In a week and a half, I will have my fifth appointment with my tattoo artist in as many months.Yes, I’m getting quite a bit of work done.
I got my first tattoo when I was about 30 or so, and then got four others over the next few years.I finally decided to tie them together in a common theme.
Draft of Work to be Done
After my third tattoo, my (then) best friend remarked, “You’re just going along with this fashion trend, which is going to be tired and over in a couple of years.It will be so passé.”In retrospect, he was wrong.I’ve yet to regret any of my skin art.
In proof of my fatherly influence, my son (upon turning 18 years-old) went immediately to the tattoo parlor and got a HUGE piece inked on his upper arm of a dragon wrapped around a sword.He had planned to follow that up with our last name tattooed across his upper back in Old English style lettering.I successfully convinced him not to go this gangsta route.
Having a large tattoo on my arm has presented a few challenges at work.Since I work in a fairly conservative corporate environment, I wear long-sleeved shirts almost exclusively.I only wear short-sleeved shirts if they cover down to my elbow.
I plan on getting a full sleeve tattoo on my left arm.My closest friend at work says at that point I should make sure to wear short-sleeved shirts as often as possible to show my anarchist nature (although, again, I wonder if tattoos are so nontraditional in today’s place and time. I see small ones on co-workers and other people in the company quite often).
Although I do like to buck the system, I mostly just like to be me everyday of my life.And that includes showing how I’ve decorated my body.I can live with that.
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)
I did say a few weeks back that I would try to post more often. I didn't promise. Who needs a promise from me? I rarely say, "I promise...," anything. That kind of sweeping statement can get a person in big trouble. But I said I would try to check in on Sundays.
So here we go (the best I can muster tonight). Today, I...
Woke up early, around 6 AM. (Since I became a year older a couple of weeks back, I guess I'm officially old. I can't even sleep late on the weekends. Even on Sunday mornings, when the night before I've watched all of Saturday Night Live - if I can stay awake that late. This week SNL was somewhat good, but Drake wowed me with "Headlines."
Played "Oblivion" a couple of hours. (Oblivion is an RPG - role-playing game - set in a land that is much like Europe in Medieval times. Oblivion is a chapter of a larger game series called "The Elder Scrolls." The next chapter in the series comes out in November. I know that I'll be spending that weekend back home in Louisiana, playing the new game with The Awesome Son. He's already told me that. And I listen to The Awesome Son.)
Watched CBS Sunday Morning. (A couple of interesting new pieces to start a soothing "news" day. It's not exactly Glenn Beck. Oh, it's the antithesis. Coldplay was featured. Chris Martin is cool.)
Enjoyed the breakfast that The Man cooked.
Napped.
Practiced the piano.
Showered.
Went to my piano lesson.
Returned home.
Dined with friends to celebrate my, a friend's (who happens to share my special day), and The Man's birthdays.
Ate tofu. (I went vegetarian this past week - Let's see how that goes...)
Visited our local grocery store for this week's shopping. (As we approached the store, The Awesome Son called. [Good...The Man volunteered to go shop, and] I - score! - was able to just hang outside and chat with The Awesome Son, who laughed his head off at some of my antics. Let's just say that I gave The Man a racy but odd birthday gift...it involved a hole in a gift bag. Enough said.)
Arrived home
Let dogs out
Unloaded groceries.
Cleaned the litter box.
Corralled the dogs back into the house (because they were whooping, barking, and hollering at something in the trees, in the dark. Hell, I couldn't see what it was. And the dogs were nuts. It took a couple of minutes to break their attention and get them inside.)
Ironed my shirt for my runway appearance at the office tomorrow. (Music courtesy of Mr. Springsteen "The Wild, The Innocent, and The E-Street Shuffle." Good Stuff!)
Put brown rice on to cook. (It amazes me how the rice cooker knows how much longer the brown rice needs than the white rice. I'm so easily stumped.)
Now, I'm sitting here typing.
Dang, my life sounds a bit dull. That's o.k. I'm having a good time.
The Beastie Boys just released a new CD, The Hot Sauce Committee, Part Two.
Mainly, I've been listening to nothing but that. If you know the Beastie Boys’ style, you’ll know that they might inspire me to sling the F-word all over the place. And I’ve been cutting it loose. In public, during work, at home … you name it, I’ll MF it.
Believe that this is not standard-operating-procedure for me. I was raised a good Southern Baptist boy. I remember as a child one night my dad came home from work and pronounced that my mom’s cooking that evening tasted “like sh*t.” I was mortified.
Swearing is one of the first rites of passage for many of us. I could remember how odd the cuss words felt in my mouth as I first learned to say them. But I got most of them out and into the air. Even then, I didn't much enjoy the process.
My best friend loves the F-bomb. But I think she is trying to wean herself from using it too much. I do have a tendency to agree with her that sometimes the word is necessary for accentuating a sentence properly.
Then I look at some of the great songs that have great swear lines: “Long Shot” by Aimee Mann, “Let’s Pretend We’re Married” by Prince, “Play Guitar” by John Mellencamp, just to name a few. (You’ll notice that each of these songs is quite a few years old. Songs with swears were staggering back in the day. Now they’re so commonplace, the swears are hardly noticed).
One of the funniest things that ever happened to me? I worked in a record store back when I was in my late 20s / early 30s. One day, I loaded the CD changer with five discs, selecting as one of them Whatever and Ever Amen by Ben Folds Five. I play piano and enjoyed the arpeggios in the song, "Brick". Randomly, "Song for the Dumped" came up and into the second line of the lyric, Ben Folds yells “F*** YOU TOO!” and then suddenly follows that up with “Give me my money back, you b*tch!” Imagine store clerks and managers running in dead heats toward the sound system, stunned parents covering the ears of young children, teens snickering with hand-covered mouths.
I know that I’ll need to rein in my rogue mouth a bit. I expect that I’ll be blessed with grandkids one day (only if my son is totally on board for that). I don’t want to set a bad example. As expressed many times before, my son is awesome. I almost never swore in his presence when he was a child, and consequently I rarely hear him swear.
I’m especially frustrated at work right now. I am not getting enough sleep. So many things in life seem up in the air. So I'm swearing casually and frequently right now.
I’ll not blame it on music. I’ll not blame it on the media. I’ll not blame it on my friends.
Mid-March 2010. And I had dreaded it all week. I did not want to visit my family. I wanted to stay home.
It had been since Christmas that The Man and I had been for a visit. Typically we visited the family back in Louisiana once each month. This was the longest stretch that I can remember with my going without a visit since I lived in Los Angeles almost seven years ago. But still ... I didn't want to go. I wanted to hang out at the house, listening to music and working in my yard.
But I knew we had to go. My son had increased the frequency of his "when-am-I-going-to-see-you" calls. My step-mom had posted "Hey ... when are ya'll coming in" on her own Facebook page (she’ll get the hang of it one day).
Saturday morning, we were packing the truck. I turned to The Man and sighed, "I really don't wanna go..."
"We don't have to, baby." He smiled. (He is so perfect). "We can unload the truck and call your family. We'll just tell them that we need to stay home this weekend."
"No." I said. "We have to go."
So we headed out. Our normal trip routine. Gas up. Breakfast at Whataburger. Rock tunes on the radio. And we're off.
Now here's where you can add a tally mark in the "Dork" column on the Queer's sheet. We were listening to a mixtape that I had made from downloads of last season’s American Idol performances ... yes, yes ... I know... But anyway, Lee Dewyze's version of Shania Twain's "You're Still the One" came on. And I started singing to The Man. Total cheeseball... yes, I know. But he got all teary-eyed (he's apt to do that often). But it was beautiful. After the song, he grabbed my hand and said, "I'm so lucky!"
I just agreed.
We arrived in my hometown and checked in at my sister's house (always the first stop), and then we headed out for something to eat. We called my son to see if he and his fiancée wanted to join us. He had just eaten and his fiancée was at a family party, so he asked us to just stop by after our meal.
We got to my son's place and hung out, just watching movies, laughing and shooting the breeze. It was a blast. One of our cousins showed up, so we made a beer run. As the evening moved along, my son suggested that we crash at his place. We were going to get a motel room. But this would be the first time that The Man and I would stay with my son. So we took him up on the offer. It was an ideal evening.
Later that evening, The Man and I headed to the local pizza joint to pick up some grub. As he was waiting at the counter, I ambled over to the juke box. I checked out the tunes, not at all surprised that Shania Twain’s greatest hits CD was in the machine. I paid my money. I made my selection. And then I stepped slowly and silently to the far side of the room.
As the music came in, I watched as The Man began to reflexively tap his toe to the rhythm. Then as he started to recognize the tune, his head turned back and forth a bit like a puzzled pup. When he fully realized what song was playing, he began to look for me. When we finally met eyes across the room, he smiled broadly. I waved.
I’m glad we visited the family that month. I got a magic moment out of it.
Surfing the web to cure my boredom, I came across a site that generates random sentences. I had to refresh the page about eleven times before I came across something that was somewhat amusing. And even "The Onions Are Watching the Kings on Pluto!" barely qualifies.
I then surfed on to another site where a random question was posted: “Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, and find line 4.” The book? The Dhammapada. The line?
My deep, driving desire? I achieved it simply by becoming a father. Doesn’t sound like much of an impressive goal, does it? Oh, but it was and is. What I wanted most in life was to be a dad (I can only imagine that many other guys feel the same). But when I realized long ago that I was gay (in those days when gays and lesbians were not allowed to adopt), the thought of having children of my own seemed far-fetched.
So some may laugh and say, “You can’t build a life on being a father.” Well, maybe. It’s a lot of fun to try. I know enough not to crowd my adult son. I mostly leave him be and let him initiate contact. I’ll call if I haven’t heard from him in a week or so. But the best way to get his attention? Random texts. For example:
I knew he was excited about seeing an upcoming film. I was at the gym and saw an ad for the movie on the TV. I sent him a two-word text.
“SUCKER PUNCH!”
He sent back:
“LOL. Ur weird, Dad.”
Yesterday, apropos of nothing, I sent:
“YOU ROCK!!!”
This morning I got:
“You rock :-P”
To which I replied,
“I’m lining ‘em up like ass cracks.”
He just came back with
“Ur bizarre, LOL. Good morning, Dad.”
Surprisingly, in the midst of all this mature modeling that I provide, he’s turned into quite a responsible adult. In the future, I hope Random-Gramps doesn’t scare his children.
Although I’ve talked a little bit about him, I think it’s time to direct a bit more light toward my awesome son. Many people may think they have the best child in the world; I’m one of those. And he came into my life totally by accident. Well, just in a matter of speaking…
He wasn’t planned. Being young and carefree, my wife and I were not concerned with birth control. So I guess the arrival of a baby should not have been a big surprise. When my wife was pregnant, I insisted that we not find out what the gender of the baby was with a sonogram. But not able to withstand surprise (she even read the last few pages of each new book to determine if she wanted to dive in), she asked the doctor anyway. I did not accompany her on that visit, but she greeted me with a huge smile when I arrived from work that evening. I knew what had happened, so I asked her. 98 percent certainty that the baby was a girl. I was disappointed; she was elated. In the delivery room, the anesthesiologist kept telling my wife “Here comes that beautiful girl.” I’m sure that I was grimacing. The doctor lifted the baby up and said “Does a girl have these?”
Our son was such a low-maintenance child. All he craved was attention. And he got it in big doses. Having lost a set of premature twins a year and a half earlier, my wife and I had a ball with the new baby – cheering him on at each milestone: his crawling, walking, talking. Since he was the first baby in the family (first grandchild to both sets of our parents), he was doted on incessantly. He was almost always smiling and happy. When he did manage to get a little grumpy, all you had to do was tickle him a bit and he would break into infectious laughter.
I’m sure many parent were and are enchanted by their children, but I was mesmerized. I had gotten what I wanted – to have a son and be a father.
Before he was three, I had come out and his mother and I had divorced. I became a weekend dad. It didn’t make much difference. I would pick him up from his mom’s every other Friday evening, and we would spend a whole weekend of just dad and son time. I would always ask him, “So, what are we doing this weekend?” He loved to call the shots, and we would do almost anything he wanted.
When I moved to Houston, I had a difficult time withdrawing from our biweekly contact. But I did make the trip back to Louisiana once a month to share a weekend with him. And we talked on the phone a couple of times a week. The closer he got to his teen years, he wanted to talk on the phone every day. I understood and reveled in his want of daily conversations with me.
When he did get to his mid-teen years, he moved to Houston to live with me. That lasted about six months. With my not being much of a disciplinarian and with his lack of interest in conventional education (and not bothering to attend school at all), his grades went south quickly. His mom and I decided that it was a good idea for him to return to Louisiana.
When he graduated high school, he again came to live with me. Once more, he lasted about six months. Turns out that he is more of a county boy than a city one. One night he looked up at a sky bright with urban lights and told me “I miss my stars.”
24 years passed so quickly. He just started college. He is engaged to a wonderful young lady. I am so proud of him. I tell him just that and frequently.
My partner and I are going to Louisiana to visit him and his fiancée this weekend. His mother will come to visit as well. We will play dominos, watch movies, laugh and just enjoy each others’ company.
Over the course of his life, I have told him repeatedly that he is the best son that I could have ever hoped for. I began to get it back. I started hearing that I am the best father in the world. While he and I were talking on the phone the other day, I heard the words “You’re my best friend, Dad.”
Chely Wright is coming out of the closet. And while I applaud Ms. Wright for stepping out of the shadows, I will tell the gay press that this new story is probably not as huge as you would like for it to be.
Ok, I get it. Chely Wright is a country music star. So the annoucement will be a bit more controversial, especially since she is not planning on changing her chosen genre of recording. But (absolutely no disrespect intended) … it’s not like Carrie Underwood or Taylor Swift or even Kellie Pickler are identifying themselves as lesbian. I've heard of her, but I would imagine that the general public would say "Chely Wright ...she sounds vaguely familiar..."
I genuinely do not mean to rain on Chely’s or the gay movement’s parade. Any public figure coming out helps the general cause (well … there are some people that I do wish weren’t gay…but I won’t be hateful and name names).
But let’s look at Chely’s success up to this point in time. I was raised in rural northwest Louisiana, so I followed country music a lot back in the day. And I still listen to a bit of the genre … I’ve got a mean crush on Trisha Yearwood. But, to be honest, I do not know Ms. Wright's work.
According to my research, she won the Academy of Country Music’s Best New Artist award back in 1994 (when her debut album was released). Let’s look at some other “Best New Artist” winners:
1999 – Academy of Country Music – Jessica Andrews (again, no disrespect intended, but…who?)
1996 – Country Music Association – Bryan White (I have no clue who this guy is...)
1990 – Grammy – Milli Vanilli (enough said…)
Apparently she scored a #1 hit or two and quite a few Top 10s. But after reviewing the titles, I do not believe I’ve heard a single one of the songs. In 2001, she was also selected as one of People magazine’s "50 Most Beautiful People," and she is undeniably beautiful. She just released an album produced by one of my country-music heroes, Rodney Crowell. And in my world, that gives her a big feather in her cap. I’ll probably even buy the album without hearing a note, just to support her. And I trust Mr. Crowell just that much…
So, again … I am not trying to pick apart this whole celebrity “coming-out.” All famous fags and dykes should show the world who they really are. I could tell every one of you gays & lesbians that the people who really matter on this planet will never stop loving you, regardless of your sexual orientation.
I'm reminded of a certain male country music star, who back in the mid-90s was caught in a sex scandal. He was riding the wave of a #1 hit from his debut album. Then he solicited sex from an undercover police officer in a Fort Worth park. In addition, he was charged with possession of crystal meth. Charges were eventually dropped. He declared publically that he was not gay and that the drugs had merely made him act outside of his true character. In the aftermath, he managed to have some additional success in the country music field. But eventually that tapered off. I read that this year he will be releasing a contemporary Christian recording. I also read that he had filed bankruptcy and was on his second divorce. Wonder if it's the drugs again ... or maybe he's just having a difficult time fighting his basic nature.
And if my son reads this post, I have just two words for you, buddy ... Pooka Shell.
Most people only remember Edie Brickell from her beginnings with the New Bohemians and the hit "What I Am" with its profound - or nonsense - lyrics (depending on your affinity toward Zen thought):
I'm not aware of too many things,
I know what I know,
If you know what I mean
I loved the song and the group instantly. I purchased the cassette tape back in 1989 and discovered that the entire recording was approaching brilliant. It also brought special satisfaction that my recent ex-wife detested the song. "That is the stupidest song I've ever heard." I made sure to have the cassette in my player anytime that she was forced to ride in my truck.
Icing on the cake: my son loved the song. He would sing along in his own three year-old language and jam away.
But I really fell in love with Edie Brickell when she and the New Bohemians appeared on Saturday Night Live following the release of their second album, "Ghost of a Dog." She sang "Woyaho," rocking back and forth on the stage like a rhythmic goddess, and "He Said," a slower burning song that seemed to go on wonderfully forever. Dang, that had to be about 20 years ago, and I still remember it like it was last night. I immediately went and purchased that cassette as well.
About this same time, I decided to move to Houston. I traveled to the city and stayed at the home of a friend of a relative. I went out to the cowboy gay bar and ran into the cutest guy in the place, who told me that he was a bit shy and then took me to breakfast and talked my ear off.
As we began to date, we would swap out weekends: I would travel to Houston on most, he would visit me in rural Louisiana on some (he did comment that my local Wal-Mart had an excessive number of handicapped parking spaces - a-hole). While he was in my territory, I drove. Now, all my friends and family can confirm that I have the tendency to date a little out of my age bracket. And I discovered something: Edie did not span the generation gap. I have the irritating habit of singing along with the stereo, and one day when he was riding with me " 'Stwisted" (I believe it's supposed to mean "It's twisted") from "Ghost of a Dog" started playing:
And when it got to the line:
Crack flash of lightning
Struck from above
Knocked down a cow
And I kissed ya
he just looked at me and said "What?!"
It became a joke with all of his friends back in Houston. That relationship didn't last. Dang, he was still listening to Margaret Whiting and June Christy (and if you don't know how radically different that is from Ms. Brickell, then don't even bother investigating it ... just trust me).
But my relationship with Edie continued. I followed her to her first solo album, her vocals gracing a smooth Chris Botti jazz track, and a reunion with the New Bohemians. I was happy when she married Paul Simon (I'm a fan of his as well).
After the release of her second solo album, I got the chance to see Edie at The Roxy on Sunset Boulevard. I was living in Los Angeles at the time. It was one of the best live shows I've ever seen. Her voice was still pure and sweet, and she still reminded me of an older girl that I used to have a crush on when I was a teen (yes ... I'm gay... but I can still crush on girls). I called my son after the show. He was so excited. His first question: "Did she sing 'What I Am?'" Of course she did.
Anytime my son hears the song, I get a text. Usually it's a simple "Edie's singing."
I can still remember him as a three-year old, sitting in the passenger's seat of my old green 1978 Ford Pick-up, buckled up and singing at the top of his lungs:
What I am is what I am.
Are you what you are or what?
