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.

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.