Life in First Class

“Would you like a drink?” I pause my i-pod and look the over-waxed, flamboyant airline steward square in the face. I enunciate slowly, “Scotch. Two rocks.” “Coming right up, sir. We’re going to be taking off in a few moments, so please put your headset away.” “Got it,” I snatch.

Headset? Who says “headset” anymore? This is 2009. “Oh yes, Queeny McBottom, as soon as my cassette is done rewinding, I’ll be sure to stow my headset.” This faggot is only 25, max, and has taken on the language of the aging, aggressive water buffalo tribe better known as the Airline Attendants Union where hairstyles and vocabulary do not progress past 1987.

They are evil and need to be destroyed.

I should know. I spend a lot of time on planes. I fly 45 weeks a year and have ass-kissing status on every airline in the greater 48. Due to my proverbial timeshare on American Airlines flight 1542 with service to Boston, I find myself in first class more often than not. And here I am. Seat 1B. I’m the first to get on and off the plane, you pedestrian motherfuckers.

The first class attendants tend to be more relaxed and therefore friendlier than their cattle-herding countercows in the back. After all, the first-class attendants only have 12 assholes to wipe versus 100. I don’t want them to feel too privileged, so I make them work. Always remember where you came from. For instance, I like to pretend I’m sleeping and knock over my ceramic ramekin of warm nuts into the aisle only to be followed by an attendant closing her US Magazine and scrambling to clean up the molten peanuts with long, audible sighs. I still pretend to sleep but crack an insidious smile as if I were deep in a blissful dream about unicorns impaling retarded babies.

On days when I’m feeling particularly foul, I’ll pack a delicious wedge of French Epoisses and some stone wheat crackers to snack on during a long flight. I should mention that I am lactose intolerant and have a gluten allergy. Wash that heavenly little snack down with a coffee and by 35 minutes into the flight, I will obliterate the bathroom, which coincidentally, is directly across from the galley where the airline attendants gather to gossip about their meager, petty little existences. Oh yes mis amigos, cheese and wheat really blow me out hardcore. Fuck colonics, I’ve got a recipe that cleans out months of the residual bacteria clinging to my bowels from all the semen, drugs, and red meat I ingest.

I like to think of myself as Karma’s Little Helper, getting back at these assholes for pushing little old ladies down the aisle and keeping the airline industry from profitability with their blood-sucking union demands. It’s the little things, you know?

“Do you think we’ll ever get outta here?” Fuck. I hate this part. The fat ass next to me knows I’m awake and I can’t put my “headset” on. “I don’t know, it’s rush hour in Chicago and it’s raining. I’m not holding my breath.” “I’ll say,” he snorts back.

What is it about fat people? They really gross me out. It always hits me when I’m in line at a Starbucks and I’m forced to look across the bar at strangers while waiting for my drink to be made. I don't really know what to make of the 300lb+ ladies, for instance, who are ordering venti mochas or frappuccinos at 8:00am. I feel like I'd be doing them a disservice by not tapping them on the shoulder and saying, "Hi. Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt your morning routine but did you know that drink has 650 calories in it? ...and well, let's not fool ourselves, you really should be watching what you eat. Let's trade that in for a nice hot green tea, shall we?" Isn't that what a good patriot should do? Isn’t it Christian? Shouldn't we watch out for the well-being of our fellow consumers? In fact, one day I was putting non-fat milk into my grande mild roast when this heifer rolled up to the counter and hip-checked me out of the way like there was a stash of secret pies behind the napkin dispenser. "There's no half and half", she grunted. I replied concernedly, "maybe someone's trying to tell you something", and exited stage right.



Fatty First Class starts an unsolicited conversation: “Last week I was stuck in Dallas, mechanical problem they said. No announcement until we’d already been on the runway for an hour and a half. What’s the matter with these people?” I respond with a it’s-not-funny-but-I’ll humor-you-half-pity laugh, “I don’t know, I guess it’s just the nature of the beast.”

Please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up. Fucking shut up. Fuck.

“I remember back in the 90’s when you could walk up to the gate, find your seat and be in the air 10 minutes after you got to the airport. So what brings you to Chicago?” “Oh, I’m just connecting from Denver, on my way home to Boston.” “Boston, eh? Where’s the accent?” “I don’t have one. I’m educated.” “HA! Well then, you know, I used to work in Boston for a drug company.”

Fuck me. Here we go.

Fortunately, I’ve been in this situation 100 times before and I know how to keep him going for hours without ever having to divulge a single personal detail about myself. When I do, I usually lie. Not those hey-bro-let’s-lie-to-this-chick-at-the-bar genre of lies. More subtle, believable lies. Lies that make you think, “Oh, you know this guy is interesting. He has his shit together but seems like he’s on the wrong career path. I get a good feeling in my gut from this one. I think I’ll offer him a job.”

And that’s how I climb the corporate ladder, by getting these self-obsessed, generic blow-hards to offer me jobs. I merely coax them into to talking about themselves and magically deceive them into thinking that I’m the exact person they were at my age. It’s quite easy. I’ve made a lot of money doing it. Not like, penthouse-in-the-sky money, but a good sized-suitcase full of money. I crossed the $100,000 threshold on my W-2 for the first time at age 23. Now, at the ripe and grizzly old age of 30, I have a handful of properties, a healthy savings account, and a job title usually afforded to douche bags 15 years my senior. I can handle this shithead.

“Oh, so you’re in pharma. What do you think about the drug Merck has in the pipeline?” I fake interest. “You follow Merck? Don’t even get me started…” Every pharmaceutical company in the world has a new drug in the pipeline. That’s what they fucking do.

Engaging powerful people requires knowing a microcosm of each industry. It cost me a $65,000 piece of paper from business school to learn that. Most of my friends are the opposite of me; they care about integrity, benevolence, lactaid. They want to change the world, get respect for their artwork, have anal sex with someone they love.

They earn the square route of my paycheck.

They coo, “How did you become so successful?” “You are so ambitious.” “I can’t believe what you’ve accomplished at your age.” “Oh just a lot of elbow grease and good work ethic”, I respond. In reality, I make money via manipulation and lies. You may think that sounds harsh but please, hold your judgment. I’m not stealing diamonds from holocaust victims; I’m just trying to make a little coin. Everyone could make $1,000 a day if they took off their rose colored glasses, flushed their ideals down the toilet, and learned how to abuse the rape-and-pillage economic system we know as capitalism. I owe little to my academic record, my militancy, my knowledge of complex financial transactions, and more to my whiteness, my toothy smile, and my upbringing in a proselytizing cult.

I don’t believe everything happens for a reason but I believe that I can mind-fuck through the chaos, doggy style.

A Toast To My Friends

I wonder how long it takes to forget the fastest way to drive from the South End to Beacon Hill or the quickest way to walk from the North End to the movie Theatre on the Commons? I spent my first few days in Boston with a t-pass, traveling the subway, attempting to learn and conquer every neighborhood. I’ve lived in Somerville, the North End, Dorchester, the South End, and Eastie. If the geography gets fuzzier with time and distance, I hope the memory of my Boston friends does not.

I want to pick on a few of you who have colored (I’m looking at you Amy) my 10 years here:

-Dan. I’m not sure exactly how we first met but we were young Jehovah’s Witnesses who shared a love for art, music, and booze which is immediately enough to get you kicked out of the church. I had a blast with you making fun of bible-thumpers and being the most obnoxious, foul-mouthed, sluttiest Jehovah’s Witnesses that Boston will ever see. I’m happy that we escaped and that you found Erika who is quickly becoming on of our favorite people on the planet.

-Mark. Mark McGrath probably doesn’t remember but we first met when I was probably 12 or 13. I was at a family reunion complete with cans of Bud Light, volleyball, hot dogs, and a riveting discussion about NASCAR. I was daydreaming about my real family pulling up the driveway in their Rolls Royce, putting me in an Armani suit and whisking me away to a Park Avenue penthouse. I stopped daydreaming/jump roping long enough to see a handsome young Mark walking into the backyard with a slightly effeminate man at his side. The reunion was a potluck and Mark brought Foie Gras. I ran over to my Teen Vogue and scribbled in the margins, “Look up cousin Mark after high school.” I’m so happy I did. Thank you for being a mentor and a friend.

On June 1, 2007 Mark risked his life to marry Essie and me in front of the crack heads and prostitutes of Blackstone Square in the South End. Thank you for being part of the happiest day of my life.

-I’d next like to give a shout out to the brown lady in the back. Amy and I go way back to high school were we used to sneak into gay bars underage and make out with boys. We lost touch when she was disfellowshipped and I went on being a JW zombie. We randomly bumped into each other during a snow storm in Downtown Crossing a few years ago and became friends again. I was afraid to getting to know you again after having abandoned you as a brainwashed JW but you have an amazing ability to forgive and move on. Thank you for literally holding my hair back when I was puking out the window of a taxi after my bachelorette party.

-Ben, the mere fact that you make my best friend happier than I’ve ever seen you is reason enough to be friends with you. Fortunately, you’re also awesome. If you break Amy’s heart, Essie and I will rape you. You both are closer than family.

-To the other ethnic friend, Sheryl. I was afraid to meet you and Alan because Essie had built you up to god-like status. I think we probably broke the ice on the dance floor, hip checking frat boys so that we could pop and lock within our own personal space. I know you love us because you took Essie to NYC for his bachelor party, rolled on ecstasy, slept for 45 minutes, got on the Fung Wah in time to get trashed with my bachelorette party at Jacques without skipping a beat. You are a fucking professional.

-Anne Continelli, you are such a cunt. Let me recount our first conversation:
Me: Are you a lesbian?
Anne: Did you just pirouette?

Anne slept over at my place early in our friendship after a show we had been working on. We did a bar crawl up Washington Street. Anne was wearing a shedding red feather boa which later became known by my neighbors as the “Cherokee Trail of Feathers.” Anne, your laugh is infectious and should be patented.

But really I have to lump Steph and Anne together because we have so much history. The three of us spent the summer of 2004 basically jobless and drunk. I could barely come up with my rent but could find $20 to go get drunk with Anne and Steph at Club Café.

-Steph, you are the most creative person I know and you have made every birthday, holiday, and toilet seat more fun. Anne, Steph, and I have a special bond because we’re all dramatic alcoholics who met our boyfriends on the internet. Steph and I were supposed to pack up for New York but we spent too much time trolling the internet and found Essie and Jon who stole our dreams and our “bohemian” lifestyle. Thanks guys.

-Seriously Jon, you reigned in Steph and made her exponentially more awesome. Your enthusiasm doesn’t even annoy me anymore. Also, you can engage Essie when he wants to talk about positrons while Anne, Steph and I discuss the intensity of Anne’s last yeast infection. You have the sweetest of hearts and I can’t wait to show you our new city.

-And to my other little electron, Kyle. You are such a refreshing contrast to Anne’s cuntiness. You put up with constant harassment about being a gamer while still willfully coming to all of our parties and engaging us in intellectual debate. Also, if Keanu Reeves, John Cusack, and Gandalf had a baby, it would be you. Thanks for putting up with us, please come visit.

-Speaking of “putting up with”, don’t mind my friend Deb. She may be little and unnoticed but she will cut a bitch if you get in her way. Deb and I are ladies who lunch. We’re ladies who lunch over a bag of salad and 3 bottles of prosecco, followed by a nap. Even thinking about being in a room with Deb and a bag of pot makes me laugh harder than Anne’s resume. You are the only one here who has actually seen Austin, so I’m counting on you to harass everyone to come visit in your little, annoying way. Deb, you, Anne, Steph, Amy and I are the Sisters of the Immaculate Collection and put every other bridal party to shame with our polyester nun costumes, crucifix confetti, and drunken rendition of Son of a Preacher Man. I worship you guys.

-Lesa, you are my favorite lesbian MBA. You kept me sane during our 18 months together in grad school. I remember leaning over to you during a lecture on supply-chain management and whispering, “What are we making again? Widgets or Chatchkies?” At an Irish Pub on a class trip in DC I taught Lesa the chorus of every Irish song ever written: They ate our food and stole our land so early in the morning. …and other Gaelic phrases like, “Is that a potato in your pants?” …and remember that time we got totally wasted at Auschwitz?

On a serious note, I’ll never forget standing with you at the Lincoln memorial, hearing about your protests and die-ins when the Reagans wouldn’t even utter the word AIDs. You showed me firsthand what an activist looks like.

-Thank you Shelagh for being Lesa’s rock during school and for adopting Essie and I when shit gets bad. We love you both and daydream of lazy afternoons on Herring Cove long into the future.

So, after 10 years in this shitty town of fucked- up roads and high taxes, I can leave knowing that if we get plowed down by an 18 wheeler or gay bashed at the waffle house on our road trip, at least I will die with my favorite person but I will also die with the memory of you. I’m in love with your memory.

To old friends and new starts.

The Many Uses of Vodka

According to the website Divine Caroline, there are many household uses for Vodka, other than drinking. I disagree. I don't believe one should waste a spirit with such propensity, only to degrade it to Martha Stewart-esque craftiness. Caroline's Top 10 non-drinking uses are:

1. To remove a bandage painlessly, saturate the bandage with vodka. The solvent dissolves adhesive.

2. To clean the caulking around bathtubs and showers, fill a trigger-spray bottle with vodka, spray the caulking, let set five minutes and wash clean. The alcohol in the vodka kills mold and mildew.

3. Clean jewelry. Soak the jewelry in vodka for five minutes, then rinse, and dry.

4. Clean lipstick from clothing. Rub the stain with vodka, then throw into your regular wash.

5. Remove the glue left behind by a bumper sticker. Rub the glue with a soft, clean cloth soaked with vodka.

6. Prolong the life of razors by filling a cup with vodka and letting your safety razor blade soak in the alcohol after shaving. The vodka disinfects the blade and prevents rusting.

7. Spray vodka on vomit stains, scrub with a brush, then blot dry.

8. Using a cotton ball, apply vodka to your face as an astringent to cleanse the skin and tighten pores.

9. Add a jigger of vodka to a 12-ounce bottle of shampoo. The alcohol cleanses the scalp, removes toxins from hair, and stimulates the growth of healthy hair.

10. Fill a sixteen-ounce trigger-spray bottle and spray bees or wasps to kill them.

Suck it, Caroline. Here are MY top 10 uses for Vodka:

1. To drown internal voices, pour 3 ounces into a chilled glass and slam.

2. To eliminate public speaking anxiety, empty 2 ounces of Vodka into gullet.

3. To stop a bar fight, chug bottle of vodka, break the bottle on wooden chair and proceed to stab opponents with broken bottle.

4. To lubricate family reunions, give Aunt Theresa a glass of lemonade with 2 oz. of vodka and allow 15 minutes to allow for the story about how Grandpa Henry used to force her to "sit on his lap" at 2 in the morning.

5. To make your blind date more attractive, pour 3 oz. of vodka over the rocks and sip briskly. Repeat x 4.

6. To relieve guilt or shame, pour 1 oz of vodka into morning coffee, repeat process at work.

7. To prevent "breakup blues", soak 1 rag with vodka, place in ex's basement and light on fire.

8. To destroy pesky livers, swallow 12 oz. of Vodka, daily.

9. To bed a mormon, freeze 3 oz. of vodka with red Kool-Aid and serve as cold, fun, summertime treats at congregation picnic.

10. To relax the anus for penetration, imbibe 1 handle of vodka and chew down on wooden spoon.

I don't blame it all on you, but I don't want to be your friend

I was baptized at this auditorium. The photo you are viewing is the Natick Assembly Hall of Jehovah's Witnesses, located in the gorgeous metropolis of Natick, Massachusetts. It is common for youths who are raised in the religion to get baptized in their teen years. I was rather intelligent for my age and extremely competitive so I decided to get baptized at the Natick Assembly Hall at age 12. I thought I could baptize the gay way. Cut to me with a blow dryer, hair gel, and self-tanner in the men's locker room, striking poses in the mirror.

I remember Sister Bias (names HAVE NOT been changed...seriously) handing me a small gift and a handwritten card after the grand event. Gift giving to baptismal candidates is generally discouraged, but I managed to make out with a new creepy Jehovah's Witness briefcase and a few fancy pen sets (all for use in the door to door ministry). Sister Bias recruited my mother and had studied the Bible "Jehovah Style" for 5 years until mom got baptized. She was a tough old broad. Focused, diligent, faithful, judgemental, authoritarian, and all around intimidating. She was the force and structure my mom needed to find meaning in her life and she scared the shit out of me as a child.

Sister Bias coined herself my "spiritual grandmother," although she was less of the sweet fairy-godmother type and more like Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane. In her handwritten card, she told me that my day of baptism was the most important day of my life because I was dedicating my life to Jehovah. I knew somewhere in my 12 year-old mind that her remarks were not true and so began years of pretending to like people because Jehovah told me to be friends with everyone, even grumpy old Sister Bias.

My adolescence was pocked by a constant stream of disingenuous behaviors which revolved around trying to please the Jehovah's Witness authorities and grow up sensibly in the lesbian capitol of America: Northampton, Massachusetts.

In my more recent years, I've deprogrammed much of the doctrine, xenophobia, homophobia, and delusions of the Jehovah's Witnesses. Unfortunately, some of the more deep-seated social traits still arise from time to time.

As kids, we could only be friends with other Jehovah's Witnesses. All other children were going to perish in Armageddon, so obviously we didn't want to get too attached. The problem was: most of the other Jehovah's Witness kids sucked. They didn't want to read People magazine or jump rope or listen to Gloria Estefan tapes. They wanted to play softball and watch Sports Center on ESPN even though the season premiere of House of Style was on MTV. How was I supposed to plan my next season of door-to-door preaching outfits without Cindy Crawford's expertise? I hated them all, but they were "good association" so I had to play along.

I realize now that this formed a level of diplomacy in my personality that I struggle with, even today. While I find it easy to make friends, I have a hard time drawing boundaries or backing off when I really don't want to be friends with an individual any longer. There have been 3 people in particular who I have strung along in friendships because I felt as though I had to be friends with them. Eventually my resentment of these friends escalated to the point that I had to end the relationship. All 3 "break-ups" were ugly and could have been avoided had I acknowledged my dissonant behavior earlier in the relationship and called it quits. My Bible-trained diplomacy over-rules my innate understanding that you don't have to be friends with everyone.

The most recent example happened today. I dropped out of a wedding for a girl who I was never that close to, who imagined a close friendship that never transpired. The break was ugly and painful for both of us. It has been playing out like a bad Mexican soap-opera, flush with runny mascara and mangled blond hair-extensions. Aye dios mio.

With this in mind, I wrote to another former friend who I broke up with by giving him the silent treatment. Totally unacceptable behavior on my part. In an attempt to acknowledge this personality flaw, I wrote him this:

"I was thinking about you this weekend. Essie and I are moving to Austin in a few weeks and I've been relishing my remaining time in Boston. I was in the South End on Saturday night and remembering all the late nights at Club Cafe and Eagle and Francesca's and trips to P-town and on and on.

I owe you an apology for disappearing out of your life before you moved to Florida. I needed space in our relationship and instead of being honest with you, I dealt with it passive/aggressively and for that I'm sorry. I look back fondly on the time we spent together and will always appreciate your generosity with I was jobless and your emotional support when I was dealing with alienation from my family. You were a very loyal friend and I treated you horribly. You did not deserve abandonment.

I hope you look back on our friendship with as much laughter and happiness as I do."

Maybe I'm just trying to excuse the guilt I have for the bride I broke up with, but it felt really good to write to someone I had wronged and try to learn from and dig deeper into the etiology of these experiences. I want to be better than this. I want to say "enough is enough" before things get out of control. I want to stand up for myself and my unhappiness by grabbing my jump rope and remote control and going forth to change ESPN to House of Style starring Supermodel Cindy Crawford...even if it alienates people.

"I will not pretend

I will not put on a smile

I will not say 'I'm alright for you'

When all I wanted was to be good

To do everything in truth."

-Martha Wainwright

Thunder & Lightning

No, this is not a post about abortion. This is a post about my mother. My mother is anti-abortion. She's anti-a lot of things including non-Jehovah's Witnesses. My mom, however, is not a bible thumping, snake handling evangelist. You'd think with the whole "I don't really have a close relationship with my gay son because the bible says his 'lifestyle' is wrong" thing she'd be one of those mean and nasty Christians we've come to know and despise. She's not.

Mom is actually just a really docile, timid person who happens to be extremely faithful because she finds the real world too scary to deal with on terms other than Jesus infused absolutes. She came from a family of 6 kids. She was the sensitive one who cried a lot. Mom married her first real boyfriend and was a devout Catholic until her brother died tragically and Jehovah's Witnesses showed up at her door with "the truth" about what happens to the dead. She was ripe for their brand of mind control.

Because I know her personality so well, I can't be mad at her for being a JoJo (my endearing nickname for Jehovah's Witnesses). I can be furious at the JoJos for destroying my family, but I totally get why she's one of them. I don't have it in my heart to trash their organization in front of her even though I'm usually the first one to bitch about their mind-fuckery. She was the perfect recruit and raised us in the faith for no other reason than she felt like she was throwing us a life jacket. My brother stuck around, I bolted on the first bus to Boston days after I graduated high school.

I had a nearly idyllic childhood with the sweetest mom on earth who defended and fought for her children tooth and nail. I had a mother who never missed a dance performance, piano recital, or high school theatre production. (She was "shocked" when I came out?!) With or without Jehovah, I'll always love and look back fondly on the home she made for us.

I've always had a mean streak, perhaps it's part of the gay gene. JoJo's try to get follwers to "strip off the old personality" and become meek, governable people. Maybe it was all the Whitney Houston, maybe it was all the Sally Jesse Raphael, but I could not drop the sarcastic remarks and cynical comments post bible-study. Mom pushed me to try to change but also laughed at my mocking jokes in secret dissent, out of ear shot of the congregation elders.

The organization's publications are written in near biblical prose which reads as culturally out of touch and ridiculous to any outside intellectual. Imagine Yoda with a handful of Jesus thrown in and you've got the perennial Jehovah's Witness journal: The Watchtower. As an ideal JoJo, my mom would even use some of their phrases in everyday speech, to which I would heckle her until she doubled over laughing and begged me to stop. "Do not be mislead. Bad associations spoil useful habits" would turn into "Do not be misfed. Bacon wrapped scallops make for fatty rabbits." At church, Satan is referred to commonly as "the father of the lie." If mom were to make any semi-transparent exaggeration, I would respond with a quick, "what are you getting Satan for father's day." And on and on...

My mean streak would also prompt me to terrorize her, which I did at every possible interval. Just as she was afraid of an oncoming Armageddon, she was equally afraid of thunderstorms. She would close all the curtains in the house, unplug every electronic device, put on a pair of rubber-soled shoes, and hide in the hallway or basement with candles and provisions in case this was the thunderstorm to preface Jehovah's Day of Anger. I would take every opportunity to prey on this fear.

One time during a thunderstorm I pretended to be talking on the phone. Mid-conversation I threw the portable down started screaming that lightning was shooting out of it. I "somehow" could "hear the electricity" coming over the line so I threw the phone against the wall and could "actually see live electricity coming out of the receiver." Mom hugged me tightly and thanked Jehovah for saving me from my impending, lightning induced death. She would thank him for the "biblical" hope of the resurrection where dead, faithful, lightning-struck Christians could walk the earth and praise his glory. I would bury my face in her shoulder and laugh hysterically.

Sometimes she would make us get in the car because the car was "the safest place to be in a thunderstorm." We'd be sitting in the driveway with mom cowering/praying in the front seat, I would wait until shit really got loud, roll down my window, and hang from the waist out of the car, taunting the storm at the top of my lungs. I'm sure I added 15 years to her life.

Always one to push the envelope, screaming out of the open car window in the pouring rain and clapping thunder stopped scaring the B'Jesus out of mom, so I had to find another way to engage in good old son/mother terror mongering. In the dead of summer, with dark, ominous clouds rolling in, I would wait for the interior of the house to get really dark, and for mom to get her candles going. I crept quietly into the kitchen, took out the aluminium foil and wrapped a couple of layers around my chest. "Mom! Come see my new outfit!" She'd come running into the living room to the sight of me standing chest out in front of the picture window. Maternal panic ensues.

Now for the coup d'etat.

Once she realized sitting in the car was no good and that she had to hide the cordless phone and aluminum foil during "God's Discos" as I referred to them, I had to freak her out with something completely novel. Being a creative kid with a knack for fashion, I scoured my closet (this was my designated thunderstorm shelter) for shirts with metal embellishments, shoes with taps, anything that would taunt nature's electric forces and make my mother crap her pants. "Of course! How could I be so blind!", I exclaimed. Yes, I had found the perfect instrument to solicit surefire electrocution: the much despised wire hanger.

I bent the hanger into a halo-like headband with the hook pointing straight up like a skyscraper lightning rod and snickered homosexually into my bedroom mirror. With a stealthy leap out of my bedroom window, I was ankle deep in the late-summer downpour with streaks of lightning in every direction. I went up to the picture window and banged on the glass furiously. When mom appeared, candle in hand, and saw my accessory of death, she screamed a hair-raising scream to which I threw my arms in the air and ran like an epileptic around the front yard.

Rarely in my life have I laughed as hard as I did when scaring my mother. I miss her.

Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood

Hop a flight to miami beach or hollywood.

I'm taking a greyhound [or fung wah] on the hudson river line
I'm in a new york state of mind.

I seen all the movie stars in their fancy cars and their limousines,

Been high in the rockies under the evergreens,

But I know what Im needing and I dont want to waste more time-

I'm in a new york state of mind.

It was so easy living day by day

Out of touch with the rhythm and the blues,

But now I need a little give and take,

The new york times, the daily news...

It comes down to reality-and its fine with me cause Ive let it slide,

Dont care if its chinatown or riverside,

I dont have any reasons, Ive left them all behind-

I'm in a new york state of mind

-The Piano Man

Essie and I went to New York for my birthday/Memorial Day weekend. I've written odes to New York before but this was an exceptional weekend. Instead of recounting every detail, I'm going to vomit links at you, and recommend you attempt to see every one of these places if you take a trip to the greatest city in the world:

Brisket & Burbon

I kicked Essie's ass at Connect Four

I want to have sexual relations with these coissants

Buy a pizza and eat it in Washington Square Park

Drink Dolcettos here

Be cool enough to get a reservation here

Cheesy Japanesey

Wash away the New Jersey accents with Vodka here

Sit outside in the center of the universe

Antiques & Freaks

Candied Bacon followed by a Salted Caramel Sundae

Talk Biodynamic to me

Asian Invaision

Dance to our disco if it kills you

Pancakes & Vodka

Pinot, Samba, and Supermodels

Worth waiting in the line

Follow my advice and you will live a happier life.

resuscitation vacation

I want to go undersea in a diving-bell

and return to the surface with ominous wonders to tell.

-Tennessee Williams

Essie and I went to Rio De Janeiro about a month ago. Everyone keeps asking me "how Brazil was", to which I respond with a detached, "great." It was our second time there so there were no real new surprises. Our good friends Ben and Robert met us there which made for more ambitious day trips than had we been left to our own devices.

Truth is, not many Americans choose to fly 13 hours to a 3rd world country for their yearly vacation. Most people are happy enough taking a 3 hour flight to Mexico or some resort island only to be surrounded by brown people serving up weak cocktails followed by dinner at the Outback Steakhouse and a nightcap of hotel-bar karaoke. Not my idea of vacation.

I need to go somewhere that challenges me. I want to explore our planet and see how other people live their lives sans 24 hour news stations. Vacations have never really been about relaxation as they are about taking me out of my comfort zone and adapting to the world around me, the real world that emerges when you're the only white person in a restaurant or the only American for 20 square miles.

Rio renewed me in so many ways. Aside from sufficient vitamin D with beachside caipirinha chasers, rainforest hikes, and the standard breathtaking vistas, Rio perscribed equal parts reality and transcendence.

In Rio, you are surrounded by extreme wealth and extreme poverty. The reality of pre-teen hustlers next to multi-million dollar townhouses go together like peanut butter and jelly in this town. At night when the favelas light up the mountainsides like white strings of lights coiled around mountainous Christmas trees, you wonder: "when are they going to get pissed off enough to come down here and revolt?"

Two things make the poor and rich coexist relatively peacefully: beach & samba. There is no dominant race in Rio. In fact, they've won the proverbial gene lottery in the sense that they are a mix of European, Indigenous, and African blood. Cariocas (residents of Rio) define "culturally ambiguous." This racial mix has produced a country full of gorgeous dark-skinned, light-eyed, curly-haired supermodels. On the beach clad only in the smallest trunks/swimsuit money can buy, people mingle, drink, play soccer, roll in the waves and proudly strut their hotness regardless of age, sex, or skin color. People get off the bus in business attire around 5, strip down to almost nothing, and meet friends for smoothies and a round of soccer/volleyball until the sun goes down. Seems healthier than us gringos trying to squeeze in a 30 minute cardio workout after a 10 hour workday.

I think the samba is satanic. Watching live samba is like watching a snake charmer heal the unbelievers at a baptist church in Alabama. Our night at the Rio Scenarium (second time there) reminded me how much music can change your mood, lift you up, and make you dance no matter how bad a mood you may be in. Cariocas shake their hips, dance with people twice their age, and rub shoulders with every socio-economic class while never missing a word of the chorus. The Afro-Brazilian drummers make you want to roll your eyes back letting the percussion lift you up from the crown of your head, levitating over the dancefloor. It's a happiness that permeates the room in a way I almost never experience in America.

All in all, Rio reminded me that I'm living the right way. Rebelling from the status quo can be exhausting in the United States. Turning off the TV, making music, giving in to your humanist tendencies are all discouraged by the corporate canopy. Brazil gave me the clarity of knowing that other people on the planet hold the same simple things close to their hearts. Nature and music allow us to transcend banking crises, declining stock portfolios, and over consumptive behaviors.

Every taxi driver in Rio congratulated me on my new president. They are so happy for America so I can only smile and nod with hidden envy for their sun and basic rhythms. I hope that I can create microclimates of Rio for my kids and my friends, pushing out corporate greed, mindless cultural anxiety, and whitebreadedness that permeates our isolated cultural drama. I want to make the waves crash harder, the sun shine hotter, and the music play later like Rio taught me.

My Inner Rapper

I came up with this in the shower today, I don't know why. I've been listening to a lot of old school LL Cool J and Kanye West lately:

Booty shaking to a champagne toast

More shady than a craigslist post

Gettin' skinny don't mean to boast

Got a chicken that I need to roast

Break dancing on a taxas floor

Call the ER, ready for more

Jam tomorrow, jam yesterday

But never ever mother fucking jam today

Ode to My Shoes

Sometimes I forget that I'm the bomb. Life knocks me down. People get in my way. Recessions leave me feeling powerless. When I feel this way, I just look down. At my shoes. My shoes are really awesome. My shoes elongate my full 6'3" frame and make me hold my chin parallel to the ground, reminding me to walk tall with certainty and determination.

My shoes kick balls from the boardroom to the barroom and step on minions who dare cross my path. My shoes help me to articulate. They help me trump adversaries. My shoes say, "don't fuck with me, I'll tread all over you."

I grow out of my shoes like a lotus flower from a lilly pad.

My sleds rock boxes, kick foxes, make you wonder who the pimp without the socks is.

From the leather soles of Harris, through the thread of Prada, tied with laces by Gabanna, don't FUCK with my shoes.

Fun With Chimps

On Monday, February 16th a Connecticut woman was brutally attacked by a 200 pound domesticated Chimpanzee named Travis. The owner, 70 year old Sandra Herold, called her friend, 55 year old Charla Nash to come over and help with the chimp who was behaving erratically. Upon seeing Ms. Nash in the driveway, Travis descended upon her with all of his might, biting and scratching at a furious pace. Ms. Herold proceeded to run out to the driveway with a butcher knife and stabbed Travis repeatedly. Unable to calm the maniacal chimp, police arrived and shot Travis twice. The chimp receded to his living quarters and died from his wounds.

I will attempt to portray the events leading up to the attack in theatrical style.

[Scene: Stamford Connecticut. It is a chilling February dusk. Warm light glimmers from inside a quaint, understated, antique Victorian with a wrap-around porch. Monkey bars peek out from behind a garage. Leaves blow in petite whirls on a driveway, carelessly tiptoeing over browned banana peels. The street is quiet.

Inside the home we find a 70 year-old woman, Sandra, in the kitchen preparing a salad of roasted root vegetables on her granite counter-topped island. She is wearing pleated corduroys and a navy cotton turtleneck sweater. The sound of cutting can be heard. In an adjacent room, a chimp named Travis, reads The Economist through round, vintage spectacles. He wears a blazer and a diaper and pendulates slowly in a wooden rocking chair.]

TRAVIS: [He yells into the kitchen from his rocking chair] Sandy, can you believe that our current account deficit is approximately 4% of our GDP?! The Obama administration really has their work cut out for them. Remember when we had brunch with Paul Krugman at Sally's last weekend? He thinks it's going to get even WORSE in Q2. I'm so happy we sold out of our high yield bond portfolio last September, the whole market is going ape shit. [Pause] Honey, what are we up tonight? Do you mind if we just lay low? I feel like we've been running ragged the past few nights and I just need to relax.

SANDRA: [Continues chopping vegetables] Well, actually, I kind of thought we could have a dinner party tonight. I'm making this salad and I thought you might like to cook an entree. You know, you haven't had a chance to really make anything new since the bananas foster you made at our New Year's party. I thought I'd have over...

TRAVIS: Oh, marvelous. There's this new recipe in Gourmet for spiced rubbed cornish hens that I've been dying to try. Who did you invite? Al Maysles?

SANDRA: No.

TRAVIS: Bill Hambrecht, the hedge fund manager? [Pause] Oh, you must have invited Dr. Sharma and his cousin Raj who just started teaching organic bio at Yale.

SANDRA: No, no, and no. I wanted it to be a little more intimate, so I just invited one friend. I mean, she's having a lot of personal problems and she really enjoys spending time with us. You know, she feels at home here, and I just couldn't leave her...

TRAVIS: Who...is it?

SANDRA: [Stops chopping] It's...Charla Nash.

TRAVIS: WHAT!? [Travis somersaults from the living room to the kitchen island where Sandra is standing. Anger brews in his eyes.] That fucking West Hartford piece of uncultured white trash?! Is this some kind of joke?

SANDRA: [Flustered] No, no. I know you don't like her but she's just...

TRAVIS: Don't like her? [Raises voice] Don't LIKE her?! At our last dinner party, the bitch brought her "famous" string-bean casserole with those crusty little fried onions from a can. I wanted to vomit all over her macrame cardigan. [Sarcastically] Oh thanks Charla, let me just serve this duck liver terrine and 1998 vintage Bordeaux alongside a STEAMING PILE OF YOUR FUCKING CASSEROLE!

SANDRA: [Becoming meek, backing away from Travis] She's not that bad, Travis. I mean she supports our political efforts...

TRAVIS: [Pacing back and forth across the room] Supports our political efforts? She thought our fundraiser to get the Bronx zoo to stop Euthanasia was a racist attempt to keep young Japanese tourists from visiting the sea lion exhibit. She's a fucking idiot!

SANDRA: You always think my friends are idiots, I have no control over my own social life, and you never let...

TRAVIS: Oooooh. So that's what this is all about. Well maybe your friends are retarded. Maybe you can't relate to the people in this town because you were just a C student from the wrong side of Greenwich. Don't blame this on me Sandy, don't you FUCKING blame this on me. [reaches into diaper, pulls out a handful of feces, and throws it at the wall]

SANDRA: Jesus Christ Travis, why don't you pop a couple of Xanax and chill the fuck out. Charla is going to be here any minute.

TRAVIS: I will not stand to have that bumbling hillbilly in my house, drinking MY wine, eating MY food, drooling on MY Italian leather sofa with her frothy, opaque discharge.

SANDRA: There is no reason to get this upset, Travis, you are completely out of control.

TRAVIS: [Swinging from Chandelier] Out of control? You wanna see out of control? If I see that bitch Charla one more time, I'M GOING TO RIP HER FUCKING FACE OFF!

[Headlights appear in the driveway. Travis bolts through the front door. Blood curdling screams are heard offstage. Sandra grabs her butcher knife and runs out to the driveway. Blackout.]

I Love Lying. Thanks Jehovah.

I was the child star of my congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses. I began participating in the church discussions as soon as I could say "Armageddon." We met every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday with door-knocking on Saturday mornings and school vacations. I rang doorbells and warned strangers of their upcoming destruction. I spoke "from the heart" during Watchtower magazine Q&A, often citing scriptures and personal experiences. I think that the rapid progress of my spiritual evolution in the church was mostly due to my early knowledge (age 5) of my homosexuality. It's very easy to learn to adapt and change to conform with a population of people when you have something to hide from them. Instead of rebelling at 5 years of age when I realized homo was a no-no, I decided to jump in full force. After all, when elders preach from a podium that you can pray the gay away, you take it as fact at age 5. Most kindergartners believe in Santa Clause, I believed in gay-rehab.





Frequently, I was chosen to be an example of outstanding youths often profiled during our mega-conventions to inspire and encourage other young Jehovah's Witnesses. Sometimes I was booked to play a troubled youth struggling with a shoplifting problem. Other times I played a faithful Israelite fleeing Pharaoh's clutches. I was method all the way.





In any case, when I was about 14, an Elder approached me to speak at a convention of 4,000 Jehovah's Witnesses. I was to relay a personal experience about defending my faith at school. Throughout most of my childhood, I would preach to kids at school and explain (with Bible citations) the "reasoning" behind my beliefs. At the ripe age of 14, evangelism was really starting to get old. The inevitable firm grip of puberty and the development of my sexual identity was giving me blue balls. I hadn't cracked open my Bible at school all year. Dammit. The elders were counting on me to deliver something inspiration to these kids. People looked up to me as someone of immense faith and outspokenness. This was the chance of a lifetime to receive applause and command tears from 4,000 Jehovah's Witnesses. This was no fucking joke.





Obviously, I agreed to relay an experience. After months of mental jogging, reading up on other youth's experiences, and attempts to proselytize other 9th graders, the day had arrived. Thousands of Jehovah's Witnesses filtered into convention center, opened up their songbooks, and began singing the opening number for day 2 of the 3 day throwdown.





Brother Brown addressed the quiet stadium after a prayer and read a scripture about faithful youths. I was given my cue and stepped on stage. The spotlight was bright. My freshly polished JC Penny loafers shined brightly and my hair was gelled into a perfect quaff. I debated my mom daily over whether to wear the tie pin or the tie chain. The chain won and it mimicked my humble smile. The moment seemed to last forever. It was the pinnacle of my spiritual career.




After some introductory comments and a brief run through my spiritual resume, Brother Brown asked me how I had defended my faith at school. I flashed my teeth in a gracious beam and began to speak. My voice boomed throughout the room and I noticed a microphone delay. I would have to annunciate clearly so that everyone could hang on my words. Then I began to lie. I lied about interrupting my European history teacher as he was recounting early Christianity and I derided the farce of the Trinity introduced by the early Catholics. I lied about grabbing my Bible from my Eastpack holster and sharing scores of scriptures with my class, disproving the false thesis of the Holy Threesome. I lied about spiritually moving classmates who were searching for the truth. I said that the worldly 9th graders ravenously approached me to learn more about the bible and how they could live by its principles. I boldly fabricated that I placed dozens of Watchtower magazines with 14 year-olds who were conscious of their spiritual need. Furthermore, I gave credit to almighty God Jehovah for the strength to stand up to my history teacher and preach the truth about Jesus Christ. The audience burst into applause and I spent my lunch break receiving hugs and thanks for my encouraging example as an outstanding Jehovah's Witness.


My lie was fucking fabulous. I looked amazing and the story won the hearts of many. I gave those poor suckers every line that they wanted. From that moment on, I knew that come hell or high water, I would always have a career in persuasion or hedge fund management.

Jehovah is going to kill all the fat people.

“For many walk, of whom I have told you often, and now tell you even weeping, that they are the enemies of the Christ: Whose end is destruction, whose God is their belly... ” Philippians 3:18-19

I don't hate fat people because I'm gay and catty. I hate fat people because Jehovah hates fat people.

I spent the greater part of my childhood and adolescence as a practicing Jehovah's Witness. If you don't know much about their take on the Bible, I can sum it up: The world is about to end so don't waste time doing anything but praising Jehovah and spreading his word to everyone you come in contact with so that you don't die a fiery, brim stony death. Through mathematical vague wizardry, Jehovah's Witnesses (or "JoJo's" as I lovingly refer to them) have used a combination of scriptures to determine that Satan was hurled down to earth in the year 1914 and that since then, we have been under the Devil's influence which effects everything from the media to trans fats. Since destruction of the world as we know it is imminent, we have to pay careful attention to how we act and live our lives according to Bible principles so that we JoJo's can make it through Armageddon unscathed.

As a young child listening carefully to the "Elders" preach from the podium on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, I learned what qualities Jehovah was looking for in his ideal servants:

Mildness? Check. (I used to be shy)

Cleanliness? Check.

Self-Control? Check.

Faith? Check.

Peace? Check.

Abstinence from blood transfusions? Check.

As a mature 7 year-old, I would look around the congregation during our 2 hour meetings and wonder how many others were as Holy as I.

Did Kevin Gonzalez spend too much time talking about sports and not enough time talking about spiritual things? He might have a chance to get through the fire of Gehenna if he shapes up soon. I mean, we probably have 1 or 2 more years left until Jesus comes down on a white horse and chops off the heads of the unchosen with an 8 foot golden sword.

Valerie Kolowski had waaaay too many posters of New Kids On The Block in her room, that surely would fall into the idolatry category. Remember the golden calf? You better take down your Jordan Knight wallpaper before the God of Abraham bitch-slaps you with molten lava.

And then. Cindy Caster. Oh yes. Cindy Caster. She didn't have a donut's chance in over eater's anonymous of getting to the promised condo in the high-rise of Jehovah's favor.

She was fat. Real fat.

How preposterous that she even show up at our congregation meetings! Did she not READ that gluttony is one of Jehovah's top 7 least favorite things!?! There was scripture upon scripture about the end of the world and people stuffing their faces, drinking wine, slathering themselves with bacon, and on and on. And you know what happens to them? Jehovah kills them. Kills them. Cindy better go on a diet or face the wrath of our lord.

What was worse, she had privileges in the congregation! Were these people blind? She was parading around in all her tubby glory, blaspheming our creator with every snickers that touched her slobbery lips.

She was a "pioneer" which meant that she put in 90 hours a week knocking on people's doors. Pioneers get a special kind of status in the congregation. They are what everyone else aspires to. How could this be? Here I was at 7, a trim 75lbs, well-groomed, obsessively ironed, constantly in spiritual dialogue, polite...genteel even! And big fat Cindy Caster gets a promotion. This was my first crisis of conscience with the organization of Jehovah's Witnesses. There was just such blatant hypocrisy and disrespect for the word of our God. If you're going to let wide-ass Cindy be a Pioneer, why don't we just let Hitler join the ranks and call it a day.

Sadly, I'm no longer a Jehovah's Witness. But I do still believe that Jehovah will kill all the fat people in Armageddon. All in due time, Cindy, all in due time.

Don't you just love fundamentalism?

***

P.S. My dad was fat and also NOT a Jehovah's Witness. Double whammy.

No. Sleep. Till Brooklyn.

I had a layover at JFK last night and reveled in the new JetBlue terminal which is PIMP. I dreamed about taking the route from Austin to New York with great frequency to toggle between homes and clients, slipping out for appointments with my kids to the Bronx Zoo or the MoMa. It seems feasible now and the future seems tangible now that my plan is unfolding. Bwah ha ha.

***

Back in frigid Boston. I park in the old mud lots near Fort Point Channel in S. Boston when I come into the home office on Fridays. Every time I walk over the channel on the Congress Street bridge I get the urge to hurl my laptop and blackberry into the water and start my life all over again. I don't do it mostly because the mercury in my electronics will hurt the fishes.

***

An old JoJo friend who sends me random cryptic text messages texted that she was to get married. Another virgin thrown to the vampires. Ho hum.

I'm learning how to say that I'd be happy either way with your love.

***

On the topic of JoJo's texting, my brother texted me a couple of weeks back that my dad's diabetes is out of control and that he's done permanent damage to his heart. He told me this, as I mentioned, over a text message. It shouldn't matter that I'm no longer part of the club, if your father is slowly killing himself, someone should pick up the phone and call me. In a passive aggressive maneuver, I texted back, "Is he in the hospital?" Lil Bro replies, "No. But he's downplaying the seriousness of his condition", to which I have nothing really to say. Is that horrible? I have to note that my parent's adult lives have been plagued with tribulations of their own doing and this is just par for the course. I've been so emotionally detached from them for so many years that I honestly don't really care that my dad is in poor health. People tell me that I'll regret not reaching out and at least attempting to have a relationship. Every time I make an attempt, I get trampled on. It's not worth the effort.

I know that I was warned, still it was not what I hoped.

Would I want my parents by my side while on my own deathbed? Not particularly. Will I regret the lapsed time between conversations and parental void? Possibly. In some dramatic hospital bed finale, I have a handful of friends I would choose to read my last rites and, appropriately, they'd be dressed in nun costumes.