Storm Before the Calm

I am going to blame stress.

How is it that every time I have something worth looking forward to -- in this case a rather long-anticipated vacation -- everything has to pile on for the weeks before then to make my life miserable up until the release point?

I've got a great vacation lined up starting in early May. Yes, it's less than a month away. I'm spending close to a week in Amsterdam and very very VERY much looking forward to it. I've never been to Amsterdam and this ought to be a huge treat.

Since then, my life here has heaped on stress upon stress which will not make this lead-up time even remotely enjoyable.

We have two trials scheduled for two successive Mondays between now and then. They're time consuming and tricky and definitely ulcer-inducing. On top of that, I have to respond to discovery requests for a complicated disability case. Then, to still further pile on, I have to respond to a summary judgment motion the day before I leave.

Why can't everything just be easy? Man, I wish I could just cruise through the next few weeks and happily hop on to the plane and relax for a week. But then my life never seems to function that way.

Malaise

On what can I blame my current funk?

- That I had sinus issues (almost literally) up the wazoo last week? (I suppose that depends on how you define the word "wazoo.")

- Maybe the meds I'm taking to combat the ubiquitous sinus issues has contributed to a depressed mindstate.

- The nagging doubts I have that my current romantic interest may actually share absolutely nothing in common with me outside of being a really nice guy. (I must blog about this at some point.)

- The stress of a work week going crazy with no real end in the near future.

- Some strange urge compelling me to do things I probably know I shouldn't do.

- Alcohol withdrawal.

- Hunger. I've been trying to cut back on all portions of all meals. We'll see when I finally collapse in a Nicole-Ritchie-simulation event.

- Seasonal affective disorder.

I've got to get over this. Maybe I just need to get laid.

Now Blow.

One of the joys -- admittedly a very small one, but I do take pleasure in the little things -- of going to a gay-centric doctor's office is that you can have cute little conversations with your doctor which may be somewhat inappropriate in a more "straight"-laced office (pun intended).

Having experienced a substantial increase in sinus activity over the weekend, I hunted down my doctor on Monday and demanded an appointment for that same day. (I'm all butch that way.) And by "demanded," I mean "begged and pleaded," as in "I was wondering if there was any possible way I could pleeeeeease see a doctor today? I'm miserable!" Well, it worked, because they squeezed me in at 3:15.

During the course of describing my symptoms to my (really cute) "doctor" (who's actually a P.A., but I don't care), I mentioned that it was so bad I was getting a sinus headache, which I normally never get at all. Then this exchange occurred:

Him: Yeah, so you probably feel compression too, right? Like when during takeoff and landing in a plane?
Me: Yes! Especially when I blow.... Uh, my nose, I mean.

We both got a pretty fun laugh out of that one.

So, Uh, Just Where IS China?

I've seen this commercial on a few times now.



Here's my question: I may just be totally retarded, but didn't the guy hit China the first time around? I know it's a very small target and all -- being the country of largest geographic mass in the world -- but I'm pretty sure his first pushpin hit pretty well into the middle of China.

If I Were Mr. Potato Head

... my nose would be removed from my face by now.

I think I caught something during this most recent cold snap (or maybe it was during the warm snap) that has rendered my nose useless for its intended purposes. Instead, it now serves as a bottomless repository of airway-clogging goop. I'm temporarily changing my name to Rudolph because my nose is so ridiculously crimson at the moment.



My dad used to get irritated at me when my nose would run like this. I'd sit there doing my thing, then get up to blow my nose... then I'd go back to what I was doing, then a few minutes later get up again to blow my nose... then repeat the cycle. My dad eventually would get annoyed at this cycle, apparently completely failing to understand why I couldn't just, once and for all, get up, blow everything out of my nose, and have it all done once and for all. I don't think he understood the concept that my body actually replaced all the mucous I had just cleared out, and that I actually had to do a new blow job (tee hee hee!) to get rid of this new batch. Nor do I think he actually appreciated the fact that it bugged me as much, if not more, than it did him that I had to do that.

In any event, it's kinda funny to think back to my dad when I'm sick for such a stupid proposition. It's like bailing out a leaky boat, dad. "Just clean it out already!" Sounds more like douching before sex, personally. (Or taking an enema, I guess. I wouldn't know.)

But Dad, if I could, I would shove a vacuum tube up my nostrils right now, suck it all up, and leave it there until it was all cleared up. Because frankly, I'm pretty miserable right around now.

Stranger in a Not-So-Strange Land

Scene: Me, walking from the Metro to Whitlow's on Wilson, to meet some friends for brunch.

Players: Me, and some random African-American girl no older than 14. We are walking in opposite directions, toward each other.

[Dialogue]

She: Excuse me, hey.
Me: [Looks up from cell phone, a text message having caught my attention]
She: Hey... hey, you speak English, right?
Me: Uh, NO. [Rolls eyes]

[End.]

***

It's not like we were in Seven Corners or something, where you could go the entire day and conduct your entire business without ever speaking English. And it's not like I look like I just stepped off the boat.

I think the scene could have been better if I had actually answered the question with a long English response to the effect of "no." Maybe something like "Nah, never quite picked it up in school. My English skills are pretty bad. Diction, grammar, enunciation, all never caught on. Sorry... bitch."

But then brunch was delightful.

A Friend in Need

"A good friend tells you these things," Steve told me. I was still nervously laughing, weighing just how I was supposed to respond to his last comment.

He led me over to where Michael was standing and virtually commanded of him to pull something out of his pocket. They were Listerine strips.

"You have bad breath," Steve repeated. "Pop one of these."



I popped one, still nervously laughing and still not having had the presence of mind to actually articulate any witty retort. Steve popped one too.

"Now," he said, "do this." He exhaled like Zeus expelling a new child, showing off his new clean, fresh Listerine breath.

I declined. Steve just laughed at me and repeated: "Really, you had to be told. Friends tell each other these things."

I guess that means that I was supposed to tell him that the smell of his breath telling me I had halitosis was pretty damn bad too. But I didn't.

We Love Tara Reid

We here at MTML (I'm using the royal "we" now -- cool, huh?) love Tara Reid.

Is It Wrong....

... to want to pinch a priest's butt?

I went out for drinks tonight with some people whose common bond was that they all attended the same Catholic church. "Father" made an appearance to wish two of his congregants a happy birthday.

At one point in the night, he was standing talking to some people while I was seated on a couch right behind him. He was much cuter than I would ever have expected from a Catholic priest.

The temptation to pinch his butt was incredible.

But I resisted. Go me.

Marriage vs. Voting

So the White House has spoken on the recent momentum toward giving the District of Columbia a vote in Congress: it think such a vote would be unconstitutional. Uh, okay.

Putting aside the question of whether the law will actually be unconstitutional -- that is a debate for far wiser legal minds than mine -- here's my solution: Amend the freaking Constitution, if need be.

Seriously, this administration has clamored for constitutional amendments geared toward nothing but denying gay men and lesbians equal access to state (secular) marriage laws. They would love to make flag-burning unconstitutional.

But grant 500,000 taxpaying American citizens the right to voting representation in Congress? Heaven forbid! The Constitution would be highly offended!

The battles these people choose to pick is absolutely staggering.

Woke Up, Got Out of Bed, Hung Up On a Telemarketer

Dear Campaign Telemarketer Person:

Do you remember our phone call this morning? I'm sure you don't, because I'm sure you make tons of calls like this every single day. It's not your fault, but you called me just around the time I was getting ready for work (I start later than most). I don't blame you; I do blame myself for answering the phone at all (I usually don't).

But what happened after I answered the phone intrigues me. You identified me by name and started speaking to me. That's great. You're excited about your candidate. Also great. You wanted to explain to me why you're so ecstatic that your candidate has tossed his hat into the White House 2008 race. I'm happy for you.

You told me all this in about one and a half breaths. You told me all of this in approximately 45 seconds of non-stop talking. At this point I had literally uttered two syllables since picking up the phone. But again, I figured it was partly my fault, so I waited for a reasonable break in your stride, a logical stopping point in your speech, a place where I could my word in edgewise.

As you'll recall, once you took your break in breath, I pounced -- and I pounced politely. I told you very nicely, without raised voice or hint of aggravation, that while I appreciated your enthusiasm, you caught me at a bad time; that I was busy; that I had work to do. You know: a job. Note that I did not disparage your candidate, call you a bad name (some people do that with unsolicited telephone calls), or even get upset. I politely told you that I have no time to listen to you, and that was all.

As I prepared for a cordial ending to this call, though, you piped back up in your cheery falsetto and continued into your script (I can only assume you had a printed script in front of you). You paid no attention whatsoever to what I had just told you: that I was busy and that there were others things I needed to be doing with my time. Well, either that or you just didn't care about my time.

You may or may not realize it (since you were apparently talking without regard to me, the person on the end of the phone, by this point), but it was at this point that I hung up on you.

Let me be clear: I do not rudely hang up on telemarketers. Nor do I verbally abuse them. That's just not my thing. You have a job to do, and much as it's a job which inconveniences those people who answer their phones, it's your job and I won't begrudge your doing it. But when I've tried to politely get your off the phone and you prove yourself un-receptive to these efforts -- well, it's at that point that I feel justified in rudely ceasing our "conversation," to the extent that what you and I had was a "conversation."

So, uh, sorry. Kinda. But I think you're used to being hung up on by now.

Oh, and for the record: You are promoting a politician. You are not selling timeshares or home air purifiers or vacuum cleaners (although I know politicians have a lot of hot air). Your job is to get people to vote for your candidate. And a pretty important step to getting people to vote for your candidate is getting people to like your candidate. Helpful hint: not letting people get off the phone with you when they've clearly expressed a desire to do so does not endear you to the hearts and minds of potential voters. Also, when someone tries to disengage from you by telling you they're going to work, you're not helping your case with the common worker when you effectively suggest to them that they can put their job on hold while you ask for money -- money that they're trying to get out the door to go earn.

Just some thoughts. Carry on.

Sincerely,
Dennis!

Random News Items

From the Department of Unsurprising Headlines ("DUH"), the Washington Post brings us this: "Bush Iraq Strategy Has No Option for Failure." You don't say. Seriously, though, what they also don't say is precisely what defines "victory" either.

---

This article is just heartbreaking in its ignorance and stupidity. A man who had been performing his job competently for 14 years suddenly becomes wholly incapable of doing his job -- just because decided to become a woman. Seriously, as a guy he was great for the job. As a woman, she's suddenly untrustworthy. Do her opponents at all figure that their reaction is the exact reason she didn't say anything sooner? You can't argue "untrustworthy" when it's you who inspires people to keep secrets.

I Kissed a Boy

... and I'd do it again.

Tennis Parity

So famed tennis tournament Wimbledon has finally made the decision that it will pay its female champions the same as it pays its male champions. Sounds great.

I'm looking forward to seeing Martina Hingis play a five-set match against Maria Sharpova. That would be hot.

Seriously, I support equal pay for equal work, but the fact is, the women are asked to play less. They therefore exert less effort. How does that merit equal pay?

As the article points out, proponents of equal pay note that it was Wimbledon, not the players, who chose to set women's matches as three-set affairs. This is true. All I'm saying, then, is that in order to justify the equal pay, Wimbledon organizers should require that women play to five sets.

Proponents also lament that paying women less had always "sent the message" that that women's tennis was inferior to men's. Somehow, though, I didn't see anyone arguing that women should be required to play five games, because limiting their court time "sent the message" that women's tennis wasn't as great as men's tennis.

There's really only so many ways one can swing the word "equality."

Because I'm Old and Crotchety

At the risk of sounding like complete curmudgeon, what is up with the rash of me-centric behavior I've seen lately?

***

This weekend I was at a Dunkin' Donuts which included a seating area. I had purchased a breakfast sandwich (the fact that it was 12:30 pm notwithstanding) and a coffee, and settled in to enjoy my coffee while doing some reading.

Two tables away from me and in my direct line of sight was a man enjoy lunch of his own: Chinese takeout from the place across the street. Trust me, one can't mistaken the styrofoam box with rice and broccoli in it for anything whatsoever that Dunkin Donuts sells.

Note to the guy: Do really think that Dunkin Donuts is in the business of renting out property just for the purpose of letting you come in with whatever food you want to use those facilities? It's a business. It exists to make money. The tables there are meant for people who actually spend money in the joint. Why don't you just waltz on up with a checkered tablecloth and personal picnic lunch as long as you're at it? You're probably also the guy who goes to dinner parties at friends' houses empty-handed, because you wouldn't even think that the guy spending money to have you over deserves the respect of at least a gesture of reciprocity.

This doesn't just happen at Dunkin Donuts. I walk past an Au Bon Pain in downtown almost every day at lunch and consistently see people on the tables set up outside there with non-ABP food sitting there enjoying their lunches. My same thoughts apply to you too, morons. And to anyone who thinks that just because a place without wait service puts out tables they're inviting you to sit there whether you've purchased anything there or not.

***

I've recently joined a mailing list in DC for people who have items they wish to get rid of. The point of the group is to reduce waste by trying to get people to give away stuff they'd otherwise trash (one man's trash and all that). You put up posts saying you have stuff you'd like to get rid of, and other people respond by saying they'd like to get them. It's a great idea in principle, one which I support.

But some people on this list annoy me to pieces. Recently, I offered up several items for pick up. One would think that, given that I'm offering to give away, free of charge, these items that you normally would have to spend at least some amount of money to buy new, you'd do me the courtesy of letting me know if you'll be late in picking them up, or if you decide you don't want the item.

Apparently this is not the case. I had at least two people express interest in my items and not bother to tell me that they were either no longer interested or that they logistically couldn't figure a way to come get the stuff from me. (As the donee, I figure I shouldn't have to be the one to make the effort to deliver the damn things.)

Likewise, every so often you see a post from people who want things from the listserv members: "I need a XXXX. Does anyone have one they're not using?" This is fine and dandy too, but for the love of Pete, do you want to PLEASE try to make these messages sound less like a freebie grab? One person recently posted that they wanted a "vacume" (yeah, really, I had to make fun of that by spelling it the way it was typed -- TWICE) and who actually asked that any people responding to her to "respect [her] time and make sure it works." Okay, seriously, you're asking for a freebie handout. While I agree that it's rather uncool to deliberately hand off a product that doesn't work, it's seriously presumptuous to chastise people in advance for that, and to phrase in that way. Take what you get and if it doesn't work, it was worth every penny you paid to get it, buster.

***

I could make all kinds of declarations about the state of civility and personal interaction in our society today, but really that would make me come across as even more cantankerous that I really am. So I'll just leave this post at that. There's more examples out there, I'm sure. Supplements to come.

Quiznos, aka The Sandwich Nazis

Too lazy to make a real choice as to what to have for lunch today, I found my feet wandering over the Quiznos, figuring that it would be a decent, and cheap, option. I had no idea what I was in for.

I got in and stood in a relatively short line -- and I soon came to find out why it was so short. Everyone -- and I mean everyone -- behind the counter was Speedy Gonzalez on crack. Everyone before me placed their orders quickly, seemingly afraid that if they didn't act in time their sandwiches would be snatched from them. It was often difficult to get a word in edgewise that wasn't a direct response to a question, even if it was relevant.

Counter lady: Can I take your order?
Customer: Roast beef sandwich please?
Counter lady: Size?
Customer: Oh, uh, small please.
Counter lady: Lettuce tomato?
Customer: Sure. Oh, could I...
Counter lady: NEXT!

Okay, so that customer was me. I had wanted to specify wheat bread, but apparently when you're ordering a small sandwich, you have no choice in the matter. Either that, or she just didn't care to give me a choice.

Counter lady, as it turns out, was in charge of the first half of sandwich construction only. She passed the sandwich to the guy next to her, whose job it was to add the meats and run the item through the "toasty" machine. So he diligently weighed my roast beef and put my sandwich on the grill... all before I could open my mouth to blurt out "CouldIGetCheeseOnThat?"

He didn't seem to hear me, and indeed, he had already turned his attention to the next sandwich waiting to be made in front of him. The woman in line behind me was nice enough to try to help. "I don't think he heard you," she said, and piped up on my behalf: "EXCUSE ME SIR, COULD HE GET CHEESE ON HIS ROAST BEEF?"

This broke the flow of traffic rather abruptly for the well-oiled Quiznos machine. Both Counter Lady and Counter Guy stopped and consulted with each other for a second before reaching their almost Dolby-stereo conclusion: "that doesn't come with cheese."

Never mind that I would have been willing to pay for it, but oh well. I just sighed and said, "Never mind." I turned to the woman behind me and said, "Really, I'm just not in the mindframe to fight for it." She agreed: "You gotta pick your battles."

We got to the other side of the toast machine where yet another employee was standing there waiting. "Lettuce," he said as he slapped some lettuce on my sandwich, "Here or to go?" he added. The two phrases blended together in one smooth breath.

"To go please," I said. Looking down at the assortment of sandwich add-ons he had in front of him, I noticed some extra stuff ("They got a pepper bar!") and before I opened my mouth say "Could you toss some pickles on there too?" my sandwich was already wrapped up and halfway down the counter.

The woman behind me noticed what happened and chuckled. "Quite efficient here, aren't they?" I asked rhetorically. She smiled.

For some reason I found the entire situation insanely funny, so that by the time I got to the cashier, I couldn't even tell the guy what I had. I had burst out into laughter at how comical the whole event had come.

"What?" Cashier Man asked. "What's so funny?"

But I couldn't stop laughing. I was literally shaking.

Eventually I let it out. "Small roast beef." And I kept laughing.

"Everything okay? If anything's wrong, I need to know," he tried to help. I imagine he saw at least some of my aborted attempts to add stuff to my sandwich.

"It's all good," I responded. "It's all good."

It was a small sandwich, and not terribly filling, but at least it was cheap.

Some Advice on How to Be Insensitive (Without Really Trying)

He wishes he could do something. He wishes he knew what to do.

The woman down the hall is sobbing. It's the most awful sound he's heard in a long time. It's the sound of a woman's heart actually breaking.

It's the sound of a woman whose burdens have finally taken their toll. No matter how strong her back was before, she would be hard pressed to continue to survive this load.

He knows the woman. They've interacted on many an occasion and are friendly with one another. But their relationship lingers in that shapeless nebula between friend and acquaintance.

She's still sobbing. He's still pained by it.

It has long been common knowledge -- unspoken but for soft, dirty whispers that suggest juicy gossip but in fact betray sadness -- that her husband is a philandering cad. Word quickly and quietly has spread that this jag has been brought about by her discovery that he has taken a week-long cruise with his girlfriend -- while his wife is left to tend some books in the office, and to sob uncontrollably upon the discovery.

She is of a certain age, a certain generation and culture and background for which divorce is simply not an option. She has on many occasions shared her frustrations, her sadness, her fear, her anxiety with people that her husband is cheating on her. For some with whom she shares this information, their patience has begun to run thin; for them, her is unwillingness to take control of the situation and leave him causes endless frustration in the midst of her vulnerability.

She's on the phone, crying bitter tears and speaking in another tongue to an unknown confidant. She's packing up her things from the office she and her husband share. It's unclear where everything is going, but by the time she leaves her office, the walls will be bare, save for the picture hooks. Most of the paperwork will have made its way into one of many boxes, but the computer, printer, and lamp will likely remain where they are. She will probably not return to retrieve them, ever.

He sits down the hall, his heart quietly aching at the sound of so much suffering. In the movies, it's easy to disassociate oneself with a sobbing woman's trauma by letting oneself just think about what a phenomenal acting job she's doing. When an actual real-life acquaintance is cut to the quick, though -- stepping outside oneself takes substantial effort.

He steels himself. Closing the door would appear rude, even if his intentions were noble: she'd probably want to know, somewhere in the back of her mind, that her wailing wasn't necessarily absorbed by everyone around her. But then it would also appear as if he just couldn't be bothered with her problem, and so he shut the door on her. Either way, it's a cruel and heartless gesture, so the status quo wins out, and his door remains open.

He'd love to go to her and hug her, because he knows she needs it. He'd love to take the phone from her and tell whoever it is on the other end to just drop whatever s/he's doing and get over here pronto because Good God, man, can't you hear the pain in her voice? She needs you!

He sits alone, in his office, awkwardly trying to act as though nothing is happening.

He wishes he could do something. He wishes he knew what to do.

He wishes he had the balls to be a man.

I am Fanning the Flames of My Faggotry*

I was walking home from having some drinks with some friends this evening (yes, it's a relatively early night) when I starting thinking to myself what I would do when I got home. Despite the fact that I have all three of my Netflix movies waiting for me, I had the hankering to pop in one of my own DVDs instead.

My internal monologue took me to Steel Magnolias, which I haven't seen all the way through in ages that which is always a fun movie (and by fun, I mean great catty lines as well as "sob like a baby" material). I figured I'd dig it out and pop it in when I got home.



When I got home, I realized that I had forgotten to turn the TV off when I left. It was set to ABC Family (Stepmom was on when I left). And what's on the boob tube?

Steel Magnolias.

I swear I'm psychic.


*Bonus points if you get this reference.

Out of the Locker Room, Out of the Closet

I read this morning that ex-Utah Jazz play John Amaechi has come out of the closet. That's some pretty cool news.

What's sad is that he is only the sixth former professional male athlete to do so, and that he still continues the trend that only former professional athletes feel comfortable acknowledging their homosexuality to their teammates.

Reading through the article, it's clear that all the interviews are meant to reflect a "eh, it's no big deal", laissez-faire, live-and-let-live attitude on the part of the reacting players. But I don't think it worked.

Check out Michael Wilborn's take on the reactions of other basketball players. I think he's got some great points. If I can, I'd like to try to add to them:

While LeBron James's response is spun as a trust issue, he places the burden squarely upon the wrong shoulders. Says James:

With teammates you have to be trustworthy, and if you're gay and you're not admitting that you are, then you are not trustworthy. So that's like the No. 1 thing as teammates -- we all trust each other. You've heard of the in-room, locker room code. What happens in the locker room stays in there. It's a trust factor, honestly. A big trust factor.

Wow. James does a great job of blaming-the-homo there. "I can't trust you if you're hiding something like that from me," he effectively says. Never mind that it's wholly unclear whether Amaechi could have trusted him (or any other player) to not let any prejudices interfere with the game upon such a revelation. (I speak as if they were on the same team; it's just easier that way. I'm referring to any hypothetical gay player on the same team as James.)

And why would any pro player think that it wouldn't change the dynamic and affect the game and the team? Shavik Rudolph's comment -- "As long as you don't bring your gayness on me I'm fine" -- may seem innocuous, but buried in that comment is a mistrust in and of itself. What, precisely, constitutes "bring[ing] your gayness on" someone else? The mind boggles at all the tiny little things that Amaechi would do from then on which would be tagged as "bring[ing] your gayness on" him. And the "awkwardness" in the locker room? That's your problem, not his.

Comments like this are rooted in the popular misconception that gay men will screw anything with a penis between their legs. Get over yourself, Rudolph. You ain't that hot. I wouldn't do you. I have no sexual desire for you whatsoever. There, does that help alleviate the awkwardness in the locker room?*

By the way, thought patterns like that have also generally formed the basis for many a hate-crime. Remember Matthew Shepard and the "gay panic" defense? Quick refresher: "Gay panic" is a "defense" (I use the term loosely) against hate crimes that says, basically, "the defendant did what he did because a gay guy may have hit on him, and he's not gay." (I say "may have" because sometimes it's based the mere perception of being hit on. "The faggot looked at me the wrong way, so I beat him up.") Yeah. So when Rudolph is saying to keep your "gayness" away from him -- well, it's just puts the edge on. Watch your step, Gay Man, because everything you do from now on will be filtered through the "You're Gay" lens.

Besides, if someone were to keep their "gayness" to themselves, what the hell is the point of coming out of the closet at all? Would this mean that Amaechi wouldn't even be permitted to talk about his dating life in the locker room? I can imagine the conversation:

"What are you doing tonight?"
"Nothing, me and my boy are just chilling at home."
"Dude, why'd you have to mention 'your boy'? Don't go bringing your gayness on me!"

If that's the case, hell, it might be easier just staying closeted.

And what's up with Steven Hunter's comments?:

As long as he don't make any advances toward me I'm fine with it. As long as he came to play basketball like a man and conducted himself like a good person, I'd be fine with it."

Okay, I've already addressed the whole "don't make any advances toward me" line of "reasoning." (By the way, you ain't all that either, Hunter.) Your criterion is that he play basketball "like a man"? What, because gay men are sissy queens?** Here's a hint: a really good trey usually requires a limp wrist. Look at your hand after you've tossed your last free throw. You'll see what I mean. Besides, if you're worried about someone prancing around the court in high heels and a dress, you needn't -- the NBA actually does have some standards in terms of ability to play.

And "conducting yourself like a good person" is, I would hope, a standard you attribute to all players, not just the gay ones. And yet it doesn't appear that you've bent over backward to condemn any of your fellow players who have had repeated run-ins with the law, nor have you really said much about on-court bench-clearing scuffles that involve sucker-punches.

Orlando's Grant Hill probably had the best response, recognizing the significance of Amaechi's decision and reflecting on its impact: "The fact that John has done this, maybe it will give others the comfort or confidence to come out as well, whether they are playing or retiring."

* Comments like this echo the military's "Don't Ask/Don't Tell" policy, which suggests that openly gay people can't effectively serve in the armed forces because it would affect morale. Again, though, the burden is placed on the homosexual: stay in the closet, because we can't expect your colleagues to get over their irrational prejudices and we'd just as soon let them cling to those prejudices than let you serve openly as any other soldier would.

** Though I have to admit that, if the straight world's knowledge of gay life is limited to what they see during news coverage of gay pride parades, I can somewhat understand this unfortunate stereotype.

Not So Smart.

So I had Jeopardy! on in the background tonight -- well, the first part of it, the part that comes before the lame contestant interviews -- and I found myself answering a bunch of the questions. Wow, I thought, this is easy. I can be on this show.

Then I realized they're in the middle of the Teen Tournament, and suddenly I felt all stupid again.

He Also Had Perfect SAT Scores.

I was sitting around at Caribou Coffee this afternoon, reading and listening to my jukie (read: people watching and looking for cute boys). Even though there was music being piped directly into my ears, I could totally overhear the conversation taking place two tables away from me. Evidently, it was a college interview: sprite, peppy, cute little 17 year old was busy telling a nice young professional woman about his interests and goals so that the nice young professional woman could decide whether he and Princeton University were a nice fit. (Yeah, I really did hear quite a bit.)

The nice young man was, of course, quite academically talented, with his interests skewed toward science. Advanced education was definitely in his future -- like, an M.D. or a Ph.D. -- in a science-related field.

Then the following exchange took place:

Lady: So tell me more about your coursework and your interests.
Kid: Well, while I'm interested in science, I like to keep myself well-rounded, so I take a variety of classes [couldn't hear rest of this sentence, but I presume it was the standard bullshit about "I'm totally well-rounded and multidimensional and perfect and not a completely one-dimensional science geek" stuff]
Lady: Oh, well that's cool. What instrument do you play? [Okay, clearly he just mentioned his musical talents.]
Kid: Violin.
Lady: Of course. [Interview continues.]

Here's my question: Would the lady's "of course" have sounded just a little less racist if the high school kid wasn't a little Asian boy?

Rakes

I think poor Ken Jennings (well, okay, not so poor) got hosed on this one:



"Hosed" -- hey, that's an accidental pun on the garden implement theme.

Of course, the right answer naturally brings to mind this clip:



(Someone actually edited that -- there's not that many rakes in the real episode.)

** Speaking of the real episode, here's the real scene from the show. Actually much funnier in the original.

Hissy Fit

I had a minor hissy fit this weekend. Not that it was determinative of my actions, but I generally had unpleasant thoughts through much of Saturday night for it.

Scenario:

I texted* a friend of mine (let's call him "George") on Saturday afternoon -- around 2:00 -- to ask what he was up that evening. This is a pretty good friend of mine with whom I've hung out quite a bit in recent months.

I got a response from him about half an hour later: "Heading to a party with [new boyfriend] et al. Want to join?"

Needing some details, I texted back: "Hmmm. Whose party?" I didn't really want to just randomly show up at a party where I would know no one, after all. It's important to get a sense of who the host is.

Response: "Friends of [the new boyfriend]. [Three other friends of ours] are going too."

And that, for some reason, floored me. George had already asked three people to go with him to this party... and I was only getting invited to "join" because I happened to send the text asking about that night.

Only in small part due to the principle of the matter, I decided not to go to that party. First, it wasn't clear whose party it was, and I generally don't like being thrust into a party filled with strangers. But another part of me did think that I didn't particularly care to hang out with George if his inviting me was something of an afterthought. "Eh, I didn't think to call you, but if you want to come, sure, come along."

I'm sure this will all blow over soon enough, but for some reason, that whole confluence of events riled me. "Bill," one of the three mutual friends was WAS invited to go, actually called and texted me later to ask when I was heading over and if I wanted to share a cab. Afraid that I would bite his head off for no good reason, I declined to take the call or return the text, and just disappeared from the face of the planet for the night.

So in the end, I spent Saturday night alone in my apartment. Which was GREAT, by the way, because I managed to a HUGE slew of LONG-overdue cleaning. My kitchen is now amazing.

Now I just need to work on my bathroom, living room, and bedroom.

Then I might have a party and forget to invite George. Kidding!


* I actually can't stand that this is a verb now, and I'm not a fan of using it as a general mode of communication. However, I have given up and added a plan to my phone for text messaging because so damn many of my friends use it with alarming frequency.

WWW-What?

Random rant:

Why, oh why, is it that some websites will work ONLY if you type in the "www" in the first part of the address? Most competent, reputable websites will get to where you're going without the lead "www." Why can't they all do this?

Good Example: washingtonpost.com and www.washingtonpost.com both take you to the same place.

Bad Example: The District of Columbia bar's web page is at www.dcbar.org. But if, for whatever, reason, you don't type the "www", you get a missing page error.

Wassup widdat?

HRC 2008?

Hillary Clinton as formally announced her bid for the 2008 presidency.

If the Democratic party has any lick of sense whatsoever, she will not survive the primaries.

Don't get me wrong, I respect Senator Clinton and the work she's done, and I think she would make a fine president. And, of course, if she makes the ballot, it would take a miracle candidate to make me vote for a Republican over her.

But she's a lightning rod. Republicans hate her, and I don't just mean hate, I mean hate hate. I think it started when she had the audacity to step outside the traditional figurehead "First Lady" role (consisting of tackling some pet charity projects and looking pretty) and actually attempting to tackle some substantive issues like health care. Since her time living in the White House, she successfully moved to New York (making her something of a political carpetbagger) pretty much exclusively for the purpose of getting herself elected to Congress.

Remember how much Republicans hated former President Bill Clinton? It was pure vitriol. There was nothing President Clinton could do which didn't raise hackles with Republicans, which was particularly troubling when they controlled Congress. Do I even need to mention the impeachment again? Do I have to draw the comparison between impeachment for sexual encounters and impeachment for drumming up a phony war and causing the deaths of tens of thousands of people?

Hillary Clinton on the 2008 ballot would undoubtedly drive scores of Republicans to polls for the sole purpose of voting against her. Whatever divisions and disagreements may exist among Republicans right now, one thing will unite them: their blinding hatred of Senator Clinton. They will run straight to the polls to vote for "Anyone But Hillary." Even Republicans who might otherwise be tempted to stay at home due to their ambivalence over any Republican candidate would rush out there to keep Senator Clinton out of the White House.

Say, for example, John McCain made the ballot. It strikes me that Senator McCain has some liabilities which work against him; the core conservative Republican base may not be terribly happy with his "maverick" image (not that it's terribly accurate) or that he has been known to publicly drift away from the party line from time to time. With him on the ballot, Republicans may very well be tempted to skip the election completely: the logic being, the only thing he has going for him is the "R" after his name, and that's not enough to affirmatively vote for him.

But if his ticket is the only viable thing standing in the way of another Clinton in the Oval Office, you better believe that rank-and-file Republicans would run to the polls to prevent that from happening.

If Democrats have any lick of sense, they will not put Hillary Clinton on the national ballot. Irrespective of her qualifications as a lawmaker, a lawyer, and and politician, she will never make it to the White House. And frankly, Democrats need to take the White House in 2008. We can't afford another four years of Republican rule.

Defying Convention

Today I decided to be a rebel.

As I got on the elevator to leave the office for lunch today,I decided I would defy the social mores and stand, the entire time, facing away from the door.

And I did.

I am such a rebel.

Unfortunately, there were no other people in the elevator for the entire ride down.

Sing-Along

Hot on the heels of my last post – and I swear I am not making this up – I had the most fun experience walking to work this morning.

Having reluctantly pulled myself out of bed and conducted my regular morning ritual, I was dressed and on my way to work. On 14th Street, I passed a pair of black women who were also, I presume, on their way to work, heading in the same direction as I was. Thought nothing of them (well, except for the fact they were both carrying plastic bags containing what I assume to be lunch, including one which contained a mini-bag of Munchos, which I LOVE and which made me instantly crave their oh-so-salty goodness), walked past them, left them in my dust as they strolled along.

With the women no more than 20 feet behind me, a car slowly drives by us and situates herself at a red light. The driver's stereo is loud and her sunroof is opened just a tad, enough to broadcast to a decent hearing range that she was listening to the Jennifer Hudson version of "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going." (Really. I kid you not. The day after I post about this. I can't escape it, I tell ya.)

Unable to help myself, I sing along softly to myself because, despite what I said in yesterday's post, I do like the song itself. "I'm not living without you. I'm not living without you. I'm staying...."

At around this point, I realize I'm not alone. Sure enough, one of the two women I passed not ten seconds before has chosen to join in on this impromptu karaoke, but with a lot more gusto than I would have mustered. (I'm guessing it was probably because she was with a friend which made her look like less of a freak.) "I'm staying," she sings out (as in "Sing out, Girlfriend!"). "And you, and you.... YOU'RE GONNA LOVE ME-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!" she lets out. Not as good as J-Hol or J-Hu (I actually hate those abbreviations) but with enough of a vibrato voice as to make it pretty impressive.

I wanted to join in, but I thought that would be weird, so I just kept my own singing to myself. Instead of singing along to just a car stereo, I ended up joining in with a nice young woman on the street. It was a nice way to start the morning.

***

I think it would be fun, as Chrisafer suggests, to do periodic sing-alongs in the city. Dreamgirls, West Side Story, Grease, The Sound of Music, The Rocky Horror Picture Show.... the possibilities could be endless!

And I Am Telling You -- I Don't Know What I'm Talking About.

So I saw Dreamgirls recently. I loved the show -- not so much because of the plot and the pacing could be a bit off, but more because of the music and energy. The Effie (Jennifer Hudson) character successfully steals the show for the first half of the movie, and Beyonce blends into the background as the inferior singer in the trio. Effie unfortunately moves into the background for much of the second half of the movie, but, as I say, I just enjoyed the music and the excitement. Besides, when something like Dreamgirls shows up at the Uptown Theater in Cleveland Park, there's bound to be a fantastic mix of gay boys and black women which always make for a fun time.

Having never seen the original stage version, all I knew about from it was what I had heard previously -- mostly, "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going," by Jennifer Holliday. That woman has got a powerful set of lungs on her, and her performance is therefore completely breathtaking. I'd heard it a million times and it just sounds beautiful:

And I am telling you
I'm not going.
You're the best man I've never known!
There's no way I'll ever go!
No no no no no.
I'm not living without you.
I'm not living without you.
I'm staying.
I'm staying.
And you, and you -- you're gonna love me!

If you don't believe me about the power of this woman's song (though why wouldn't you believe me?), check out Holliday's performance at the 1982 Tony Awards:



[Obligatory spoiler alert! -- Don't read further if you haven't seen the movie and still want to.]

So the song is great and strong and all -- "You're going to love me, dammit!" -- and in a vacuum I love the romantic concept of swearing that you'll devote your life to earning the love of the one person you feel destined to become your true love...

... but in the context of the movie you quickly come to realize that the song is tremendously ironic at best, sad and kind of pitiful at worst.

The song comes at the point in the movie when Effie realizes that she's been replaced as one the Dreamgirls. (She's replaced by a skinny chick -- because it's all about what will sell.) Feeling betrayed, she turns to the manager (with whom she had developed an intimate relationship) for an explanation, only to be told that the decision had been made, and she was out.



Then Effie launches into it: "I'm not going!" she cries. "I'm staying!" To Curtis (the manager), she belts out: "You're the best man I've ever known! There's no way I'll ever go!"

But Curtis is now not only the man who has cut her out of the show, he is also that man she has just accused of sleeping with Deena (Beyonce) -- and we later find out either that she was right, or she was prescient. Is he really still the best man she's ever known if he can be such a cad?

"I'm staying! I'm staying!" she cries. "You're gonna love me!" I always thought those words meant she was do what it took to redeem herself in the eyes of someone who had fallen out of love with her. But that's not what happens in the show. She's resolving to stay -- whether in the act or in the relationship -- from which she has been forcibly booted.

In fact, none of her predictions and resolutions even remotely come close to coming true. "I'm staying," she resolves, but she doesn't. From all appearances she drifts off out of the limelight, has her child without telling anyone, burns through the half a million she had earned until then and ends up living on public assistance in less-than-luxurious digs with her daughter.

"You're gonna love me!" she insists... but she doesn't fight for the man (not that she should, seeing as he wasn't a very nice man anyway), even though he was her baby-daddy.

Sad to say, the song now has taken on a whole new meaning now that I've seen it performed in the context in which it was created. It's no longer a demonstration of determination and will with regard to a lost love. It's more of a swan song -- the dying wail of a beautiful creature. It's not about empowerment and overcoming love's obstacles -- it's about saying you will, and then rolling over and letting Cupid sucker-punch you.

But how completely awesome was it that Loretta Devine, one of the original on-stage Dreamgirls, made an appearance in the movie? Sing it, girl!

El Espacio Mio

I have given in and created a MySpace page.

I must say, it is wildly addicting.

I've already added a slew of friends to it and they have taken over my comments section.

And yet it's so much fun. I've uploaded a song to the page as well as a few videos. I've also started posting up a bunch of photos on my friends' pages.

And I've added a few of the people from my blogroll to my MySpace page, completely shattering the semi-anonymity that this blog used to provide with respect to my readers. (Both of them!)

So if you're on MySpace, drop me a friend request!

Hi, My Name is Dennis! But My Friends Call Me Shaun.

I have no timed haircut schedule. I don't have a standing "every X months" appointment to meet with Chris, my hair guy of over five years. (I often joke that the longest relationship I've ever had with a guy who runs his fingers through my hair is with Chris.) I usually just give up and make the appointment when my hair gets exceptionally unruly. Oftentimes this coincides with when my hair reaches past my eyebrows in the shower.



I've been growing my hair out for the winter this year. My records (I have records!) show that the last time I got a haircut was in August. No particular reason; I just haven't felt the need to do it yet. The winter provides a convenient excuse, as head hair helps trap some heat in the body (even though this winter is thus far exceptionally mild).



I've been fooling with the style as long as I have the hair now. All through my formative years -- including through a good bit of college -- my hair was always parted on the left side. This for no other reason than that's how my parents combed it for me before I could do so myself. In grade school I remember thinking some of my friends looked good with a middle part, but I wasn't able to pull that off. My high school senior photo makes me look like a prototypical Asian guy, complete with unflattering glasses. (I have since given myself the gift of contacts, though I wear the glasses from time to time to give my eyeballs a break.)



I've been diddling with a middle part lately, but it's hard because apparently my hair continues to be trained to skew in the direction of the left side-part. So the middle part looks like of retarded; the two sides aren't balanced, because the half of the left side feels the need to fall back toward the right.



Last night, in an effort to fight my hair's "natural" inclinations (also known as "trying to break my hair's almost-thirty-year grooming styles), I went the other way completely, and combed my hair into a right-side side-part. This was met with more success than the mid-part, and I think I kinda like my hair today.



As I sat down to dinner last night, my friend looked at me and commented, "So, Shaun Cassidy, what's up with the long feathery hair?" I don't know if she meant it as a compliment or not, but seeing as Shaun Cassidy was quite the cutie-patootie in his day, I'll take it as a compliment.



For the more Shaun Cassidy photos than you can possibly shake a stick (nudge nudge wink wink) at, click here.

And just for the hell of it -- here's one of four Cassidy brothers with "Mom" Shirley.

Does Anyone Else Get that Feeling?

Lately my life is just like this little bunny rabbit. I love him.

But then he's cuter than I am. So it's quite likely he's probably getting more sex than I am.

Then again, he is a freaking bunny rabbit. There's a reason someone coined the phrase "fuck like bunnies."

The Worst Part About a New Year: Reset Deductibles

A play in ridiculously few lines, let alone acts.

Dramatis personae: Pharmacy customer (played by me); pharmacy guy-behind-the-counter (kinda cute, actually); pharmacist.

Date: January 2, 2007, approx. 8:30 p.m.

[Curtain Up.]

[Customer is standing at Pharmacy Counter looking to retrieve some prescription medications.]

Customer: Picking up, please. Last name is [redacted]. [Spells name.]
GBTC: Two prescriptions?
Customer: Yes, please.

[GBTC scans Customer's CVS Card and then scans the bar codes for the two prescriptions. Customer reaches for his credit card. Preparing to swipe his card, he looks down to see the total charge for his two medications.]

Customer: Holy crap! $120?!?
GBTC: Looks like it. Yeah, you know, new year comes around and the deductibles go back up again....
Customer: Holy crap man!
GBTC: [Shakes head] They'll get you one way or another....

[Customer swipes his credit card and signs the digital screen. Upon approval, a very long cash register receipt spews forth from the machine.]

GBTC: [Briefly looking at receipt] Well, you also get $2.50 in CVS ExtraBucks!
Customer: [only slightly sarcastic] Oh, well, I'm doing my happy dance now! [Does not actually do anything resembling a dance.]
Pharmacist: [filling out other orders all the while] [grins to herself]

[Curtain Down.]

Sadly, this is the coolest I'm going to get in terms of a "New Year" post. But Happy New Year all!

Merry Christmas...

Or whatever holiday you celebrate right around now. Or if you don't celebrate a holiday... well, happy day off.

I got you a present!



Enjoy this holiday season, folks.

It's Better Than Drinking Alone

The holiday season is wearing me out. Not because I'm this big social butterfly with all these "events" to go to or anything. It's because I feel like I need to go out a lot more than usual (just because it's the holiday season) and then I end up drinking more than I should and getting home later than I should (like now!) and fucking up my work situation more than it's already fucked up.

Tonight I actually walked through a particularly bad thought process with my friend at JRs. It went something along the lines of "I've seen that guy here three nights in a row now. Kinda hot... I'd do him... but what a lush. He's been here three nights in a row!... Of course the only way I'd know that is because I've been here three nights in a row...."

Yeah, it's been that kind of holiday season.

I bought several new jeans the other day then realized I need new pants for work too. Why do the crotches always seem to wear out faster than any other part of the pant? While we're at it, how the fuck do I stop my ever-expanding waist size? It's hard to buy pants for short fat people like me. I need an inseam of 28 or 29. No one makes those except for people with, like 26 waists. Take a waist my size, and people assume your inseam is something like 33 or 34. No one seems to make the waist/inseam combination for me. I'm short and fat, and now shopping is becoming a challenge.

I'm not sober. Drunk blogging is fun!

Good night folks! I'm here all week. Maybe not blogging, but I'll still be here.

Giving Up the Ghost

Dear C---,

You probably don't know this -- or if you do, you're deliberately putting it out of your mind -- but I have an immense crush on you. Huge. You're sweet, and smart, and very handsome, and I love the time I've spent with you.

You possibly don't know that every time I hang out with my friends, I ask whether or not you'll be joining us.

You possibly don't know that whenever I see you, my heart skips a beat.

You possibly don't know that when we hug -- whether it's hello, or goodbye, or anything in between -- I wish it would last forever. Your warmth, your scent, your smile, your eyes: I could get lost in that moment for an eternity.

I've teetered on the precipice of falling head over heels for you for a while.

But it seems like you haven't yet gotten over your last relationship, which ended several years ago. You're still apparently quite wounded by its dissolution. You've told me and our friends explicitly that, having had the love of your life once already, you're really not interested in ever finding anyone else. And it seems like you're not going to be ready for another relationship with anyone any time soon.

I'm sorry that you've been hurt. I'm sorry that you're still hurting. But most of all, I'm sorry that everything that I can offer you, everything I want to give to you, everything I could bring myself to feel for you, won't be enough for you. I'm sorry that you're unable to accept what could be a great thing.

And I'm sorry that I find myself deciding that I'm just going to have to move on, and put what I've felt about you for a long time in the past.

Happy birthday, C---. I loved you.

Dennis!

Shop Shop Shop

IM Conversation:

Me: You interested in doing a Target and/or Costco run this weekend?
Friend: HAHAHAHAHA! You're kidding, right? Target the weekend before Christmas?
Me: Uh... I'll take that as a "no."

Symbolism

An open letter to [name redacted]:

Let me get this straight (no pun intended): You are a guy. Your life partner -- whom you call your husband -- is another guy. You are committed to each other as if you were legally married; you own a house together; the whole shebang. You had a commitment ceremony before friends and family and there you exchanged proclamations of love and fidelity with your man.

And you exchanged rings. Specifically, you wear what can only be referred to as a wedding band. On your left ring finger. And your husband wears one too.

I have no problem (obviously) with any of this. Heck, some day I'd love to be able to present a man to my family and friends and say, "This guy's the one. The rest of my life, this is the guy for me."

What strikes me as odd, though, is when you kvetch about people who see your ring -- again, it's on your left ring finger, and it's a wedding band -- and assume that you have a wife somewhere out there. You complain that this is an invasion of privacy. And you claim that it is an unwarranted conclusion to draw. You get upset that such comments, when you have to respond to them, put to you the choice of either (a) retreating to the closet by referring to your man-mate as a "wife", and switching pronouns accordingly, or (b) "outing" yourself by telling a stranger that the band represents a husband, not a wife. Neither option seems very appealing to you.

You claim that the ring is a private reminder, to yourself and your partner and to no one else, of your commitment, and it's no one's place to draw any inferences from your hand.

Honey, with all due respect, you need to face the consequences of your life choices. And by "life choices," I do not mean a choice to be gay, because I don't believe that's a choice. I'm referring to your choice to wear a wedding band, and to wear it on your left ring finger.

Let's face it: You've adopted the universal heterosexual symbol of commitment. The fact that it means something entirely different to you than it does to anyone else is of ZERO consequence here. I mean, none.

Yes, yes, yes, the issue of gay marriage has made headlines for a few years now. But with the exception of Massachusetts, no state has legal marriages. (Vermont, as I'm sure you know, created a civil equivalent to marriage for gay couples.) And every state that has since considered the question has voted to add to their state constitutions provisions that restrict marriages to a male joining with a female. So while gay marriages have, in fact, been making headlines, that doesn't exactly mean that it's been a successful P.R. drive, or that this country happily accepts men-whose-wedding-rings-represent-another-man.

Your ring is in clear public view. If you wanted a private reminder of your commitment to your man, you could have had his name tattooed across your ass. Or you could have discreetly put a ring on a chain and worn it around your neck (tucked inside your shirt). Or you could have worn a cock ring or inserted a butt plug (every time you shift in your chair, you'd think of him and smile). Hell, you could have discreetly stenciled his name on your fingernail. Each of these would have called less public attention to your union and could still have the purpose of affirming to you and your man that you are each other's life mate.

But no: you put on a ring. And by doing so you have made a public proclamation that's no different from wearing a crucifix around one's neck or a yarmulke on one's head. It's an outward manifestation pretty much compelling the viewer to reach one conclusion.

You simply cannot fault anyone for accepting your invitation to reach that conclusion.

Let's put it this way: You see a yarmulke, you're going to assume the wearer is an observant Jew. (Let's face it, yarmulkes aren't terribly fashionable among the non-Chosens.) Anyone sees a wedding ring, they're going to assume you're heterosexually coupled. Heck, if I were to put a wedding band on my left ring finger tomorrow, I'm sure strangers would think I'm hitched to a woman, despite the objective facts that I'm gay and I'm not actually coupled. The objective facts behind your ring matter only to you, but the signal that ring sends out doesn't necessarily track those objective underlying facts.

So get over it, [redacted]. Either be out and happy and prepared to talk about the unusual significance of the ring you wear, or quit bitching about having to hide the gender of your partner from people who draw that conclusion. I suppose the third option is to remove the ring completely, but even I would hate to see that happen.

The Closet

I thought that by this point in my life I'd be done with the closet. Of course, I also thought that my non-heterosexuality was kind of obvious, but I'm told it's not.*

Every Tuesday night I make my way to a local bar for poker night. It's a free night, and it's amusing and entertaining (except when I bow out ridiculously early), and I'm pretty much a regular there now. I recognize faces; I know some names; and I know who I prefer not to play against and who I enjoy playing against.

To these people, I apparently come across as "one of the guys." Which is great. And none of them come across as hatefully homophobic, which is also great. Over the past few months, I have been treated to such comments as "check out pink sweater," referring to a lithe young woman at another table whose breasts were, frankly, unbelievably perky. On another night, the men at the table shared ogling rights to an attractive, thin Asian woman who is becoming quite the regular.

Table talk has included (thankfully brief) discussions of which female celebrities are hot and which ones wouldn't be kicked out of bed. Remember when Keith in Six Feet Under starts that job in private security, and all the guys stand around and talk about chicks, and Keith is so afraid of revealing his sexuality that he even says "Yeah, I'd tap that" about one woman? Yeah, it's kinda strangely like that.

I generally play along with these discussions. No, I don't go so far as to mention which woman I'd love to tap, but I do comment that some women are attractive. Hey, I'm allowed to notice beauty. (Yes, that's a rationalization.)

But the funniest moment was one night when a gay social group decided to hold its happy hour at the bar on the same night as poker night. This made my table-mates quite nervous, from what I could tell. As we played, it was inescapable that there was an unusually large congregation of men at the bar. Not only was their sheer number noteworthy, but the total disproportion in the male-female ratio was stark.

One player at my table commented that "not one single guy playing poker tonight wants to lose early tonight of all nights." Meaning: Unlike other nights, losing early doesn't mean lounging at the bar and talking to attractive women. (Kind of a shame, actually, because the guy who said this was really very attractive. I definitely would not kick him out of bed.)

The straight boys seemed uneasy about the whole situation, though thankfully none of them spewed any hateful rhetoric. Some seemed in denial about the men at the bar, preferring to believe that it was some post-work professional networking scene. (Perhaps my gaydar is more attuned to it, but just by scanning the faces of the men, I could tell it was most decidedly not that.) One seemed unwilling to even use the word:

Me (joking): You could go get a drink with the gay guys up there.
Him: You really think that's what it is?
Me: What what is?
Him: You know... those guys up there.
Me: Do I really think that's a gay mixer going on up there? Yes, I do.

Inexplicably, I stopped myself just short of saying that I would join them when I was done, or that I was going to a different gay bar after the game.

I suppose it just never comes up in conversation, but a part of me does wish that I could "come clean" with the guys at these poker nights. When I first started going, there was this cute lesbian couple who were also regulars. They stopped showing up several months later. They never, oh, made out or anything, but it was pretty clear they were together. There are usually one or two cute guys playing with us, one of whom I think may be gay, but we never talk about it.

At some point I'm sure it'll work its way into conversation, but until then... I'll keep my queens in the pocket. Which is, again, a shame, because some of these boys are really cute.

* Recently, at a gay bar, I realized why it's somewhat unclear: there are men here who are WAY gayer than I could EVER be. I randomly made a comment to a stranger while waiting for my drink and the 23-year-old just oozed homosexuality in his response. I was actually kinda taken aback. Me, straight-acting? Go fig.

Elevator Elevator Up and Down

Random observation: Why is it that some people can't seem to even remotely guess the relative speed of elevators?

Scene: You get on the elevator on the 15th floor. You press the "Lobby" button. Someone else gets on at 12 and also presses the "Lobby" button. Then the elevator stops at 11 -- and the guy from 12 absent-minded starts to make his way off the elevator before he suddenly realizes he's not at his floor yet.

Did he really think he descended twelve floors that quickly?

This is even funnier if the person in question actually lives or works in the building in question. One would think they'd get used to it eventually.

Unreal!

WaPo reports today that "President Bush . . . dismissed calls for U.S. troop withdrawals from Iraq as unrealistic."

Because, of course, charging into Iraq with no clear plan, mission, timetable or defined goals was realistic back in 2003. It's a very convenient time for you to venture into the "real" world, Mr. President.

It's a Date

I visited a friend's house recently (within the past two weeks). At some point as we were walking through the house, I noticed a calendar pinned to the wall. Absently, I noted, "Your calendar is still set to November, 2006."

He looked at me. "Today is...?"

I was so embarrassed.

My Thanksgiving Observations

It's late, but here, in narrative form, are some observations from my Thanksgiving.

===

I purchase a fruit tart from Whole Foods and make my way to the bus stop, where I am to catch a crosstown bus to a friend's house in the Capitol Hill area in Northeast DC. The bus is surprisingly -- no, shockingly -- on time, requiring me to run to catch it. It's nearly 4:00, and I've lazed most of the day away. Most of my friends have probably started their dinners by this time; some are on their second helping, others are at their second dinner. I'm just getting started, which is all for the better, because I have a terrible habit of stuffing myself silly when presented with massive quantities of delicious food.

I take a seat in the third forward-facing set of seats, selfishly taking both seats for myself. The bus isn't all that populated, and I would have been willing to move my tart if someone needed the seat. No one ever did.

Across the aisle and one seat behind me is a girl reading a book while her earbuds presumably entertained her. She never looks up for the entire time I'm on this bus. I start creating random stories in my mind about how she's a drifter, and she's just riding the bus for fun "to see the sights." That theory would work better were she actually looking out the window instead of casually ensconced in her reading material.

An older gentleman sits facing the front door of the bus in a raincoat and suit. His suit is rumpled, as if he's actually worked through the day in it. But it's Thanksgiving Day, I think, but I suppose there are people out there who work in this day. He's reading through the Washington City Paper with studied concentration. He either finished the feature article long ago or he generally isn't interested in that kind of stuff, because he's concentrating more on the tail end of the paper, including the personals. He seems to reading every last one of them.

A few stops later, a large older man with white hair and matching (short yet scraggly) beard climbs aboard. He looks homeless, though he lacks the smell usually associated with homeless people. He's carrying two large plastic garbage bags, filled close to bursting with what appears to be junk. One man's trash is another man's treasure. Or maybe he just didn't have "nice" looking bags to carry his stuff in; not all of us have the luxury of courting around Whole Foods bags. He sits facing City Paper man; his eyes appear to glaze over as he stares vacantly out the window.

At one intersection, the bus waits for an inordinately long time. The driver has seen something I was unable to from her superior view: a large black woman was apparently making her way to the bus with some difficulty. Perhaps she had tried to run, but one could only imagine that she wouldn't have been making terribly great time even if she had made the effort. She sports a large waist-length fur coat (whether it's real fur is up for debate), which seemed incongruous when paired with her short skirt which revealed her ample thighs. Her hair consisted of both a bad cut and a bad color job; the short platinum blond waves matted themselves to her scalp like limp lasagna noodles.

A woman who appeared North African boards at the next stop. The bus continues to pull forward as she stands there and fumbles through her purse in search of the right change. From near the back exit, a voice calls out, apparently to her, "Yo Jessica, is yo' Mac-Donalds open?"

A woman with dirty blonde unruly hair also boards, carrying an oversized backpack. It's unclear whether she's one of those crunchy granola hippie types (perhaps she was backpacking across the country?), or whether she's just down on her luck and trying to keep it together. She sits two seats in front of me, her giant backpack sticking up at least two head lengths past hers.

Jessica doesn't even look up as she responds to her friend: "I don't know; I'm not there." She pays her fare and takes her seat next to Literary Girl; three rows behind her is her friend.

As we drive on, we pass the McDonald's. It is presumably the McDonald's to which Jessica's Friend referred, for she comments, "There it is... Dang, it is open!" For a brief moment, I contemplate how sad it must be to even consider having a Super-Size Value Meal as Thanksgiving dinner, but then I hear Jessica's Friend continue: "Oh wait, it ain't open."

"Hey, Jessica, you going to DC General?"

Not bothering to turn her head, Jessica responds: "Yes."

"Is it nice there?"

"It's not bad." The lack of eye contact makes me wonder whether Jessica and this woman are actually friends. No indication is given why they both happen to be heading to DC General. Where I had presumed that Jessica worked at McDonald's, perhaps she works at DC General. Or are they both friends of a long-term care patient? Or perhaps they struck up a friendship visiting their respective friends?

"I'll ride up with you," Jessica's Friend offers. "Want to come sit by me?"

Again without looking at her, Jessica takes her up on the offer ("Sure!") and moves to sit next to her.

At some point during this conversation, Fur-Laden Large Woman With Bad Hair disembarks. She is met by two well-dressed men on the street. Apparently they are all heading for the same place; the two men are each carrying what appears to be food products in boxes. I surmise that they are volunteering to serve Thanksgiving dinner to someone or another. In many past years here I have looked for the opportunity to do this and have somehow never succeeded in finding one.

A clearly angry black man boards. He's carrying two grocery-sized plastic bags. He too strikes me as homeless, and I wonder if he's even paid the fare. If the driver is demanding it of him, she isn't doing it loudly enough for me to hear, which takes some effort seeing as I'm less than ten feet from the front of the bus. He stands behind the driver, grasping at the poles for support after putting one of his plastic bags down on the seat. He mutters frequently, including inflections that, judging from the tone and vehemence of his exhalations, are likely curse words. (Perhaps he has Tourette's?). At one point, he clearly states "I'm not even gonna bother to take a seat," though he does sit down literally ten seconds after he says it. After approximately 8 stops he gets off, still cursing, including a few choice words at the driver. I still don't remember if he ever paid or not. If he was ejected for nonpayment of fare, it was the most drama-free ejection I've ever seen. Of course, given how long he was on the bus, he may very well have reached his final destination anyway.

City Paper Guy gets off a few stops later, abandoning his paper on the seat recently vacated by him. Before I -- empty handed except for my fruit tart -- can even think twice about it, Two-Trash-Bag Man lunges across the aisle and snatches it. He flips through a few pages for under a minute, then shoves the paper into one of his overfilled trash bags. This reinforces my initial thought that he appears to be some kind of pack rat.

As we approach Union Station, Jessica and Her Friend abruptly change plans. Jessica's Friend suggests they take in a movie; Jessica politely demurs. In the alternative, her friend suggests that they go looking for some food. Jessica quickly agrees, and they both hop off right outside the station, hoping that someplace or another will be open at this hour on Thanksgiving night. The nature of their relationship remains completely unclear to me, but it looks like they were willing to enjoy each other's company for Thanksgiving, and I am happy they both don't have to spend their nights alone.

As we continue to wind through Northeast Washington, I take in the views of the homes there -- well kept rowhouses, many of which probably have substantial amounts of history attached to them. The streets are strangely quiet; nary a pedestrian can be seen. I see one couple with a stroller leisurely making their way down the street, but that's all. I suppose they're all gathered around their dinner tables eating turkey, or around the television watching football. That'll be me soon enough.

I start to fret about whether I've remembered my stop correctly, and whether I should get off at 11th Street or 14th Street. I can see the street on which my friend lives, but alighting early could result in an unnecessarily long walk. Thankfully, I find that I did in fact remember my stop correctly, and I get off and walk about a block and a half to my friend's house.

It was a magical Thanksgiving even before I ever made it to dinner.

Still Here

I've been so delinquent in posting. I've just been tired and bored and uninspired. I'll be back soon. Hopefully this week.

I Don't Love You, You Don't Love Me

Insanely catchy, if laughably simplistic. Check out the "cool" handheld keyboard! I still have no idea what any of it means, but it's fun.

Lately, my life seems to be a lot closer to "I don't love you BECAUSE you don't love me" than just the random happenstance of mutual non-love. "I wish I could quit you!"

O Canada

Heading north for the weekend, just to check it out. Catch y'all on the flip side.

Why Now?

I'm not saying that Democrats should be hardasses about everything now that they've taken control of both houses of Congress.

All I'm saying is, it's really easy to call for bipartisanship when you're the party who has had one-party control of government yanked out from under you.

And it's particularly less-than-palatable when that call for bipartisanship comes from one of the guys at the very center of partisan power grabs for the better part of six years.

Yo, Dubya: I didn't see you asking for bipartisan cooperation when your Republican cronies were busy redistricting Texas to dilute out Democratic votes. I didn't see you clamor for compromise while you consistently nominated (and pushed through) ideologue after ideologue to the federal bench. I didn't see you ask your Republican friends to give any thought to their opposition concerns across the aisle when it came to -- well, any significant issue at all in the past six years that you've been in office.

For as long as you've occupied the White House, I cannot remember a single time when you've ever even noticed that this country has two political parties, one of which disagrees with yours on many issues. You consistently held fast to your party line, and you basically took the position that your party had the power, and your party therefore had the right to make the rules, however myopically they may choose to do so.

So -- again, not that I'm encouraging Democrats to retreat into a "we're in control now so everyone else shut up" shell -- but I find your plea for bipartisan cooperation now to be hollow and, frankly, more than a little desperate.

Happy Dance

Everyone seems pretty confident Democrats will be taking over the House as well as the Senate.



I've been giddily skipping around my office all day.

***

On a sadder note, gay marriage bans passed in three more jurisdictions. This saddens me because it says that even while Democrats were getting to the polls and casting their votes to defeat Republicans, these same Democrats are voting at their polling places against gay marriage. I tell ya, if we can't get Democrats' minds past the "icky" factor of gay marriage, then there's no way we're going to get Republicans to support the idea. And thus, gay men and women will forever be denied full and equal participation in this society.

***

Still, on balance, control of Congress makes me happy.

Some incredibly superficial thoughts on this Election Day (because I'm just too tired to rant on about the crap that's happening at polling places) about the front page pictures that show upon the WaPo website:

- The poor random voting woman must be mortified. She's kind of plus-size, and her eyes are bugging out as if from surprise for no apparent reason. It's not the most flattering picture of her.

- The shot of Adrian Fenty hugging one of his supporters makes him look a little standoffish. Though still, I'd like to be the one pressed up against his body.

- Jim Webb's wife is stunningly pretty.

- But the bearded smiling guy behind him is hot.

- What's up with Eskimo woman with George Allen? He's in a suit and tie and no special winter gear, and she's Nanook of the North.

Oh, right, because you actually expected substantive shit on this blog.

Just Do It.

If you're an American citizen reading this and haven't done so yet, GO VOTE!

Conversations I've Been Involved in Recently

<<1>>

Boss: "I'm back from lunch. Any calls?"
Me: "No, it's been really quiet."
Boss: "Hm. Why?"
Me: "Uh, because no one anywhere picked up the phone and dialed our particular 7- or 11-digit combination?"

<<2>>

Girl: "Did he tell you his gym story?"
Me: "You mean his story about a guy named Jim or about his workout?"
Girl: "Huh?"
Me: "Gym story, like J-I-M?"
Girl: "Oh, no, like "J-Y-M."
Me, and everyone else listening: [burst out laughing]

<<3>>

Friend: "So what are you doing right now?"
Me: "I'm in the middle of a Charlie's Angels marathon."
Friend: "Wow. You truly are a loser."

<<4>>

[Friends having some conversation about oxycodone and other pain meds.]
Me: "No, what you need to do is dissolve some of that in some water, load it up in a syringe, and shoot it up your asshole. The effect is just that much faster."
Everyone: [...]
Me: "Okay, why I picked that particular moment to inject myself into that conversation I don't know. I'm just going to go quietly back to my beer now."

<<5>>

Random guy in gay bar: "Who do I have to blow to get a drink around here?"
Almost everyone else in earshot at the bar: "Me."
Me: "Not me, I just drink here."

<<6>>

Friend, upon noticing that the phone in his rear pocket was beeping: "Oh, that IS me. I thought I was just hearing some random beeping noise."
Me: "Do you often hear random beeping noises coming out of your ass, or is that only when you back up?"

Keep On Movin'

Dear Metro Riders:

I'm addressing this to all Metro riders because I'm fairly certain not all of these actions can be attributed only to tourists. I know we Washingtonians love to hate tourists, and we blame them for a lot of the stupid stuff that happens in this city, but trust me, there are a lot of really stupid people in this city.

Why do you insist on using the "new" farecard machines for paper card transactions? Many years ago, Metro introduced SmarTrip cards to use as fare payment, but did not eliminate paper farecards at the time. Because these SmarTrip cards are plastic and reuseable, they had to install new farecard machines to accommodate them. These new machines have reader devices for the plastic cards and also accept credit cards. The "old" machines still deal only in paper farecards and hard cash.

My question, then, is this: Why do you insist on using the newer machines for cash transactions involving paper farecards? Along a bank of six farecard machines, some new and some old, I invariably have to stand in line behind you while you pop in a few singles for the purpose popping out a paper farecard. While the older machines remain idle and could have easily served your purpose, you pick one of the new machines, while I (a SmarTrip card holder) have no choice but to use the new machines, thus forcing to wait behind you. We could have both conducted our transactions at the same time -- you at an "old" machine, me at a "new" one.

You, my dear, are a moron.

Why do you insist on using the handicap turnstile? Just a gripe of mine, but why do you, a fully able-bodied person, tend to gravitate towards the extra-wide turnstile, even when all of the other turnstiles are not being used? Are you really so grossly obese in your mind's eye that you think you can't fit through the "normal" sized turnstile? Then what makes me laugh is when you try to go through those handicap turnstiles but don't realize that the paper card slot works differently than the others: so you stand there like an idiot for a second, wondering why your card has just been kicked back out of the slot you put it in while the turnstile bars have opened.

You, my dear, are an idiot.

Why do you insist on standing right in front of the doors? Lots have already been written about this, but really, make some room, people. If you force me to, I will shove past you to get out those damn doors before the train starts making its way to the next stop. I find it particularly annoying when you stand there and glare at the people who have to get past you as if you're the one being inconvenienced. Buddy, you chose to stand right near the door, and the door's not just for decoration you know.

Why do you insist on standing right in front of the doors? When you're on the platform, you ought to know that there's no prize for being the first to board the train when it pulls up at the station. Hence, standing right at the door where the train pulls up is retarded. When people are trying to get off, they (and I presume you, when you reach your eventual destination) don't particularly like being made to walk the gauntlet. This isn't Tailhook '91. Get out of the frigging way and let us off.

Really, is it just so hard?