A Rant on Traveling Breeders

Let me begin this post with a excerpt from the cover article of last week's New York Magazine. It is the recounting of a conversation between Mike Gelband, director of commercial and residential real estate for Lehman Bros. and Dick Fuld, the CEO of Lehman:

“The world is changing,” Gelband told Fuld during his 2006 bonus review, according to a person familiar with Gelband’s thinking. “We have to rethink our business model.” But given the importance of real estate to Lehman’s bottom line, that wasn’t what Fuld wanted to hear. Fuld had seen his share of cyclical downturns. “We’ve been through this before and always come out stronger,” was his attitude. “You’re too conservative,” Fuld told Gelband. “We’ve been lifted by the rising tide,” Gelband insisted.

Fuld, though, wondered if the problem was with Gelband, not the market. “You don’t want to take risk,” he said—a deep insult in the trader’s vernacular.

If I may repeat for emphasis, "you don't want to take risk" is "a deep insult in the trader's vernacular."

You, my risk-friendly, cor-pirate straight men, are hypocrites. You will knock an intramural soccer player into a coma to win a game. You will eat your co-workers alive to gain a promotion. You will bankrupt the Kingdom of Norway with your bullshit CDOs but you will not take risks in fashion. As a gay well-dressed man who spends every week traveling for business, I see CONSTANT fashion insults such as...

The pleated pant. Sold as a "separate" at Joseph A. Bank. AKA Jos. A. Bank. AKA Jose Bank. These pants come in an array of horrendous colors, such as "putty" and "olive green". That's what I wanna look like, putty and olives. It's corporate camouflage.

Where have your balls gone? The crotch dips down to the inner thigh, completely masking any notes of masculinity. The leg is way too wide and, worst of all, most people just pull them off the shelf without getting them hemmed OR, even worse, GASP! ...adding a cuff.

Pleats? Is this 1987? "But the 80's are back! Look at American Apparel!" you may cry. NO! Headbands + Gold Lamme tights= cool 80's reserved for people under 30 to wear ironically. Pleated pants = The 1987 that we're all trying to forget along with the Reagan Era and trickle-down economics.

Second gripe: The Dumpass Suit

Thank you Brooks Brothers for mass-producing a suit that makes every American man look like he weighs 450 pounds and eats 42 oz. steaks for breakfast. "You're my broker?! I thought you were a water buffalo." You can't tell where the torso ends and the hips begin. You can't see if the arms are detached from the body. 95% of men I see on business travel are wearing this suit. I want to stab myself in the eye with a stiletto every time I see this ill-fitting shape on a man. It's almost enough to turn me into a lesbian.

And what's going on down south?

Vomit. Vomit. Vomit. Vomit. NO BUCKLES ALLOWED UNTIL ARCHDIOCESE TOM FORD GIVES US THE OK. Take these pilgrim pies back to Plymouth rock and trade them in for some beaded nubuck moccasins. Seriously, they would suit you better.

***

Now that you have emptied your closet and are crying tears into your gin gimlet in a dark corner, I have some advice for you bitches. My advice is quite simple actually: Buy clothes that fit your hot, straight ass. I don't mean tight, I mean fitted. Check out these D&G suits:

See how you can see space between their legs and see space between their arms and torso? See how they don't look like fundamentalist Muslims wrapped from neck to toe in ill-fitting black wool crepe? You don't have to spend a lot of money, H&M and Zara have gorgeous knock-offs in this style that will run you about $250. OR, you can shop at the Barney's or Hugo Boss outlets at the outlet strip mall nearest you. FYI, this kind of fashion is the norm and expected across the pond in Europe.

"Flat front pants! But I don't want people to look at my package." Why the fuck not!?! First of all, unless you walk around with a 24hour boner, most people are not going to get all up in your crotch. If you're really packin', then you should embrace the attention. I'm sure most chicks don't want dudes staring at their tits but they deal with it, and many of them make the best of their situation, wouldn't you say? Quit with the double standard, most of us won't notice anyway.

Everytime a straight man wears a skinny suit, a gay angel gets its wings.

And footwear? Check it:

The wide square is over. Go pointy but not too pointy. It makes you look taller and skinnier. Don't you want that? Don't you want to look taller and skinnier? Chicks don't want to blow a rifrigerator, they want to blow a hot dude. You will look hot in these shoes and a skinny suit. Trust me. I'm gay. We are always right about fashion. We brought you aviators, boot-cut jeans, pink dress shirts, and hoodies with blazers.

***

So. Straight dudes, it's time for you to take a risk and show us what your mama gave you. You will tag more tail and I will be able to sleep at night.

Whew! I'm exhausted. It's time for an absolut and vodka.

are you there god? it's me, chateauneuf du pape.

in my unrealistic attempt to continue the momentum of my career/life, i've been "interning" at a world famous gourmet market/importer. seriously, they are mentioned in gourmet magazine almost monthly. i've always felt the need to temper my corporate ambition with the pipe dream of something food related. since the job market sucks and i can't realistically leave my current position anyway, i figured it wouldn't be horrible to learn the ropes at this shop, polish up my dusty business plan, and do some good ole fashioned work on saturdays.

specifically, this shop carries sustainably grown, organic, and/or biodynamic wines which is what i really want to learn about (niche market, huge markup, cha-ching). while the wines are prominently displayed, cheese is really the focal point of the store.

cheese is great. i like it. i like it a lot.

not nearly enough as these people.

i am amazed at the amount of cheese snobbery that exists in the world. i thought that i was sophisticated because i knew my mozzarella, pecorino, robiola, manchego.... oh no my friend, there are dozens of chevre that i have never heard of that people in certain parts of the east coast wet their panties over.

seriously? you can't even get wasted off cheese.

in any case, it turns out that i spend saturdays patting the mold down on stilton instead of learning how dolcetto is produced in piedmont. frustrating.

one of the individuals who has been "mentoring" me answers my questions in 2 word answers and is quick to ask me to take out the trash/windex the case/sweep the floors. don't get me wrong, i am HAPPY to help with the day to day running of the shop, but gimme some tit for tat, motherfucker. i'm getting fed up, real fast.

there was a winery owner who came in to conduct a tasting last saturday and in my 15 minute conversation with him, i learned more about winemaking than i had in the previous 6 weeks. also, no one at the shop made sure that he had water/coffee/a sangwich. i totally took care of this guy and had genuine interest in his product.

my "mentor" was visibly irritated that i knew so much about biodynamic wine production and this winemaker's processes that he almost literally cock-blocked me from asking more questions. "there's more comte that needs to be wrapped!" fuck comte. ...and fuck fontal while we're at it. it's a mild italian cheese with no personality and suited better for the pedestrian tuna noodle casserole of the masses. suck a dick.

but i digress. although my experience at this shop has been less than ideal, my dream is still alive and well. i learned about the pricing of catering and imports. i learned that i don't want my customers or employees to be cheese assholes. i learned that winemakers are environmentalists as well as bon vivants. i learned that i make better playlists than most people even if i have to hijack the stereo when cheese mongers are wrapping gruyere. i learned that a "world class" shop with no inventory management can still be profitable. i know i can run a tighter ship with a better POS, friendlier customer service, with a more organized distribution channel, while having more fun than my competitors. i still need to learn more about wine (reading diligently) but i can do that on my own, just like how i do everything else. you know how i roll.

"lose the attitude, you only work in a shop" -eddie monsoon, absolutely fabulous

i don't need no one to hold me//i can hold my own

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conservative celebrity bloat alert

i watch a lot of cnn. everyone does these days, but i really watch a fucking lot of it. it's on in the airports, the reception areas of institutions that i visit, the hotel check-in, etc. over the past few months i've noticed glenn beck, one of my least-favorite mormons, looking more and more like an overburnt virginia ham. described as an "unconventional"(?), "quick-witted"(??), this fatty needs to lay off the eucharist and start taking a dexatrim communion.

here's a before:

and an after:

the lord hateth fatties.

old n' crusty

i figured i should write this down because it's just been floating around my head for the past 7 years:

he says, "i've got a fascination with words"
i say, "is that the best you can do?
cuz' i've got cue cards
a paragraph
and about fifteen minutes
can i show my fascination to you?"

cuz' i've been used and abused
and if i come across rude
it's just that i've been battling myself
and i'm about to lose.

i could give you a sentence
i could give you a phrase
i could give you directions through my mind's twisted maze
i could set in on fire if i had enough fuel
i could be the exception to you grammatical rule
cuz' i've read your word verbatim
and sometimes i think i hate them
but you still leave me with this overwhelming ultimatum
of whether or not to say what i feel
or feel what i think
or think what's real.

i've got a dialogue box full of explanation
full of kinetic dictation
for my next creation
so you better speed now
before i pick up the pace
before i throw your fascination right back in your face.

believe it or not they got the twin towers
and it's just a matter of time before the brimstone showers
in the meantime we're fighting the american way
unless your black, female, muslim, or gay
we're all selling out our souls to the tv news
learning who next to exploit
how much oil to use

you've got a meeting with the devil
and his name is CEO
but you just call him boss
so nobody will know
he thinks your words might make a pretty dollar
trick is, you'll be on a short leash
wearing a studded dog collar

all the while you were messing around
writing postcards and sermons with your head in the ground
and this fascination of yours,
can you show me some proof?
cuz' i've got a fascination with the truth.

tell it from the mountain

i've been reading a lot about homo history. i've always had a preoccupation with identity formation, even from a young age. i love learning about my geneology and ancestry and as of late i've been determined to learn more about the gays and their struggle which ultimately has allowed me to marry my partner and be "out" in public without being imprisoned, beaten up, cast out of my country, beheaded, and so on and so on.

in my perusal of hisotry books and pre-stonewall biographies, the usual characters pop up: proust. walt whitman. oscar wilde. their stories are somewhat cliche in the gay community but reading about their impact on the perception of homosexuals in society has reaffirmed my committment to gay rights. to ignore your political history leads to complacency and allows one to take for granted all that was not benevolently handed down from a government who stands for "liberty and justice for all."

specifically, i'm engulfed in tennessee williams right now. did you know that he was the fucking balls? he was a subversive homo who built gay characters on the sly. he mind-fucked the masses into watching gay themes like he was a fucking covert gay vigilante. he gave real voices to women in his plays, deriding 50's stereotypes. he was a fucking radical. a feminist.

i came across one quote that he wrote on the back of a photo given to his friend Frank Merlo that prompted me to scrawl this post due to its ass-kickery:

"When your candle burns low, you've got to believe that the last light shows you something besides the progress of darkness."

kill your tivo and pick up some tennesee.

diary of a gay road warrior

first coupla days back from vacation in provincetown and i'm totally suffering from vacation hangover. to make me happy, i will list a few of my favorite things:

herring cove beach

ryan landry

far land provisions

successories

red house painters

slamming frozen ice cream containers against the pavement to "soften it up"

lace-ups with shorts

unicorns

east side cafe

dead pigeons

clementine's

crossroads in kansas city

mildred's coffee in the crossroads

jane almirall

martha wainwright

benbob's tatts

difranco in the summertime

ryan geiger

frequent flier miles

a little bit of a tan

shocking strangers

a doodad for my hat

bacon

having only champagne and pot on the beach

making essie angry

planning surprises

...sweet, now i'm totally pumped.

does evil exist?

dear fox news,

you cannot have an intelligent debate on obama's stance on abortion without a woman in the room. well, you did have anne coulter, but she has a penis. she has a big, girthy, uncircumcised penis with which she regularly humps bill o'reily. only someone with a penis would want women to hand over the control of their bodies to the patriarchs-in-command. only someone with a penis would want to micro-manage an entire gender and accuse them of murder while, in the meantime, the penises are responsible for war. i hope anderson cooper and his band of queens bitch slap you into public access television. you have no credibility because you lie. you lie to us about your penis. you are an ugly tranny with no soul and everybody knows that rough mutherfucking bitches will cut your tranny ass if you gets caught on the street. fox news, please get anne an adam's apple "shave" and make her "outie" and "innie". put her on the 'mones because some real estrogen will set her mind straight.

presidentiality, utards, and smoking bananas

so. i guess it's pretty exciting that a man of color could be the next president of the united states. why am i not particularly enthused? it's because my voice/minority is still not being heard. gays can be political scapegoats (see presidential election of 2004), silent fighters for our country (see don't ask, don't tell), dancing minstrels (see will & grace), but not a voting contingent worthy of supporting. yes, obama has given lip service to gay rights, plans to implement the matthew shepard act to expand the definition of hate crimes on a national basis, but he's still playing the "civil-union-not-marriage" card. i'm so sick of this bullshit. i wish a candidate would have the balls to just suck it up and say they have no problem with the big "m" word. to decry same-sex marriage empowers prejudice.

i guess i'll take what i can get, even if my president is okay with marginalizing my minority (again). i don't think i can take another old white dude.

***

i'm in salt lake city for work this week. i went to the 24 hour fitness up the road to work out this afternoon. how can there be so many hot men in one room? i guess the mormon rules on no sex/alcohol/drugs/smoking turn you into a hard-bodied closet case who works out 3 hours a day. it was amazing. some of them have GOT to be homos. i was like a rabbit chasing a carrot...or banana, as it were.

***

speaking of bananas. i just joined austin's "smoking banana" group. sounds gay, you say? it is. it's one of many guerilla gay bar groups that have popped up around the country. basically, the organizer of the group notifies a mess of gay dudes to drop like pink locusts on a straight bar once a month, unannounced to the public. freaking hilarious. i'm going to my first boston guerilla gay party this friday. will report back.

anniversary 1.0

through a whirlwind of taxis and litter
and other pointless assignments
i woke up and it had been 1 year
1 year in which we scrambled and toggled
for the methods by which we would escape our mania and tiredness
even now exhaustion builds up unbearably
and at awkward moments
i wish you were 2,000 miles closer

i daydream that we're together at lake austin
and likewise in chelsea
with children and laptops in tow
fashion long forfeited to painted rocks
finger-painted masterpieces
and dirty toads brought in by little hands as pets
or as gifts for someone who needs to see more playfulness
in the entrapment of adulthood

1 year of the many
so many in my mind, in fact, that just 1 seems insignificant
insignificant as to give credibility to the warm-up of our life-spans
as if we could put a time-line on love's boundlessness

orange harbor

oh glorious boston night!

why must you taunt me with your periodic good weather whilst i pack up my shit for a more hospitable city?

from the port bow of my boat ride home

your full moon glows like the cross-section of an artery or a blood orange

pumping life back into a stupid teenager on the brink of drowning.

slowly rising from the east amidst a swarm of airplanes

i understand the ancient pagan rituals for a brief moment

because, after all, aren't we all just a bunch of assholes

running around outside

dancing around maypoles and cellphones

searching for better reception

when nature heaves its orange head over our harbor?

...where they used to pack the meat

i'm not a cheater. i don't think it's in me. i would've been a good catholic; even flirtation often leaves me with guilty feelings.

i would only EVER cheat on my spouse with new york city.

i've been hundreds of times.

i've stayed up all night, slept with nefarious gentlemen in the west village, fought with strangers, and walked its perimeter the way people hike mountains in search of a transcendental vista. mine stands homeless behind pillars of corporate excess ducking behind vigilante taxis ever late to a boarding flight at la guardia.

in the wake of boston and the construction of our dream home in austin, i still daydream about new york like an adolescent with his dad's playboy.

some dream of eventual summer houses on the cape, or weekend getaways on lush golf courses. i want to retire to the sound of sirens and screams and late-night revelry and rude executives and $7 muffins and designer lollipops and racial mosaics and the universal glory that is new york.

not invited

it amazes me that a person will hide behind a glass pane sheltering them from experience and happiness. this glass pane is a 32nd of an inch thick and could be shattered with little effort. still, the fear of a bloody fist and temporary pain are enough to keep them content in the safety of their ignorance. cliche, i know, but i am always dumbfounded by the containment of religion. even after years of finally reclaiming myself and showing my family the happiness i've found, they disappoint me by blindly following the doctrines of men. out of my own humanity, i cannot allow myself to become callous to conscious people making unconscious decisions. i will always be amazed by the failure to listen to reason and human nature.

i drove through colorado last week and passed the world headquarters of focus on the family and laughed at their hateful mission while i stared in awe at the purple mountains' majesty, as the early settlers must have. what a glorious tectonic miracle perforating the earth in tides and ripples with no god sleeping soundly in her valleys. if there's one thing that i've learned from nature: if their god exists, he isn't participating. so why let ancient patriarchies define our lives when we've got so much logic and science surrounding us? any cumulonimbal colorado sunset will obliterate god's glory by simply following the rules of nature.


"i know that i was warned, still it was not what i hoped." - the little folksinger

religion as culinary exploration

it wasn't so much that i was a spiritual person, i was just really good at following along. it's like a baby who only eats strained peas and you're ok with that even though it's a little boring. then one day on a play date your friend has strained carrots and you have some and they're great and then you get a little older and you're like, "shit, did anyone out there know about mashed bananas?" once you can get your hands on bacon it's all over. fuck, and then there's wine.

i ate all the fucking strained peas i could and then grabbed a handful of bacon and never looked back.

are we really supposed to eat strained peas to gain salvation? why are we trying to get saved in the first place? so that we can eat strained peas with jesus forever? i'd rather stick with bacon and syrah for my measly 80 years, thank you very much.

graduating makes you more regular

i've been in an mba program for the past 18 months. i work full time. i travel every week for my job. i go to school every saturday. all day. i had my last class last saturday and handed in my final paper moments before beginning this post.

am i excited about finishing my graduate program? sorta.

about the new job prospects? meh.

more money? i guess.

joining an elite stratosphere of mba's? not really.

i'm excited about pooping on saturdays. i haven't pooped on a saturday in 18 months. i don't know what it is about my university, but i cannot poop there. i can eat 3 pounds of chili and wash it down with a gallon of coffee while chainsmoking a half-dozen cigarettes and still couln't poop at school. i have a psychological barrier to crapping in close proximity to other mba's. maybe it's ego. maybe all the backup makes me extra aggressive in those competetive debates on corporate strategy. who knows.

more realistically, i think it's because of the 1 person bathroom on the floor where most of our classes are. i don't like the idea of getting interrupted by a knock on the door signaling pressure to "hurry up". i need a quiet, zen like setting to do my business. i will relish saturday mornings with my very own bathroom from now to eternity. i'm going to sing a song of celebration tomorrow, my first saturday free from the captive bonds of constipated misery. oh happy day.

stray cats, jc penny, homeless people, and ab fab cliches

we have 6 little galvanized metal planters on our back patio. we grow grass in them as a kind of gay-martha-i'm-too-lazy-to-plant-real-vegetation-and-besides-my-friends-will-inevitably-fill-them-with-cigarette-butts sort of thing. in any case, there's a black cat owned by someone in our hood who comes up to the back door whenever we're cooking or doing something unusual in the living room (faces the back patio, no neighbors can see in). she's pretty cute. sometimes i want her to come in but she's just a tad bit mangy. since i've been spending a lot of time home with a knee injury, i caught her perching on our planters, having a crap. i find it funny that our patio planters probably have the nicest/only grass in east boston.

***

i am not embarrassed that i just ordered a 6-pack of jc penny/towncraft brand medium-tall v-neck undershirts. online catalogue description: "Men's v-neck shirt is designed to hold its shape wear after wear. Smooth cotton/polyester blend has lasting fit and resists shrinking. Washable."

yes! yes! yes! they are THE ONLY undershirts that don't come untucked or lose their shape after washing. i've bought undershirts from banana republic, saks, barney's, target... they all suck. jc penny is the only company making shirts long and durable enough for today's 6'3" long-torsoed homo. i love them. also, while scrolling through the underwear section of the online catalogue, i had a quick stroll down memory lane, when the jc penny catalogue was the closest i could get to male porn.

***

in other news, did you know that homeless people won't ask you for money if you're wearing a leg brace?

***

i know that i'm about 15 years late to this gay party, but through the power of netflix, i've been watching ab fab non-stop. the show is genius. pure genius. it is proof that product placement works: after finishing 3 consecutive episodes, i went out and bought 2 bottles of champagne. you're welcome LVMH.

"c'mon sweetie, mummy's thirsty."

i will not be defeated

my recent knee injury has left me moderately disabled and has put in a crimp in my efforts to get "hot" by summertime. instead of sitting around being depressed, i actually went to the gym and worked out with my trainer twice this week. i have an appointment tomorrow as well. i can still use free weights, barbells, and bench press. i can do shoulders, chest, biceps, triceps, and back. i will be hot this summer if it kills me. i refuse to be one of those hideous, fat, ugly crippled people trolling around the best parking spots our country has to offer. whereas they have NO value in our society, i will be fit and pretty at the beach this year, it is my duty as an american citizen. was this country built by people who can't walk? no, it was built by people who CAN. stop dragging down our great country with your bum legs, you crippled commie bastards!

as my inspiration, i recall that cold winter morning in 1990 when gloria estefan, on the last leg of a sold-out tour, broke her back in a horrific bus accident. the accident threatened her life and her career as an international pop superstar. did she settle for a life of disability payments, leaching off our welfare system? no. she got back on her feet and came back stronger than EVER! gloria, i don't know why you're swimming in your clothes but you're an inspiration to us all.

i will get back on both feet. i will break-dance again. i will step on all the lazy orthopedic patients at my clinic and laugh in their weak little faces. i will not be defeated. god bless america.

jesus is dead, let's eat candy!

happy easter.

i am officially retarded. last week i was in austin for work which overlapped with the south by southwest festival ("SXSW" for those who are cooler than i). while in town, i met up with a fellow music enthusiast/bon vivant to check out some shows. we decide to hit a gay bar along the way to grab a beer and see what's happening on the dark side. "i can't go to a gay bar and not dance", says my friend. i will never pass up a dance off, so i slam my beer and get proceed to get my freak on. typical cheesy beyonce/madonna/britney/screaming diva music is blaring and we are making fun of the intense dancers around us by mocking their moves and faking enthusiasm. it was great fun. ...until i decided to try a break-dancing move that i had never attempted before. now, let me preface this by telling you that i am a pretty good dancer for a white guy. i took 4 years of jazz, taught swing/ballroom for 2 years, was on my high school step team, and i go out dancing with friends at least monthly. i have rhythm. i can dance, motherfucker. so anyway, i attempt this breakdancing move that i've seen brown people do one hundred times before. i'm pretty limber so i figure, how hard can it be? now, google and youtube have failed me in tracking down images or footage of the actual breakdance step attempted (although i did find this) so i'll try to describe it to the best of my ability:

you stand with your feet shoulder width apart. you bring your knees in close and slowly bring them down to the floor one-at-a-time and slowly bring them back up while keeping your feet at shoulders width the entire time.

well, while bringing down the first knee, my femur popped out of the socket and i fell to the floor, squirming in agonizing pain. my friend thought i was being silly and was really into whatever floor move it was that i was trying to do so i had to crawl to the nearest go-go boy platform and drag myself up for air. in equal parts laughter and pain, i hobbled back to friend's apartment.

the next day my knee looks like a grapefruit and i can barely walk. i get wheelchair service from my rental car to the airport, fly to boston, and go to the ER where i lie and tell all medical personnel that i tripped running on a trail in texas. awesome. i have some ligament damage that will supposedly heal on it's own after a few weeks of crutches/knee brace/percocet/cabernet.

that brings me to today, easter sunday. i finally have the strength to do a little walking so husband and i decide to head out to newbury street to pick up some new music and contact lenses. i'm doing the "kick and drag" all up and down the street and EVERYTHING IS CLOSED. i'm a total music fanatic and i've been waiting to get healthy enough to pick up a couple of new albums. we get to newbury comics and the goddam store is closed. i scream, "I'M SICK OF THIS FUCKING CHRISTIAN BULLSHIT" as a well-groomed catholic family of 5 scurries out of my handicapped path, clearly on their way to church.

but seriously, what the fuck easter? jesus has risen from the dead so we go to mass (1 of the 2 times per year), eat brunch with musty ol' aunt theresa, look for pink eggs in the grass, wear white hats, and stuff our diabetic children full of chocolate all in memory of the man who died for our sins? nice. i bet jesus loooves that. ahhh yes, the churchy-brunchy-chocolatey goodness that is our lord and savior.

i'm just bitter because i walk with crutches and was abandoned by my hardcore christian family. ...but they don't have painkillers, so i win.

in defnese of gentrification

dear holy rolling hipsters,

in my recent travels to austin, anticipating the construction of my house on the east side, i've seen your welcome signs spray painted accross bridges, walls, and billboards. do you recall any of them? some read "yuppies off the east side", "stop gentrification now", and "go west yuppies. keep out of east austin". funny, when i have new neighbors move in, i usually bring over a pie or my famous ginger-molasses cookies. i guess this is the way you greet newcomers in your neck of the woods.

i'm a little confused by how you're defining "yuppie", however. if you mean rich, white, straight, soccer mom-esque, conservative, blue shirt/khaki-wearing christians then you've simply got me all wrong.

let me set the record straight: i'm a happily married homo from a blue-collar family who enjoys reveling in loud music, congregating in the back yard for late-night dance-offs, political activism, getting to know brown people, making irreverent t-shirit designs, playing my musical instruments whenever-the-fuck-i-feel-like-it, speaking spanish fluently, amongst other non-puritanical activities.

so, my little ironic, anger-filled friends, if you consider me to be in the yuppie "ballpark", so be it. do you think that i'm going to ruin your neighborhood? displace poor people? ...because i bought an empty lot so i didn't force anyone out and unfortunately, the cost of living increases regardless of who moves into your hood because of this little thing called inflation. also, we live in a capitalist society so i can kind of live wherever i want. you see, that's the beauty of america. if you want to live in an insular environment, the germans had a really great model for that. in fact, they invented the word "ghetto", which denotes keeping people contained in a neighborhood to perpetuate poverty and disenfranchisement. should we keep our poor people contained from the world around them? or should we "yuppies" move in, start businesses, and offer opportunities that would not have been available otherwise?

i think it's small-minded of y'all to tell me to get out of your neighborhood and "go west" with the rest of the rich white folks when in actuality, i probably have more in common with the latino and black communities of the east side. i'm used to being marginalized for being gay and fighting for causes that directly effect the safety and future well-being of my family and other gay families.

being from boston, i'm all about history and preservation and i can't wait to get to know the locals and become involved in understanding and conserving the vibrant culture of east austin. i think we can all get along. you know, i hate starbucks too and i am happy to patron the local businesses to get a sense of what the neighborhood is all about. hey, that's cash flow that these businesses wouldn't have if i didn't move in!

i know y'all have your ramones t-shirts in a twitch because you don't want to be reminded of the white bourgeois you've tried so hard to run from. you may have a lot of tattoos and some really tight black jeans but i know you grew up in a subdivision 30 miles north of town where you ate white bread and ham sandwiches. i never understood why, if you hipsters are so subversive, you all look the same. you have the same haircuts, listen to the same music, are pissed off about the same things. you expect anyone worth talking to to take a vow of poverty and live in a cardboard box. whenever one of your friends goes on tour or gets noticed by the mainstream, they've sold out in your mind. did you know that you can be subversive and still like to buy loafers at barney's? i know that you're rebelling against your upper-middle class upbringing and you want to feel the full range of emotions but you can't take it out on my amazing new homo/ethno friendly house being built around the corner from your shit box.

not to fear, the city has already limited my new home size to fit the envelope of the surrounding houses so that i won't put up an over sized monstrosity on my postage stamp lot. i actually think that's a great idea. it will help me show my brown neighbors that i'm not trying to alienate them.

maybe you're mad because you're not as successful an artist you had hoped to be and i actually made a few bucks...in fact i've made enough to live the lifestyle you wish you had. besides, i'm the guy who will probably buy your art. you need to remember that it's really hard for me to get the cash out of my wallet when you won't stop biting my hand.

your friendly new neighbor,

andy

clarity unexpected

there are clarifying moments that occur in a relationship which help you realize that someone is really yours. i can't explain what happens. it might be some unusal convenience of time and space, location and consequence, but you know it when it hits you.

in these instances, his story becomes mine not only in emotional adoption but in reality. memories become so interwoven that to take one person out of the recollection would destroy that moment in the past altogether. i know why old people die of broken hearts: they've lost half their memory.

theese moments come as minute flickers of absolute happiness and surety which occur unexpectedly and present themselves in the form of a head nod or a brush on the hand. they are so small and so subtle but transmit volumes of understanding. you can't force it to happen, even by performing unselfish acts of love. they must come organically. they make your throat choke up, your stomach tighten, and your eyes glaze. in that particular moment, the universe conspires to confirm what you thought you knew all along: this person is my memory. happiness is possible. symbiosis is thriving.

revering this profoundness and extreme luck in a room full of unopened mail and a pile of dirty laundry, we breathe in chorus, sleeping with synapses sending morse code messages well into the night.