Fairy Tales: A Homage

My nighttime reading for the past few weeks was Fairy Tales, a collection of fairy tales by Peter Cashorali with a gay male twist. Some of them are quite poignant, indeed, I cried a little bit after reading "The Ugly Duckling." (For future reference, me crying is as rare as snow in Florida.)

So here's my own brief fairy tale, entitled The Lord & The Trainer:

In a shining kingdom far away, but closer than you think, there lived a young lord who lived in an ivory tower. The lord's title gave him much prestige and comfort, but very little responsibility, which left him in constant pursuit of something or someone to entertain his mind. You see, the lord was smart, very smart. When he was pursuing his studies, he was often at the top of his class. Never the very top, mind you, because he always made sure to allow those higher up in hierarchy to outshine him--even if they didn't deserve it.

But those days had long since passed, and now the lord was left basically to his own devices.

One morning, while holding a spirited debate in his mind about the ethics of colonising the Moon, the lord received a flyer under his door.

"Kingdom Gym now open. Royal Membership complementary."

"A gym?" The lord pondered. "I think that might be interesting, and better for me than these mental debates."

So the lord made his way to the gym. Noticing several princes and a marquess there, the lord sheepishly hid in the back of the membership office before asking the attendant for his free membership.

"Thank you for joining, m'lord." The perky attendant said. "As a royal, you also have your pick of our personal trainers who will whip you into the shape befitting a man of your stature."

The attendant brought out three men. One was enormous, and had arms nearly as big as his head.

"This is Jett, m'lord."



The second one, was not as huge, and seemed to have no flesh on him whatsoever. He also seemed unusally twitchy.

"This is Spike, m'lord"



The third man, was shorter than the other two, but managed to actually look the lord in the face and smile...well, at least something warmer than a scowl.

"And m'lord, this is Case."



And although Case was not as big as Jett (who looked like he could crush him), nor as energetic as Spike (who he feared might drop a heavy barbell on him), the lord immediately knew that Case was the perfect choice.

The lord's hunch was correct, as Case did an excellent job in getting the lord into great shape. Indeed, in no time, the lord was getting attention from many men who never paid attention to him before. The lord, however, could see no one else but Case. Whenever he had an appointment with Case, the sun shone brighter, the breezes blew calmer, and even the dull water in his exercise bottle tasted like champagne. The lord never felt more alive.

One such appointment, after finishing a set of squats, the lord worked up the courage to ask Case out for a date. Just as the words were coming out of his mouth, a little, but sassy fairy appeared on Case's shoulder.


"Oh, m'lord. Why do you want to ask this man out? You could have any other man that you see." The fairy asked.

"Case makes me laugh. He's smart too. I would love to spend the rest of my life with him." The lord responded, more than a little bit miffed.

"But m'lord, you can't ask Case out. You will never be happy."

The lord's determination remained strong. What did this fairy know about his happiness?

"Please disappear, so I can ask him out."

"I beg you again, please don't. I will only appear one more time to warn you."

And in a flash, the fairy disappeared.

The lord managed to somehow string enough words together to actually ask Case out for a post-workout protein shake and grilled chicken. Much to his surprise, Case accepted, although the lord was not quite certain if Case realised that he was being asked out on a date.

At the local health restaurant/smoothie bar, the lord and Case found that they got along quite well outside of the gym. They shared the same interests and political views, and even their astrological signs were compatible. When Case excused himself to go to the bathroom and make a call on his cellphone, the lord started imagining what their wedding would be like. He was right in the middle of writing his vows when a mysterious woman slinked over to his table.

"Care to see your future, m'lord?"


Giddy with the prospect of seeing his future with Case, the lord excitedly said "yes."

The mysterious woman took some white powder out of her purse and blew it in front of the lord's face.

After a nasty cough, the lord saw himself, or at least someone that looked like himself except it looked like the life had been sucked dry out of him. Just to be certain, he asked the woman:

"Is that me?"

"Yes, it is." She replied with a slight chuckle.

Four children tugged at the (future) lord's pants. They were cute as cherubs, but the lord could barely keep up with them.

"Oh, that's nice," the present-day lord remarked. "Case & I will be parents."
"Yes...and no." The mysterious woman responded.

A dishelved man with circles under his eyes, a hangdog look on his face, and a cellphone virtually attached to his ear entered the room.

"Who's that," the present-day lord inquired.
"You'll see," the mysterious woman said with a slightly louder chuckle.

"CAAAAASE. Would'ja get off the phone with your ex-wife and help me here?" The future lord nagged.

The future Case let out a brief sound that was not a word, but seemed to communicate resignation perfectly.

"Stop it, I don't want to see anymore!" The present-day lord begged.

"As you wish." The mysterious woman complied, as she pulled out more white powder.

Just as quickly as she arrived, so did she disappear. Her timing was impeccable, as that was the moment that Case reappeared.

While Case remained as charming and funny as ever, the lord could not shake the image of his once flawless Adonis turned into a depressed wreck. He left in such a hurry, that Case checked his reflection in a spoon, to see if he had some chicken stuck on his teeth.

That night, safe in his bed in the ivory tower, the lord cried.

"O cruel destiny, why can't I have the man of my dreams?"

Knowing the value of a well-timed entrance, the sassy fairy reappeared. Unfortunately, she did not count on the lord's nervous nature as he let out a shriek that would scare King Kong.

"M'lord. The man of your dreams will always be there."

Confused, the lord pressed her.

"What I mean, m'lord, is that the man of your dreams, is merely the man of your dreams. You cannot expect him to come to you in reality."

"But, dear fairy, who else is there out there?"

The fairy waved her magic wand and suddenly the lord saw just how many men there were in the kingdom, hundreds of thousands indeed.

"Wow. Dear fairy, how will I ever meet all of them?"

"Patience and hope."

And he is still hopeful today.

Collared!

Responding to Pookie's challenge and request, here is my answer:

Dog Name
OTTER HOUND

Origins
UK. Directly descended from the Griffons of Nivernais, Brittany, and Vendee. Big and strongly built, it was used to hunt the otters that decimated the fish in English rivers. The Otter Hound also has scenting abilities on par with the Bloodhound. Today, the breed is rare.

Personality
An amiable but frequently stubborn animal, which can be somewhat destructive in a domestic environment. Should be kept outdoors in a kennel if you value your china ornaments.

(This is pretty bang-on correct for the most part. I'm a total bull in a china shop and I am indeed, stubborn as hell.)

I collar Adam, Danny, and Famous Author Rob Byrnes...if they dare.

Go to Gone2thedogs to play the game.

The Ultimate Break Up Torch Song

I finally got around to reading the translated lyrics of Sol de Inverno. Wow, they pack a punch and a half.

Whenever I break up with somebody, I'm using this portion:

Dreams that I have dreamt, where are they?
Hours that I have lived, who has them?
What's the use of having a heart, and not having someone's love?
I live on longings, my love, my life has lost the splendour.
Like a winter sun, I have no warmth.

Shortly followed by a day long marathon of Almodavar movies.

A year ago today

New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey announced that he was "a gay American," and...nothing really happened afterwards except for a few little scandals over graft and whether Golan Cipel is lying about being straight.

This incident will be forever etched in my head as the time when I thought that "gay American" meant "happy." Seriously, it took me forever to realise that he was saying he was a homosexual.

August is not my smart month.

Ah, nostalgia!

There are countless things that I do not miss about living in Wisconsin. You can keep the boredom, the football obsession, the driving, all that.

What I do miss most of all--second to weather--is the food.

I don't just mean regional cuisine, I'm talking all types of food. Greater Milwaukee is one of the places where companies like to test market products, so we would get everything under the sun before they went national (if they ever did). It was a shock to my system when I first went to Los Angeles and saw that the grocery stores there had less than what I was used to in Wisconsin.

Sometimes, I go into a supermarket here in New York and I just feel sad for the shelves that will never know the beauty of holding Crystal Pepsi, 4 flavours of Jolt Cola, and Diet and regular Vernors all at the same time and even 3 separate sizes. Needless to say, beer and dairy products require at least 4 aisles.

Don't even get me started on the various things we've had from the fast food restaurants over the years.

Why, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, oh why did you have to publish a State Fair article on Cream Puffs vs. Brownies? It's just not fair when I'm stuck out East all August.

Schadenfreude

For the several "Reichen" referrals I get for some bizarre reason:

Cripes!

I was having a good buzz listening to the Miami Sound Machine's "1-2-3" on VH1 Classic, when I stumbled across this tidbit on Keith Boykin's website: Apparently the Nation of Islam halted production on the long-awaited [at least by myself and I'm pretty certain a fair amount of other people] Noah's Arc, which is scheduled to air on LOGO.

Patrik-Ian Polk is a very talented auteur, and it's a shame that his show has to endure this. He did a great job with Punks, which I was very lucky to see at Boston's gay film festival several years ago. I hope that this only proves beneficial for the show and his career.

On a slightly eerie note, I think VH1 Classic is equally peeved. As I was writing this post they played Soul II Soul's "Back to Life" and then George Michael's "Freedom '90." That speaks volumes.

Political Guilt: New York City Edition

These past two days, I've gotten hand-outs from two politicians that I really don't think I'm going to vote for. What makes it worse is that I really wish I could, but there's just nothing sbout them to make me switch my opinion, as least as it stands now.

Case #1: Gifford Miller (Mayoral candidate). The Empire State Pride Agenda is supporting him, but I just think he seems a bit too meek and not tenacious enough for me. Yes, it's great that he cut off funding for the West Side Stadium (aka the stadium nobody wanted for the Olympics that nobody wanted). It's also great that he's the youngest City Council Speaker in New York City history. As I don't have children (and I wouldn't raise them in New York if I did), I could care less about what he does for schools, except on a "they should at least know that Latvia is a real country" level.

Case #2: Brian Ellner (Manhattan Borough Presidential candidate). I had previously described my reservations with Ellner last month. My opinion has not changed. He's all good intentions, but I just don't think he can cut it on a large level. Yes, I definitely would like a gay Borough President, especially one whose campaign literature says "...without rent control I would never had the chance to grow up in Manhattan." He also is in favour of universal health care, stem cell research, and marriage equality (well, duh), but I just don't think he has the experience to make it work. He needs to convince me to vote for him, because I won't vote for symbolic reasons this time. (If I was voting for symbolism, then I'd support Fields for Mayor, but I don't.)

I don't know who I'm voting for vis-a-vis Borough president yet, but I think Anthony Weiner has a good shot with my vote for Mayor. He just seems like new blood, but experienced on the Federal level.

Nonetheless, this all may change by next month, and that's what matters.

You want to know how bizarre things are getting? I am not entirely dismissing La Pirro since she's seemingly more openly pro-gay than Hilary. It might just be August heat and humidity, but I'm listening to what she says. It'll take a lot more than camp value for me to switch over the Republicans, but my ears are open.

Separated at birth

Perhaps I watch too much of The Bold & The Beautiful, but Jeanine Pirro, the recently announced Republican candidate for New York's Senate race (in other words, Hilary's seat) looks shockingly similar to Hunter Tylo.

What do you think?

La Tylo on the right, La Pirro on the left (for the sake of irony).

This was just too twee to pass up

H	Healthy
I	Intelligent
K	Kinky
A	Ambitious
R	Rare
U	Unforgettable

Name Acronym Generator
From Go-Quiz.com

Yep, that sums me up.

Splash-View Post Mortem: Going to battle!

Technically, this should be Splash-View-XES post-mortem, but the XES portion was so insignificant that I won't count it.

So tonight I went to Splash as I am wont to do on a Tuesday night. I was witness to the battle of the grey-haired queens. In one corner, there was one physically fit queen in a tank top. In the other corner was a hard-working queen in polo shirt (henceforth referred to as "TT vs. Polo."). First and foremost, TT seemed to have an "in" with the Brazilian bartender, Alex. Every ten seconds it was "Alex (this), Alex (that)." Polo struck back with going out of his way to make sure that he kisssed Alex on the mouth.

In all honesty, it was a bit depressing, because the bartender is really only in this for the tips, but TT & Polo were definitely taking things more seriously than need be.

Oh, the horror (film)!

I read the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel nearly every day. Mostly because I like Tim Cuprisin's Inside TV & Radio column (which is often times funnier than the New York Daily News's Inner Tube), but also because I get a chance to find out how bizarre things are in my hometown.

Apparently, some guy who teaches film at my old school (where film wasn't even an option!!!) is hoping to take over a shuttered elementary school in Mequon to shoot a low-budget horror film, or as the school board president described it "a creature feature."

Considering that Mequon is zealous about image, I'm truly shocked they actually are considering this. I know the city is greying, but they can't be that hard up, can they?

If this reads bitter, then you're bang on target. Mequon is Milwaukee's answer to Stepford. Every building has to be colonial. I do mean every building from houses to fast food restaurants to even gas stations. You will not even be allowed a permit unless the building is done in that style.

This is the same city where the police suffocated a teen who was resisting arrest with a gas mask issued by Homeland Security.

This is the same city where I sampled the wares of its middle-aged married male populace as a teenager, but was probably the only openly gay male for miles.

This is the same city that is so obsessed with cultivating a landed gentry image, that they are planning a subdivision for horse riders.

And now they are considering shooting daft horror films there? Has the world gone mad?

All right, well, I want to see if I can get the Mequon-Thiensville School Board to sign on to produce my play Mequon, which I can assure you, is not violent, at least in the physical sense.

We can stage it at Range Line Elementary. It'll be an atmospheric production, the audience can just walk around from room to room along with the actors. Oh, we'll use all local actors as well.

And they'll just love the subject matter.

Truly Missed

Rest in Peace, Peter Jennings.

In the interest of levity, several interesting quotes pulled from the Special Report on ABC:

"Peter could scare the hell out of you." -- Charles Gibson

"A stunningly handsome man...a heartbreaker" -- Ted Koppel

It will be very strange watching the news knowing that he'll never come back to anchor.

Kudos to ABC for not making their tribute maudlin, but respectful and jovial.

Eurovision in August

According to esctoday, the rumour mill has it that Despina Vandi will be asked to be the Greek entry for next year.

The main reason that this is of interest to me, is that Splash for some reason plays Despina Vandi videos every time I get in there. If indeed this turns out to be true, I wouldn't be surprised if they air next year's Greek final.

That is all, reckon we. Anorak mode: off.

Saturday Morning Lyrics

The first few verses of the original Pokemon theme (translated from Japanese, courtesy of Anime Lyrics) give a creepy spin on the whole "gotta catch 'em all" idea:

(I'll get you, Pokemon!)

For example, in fire, in water, in grass, in forests
in earth, in clouds, in that girl's skirt (eek!)

very, very,
very, very difficult but
surely I'll get you!
I'll get you, Pokemon!

farewell, bye-bye, Masara Town
I'm taking a journey with my friends (pikachu!)
I'll win with my sharpened skills
and make new friends as I go to the next city

of course I always go dexterously
there's no compensation, but... (that's not so!)
I always, always live seriously
because I have my friends

For example, in fire, in water, in grass, in forests
in earth, in clouds, in that girl's skirt (you're persistent!)

very, very, very, very difficult
but surely I'll get you!
I'll get you, Pokemon

I got tired in battle, good night, good night
if I close my eyes, I'll revive (pikachu?)
flames burn, winds blow
that battle roars

yesterday's enemy is today's friend
those are old words but... (what do you mean "old"!)
today's friend is also tomorrow's friend
yeah, forever

Ah! I long to become a Pokemon master
I must become one
I will surely become one!

It doesn't sound so much like he's trying to exhort children to be Pokemon masters, but rather Moby Dick style obsessive predators and perverts. Not to mention what's with all this flippant "yeah, forever" business?

You were warned, children.

In 2038: A lot of old doors have new knobs

(2038 seems increasingly more bizarre the more I read these entries.)

The CBC is going through a nostalgia kick, and it seems to benefit me. Well, partially. I don't want to seem like some sort of male Greta Garbo, but I don't want to be one of those people who are constantly cashing in on their glory days. Hell, no. I live forward.

Nonetheless, a big enough check can get me off of my high horse. So next week, I'm off to Toronto to go record the first episode of Remembering the Teens. For my bit, they're focusing in on Peter and Reflection (aka the cash cows which gave the CBC bucketloads of money in syndication). They're also dragging up Ryan Reynolds and Ken to give their thoughts as well.

Ken & I had a long talk about what we would say and what we wouldn't say vis-a-vis Reflection. The end result? We're taping our segments separately. He doesn't want to be present while I basically say that those sex scenes weren't exactly as fake as people thought.

Personally, for all the career highlights I had during the Teens, I actually think the Twenties were more interesting, especially for Americans. You had:

• The implosion of the Democrats and the Republicans in 2020, who subsequently morphed into the Liberals and Conservatives. Not to mention, SP-USA actually forming the House majority in 2024.
• The amalgamation of ABC, NBC, CBS, and old PBS into the new PBS System in 2026. That was fun. Especially when the old NBC and ABC news anchors in New York and Los Angeles actually rioted during their protest. I thought that was funny. A whole bunch of people in Brooks Brothers suits trashing Central Park. I still crack up laughing whenever they show it. I don't know what their problem was, since The CW and Fox are still around. (Well, it's still "Fox" even though Newscorp got broken up and divided in 2019.)
• The election of Liberal President Butch Hall in 2028. For starters, I still can't believe that his parents actually named him "Butch." We get our first openly gay president and his name is Butch! Not to mention the Butch-mania that ran rampant across the US for the next 8 years. Apart from the children (both male and female) named after him, there was the whole "new name" craze that saw "Chaz," "Mags," "Al," and "Shaz" up on the list of most popular names.
• The Scientology trials from 2020 to 2024. Who can forget the image of Tom Cruise spitting wildly at John Travolta for being "a turncoat?" The man truly did live in an ivory tower. And poor Katie Holmes, looking as vacant as a Manson Family member.
• Conservative President Suzanne Trainer going on television in 2021, apologising to the LGBT community for all the Republican gay-baiting. Even better, she even proceeded to air out all the Republicans' dirty laundry! I mean, I knew Santorum was hypocritical, but even an old slut like me was shocked at what he did. And Sensenbrenner was a true shock. He had no business criticising Clinton over Lewinsky while he was busy being an old leather queen.
• The signing of the Comprehensive [don't-even-try-to-overturn-it] Equal Rights Amendment in 2021. I don't like the Conservatives, but they're ten times better than their predecessors.
• The Francophile craze that swept both Canada and the US in 2023. Johnny Hallyday videos played on MTV? People in Iowa able to cite the lyrics from Celine Dion's back catalogue by heart? Night of a 1000 Mylene Farmers in Calgary? Bizarre.
• Senator Affleck. I like the man, but that still boggles my mind.

Then again, I will be able to talk about the Bush cabinet trials of 2010, so there was at least some interesting things that happened in the Teens.

In 2038: Biloxi is the new San Francisco

(Apparently I moved to Mississippi after raising children. Talk about life going full circle. I can't even imagine moving to the place my father called "the old country.")

We had the Pride parade today. It was like going back in time to Oughties New York. A whole bunch of shirtless men and women waving rainbow flags down Main Street. The local PBS1 station covered it live. They even had their own float, which I joined them on.

I was sitting smack dab between Lyle Ralston, the 5 PM anchor, and his 2nd husband, Peter. He doesn't like to talk about Jonathan, which, fair play to him, I wouldn't either since all and sundry ask him about that kiss at the Superbowl. You know, I try to be witty and entertaining whenever I'm on air, but in ultra-humid Biloxi I was just trying to stay lucid.

Sample exchange:

Lyle: You've been living here for 2 years now, what d'you think of how we do Pride down here?
Me: It...good.
Lyle: Come again?
Me: Hmphbleaha...Could you pass the water bottle, please?

I recovered by the time we got closer to the beach, but in one [unfortunately live on television] moment, Lyle and State Senator Moxon (aka "Fox-on Moxon" and yes, he is) doused me with water. Now, that may have been cute when I was in my twenties and thirties, but I'm nearly 60! I don't like surprises even if they come from hot men.

The big dance was held out on Deer Island. That's right, Deer Island, the marshy wildlife preserve. I don't know how they did it, I don't even know why they did it, because honestly, the casinos were practically begging Pride Biloxi to host the dance. It was one nasty battle that seemed to prove that the Dixie Mafia had indeed gone gay. I just hate to imagine the cleanup bill after 10,000 people. (Oh yes, 10,000, and they were saying this was a light year.)

Nonetheless, it was worth braving the mosquitoes to hear Bobbi Kristina perform. That woman is still kicking ass in her forties. She's like Cher, Liza Minnelli, and Streisand rolled into one, and I'm just talking about her image. If indeed the old saying about greatness coming from crazy is true, then she's superb. (It also makes me a little optimistic about Four's success. She most definitely is the product of two deranged parents.) The best thing was seeing her come onto the stage and the crowd greeted her with "I'm not doing this with him, todaaaaay." She started laughing.

After she did her set, the other act was Sunny, the drag queen whose Shirley Bassey-esque voice has kept her on the charts since '30. And she's only 32 now. Seriously, 32! You know how they're always saying how people are fainting at her concerts? Well, I always thought that was a bunch of hokum, but they aren't kidding. This group of big strapping frat boys from Ole Miss (I think one of them is the quarterback up there) practically parted the crowd in their rush to see her. Midway through "Diamonds are forever" those boys fell with a thud straight out of a movie.

Being that I no longer have the stamina to dance all night, I caught the GulfRail home. (You know, we used to always think that Disney was so outdated with the monorail. Who knew? The thing takes you straight from downtown to Brasher Bayou in 10 minutes.) I got home just in time to get a call from Ken--who seems to forget that there's a serious time difference between Osaka and Biloxi, when the first thing out of his mouth is "Wow, you look wrecked."

Ain't he a charmer?

Canada's new head of state...

...is gorgeous and smarter than the rest of us.

I don't think we'll ever get someone that good-looking in a major level in the US.

Splash Post-Mortem: Avant-garde poetry edition

Woke up naked.

Had cheese fry crumbs on my thigh.

Remember flirting with a muscular Israeli bartender

And trying to drink martinis.

I can't pull off being coy

Without my id bursting into laughter.

Why would a rapper call himself Nelly?

And make so many videos?

Doesn't he know that is an invitation for ridicule?

My new favourite drink is a greyhound

But it's dangerous to drink it

Unless you like waking up naked in the morning

with cheese fry crumbs that you don't remember buying.

(Et tu, Rosie O'Donnell, et tu?)

In 2038: They redefined "queer"

(More musings from 2038)

Apparently "queer" is back to being a pejorative, but not how it used to be. They're using it to describe all the ex-gay fanatics that are now in jail. From what I gather, "queer" means anyone who is zealous in their piety.

Today the networks interrupted regular programming to show the parole hearing of one of the head honchos from Exodus. PBS 3 (remember when that was NBC?) had a commentary by this one ex-member and his sister, which nearly made me break down in tears. As much as I like this new Liberal government in the US, sometimes I do hate these transparency-in-court laws. Still, this was history, especially for me.

For nearly two hours, we heard testimony of the brutal brainwashing that they forced upon people. All this talk about how "god will hate you if you act upon your nature." Disturbing. The most unnerving one to me was when the woman who could barely speak after her tracheotomy, which was brought on by a botched suicide attempt. Yet, the guy remained defiant. His whole world seemed to be defined by twisting religion as hate.

You know, I saw the Dahmer trial live and uncensored while growing up (which featured the first time I had ever heard the word "fuck" on broadcast television), but that didn't unnerve me as much as this. I was seriously shaking by the time it was all over.

And yet, I was happy that I've lived long enough to see it.

In 2038: They call me MISTER Grandma!

(So I'm having my dinner, when I get a package delivery. I open it up, and it's a disk. After scanning of viruses and such, I find out that it's apparently the musings from myself 33 years from now. Here's the entry from August 1, 2038.)

My grandson is starting to ask questions. His first one was "why is mommy's first name Four?" I wanted to ask him why my daughter insisted on giving him the name Jake. Not Jacob, but Jake. He's only eight now, but he'll get a complex about it in a few years. She rode the wave of President Butch-mania, now her child will have it in for her when he grows up.

Anyway, the answer I gave was this: "Well, your mother is special so I gave her a special name. I just wasn't expecting her to use it."

"Why?"

Boy, I hated that when the kids were, well, kids. "Why? Why? Why?"

"She was special because I gave birth to her."

"Oh."

Not "wow," but "oh." The little ingrate. (I know, I know. Children are precious, blah blah blah.) They've only had male pregnancy for 30 years and the current generation is so blase about it. In order to impress upon this child just how important this was, I had to give him the whole story. Well, the G rated version.

"Your grandfather & I were very happy living in Toronto, but something was missing. The penthouse felt lonely with just the two of us there."

Lie #1: I thoroughly enjoyed having Ken gone half the time. It meant that I could actually finish my scripts. Besides, we had those multi-purpose wall length videophones/television/computers. That man could check on me whenever he damn well felt like it. And he didn't, that's why I love him.

"So we decided that we wanted some company, a sweet little angel. So we went to the doctor and said we want a baby. "

Lie #2: Oh, we wanted a child, but the arguments over who was going to carry it were vicious. Ken told me "I'm too pretty to get pregnant." I shot back "So I'm supposed to get huge instead?" After several debates that put Lincoln & Douglass to shame, as well as 5 games of rock-paper-scissors, he pulled his trump card: "I am not touring with an ever-increasing stomach." He got the silent treatment for some time after that.

"And the doctor hooked us up to a machine, and your mother appeared in my stomach."

Lie#4: Now I couldn't very well tell the child that his mother was the product of 4 HOURS worth of sex with his grandfather all performed with a whole bunch of tubes attached to my neither regions. (Not to mention with the least sexiest doctor on Earth watching over the entire procedure.) I know it's prudish, but I'm sorry. By the way, do not believe these queens who tell you that conception is bliss. I like an orgasm as much as the next guy, but after 4 hours, you're just plum tired and want it over with.

"I had a fun time being pregnant. I almost never wanted it to end."

Lie #5: Ever since men could get pregnant, the courtesy stopped. No one made space for me on the train, or in restaurants. They didn't want to do jack, but just go "awww." And I was only the fourth man in Toronto to get knocked up so there was the curiosity aspect combined with my previous mid-level celebrity. Nowadays, they don't even coo at either women or men. I cry for this world, sometimes.

"But one day, your mother gave me a light tap inside and said she wanted to meet us in person."

Lie #6: That child didn't give any tap. She did a roundhouse! It didn't stop there either, she did the can-can, krumped, and I swear at one point she got her hands on an infant-sized jackhammer. I'm already getting the chills writing about it.

Jake smiled at the end of my fairy tale (no pun intended). I'm now thinking that I sugar-coated things too much. Perhaps that's a good thing. Just the other day I saw some man on television extolling the virtues of the "new masculine mystique," which screams ploy, but Jessica Simpson (who'd of thought she'd be the new Katie Couric?) was ate it all up.

That being said, Ken was getting rather amorous in bed the other day. I leaned over, smiled sweetly, and told him "NEVER AGAIN ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH!"

Oh, the irony!

The letter from the editor in this month's issue of Out is quite interesting, given the source:

"When you look at yourself naked in the mirror, are you turned on by what you see? I ask the question not to invite narcissm but to raise a subject that we all, openly or not, obsess about: body image."

In the column, Brendan Lemon goes on to point out (tepidly) the role that Out has played in this, with their infamous selection of half-naked buff (mostly straight) cover men:

"Like many people, I view cover guys with conflicted emotions (even as I obviously understand, and promote, their appeal). I feel drawn to these guys' beauty. I also experience a sinking inability to match it, not to mention a secret resentment of them, the kind expressed by a character in the 11th century Japanese prose masterpiece The Tale of Genji: 'The way good looks have of blotting out everyone else can be rather annoying.'"

Hmm. Well, this is quite the shocker. I find the section about him promoting the appeal of the cover guys very interesting. Personally, I've always felt that Lemon talks out of his ass ever since that whole "I'm-dating-a-closeted-baseball-player" debacle, which really had nothing to do with anything.

On this point, however; he's onto something. I mention this, partly because I've been described as a self-loathing black man (which seems to me more like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole--it just doesn't describe my insecurities (especially anorexia) in total) and partly because I've been going through this post-surgery period extremely paranoid about my body. I am frankly, a neurotic mess. I make no bones about it, I just am.

This is the quagmire that I think a lot of gay men fall into. We both want to be and be with Adonises, and no one would ever admit to being one, because arrogance is unseemly. Yet, many of us exercise ourselves to the point of no return hoping against hope that we can get just a taste of the magic that the aesthetically pleasing elite possesses. I know that's part of the reason I go psycho in the gym. (The other reason being to run further away from the chubby, awkward, outscast that I was 7 years ago.)

Lemon touches on this:

"Remember that you take care of your physical self not primarily to attract others but to please yourself. This reminder is perhaps more difficult for gay men than for straight: 'Settling down' seems harder to acheive for us than for the straight guys, and so the search to stay eternally attractive feels more pressing...Perhaps the worst aspect of bodily perfectionism is the way it diminshes our sensual selves. If you don't believe me, ask yourself: Would you rather have dinner with someone who likes an occasional bit of dessert, or someone who can't stop talking about his no-trans-fat diet?"

Amen.

But I wonder how long this lesson will last?

Who's minding the store?

We need another Irving Thalberg, because the people green-lighting these films need to be taken out back and shot:

• The 40 Year Old Virgin (As much as I find Steve Carrell attractive, this film has asinine written all over it. I know he's got a cult following, but Judd Apatow is a hack in my book.)
• Deuce Bigelow: European Gigolo (Even the 12-14 year old boys are groaning.)
• Four Brothers (The Sons of Katie Elder redone as an urban thriller/drama; By the way, who thought that Andre 3000 and Tyrese could act? They can't. They're nice to look at, but they can't act.)
• Undiscovered (Random pretty people trying to get famous in Los Angeles. Just re-release Fame.)
• Underclassman (You must be joking. Does anyone still find the ancient "detective/agent going undercover at a school" bit interesting?)

And they wonder why no one goes to the movies anymore.

Friday is for Camp Entertainment

Culled from Popbitch:

You'd better play that keyboard!

L.A. Race Story? (Part 2)

(Apologies for the delay.)

From Frederick Smith's Down for Whatever:

If you're white and have rock-hard abs, a tribal band tattoo around your sculpted biceps and have endured the latest implantant, skin dermabrasion or fat removal technique, you can rest assured that you can have your pick of other white boys or any other ethnicity you want for the night, if you choose. This is for no other reason than the fact that you're white and seen as desirable and normal and a potential partner for life. You don't have to think about your place, because you and most other people see you as normal, the standard. On a slow day, you can simply rest assured that your existence in the world is not questioned or ignored.

If you're Asian or Asian American, you can count on being a fetish, objectified or a fantasy even without trying. You're exotic, much like Chinese takeout in Montana, and most of the time you don't even question being called Oriental or being placed in the same category as a rug or a vase. And don't even think about pursuing or being pursued by anything other than a white boy, because you have that "model minority" theory to fulfill. You have to prove yourself to be as good as white boys, and are nothing like your men-of-color peers, who are in the same boat as you in the grand scheme of the gay world.

If you're Latino, you supposedly have the best of all worlds--light skin (let's not start with the African and indigenous roots that are often hidden, ignored, or denied), people-of-color vibe (unless you call yourself "Hispanic" and are part of that compassionate conservative clique from Texas or Florida), and acceptable to most white folks' families if they have to accept interracial dating. Besides, being Latino is the hot trendy thing for the new millennium according to most pop culture and literary sources, so ride the ride while it's moving. And you can revel in the names associated with being a sex object--hot Latin lover, papi chulo, chulo with the nice culo, tamale, chorizo. If you're culturally empowered and know your history and culture, you might object. But if you're not, well you're just plain old hot, hot, hot and probably think it's all in fun. You can date black, you can do white, on a slow night maybe even go for an Asian boy, but most likely you'll go Latino unless the aforementioned guys speak a little Spanish and can do a few merengue or salsa moves on the dance floor. Besides, going Latino or white fits best with the overall historical trend of deliberately lightening up the community. Can't have those indigenous roots and looks popping up, after all.

And if you're African-American or black--well, let's just summarize it with my experience in L.A.: too dark to be the tragic, yet beautiful mulatto boy, and not dark (or "homeboy") enough to be the black mandingo fantasy. Face it, I'm in the minority in this town. Except for the pockets of talented tenth in Baldwin Hills, Leimert Park, Ladera Heights, or even Altadena, there are not many black men to be found in L.A. I mean when has anyone seen more than five black men together in one setting in L.A.? Especially black guys who actually like other black guys, whether it's in the friendship or more-than-friendship context. This makes for a lonely and sad dating life for me.

Let's break it down here: For starters, I always feel a little strange commenting on other ethnicities than myself. Every culture has its own rules and history, and indeed, we can never walk in someone else's shoes. So my opinions on other ethncities are culled from what I've read and heard from friends and associates. End of disclaimer.

I'll be honest with you, I am no fan of Los Angeles. I just think it's spread out in a way that you really don't have to see people unless you want to, which disturbs me because part of what eases tensions and prejudice is frequent, daily exposure to lives other than your own. (I'm not saying that New York is a font of racial harmony, mind you.) The four months in Los Angeles that I spent in 2000, were probably the loneliest period of my life. I felt truly invisible as a black man and as a person. The former because it's such a media town, where visibility is everything. You aren't just yourself, but you're an icon ("the first black this, the first Latino that..." and don't get me started on Garth Ancier, because he can go to hell for all that I care) first and foremost. I can honestly say that I was the only person of colour at the companies that I interned at.

I felt invisible as a person, because I did not have to see anyone unless I made a concerted effort, which really was a shock to me after years spent in Boston and Luton. In Los Angeles, at all the gatherings and meetings I went to, everyone seemed to be strutting around like a peacock. My theory was that it had to do with the fact that so much time was spent in one's own head, that when you met others you didn't want to show your weaknesses.

Steering this back to race, in respect to the Asian section, I remember an online friend who was Chinese-American and would frequently state that he felt really trapped by the "ethnic hierarchy that put Asians last." I think it does come partly down to media, as I've mentioned before. It's only in really recent years that we've seen Asian men portrayed as attractive. Margaret Cho (love her!) once said in her act "I grew thinking that one day, I could play a prostitute on M*A*S*H." In respect to Asian men, I'd say it was Bruce Lee and virtually nobody else. I know that when I was growing up, there were no Asian men in the teen idol magazines. Come to think of it, there were practically no men of colour period. That really does a number on self-esteem, but I digress, since I've been down this path before.

Now onto the Latino section. Sometimes, I feel like a wannabe Latino, because many people see me as Dominican or Puerto Rican. I do know that many times I have wished that I could be Latino, because it does seem like the best of both worlds as the passage suggests ("light skin," "people of color vibe," and "acceptability"). Yet at the same time, I often wonder what Latinos think of being fetishised after many years of seeming to be off the map. Many people are often shocked when it's pointed out that Martin Sheen (real name: Ramon Estevez), Raquel Welch, and yes, even Cameron Diaz are Latino. You can even see it in Jennifer Lopez's movie choices where she's been gradually changed from Latina to "mysteriously ethnic." To me it seems like there's a chameleon-like aspect to being Latino that I do envy, and I wonder if other gay black men feel the same way. At the same time, I wonder if Latino men do get tired of being seen as the stereotype.

What my ultimate take on all of this, is that, again, we spend all this time generalising and never wanting to see the real person underneath. If that's the overwhelming modus operandi in Los Angeles's gay world, then I'm glad I'm not there.

Capitalism Goes Crazy At the Theatre

The chaos that was my mother's birthday weekend ended yesterday, and I can finally breathe.

The last night [Tuesday] nearly did me in. We went to see The Lion King (my mother's decision, one that she made with no consultation from me, because she knew my answer would be "when hell freezes over"). It was dire.

Oh, I'm not referring to the show here, which despite an asinine book, was indeed visually stunning. I'm talking about the huckstering--if indeed that is a word. From the second you enter the theatre, you are greeted with a man yelling out "PROGRAMS! PROGRAMS! Git yer programs!" Then on the Mezzanine--and I'm assuming Balcony as well--you have to walk past a huge concession stand with beverages, snacks, stuffed animals, CDs, and yes, programs. Somebody ahead of us asked if they could bring the beverages inside of the theatre. The answer was yes. Now, prior to this, everyone was told to dispose of any beverages during the bag check. So indeed you could bring beverages and snacks inside the theatre, if you bought them from Disney.

Having been to Disney World countless times when I was younger, I could look past all the pre-show marketing and shopping opportunities. What I couldn't get past was what happened during intermission. After the run for the bathrooms during intermission, they had vendors come through the aisles selling CDs, stuffed animals, and yes, programs! Now, I know that we are in an age where nobody dresses to go to theatre, but I truly thought that was beyond the pale. This is still a different occasion than going to The Lion King on Ice, nor is it a night game at Yankee Stadium. My mother (who used to go to Broadway quite often when she lived in New York) was just as disgusted. Come curtain call, both of us, refused to stand up, albeit for probably different reasons (protest on my part, and poor blood circulation on my mother's part).

If anyone in the cast or creative team happens to stumble across this post, I just want to say that you did an excellent job (except for book writers Roger Allers & Irene Mecchi who could've done a lot better than a cut-and-paste job from the script), and were it not for the aggressive marketing, I would've stood up and given you your due.

A sidenote: Never in my life have I seen so many people clap so often after every little thing. If the curtain went up, the audience applauded. If someone entered, they applauded. If they exited, they applauded. It was like the State of the Union address.

Another sidenote: Sally was in most of yesterday's The Bold & The Beautiful. That went a long way towards salvaging the rest of this week. Now give Darlene Conley more airtime!

The Pressure

Last night was my mother's actual birthday, celebrated in a small Italian restaurant in Yorkville.

This time I wasn't the only man at the table, as my mother's old business partner (aged 73, but looked 60 if he was a day) and his wife joined the festivities.

Well, he was a character and a half, lemme tell you. The second he laid eyes on me it was "why don't you get your mother to retire. Why? Why? Why?" As if I have any control over her! She has often hidden behind the excuse that she's waiting for me to establish my career (or at least have a nice nest egg saved up), but honestly, it has little to do with me and more just with her desire to keep herself occupied. Maybe it's genetic, as evidenced by the craziness that took me over this past June when I had to be sedentary.

When dinner wrapped up, and the rest of the group (and believe it or not, my mother and her college friends did actually call themselves "The Group," predating the film by 2 years) was piled into the limousine, he pulled me over and held my hand in what I would describe as a gentle vice grip.

"You'd better get her to retire. She works too hard. You'd better get her to quit rushing around. You know her health isn't good."

Seriously, Mister, what can I do? If there is one thing that my mother has taught me, it is that the quickest way to make someone hate you for a long time is to force them into a way of life when they aren't ready to give it up. I wanted to tell him, that if I forced my mother out of retirement (or even to Part-Time work), then I'm putting his number on speed dial, so he can hear the veiled resentment that is bound to creep up. The only thing that will cause my mother to retire would be a doctor's order. Even then, I bet she'll be cursing that doctor for decades to come.

Fortunately, on the ride back to the hotel, everybody trashed him. (Note: with the exception of myself and my great aunts, everybody else had known and met this man since the 1960's) Amongst the comments:

• "Until tonight, I didn't really care for him."
• "I always thought he was such a hog for the spotlight."
• "The man is out for himself."
• "He refers to himself in the third person."
• "And he name drops like there's no tomorrow."
• "He just knows everybody and wants you to know that too."

I don't even want to envision the Oedipal subtext of going out to lunch with my mother's business partner.

Of Delayed Trains, Family Dining in Chelsea, and Matthew Rush

Further proof of Mercury Retrograde:

Yesterday, my mother flew into New York to start her "Auntie Mame" weekend. She invited her two close friends from college, her cousins (1st, 2nd, and 3rd--all women), and her aunts. Indeed, I will basically be the only male present during this 3 day celebration.

My day started at 7 am, when I got a call from my great aunts stating that they still had yet to leave the train station in Lynchburg, Virginia. The train was running 4 hours late due to track problems in North Carolina. I check Amtrak's website and it said that the train was estimated to arrive at 4:10, instead of 2:33; optimistically, Amtrak thought it could make up that much of a delay.

When I go to the airport to meet my mother, I pass on this piece of news and her reaction is akin to "oh, what can you do." It would radically change as the day wore on.

First setback, her room at the hotel is not ready. So we drop off her bags and head off to lunch.

After lunch, we go back to the hotel and the room is ready. After unpacking, we call Amtrak. The train is now scheduled to arrive at 5:27. Mother gets a little peeved. She has the concierge check to make sure that is the case.

(A little sidenote here: Amtrak now has an automated "assistant" called "Julie" helping you over the phone. It's creepy, because "Julie" uses collaqialisms like: "and that's for today, right?" Freaked me out.)

Meanwhile, mother starts the first of several calling blitzes to reschedule the limo to pick up herself and her aunts from Penn Station to the hotel, as well as the limo taking her aunts, her cousins, and herself from the hotel to that night's restaurant and back.

Come 4:30, we get a taxi over to Penn Station, because by now, it's apparent that the train could come in at any time. We go over to the Customer Service office, and the train is now estimated to arrive at 5:40. Mother smiles widely at the agent. Oh boy, she's angry. You see, my mother is one of those people who when she receives bad news, she doesn't openly fly into a rage, but displays the exact opposite emotion. The wider she smiles, the more irked she is.

We sit down, and I have two beers. (Sunday is one of my drinking days.) After a leisurely jaunt across Penn Station to find an elusive seating area, we opt again to go back to the Customer Service office. A nice Irish lady informs us that the train's arrival is now 6:30! Mother smiles widely. The woman tells my mother "you keep smiling, dear." Oh, if she only knew.

Eventually finding a place to sit, Mother lets her hair down...figuratively, and says that she wished she hadn't planned this. I mention "Mercury Retrograde," and add that she didn't necessarily have to invite her aunts nor her cousins. (The original plan was basically for her old college friends and myself.) Alas, she admits that guilt got the better of her, so she invited her Regional Jet-phobic aunts.

Somehow, through some miracle, her aunts do appear via wheelchair. I have to say, the women in my family are hardcore. These two women have been through breast cancer, heart trouble, and all other sorts of maladies, and the travel chaos of the day strikes them as funny. (They had been up since 4 am.) Mother on the other hand is fit to be tied. Her irritation shows when she tries to tell the limo driver to "drive! You're going to get paid. Just drive!" I tell her to "breathe and relax.")

When they get to the hotel, I break to go back to my apartment, because frankly I'm stinky by this point. The group, however, is hellbent on going to dinner. This means that I have to dash down the apartment, change, and basically sprint down 10 blocks to get to the restaurant. I had probably smoked about 8 cigarettes during the sprint/walk down there to calm myself down. Hysteria is contagious.

The resturant is a Southern & Jamaican place in Chelsea. Go figure, it's busy with Chelsea boys and their Guyland* female friends. Into this mix comes our group, 4 full-figured black women, a 2 year old girl, and myself. The toddler is in her assert-my-independence stage and I am seated right next to her. So throughout the meal all the conversation is peppered with "YAAAAAH!" and "Noooo!" right in my ear. I asked my mother if she spiked my milk when I was that age. She smiled and said "no." Uh huh.

*"Guyland" = "Lawn Guyland" aka Long Island

I can honestly say that was one of the longest meals of my life. Made even longer by the fact that my appetite was already shot by lunch. Fortunately, the benefits of eating Chelsea, means that it's just a skip and a jump back home via Splash.

Oh yes, I needed Splash after that day. I do love my relatives, but that was just too much for me. It was now just about 10, and I find a nice seat downstairs, and order a beer. Around the time of the second beer, the PA starts barking "Mattttthew Ruuuush is in the house." Oh lord.
It becomes like a chant, "Matthew Rush, Matthew Rush, Matthew Rush." I think that I can withstand the curiosity factor. No, I'm not that strong. So I mosey on upstairs and indeed see Matthew Rush dancing his heart out for dollars.

I have to say, he has always struck me as being overly muscled onscreen, but in real life, he does look more proportionate. He certainly is quite the energetic dancer, and when he finishes his set he ends it with a kiss to the audience and a "I LOVE YOU GUYS!"

Things can only get more Lewis Carroll-esque for the next three weeks.

Jiminy Cricket, it's Mercury Retrograde!

I have no shame in admitting this: I believe in astrology. Not as a religion, but just a gut feeling of mine that there's definitely a connection between the stars and how we behave here down on Earth.

Of course, I'm an Aquarian, a sign once described as "the second most prevalent sign in mental hospitals." (Scorpios are #1 according to that book. All the Scorpios I have met, have been charming friendly people. Although it's possible that the insane see each other as sane.)

For those who follow astrology, there are three times a year where we get the fun period known as "Mercury Retrograde," when the planet Mercury appears to be moving backwards, before appearing to resume its path. Mercury Retrograde is an absolute party! You see, Mercury rules communication, travel, and details. When it goes retrograde, all those best laid plans go haywire, even with the most obsessive preplanning.

Got a contract to sign? You'd better think twice.

Got a new project you want to start? Keep brainstorming.

Want to move on with your new play which you've been writing for nearly three weeks now and find yourself permanently stuck with writer's block? Them's the breaks.

Lest you think that this is time to grab your stuffed animal and stay hidden for three weeks, there is a silver lining. People and/or objects from your past have a tendency to come back into your life: the good and the bad.

Yesterday, I got one of those mass emails with questions from a guy who I used to have a crush on and had a very dysfunctional quasi-relationship with. I have not heard nor seen him in years, mostly out of choice. (That's the Aquarian sprit, always move forward!) Now, I've been hemming and hawing on whether to respond back.

What would Harvey Fierstein do?

So what does this mean?

After the post yesterday about the triumphant flickering light marching on despite adversity--the maintenance men went and replaced it.

Well, there's my little metaphorical pick-me-up scuppered.

Normal Business

There's a flickering light in the hallway next to my apartment. It just refuses to die out. So whenever I enter or exit it's like being next to a disco strobe light.

The reason I bring up the light that refuses to die, is because I'm truly puzzled by the media. During the bombing "incident" today in London, we were presented with nonstop coverage all over the major networks. I muted most of it, but I read the captions. It seemed to me that we were getting 50% speculation, 40% repetition, and 10% information.

The repetition is necessary, because you never know when people are turning in. Likewise, the information is critical; however the speculation is unnecessary in my view. What purpose does it serve to say that this might happen? Sometimes, it seems like the goal of network news is not so much to inform, but rather to render paranoid.

The irony in all of this, is that after every major disaster involving terrorism, the authorities hold a press conference in which they exhort the people to "go about their normal business." I'm beginning to think that is easier said than done. We are expected to live our lives (while also maintaining vilgilence) while surrounded by news reports that scream "Could it happen here?" Now, while on one hand, it's good to know that there are attempts to assure our security as we "go about our normal business," the tone of these reports seem more to make us worried rather than relieved.

I don't want to come across as extremely jaded or cynical, but my suspicion is that the paranoid tone is mostly due to ratings. Ratings = money. Perhaps we'll all get so scared that we will have no choice but to stay at home and watch television all day.

Personally, I'd like to think that a lot of the news directors are just getting caught up in the story and are desperately afraid of turning away from it lest a major development occurs. Yet, I believe that the zeal with which they follow a story is partly ego-driven. Indeed, the public has a right to know, but doesn't the public have a right to sit back and process what did occur without being bombarded by "what if" scenarios?

I'm far from neurologically savvy, but I think the human brain can only take so much information in before overload, and I wonder if we're reaching that point.

If Mom doesn't like him...

While I was out drinking, apparently Bush named his pick for the Supreme Court. My mother sent me this email with her thoughts:

"Mr. Roberts looks exactly as I imagine an alien representative would be constructed who is to be sent to the world to represent a human being. He is almost too perfect. He sounds as if he has been programmed as well. I know that I am starting to sound like George Orwell, but this is what comes to my mind."

The man is 50, married, with two adopted children aged 4 and 5. I don't know what his opinions are, but having children that late makes me wonder.

Splash-Rawhide Post Mortem: Smack My Hikaru Up

I don't deal well with humidity, especially when combined with alcohol.

Alas, I didn't follow the warning signs and still went full throttle. (By the way, I am writing this with a hangover.)

It all really started when I was talking with Garrett and asked if he wanted to meet up for drink as he was in Chelsea at the time. Given the heat, I had to wear a tank top out of reasons for preserving my body temperature more than any "look-at-me" logic. Unfortunately, it made me look like a hustler. I have never felt so stared at in my life (and this is after acting completely nude in a short play). It would've been a good thing had I actually been in the mood for sex, but frankly, I was more in the mood for air conditioning.

After saying goodbye to Garrett at Barracuda (Kill Bill vol. 1 was playing, and we both are squeamish when it comes to gore), I made my way over to Splash. Again, nearly everybody there was wearing a shirt, and to be honest with you, I felt like I looked like a hooker. (Of note: Splash played "All Over The World" from Xanadu. Wow, I never realised how campy that film was.)

I subsequently went over to Rawhide, and I can only tell that due to the prominent "Rawhide" stamp on my wrist. What I cannot tell you is what happened while I was there, nor how long I stayed, nor how I wound up back at my apartment with a 3 uneaten slices of pizza.

I woke up this morning at 8:30 (relatively late for me) and dumped the pizza out. Unfortunately, I didn't bother to put any pants on while on my journey to the "refuse closet" in the hallway. Having successfully dumped the pizza down the chute, I thought I could easily dash back to my apartment. Alas, someone chooses that time to go out to the elevator, leaving me stuck in the trash room until they go. (I don't know my neighbours and I really don't want their first impression of me to be of a bleary-eyed man in his boxer shorts.)

At least if I was a whore, then I'd have some money to comfort me.

Weathermen = Fame Whores

I get a text message last night and it says "Turn on Larry King Live!" I comply, and am presented with the image of Tim Vincent (who despite trying to morph himself into an entertainment reporter, will always be known to me as the cute man from Blue Peter and Emmerdale who also posed naked) discussing the British monarchy.

I'm thinking, "why on earth would someone think that I'd want to hear about the British monarchy?" Well, lo and behold, guess who is subbing for Larry King? Sam Champion. That's right, Sam Champion, the main weatherman for WABC, New York's ABC affiliate. Apparently, he has also subbed for Regis Philbin on Live with Regis and Kelly as well, and when that show went literally to sea, he tagged along. (I haven't watched Live in eons, but I do watch WABC News at 6, and saw him from a cruise ship giving the forecast with Regis Philbin mugging his way through the whole thing.)

Now, I'm all for having a diverse career, but I'm sorry, why is a weatherman hosting a national call-in show? It's just weird. Then again, look at Al Roker. He practically runs the latter half-hour of Today. He's got his fingers in a whole slew of media pies (no pun intended). Some time ago, I was witness to the bizarre creature that was Roker Reports on Court TV. That's right, Al Roker reporting on a murder investigation. I hate to say this, but seeing jolly Al Roker act all serious and reporter-like was too funny. I laughed my way through the show, as well-meaning as it was supposed to be.

This trend seems to be catching on. It seems like WNYW (the Fox affiliate in New York) is trying to shape Good Day New York meterologist Mike Woods (think Al Roker with a body made for gay porn) into some sort of sexy version of Il Roker. One of their other meterologists, Tracy Humphries (a female Al Roker--what is it with the black meterologists?) does a weekly segment about expensive condos in Manhattan. It baffles the mind.

And then there's Dave Price, late of WNYW and currently on The Early Show and WCBS in the morning. If I ever come across him reporting on a multiple homicide, then I will truly see it as a sign of the Apolocalypse.

Goodbye solid food

This stacking is driving me krazy (intentional misspelling and if I could reverse the "z" I would). I have not had anything solid to eat in nearly 36 hours save for a Big Cup Peanut Butter Cup (and that was only because I couldn't find anything else to eat quickly).

It's not so much that I can't eat solid food, because this plan does encourage three meals a day, but rather my stomach is refusing to accept any more passengers after all the shakes and pills.

Last night, I dreamt of gorging myself on Chinese-Mexican food. I'm just saying.

A side note: Tomorrow marks the 200th post on Hikaruland. I guess I have had a lot of id to share.

Unintentionally Comedic Friday

Ok, La Podolskaya, you have won me over. The girl can definitely sing, but boy has she been witness to some serious cruelty when it comes to staging.

Poking around her old shabby-with-substance site, I came across some absolutely hilarious videos, wherein La Podolskaya proves herself to be an excellent performer despite having some dire supporters onstage. Witness her rendition of "Somebody to love" accompanied by slutty dancers wearing what seems to be the wardrobe from Tron. (I don't even want to know what the Dune-like couple at the beginning signify.)

Clive Davis needs to rescue her stat!

Addendum: Take a glance at La Podolskaya, Alcazar, and (I think) Julia Savicheva perform "This is the world we live in." Now, I don't know if I am using the term properly here, but these queens are throwing some major shade behind their smiles. Think about it, two Swedish queens, two Swedish divas, and two talent show princesses (both of whom I like, by the way), there is bound to be drama.

Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

I am now stacking (taking multiple supplements for a culminative effect, in this case, muscle mass). Perhaps I am putting more focus on this than I should, but I think of this as a bit of a milestone. Either this is a sign that I'm taking bodybuilding rather seriously--although I still don't think I'm going to compete, nor do I want to--or this is a sign that I'm now a victim of gay body culture. Frankly, I don't know, and I hope that it's the former and not the latter at play here.

Here is the daily regime:

• After waking up: 3 scoops of protein with orange juice
• 30 minutes later: 4 Nitrix tablets
• 30-45 minutes before workout: 2-3 scoops of NO-Xplode
• Workout
• Immediately after workout (and lord, I do not like this): 2 scoops of Cellmass with water
• 30-45 minutes before lunch: 4 Nitrix tablets
• Mid-afternoon: 3 scoops of protein
• 45 minutes before dinner: 4 Nitrix tablets
• 30 minutes before dinner: 2 scoops of Cellmass with water

I am going to be a pill-popping, protein shake-drinking machine for 8-12 weeks. Jiminy Cricket.

Joyeux jour de Bastille

(Si cet petit part de l'internet était completement bilingue et je peut ecrire avec des accents facilement, puis je ferais le "post" de aujourd'hui en français. Cependant, je deteste d'aller au Babel Fish et le "character map" pour trouver des accents, allors nous ecrirons en l'anglais.)

Well, it is Bastille Day and in honour of the only French national holiday commemorating a riot and total political overhaul, I'm going to do cite the many things that make la France le Force.

• Political expressions like "le metropole" and "les DOM-TOM." Now doesn't that just sound inherently better than just saying "the mainland" and "the dependencies and territories?"
• With the exceptions of Asia and Anarctica, France (see DOM-TOM above) is literally on every single continent: Reunion and Mayotte are in Africa; St. Pierre & Miquelon is right off the coast of Newfoundland (Terre-Neuve aujourd'hui); French Polynesia and New Caledonia in Australasia; Guadeloupe, St. Martin, Martinque, and French Guiana (home of the French space programme) are in Central & South America.
• You know that somewhere in the French National Archives there is a document that can revoke the Louisiana Purchase and cede it back to France. I would certainly support it. I hope that the French found it amusing that some people living in places like Pierre, St. Louis, Vermillion, and Belleville wanted to change the name of french fries to "freedom fries." I certainly did.
• No one does a Eurovision power ballad like the French. For examples see: 1968, 1977, 1979, 1991, 2001, and 2002. Absolutely full of profound meditations on life. (Courtesy of Yahoo's National Final MP3 group, I've also heard some amazing songs from the 1960's French national selections like "Il est mort, le soleil." I'm sorry, but a song like that can only be sung in French, because "The Sun is dead" just lacks the same punch in English.)
• The French also do a good upbeat Eurovision number. See: 1976, 1981, 1990, 1994, 1995, 1998, and 2005.
• As bad as Chirac is, he is no George W. Bush.
• French socialism is truly one of the greatest ideologies out there.
• The glory that is Paris's intermodal transit system.
• Paris itself. What I love about Paris is that it is cold, dirty, modern, snobbish, and the least romantic place on Earth (no matter what the Hollywood films say). It just says "c'est moi." That is my kind of town.
• France Télévisions. It may have scatter-shot content, but it is probably one of the most stylish state broadcasters out there.
• Asterix
• Mathieu Kassovitz. Not only is he handsome, he's also flat out brilliant as a director.
• Every single French person that I have met has been able to pronounce Hikaru correctly on the first try: three syllables, no stress on any of the vowels (the "u" is pronounced, people!)

Cryptic post of the day

Aron Slade, we like him.

(The link is not safe for work, by the way.)

Cue the Puff Daddy jokes

Just unloaded my digital camera with my first post surgery photos, which were taken on July 1, the first official day of my life without the corset. Who knew tummy tucks could make you this puffy?
And I assure you, it will be a cold day in hell before someone takes another photo of me with my boxers showing! (Or at least, not without some money changing hands.)

L.A. Race Story? (Part 1)

Is Los Angeles this dire?

From Frederick Smith's Down for Whatever:

"No matter what people say, race matters in L.A. In the ethnic hierarchy of gay L.A., black and African American often finishes last. That's unless you're one of the following: 1) light enough to pass for being mixed with something other than black, even if you're just pretending to be biracial, which raises the value of your romantic stock dramatically, since being one hundred percent black is a liability and being mixed de-emphasizes blackness; 2) thuggish enough to pass for a gang banger pr a rapper to fulfill someone's colored boy/bling bling fetish and stereotypes of black men; 3) muscular enough to pass for a professional athlete, hopefully a basketball player, because everyone wants the long legs and torso pressed against their bodies; 4) mainstreamed or assimilated enough to blend in with the majority white crowds of West Hollywood, laugh, smile, and buffoon yourself and your people for their entertainment, and spout off well-rehearsed lines such as 'People are people and I don't see color,' when they really do, or 'I grew up around white people and I don't feel comfortable in all-black settings,' when they really grew up in South Central, South Bronx, or Southside Chicago and know the only white people they grew up with were an occasional teacher, mailman, or their mother's supervisor who gave them hand-me-down clothes before the new school year."

Well, isn't that just idyllic? I guess by that criteria I'm screwed if I live in Los Angeles. I may be light enough to pass for a different ethncity, but I like my family too much to say they aren't what they are. I'm too bad of an actor to be a thug, since I feel extremely uncomfortable wearing baggy pants low enough to show my underwear. Muscular? The bodybuilding has more to do with wanting to exorcise the demons of my overweight past, and there is no way I'd get into the competitive side of it with a history of anorexia. Mainstreamed and assimilated? That's a tough one. I did actually grow up around mostly white people. It is what it is, and for its many faults, I liked growing up in Ozaukee County. However, considering that my mother's job involved crunching numbers in order to prove fair hiring practices, I learned early on that you can't quite cross off colour. I wouldn't say that I feel uncomfortable in a majority African-American environment. It just feels different, not uncomfortable, but different than what I'm used to. I'd compare it to say an Italian-American going to Italy: "we're very similar, but we're also different as well."

(Some disclosure: I lived in Los Angeles for 4 months in 2000, while working at two internships, and taking classes as part of program organised by my college. During that entire period, I would describe my off-time as merely trying to catch my breath, so I have no real idea as to what it's like to really "live" there.)

In Part Two, other parts of the hierarchy as described in Down for Whatever.

I guess it's good

Apparently we're getting the first black gay & lesbian talk show: The Herndon Davis Reports.

Who?

My thoughts exactly. I have never heard of this man before reading the report on 365gay, but Herndon L. Davis wrote a "controversial" book called Black, Gay, and Christian. Considering that it's been over a decade since I've been in a church, no wonder I have no clue who this man is. Unfortunately, his show is not going to be available here, because it's only going to be available on Comcast and DirecTV. So I'll be spared the gay version of Tavis Smiley, thank you very much.

I kid because I love. But honestly, I'm holding out for LOGO's Noah's Arc to get my fix of black gay life, whenever the hell they choose to name a premiere date.

On a semi-related note, I'm now plowing my way through Down for Whatever by Frederick W. Smith. It's a real mixed bag, I have to say. The quotes are excellent--especially those on the (perceived) gay racial hierarchy, which are spot on, but the plot? Jesus wept. I mean, I'm halfway through and I don't care about half of the characters. They're all either uptight, whiny, deluded, or slutty. Now, I am the last person to decry sluttiness, but I like some flavouring with it, you know? Mix it up a bit, make them a slutty alcoholic or what have you. All that being said, I do like the Rashomon style of making each chapter from the perspective of a different character.

You rarely ever see my favourite archetype (and personal role model) in books, which is, the intelligent slut. I'm talking about the kind of guy who can go from spouting out where Marx was right and Keynes was wrong (and vice versa) to a XXX Titan video gang bang in no time flat. Now, that would be interesting.

Best Show You're Not Watching?

Most Haunted on the Travel Channel. A British show (airing on Living TV in the UK) that goes to various haunted sites all over the UK with a parapsychologist, paranormal investigators, crew, and intrepid blonde presenter.

The best part, they swear all the way through. The show is trying to scare you, but honestly, it's chock-a-block with so many unintentionally funny moments while you watch them freak out. Typical quote "what %&*)(@ was that @*#( right there?" Oh, I can't wait until the uncensored versions become available.

Confessions of a Soap & Credit Sequence Junkie

As a side effect of the month-plus long sequestering I went through with the corset, I am now a soap addict. I did not want to be this way, and I feel dirty all the time, but I just can't help myself.

The Bold & The Beautiful was my gateway drug. It's only 30 minutes long (hell, 15 minutes if you count commercials), so how honestly complex can it get? That was followed by Passions, which I really did not expect to be as campy and tongue-in-cheek as it is. (Can you really look down upon a self-referential quote like "I'll be gone quicker than Coupling from NBC's Thursday nights?") I knew things were bad when I started watching The Young & The Restless, which is not short, not campy, and really would have no attraction to me whatsoever save for the fact that I find it hilarious that in fictional Genoa City, Wisconsin nobody has an accent.

And then someone on a website directed me to World of Soap Themes. Lord, I did not need this. A site devoted to nothing but opening and closing sequences for soaps. I already am addicted to opening and closing sequences for Japanese animation. (I get that fix from bestanime.) Now I've got the theme from Another World running rampant in my head for nigh on three weeks now.

There has to be some equivalent of methadone to get me off of this.

Disturbed

I really have little to say about the terror attacks in London today, except that it was tragic to hear of them. I had a brief scare when I realised I hadn't heard from a close friend who was in London last week and I didn't know if he had made it back to New York yet. (He did, and I hope that everyone out there who is concerned about their friends, lovers, and families has the same positive outcome.)

I've had the television on mute for most of the morning, preferring to only glance occasionally at the captions to keep updated. Listening to it reminds me too much of the Admiral Duncan and Brixton nail-bombings back in 1999, two tragedies that will be forever seared on my memory.

When Go-Go Boys Attack: The Bar Hopping Post-Mortem

First off, I can't even recall how many places I went to last night. I know I started off at Splash, and went to Rawhide, and then The View, but after that it's all a blur. All I know is that I woke up this morning with two stamps on my wrist, one from Rawhide and another one of a globe or something. I also woke up having bought two porn films which reveal that I might very well have some subconscious lust or appreciation for the work of Gus Mattox, Owen Hawk, and Kent Larson since they appeared in both films. Go figure.

So this was the first real proper night out I've had in more than a month. No corset, no restrictions, no worries. Unfortunately, I last went out in May when it was slightly cooler, therefore making my choice of a black t-shirt very unwise. I was boiling for most of the night. A bartender at Splash suggested that I doff the shirt, but I can tell you that ain't going to happen unless I'm drunk and dancing, neither of which I was at the time.

In general, it was just good to be out. The only real downside was yet another go-go "boy" (it's hard to call someone a "boy" when they look ten years your senior) dancing on the bar at Rawhide. I do not get this concept at all. If I want to give you the money, then I'll go up to the podium and stuff it in your g-string. It's very bizarre, because while in some situations I'd be all for a scantily dressed man thrusting his crotch and rear in my face while I suck on a beer. However, I'd like to at least invite the guy to do that, not just have it foisted upon me.

That last sentence is a sign I probably should get laid more often.

Thank goodness!

London won the 2012 Olympics, which means the deranged capitalists, tourists, and general mayhem will not be made worse by New York having the games.

Of course now, the rumour mill has it that New York is angling for the 2016 games along with Toronto. So even if I immigrate I still run the risk of getting screwed by Olympic-size chaos 11 years from now.

Splash/Rawhide/View/Barracuda/XES post-mortem later today.

Independence Day

I realise that this is a day early, but since I'm writing a play for most of tomorrow, I'm posting today.

Suffice to say that I have an odd relationship with the land of my birth. On one hand, I feel truly uniquely American. My father was a Choctaw, my mother's ancestry includes African, Irish, and Cherokee peoples. Were it not for this ethnic mix, I would not exist today.

And yet, I feel at the same time like an outsider in my own country.

As a gay man, the federal government denies me equal parity with heterosexuals when it comes to marriage and the rights and benefits accorded to it. It also refuses to acknowledge sexual orientation under the hate crimes law, despite the best efforts of some politicians (of which I can say proudly that the two Senators from Wisconsin and New York are some of them) to include me. As a gay man, I am still the whipping boy of bigoted "Christians" who while professing to love to sinner and not the sin, seek to effectively extinguish me from the landscape. By the way, not just myself, but also any woman who chooses to have an abortion, any minority still struggling with the shackles of many years of oppression, and anyone who believes that church and state should be separate.

As a black man, I feel oddly disconnected from this country. My ancestors were brought here as slaves and while many strides have been made, the slave mentality still persists amongst many blacks: "Because I'm black, I shouldn't try," "because I'm black, I can't possibly be gay, "because I'm black, I don't need to assimilate." At some point, we have to realise that we are Americans. While we should definitely realise that our origins are in Africa, our own culture is most definitely unique and worth celebrating as well. We are distinct, but we are no better than Italian-Americans, Greek-Americans, German-Americans, and so on. No matter what ethnicity proceeds us, we are Americans and only we can shape our country. I'm not advocating forgetting the first part of the hyphen, but I think we should also never dare neglect the latter as well.

Chris Rock once said that "America is like the Uncle that abused you, but also sent you to college." I feel the same way. When I graduated high school, I tried to run away as far as possible from the US--all the way to Luton. Although, I wanted to stay in the UK, circumstances dictated that I had to come back to the US. I am here, and I know that in the immediate future, I am here, so I will fight to make this country live up to its ideals of "Liberty, Justice, and the pursuit of Happiness." Where does "the pursuit of Happiness" imply that "I'm right, and because I'm right, you're wrong?" Maybe I'm interpreting it incorrectly, but I don't see that anywhere. "The pursuit of Happiness" to me suggests that one find their own path to Happiness and another finds their own, and as long as their path is at the detriment of another's then what is wrong? I don't see where giving gays, lesbians, and minorities a fair chance (when it has been denied them for so long) is contradictory to the precepts that this nation was founded upon.

Since I left grad school in 2004, I've been debating immigrating to Canada, and to be honest, I still have it on the back burner. Yet, I find it tragically bizarre that Canada is living up to the ideals that were once [US] American. Where did we go wrong? When did we choose that bigotry would trump all else. It seems like there is this streak in the United States wherein people think "thank you for letting me in, now keep everybody else out." I know that there are people who are quite literally killing themselves to get to this country (and other countries as well). However, when it comes to the US, what country are they risking life and limb to get to? This is not the same country of the 1880's, 1900's, or even the 1970's. This is a country that has stopped saying "you can be yourself" and encouraged "you must be like us." It's almost eerily similar to Invasion of The Body Snatchers. Why are we afraid of differences now? The Norman Rockwell days are gone, if indeed they ever existed.

Listen, I'd like to envision myself sitting at a table with my family and waving "hi" to my neighbours before sitting down to dinner, but that just does not happen anymore. Both father and mother are working to the bone to just merely put food on the table. The kids are not even allowed to be children anymore because they are exhausted from extracurricular activities all in the hope that maybe, just maybe, they might get a scholarship to college and Mom & Dad won't have to work even harder (and be more absent) to get them there. When the kids do actually reach college, what do they do? They repeat the same cycle and happy memories are few and fare between.

So have we built upon the ideals of the declaration of Independence and Constitution? I don't think so. In fact, on some level, it seems like we are promoting our lifestyle based upon the thought that if we're not happy, nobody should be.

And it should never be like that.

Shopping for a husband

I got a good shock today, when I realised that at 26, people my age are starting to get married. I've even overheard 20 year old gay men using the word "husband" when referring to their significant others. Whatever happened to the tradition of gay men having their slutty period? I enjoyed mine...for the most part. Oh well, youth fades and at 26, I'm nearing the infamous 30 closer than I'd like it to be. The age when you supposedly all of a sudden drop the bar-hopping life and get a vacation home to share with a man who magically appears out of nowhere.

However, magic can only do so much work, so I'm starting the hunt early to avoid any possible "I'm single!" panic at 11:59pm February 5, 2009.

Here are the requirements:

• Canadian or Spanish citizenship or residency preferred. I can expand that to include Belgium, but we've got to live in Brussels or Wallonia. I can hold my own in French (and to a lesser extent Spanish), but I'm a little bit wary of being too close to the Vlaams Blok, banned or not, since my Flemish is non-existent. I can't envision going to Alberta in the future, so that's no problem.
• For two days in May, we're watching Eurovision. It's 6 hours spread out over 2 days out of your life, and I'll do that thing you like afterwards for being such a good sport.
• Once a week, we work out together. When you're busy and I'm busy, it'll be something to look forward to.
• Come 35, we're adopting or having (listen, science is working on it) a child. Just one, it's not going to kill you and you might very well like imparting your knowledge on a future generation.
• All heights are welcome, but there are certain things we might have to overcome. I'm versatile in a relationship, but if you're a total inflexible top under 5' 7" (1.7m) we're going to have some logistical problems as I'm 6' (1.82m).
• Realise that you're marrying a playwright. There are no guarantees that I won't write about you. Be on your best behaviour.
• Politically, you've got to be pretty much able to deal with a Socialist, be it in SP-USA or DSA colours. (In Canada, this means I'll pretty much bleed NDP, perhaps even make a random trip to Saskatchewan to pray at the altar of Tommy Douglas.)

There, that's not much to ask for.

(Note: If you think I'm being serious with all this...well, I won't say if I am or not. Being released from the corset out of hell has made me cocky.)