Gay Beach Weekend

So I finally got a gay weekend in at the beach. My friends Josh and Ben decided to take a weekend up there to attend a fundraiser for a gay Virginia delegate, so I decided to tag along. Yay! After two weekends at Dewey with my straight and no-so-fag-haggy girlfriends, I was ready for a weekend finally with gay people, in gay bars, on the gay beach.

A few things I picked up this weekend:

1. Trying to look "cool" in front of a beach full of gay men is well-nigh impossible when you fall over flat on your ass, and then your back, after failing to catch a football. Bonus stupidity if you're still fully dressed, including shirt and sunglasses, at the time.

2. Flirting with a guy who clearly doesn't ever want to see you naked is a good way of releasing your hostage paddleball without paying a ransom. (That sounds a lot dirtier than it really is.)

3. Being in the company of cute boys is an effective -- if not terribly ideal -- way to get into a conversation with other cute boys. "Hi there, you're cute...... Oh, and so are you, I guess."

4. If you've got body image issues and end up keeping your tank top on at the beach all day, be prepared for some mad tan/burn lines.

5. Telling a random guy that his Asian-character tattoo means "kung pao chicken" is funny. Not a great way to flirt, but funny anyway.

6. Long-term crushes will never work out, so don't even try. Let it go.

Notice that, unfortunately, "a man" is not one of those things I picked up this weekend.

Employment deception

Is it somehow wrong to be looking for a new job without alerting your boss of your interest? I feel like I'm deceiving him somehow when I make plans to sneak out during lunch, grab my jacket, throw on a tie, and reverse the process on the return trip.

Balancing Act

There's a delicate balancing act to be struck when your friends are visiting from out of town. Do you offer to hang with them whenever you're free, or do you give them some time on their own? I took Monday off to spend the day sightseeing with Mark and Jay all day and through dinner; last night I had dinner with them. Do I give them a night off from me? After all, they did spend all day without me anyway, so it's not like they could overload on me already. But perhaps they want a dinner that doesn't involve me for once on this trip. But then I hardly ever get to see them, so I'd like to maximize our time together.... Now I'm just confusing myself.

Service records

What with John Kerry's service in Vietnam being such a "hot" issue in the presidential elections right now (W. and Cheney's having completely avoided deployment to Asia notwithstanding), I found this quote in someone's else's blog which I feel compelled to pass along. I have not cite-checked the quotation:

"I am angry that so many of the sons of the powerful and well-placed... managed to wangle slots in Reserve and National Guard units... Of the many tragedies of Vietnam, this raw class discrimination strikes me as the most damaging to the ideal that all Americans are created equal and owe equal allegiance to their country."

-- Colin Powell, My American Journey, p. 148. My American Journey is Gen. Powell's autobiography.

I Need Uglier Friends

So my best friend from high school, Mark, is visiting DC for part of this week with his boyfriend, Jay. I took the day off on Monday to hang out with them. We decided to go for a tour of the capitol (among other things) and, having gotten there early and received our tour pass for about an hour later, we decided to go get coffee/breakfast at the Rayburn House Office Building nearby.

After a relatively uneventful meal, Mark got up to attempt to bus his tray, and Jay went off in search of a restroom. When Mark returned and sat with me, a random staffer (apparently from Connecticut, I later found out) randomly said to Mark, "Are you from Cape Cod?" -- a reference to Mark's t-shirt. "No," replied Mark, "I just got the shirt when I visited."

I asked the man if he was working for a Massachusetts delegate, but no, he represented Connecticut. He asked where "we were all" from, so Mark told him he was from Seattle. I eventually 'fessed up that I live in the area.

Apparently this guy had winked at Mark while he was bussing his tray.

How is it that I have friends who can get hit on in such a relatively non-gay setting as the frigging cafeteria of a Congressional staff building? I mean, I've heard that the Hill is teeming with gay staffers and all, but they actually try to pick up random guys in the caf? I can't even get cruised if I were to wear a big sign on my head that said "Big ol' homo, gay men welcome to chat me up".

Of course, Mark is cute. I, on the other hand, am chopped liver.

On the Waterfront

Spent the weekend at Rehoboth/Dewey Beach this weekend. Jen, a friend of mine from when we worked at the courthouse, has a brother who has a house there, so from time to time we go over and crash his pad. This weekend, he was out of town, so Jen had some of us over. In the end, it was Jen, me, Christine, Linda, and Sue at the house. (For some completely inexplicable reason, I frequently end up being the only male among this group of friends.)

Dewey Beach is a fun place to hang out, although sometimes excrutiatingly heterosexual. I mean, frat scene heterosexual. The crowd tends to be composed of college-age people -- or just-out-of-college age people -- who somehow have nothing better to do with their time or money over the summer than hang out at the beach in sweet crash pads, drinking all night, and recovering all day, only to repeat the process the next day. Surprisingly, there are also a decent number of over-25 people hitting the scent too, but they, too, have nothing better to do with their lives than maintain their (usually vain) attempt to recaputure their youths by drinking excessively and seeking their next bed partner at or around last call.

Because all my friends are straight girls, we go to Dewey when we want to take our own misguided tours of recapturing our youth through excessive bar-hopping. (The gay bars are more in the Rehoboth area. Not wanting to drag my straight friends to a gay bar at the beach, I usually just tag along with them to the Land of Uber-Heterosexuality.) This past weekend proved no exception.

We spent our evenings at a bar called the Starboard. It's a fun place. I'm amazed at some of the really hot guys there taking their pick of cute women. Sometimes you hear that the gay community has claimed every goodlooking guy. I'm here to tell you that's not true. There are tons of hot guys looking for women at these hookup joints.

Jen met a cool guy named Mark. They were talking at the bar for a while. I had no idea how drunk Jen was while this was going on, but apparently, she was. Before the night was over Jen would be leaving her lunch in a corner outside the bar and we would be escorting her home in a cab. And by "we," I somehow have to include Mark, for he made his way into the cab with us.

Don't get me wrong, Mark came across as a completely nice guy. I was just a little taken aback by the fact that Jen would actually invite a strang new guy home after meeting him in a bar, especially with four guests also staying in the house. Unfortunately for both of them, however, Jen was not done re-living her dinner when she returned home, and, apparently out of some embarassment, she locked Mark out of the bathroom while she went about her business.

At some point Mark came back downstairs (where I was staying) and started putting on his shoes. Unsure of whether Jen intended for him to leave or not, I asked him what was up. "She has locked me out of the bathroom," he said. "I thought I'd be staying here, but that doesn't look like it's gonna happen."

I genuinely did feel bad for the guy. It's not often that a guy is willing to come home with a chick who's puking up her guts. And who's still quite nice. But, I didn't know if Jen still wanted to see this guy around the house when she woke up in the morning. I was prepared to offer to let him crash on the couch that night, but I was having some trouble deciding what Jen would have thought about that. So, basically, I left the matter in his court. "What do you want to do now?" I asked. Eventually, after much (rambling) "discussion" (I used that term advisedly, since it was rather nonsensical banter), he decided he would catch a cab back to his hotel. I did tell him to leave his cell number, though, so that Jen could get in touch with him. I sensed she liked him.

The next night, Jen did actually call him again, but she failed to leave her number. She had assumed that it would show up on his called ID, until I pointed out that my phone doesn't give the ID if the phone is turned off. However, not wanting to seem desperate, she didn't call him again that night. I told him to call her on Sunday sometime. I hope she does.

***

Sue was referred to -- twice -- as resembling a "librarian" type. While I can see what the guys are getting at, it's so untrue. Every librarian I've ever known has been a short, rotund, dowdy old woman. Sue is a tall, thin, rather hot chick (albeit with a kinda plain face). No accounting for taste. On Saturday night, she managed to spend the night talking to some guy whose name I forget, but who was clearly a player on the scene. At 47, recapturing youth was clearly a top priority for him. I admit he looked good (and I don't just mean "for his age"), but there's gotta be better ways meet women than finding them at bars in a beach town. Thankfully, Sue wasn't planning on hooking up with him.

***

Linda found herself a man, too. His name is Evan and he actually lives in the DC area. He seemed like a nice guy and they danced most of the night and even shared a few kisses. (This was the first time I've ever seen Linda kissing a man. It was interesting, in a kinda jarry way.)

I hope it works out for them. Evan seems like a nice guy. Linda left him her number. We'll see if he calls.

***

And my recap of the weekend would not complete without my recitation of my near-death experience.

We (Linda, Sue, Christine and I -- Jen was still recovering from the night before) were on the beach on Saturday afternoon when we decided we were going to take a walk up the beach for a little bit. So we did, walking perhaps half a mile along the shoreline.

I suppose we should have noticed much earlier that something was amiss when lightning strikes began appearing over the horizon, but we honestly believed that we had a lot of time to make it back to our stuff. Oh, how wrong we were.

When we finally turned around to look at the sky, it was dark. As we started jogging (instead of walking) back to our stuff, the sky opened up and we started getting pelted with large droplets of rain. I mean, these things were large. And combined with the rather strong winds whipping these droplets of rain at us, it was hurting.

At this point I came to once again realize that I am in exceedingly poor physical shape. The rain was blinding me; the cold was taking my breath away (my asthma didn't help matters either); and the incredibly soft sand meant that each step required ten times the effort it would have on a normal sunny beach day. I honestly thought I might die. And it would have been a drowning. In the rain. That's how hard it was raining.

Linda and Sue somehow managed to move their way along the sand and eventually got ordered onto the boardwalk by the cops. They then managed to locate our stuff. We had happened to set up camp in a dent in the beach, so there was literally a torrent of water completely flooding our stuff. Not funny. I was not there to witness it, but it was amusing to imagine. Thankfully, nothing in my bag was completely irreplaceable, so hey.

Meanwhile, I was with Christine, having been separated from Linda and Sue by the storm. (Low visibility, you see.) (No pun intended.) I don't know why we were so far from the water, but it was definitely difficult to move in the sand. Eventually I gave up and told Christine it made more sense to head up to the street and walk from there. The rain was continuing to beat down on us and there was no way I was going to be able to make any substantial headway on the sand.

So I basically ordered Christine to follow me as we headed up away from the sand. We hit a bridge and walked up, only to realize that the bridge led not straight to a street, but to a private patio area at a housing complex. While I was somewhat concerned that we were trespassing, I also was relieved to be out of the driving rain. Thankfully, my trespassing fears were allayed when almost immediately after we set foot on the balcony a woman came out to greet us with towels, inviting us in to sit down and get the heck out of that crazy rain. We sat there for about 10 minutes while the rain passed and eventually -- while profusely thanking the random family that had taken us in -- we left, a few new towels in hand, to find Linda and Sue again.

I know this story doesn't sound that bad now, but I seriously felt like I was going to die on that beach. Just a quick reminder about the awesome power and majesty of Mother Nature.

But otherwise, the weekend was a lot of fun! No, seriously.

Link Luster

I do so wish I knew how to create that side bar on this blog to provide links to other people's blogs and/or news sources.... Unfortunately, I am code illiterate.

A Pound of Flesh

Some friends and I were having brunch at Eastern Market the other day, so we decided to do a little bit of flea market shopping when we were done. We walked around for a bit (I was going to buy a nice framed set of old-style Chinese coins, but the frame was terribly nicked), then happened to wander past a real estate office.

They had copied and put out a list of all the open houses taking place that day. On a lark, we decided we would go check out the ones close to the neighborhood.

I've been hankering to buy a new place for a while now. My current place feels so tiny. And, I am a master at accumulating junk. I want something bigger. I want something more "adult." I want a house house.

The first house we checked out was decent. It was a two-story townhouse, 3 bedrooms upstairs, living room, and kitchen. There was even a basement apartment complete with certificate of occupancy and separate entrance... mortgage offset! The upstairs was rather poorly laid out, though, for two of the three bedrooms were ridiculously small, and really usable only for children.

The basement apartment was occupied by a man named Jake. Undoubtedly, he was a Hill intern. He had framed pictures on the walls of him with various Republican bigwigs. It was sick. (Kidding!) The apartment was really well laid out... cute, not too cramped. And he had one of those microshavers (you know, the kind for "sensitive" areas that you can use on a balloon and still not pop it). My friend Elizabeth dragged us out of there when she realized that we were learning more about the occupant than about the apartment.

Not that any of us were really terribly serious about buying anyway.

The second place we saw was another two-story with basement. The basement contained a washer/dryer and what was charmingly described as an "in-law suite" or "au pair suite." (Yes, that's right, I'm planning on hiring an au pair when I move to a new place. You know, to take care of my nonexistent kids.) The backyard was expansive and great for entertaining! Hibachi heaven! The living room was large and included a fireplace, there was a separate dining room, and a rather large kitchen (lots of counter space!) with a dine-in area there as well! All this for only $640,000.

Man, I need to make more money, or move to a cheaper city.

So, my pound of flesh. In the bedroom on the second floor, there was one of those crawl spaces you get to by pulling down a ladder otherwise recessed into the ceiling. Unable to resist, I pulled the string down to reveal the ladder, and the rather completely uninspiring crawl space above. I didn't feel like crawling up the ladder, so I figured I'd push the ladder back up. Woah, strong springs! The ladder proceeded to retract back into the ceiling with alarming force, and with my fingers still captured in the string, well....

I pulled the better part of my left pinky nail off.

I didn't realize that the pain I felt was actually more than just pain until we got outside. I discreetly asked for a tissue or something to cover my bleeding finger. Of course, I tried to be discreet, but my friends noticed. I had to eventually make my way to a Starbucks and ask for a cup of ice to numb my finger.

My finger's not hurting as much now. It only hurts when I accidentally directly touch the area that was erstwhile covered by the nail. But I will note that it's an absolute bitch to type when you can't type "a", "q" "z" or the capital letters of anything on your right hand without moving your left hand off the home keys.

Friendship evolution

Ever have one of those friends who's been your friend for so long, you just can't imagine not being their friend anymore? This even when you realize you that you really just don't enjoy that friend's company anymore?

My best friend from school and I still keep in touch. He lives across the country from me and we see each other on IM all the time. Every so often we'll have random chats on line. Lately, I've realized that I can't enjoy these conversations anymore. I'm tired of watching what I say for fear of being belittled or condescended to. I'm sick of avoiding certain topics of conversation knowing that I would just get dragged into some stupid-ass argument over nothing.

When you realize that you simply don't enjoy talking about your everyday life with your best friend anymore, what are you supposed to do?

He's coming to visit next weekend with his boyfriend. Thankfully, they're staying in a hotel. I'm taking a day off to hang out with them. I'm not dreading hanging out with them, but I'm not necessarily looking forward to it the way one would expect from a visit from a good friend. If we get into another fight about some stupid, trivial matter, I may just blow a gasket.

Gay Literacy 101

In the ever-ongoing chronicles of "gay men on gay.com are such idiots," I bring you the following exchange which took place recently. I prefer not to identify the other person involved, but let's say the guy's screen name identified himself as "latin," and "nice."

Him: hi
Me: hey

As is usually the case, I must point out, I did not initiate this conversation.

Him: how are you?
Me: fine. you?
Him: i'm great.
Him: are you white?

I gotta say, at least the guy gets straight to the point. An idiotic and ignorant point, but the point nonetheless. Shall I also point out that this guy's profile identified himself as "Single, seeing someone special"?

More important, I need to highlight two important pieces of information about my gay.com profile. First, my tagline in the chat room says that sending me a private message is okay, but please read my full profile first. Second, my full profile identifies me as "Asian/Pacific Islander."

Me: uh, have you even looked at my profile?
Him: bye

I'd add a big, long, bitchy comment here, but I think I'll just let that conversation stand on its own. Some people are such assholes.

Zzzzz

I can't stop falling asleep lately. I mean, literally. I don't understand it, but my sleep cycle is completely screwed up, and I can't seem to stay awake at work anymore.

It's particularly embarassing when my boss walks in and catches me at the computer basically snoozing away. While I have projects to do. I mean, I try to fight it, and read the stuff that's in front of me, but instead I just end up dead to the world. Then I'll give up and just close my door and nap for a little bit. When my door's closed, it's pretty obvious what I'm doing too. Blah.

I hate it.

Blogspot issues

I tend to get myself caught in an endless login loop lately.

So I go to blogspot and try to log in by typing in my information in the upper left hand corner. Then I click "Log In."

Then I go to a second page, which says, "Please log in before continuing" (or some such). Not that I didn't just log in one click before.

So I type in my login name and password again. And I click "sign in" again.

And the screen is cleared of my information, and I'm back to the same "Please log in again" screen.

It's infuriating.

I don't get it.

So if anyone reading this (and I have still have no idea who actually is reading this) wonders why it's so long between posts, I'm just going to blame this.

That is all. For now.

Netflix administrivia

I've been a member of Netflix since June of 2002 now. I recently decided, just for fun, to run some statistics on my rental habits:

Number of movies rented (through 7/29/04): 234
Average cost of rental: $2
Average number of rentals per month: 10

Number of movies that I subsequently purchased (excluding tv show DVD sets) : 9
Number of movies that I subsequently purchased (includes Sex and the City): 22
Number of movies that subsequently ended up on my Amazon.com wishlist and are currently still there: 4

Number of movies with some kind of gay theme or prominent gay character(s): 39
Number of those gay-themed films I actually liked: about 7 (why do I continue to rent them?....)
Number of non-English-speaking films (in whole or in non-insubstantial part): 20

Number of movies which robbed me a few hours of my life: Too many
Number of movies which put me to sleep: zzz... wait, what was the question?

Number of rentals that are DVDs of tv shows: 58
To wit: All available DVDs of Six Feet Under, Oz, Sex and the City, Freaks and Geeks, Sports Night, the Superfriends series (before I came to realize how lame they are), one season of Curb Your Enthusiasm (which led me to detest that show with a passion), and one apparently random disc of Queer as Folk. Also, one disc of Coupling (the BBC version, of course!), before I realized I knew I would love the show, and ended up just buying them as they came out with "test running" them first.

Number of movies currently in my queue: 216 (yes, I am a freak)
Probable number of movies that are in there solely because I'm stalking a hot actor in the hopes that he'll do a shirtless or otherwise nude scene: >20 (see above "freak" comment)

Running Commentary

So I think I just figured out how to turn comments on in this forum. So this should mark my first comment-enabled blog entry. I have no idea who's reading this blog, so if you are, please drop me a comment. If for no other reason than to let me know that I'm not just whistling into the wind. Thanks.

Still More Short Term Memory

On June 25, I blogged about "Self-Loathing Asians." I'd provide a link for that entry, but odds on, it's right underneath this one. That's how recent this event is.

So tonight I'm back in the gay.com chat room, when the following exchange takes place, involving the SAME Asian guy from last night. Keep in mind that, again, I DID NOT INITIATE THIS CONVERSATION:

Him: hi
Me: hi

I immediately recognize the name and tried to start thinking of ways to fuck with his mind. Then I started trying to come up with ways of telling him how FUCKED UP it is that he puts a blanket kaibosh on Asian men, when he is one himself. But in the end I failed.

Him: wassup?
Me: nothing
Him: horny
Me: eh

"Eh" was my way of being rude, frankly. To tell him I didn't care to have a conversation with him.

Him: u?
Me: dude, we've talked before

By this point, I have given up the charade. If he's dense enough to insist that I chat with him, I'm going to get the important info out for him.

Him: ok
Him: really?
Me: yes.
Him: no chance to reconsider?

See, I see this as a further sign of self-loathing. He immediately assumes that I am the one who turned him down. He thinks I'm some white guy, see? So if we talked before, then clearly he wanted me (since I'm some white guy) and I didn't want him. The tables at this point are strangely turned. Though for some reason, I am unable to turn this to my advantage. Perhaps it's because it's 1:40 a.m. and I am unable to bother to come up with witty or clever comebacks.

Me: dude, you were the one who said you weren't "into" me
Him: really?
Him: stats?
Me: asian. like you.

This last sentence was calculated for its maximum effect. I wanted to highlight to him two things: First, that objective measurable stats like height and weight were irrelevant to him, and I knew it. All I had to say was "Asian," and it would be the ace-in-the-hole to end the game completely. Second, I wanted to reiterate that he, too, is an Asian man, like me.

Shockingly, at this point the conversation ended, and my gay Asian internet buddy was never heard from again.

Self Loathing Asians

As a followup on one of my previous posts, I am reporting the following conversation, which was NOT INITIATED BY ME, which just took place in a gay.com chat room:

Him: hi
Me: hi
Him: wassup?
Me: nada. how are you?
Him: horned up

[At this point I feel the need to reiterate that I was NOT the one who initiated this conversation.]

Me: ah.
Me: where are you?
Him: nwdc-logan
Me: oh. i live near there.

[I should explain this. I'm typing this from San Antonio, where I am on a business trip. I am logged on to two different chat rooms on gay.com, one in DC and one in San Antonio. I'm asking where this guy is, because I need to know this information to carry the "conversation" further.]

Him: stats?
Me: 5'8 165 asian

[Having given out my "stats" on electronic chat fora before, I know that this is usually enough information. Sure enough, I'm right.]

Him: sorry
Me: huh?
Him: not into asians

Okay, this is wrong on many, many levels. First, "sorry"? Ex-squeeze me? Again, let's reiterate where the center of the universe is NOT located: your penis. There's no need to be "sorry." I'm not going to cry myself to sleep because I didn't get to jump into a bed with your "horned up" ass. Get a life.

More important was my last line, which went completely ignored:

Me: dude, you ARE asian.

Yes, indeed, in checking this guy's profile (I had to make sure he wasn't a bot, after all), I found out that this guy self-identifies as Asian/Pacific Islander, all the way down to identifying as a Buddhist. At least he knows his own ethnic background, I guess.

As it is, "I'm not into Asians" is tossed around so flippantly in the gay community, in much the same way as "I don't drink Pepsi" or "I don't watch The Bachelor" would make its way into conversation. But to have it tossed at you by an Asian man leaves me with a feeling between revulsion and immense pity.

As I've already mentioned before, it takes a pretty closed mind to dismiss, in a blanket fashion, all people of a particular race as unattractive from the get-go without undertaking a particularized, individualized determination of each person's attractiveness. It takes a special degree of self-hatred to toss this blanket over an entire race of people when you're one of them.

This guy said "I'm not into Asians" without even acknowledging the disconnect that necessarily must exist between his statement and his actual self. When he looks at himself in the mirror in the morning, does he see a handsome Asian guy, or does he see a hot white guy trapped inside an Asian shell? Will he, someday, undergo some kind of plastic surgery to widen his eyes, shore up his cheekbones, bleach his skin tone, maybe color his hair? Does he at all even realize that when he says "I'm not into Asians," he's really saying, "I am repulsed by myself. If I walked into a bar and saw me there, even I wouldn't talk to me."?

Frankly, it's attitudes like this that have forever prevented me from joining any gay Asian clubs here in DC. I feel like I would forever be some kind of interloper, some "new" Asian guy (despite the fact that I've lived in DC for ten years now) who shows up at "Asians and Friends" night to steal our white men from us. Yes, with such a limited supply of white men who find Asian men attractive enough to date -- and after all, if Asian men are allowed to cast away Asian men without a second glance, why whouldn't the majority of men of other races? -- with such a limited supply of this Wondrous Other, they're bound to be outnumbered by the Asian men who want to date them. So the addition of each new Asian man into the pool only further slims the chances that the Wondrous Other might look twice at any of the other ones there. I, for one, would hate to rain on the parade of these insecure GAMs who feel their lives need to be defined by having a trophy white man at their side. Count me out. My self-worth is measured not by the skin color of the man with whom I choose to share my life.

Short Term Memory

The woman who works at the front desk of my building has got to have the shortest term memory ever. Well, then again, I'm pretty sure she's a bitter, surly bitch who could care less about competently performing her job.

So there was something in my mailbox behind her head when I walked in tonight. So I said, "Hi. I'm in Apt. 202. Could I have what's in my box, please?" So she stands up, takes the paper from my box, and hands it to me.

Then I say, "Hey, what do you know about pool passes? I haven't gotten mine yet."

To which she responds, in a rather annoyed manner, "What's your apartment number?"

It was all I could do to refrain from immense sarcasm when repeating my apartment number, which I had just given her some 20 seconds before.

Subway stupidity

Although this post could (and probably should) be about idiocy on the Metro, it's actually not. The other day I had the most idiotic exchange ever with a person behind the counter at one of the many local Subway sandwich shops.

I've been collecting those little stamps like a fiend now. You know, so you can get a "free" sandwich after a while. I like buying the cheapest damn sandwich on the menu then redeeming the "free" one for the most damn expensive one they have. Just because I'm cheap that way.

One day, noticing that I had a slew of stamps but none of those little cards to affix them to, I walked into a Subway to ask for some of those cards:

Me: Do you have those cards to stick my stamps to?
Her: Cards?
Me: Yes. To stick my stamps on to.
Her: We have gift cards. They're $5.
Me: No. No no. I want these cards to use as part of the frequent eater program or whatever.
Her: Oh. [She doesn't move.]
Me: ... Uh, so, could I have some of those cards please?
Her: [Reaching for those gift certificate cards] How many do you want? They're $5 each.
Me: Uh, one more time, no. I want those cards that I stick my little stamps to. [At this point I'm a little annoyed that I don't have one of those stamps to show her what I mean.]
Her: Oh. Okay.
Me: So do you have those cards I'm talking about?
Her: Yes. [She doesn't move.]
Me: ... [Heightened annoyance.] Well could I have some please?
Her: Sure. They're $5 each.

By this point it's comical that we're actually both speaking English, and yet both not. So finally I resort to the lowest level dialog I can possibly muster:

Me: Look. When I buy a sandwich here, I get stamps, right?
Her: Yes.
Me: And after I get a certain number of stamps, I can get something for free, right?
Her: Yes.
Me: Now, when I get those stamps, I need to stick them to something, right?
Her: Yes.
Me: I want from you that card that I'm supposed to stick these stamps to.
Her: Okay. [She still doesn't move.]
Me: This isn't going anywhere, is it?
Her: So did you want a card or not? They're $5 each.

I left the store. At least the massive proliferation of Subways, like weeds in an unkempt garden, means that I can go almost anywhere and find a Subway that features a person who might actually know what I'm talking about.

When Your Chest Speaks Volumes

Gay Pride was this weekend. Some people, though, take pride so far as to border on some kind of god syndrome.

I saw -- on at least two different people -- a t-shirt which really annoyed me for some reason. Now, I don't want to come across as if I'm one of those politically correct humorless dolts who think everything is offensive, but this one just irked me. The t-shirt read, in Courier type approximately 25 point:

"Sorry. I don't do girls."

Wha? "Sorry"? For some bizarre reason I got annoyed by this big time. What, you think you're so hot that everyone is clamoring for a piece of you? Are girls (especially at Gay Pride, fer cryinoutloud) swooning at you, going, "Dammit, I want him sooo bad, and his t-shirt proclaims loud and clear that I can't have him!"

News flash: You're not as hot as you think. And not everyone wants to get into your pants.

***

The other t-shirt that bugged me (and thankfully I only saw it on one person): "GAM4GWM." Translation, for those of you unschooled in this particular code: "Gay Asian Male, For Gay White Male."

I'm fine with indulging the fact that people have "a type" that they find "attractive." But limiting yourself by an entire racial category is a bit much.

I'm the kind of person who believes that, given the right set of qualities (physical and non-physical), all kinds of people can be very attractive. Intelligence can shoot a guy's sexiness factor up by a factor of 10, as can a great sense of humor or a kind heart. Likewise, if a guy is hot and he knows it, nine times out of ten I find him no longer as attractive as I may have found him before he opened his mouth.

So what's with gay Asian men who apparently count themselves as among the not-attractive-enough-to-date set? It's bad enough that Asian men get a stereotypical bad rep (everything from the physical to the emotional, Asian men get picked on), but if even my Asian brothers can't look at each other as attractive enough, that's just sad.

Quick questions to ponder on this front:

(1) If you, an Asian man, can't find me, a fellow Asian man, attractive enough to date, why would you ever believe that anyone else would want to date you? If you're willing to completely write off your own race in one fell swoop, why shouldn't the white guys you covet do the same?

(2) Have you considered the degree of self-loathing it takes to think, and then to announce, that you don't find people with genetic backgrounds similar to yours attractive?

***

On Saturday night my friend Amy and I went to Phase One, a lesbian bar on the Hill. She's gay and hadn't ever been, so we decided to go. Personally, I like the place. It's got a low-attitude going on, and people just seem to have a good time. Of course, I never picked up on any of the lesbian subplots unfurling before my very eyes because, well, I was too focused on the two or three guys total in the room.

One guy in particular, I found out was named Rick. I recall I thought he was pretty attractive when he walked in with two male friends. I didn't think much of it at the time, because there were other gay men in the bar too, so whatever.

At some point Amy and I find ourselves standing near them just holding our beers and watching the crowd. I excuse myself to use the facilities and when I returned, I was surprised to find Amy chatting it up with these boys, discussing the butch/femme dynamic which seemed to have dominated the dance floor, and talking about which chicks in the place were the hottest, etc.

As the conversation progressed, I started feeling slowly wigged out by the content. The following exchanges set my Spider-sense tingling:

Rick: (in response to Amy's lamenting about her difficulty in finding a date) That's crazy. You're gorgeous.
Amy: Well, thanks, but you know...
Rick: No, really. Gorgeous. Say, did you come here with anyone?

First hackles raised.

Amy: Nope, just my friend Dennis here.
Rick: So have you two ever....
Amy: Well, seeing as Dennis is gay, and I'm gay....
Rick: Yeah, but you know, you could swing both ways....
Me: Yeah, uh, I'm not terribly interested in the idea of swinging both ways.
Rick: (to Amy) When was the last time you kissed a guy?

Klaxons sounding.

Rick: So do you think there are going to be some bi chicks out there on the floor now who would be receptive if I were to try to dance up there with them?

Red Alert! Red Alert! Shields up!

At this point I literally abandoned Amy. I was at least slightly miffed at her for even allowing this conversation to continue, but really, my primary goal was to get the heck away from these three guys, who I had figured out were obviously straight, and had trekked down to the Phase from frigging Baltimore for the purpose of finding some lesbo action! I was skeeved to the extreme. It was Pride Weekend, after all! The Phase was supposed to be a safe haven year round, but especially at Pride, when you're supposed to be able to go out, be who you are, express yourself sexually, and not be the subject of heterosexist ogling. No, Mr. Straight Dude, she won't be turned on by you. You have a penis. You are not attractive to lesbians. She won't become straight if you (you big stud you) fuck her "the right way."

Maybe, Mr. Uber-Straight Dude, just maybe you haven't been fucked "the right way" by some big buff stud named Jeff, which would cause you to abandon your heterosexuality in a heartbeat.

Celebration of Love

This weekend I had one of the best vacations I've ever had in the States. (Unfortunately, nothing at all can really compare to the vacations I've taken in Paris and Rome. Man. But I digress.) I spent the weekend in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. My friends Jessica and Jason got married.

Jessica and Jason are really the perfect couple. Their senses of humor totally mesh, and each complements the other's personality. Watching them exchange their vows was wonderful. They were able to affirm their love for one another in front of a slew of friends and family and carry on with their lives together in a public celebration of their love for each other.

I was there. I was celebrating with them. They're good friends of mine. And they're happy together.

And yet, of course, I had to spend the entire weekend taking special care not to make any political statements about their special day. I know other gay people who boycott the nuptials of their heterosexual friends on the theory that it's a heterosexist institution, so celebrating and supporting it -- even for friends -- would be somehow fundamentally wrong. I can't agree with that. It's still an institution worthy of celebration -- so much so that gay people want to be a part of that as well.

Jason and Jessica would have actually understood if I harbored any outrage toward the discriminatory granting of marriage rights. They're good liberals and they believe that gays and lesbians should have the rights they got to enjoy so readily in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. We actually exchanged a quick comment about the fact that they were permitted to apply for a marriage license without proof of residency in the state. But I didn't want to rain on their day.

Watching J&J's wedding -- affirmed by both their families and so many of their friends -- was, as most weddings are, a wonderful experience. Two people in love, declaring their love publicly, being happy together. That's what it's all about. An affirmation of their lives together. It's just that simple.

And there's really no logical or sane reason that gays and lesbians can't or shouldn't be permitted to take advantage of this institution too.