There comes a time in everyone's life when they must do something that takes them outside of their comfort zone. A time when an Olympic swimming gold medalist must perform on a live late-night sketch show (and now, playing a block of wood...Michael Phelps!). A time when a fake newcaster is asked to throw the first pitch at a Mets game (try to get the ball OVER the plate, Jon Stewart. Not that I could have done any better). And, of course, a time when I went to a wedding with one of my girls in the great state of Georgia.
I have often been quoted as saying that the continental United States is made up of places that I fly over on the way to a coast and Chicago. However, despite my best efforts, I was finally forced to visit one of those places: Duluth, Georgia. Duluth is about a 45 minute drive from the Atlanta airport, most of which I spent going over raunchy wedding stories with Erika, Amber, and the gay father of the bride (who shall be henceforth referred to as Big Daddy). I felt great relief knowing that there would be at least one more homosexual at the ceremony, assuming that that would at least mean that I would not be the only male dancing. The rest of the time I spent going over adages in my head like "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore" and "Fasten your seatbelts! It's going to be a bumpy night!"
The first order of business was the rehearsal dinner that night, and things started to go downhill almost immediately. First of all, we got a ride to the rehearsal with the groom's party, where two things were quickly established. 1) That one of the groomsmen was wearing a pleated denim kilt, and 2) that the wedding, like the rehearsal, would be taking place outside. In Georgia. In early September. Holy humid, Batman. With visions of heat rash and pit stains dancing in my head, I quickly retreated into the air conditioned reception hall, and watched my bridesmaid friends suffer, as they rehearsed how to walk 30 feet for approximately an hour. After everyone was sure exactly how to not screw up the day that the bride had been dreaming about since she was first told she was a pretty pretty princess when she was 6, the gathering dispersed, and reconvened at a local restaurant for the actual dinner portion of the evening.
Once everyone had gathered, the New York contingent quickly armed themselves with liquor, and claimed the table nearest to the bar so we could get our hands on more on short notice. The food was actually surprisingly good for an Italian restaurant in the south, and the evening appeared to be progressing normally. Naturally, we all should have been waiting for the other shoe to drop, but lulled into ease by the wine we were drinking, we weren't aware a problem was developing just one table over, where the minister was sitting.
A short word on the minister. He is the bride's step grandfather. You'll all remember Big Daddy, the bride's gay father? Well, Big Daddy has a lover, and his lover has a father, and his father has Jesus. And not the nice, forgiving Jesus that many of the Christians up north seem to believe in. We're talking about a full-on fire and brimstone, cast sinners down into the pits of hell for eternal damnation and torment Southern Baptist Minister...you know, the good kind.
Back to the action at hand! While our table and half the rest of the reception were pickling ourselves at the open bar, apparently the Minister was having some trouble reconciling our debauchery with his religious beliefs. You see, it seems the good man had never presided over a union in which liquor of any kind was consumed at the reception or at the rehearsal dinner. The fact the there were drinks being offered was enough to give him fits; one look at our double-fisting table, and the man was nearly apopleptic. The bride came over, rolling her eyes, and expressed a deep desire to call off the wedding and elope, if only to escape the brewing insanity around her. It is a repeated observation of mine that the people who should be the happiest at a wedding , i.e. the bride and groom, generally look to be one over-cooked crab cake away from a Romeo and Juliet-esque murder/suicide.
Naturally, no one at the table allowed the discomfort of one religious nutbag to curb our fun at all. As the evening wore on, we started to acquire some new friends, mostly in the form of the groomsmen that had ferried us to the rehearsal in the first place. Drawn to the table by Amber's tremendous chest, they quickly found a good time in our discussion of the myriad other guests and their obvious shortcomings. And this was our introduction to Junior Mints. Not the delicious candy I've had a long, loving relationship with, but a groomsmen whose name I couldn't remember in my mentally compromised state, and Erika took it upon herself to nickname for me. We all then quickly picked our own favorite candy to call ourselves, and alas, I wasn't coherent enough to realize that mine obviously should have been Skittles. Taste the rainbow...
Junior Mints quickly revealed himself to be what can only be described as a bi-curious Navyman, who spent most of the night being torn between ogling Amber's dirty pillows and trying to entice me into allowing him to explore the finer points of man-love. Being deep behind enemy lines, there was no way I was going anywhere near him; people in Georgia get real upset about that kind of thing. Luckily, Amber was able to distract him with her breasts, and despite him running his hand through my hair, pinching my nipple and trying to grab my crotch, I was able to get through the evening unscathed and intact.
The day of the wedding dawned bright and hot. I spent most of the day in bed, watching Brendan Fraser, and pitying the ladies their duties in hair and make-up which woke them up at 6 am and had taken them away all day. I hitched a ride to the ceremony, and helped Amber and Erika find air vents to stand over in their dresses to keep them fresh. The wedding began outside, and as promised I was fully damp in the space of 30 seconds. The ceremony itself was one of the best of it's kind, being under 15 minutes, and with enough background noise that I could hardly hear anything. It also did lead to a wonderful new riddle: what's that noise after the woman finished singing her solo at the Southern wedding? That's the sound of one homosexual clapping in Georgia. I've never claimed to be up on my wedding etiquette...I'm the one who looks around in a church during the ceremony to try to figure out if I'm supposed to stand up, sit down, or fight fight fight. However, I don't think I had ever committed a faux pas quite as frowned upon as the ill-advised clapping...I half expected the woman sitting behind me to reach into her purse, pull out a carefully disguised machete, and put all of Georgia out of my misery then and there.
The reception was, in and of itself, fairly uneventful. The girls and I agreed that the best looking man there (outside of me, of course) was the gentleman sitting next to me in a wheel chair. The bridesmaids and groomsmen were suitably uncomfortable when forced to walk together and be introduced as faux couples. And most importantly, I saw the most hideous groom's cake that has ever been created. Shaped like a football field, covered in bright green icing, the groom's cake was as completely tacky as the bride's was tasteful. Placed prominently, and completely unmissable to anyone not headless, the football field was populated by small figures of pop culture icons like Darth Vader, Mr. T, Spider-Man and, my personal favorite, The General Lee from Dukes of Hazzard. You know, the one the plays "Dixie" when the horn is honked, and is a symbol of the Confederate States of America? The War of Northern Aggression is alive and well!
Ultimately, however, I made it out of Georgia alive. There were some close calls, and some times where I seriously wondered if I would ever be the same. But Georgia and I made some wonderful memories together...not the least of which was the woman who decided that these shoes with black socks was the way to go for footwear at a wedding. Well, on one foot anyway; the other one was in a cast, having apparently recently been broken, but I won't make fun of her for that. It turns out that some of the Southern hospitality wore off on me after all...
Monday, September 15, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Brokeback 10m Platform
There are few times in my life when I am overcome with patriotism. As discussed on this very blog, I have a powerful aversion to politicians, and tend to equate pride in my country with things like country music and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Don't get me wrong, I know that America is way ahead of, say, Bangladesh as far as crappy places to live, but every time I see that Chevrolet commercial with "This Is Our Country" playing in it, I'm caught between aggravation and nausea. However, every four years, one event inevitably brings out the proud American in me, despite all of my eye-rolling and judgment. That's right, I am an Olympics junkie. Specifically the Summer Olympics...I find the Winter Games to be a nice diversion, but a) the male athletes tend to compete in sports in which their uniforms actually qualify as clothing and b) all of my favorite TV shows go into repeats for the duration of the event.
These past two weeks were no exception...I was in bed alone when Jason Lezak won the Men's 4x100 Meter Relay, and was actually pumping my fist and cheering for the USA. Granted, the NBC announcers were prattling on about how Michael Phelps could still win 8 gold medals because of Lezak's swim and I was far more interested in watching the male swimmers help each other out of their skin-tight body suits, but I CARED. I was thrilled when Nastia Liukin won her All-Around Gymnastics gold medal, and was almost overcome when Shawn Johnson, in her final event of the games, won the gold medal on balance beam. I was so into the US for the past few weeks, I might as well have draped myself in an American flag and taken a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out apple pie, chanting "Iraq Sucks!" and rooting for the Yankees.
Until August 23rd.
What happened on August 23rd, you ask? August 23rd was the final night of competition in Beijing; most of the events being broadcast were Track & Field, but one great eye-candy competition remained: the final of the Men's 10m Platform Diving. For those of you who don't watch the Olympics, diving is about as popular as oxygen over in China, and whenever the coverage moved to any diving event, the Beijing Water Cube was rocking like a Bon Jovi concert in New Jersey. And on this particular night, the Chinese divers were attempting to sweep the entire diving competition, winning gold in all 8 events, a number which NBC officials were sure to tell viewers at least fourteen thousand times was very significant in the Chinese culture. The audience had reached critical mass, and I was half expecting the fans to throw beer bottles at each other.
Diving also happens to be about as popular as oxygen in the gay community, largely because swimmers no longer wear Speedos, and water polo takes place underwater. Divers generally spend more time out of the water than in it, and also do things like run directly to shower next to other hot men in teeny-tiny little briefs before jumping right into a hot tub with their aforementioned compatriots. Believe me, I am not a general supporter of the plum smuggler as bathing suit...I tend to think that most people could benefit from more rather than less coverage. However, Olympic athletes tend to have the kind of bodies that can not only pull off the banana hammock, but actually just use it as a framing device for rippling abs and ripped thighs.
However, in addition to this, Diving was also the home to the only out male athlete competing in the entire Olympic games (naturally, softball and soccer had a few lesbians, but let's face it, the women are, by and large, much more sporty than us). Young Matthew Mitcham from Australia was carrying the torch for all of us. He has said that he doesn't want to be known as "the gay diver" but just as "an Australian diver who did really well at the Olympics," a request that I think most people can understand. Nevertheless, tough tits, Matthew was the only gay we had in the Olympics, and we in the community were glued to the TV watching him.
And as we were glued to the TV, the following happened. Matthew won. In the final round of dives, trailing China's Zhou Luxin by over a hundred points, Matthew hit his most difficult dive in the competition, earning the highest point total EVER awarded in the Olympic Games to get the gold medal. To say that I was beside myself would be an understatement. I was actually sitting next to myself, and looking at myself jumping up and down like a crazy person, for while my patriotism might be suspect, my gay loyalty is extremely strong. It made me want to drape myself in a rainbow flag and take a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out condoms, chanting "George Bush Sucks!" and rooting for the end to the production of all acid-washed denim. I couldn't wait to listen to the NBC announcers talk about all of the hardships (depression! anxiety attacks! early retirement!) Matthew had overcome to end up one of the greatest stories of these Olympics. I was poised to see his medal ceremony, and ran over to my computer to make sure that "I Will Survive" was playing, so Matthew would be honored by both the Australian and Gay National Anthems. Eagerly, I awaited the inevitable post-dive interview where he would thank his boyfriend and his mother. I looked up from my computer, having cued up Gloria Gaynor, and saw...NBC had switched to another event. It was probably Michael Phelps winning his eight gold medals for the eighteen thousandth time (yes, we get it, he swims very fast). I quickly grabbed my TiVo remote and rewound, convinced that I had accidentally jumped ahead in the recording, but no. NBC had just cut away after Matthew won and spent no more time on the event or it's historical significance.
To say I had an acid flashback to when Crash won the Oscar over Brokeback Mountain would only be a lie insofar as I have never dropped acid. For all of the gay film-makers, actors, and writers, we as a community really produce some abysmal movies, many of which play directly into the stereotypes we spend most of our time fighting against. We get one movie, ONE, that truly deserves to win the Best Picture Oscar, and we lose to Crash, a pandering, obvious morality tale with all the shock and originality of Two and Half Men repeat. We get one athlete, ONE, that not only competes in the Games, but actually wins, and we get no athlete profile, nor any real broadcast time devoted to his event. NBC claims that they don't discuss athlete's sexuality, but they have no problem talking about the (female) track and field star whose boyfriend is on the New York Giants, or the Italian swimmer who stole her chief rival's boyfriend and coach in early 2008. So, actually, NBC just doesn't discuss athlete's homosexuality, as if they are afraid that they are going to produce the FCC's follow up to Nipplegate.
For those of you that may have missed Matthew's final dive, you can go here, and see the last three divers in the final round. And for those of you who, like me, wanted to see the medal ceremony, you can go here; just make sure you have your gay anthem of choice cued up! Oh, and I recommend watching the whole clip...at the end Matthew climbs up into the bleachers and kisses his boyfriend on the cheek, which was apparently far too much for NBC to show on national TV. They're right, the raw display of sexual energy is really out of control.
These past two weeks were no exception...I was in bed alone when Jason Lezak won the Men's 4x100 Meter Relay, and was actually pumping my fist and cheering for the USA. Granted, the NBC announcers were prattling on about how Michael Phelps could still win 8 gold medals because of Lezak's swim and I was far more interested in watching the male swimmers help each other out of their skin-tight body suits, but I CARED. I was thrilled when Nastia Liukin won her All-Around Gymnastics gold medal, and was almost overcome when Shawn Johnson, in her final event of the games, won the gold medal on balance beam. I was so into the US for the past few weeks, I might as well have draped myself in an American flag and taken a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out apple pie, chanting "Iraq Sucks!" and rooting for the Yankees.
Until August 23rd.
What happened on August 23rd, you ask? August 23rd was the final night of competition in Beijing; most of the events being broadcast were Track & Field, but one great eye-candy competition remained: the final of the Men's 10m Platform Diving. For those of you who don't watch the Olympics, diving is about as popular as oxygen over in China, and whenever the coverage moved to any diving event, the Beijing Water Cube was rocking like a Bon Jovi concert in New Jersey. And on this particular night, the Chinese divers were attempting to sweep the entire diving competition, winning gold in all 8 events, a number which NBC officials were sure to tell viewers at least fourteen thousand times was very significant in the Chinese culture. The audience had reached critical mass, and I was half expecting the fans to throw beer bottles at each other.
Diving also happens to be about as popular as oxygen in the gay community, largely because swimmers no longer wear Speedos, and water polo takes place underwater. Divers generally spend more time out of the water than in it, and also do things like run directly to shower next to other hot men in teeny-tiny little briefs before jumping right into a hot tub with their aforementioned compatriots. Believe me, I am not a general supporter of the plum smuggler as bathing suit...I tend to think that most people could benefit from more rather than less coverage. However, Olympic athletes tend to have the kind of bodies that can not only pull off the banana hammock, but actually just use it as a framing device for rippling abs and ripped thighs.
However, in addition to this, Diving was also the home to the only out male athlete competing in the entire Olympic games (naturally, softball and soccer had a few lesbians, but let's face it, the women are, by and large, much more sporty than us). Young Matthew Mitcham from Australia was carrying the torch for all of us. He has said that he doesn't want to be known as "the gay diver" but just as "an Australian diver who did really well at the Olympics," a request that I think most people can understand. Nevertheless, tough tits, Matthew was the only gay we had in the Olympics, and we in the community were glued to the TV watching him.
And as we were glued to the TV, the following happened. Matthew won. In the final round of dives, trailing China's Zhou Luxin by over a hundred points, Matthew hit his most difficult dive in the competition, earning the highest point total EVER awarded in the Olympic Games to get the gold medal. To say that I was beside myself would be an understatement. I was actually sitting next to myself, and looking at myself jumping up and down like a crazy person, for while my patriotism might be suspect, my gay loyalty is extremely strong. It made me want to drape myself in a rainbow flag and take a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out condoms, chanting "George Bush Sucks!" and rooting for the end to the production of all acid-washed denim. I couldn't wait to listen to the NBC announcers talk about all of the hardships (depression! anxiety attacks! early retirement!) Matthew had overcome to end up one of the greatest stories of these Olympics. I was poised to see his medal ceremony, and ran over to my computer to make sure that "I Will Survive" was playing, so Matthew would be honored by both the Australian and Gay National Anthems. Eagerly, I awaited the inevitable post-dive interview where he would thank his boyfriend and his mother. I looked up from my computer, having cued up Gloria Gaynor, and saw...NBC had switched to another event. It was probably Michael Phelps winning his eight gold medals for the eighteen thousandth time (yes, we get it, he swims very fast). I quickly grabbed my TiVo remote and rewound, convinced that I had accidentally jumped ahead in the recording, but no. NBC had just cut away after Matthew won and spent no more time on the event or it's historical significance.
To say I had an acid flashback to when Crash won the Oscar over Brokeback Mountain would only be a lie insofar as I have never dropped acid. For all of the gay film-makers, actors, and writers, we as a community really produce some abysmal movies, many of which play directly into the stereotypes we spend most of our time fighting against. We get one movie, ONE, that truly deserves to win the Best Picture Oscar, and we lose to Crash, a pandering, obvious morality tale with all the shock and originality of Two and Half Men repeat. We get one athlete, ONE, that not only competes in the Games, but actually wins, and we get no athlete profile, nor any real broadcast time devoted to his event. NBC claims that they don't discuss athlete's sexuality, but they have no problem talking about the (female) track and field star whose boyfriend is on the New York Giants, or the Italian swimmer who stole her chief rival's boyfriend and coach in early 2008. So, actually, NBC just doesn't discuss athlete's homosexuality, as if they are afraid that they are going to produce the FCC's follow up to Nipplegate.
For those of you that may have missed Matthew's final dive, you can go here, and see the last three divers in the final round. And for those of you who, like me, wanted to see the medal ceremony, you can go here; just make sure you have your gay anthem of choice cued up! Oh, and I recommend watching the whole clip...at the end Matthew climbs up into the bleachers and kisses his boyfriend on the cheek, which was apparently far too much for NBC to show on national TV. They're right, the raw display of sexual energy is really out of control.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Like a Fine Wine
There have been a few outcries over the lack of new blog posts over the past few weeks, and all I can say is that I am sorry. Sometimes it's hard for inspiration to strike when I feel like I have 25 emotionally abusive boyfriends on the active roster of the New York Metropolitans. However, the requests for more posts warmed my heart, and made me feel missed in my absence, so I aggressively started searching for more inspiration to bring me back to the computer keyboard. And today, dear readers, I have found it. I found it in a place I wasn't expecting, from a person I don't think of often, at a time when I was sitting at work and really probably should have been doing something to at least pretend like I was earning my paycheck. Who inspired me, do you ask? Cloris Leachman. Yes, that's right, Mary Richard's old landlady pulled me from the depths of writer's block with this little gem on the Comedy Central Roast of Bob Saget.
First of all, allow me to say that I do not generally take in Comedy Central's roasts of various celebrities. It seems that the only more obvious way to announce that your career is over is to star in a VH1 reality show (I'm hoping the exception to the this rule is Margaret Cho). Also, generally speaking, I don't find them particularly funny...it seems like a bunch of comedians getting together to tell their most vulgar jokes and try to twist them around to make them about a specific person. However, Ms. Leachman has really broken the mold here. For one thing, her opener about John Stamos was clearly not a joke written for another purpose and reworked for the broadcast. With all the artistry of an old pro, Cloris really made me believe that she was going to to introduce dear old Johnny boy to the business end of her Oscar. Also, beseeching someone to clock her in the face so she could see some stars was sheer poetry in its brilliance, particularly coming right before of a close-up shot of Lori Loughlin (returning to TV this fall in 90210 Redux!), Dave Coulier (really Alannis? "You Oughta Know" was about this guy?) and a group of comedians that I would have difficulty naming.
Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, while this is funny (naturally), where exactly are we going here? Well, dear readers, we're going to discuss aging gracefully. Ms. Leachman is currently 82 years old, and has clearly aged like a fine wheel of parmesan, becoming sharper and more flavorful with each passing year. When I try to picture my 80ish relatives cracking wise about using an old award for a sex toy, an error message pops up and my brain crashes like a computer caught in a porn cycle. Since I'm approaching 30 (which is only slightly off of 82 in gay years) I find myself looking more and more to our older compatriots to see how they deal with getting long in the tooth.
This is obviously not something that is much of a concern for the Chinese women's (girl's?) gymnastics team. Half the world is crying that their athletes are not of legal age to compete in this year's Olympics, and admittedly they look to have an average age of about 12. Of course, all people accusing the Chinese of fudging birthdates are trying to make it sound as if they are protecting the rights of the athletes, when actually it's probably just sour grapes at the possibility of literally losing to a 10 year old girl.
However, far more relevant to this post is the story of one Oksana Chusovitina, the silver medalist in women's vault. This is by far my favorite story of the Olympic Games, and for those of you who missed it, get this. Chusovitina is 33 years old, and just competed in her 5th Olympics in gymnastics, a record for female gymnasts. She competed in her first Olympics in 1991, or a full year before Shawn Johnson was born. Pretty cool, but wait it gets better! She has young son, Alisher, who was diagnosed with leukemia in 2002, and when she brought him for treatment in Moscow there was no guarantee of care due to staffing shortages and a need for upfront payment. So she got a German Citizenship, and began competing for the German National Team in order to finance her son's operations with the prize money she received. And his leukemia is now in remission and he is training to become a gymnast. Needless to say, when this story was related to me while I lay in bed, shot up on Nyquil and completely exhausted, it caused me to have the same basic emotional reaction that Bambi did when I was 7, and cried myself to sleep wishing that my mother was around.
On the surface, there isn't much connecting these two stories. However, both are considered past their prime in their professions (even though one has about 50 years on the other), and yet both are still at the top of their fields. I think of Leachman like a delicious Sauvignon Blanc, crispy, refreshing and surprising in ways you never expect. Chusovitina is like a sturdy Shiraz, bracing and strong, a never-let-you-down workhorse. I hope to age like these women; after all, if I'm still in good shape and single when I'm 35, my attraction to 45 year old silver foxes will be much less creepy and much more pursuable. So here's to them...and here's to me having the opportunity to someday say on national television that my only purpose for being somewhere is to f*ck David Wright.
First of all, allow me to say that I do not generally take in Comedy Central's roasts of various celebrities. It seems that the only more obvious way to announce that your career is over is to star in a VH1 reality show (I'm hoping the exception to the this rule is Margaret Cho). Also, generally speaking, I don't find them particularly funny...it seems like a bunch of comedians getting together to tell their most vulgar jokes and try to twist them around to make them about a specific person. However, Ms. Leachman has really broken the mold here. For one thing, her opener about John Stamos was clearly not a joke written for another purpose and reworked for the broadcast. With all the artistry of an old pro, Cloris really made me believe that she was going to to introduce dear old Johnny boy to the business end of her Oscar. Also, beseeching someone to clock her in the face so she could see some stars was sheer poetry in its brilliance, particularly coming right before of a close-up shot of Lori Loughlin (returning to TV this fall in 90210 Redux!), Dave Coulier (really Alannis? "You Oughta Know" was about this guy?) and a group of comedians that I would have difficulty naming.
Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, while this is funny (naturally), where exactly are we going here? Well, dear readers, we're going to discuss aging gracefully. Ms. Leachman is currently 82 years old, and has clearly aged like a fine wheel of parmesan, becoming sharper and more flavorful with each passing year. When I try to picture my 80ish relatives cracking wise about using an old award for a sex toy, an error message pops up and my brain crashes like a computer caught in a porn cycle. Since I'm approaching 30 (which is only slightly off of 82 in gay years) I find myself looking more and more to our older compatriots to see how they deal with getting long in the tooth.
This is obviously not something that is much of a concern for the Chinese women's (girl's?) gymnastics team. Half the world is crying that their athletes are not of legal age to compete in this year's Olympics, and admittedly they look to have an average age of about 12. Of course, all people accusing the Chinese of fudging birthdates are trying to make it sound as if they are protecting the rights of the athletes, when actually it's probably just sour grapes at the possibility of literally losing to a 10 year old girl.
However, far more relevant to this post is the story of one Oksana Chusovitina, the silver medalist in women's vault. This is by far my favorite story of the Olympic Games, and for those of you who missed it, get this. Chusovitina is 33 years old, and just competed in her 5th Olympics in gymnastics, a record for female gymnasts. She competed in her first Olympics in 1991, or a full year before Shawn Johnson was born. Pretty cool, but wait it gets better! She has young son, Alisher, who was diagnosed with leukemia in 2002, and when she brought him for treatment in Moscow there was no guarantee of care due to staffing shortages and a need for upfront payment. So she got a German Citizenship, and began competing for the German National Team in order to finance her son's operations with the prize money she received. And his leukemia is now in remission and he is training to become a gymnast. Needless to say, when this story was related to me while I lay in bed, shot up on Nyquil and completely exhausted, it caused me to have the same basic emotional reaction that Bambi did when I was 7, and cried myself to sleep wishing that my mother was around.
On the surface, there isn't much connecting these two stories. However, both are considered past their prime in their professions (even though one has about 50 years on the other), and yet both are still at the top of their fields. I think of Leachman like a delicious Sauvignon Blanc, crispy, refreshing and surprising in ways you never expect. Chusovitina is like a sturdy Shiraz, bracing and strong, a never-let-you-down workhorse. I hope to age like these women; after all, if I'm still in good shape and single when I'm 35, my attraction to 45 year old silver foxes will be much less creepy and much more pursuable. So here's to them...and here's to me having the opportunity to someday say on national television that my only purpose for being somewhere is to f*ck David Wright.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
A New York State of Mind
I really love New York. Today, as happens most days, I took the subway, and it was automatically a good day because the subway didn't smell like pee. While on the train, I sat next to an elderly couple, and next to them sat a young man who looked like a refugee from a Bel Ami video. If you don't know what a Bel Ami video is, consider the fact that I've been single going on two years and use your imagination. And while I sat there I was privy to the following conversation.
Old Lady: Tourist?
Young Man: What?
Old Lady: Tour. Ist.
Young Man: Sorry, English no...
Old Lady: Are you a tourist? Are you from here? Foreigner?
Young Man: ...yes...
Old Lady: Your wallet is showing. You can't do that. This is New York. Where are you from?
Young Man: ...Russia...
Old Lady: Russia! You don't know better than that coming from Russia!?
It's moments like these that you realize that sometimes this city, which seems to spend so much time stepping on your neck with a poo-stained boot, every once in a while will reach out and give you a little hug. It's like winning the ticket lottery at your favorite Broadway show, or having one of those extra sassy subway conductors that scold the people who hold the doors and delay trains, or getting to see a larger than life picture of David Wright sticking his tongue out as he plays with his bat when you walk down the street. This conversation brought me joy much like one of these events did.
For one thing, it's another example of New Yorkers automatically assuming that living here is something completely different than anywhere else. If this was, for instance, Chicago, the young man walking around with his wallet easily stolen would not be at all remarkable. In the Windy City people display their cash all the time, and all the strangers happily ignore the easy money while skipping off on their merry way down the street. In New York, however, that's gonna get snatched before you can blink, so be careful you stupid Commie!
It's also an example of that special kind of New York friendly that only comes from our fair metropolis. Only in New York does someone try to do a good deed by pointing out that someone else is an idiot. Why not simply say "Excuse me, but your bag is open," and go on about your business? No, it's far better to first determine if there is an even slightly acceptable reason for the bag being open. If you re-read the conversation above and substitute "jackass," "imbecile," or "quarter-wit" for the word tourist, you'll find that very little changes. I couldn't help but wonder what the woman would have done if the young man had not been a tourist, and had claimed to be from New York. My guess is she would have stolen the wallet herself, and left an admonishing note where it was saying something along the lines of "You aren't worthy of the name New Yorker. Get the hell out of my city, you nitwit." Bel Ami boy got off easy.
However, the real coup de grâce for our New Yorker here was the information that this man was from Russia. She had clearly been expecting a far more tame place of origin like Omaha or France, and upon learning that he had actually sprung from the center of the former USSR was almost too much. I half expected her to cry "I've got the vapors!" and collapse in her seat. Nothing gets the collective danders of New Yorkers up than willful stupidity. She thought that she had screened for this possibility by asking if he was a tourist, and then got blind-sided by the information that he was from a place where there actually is crime. To say the least, she was quite done with him after that, and didn't speak to him again, leaving him to make his own way. And I thought to myself, "Self, you belong here in this place of rude yet helpful people."
There was a time when I was not in love with the city. A time I didn't realize that there were dozens of movies released every month that never made it to my local movie theaters. When I didn't realize how much fun it was to have amazing cultural experiences at your fingertips and completely ignore them for the fun of rolling your eyes at the Midwesterners clamoring for a chance to get to the top of the Empire State Building. I get so much more reading done here, since I don't have to waste time with all of that pesky driving. And living in the city is possibly as far away from camping as one can get, which as far as I'm concerned is just icing on the home-made chocolate cake served warm with ice cream and whipped cream with just a sprig of mint for color and possible palate-cleansing. Stay Gold New York.
**My friend Janet just got a short essay published on Mad as Hell Club. Read her fantastic essay right here...it's short and totally worth it!**
Old Lady: Tourist?
Young Man: What?
Old Lady: Tour. Ist.
Young Man: Sorry, English no...
Old Lady: Are you a tourist? Are you from here? Foreigner?
Young Man: ...yes...
Old Lady: Your wallet is showing. You can't do that. This is New York. Where are you from?
Young Man: ...Russia...
Old Lady: Russia! You don't know better than that coming from Russia!?
It's moments like these that you realize that sometimes this city, which seems to spend so much time stepping on your neck with a poo-stained boot, every once in a while will reach out and give you a little hug. It's like winning the ticket lottery at your favorite Broadway show, or having one of those extra sassy subway conductors that scold the people who hold the doors and delay trains, or getting to see a larger than life picture of David Wright sticking his tongue out as he plays with his bat when you walk down the street. This conversation brought me joy much like one of these events did.
For one thing, it's another example of New Yorkers automatically assuming that living here is something completely different than anywhere else. If this was, for instance, Chicago, the young man walking around with his wallet easily stolen would not be at all remarkable. In the Windy City people display their cash all the time, and all the strangers happily ignore the easy money while skipping off on their merry way down the street. In New York, however, that's gonna get snatched before you can blink, so be careful you stupid Commie!
It's also an example of that special kind of New York friendly that only comes from our fair metropolis. Only in New York does someone try to do a good deed by pointing out that someone else is an idiot. Why not simply say "Excuse me, but your bag is open," and go on about your business? No, it's far better to first determine if there is an even slightly acceptable reason for the bag being open. If you re-read the conversation above and substitute "jackass," "imbecile," or "quarter-wit" for the word tourist, you'll find that very little changes. I couldn't help but wonder what the woman would have done if the young man had not been a tourist, and had claimed to be from New York. My guess is she would have stolen the wallet herself, and left an admonishing note where it was saying something along the lines of "You aren't worthy of the name New Yorker. Get the hell out of my city, you nitwit." Bel Ami boy got off easy.
However, the real coup de grâce for our New Yorker here was the information that this man was from Russia. She had clearly been expecting a far more tame place of origin like Omaha or France, and upon learning that he had actually sprung from the center of the former USSR was almost too much. I half expected her to cry "I've got the vapors!" and collapse in her seat. Nothing gets the collective danders of New Yorkers up than willful stupidity. She thought that she had screened for this possibility by asking if he was a tourist, and then got blind-sided by the information that he was from a place where there actually is crime. To say the least, she was quite done with him after that, and didn't speak to him again, leaving him to make his own way. And I thought to myself, "Self, you belong here in this place of rude yet helpful people."
There was a time when I was not in love with the city. A time I didn't realize that there were dozens of movies released every month that never made it to my local movie theaters. When I didn't realize how much fun it was to have amazing cultural experiences at your fingertips and completely ignore them for the fun of rolling your eyes at the Midwesterners clamoring for a chance to get to the top of the Empire State Building. I get so much more reading done here, since I don't have to waste time with all of that pesky driving. And living in the city is possibly as far away from camping as one can get, which as far as I'm concerned is just icing on the home-made chocolate cake served warm with ice cream and whipped cream with just a sprig of mint for color and possible palate-cleansing. Stay Gold New York.
**My friend Janet just got a short essay published on Mad as Hell Club. Read her fantastic essay right here...it's short and totally worth it!**
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
You Put the Pride in the Coconut
Carrie Bradshaw once said the New York City is a ghost town, in which you are constantly haunted by the ghosts of your past relationships. When I first saw the episode, I thought that a silly statement...Manhattan is packed with people, and if all you want to do is avoid one specific person, that shouldn't be too difficult. As I have aged, I have discovered how wrong I was. I have never run into someone that I fell out of touch with and have no baggage with and really miss (granted, the number of people who fall into this category is not exactly large, but they do exist). However, one specific ex-boyfriend? Sure, all the time, at least 2 or 3 times a year. He's a doctor. We'll call him, in honor of Ms. Bradshaw, Dr. Big. Picture it, dear readers, Gay Pride 2008.
The day started out with brunch. Now, the time will come in everyone's life where they are asked a stupid question. The idea that there are no stupid questions is a ridiculous adage continually repeated by elementary school teachers in a vain attempt to get children interested in learning. Some stupid questions that I've been asked in my time are "Would you like that pie à la mode?" (Who wouldn't?), "Don't you think Crash deserved the Oscar?" (No, and please do not darken my doorstep with the mention of that film again), and, of course, "Do you have an opinion on that?" (Yes, yes I do, and I'd be more than happy to share it with you. There will be no need for you to talk). The stupid question I was asked at brunch was "You can have unlimited drinks for an additional $8. Would you like to do that?" The waitress looked slightly aback at the animated chorus of "Yes!", "I would!", "Me! Me!" that met her from our table, but quickly adapted to our mood, and started regularly stopping by our table for refills from the pitchers of mixed drinks she was carrying around. As you can imagine, standing up for the first time was quite the surprise to everyone involved in the early-stage debauchery. With all of us having had at least three drinks served in pint glasses, hand-eye coordination was at a minimum; naturally we decided we needed to get to a bar post-haste, as we didn't want to lose our cheap buzz.
We made our way down to Chelsea, and found out that the parade had been rained on while we had been throwing alcohol down our throats like Jack Nicholson at the Golden Globes. Ultimately, after a few false starts and one slightly extended period of being rained on (not to worry, I was wearing a white shirt, so the rain was really only going to help me) we ended up at Gym Bar. After my last visit to that establishment (chronicled in my WWUBD? post), one might think that I would have been prepared for shenanigans to occur. I can only blame the drink for my own foolishness, because this is where the day really swung heavily into high melodrama. Once we packed into the bar like a group of homosexual sardines, I leapt into action to find my gay for Pride, greatly looking forward to celebrating the homosexual community by making out with a ridiculously good looking guy with no discernable personality (Chelsea is a hotbed of these types). Moving into the back of the bar with the all the grace and stealth of a tranquilized jungle cat, I scanned my options and came up empty; it was like all the pretty homos were afraid they were going to melt in the rain. Undeterred, I made my way up to the front of the bar, and that is where, like Moses parting the Red Sea, the mass of men stepped aside and I was presented with Dr. Big.
Dr. Big and I have had quite the tumultuous relationship, which I won't get into here. Suffice it to say, that when I returned to the group, and was asked who I had been speaking with, I seriously considered lying. However, given my somewhat compromised judgment in the moment, I opted not to get myself into trouble, and told the truth. Which caused 4 people to pop up their heads as if they were targets in a game of Whack-a-Mole, and stare directly at Dr. Big himself. Victoria then proceeded directly to frothing at the mouth, threatening violence, and loudly proclaiming to anyone in the group who wasn't up on exactly who we were speaking about that this was my Mr. Big (which is funny, cause I'm totally a Miranda). Needless to say, we quickly moved on from the establishment at that point, mostly because Victoria getting a police record for assault & battery was not high on anyone's list, and furthermore none of us had bail money for her after all the drinking.
We ended up at Vynl Chelsea, and I couldn't tell you why. This is because shortly after the bar, I informed Ben and Victoria that they would be making all of my decisions for the rest of the day, as I was in no place to make them for myself. I was in no place to make decisions because, naturally, Dr. Big and I had started a text conversation. Why is it, dear readers, that we do this to ourselves? Why must we constantly not learn from past mistakes? I would say that my texting with Dr. Big was the triumph of hope over experience, but if I'm going to be brutally honest (that's how we roll here), it was probably more like the triumph of stupidity over experience. So, in the midst of my Can!Open!Worms!Everywhere! texting, I made one of my better decisions of the day and handed over the reins to close friends, while making certain not to tell them just what was going on with my cell phone.
Luckily, Ben and Victoria took their respective jobs very seriously, because not 5 minutes after they were entrusted with my well-being, Ben noticed me staring at my phone with an expression that was probably somewhere between gobsmacked and comatose. "Who are you texting?" he sharply questioned me. "Ummm...I'm responding" I mumbled. Leaping to (correct) conclusions, he snatched my phone, read the text I had just received, weighed his options, and promptly dropped my phone into his underwear where I couldn't get at it anymore. This act has been met with much adulation from many who have heard this story; Ben has been offered numerous monetary and material rewards from both friends and family for his heroic act of phone-napping. Victoria, still in full pit bull mode, quickly got wind of the affair, got the phone from Ben and after a thorough alcohol rubbing of it read my entire text conversation with Dr. Big. Obviously, my phone privileges were revoked for the rest of Pride. Probably a good thing, as I continued to drown myself in margaritas. By the time we left, I stumbled home, went to bed and slept like a drunken baby. As for future conversations and encounters with Dr. Big, well, one of those texts that I got while not in control of my cell was a dinner invitation. Who knows if that will happen or not, for as we learned from shows like Sex and the City, one can never be certain exactly when or where an ex will pop up again. And despite clearly having learned very little from my past experiences with Dr. Big, I did learn one very important thing this Gay Pride.
It's good to know one has friends who will shove one's cell phone next to their junk to stop one from texting an ex. Especially when the aforementioned phone is on vibrate.
The day started out with brunch. Now, the time will come in everyone's life where they are asked a stupid question. The idea that there are no stupid questions is a ridiculous adage continually repeated by elementary school teachers in a vain attempt to get children interested in learning. Some stupid questions that I've been asked in my time are "Would you like that pie à la mode?" (Who wouldn't?), "Don't you think Crash deserved the Oscar?" (No, and please do not darken my doorstep with the mention of that film again), and, of course, "Do you have an opinion on that?" (Yes, yes I do, and I'd be more than happy to share it with you. There will be no need for you to talk). The stupid question I was asked at brunch was "You can have unlimited drinks for an additional $8. Would you like to do that?" The waitress looked slightly aback at the animated chorus of "Yes!", "I would!", "Me! Me!" that met her from our table, but quickly adapted to our mood, and started regularly stopping by our table for refills from the pitchers of mixed drinks she was carrying around. As you can imagine, standing up for the first time was quite the surprise to everyone involved in the early-stage debauchery. With all of us having had at least three drinks served in pint glasses, hand-eye coordination was at a minimum; naturally we decided we needed to get to a bar post-haste, as we didn't want to lose our cheap buzz.
We made our way down to Chelsea, and found out that the parade had been rained on while we had been throwing alcohol down our throats like Jack Nicholson at the Golden Globes. Ultimately, after a few false starts and one slightly extended period of being rained on (not to worry, I was wearing a white shirt, so the rain was really only going to help me) we ended up at Gym Bar. After my last visit to that establishment (chronicled in my WWUBD? post), one might think that I would have been prepared for shenanigans to occur. I can only blame the drink for my own foolishness, because this is where the day really swung heavily into high melodrama. Once we packed into the bar like a group of homosexual sardines, I leapt into action to find my gay for Pride, greatly looking forward to celebrating the homosexual community by making out with a ridiculously good looking guy with no discernable personality (Chelsea is a hotbed of these types). Moving into the back of the bar with the all the grace and stealth of a tranquilized jungle cat, I scanned my options and came up empty; it was like all the pretty homos were afraid they were going to melt in the rain. Undeterred, I made my way up to the front of the bar, and that is where, like Moses parting the Red Sea, the mass of men stepped aside and I was presented with Dr. Big.
Dr. Big and I have had quite the tumultuous relationship, which I won't get into here. Suffice it to say, that when I returned to the group, and was asked who I had been speaking with, I seriously considered lying. However, given my somewhat compromised judgment in the moment, I opted not to get myself into trouble, and told the truth. Which caused 4 people to pop up their heads as if they were targets in a game of Whack-a-Mole, and stare directly at Dr. Big himself. Victoria then proceeded directly to frothing at the mouth, threatening violence, and loudly proclaiming to anyone in the group who wasn't up on exactly who we were speaking about that this was my Mr. Big (which is funny, cause I'm totally a Miranda). Needless to say, we quickly moved on from the establishment at that point, mostly because Victoria getting a police record for assault & battery was not high on anyone's list, and furthermore none of us had bail money for her after all the drinking.
We ended up at Vynl Chelsea, and I couldn't tell you why. This is because shortly after the bar, I informed Ben and Victoria that they would be making all of my decisions for the rest of the day, as I was in no place to make them for myself. I was in no place to make decisions because, naturally, Dr. Big and I had started a text conversation. Why is it, dear readers, that we do this to ourselves? Why must we constantly not learn from past mistakes? I would say that my texting with Dr. Big was the triumph of hope over experience, but if I'm going to be brutally honest (that's how we roll here), it was probably more like the triumph of stupidity over experience. So, in the midst of my Can!Open!Worms!Everywhere! texting, I made one of my better decisions of the day and handed over the reins to close friends, while making certain not to tell them just what was going on with my cell phone.
Luckily, Ben and Victoria took their respective jobs very seriously, because not 5 minutes after they were entrusted with my well-being, Ben noticed me staring at my phone with an expression that was probably somewhere between gobsmacked and comatose. "Who are you texting?" he sharply questioned me. "Ummm...I'm responding" I mumbled. Leaping to (correct) conclusions, he snatched my phone, read the text I had just received, weighed his options, and promptly dropped my phone into his underwear where I couldn't get at it anymore. This act has been met with much adulation from many who have heard this story; Ben has been offered numerous monetary and material rewards from both friends and family for his heroic act of phone-napping. Victoria, still in full pit bull mode, quickly got wind of the affair, got the phone from Ben and after a thorough alcohol rubbing of it read my entire text conversation with Dr. Big. Obviously, my phone privileges were revoked for the rest of Pride. Probably a good thing, as I continued to drown myself in margaritas. By the time we left, I stumbled home, went to bed and slept like a drunken baby. As for future conversations and encounters with Dr. Big, well, one of those texts that I got while not in control of my cell was a dinner invitation. Who knows if that will happen or not, for as we learned from shows like Sex and the City, one can never be certain exactly when or where an ex will pop up again. And despite clearly having learned very little from my past experiences with Dr. Big, I did learn one very important thing this Gay Pride.
It's good to know one has friends who will shove one's cell phone next to their junk to stop one from texting an ex. Especially when the aforementioned phone is on vibrate.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
WWUBD?
A little while back, I made a decision; in an effort to change my life, I was going to start living as the main character in my own private sit-com. I've really given this some thought, loyal readers, and I've decided that the perfect genre for me is the newly minted hour-long comedy, à la ABC's brilliant Ugly Betty. This means that my minor problems will all be solved within 45 minutes, and any major ones will work out for the best in the long run, probably to a very good soundtrack, and with a helpful life lesson tacked on for good measure. Even better, once my life truly became the sit-com it has always resembled, men would begin chasing after me all the time! I come complete with the wacky friends, over-the-top co-workers and a colorful family...all I have to do is to start living like I'm actually in a television show. I decided that this plan was fail-safe, and vowed that the next time I was presented with an opportunity I would ask myself the question: "What Would Ugly Betty Do?"
This week, I attended a reading on Monday night that can at best be described as interminable at 2 hours and 45 minutes long. The play, which shall remain nameless, was 100 pages and three acts. Naturally, my dear friend Adam was a shining beacon of light that kept hope alive as my life irrevocably slipped through my fingers, but not even he was enough to keep me from mapping out possible escape routes should the evening have stretched into a fourth. Option one: fake a ruptured spleen, and excuse myself so as not to interrupt the show with groans of pain. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option two: act as if I'm hard of hearing, loudly ask questions about the plot to strangers around me, and aim to get ejected from the show. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option three: try to master the ancient art of sleeping with eyes open. Dream of proceeding immediately to a bar and drinking heavily. Fortunately (unfortunately?), the show ended after the 3rd act, and none of these last ditch plans needed to be put into action. Even more fortunately, we proceeded immediately to a bar and drank heavily. And it was here that I first the chance to let my inner television star shine.
As it happens, I've been in a bit of a dry spell with the boys. And I asked myself Monday on the way to Gym Bar, "Self, what would Ugly Betty do?" Well, Betty would no doubt down a couple of fruity cocktails for a little liquid courage, then march right up to a handsome gentleman and strike up a conversation. So there I was, talking to friends, quickly slurping down Stoli Razz and sodas, and watching the Met game while surreptitiously scoping out the bar for likely candidates (FYI, the Mets won 9-6...a good omen!). Two drinks in I was ready, marched my cute, Betty-inspired ass up the hottest guy in the bar and struck up a conversation. This is a loose term for what transpired, because, as luck would have it, Simon was from Australia, but born in Ireland, which gave him a sort of uber-accent. This meant most of what he said I responded to with some variation of "what," "come again," or the ever popular (and possibly overly loquacious) "I'm so sorry, but I'm a little tipsy and you're accent is totally hot, but I can't understand a single solitary word coming out of your extremely well-formed mouth, so would you mind just repeating it again, slowly and with extra emphasis on the consonants, thanks, you're a peach." Sadly, this is not a posting to report that I now have an international lover...Simon, as it turns out, was getting up at 6 am tomorrow morning to fly to Ireland, and our love was not to be. A sad ending to the first episode of the sit-com of my life, but hey, I still got to talk to a hot Irishman. And, obviously, the show ends with me and David getting married, so Simon was always destined to be a guest star.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the bar, the comic B-plot was shaping up nicely. The other boys had started talking to various gentlemen of their own, culminating in a rather sheepish looking Mark deciding he did not want to go home with his beau, but not knowing how to tell him. Enter Ugly Betty! Betty would undoubtedly say that honesty is the best policy in this situation and she always wants to help her friends, so Josh and I quickly offered to shed Mark's newly acquired and unwanted fat for him. Mark fled to the bathroom, and Josh asked me how we were going to do this. I downed the rest of my beer (did I mention I had switched to beer at this point?) and innocently replied "I was just going to walk up to him and say that Mark doesn't want to go home with you. Too harsh?" Josh (being from the west coast, and hence somewhat kinder in general) quickly took the reins of the operation, and walked over to the young man in the overly v-necked t-shirt to inform him that he would not be having all the homo sex that night. At least, not with Mark.
As we stumbled out into the early morning, and I imagined the camera panning out to a wide shot of us walking down the street giggling to each other while an extremely appropriate (yet still under the radar) pop song played, it occurred to me that Betty had served me well that evening. She had gotten me into a conversation with a hottie and gotten Mark out of pity-sex, so I gift this question to you, dear readers. The next time you are in a jam, just think to yourself, "Self...WWUBD?" I'm telling you it works.
This week, I attended a reading on Monday night that can at best be described as interminable at 2 hours and 45 minutes long. The play, which shall remain nameless, was 100 pages and three acts. Naturally, my dear friend Adam was a shining beacon of light that kept hope alive as my life irrevocably slipped through my fingers, but not even he was enough to keep me from mapping out possible escape routes should the evening have stretched into a fourth. Option one: fake a ruptured spleen, and excuse myself so as not to interrupt the show with groans of pain. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option two: act as if I'm hard of hearing, loudly ask questions about the plot to strangers around me, and aim to get ejected from the show. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option three: try to master the ancient art of sleeping with eyes open. Dream of proceeding immediately to a bar and drinking heavily. Fortunately (unfortunately?), the show ended after the 3rd act, and none of these last ditch plans needed to be put into action. Even more fortunately, we proceeded immediately to a bar and drank heavily. And it was here that I first the chance to let my inner television star shine.
As it happens, I've been in a bit of a dry spell with the boys. And I asked myself Monday on the way to Gym Bar, "Self, what would Ugly Betty do?" Well, Betty would no doubt down a couple of fruity cocktails for a little liquid courage, then march right up to a handsome gentleman and strike up a conversation. So there I was, talking to friends, quickly slurping down Stoli Razz and sodas, and watching the Met game while surreptitiously scoping out the bar for likely candidates (FYI, the Mets won 9-6...a good omen!). Two drinks in I was ready, marched my cute, Betty-inspired ass up the hottest guy in the bar and struck up a conversation. This is a loose term for what transpired, because, as luck would have it, Simon was from Australia, but born in Ireland, which gave him a sort of uber-accent. This meant most of what he said I responded to with some variation of "what," "come again," or the ever popular (and possibly overly loquacious) "I'm so sorry, but I'm a little tipsy and you're accent is totally hot, but I can't understand a single solitary word coming out of your extremely well-formed mouth, so would you mind just repeating it again, slowly and with extra emphasis on the consonants, thanks, you're a peach." Sadly, this is not a posting to report that I now have an international lover...Simon, as it turns out, was getting up at 6 am tomorrow morning to fly to Ireland, and our love was not to be. A sad ending to the first episode of the sit-com of my life, but hey, I still got to talk to a hot Irishman. And, obviously, the show ends with me and David getting married, so Simon was always destined to be a guest star.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the bar, the comic B-plot was shaping up nicely. The other boys had started talking to various gentlemen of their own, culminating in a rather sheepish looking Mark deciding he did not want to go home with his beau, but not knowing how to tell him. Enter Ugly Betty! Betty would undoubtedly say that honesty is the best policy in this situation and she always wants to help her friends, so Josh and I quickly offered to shed Mark's newly acquired and unwanted fat for him. Mark fled to the bathroom, and Josh asked me how we were going to do this. I downed the rest of my beer (did I mention I had switched to beer at this point?) and innocently replied "I was just going to walk up to him and say that Mark doesn't want to go home with you. Too harsh?" Josh (being from the west coast, and hence somewhat kinder in general) quickly took the reins of the operation, and walked over to the young man in the overly v-necked t-shirt to inform him that he would not be having all the homo sex that night. At least, not with Mark.
As we stumbled out into the early morning, and I imagined the camera panning out to a wide shot of us walking down the street giggling to each other while an extremely appropriate (yet still under the radar) pop song played, it occurred to me that Betty had served me well that evening. She had gotten me into a conversation with a hottie and gotten Mark out of pity-sex, so I gift this question to you, dear readers. The next time you are in a jam, just think to yourself, "Self...WWUBD?" I'm telling you it works.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
A Disrespectful Disagreement
I love Ellen Degeneres. She is, without a doubt, my favorite lesbian daytime talk show host. She dances everyday in the morning, she is completely unafraid to make fun of herself, and she is truly funny. The public persona that she has cultivated is the Queen of Nice, and I think she wears her crown well. Recently, Ellen hosted Republican presidential candidate John McCain on her show; you can watch the clip right here.
I am so tired of politicians and their "respectful disagreements." I now will write the response that I feel Ellen probably desperately wanted to give, but was too classy to do so on national television, and be perceived as the mean lesbian who beat up on the old man.
You know what, Senator McCain? There is absolutely nothing respectful about our disagreement on this issue. The word respect should not even factor into it...we can POLITELY disagree on it, which I suspect is what you meant to say. But not respectfully, because I have absolutely no respect for your opinion. Why should I? You clearly have no respect for me as a person, so why are we sitting here pretending? You don't believe that I deserve the same rights that you do, so you are, ultimately, a bigot. Unfortunately, you are a bigot on the public stage, so I'm forced to sit here and listen to this drivel spewing out of your mouth, and actually dignify it with a response. So here is my response, Senator McCain. You and the entire Republican party can suck it. How you got the nominee is a testament to how completely ridiculous the other Republican candidates were, since you are the single worst public speaker I have ever seen. Seriously, you could stand onstage and say "Baseball, Apple Pie and Freedom" and you would still manage to be about as charming as an unexpected colonic. Get off my show, and good riddance.
I'm fairly sure that's what I read behind Ellen's eyes during her far more measured, friendly and humorous response.
I hate politics. I really really do, and furthermore, I hate politicians. I know this whole country has been glued to the television watching the drama unfold between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. And by whole country, I mean the 3 million or so people who watch CNN. It recently ended, as I'm sure everyone knows, with Obama winning the nomination. Which means he will be the one I vote for in November, great glory hallelujah. Does he believe I have the right to get married? Nope. He believes civil unions are the way to go. I bet he's for, to quote Hillary, "a strong form of civil unions." He wouldn't get in the way of states giving us the right to marry, but will he support it? No, he will not. Well, congratulations, the first black man that we've ever nominated for president supports a policy that boils down to separate but equal. So our Democratic candidate doesn't support gay marriage. If that's true, he's a bigot just like Senator McCain. If not, he's just a coward, who's afraid to put out what might be a polarizing opinion. I suspect it's the latter. Isn't it the job of a leader to, oh what's the word that I'm looking for, oh right, LEAD? To do the right thing, and bring the people that follow him or her along? I guess that would be too much to hope for.
Please no one forward me Senator Obama's open letter to the LGBT Community. I've read it, and it's not enough. Please, everyone stop kidding yourselves into thinking that if he gets into office, he's going to do more for our community than he's promised. That's not how the world works, and it's definitely not how politicians work. He'll do the bare minimum he can to get our votes in 2012, which is very little, since he'll probably have to compete with someone along the lines of that old coot McCain. Remember Don't Ask, Don't Tell? Maybe when Obama gets into office, he'll get us civil unions, but we won't be able to tell anyone. The day he gets elected and disproves that I will happily write another posting on this website and eat crow. Until that happens, please, no one else send me any missives thinking that I might want to donate to his campaign, or volunteer to spread the word of hope, or give any of my time to promoting someone who won't stand up for one of my basic human rights. If you would like to, I'm glad. Truly, I'm happy you still have enough faith in people to believe in someone. I don't. If he wants my full support, he can prove himself worthy of it.
So yes, I'm voting for him in November. Not because I think he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. I'm voting for him because, when all is said and done, I guess a coward is better than a bigot. And Victoria will end me if I don't.
**My apologies (particularly to my dear friend Josh) for this posting not being the most humorous. But the Mets blew a 2 run lead in the bottom of the 9th (to lose their 6th game in the last 7) as I wrote this. I'm salty today. I'm a salt lick. I looked back at Sodom and Gomorrah and now I'm a pillar of salt. But enjoy the rant. I'll try to make sure the next entry is laugh-out-loud. Shouldn't be too hard. I'm very funny after all.**
I am so tired of politicians and their "respectful disagreements." I now will write the response that I feel Ellen probably desperately wanted to give, but was too classy to do so on national television, and be perceived as the mean lesbian who beat up on the old man.
You know what, Senator McCain? There is absolutely nothing respectful about our disagreement on this issue. The word respect should not even factor into it...we can POLITELY disagree on it, which I suspect is what you meant to say. But not respectfully, because I have absolutely no respect for your opinion. Why should I? You clearly have no respect for me as a person, so why are we sitting here pretending? You don't believe that I deserve the same rights that you do, so you are, ultimately, a bigot. Unfortunately, you are a bigot on the public stage, so I'm forced to sit here and listen to this drivel spewing out of your mouth, and actually dignify it with a response. So here is my response, Senator McCain. You and the entire Republican party can suck it. How you got the nominee is a testament to how completely ridiculous the other Republican candidates were, since you are the single worst public speaker I have ever seen. Seriously, you could stand onstage and say "Baseball, Apple Pie and Freedom" and you would still manage to be about as charming as an unexpected colonic. Get off my show, and good riddance.
I'm fairly sure that's what I read behind Ellen's eyes during her far more measured, friendly and humorous response.
I hate politics. I really really do, and furthermore, I hate politicians. I know this whole country has been glued to the television watching the drama unfold between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. And by whole country, I mean the 3 million or so people who watch CNN. It recently ended, as I'm sure everyone knows, with Obama winning the nomination. Which means he will be the one I vote for in November, great glory hallelujah. Does he believe I have the right to get married? Nope. He believes civil unions are the way to go. I bet he's for, to quote Hillary, "a strong form of civil unions." He wouldn't get in the way of states giving us the right to marry, but will he support it? No, he will not. Well, congratulations, the first black man that we've ever nominated for president supports a policy that boils down to separate but equal. So our Democratic candidate doesn't support gay marriage. If that's true, he's a bigot just like Senator McCain. If not, he's just a coward, who's afraid to put out what might be a polarizing opinion. I suspect it's the latter. Isn't it the job of a leader to, oh what's the word that I'm looking for, oh right, LEAD? To do the right thing, and bring the people that follow him or her along? I guess that would be too much to hope for.
Please no one forward me Senator Obama's open letter to the LGBT Community. I've read it, and it's not enough. Please, everyone stop kidding yourselves into thinking that if he gets into office, he's going to do more for our community than he's promised. That's not how the world works, and it's definitely not how politicians work. He'll do the bare minimum he can to get our votes in 2012, which is very little, since he'll probably have to compete with someone along the lines of that old coot McCain. Remember Don't Ask, Don't Tell? Maybe when Obama gets into office, he'll get us civil unions, but we won't be able to tell anyone. The day he gets elected and disproves that I will happily write another posting on this website and eat crow. Until that happens, please, no one else send me any missives thinking that I might want to donate to his campaign, or volunteer to spread the word of hope, or give any of my time to promoting someone who won't stand up for one of my basic human rights. If you would like to, I'm glad. Truly, I'm happy you still have enough faith in people to believe in someone. I don't. If he wants my full support, he can prove himself worthy of it.
So yes, I'm voting for him in November. Not because I think he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. I'm voting for him because, when all is said and done, I guess a coward is better than a bigot. And Victoria will end me if I don't.
**My apologies (particularly to my dear friend Josh) for this posting not being the most humorous. But the Mets blew a 2 run lead in the bottom of the 9th (to lose their 6th game in the last 7) as I wrote this. I'm salty today. I'm a salt lick. I looked back at Sodom and Gomorrah and now I'm a pillar of salt. But enjoy the rant. I'll try to make sure the next entry is laugh-out-loud. Shouldn't be too hard. I'm very funny after all.**
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