As Innocent As I Can Get

Since Labor Day was last week, today was a double-dip Monday.  It was like the extra scoop of Rocky Road that you really didn’t want and certainly didn’t need.  Ok, ice cream is probably a bad analogy.  But Rocky Road…nail on the head, folks.  Nail. On. The. Head.

After I arrived home and wolfed down the tasty pizza that my husband made for me (complete with the black olives and the mushrooms, which he both loathes), I went immediately to the piano.

I noodled around in Burgmuller’s Opus 100 (which is basically a beginner’s book for classical music aficionados), and finally set myself to work on “Innocence,” the number five piece.  I kept having a tough time getting it right.  My electronic keyboard has various voice settings, so after starting in “Grand Piano,”

 

I always laugh at myself, when I make mistakes

My piano teacher is very familiar with the sound of my laughter

 

I worked my way through:

·         Electric Piano (better suited for A Flock of Seagulls than Burgmuller)

·         Strings (too saccharine, even for a interpretation of innocence)

·        Church Organ (raised as a good Southern Baptist boy, I almost pulled this off, but the resonance in our music room,...ok...our dining room..., was a bit overwhelming)

·        Harpsichord (brutal in showing all the flaws of my technique – or altogether lack thereof)

I finally landed on “Vibraphone,” the last setting on my piano.   The sound was warm, soothing, and very forgiving of my uneven tempo, my occasional botched notes, my disregard for dynamics, and my clunky runs.

After a Rocky-Road Monday, I needed a bit of mercy and a lot of goofing around on the ivories.

 

 

A bit better.

You'll notice how I immediately pull my hands from the keyboard.

This way, I can guarantee there will be no additional mistakes.

 

(Special thanks to my cinematographing better-half - somehow he always hears beautiful music coming from my keyboard.  And that's only one reason that he's my husband).

 

Man...I hope my piano teacher doesn't see this post.

Labor Day. Yeah, Well…I Did.

On Labor Day this year, the GOP House Majority Leader, Eric Cantor, posted a statement on Twitter praising entrepreneurs, and downplaying the importance of our United States labor force.  Makes perfect sense to me.  I do not own my own business; therefore, I ended up working all weekend.

With many of my projects at work wrapping up at the beginning of the 4^th quarter, I’ve had competing priorities without a clue on how to decide what takes priority.  So, when many of my gay brothers were spending the weekend partying it up at Southern Decadence in New Orleans or sunning themselves at Last Splash at Hippie Hollow near Austin, I found myself in the office or both Saturday and Sunday.  Additionally, when I left the office on Sunday, I brought my laptop home so I could work Monday as well.

If I’d only taken better notes or paid better attention to my professors in business school, maybe I’d be running my own empire.  And I would imagine that, as a business owner, I still would have worked the weekend.  Running your own business is a tough job.  As a child, I watched as my enterprising father run businesses simultaneously.  Well, I caught sight of him occasionally; the man was busy. 

In addition to doing my day-job work each day of the holiday weekend, I went to my piano lesson (it’s an effort, people, albeit an enjoyable one), I did my yard work (I’m the rare Houstonian who knows how to push a lawnmower around his own parcel of land), I bathed the dogs (you can read what a chore this is here), I cleaned the litter box (yes, I’m a servant to my animals).

If I examine the amount of time that I spent on the activities mentioned in the preceding paragraph, maybe I did have a sufficient holiday. 

·         My piano lesson?  Typically, after practicing for an hour each day, I tend to make the same mistakes over and again at my teacher’s piano, laughing at myself as I play.  But there is that moment of zen, when all falls in place, and I perfectly play a passage that had given me the devil for weeks.  It surprises me, although my teacher says, matter-of-factly and with a smile, “You worked it out.”  Ok, so maybe it’s not work.

·         The yard work?  I watched my grandfather do his own lawn up until the time that his vision prevented him from seeing well enough.  I feel connected to him as I push my mower around the yard.  I plug in my headphone, put some rock music on, and the whole task seems like it’s over in minutes.  (But why does my iPod always offer me “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas?  It’s a pretty, but disheartening song.  I really need to remove it)

·         Bathing the dogs?  They smell so great afterwards.  ‘Nuff said.

·         Cleaning out the litter pan?   Oddly enough, the cats act grateful.  (I mean, who wouldn’t be happy if someone came in to clean your bathroom?)

 

But I am left wondering how Eric spent his weekend?  Given the perks and privileges offered to a high-rolling politician,  I’m guessing that his was not remotely like mine. 

 

Magic Doesn't Just Happen

I squandered my chance at magic this morning, but it happens each day in Houston.  There is a magic moment when you can zip to the office through traffic somewhat unhindered. 

I slept a bit late this morning, with The Man coming to my bedside every five minutes to ask how much longer I intended to sleep – my standard answer is always “5 more minutes.”  “5 more minutes” turned into an hour and a quarter this morning.  Which was unfortunate, seeing that my boss’s birthday is today. 

You see…I’m part of the office decorating committee.  A co-worker and I (probably the only two people in our department who care about such things) decorate for each person’s birthday.  This consists of some paltry streamers around the top of cubicles and balloons at each corner.  Whee! 

When I finally arrived at the office, my co-committee member had enlisted one of our co-workers to help decorate the cube.  With orange and white streamers. 

Yuck.  I did not say anything, but a gay man would never decorate with orange and white.  Orange and blue, maybe.  Orange and purple, sure.  Orange and white, never.  There’s no pizzazz there.

I didn’t get to create magic today on my boss’s cubicle.  I should be less gay or more punctual.

I'd be better at this if I just had more champagne...

On the first day of 2012, I posted on my regular Facebook profile:
          

My main New Year’s Resolution for 2012 is keeping track of how quickly it will take to break all of my New Year’s Resolutions

It’s been difficult tallying. 

Now, let’s make it clear.  I think the idea of New Year’s Resolutions is a bit dumb.  I understand that some people see the first day of the year as a time for new beginnings.  I view New Year’s Day as just another day (realist, not grump).  I am a bit annoyed by all of the people who suddenly flood my gym during the month of January.  I wonder how much resolve that they will have (grumpy and judgmental, admittedly).  I notice that the church parking lots are at high occupancy in January (smug and sacrilegious).

But this year, I sincerely thought about some things that I would like to change in my life:

·        Stop smoking. After puffing on cigarettes since the age of fourteen or so, I’m certain that I have permanently damaged my lungs, clogged my arteries, and jacked up my senses of smell and taste.  It’s four days into the New Year, and I can report that I am still smoking.

·        Gripe about work and my management staff less. What’s the point?  Work is work.  I have to work to pay bills.  I enjoy our house and have to pay the mortgage. I like to travel.  I need to feed my menagerie, etc.  I can report that yesterday was my first day in the office for the year, and I was only mildly successful at keeping my grumbling to a minimum (not regarding my projects, but management was going the extra mile to break this resolution for me).

·        Allocate my home time more reasonably. As I reported in early December, a new video game was released.  As I reported, the game would probably swallow my life.  I can now report that it did.  Completely.  As you might note, my last post was that December one.  I spend most waking hours either playing the game or thinking of strategies for playing the game.  I even spend my “should-be” sleeping hours in that other fabricated world.  Last night all it took was a couple of snores from The Man and then Luke whimpering loudly in a dream (we must have played fetch too long yesterday), and I was jolted awake.  12:33 AM.  And what do I do?  Head to the living room and jump on the couch.  After playing the game for a while in the dark, I turned on the light to check the time…3:35 AM.  Perfect.  Up at my regular time of 6:00 AM.  I almost face-planted in the shower this morning.

·        Keep a better track of finances. The Man and I both have our separate bank accounts and one house account.  I maintain my own and the house account.  I can report that there is a stack of receipts on my desk.  We recently switched telephone carriers, but we are still paying both companies.  Duh.  We have a movie service (you know, the one that sends you DVDs by mail and allows you to stream movies through the Net), we NEVER use that.  There are other countless ways to shave off fat in our budget.

I think that’s about it for my resolutions.  Off to a stellar start in 2012.  I guess I can reload. 

2013 is practically around the corner.

And Then I Became a Wood Elf...

If the blame needs to be placed somewhere, put it on The Awesome Son.  He moved in with me while he was in his mid-teens, bringing with him something that stirred an overwhelming hunger inside me. The addiction began slowly, as most gripping ones do.  Before I knew it, almost all of my waking hours were spent running around the wilderness:  dodging rouge critters, looting mines and caves for treasure, finding portals to hellish realms.

 

The Elder Scrolls series.  If you are not familiar, approach it with my warning.  I’ve never been much into video gaming, but that all changed with the third installment in the series.  Morrowind.  Just go to urbandictionary.com and search the word.  You will find numerous definitions; most alluding to the fact that you will never again have any genuine social contact in your life.  You will spend your time with graphic adventurers and bandits, running with beastfolk (lizard and cat people), and encountering elf politicians & law enforcement officers. 

 

When the fourth game in the series, Oblivion, was released, I played it compulsively as well.  And with utter abandon.  One of my friends was at my house one day, watching me play the game as my character (an Orc brute) crushed enemies with a sword and an axe, generally destroying everyone or thing in his path.  My friend was mortified.  And here I was, laughing raucously and swearing at the characters and the creatures as my Orc annihilated them.  Not too characteristic of a peaceful, friendly guy in his early 40s. 

 

Skyrim, the fifth game in the series was released a couple of weekends ago.  The Awesome Son and I were beyond excited.  Anyone who plays the series was also probably foaming at the mouth before the date.  Since the game is a single-player one, my son and I cannot play at the same time.  But that is no matter.  He and I shared adventure stories from the previous two games. 

 

Both he and I took a vacation day on the release date of Skyrim.  I traveled to Louisiana to spend the weekend with him and the Fiancée.  He and I played all weekend, in shifts of two-hour turns in front of his huge TV screen (talking about total game immersion).

 

Our gaming style said a lot about our personal styles.

 

• My son’s character of choice was a Nord, sorta like a Viking, big and brawny.  The son’s style?  Crushing enemies.  Running through dungeons and obliterating the undead, picking and choosing which chests and containers to check for treasure.  Running all over the landscape, slaughtering any hostile animal or human.  The Awesome Son is a gusto kinda guy.
• My character was a Wood Elf, short and slight.  My style?  Sneaking past enemies.  Creeping through dungeons and picking off enemies with a bow, checking every container for treasure.  Cutting a wide berth around any aggressive being.  Harvesting ingredients for potions from flowers and plants.  The Queer is a slower moving kinda guy (as least in relation to my exuberant son).

 

The weekend flew past.  Finally Sunday morning, I was brought back to reality.  I received a message for My Extraordinary Nephew mentioning that I hadn’t posted to my blog in quite a while.

 

So here I am.  Back to reality for a while.  Resolved to only play Skyrim one hour a day.  Everything in moderation.  Even diversion.

 

On the drive back to Houston , I was alert.  Checking the roadside for sources of alchemical ingredients, watching the horizon for saber-toothed tigers, checking the skies for dragons.  I probably will have to push toward reality with a bit more might.

(P.S.  I've logged in almost 70 hours playing this game in less than a month now.   See you at the Asylum)

Finally!

At last, it's raining in Houston!  I don't mean to be so excited about it, but it's been a long dry spell.  The last good rain that I can remember fell in late June.  We've had a couple of showers in the interim, but nothing like the past couple of days.  I even stood shirtless in the driveway last night, just to feel the cool wet drops on my skin.

Given my cafeteria view of religion, I'm left wondering who to thank for the rain:  I'm left with thanking God (my Christian beliefs), or thanking the Universe (my Buddhist beliefs) or thanking the Moon and the stars (my belief in Astrology).  OK...so it's a gumbo of beliefs, I'll agree.

If I followed my husband's beliefs as a chaos-theorist atheist, I would be left without being able to thank anyone.  You have to admit that it's kinda nice to just be grateful, period; without having to be caught up in thanking anything but nature.

Regardless, I say "Thank you, God," "Thank you, Universe," "Thank you, Moon and stars."

Thank you all for ending that damn drought.  Keep up the good work.

Memorial Day Madness

This past weekend was a big waste.  Plus it was a holiday weekend.  A big wasted holiday weekend.  For many, Memorial Day is celebrated by the year’s first trip to the beach.  The Man and I didn’t leave Houston.

OK, the weekend wasn’t a complete wash.  The Man and I did catch a couple of movies (and we rarely go to the cinema).  We went to see “Bridesmaids” on Saturday.   He cracked me up by saying that he and I would be the only guys in the theater who were not attending with a girlfriend/wife.  He wasn’t entirely right, though; another couple of guys entered the theater (without women), and he and I elbowed one another and giggled.  Yes, we are so mature.  The lady sitting next to me in the theater checked her voice mail in the middle of the movie.  I wanted to grab the phone from her and chunk it across the room.  I was a bit irritable. 

We also saw “Thor” on Sunday.  I’d seen the movie with my son during my last trip to Louisiana.  But it was a fun movie.  I like any of the Marvel Comics movies and can watch them over and over.  In the middle of the movie, a man in the front of the theater took a call and talked in his normal (loud) voice.  I wanted to walk up to him, grab his phone, and chunk it across the room.  I was a bit irritable. 

After leaving the cinema on Sunday, I agreed to go shopping with The Man.  Let’s make it clear:  he usually does all the shopping for the house.  As a rule, I reserve the word “hate” for things that absolutely sicken me.  I hate shopping.  I stumbled around the store with him, grumbling and being generally bratty.  Shopping makes me irritable. 

He keeps his shopping list in his cell phone.  At one point, he said “I need a little help here.  Can you hold my phone and name off what we need?”

I just came back with: “I can push the shopping cart instead.  I’ve been doing that since I was around eight…”

He just rolled his eyes.

I then moved quickly around the aisles, chatting crazily and waving my hands dramatically.  Suddenly he said, “Why don’t you go get some beer, and I’ll meet you in that aisle?”

I laughed and asked, “Getting enough of me?”

He simply smiled. 

By the time we arrived at the check-out, The Man looked rather tired.  Poor guy.

Monday, I did yard work and stayed out of his way … well, mostly.  Later that evening (a bit too late to sensibly go), I decided to head out to the gym.  But not before, I ranted fifteen minutes on a completely meaningless subject.  He finally said, “You are doing a little projecting here.  Why don’t you go work-out?”

I did.

At the gym, I sent him a text.  “It must be challenging to have a crazy partner…”

He sent back.  “Sometimes challenging, always rewarding”

“Exhaustingly entertaining.  Well, ‘entertaining’ is not the right word.  Unavoidable?”

He texted, “Are you working out?”

“On the treadmill.  It’s difficult texting while walking on a 15 degree incline.”

“I’ll bet.”

When I got home, he was at his desk.  “Wow,” I said. “You are still up, but it sure looks as if you shouldn’t be…”

He laughed.  “I’m headed to bed.  I’m tired.”

I showered off the gym sweat, and then jumped on top of the covers of the bed.  He turned over and smiled.  “Aren’t you going to sleep?”

“I’m all pumped up from the gym … plus I’m a bit manic.”

He laughed.  “Really…?”

[At least, I am not running around the Texas Medical Center:  no shirt, no shoes, no socks, no sense … just a pair of white jeans and 180 pounds of psychosis.  That story will follow one day...]

“I’m going to write for a while.”

He smiled again.  “See you in the morning.”

I waved at him, as I jumped off the bed and reflected his smile.

It’s not easy living with someone who has bipolar disorder.  It’s not easy living with bipolar disorder.  Life is not always a trip to the beach.  But life is also not a big waste.

The Promise of Nothing, or “Me vs. My Plum Tree”

About six weeks ago, I took the following photo of the plum tree in our backyard:

As you can see, the small tree was crazy with tiny flowers.  In the weeks to come, I expected that at least a couple of plums would form and reach a light-green shade before the birds or the squirrels took them.  But yesterday when I was mowing, I checked the progress:  after all those blossoms, nothing. 

I wasn’t aggravated.  Outside of the jelly made from the fruit, I’m not much of a plum fan anyway.  But still… 

I’d predicted the outcome when I initially took the photo and remarked to friends that the tree was just showing off and trying to fool me.  Yesterday, I sighed when I saw the tree bare of fruit.  Then inexplicably, I imagined a conversation between me and the tree:

Me:  You did it to me again.

Tree:  I’m not sure why you are bothered.  You don’t like my fruit anyhow.

Me:  I might eat one if you’d just produce

Tree:  You didn’t plant me, you know.  I was here before you were.

Me:  I understand that.  I wouldn’t have planted a plum tree.  I would have went with a lemon tree

Tree:  No need to be bitter…

Me:  Ha, ha.

Tree:  You do realize that you’re talking to a tree, right?

Me:  Yes.  I’m tree-lingual.

Tree:  OK, I got in a bad one.  You got in a bad one.  We’re even.

Me:  Yep.  Well, I should get back to mowing.

Tree:  If you want to visit again, you know where I’ll be.

Me:  Sure.

Tree:  Oh, by the way.  My blossoms weren’t a guarantee of fruit.

Me:  Yes, I realize that.

Tree:  You don’t really want plums.  Did you enjoy the flowers?

Me:  Well…yes.  They were quite pretty.

Tree:  Thanks.  I’ll do it again for you next year.

The tree had not promised anything (I’ve been living in the house for six years and have yet to harvest a plum).  My own expectation at the appearance of the blossoms was the root of my disappointment. 

In getting to a deeper meaning, people in our lives offer the best that they have to give.  And in that giving, they may best know what we’ll enjoy most.  And the beauty in that is invaluable.

...and how was your weekend?

 Here was mine:

240 miles: Saturday morning – Houston, Texas to hometown Natchitoches, Louisiana.

40 miles:  Natchitoches to Kisatchie Bayou Campground, where son, nephew and friends are staying the night.

Son’s car – Flat tire. No spare. No jack. No lug wrench. No air pump.  No joke.

Son’s friend – “Leesville is only about 12 to 15 miles south.”

Me – “Oh, ok.  We’ll just run to the Wal-mart there and get what we need.”  The Man, my son’s fiancée and I jump in my truck.

40 miles later.  Wal-mart.

Leesville, Louisiana.  Picture?  Ok.  Leesville is a small city in east-Jesus, Louisiana.  It is known for its close proximity to army base Fort Polk.  Bible belt meets Military brass.  Imagine the weirdness. 

40 miles back to the camp.  Somewhat quicker.  At least seeming that way from the familiarity of the route.  And furthermore, by a moment of levity. 

Me:  “I hope we are getting close to the turn-off at the ranger station.”

The Man:  “Oh, we are.  I saw that “moderate” sign on the way south.”

Me:  “That ‘what’ sign?”

The Man:  “Moderāte”

Me:  “That’s ‘moderăte’ as in ‘Moderăte Fire Danger.’"  The fiancée and I got a good snicker. 

A bit further down the road.  The fiancée:  “I’m a bit chilly.  Do ya’ll feel that?”  Beat.  “It’s moderătely cold in here.”

Flat tire problem solved.  Hung out for a couple of hours.

40 miles back to Natchitoches.  Watched “Juno” with The Man and the fiancée.  Crashed.

10 miles to my sister’s house.  Hung out for an hour.  Nap.  Hung out for another hour.

2 miles to my father’s house.  Coffee.  Wonderful cake, compliments of my stepmom. Sat outside.  Weather, perfect.

240 miles:  Natchitoches to our front door (where our dogs were mega-excited to see us; our cats were completely apathetic).

Simply adding the miles:  612 miles.

 

We could have driven to Destin, Florida to some breathtaking beach.  We could have driven to Memphis and listened to some amazing blues.   We could have driven to Wichita to see the The Old Cowtown Museum (a replica of an 1870s Midwestern cattle town, complete with a blacksmith, dance-hall girls and sarsaparilla).

We could have done all of those things.  I would have missed my family.

For the record, from the Pendleton Bridge that passes over Toledo Bend Reservoir at the Texas-Louisiana state line to our front door - 188.7 miles.  This is of no interest to anyone but me, but after this weekend you’ll indulge me.  Please?

G’nite.

Messing with My World

I look at the same map every day.  It is on the wall of my cubicle at work.  The map divides the country into regions.  And it pisses me off.

I have to keep track of our company representatives who work in each part of the States. In the individual regions, there are photos of the reps smiling honestly, but I know they are part of this map propaganda. 

Oh, I learned the regions in grade school.  I was fascinated with geography back then.  My family had a set of World Books, and one of my favorite past-times was to study the states and their attributes.  I would look at the state flags, mottos, birds, and flowers.  I would memorize the shape of each state and its capitol.  I would observe the state’s region.  And hence, this company map mocks me daily.

I excelled in Geography in school, given all the prior study I had completed at home.  I learned the different regions:  New England, Mid-Atlantic, Southern, Great Lakes, Midwest, Southwest, Mountain and Pacific.  The company map has five regions.  Yes, only five:  North Atlantic, Mid-Atlantic, Southern, Central and Northwest.  My biggest gripe:  both Ohio and Nevada are in the Central region.  Wonderful.  They are only about 1,800 miles apart.  It’s like grouping Romania and Azerbaijan in the same continent.

This company map shouldn’t bother my aesthetic, but it does.  In attempting to confirm my original understanding of the different regions, I could find only one map on the internet that supported my original division of the States.  Well, I guess I shouldn’t be so persnickety.  I suppose that Akron and Reno are closer than I originally imagined. 

  

Ramblings

Not really having much to say, I thought I’d sit down and write anyway.

When I first started this blog, The Man said “This is good.  You’ll write everyday and get better!”  Everyday?  Has he been awake for the past four years?  I don’t do anything every day, but eat, smoke and sleep (well, sometimes not even sleep).

Oh, and I’m certain that I listen to music each day.  I am right now.  While I type this, I have my music library playing through the computer’s music system.  I have my entire library of CDs on my hard drive.  Right now, a song that I’m not even sure that I have ever heard is playing.  I am fairly certain that it is Matthew Sweet.  I own most of his work, and I’m almost sure that this is his voice.  Probably from Altered Beast.  I never listen to it.  Yep, I’m good.  “Knowing People” from Altered Beast.  I like it.  This is followed-up by Kelly Willis’ “Teddy Boys” from Translated From Love.  Good stuff!

I’m drinking TheraFlu right now.  Yuck.  I took a vacation day today to get a full four-day weekend (because of the Memorial holiday).  And then spent the day in bed.  And I got to thinking about Karma.  And why so many people believe in this.  We’ll get back to that.

My female cat is driving me crazy.  Whenever I sit at my desk (and that’s quite a lot), she sits at my feet and meows loudly.  I’ll pet her and pet her, but it’s never enough.  I never could satisfy a woman.  I’m still petting and she’s still meowing, but now Massenet’s La Vierge (Act 4) is playing.  Four and ½ minutes of sheer beauty, sweet and lyrical.

Karma.  When I originally planned to take the day off, I intended to completely conceal it from The Man.  I wanted a day completely to myself.  So I planned to tell him on Thursday evening.  I was afraid that he would take the day too if he knew of my plan early enough.  I did end up telling him on Tuesday night, I believe.  He didn’t mention taking a vacation day himself.  I was relieved.  But when Thursday came, I was starting to feel under the weather.  And come today, I was in the bed with body aches, fever and chills.  And I immediately thought sarcastically at myself, “Serves you right, Queer.  You were so concerned in getting your day off to yourself.  Enjoy!”  And then I thought about Karma, and why so many people believe in it?  I’m convinced the reason that I believe in “what comes around, goes around” or “good things happen to good people” or “everything happens for a reason,” is based on my Christian upbringing. 

“The Art Teacher” by Rufus Wainwright is on now.  I love Rufus.  The Man is not a big fan.  But the player is on suffle, and here comes Squeeze with “Another Nail in My Heart” from Argy Bargy.  And who doesn’t like Squeeze?

And back to Karma.  Almost everyone believes in some sort of Karma.  Regardless of race, creed, sex or religious background.  As I’ve said on more than one occasion that he is a “Chaotist.”  He believes in Chaos Theory.  That nothing happens for a reason.  He recently ordered a book on-line called “The Symmetry of Chaos.”  He was excited when he received it in the mail.  Then he came to show me with all the shine gone from his face.  The text of the book looked like stereo instructions.  It was a textbook!  He was so disappointed.  “I’m not reading this!”

All good.  “Me and My Girl” by David Baerwald just came on the player.  And the thunder starts like crazy outside.  The Man comes in to tell me that a bad storm is coming, hail and damaging winds expected.  And David Baerwald from Here Comes the New Folk Underground sings.

Me and my girl

Are going to do

Just fine in this world

I guess that’s what I’m writing about tonight.

"Quack ... Quack ... Girlfriend!"

I’m usually not one to give additional attention to people who I believe are crazy (I’m usually too busy trying to shine the light on my own insanity). Therefore I do not normally talk about people like Ann Coulter, Sean Hannity, Fred Phelps or Rush Limbaugh. But I am going to mention this fellow … Ryan Sorba. And the only reason I am going to point him out now is so you won’t be surprised when he is exposed as a homo.

As I have said in other posts, I am not one to follow the news. So I stumbled onto Sorba by accident. The Gay Press seems to be giving this man a lot of exposure though. One of the reasons that he is getting the pink spotlight is that CNN is developing a new chapter in their “…in America” series. So far they’ve given us “Black in America” and “Latino in America.” Now they offer up “Conservatives in America.” (Reminder to The Queer: don’t watch this show). There are rumors that Sorba is going to be one of the first subjects of the program.

Ryan Sorba is just another angry white conservative young man. What does he have to be angry about? I have no clue. I believe that most young men are just naturally angry. The target of Sorba’s resentment?  Homosexuals. Hmm… I’m not really sure how queers are messing with his existence, but let’s take a look:

• In a recent post on his blog, he writes somewhat vaguely about the true spirit of marriage.  He implies a comparison between a hypothetical marriage of a 10 year-old and a 90 year-old with a homosexual union.

As least in place of the May-December romance, he did not use a man and a sheep as the example.

• He has said that equal rights are based on human nature. And that the natural end to reproductive acts is procreation.

Dude… if the only time you are having sex is to make a baby, you are missing out on a lot of fun.

• He was asked to speak at the CPAC (The American Conservative Union) in February 2010, and then blasted the group for their decision to invite GoProud (a gay conservative group).

Smart move, Dumb Butt. You got yourself booed off the stage.  Know the difference between your friends and your enemies next time...

People who behave this way just make me laugh. So, honestly...let the man talk. It’s entertaining to some people.  When replying to an e-mail from the Washington Post questioning his upcoming appearance on CNN, he replied with a tagline in Spanish (obviously he is not supportive of the conservatives' stance on immigration in Arizona).

I myself will not be surprised when he eventually reveals himself as the big sissy that he obviously is. Just take a look at Bob Allen, Larry Craig, Mark Foley, Ted Haggard, George Rekers, James West, Glenn Murphy, Jr. (I could go on forever…)

After these wonderful examples, the old saying should go: 

"If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck…it might be a queen."

He's Pissed! Oh Well...Here Comes the Hurricane, Y'all...

I believe the experts are acting a bit unorthodoxly. But apparently these experts believe the gay rights movement has a big influence on the occurrence of natural disasters. The Association of Russian Orthodox Experts recently stated that Iceland’s tolerance for pagans and queers has caused God to unleash his wrath once more. Gosh, we gay folk were already blamed for Katrina, the Haitian earthquake, the 2004 Asian Tsunami and Sodom & Gomorrah. Damn, we must be powerful … and it seems that God enjoys paying a lot of attention to us libertines.

I guess I would like to question why people believe that God is so keen on punishing his creations. I mean … gay or straight … how could humans be the cause of the eruption of Eyjafjallajokull? Most people can’t even pronounce the word. And isn’t Iceland the home of glaciers and volcanoes? I’m still not following how we homos can cause a natural disaster in a place where volcanoes are so common and eruptions are expected. On the average in Iceland, a volcano erupts every five years. If we're only affecting Icelandic eruptions, Big Damn Deal!  If we degenerates can start causing volcanic eruptions in Kansas, then I’ll really be impressed with us.

Iceland is the country that gave us Björk. Iceland, where one of the traditional dishes is cured ram scrota. Iceland, the place where Grýla the Christmas Witch does not bring gifts to the “nice” children; instead she cooks the “naughty” children in her pot. No wonder the Russian zealots are pointing a finger at Iceland and saying “You brought this on yourselves, heathens!”

When I was a child, I remember my grandmother saying “I fear God.” And she would also say “My God is an angry god.” It always puzzled me. All the images I saw of God showed him as a grandfatherly figure in a flowing robe with long white hair and beard . He looked pretty levelheaded to me.

I find it hard to picture God sitting on his golden throne on a puffy cloud up there in Heaven, saying to himself, “The queers are angering me again. It’s time for another hurricane … or maybe a typhoon… or an earthquake…”

Hold on … did we get proper credit for the Chilean earthquake?

Dammit … I Googled and couldn’t find where anyone blamed us homos for that disaster!
Listen up!  If you Nuts are going to blame us queers for natural disasters, you are going to have to do it with some consistency!

Can I get a witness?

Narrow-Minded As They Want to Be

You see...I got this story filtered through the BBC and then through the Advocate, so the details may be a bit watered-down. A relationship counselor in Great Britain lost a court case against his former employer, who had fired the counselor for refusing to provide sex therapy to gay couples. The gentleman's stance was the agency that employed him had “refused to accommodate his Christian beliefs.” Well, the British High Court disagreed with the gent.

And my opinion on the case may perplex you. I think I'm siding with the Christian.

Now … I know that I am only getting a portion of the story. I’m just too lazy to investigate further. I hate the news. To me, most of what passes as “news-worthy” is just depressing. If I want to catch up on current events, I’ll listen to “Wait, Wait … Don’t Tell Me” on NPR or watch “The Daily Show” and “The Colbert Report” on Comedy Central. And I do none of this with any regularity.

Back to the story:  I suspect there were more issues than this refusal to provide service that led to the counselor's dismissal (I mean ... the man was expected to provide sex therapy to gay couples?! - I would imagine this assignment would confuse and/or disgust most any straight guy). But, whatever … I believe everyone involved missed the boat on this true issue. Let me lay the blame on the agency (I try not to point fingers, but sometimes it’s fun). Did the agency not have enough straight couples that the fella could counsel? I mean, I know straight couples, and they typically have way more issues than homo couples. Just sayin’. I always write that off to the fact that men and women sometimes have difficultly understanding (or caring) where the other is coming from. Gay couples have gender-uniformity on their sides. The agency must have had enough non-gay couples to keep this man busy; I'm guessing that heterosexuals provide the bulk of the client base.

Look, High Court … you didn’t change this man’s mind. Nor did you change the minds of any of the people who supported his stand. And while the grander scheme here is not about changing anyone’s mind, the decision probably just rooted him further into his narrow-minded reasoning.

So, everyone settle down. I’m all for gay rights. I am gay. But let’s allow people to be as dumb as they want to be. The smart people already see the truth. And both the smart people and the dumb people are producing a new generation who can think for themselves and see the truth, in spite of familial influence. The dumb people are a dying breed. Let them dinosaur themselves right off the planet…

I deal with people who support my rights and beliefs (and the majority of my straight friends do support me). I ignore the others. Like my mom always said, “If someone is pestering you, they are either envious of you or they have a crush on you.” 

Uhm...the thought of Fred Phelps and/or Shirley Phelps-Roper crushing on me just totally made me vomit in my own mouth … eww.

The Texas-Shaped Tortilla Chip Says It All

Each Monday evening, a group of us friends gather for Mexican food.  "Mexican Monday"  It started years ago with my best friend.  She, her partner and all the other homos in town ate at a specific restaurant that was deigned as the "place to be" every Monday.  As time passed, it became less important for my best friend and her partner io be seen at the "it" place.  So they began to shake it up and move the Monday tradition around the city.  When I joined the group, we had about five regular restaurants in the rotation (but we did not include the original "it" place in the mix).  I've been going to Mexican Monday for about 13 years now.  I think they've been doing it for about 15 or 16 years.
Mexican Mondays are very special to me.  A way, each week, to ease into work and touch base with the most important people in your life (the ones that you chose to be there).  I've risked getting fired over the gathering.  A director once demanded that I stay late on a Monday.  I just told her that I always get together with my friends on Mondays, and that I'd just come in early the next morning.  She said that she strongly suggested that I stay late and that she hardly ever had the chance to see her friends.  To which, red-faced I threw out the old standard, "But I've got my priorities straight!" (quite loudly too).  And turned off my computer.  I heard later through the department grapevine that she had marched directly to her boss's office and said "The Queer does not want to give you what you need to get your job done!"  And Ladies and Gentlemen ... there is a name for a person who does something like that...but I digress.
And damn, I'm long-winded.  All that to set up that I was eating tortilla chips at Mexican Monday this evening.  And I received a vision ... a sign ... a portent.  Whatever.  In an earlier post, we've established that I cannot be a true fatalist.  But I pulled this chip out of the basket, and honestly, with completely no breakage, it looked just like this:

It was strange.  And it was just the timing of the conversation that made it so.  I know ... no fate, no destiny (if I keep saying it, one day I'll completely believe it - he's working on me).  But everyone had been talking about a subject that all of our friends hate:  The Man and The Queer moving to Toronto.  He and I had fallen in love with the city on an earlier trip (that I wrote about here).  And we're always talking about relocating there.  So ... c'mon, any logical man would see the chip as a sign.

So I considered the chip.  And this was what immediately came to mind. 

Here's what I would miss about living in Texas:

• the strong awesome Texas people

where else would you have women who gives you a chicken recipe where cook-timing is based on how long it takes to smoke a cigarette?   where else would you get those awesome redneck businessmen who actually can carry a boardroom and break a stallion?  where else do you get people who welcome you warmly, without really caring (like in the Old South) about your "family name?"

• the incredible weather

complain if you need to, but we really do have awesome weather here in Texas.  about three months - July, August, and September are unbearable.  But we have super-mild winters and perfect autumns and springs. (And air conditioning -- have you been up North in the summer to those place where they don't believe in air conditioning, and then lets talk about unbearable)  Also, you can swim comfortably in the Gulf from April until November.

• countless other things (but I don't want to lose y'all...)

•  Mexican Monday

I can't imagine starting my weeks without sharing Monday evening with my close friends.  It's crazy and comfortable.  It's safe and it's scary.  I almost got my butt kicked tonight ... (we'll talk about that later).

So trips to Toronto are certain.  And hopefully frequent.  I guess the jury's still out on our moving there.
But the chips don't lie...

"You're different" "I'm dumb" "I don't like you"

I'll have to admit that I'm piggy-backing off of the Bloggess, but imitation is (well you know what it is...)

Here's a typical story ... probably has happened before; probably will happen again.

Click here

So...the lesbian wanted to go to the prom with her female date and dress in a tuxedo. Now, that'll freak out the straights (but only the dumb ones)!




























And then when the students cannot have the prom without her due to a court order, they:
1. Cancel the prom
2. Schedule a new secret prom
3. Reschedule a new fake prom at a country club
4. Invite the lesbian to the fake prom
5. All attend the secret prom

The lesbian student's first warning should have been that the new prom for which she received the invitation was at a country club.

Aren't country clubs the quintessence of inclusion and diversity?

Telling Time at the Gay Bars

This one probably only applies to Friday. Saturday can be crazed, and Sunday is difficult to analyze. Plus it's Sunday, for chrissakes. I'll try to figure it out later.
Monday through Thursday has a definite rhythm ... just too boring to outline here. And a little more difficult to comprehend.

4:00 PM or earlier - Look around .. it'll be the retirees and the students and maybe a couple of real estate agents.
5:00 PM - Happy hour crowd, the bar is going to be really loud at this point.
6:00 PM - The somber crowd is rolling in, those married to work and sleeping with their crackberries. A slight lull may have set in at this point.
7:00 PM - The drink are kicking in for the Happy Hour crowd. Lots of loud overwrought laughter.
8:00 PM - The bar may have thinned a bit by now. The smarter ones have gone across the street for a bite to eat. Those less smart have started ordering shots with their buds.
9:00 PM - Probably the deadest hour. Nobody wants to be seen hitting the bar at this time. Nobody is going to see you enter the bar for that "Some Enchanted Evening" moment.
10:00 PM - This is the hour for most of your regular Joe's on a Friday night. For all you guys looking to marry a plumber, this is your hour to work it.
11:00 PM - The queens are arriving now. You can probably tell by the toxic mix of cologne. Good luck breathing for the next two hours.
12:00 AM - This is the hour that it will take you to walk the full circle around the bar... you may get in two laps.
1:00 AM - Bar thinning. The realistic ones who haven't scored are cutting their losses and heading to have breakfast.
2:00 AM - Getting bare. Those with desperation and without faith are still lurking around but are being asked to leave. Those with desperation and with faith are moving to the after-hours club.
3:00 AM- We're at the after-hours club now. Enjoy your bottled water and try to avoid those homos who are chemically enhanced. Packed with men, literally body-to-body. Can be fun. Can be exasperating. That may depend on whether you are there for yourself or have been convinced to come along by a friend for assistance in his pursuit.
4:00 AM - Getting bare here as well. Those with desperation and without faith are still lurking around, but are now being told to leave. Those with desperation and with faith are moving to other venues.