats and the Pats", I thought he meant Patrick Swayze in an Andrew Lloyd Webber show. The bar already had quite a crowd when we got there. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who was confused. The bar has video screens installed throughout the bar. For the SuperBowl party, they had a VJ play music videos in alternate screens while the game was on and then turn the music off so that we could watch the commercials. And FYI, they had a projection TV in the back for the hardcore sports fans. It was packed with lesbians. Even in our community, it is gender that separates us.

We had a good time. There were cheap drinks, cheap eats, some really cheap behavior. What more could you ask for in a Sunday afternoon? As I look around me, I see men meeting men, women meeting women, I realized that there is another sport going on here, where tight shirts are the uniform; the shy grin and eye contact, the strategy; and finding love, the goal.

I look over at Brian. He's cheering at the screen.

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*yeah, ok, that was a groaner.