Wedding Day

So, while I was at this reception for this gay wedding I attended this past weekend, a friend of mine asked me how my novel was going. I was shocked that my friend was asked me this question, since we were both totally drunk and I once slept with his boyfriend.

I keed, I keed, I didn't sleep with his boyfriend, because I don't think that dozing off for a few minutes after sex constitutes 'sleeping.' Plus I thought that none of my friends actually read my blog, so that it was sort of gratifying to have someone mention it.

Even though gay people have been getting married for a while, this was the first reception I was invited to and truly I was looking forward to see the total freakshow I thought it would be. Which of the grooms were going to wear white; who's going to throw the bouquet; was somebody going to use their teeth to take off the groom's jockstrap. I don't know.

Because the whole thing is sort of new ground, gays can either go totally traditional, which I think would be sort of a joke, or we can make up our own totally new, innovative, but equally tacky traditions. Gay people will totally rise to the occasion and then go overboard. You've seen what we've done to Sarah Jessica Parker. Nuff said.

But the reception was actually quite tasteful and restrained and there were genuinely touching moments, like when they ran a video tribute of some of the guests and family members who looked like they were either struggling with their emotions or there was a gun pointed at their head off-camera. There was also a short video of the actual ceremony (which took place in Toronto) and one of the grooms choked up as soon as it was his turn to recite his vows. I can imagine how it must've felt, like maybe when a tic tac gets lodged in your throat. The thought brought tears in my eyes.

I was also unsure on what to wear to the event, whether it was black tie or casual. And when Brian called our friends up, their answer was, 'wear what you would to a cocktail party,' which made me even more anxious since I had gained some weight since I last went to a cocktail party and I couldn't possibly fit my designer assless chaps without major crisco.

In the end, I wore a charcoal gray suit from the Men's Wearhouse, subdued and demure, in case they needed somebody to valet park cars. I figured I could make a few bucks, and then slip it in an envelope as a wedding gift along with whatever's left from a Starbucks gift card I got for my birthday. I think there's a few bucks left in there. I could throw in a coupon for free tampons, which should bring the total up to $20, the universally accepted wedding gift amount.

If you have the opportunity to attend a gay or lesbian wedding, I am telling you, GO! Support your friends! To me, gay marriage is the most important issue to the gay rights movement, because this is the most basic of rights. You watch, when this issue is decided, all other gay issues like discrimination, immigration, equal access to cosmetic surgery--all will fall in line.

And it's totally heartwarming to see that gays and lesbians everywhere are ready, willing and able to perform one of the most sacred rites in front of all their friends: the Chicken Dance.

Epilogue

Once upon a time, there was a very very beautiful girl who wanted to kill herself. It wasn't clear why she wanted to do so, but from the outside, she had everything to live for. She was young, beautiful, desireable.

Once, there were three men who were good friends: musicians--no, traveling minstrels. One of them was my friend Doug: thin, with soft brown hair and a goofy grin. We had been talking about work, our favorite bands, the kind of comfortable things people talk about when they're at ease. Just before noon, he took his leave, promising to come back later to continue our discussion.

One beautiful summer day, the girl was driving out her demons at 90 miles an hour, her blonde hair flying. There may have been tears--despair or rage, we will never know. The light burned in her eyes, her mind blank.

The three men were off to lunch, their car at an intersection. The light was red.

Then suddenly, a crash from behind. Their car flew into the air, suspended for a few seconds, just enough time for a sharp intake of breath--life defying gravity.

Metal, plastic, bone crumpled together. The car, a paper ball in the hands of a furious child.

The broken glass turned red, the ground turned red. The stoplight with its red eye, stared at the scene, the strewn bloody bodies, the distraught girl. It hesitated for another second, blinked, then turned a somber green.


It is two years later. Yesterday, the girl was convicted in court for a botched suicide attempt. Her sentence: 8 years for reckless multiple homicide. With time served, she could be out in 18 months.

Anger? Sadness? Indifference? What should I feel?

Numbness. Is that a feeling?


Suicide blonde, got some revelation, put into your hands? Did it save you from your misery?



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Hardly Knew You - The Last Day of Doug.

Round Robin

What else is there to do when you are a bunch of rowdy homos visiting Small Town America, no gay bar in sight? You head to the local tavern/Mexican restaurant/bail bondsman's office, get smashed on margaritas and ask each other questions that everyone has to answer.

How old were you when you got your first perm?

Rick: Fifteen. I had great big, soft waves.
Paul: Sixteen. It made me look like a poodle. It was horrifying. It lasted a week before I cut it off.
Joe, Brian, Mark: Never.
Matt: Rick, I can't believe you had a perm! Why did you get it?
Rick: It made my hair look nice. What? What?

Have you ever had sex with a woman?

Joe: Does oral sex count?
Brian: Yes!
Rick: Ok, in that case, I did give this one girl, Mirasol, a blowjob.
Everyone: Eeeeeew!
Joe: Then, yes, it was in college. It was Kelly.
Brian: Kelly? Our Kelly? Kelly, who just got married and had a baby, that Kelly?
Joe: She sixty-nined me. We were incredibly drunk.
Brian: Does she remember?
Joe: I don't know, we never talked about it.

What was the first record you bought yourself that wasn't given to you as a gift.

Matt: What's a record?
Paul: It was a novelty record by a Filipino comedian about exercising, I would translate but it's embarrassing. I was twelve.
Joe: "Call Me" by Blondie
Brian: The Boomerang Soundtrack on CD.
Rick: Notorious by Duran Duran, it was a cassette though.

Have you ever gotten VD?

Everyone: CRABS!!!
Paul: Yes, chlamydia, among others.
Brian: Chlamydia.
Matt: Throat gonorrhea.
Paul: What is that?
Matt: It's when your throat closes up and it hurts.
Silence.
Rick: Ok ok ok. I had throat gonorrhea too.
Silence.
Silence.
Joe: Me too.

Have you ever received Jesus as your personal savior?

Paul: Twice. The first one didn't count, I was fourteen and drunk.
Rick, Matt, Brian and Joe: Never.

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Ask Matt - Dare to ask our illustrious Matt a question? Check here. Ask him for a date.

Things That May Drive Joe to Crazyville - A little rant by Joe in this very blog. He's also single, boyz.

Finders Keepers

"Matt, that guy's been staring at you since we walked into the diner," I whispered.

It was Saturday morning. Matt, Brian and I were having the traditional gay satanic ritual called Brunch where we gossip, bitch and talk about celebrities. Sometimes, we also pray. Today, we were worshipping at the Melrose Church and Café located on Broadway Ave.

Matt discreetly looked over at the guy, who was with three of his best gays. You can tell they were close friends because they were free and easy with each other, which only comes from years of stabbing each other in the back. I mean, if you spend all your time with people who despise you even though you buy them drinks, they must be your friends, right?

"Oh, him. We hooked up about a year ago," Matt said in a low voice.

"You must've made an impression. He's been looking over here," I said.

"You know what? I don't think that's the case. I think he's looking at my hat," replied Matt.

Matt was wearing a frayed and worn Cubs baseball cap which was once the official Cubs blue but is now sort of a grayish indigo.

"Oh, why is that?" asked Brian.

"He left this hat over at my place," said Matt.

"Do you think he wants it back?" I asked, "It's a pretty cool hat. I'd want it back if it were mine. It's stylishly faded and worn."

"I don't care. If you leave something at a trick's place, I don't think you can't expect to get it back. Finder's keepers! Besides, it's my favorite hat now. I'll scratch the eyes out of anybody who tries to take it." Matt narrowed his eyes in the guy's direction.

"Besides, if you left something at a trick's, how would you get it back?" asked Brian. "You don't have his phone number or last name."

"Hey, I did that once. I waited at this guy's place until he came out and I made him give me my stuff back," exclaimed Matt.

"That was with Rob, your ex. You lived together for over a year," said Brian.

I chimed in, "Once, a guy left his wristwatch--a Rolex--at my friend Jose's. Jose kept the Rolex. I thought Jose was entitled to it, especially since the guy had left it in Jose's ass after fisting him."

Everybody nodded in agreement. We've all seen that Rolex.

"Look, they're leaving!" whispered Brian. "Do you think he's gonna walk by and snatch the hat off your head?"

"Bitch better not," said Matt, readying himself for a confrontation.

We all held our breaths as they walked by, but as they came closer, it was clear nothing was going to happen.

They were arguing about a popular gay brunch topic: if they were in Sex and The City, which of them would be which castmember. They were quibbling about prim and proper Charlotte, even though everyone knows that all gay men are Samantha, the slut.

A gay catfight was averted again by television. Don't believe me? Next time there's tension among gays, just throw in, "I think Kate is better off with Sawyer than with Jack" and watch them bond.

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TAKE THE QUIZ: Which SaTC girl are you?

How Does It Work? - Another brunch conversation, this time about those mysterious artifacts called 'tampons.' The B-List - Once you become involved in a long-term relationship, that's it, you're relegated to your friends' B-List.

Lonely In The Crowd - You could be in a bar, surrounded by lots of people and still feel very very alone. Relief - When you're unemployed, boredom becomes your friend and constant companion.

Houseguest

Having never lived with a woman, I've never really understood what that was like. I didn't know the challenges of this arrangement.

In this particular case, having to deal with random long brown hairs lying in my house. I feel like I am one clump short of a mohair sweater or a Chewbacca costume. These long hairs belong to our houseguest Kate, who is staying with us for a month.

Sometimes it irks me when I am lying on the couch and I find a strand of hair sticking to my face. It burns me up. I think dark thoughts about her, this good friend of mine, soon to be not-so-good friend if this keeps up.

I feel a twinge of guilt about this because it's not like she can help that her hair falls out. I can't help myself wishing horrible things would happen to her, like a plague of split ends, so she has to cut her hair off. I look for signs of anorexia because I hear it makes your hair fall out. To prevent this, I pour out her two-liter bottle of Diet Coke and fill it with regular Coke.

But I love her dearly, which is why Brian and I let her stay with us for a whole month. We were in agreement in this. And when I say 'agreement', I mean that I used emotional blackmail on him. I would've threatened to withhold sex instead, except that after being together nearly five years, we only have sex about six times a month, if we're lucky. If somebody forgets to wash the dishes, that dwindles down to two. So I am hesitant to use that sort of power. I reserve it for one of those really rare and special occasions, like when the cat has diarrhea.

If I had more experience, I suppose these things wouldn't surprise me.

One day, as I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I happened to notice that there was something in the trashcan that looked odd. It was something wrapped in tissue paper, one edge looking damp and red.

At first I thought, it was the leftover steak I grilled last night. I thought, why would Brian throw that out? There was enough to make a perfectly nice steak sandwich garnished with roasted peppers, arugula, and a little garlic-mayo spread on ciabatta bread. If I were a different person, I would've fished it out. It was wrapped in tissue.

Of course it was a tampon. You can't make that into a sandwich. Unless you were a vampire.

This made me think about how blood is such a part of women's lives. I get queasy at the little blood that comes out when I pop a zit. But women bleed, man. This stuff pours out of them every month. If I popped a zit everyday for the rest of my life, it wouldn't even come close to how much blood comes out of a woman in a month. To be a woman, it's like...murder--but with nice handbags. No wonder they're cranky. I think if I were a woman, I would have a lot of nice handbags.

We men will never understand this, or why women use chocolate ice cream as medication for their ails.

I tip my hat to you straight men. Women are almost a different species. You take the differences between the sexes and you make. it. work. Tim Gunn would be proud. Some of you even take it to the next level. You take a woman's period and you make something beautiful with it. I think you call it a "rusty nail"?

It's been three weeks, and I think I have learned a lot. I think I am becoming more attuned to Kate. I have learned a lot about women--some important lessons in life--like the double-edged sword of beauty, learning to live with pain, how to properly use an eyelash curler. I also learned the wiles of how to get a man to pay for dinner: by dating only rich men.

A few more days, she will be on her way. Just as our spiritual menstrual cycles were getting in synch, she'll be leaving. I wondered about what that would've been like, whether it would've taken our friendship to the next level, brought us closer together as friends, and whether I would've needed to start stocking tampons too.


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Check out some of my other friends:

Things That Might Drive Joe to Crazyville - Or, let's get to know Joe by reading his rants. Wanted: Friend - Determined never to go solo again, Han makes his move. My First Time - Annie's first guest post. But who cares when there's a pic of her boobs? Special Dispensation - Only the Pope, or my friend Matt, can grant me a special dispensation to date Kevin.

Hardly Knew You - Doug went out for lunch... and never came back. Guest Blogger - You'll be surprised at who made an appearance. If I Could Turn Back Time - A custody fight for Patrick between me and a famous sitcom star. #1 Single - Lisa Loeb and I are this close. The unlikely friendship of a popstar and a blogger.

Special Dispensation

I can never date Kevin.

Beside the fact that I am already in a committed relationship, I can never date him because he's my friend Matt's ex-boyfriend and you can never, ever date your friends' exes. I could never date Kevin unless I stopped being friends with Matt, which highly unlikely because he's such a dear friend, he's funny and smart and he owes me four hundred dollars from our trip to New York last year. We will be friends until the very end or until closing time, whichever is sooner.

So alas, this must remain a fantasy...until Matt moves to another state, in which I can date Kevin but I would not be able to tell Matt about it. I would have to lie every time I talked to Matt on the phone, which shouldn't be too hard because I lie to mother on the phone all the time about my "roommates." My mother must've thought that I was very picky because I changed "roommates" just about every six months.

The only other way I could date Kevin is if Matt gave me a special dispensation, just like the Catholic Church allowing the devout to have corned beef and cabbage on St Patrick's Day, which sometimes fell during Lent, when eating any meat is prohibited. I often wondered if there was any way around this prohibition, whether I could just lick a pork chop or something. I mean, I am not swallowing it or anything. I hoped this was ok because I plan to keep on sucking my boyfriend's cock during this holy time.

Besides, this rule is pretty murky, like what constitutes friendship? Do they have to be within the core group of a gay man's circle, the friends you go shopping with, have brunch with, the ones who buy you drinks without expecting you to buy the next round? Yeah, I don't have one of those. I tried not buying a round of beers one night and I got bitched up really bad.

If it were just a friend that you air-kissed rather than give an honest-to-goodness hug, is it alright for me to date his exes? I wish it was more straight-forward, you know, like cheating on your boyfriend. At least then there are no rules; you can fuck anybody your boyfriend knows.

I mean, a good circle of friends is really hard to find, so you must understand me. For the longest time, the only circle I had was the one where we all sat around and jerked each other off, which was nice, but it made going to the movies awkward; somebody was going to have to sit at one end and have no one jerking him off.

Ah but Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, you six-foot-five hunk of Irish beef, you make my pulse race, you make the veins pop from my temples. When I see you, my knees get weak and sink to the floor, which is great because it would put me at eye-level to your crotch when the time is right.

The only thing I could think of that wouldn't make me into an asshole is to date my friend Matt and then break-up with him. I would make a clean break of it so that I don't feel obligated to follow this 'no dating ex-boyfriends' rule. Because if Matt were an ex-boyfriend, then I have free range to be a complete jerk to him.

Is it worth it though? Is it worth the price of my friendship with Matt? I guess I'll never find out, unless Matt doesn't pay me my four hundred dollars by next week.


Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

Washer and Dryer in Unit

When I saw the listing a couple of months ago for our apartment, there was a long list of upscale features and amenities, but I couldn't read past the words "washer and dryer in unit." It was like the words were a roar in my ear: washeranddryerinunit, jumbling all over themselves in tumble dry low.

Up until now, I had to take our laundry out to the local laundromat where Brian and I would meet up with a group of other non-washeranddryerinunits. We are the Laundry Gang, as if making a name for ourselves makes us more cool and exclusive. We would drink coffee and lament our washless, dryless station in life as we looked enviously at other individuals who were obviously doing shopping, laughing, enjoying life and definitely not doing laundry.

These are people who put their dirty, soiled clothes directly into units in their homes when they are otherwise unoccupied: watching tv, washing dishes, crank-calling their grandmothers. They probably have so much time, they are the people that chat with those pesky telemarketers. I mean, somebody must talking to them otherwise, there would be no money to be made in telemarketing.

They probably have no use for a gigantic laundry hamper, needed to store a weeklong pile of soiled clothes. We have three. They are blue, cylindrical and made of a tough vinyl cloth. If you tip all three of them on their side, it makes our place look like a hamster habitrail.

But ever since I moved in with the washer and dryer, I no longer had to hang out with the Laundry Gang, those pathetic, deprived individuals. But I will anyway; I like to feel smug.

I felt like I was the United States and they were the Third World, their mouths hanging and their eyes round as if our new appliances were hot, buttered loaves of bread. I want to tell them about all the advanced features just to be cruel. I'm just human.

The first week, I did laundry every night. I separated the cold wash from the hot wash, the delicates from the perma-press. I got excited at the sorting possibilities, I no longer have to throw everything in the same load to save money at the laundromat. I grew creative with my sorting: work clothes, formal attire, casual sex clothes. I sorted whites, colors, my glow-in-the-darks (which are perfect for the backroom at The Ram).

I remember once, I had thrown in a single pair of white briefs with the colors because I had already started the load of whites. I could make a joke about white loads here, but that's why the briefs needed to be washed.

Anyway, the briefs must have decided to elope with my red sweatshirt while it was in there because when it came out, it was pink.

I still wear that pair of now-pink briefs as a reminder of my folly, my ineptitude, and because it was quite lovely. You could never buy pink briefs because they don’t make 'em that way. And even if they did, I wouldn't have the nerve to buy them.

I wish I could 'accidentally' drop my red sweatshirt along with a white silk handkerchief and a doily into the washer and it would magically come out as a pair of lacy, pink silk panties. I would be so giddy with joy.

But even if I don't need to go to the laundromat ever again, I don't think I could stop going. These poor washeranddryerinunit-less people who I hang out with have become my good friends. Our weekly laundry sessions are just a reason for us to get together, enjoy each other's company and to be friends.

For that, I would gladly trek across town to do laundry, have coffee and pretend to not have washer and dryer in our unit.

Hardly Knew You

Doug, you were the first person who made me feel welcome at work.

It’s hard starting a new job. Expectations are high: I’ve built myself up in my resume, now I have to live up to it. My resume said my name was Jet Li. I was hoping they didn’t remember that. In my interview I said that I played well with others, but the truth is, I only play with myself well.

It was my second day. I was being dragged by my bouncy, perky boss to be introduced to every department. It was very embarrassing. I felt like a little chihuahua. I wished she had a little Louis Vuitton bag for me to hide in. I felt so fake with my wide, pasted-on smile, it made me nauseated. I wanted to puke on her awful mint green pumps, it might’ve made an improvement.

I must have shaken the hands of nearly thirty people, but all I could remember was that of Bob in Accounting. He, with the damp sticky hands, the bulbous, red, runny nose and the crumpled snot rags on his desk. I thought it might be rude to ask if I could go home and take a shower. I felt a little bit like Typhoid Mary Tyler Moore, passing on Bob’s germs to at least eight other staff members before I was able to wipe my hand.

You didn’t notice when my boss and I walked into your department. I got a glimpse of you surfing on eBay before you heard us behind you and casually clicked away. As if you knew I saw you, you gave me a sheepish grin. I knew we were going to get along.

You were so ambiguously gay: soft-spoken, witty, you used mousse in your longish, shaggy hair. And when you told me you loved David Sedaris, I was almost positive you were gay. I was so excited, I instantly thought that you would be the perfect boyfriend for my friend Annie.

Annie would’ve loved you and your tall, skinny frame. You are Lanky Boy, her romantic ideal. She even has a poem for you: "How do I love thee? Let me count the ribs..."

I was so disappointed to learn you were not gay and you already had a girlfriend. I wasn’t sure what angle I could use to hook you into friendship. Homosexuality or possible sex with Annie was all I had. I had nothing else; I couldn’t learn a sport now, the muscles in my wrist have atrophied from disuse.

Then I found out that you are a drummer in a local Chicago girl band. That’s bonus, you know? I love music and I love men who are brave enough to be in a "girl band." Very Hole, very Eric Erlandson. I play the guitar. We could jam. Music indeed, makes the people come together.

Last Thursday, at work, you called me on the phone. “Paul, what the fuck is going on with the company website? Why I am not getting our orders? Is the webmaster asleep or something? You should kick his ass or something!”

We both despised the webmaster, this old fart who didn’t know the first thing about running a professional website. So, we ranted for a little while about the guy and then chatted about other incompetent people in company and the upcoming weekend.

“Did you hear,” asked Doug, “I just got promoted to Customer Service Manager, I start next month.”

“Congratulations!” I was excited; I would be working closely with this position.

“My band and I are playing a gig in August, you should come. We rock!” He laughed.

“Yeah man, I’ll put it on my calendar,” I promised.

“Ok, call me after lunch, we’ll find those missing orders.”

Doug never came back from lunch.

He was killed instantly, along with two other co-workers in a car accident. A suicidal young woman deliberately crashed her car into theirs at high speed.

She survived.



When I didn’t hear from Doug, I just thought he was busy. I didn’t hear about the accident until the next day when our VP herded us into a room to break us the news.

I’ve only known Doug for six months, only part of a year. We were more colleagues than friends, but I was in shock for the rest of the day. His death was senseless.

I couldn’t function. I don’t know why, but I kept thinking about whether there were any eBay auctions he was bidding on. I worried that his feedback rating would get dinged.

That afternoon, in my status meeting with my manager, my throat locked up and my eyes turned a watery red; an item in my agenda had Doug’s name on it. My manager silently handed me a napkin from McDonald’s. I think it had a small grease stain on it. It was the only thing she had on her desk. I am such a faggot.

Back at my desk, I checked my e-mailbox. Amidst the long list of e-mails, Doug’s name was sprinkled about like daisies in a field. I wanted so badly to delete those messages.

On the way home, I turned the radio on to see if I could catch any news about the details of the crash. No news as of then, the authorities were still keeping mum until the families of the victims were notified.

Every song on the radio made me think about drummers. Mick Fleetwood. Larry Mullen. Animal from The Muppet Show.

I kept trying to remember, who is the drummer for Oasis? Don't remember. No Doubt, oh that's easy, Adrian Young: shirtless, hot, with a mohawk. Coldplay? Don't know.

I didn't know if I was doing this because I was thinking of you or trying to stop myself from thinking of you. So I played an Indigo Girls CD instead, Come On Now Social.

When "Soon Be To Nothing" came on, these words from the song made me lose it:

"I have passed these pines 'bout a million times / Effortlessly / Now I grip the wheel / fear is what I feel / At the slow unraveling of me."

I don’t know why, but I kept repeating the song until I finally got home. I guess I needed a sentimental song to accompany my tears. Gays and their need for a soundtrack. But I don't know if I could've dealt with the silence.

Goodbye Doug. I hardly knew you. We might've been good friends. You were a good man, one of the very best.

"But the road is long and my song is gone / I blow empty in my cicada shell / If I saw my choice I might find my voice / But I don't know when and I just can't tell..."

"Soon Be To Nothing"
- Indigo Girls

Doug, second from left, with his band
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Epilogue - Three years later.