Failure to Understand

File this under:  “One of the Laziest Posts Ever Written” or “Inciting a Family Feud.”

This past Friday morning before the decision on the New York gay marriage issue, I posted on my regular “non-queer” Facebook page:  

Listening to George Michael on way to work for all my gay/lesbian brothers & sisters working for marriage equality in NY “Gotta have faith”

To that post, I received a few supporting comments from friends, far and near.  And then I got (I won’t correct his spelling, punctuation or grammar):

This is not natural and against the one and true God that we are made in His image and one day everyone will stand in front of Him and give account to a Holy God

This from a heterosexual cousin, who is now a preacher in a very rural part of northwest Louisiana.  He and I were quite close back when we were kids.  Even though he was about four years older than I, he used to let me hang out with him and would take me with him when he “cruised the Strip.”

I have not seen him in over ten years.

This post from him provoked many of my friends, and the three comments multiplied to 12. 

I removed him from my Facebook friends.

Then I sent him a message:

You and I have not spoken in years, so I do not understand why you posted on my wall with your opinion on gay marriage. My beliefs and yours are vastly different on this matter.I left the Baptist church long ago, because I was repeatedly told that I was going to Hell. However, I was also told by my immediate family that there was no way that I was going to Hell. I am not sure either way, nor is it important to me.You and I used to be close. I miss those days. But I have removed you from my friends list on Facebook. You and I are kin, but I believe that we are no longer friends.

He replied with:

I'm sorry that you feel that way but if i didnt love you i would kept silent and you chose not to keep me as a friend thats fine but do something read Romans 1 I just give the truth of Gods Holy word what you do with it is your choice.

I returned:

I've read Romans before. But find me anywhere in the Bible where Jesus talked about homosexuality. What you are quoting is the words of Paul, not Jesus. Jesus did not speak through Paul, as much as Paul wanted that. One of my favorite songs is "Fly from Heaven" by Toad the Wet Sprocket. The song wonderfully sums up Paul. (excuse me while I insert a video for you that I did not include for his viewing pleasure).

Regardless, as I said, I have left the church. I still believe in Jesus, but not the way that conservative Christians do. Using the word of God to judge others is not in the spirit of Christ.The only reason that I did not keep you as a friend on Facebook was that I did not appreciate your writing your beliefs on my wall, when they go completely against my own beliefs. I would never do the same thing to you. 

I may have said that I believe that we are no longer friends, but I will always remember you in a good light. When we were young, you were always kind to me. I really do appreciate that, [insert name here].

He came back with:

I have my dougts if you want except Pauls word as he was chose by God then you have turn your back on all because its all Inspired word of God we cant pick and choose what we want to and ingnore the rest. you know i can not stand by and see you split hell wide open and not say anything but you choose the path that your on and all i can do is Pray for your salvation And that The True Jesus will come back into your life and When Jesus talk about Marrage it was between a man and a woman because thats His standards not mine or even yours.

I summed up with:

ok [insert name here]... I don't tell you how to live.

You are not remotely interested in my happiness. So you can say that you "love" me, but I have my doubts about that.

I think we are through on this subject. We'll never agree.

My best to you in the future. Hopefully one day we can see one another and laugh about this whole exchange. Probably not, according to you I'm Hell-bound. I'll not see you at all.

Amazingly it ended there.  To be honest, it hurt.  I thought that I could make him understand.  Maybe were we face-to-face, I could have.  But to not fool myself, it would have been a lost cause.  (Besides, the Toad the Wet Sprocket was completely lost on him).  So he didn't understand me; I don't think that I did a good job of understanding him either.

After my final transmission, I expected him to get the last word.  I’ll keep you posted.

Begin Again

The conversation went something like this:

Me:  “’Tom’ asked if we were still getting together as a group to go to that play you wanted to see.”

Him, casually:  “Oh yeah, that sounds good…”

Me, impatiently: “Ok … I’ll get it together.  I told him, although it was your idea that I would be the one organizing it.”

Him, with a twinkle in his eye, ignoring the bait: “Well, ok…”

Me, hammering it: “It’s like most things.  For example:  if we go see a movie it’s usually my idea.  I’ll say ‘You want to go see a movie?’ and you’ll say ‘If you want to.’"

 

Me, droning now:  “You should be able to ask ‘What movie do you want to see?’  If it’s not one that you would like to see, you could say ‘I do not want to see that movie.’ At which point, I could return with: ‘I’ll go see it by myself’ or ‘Is there a movie that you would prefer to see?’"

Me, slinding into obnoxiousness:  “You don’t have to go with me to the movie.  I’m a big boy.  I can go by myself.  I have been to the movie many times by myself before you came along…”

Him, nailing it:  “But I’m here now.”

Me, stopped in my tracks and retreating a bit:  “Well, I guess that you should have the right to say you’ll go with me if I want to go.  I’d do the same for you."

The truth dawning on me:  “I guess we ended up at square one…”

He simply shot me a smile.

Watch Your Mouth...

Suddenly I’m swearing like there’s no tomorrow.
 

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.

I’ll just try harder to control my mouth.

Life will get MFing better.

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.

A Morning at the Empire

This morning our breakfast group went to a new restaurant, the Empire Café.  As I mentioned before, I’m not a fan of eating establishments that do not offer table service.  But I promised the gang that I would go along and not pout.  I’d eaten at the Empire Café about 10 years back.  The food was quite good then, so I expected that the food would be appetizing this morning.

As The Man and I were standing at the counter line with our seven friends, he turned to me and said “This place reminds me of Onion Creek.”

“You know what this place reminds me of?”  I asked.

His eyebrows went up, his mouth to the side.

"" 
Then I said quickly.  “Sorry…I had to get just one in.”

During the course of breakfast, no less than four of my friends offered to get coffee for me.  I thanked them but got it myself.

While we were there:

Music :

·         “(Don’t’ Go Back to) Rockville” R.E.M.

·         “Serpentine Fire” Earth, Wire & Fire

·         “Tumbling Dice” The Rolling Stones

·         “Veronica” Elvis Costello

·         “Rhiannon” Fleetwood Mac

·         “Don’t Get Me Wrong” The Pretenders

·         “Life in a Northern Town” The Dream Academy

o   A young man in his mid 20s was seated next to us with what were obviously his parents, perhaps visiting from out of town.  The mom held up a cookie that was served with her coffee “Well, at least I like this…” (maybe she'd have preferred an Egg McMuffin?)

Ø  The Man and one of our friends, seated on opposite ends of the table, texted each other bad jokes.  Example:

v  Q – What do you get when you cross a Rottweiler with a Collie?

v  A – A dog that bites off your arm and then goes for help.

§  One of my single friends was thrilled with all the eye candy, indiscreetly pointing out all the cute guys in the room.

So ... Empire Cafe?  Great food (the Bella Frittata with its portabella mushrooms and gorgonzola cheese was superb); Good coffee (rich full Peruvian blend).  Good ambiance (saffron-colored walls with cheesetastic paintings of burlesque ladies in various national themes - Dutch, Spanish, Indian).  Nice Crowd (good mix of hipsters, glamorpusses and regular joes).  

All in all, it was a fun time that I would have not experienced had I exercised a prima-donna boycott.  OK…maybe for once a week I’ll act like I’m not a brat.

Play "Life in a Northern Town" The Dream Academy

Can I Get a Slice?

After almost five years together, we reached a small problem.  It went something like this: 

Me:  “I’d sure like pizza.  We haven’t had pizza in a long time”

Him:  “I miss it.”

Me:  “You know it's not just a spontaneous thing…people think it is, but it’s not.”

Him:  “Yeah?”

Me:  “You have to schedule pizza.  Just like you schedule dates at the beginning of a relationship.”

Him:  “Oh, I get it.  And then if it happens at the spur of the moment, that’s just a bonus.”

Me:  “Exactly.  I mean… at times, you are having pizza almost every day.  And then it gets boring.”

Him:  “Pizza gets boring?”

Me:  “Yeah, you know.  Before you realize, you are ordering the same thing every time.”

Him:  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Me:  “Remember when you were younger, you would have pizza all the time?”

Him:  “Yes…”

Me:  “And if you’d get together with your favorite bud, you knew you’d have a slice?”

Him:  “Oh, yeah!”

Me:  “Well, I think we should resolve ourselves to having pizza three times a week.”

Him:  “Sounds good to me!”

Me:  “How about Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays?”

Him:  “That’ll work!”

And that brought a lot of fun back into it.  We don’t have pizza every Wednesday, Friday and Sunday; but most nights we do.  It can be a bit rich to enjoy it all the time.  But the pizza is always good.  I am never indifferent about it.  Sometimes it’s spicy.  Sometimes it’s mild.

Tonight The Man has a cold and a runny nose.  That means only one sad thing.  It’s Wednesday, and no pizza for me.

Photo Courtesy of the  Pizza Review

"It's Been a While..."

Hello All.  I took an extended break after a strong start at blogging.  When I began back in the spring, I posted almost daily.  But something stepped in, and I had to take it easy.  It was a mandatory interruption.  My insanity kicked in.

Now, I’ll try not to make light of my situation, but levity is a part of my base personality.  So I am quite sure that I will not properly illustrate the gravity of the affliction.  Even using the word “affliction” is starting off this essay on the wrong foot.

About 14 years ago, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.

Many people when they read this may automatically think “Oh…he’s crazy.”

I’ll not argue that.

Other people who read this may think “Oh…he just needs an excuse for bad behavior.”

I do over-apologize for myself when I have finally realized how my mania is draining the energy from my family, friends and co-workers.  To some, Bipolar Disorder is sometimes lumped into the same group of suffering as TMJ (temporomandibular joint) Disorder and CTS (Carpal Tunnel Syndrome).  Kinda the fashion disease of the moment.

And here I sit, writing off my absence from blogging on my hypomania.  Well, actually I’m not.  My life got extremely busy and almost unmanageable in the past couple of months.

And when that happens, people may think, “He must be off his medication.”  Well, I can’t lie and say that has never happened.  I do have a big ego and have gone off my meds when I thought I had the disorder “under control.”  But it ultimately always wins. 

This time I did not go off my medication.  My hypo-mania reared its ugly head when I

·        Had a bad cold and coughed all night (unable to get good rest)

·        Took cold medicine that worked against my “normal” medication

·        Had a number of unusual stressors in my life

This time, fortunately I was not hospitalized.  That has only happened to me once.  And I hope, never again.  That one time left a bad taste in my mouth; I was in the Harris County Psychiatric Ward for three weeks.  Scary, but not as bad as one would imagine.  (I guess I need to watch “One Flew over the Koo-Koo’s Nest” sometime to get a better perspective).

I won’t go into much detail now of that time, or I run the risk of getting wordy and dull.  You can expect a full post on the history of my initial diagnosis some time in the future.  It’s much more interesting than my daily struggle with the disorder.  And yes, it’s a struggle:  just like weight issues for the bad-body-image group, or sugar for the diabetic group, or cholesterol for the troubled cardio-vascular group.

I get to take medicine that dulls my sex drive (and I enjoy sex), watch my alcohol intake (and I love beer), and I have to make sure that I am getting at least seven hours of sleep each night (and I’m a night-owl).

But enough of that.  I’m just popping in to try and re-establish my writing groove.  I’ll try to get back to my daily observations with this post.  I enjoy writing them. 

So in terms of my insanity, I can’t really change it.  I’ll just quote Popeye.  “I yam what I yam.”

You've Got a Lot of Explaining to Do, Queer

“Explain yourself.”  You may have heard these words is an accusatory tone.  You may have heard them shouted.  You may have heard them from someone you hurt.

Me?  I just heard them matter-of-factly from myself.  So here we go … and I’ll try to keep it brief.  If you do not need an explanation from me, you know that we are already in trouble.  If you have read any of my essays, you know as well.  If this essay is an introduction to me … RUN!

Just kidding … but I will try to keep this succinct.  (I haven’t talked about my lengthy absence from writing… I’ll explain that later in another post). 

• I am sentimental (I’m crazy in love with the perfect man).
• I am crazy (I’ve got the papers to prove it … so, there!).
• I am strong (I’ve been through the death of:  twin sons [when I was 20] and mom [when 21].  It I could live through those, I can handle anything).
• I am smart (My dad – the smartest man I know – told me at my age of 18, “’Queer,’ you are smarter … more intelligent… than I’ll ever be.” … WOW).
• I’m fun (I sure have a lot of friends … I guess that I must entertain).
• I’m wise (really?...)

Well, I don’t know this yet … but I hope to find out.  Now for anybody else but for me.  I would hope that I would be wise.  The wisdom for living my life as openly as I can.  The wisdom taken from years that have passed.  The wisdom of raising an incredible son to adulthood.  The wisdom for honestly communicating in the now and knowing that the past is what got me to this point in time.  I would hope that I could share some wisdom.

So, I’m sentimental, crazy, strong, smart, and fun.  If you ask others in my life what I’m about, you might get helpful, manic, grumpy, sweet or furious.  It’s all possible

A strangely narcissistic essay, but I was once told that if you could recognize it, it was only “narcissistic- tendancies.”  Whew…

If this is an introduction, “Howdy!”  If this is not an introduction, it’s just an explanation, “You're welcome.”

So I’ll stop … Brief?  I don’t know.  You decide.

The Queer Behaving Badly

I guess it officially happened. I transformed into a fussy queen. Not a crazy, driving-on-two-wheels-on-the-Drag-Race-of-life fussy queen, but a fussy queen nonetheless. It happened one Saturday morning…

Each Saturday, The Man and I get together with a group of friends for breakfast. It’s very nice. We get to discuss what’s happened in the preceding week, talk about cultural events, and debate opinions on current news topics. Most often, our Saturday breakfasts are the only way I find out what is going on in the world outside of my family, work, and friends.

We typically move around the city to different restaurants each weekend. We do have our favorite picks that are in the mix regularly. But sometimes a new eating place is introduced, usually by one of the gang who has discovered it on his own. One Saturday morning, we decided to meet in a café that was housed in a shopping district near the nearby private university. Disaster.

Driving into the parking lot, I noticed a large number of what seems to be high-school-aged young ladies all dressed in matching t-shirts, shorts and sneakers. I guessed that they were members of a soccer or lacrosse team. They were accompanied by a man (who was about my age) who I assumed to be their coach. No worries yet.

I parked the truck, and The Man and I entered the restaurant. What?! Counter-service?!! And the 30 or so young ladies were already lined up to order. Holy crap!

We had arrived a little late and all of our friends were already seated, drinking coffee. I flopped down against the wall in the seat and grumbled a “good-morning” to everyone. And then dropped out of the conversation by playing on my phone. Being as accommodating as he always is, The Man asked what I would like to eat. “Whatever. Omelet. Egg, cheese, bacon. Toast.” The rest of the breakfast group just looked at the two of us as if we’d just walked off an alien aircraft.  But The Man ordered my food, delivered it to me, and brought me coffee plus refills.

This was the first time that the Saturday Breakfast Group had visited a restaurant without table service. As I explained to them, I am not a morning person. I want someone to bring me coffee in the mornings. I do not want to have to go get it myself. Thank The Man. In the mornings when he knows I’m rousing, he prepares my coffee and puts it on my desk, every morning. Every morning. Yes, ya’ll … I’m spoiled. I know that.

The gang was just amused and a little shocked at my over-reaction. But from that point on, we had an unwritten rule about no establishments without table service because of the Queer/Queen.

Until a couple of weeks ago…

The unofficial “official” leader of the group found a beignet place. He wanted to try it out. Seeing that I am from Louisiana, he asked if I could forego my “no-counter-service” rule. Grudgingly, I agreed. Mistake.

We arrived rather early. 8:30 AM. The restaurant was not very crowded. The breakfast menu was unbelievingly undersized. So I just went and order some beignets and an egg casserole. With the Café-Au-Lait, it was around 12 bucks! Fried dough, baked eggs and coffee with milk! AND I had to serve myself.

I started firing off angry messages on Twitter. And then snidely sharing what I was writing with all of my breakfast mates. Ooo...what a jerk...

After breakfast, The Man went around and hugged everyone. I just waved at the gang and stomped out to the truck.

Of course, I felt bad about it later. So I sent an e-mail to all of my friends who were at breakfast that morning. This is basically what I said.

I would like to apologize to everyone who was at breakfast this morning.  Just because I'm a Prima-Donna does not mean that I need to turn into a grump and try to spoil everyone's good time.

I did make the executive decision to not attend breakfast when I know the scheduled establishment does not serve me like the Prince that I apparently believe myself to be.

Each one of them responded with something along the lines of “no big deal … don’t worry about it!” And each one was sincere. I even got “I love you and would miss you if you weren’t at breakfast.” And to push it further, I got “Your little rants amuse me. Don’t change.”

I guess if I needed a definition of friendship, I got it.

I still demand table service for breakfast, DAMMIT.

Wisteria and Poo

Friends. I have my share of great ones. But sometimes, I wish they would be a little more genteel and withholding. Oftentimes the truth comes flowing out of their mouths regardless of whether it smells like flowers or sewage.

I mentioned to one of my friends that I started writing a blog. He seemed pleasantly surprised and genuinely interested.
“Send me the address.”
So I did.
The next time I saw him, I asked him what he thought about the site.
He just raised his eyebrows. “It’s long.”
Really? That’s the best feedback that I can expect …?
Instead I just laughed.
What I wanted to say was “It’s not a homework assignment, buddy. You don’t have to read it. But you could have at least come up with something positive to say.”
I guess I should simply be glad that he feels comfortable enough with me to share so freely.

Unsolicited, I sent the page link to my two best friends.
I received a reply, but only from one.
Here is the answer that came back:
“I hardly have time to check Facebook, much less read a blog … but you have fun, Dude.”
Honestly…that is all you have to say?
What I wanted to say was “At least you could take a cursory look and at least comment that you like the colors that I chose for the layout.”
What I did say was:
“whatever…”
She just laughed it off … she wasn’t taking any of my sewage.

I told one of my ex’s about the blog. He asked me for the address of the site. He’s a writer himself and a rather good one to boot. He’s been published a few times. When we dated, he and I would exchange short stories and critique one others work. After I sent the link, I received a quick e-mail stating that he enjoyed reading the posts, but he thought my prose was better. This was about three weeks ago.
Out of the blue, last night I received another e-mail from him. This one stating that he was still following my blog, but he was certain the writing would get tedious after a while (wait …for me or the reader, or both?). Then he stated that he was glad that everything was working out so well for me and “The Man.” After that, completely apropos of nothing, he said something I don’t even care to repeat here.
He added that male/male friendships are fallow (yes...he used the word “fallow”).

So today, I am

• Trying to keep it brief (I don't believe that I succeeded...sorry)
• Not really caring whether or not this is read by anyone (except “The Man"...he is contractually obligated).
• And giving a high five to all my buds out there who know that male/male bonds are amazingly rich (it isn't all about punching and grunting).

And the next time a friend asks for an opinion or some feedback, maybe I’ll just pony up the wisteria and keep the crap to myself.

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...

Welcome to the Hotel Raging Hormones

It was the summer of 1977. Every adolescent had discovered three albums, “Frampton Comes Alive,” “Rumours,” and “Hotel California.” Now anyone with a knowledge of 70’s pop music might scratch their heads at this. “Frampton Comes Alive” and “Hotel California” were released in 1976; “Rumours” in early 1977. But we lived in the rural South. Plus we had just hit our teens. Naturally we were a bit behind the curve on music. But these three albums were the staples for the summer of 1977 for us youngsters (throwing in the Marshall Tucker Band’s “Carolina Dreams,” Atlanta Rhythm Section’s “Champagne Jam,” and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Street Survivors” – we were in the rural South).
But back to the most important album of my youth, “Hotel California.” The Eagles had long been the chosen group for all the kids in town. “Desperado,” “On the Border,” “One of These Nights,” and the ubiquitous “Their Greatest Hits 1971-1975” had established the group as rock heroes. The greatest hits collection was played so universally (at home, at the swimming pools, on the school buses) that I honestly do not believe that I could listen to it all the way through today.
But “Hotel California”… I do still listen to that today. It’s currently on my iPod.
Picture this. Four hormone-charged teens. One girl’s bedroom. “Jackie.” “Jimmy.” “Lynne." "The Queer." Jackie and Jimmy were officially "going-together." Lynne and I had been girlfriend/boyfriend on-and-off since the first grade, but weren't formally together at that particular time.

When Jackie dropped the needle into the first groove of the album and the acoustic guitars began to play, we two couples fell on the bed and began to make out. It was quite hot and heavy for a while. Since the title track builds to a respectable crescendo, it pushed the passion envelope a bit. Jackie and Jimmy became a tangled mess of arms and legs. Lynne and I were getting along pretty well too. She showed me how to French kiss (and I swear, her tongue was the softest thing on the planet).
As "Hotel California" gave way to "New Kid in Town," the mood mellowed. Well, at least for Lynne and me. Lots of staring into one another eyes and giggling (hey... you already know I'm gay). But Jackie and Jimmy were still at an inferno heat.
When the country shuffle of "New Kid" faded and the rock guitars of "Life in the Fast Lane" kicked in, Lynne and I were through. We held hands a little, and I kissed her on the cheek. But the passion was done. She was one who knew me better than most and with that knowledge, probably knew that I was not really absorbed in the moment. She began to brush her hair, and I began to look at the liner notes of the album. I even pulled out the insert poster and noticed how cute Randy Meisner was and what a great smile Don Henley had. I also noted that Glenn Frey, Joe Walsh and Don Felder look seedy and stoned (more my sister's taste ... just kidding, sis).
And Jackie and Jimmy? They had rolled off the bed in their ecstasy and were actually under the bed.
Without warning, the door opened. And there stood Jackie's mom. She looked from Lynne to me, and asked puzzled? "Where's Jackie and Jimmy?"
Without thinking, I immediately responded, "They're under the bed."
Lynne's eyes widened and her mouth dropped.
Jackie's mom pointed at the door and yelled, red-faced, at Lynne and me, "OUT!!!"
Lynne and I rushed out of the house. We hurried across the street to the vacant lot opposite Jackie's house. Jimmy soon exited, running toward us. He said the Jackie's mom had went berserk, slapping Jackie and calling her a whore and a slut. The three of us retreated to the park that was a couple of blocks away.

But things change quickly for you at that time of life. Jimmy and Jackie broke up shortly after that afternoon. Jimmy, who had been my constant friend that year, quickly abandoned me for a guy like him who liked outdoorsy stuff (leaving the door wide open for a new best friend, who became my first boyfriend and taught me all about that outdoorsy stuff). Lynne went her own way and discovered new, older friends. She traveled through high school always one step ahead of her former peers.

I don't know if any of the others still feel those raging hormones. I know I do, but I live a bizarrely wonderful life. But I've completely lost track of Jimmy. Jackie is a close friend of my sister's now, but I honestly do not know a lot about her life. And Lynne ... well, we lost Lynne about seven years ago in a car accident. She wasn't wearing her seat belt. She always had a deliberate disregard for danger.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if the music had continued to play, and Jackie's mom would have never entered the room. I can imagine it exactly. "Life in the Fast Lane" would have surrendered to "Wasted Time." Which would have been the perfect make-out song: slow, tender, lots of strings. Jackie and Jimmy could have continued making out under the bed. And I probably would have taken the brush from Lynne's hand and danced her slowly around the room. She had green eyes.

"Wait Wait...Don't Tell Them"

One of my biggest challenges is keeping my mouth shut. Most people can say "one of my biggest challenges is knowing when to keep my mouth shut." For me, I said it right the first line. "Filterless"... that's what they call me at work. I've earned it.
The job is high pressure. Sure. Most jobs can be. It's not like I'm working in the ER or directing airplanes in, but it's not bowl-glazing (sorry for the "Sex and the City" reference).
And when I get stressed, I get vocal. Sometimes loud. Almost always, red in the face. Things come out of my mouth. Ask any of my co-workers who have been in strategy meetings with me. Unfortunately, most times directors are in the meetings with us, as well. And when I get rattled, I have the annoying habit of referring to myself in third person (and everybody hates that). "Well, I'll tell you what The Queer would do..." followed by a steamed, uncontrolled rant.
I have been able to pull it in a little, through advice and help from mentors. My co-workers still laugh about my first year on this job. I was a red-faced, angry wreck. And then, my poor partner would have to listened to most of the same crap at the end of my work-day. He would sit placidly and nod as I spewed the daily venom. Poor guy.
Then I decided (quite firmly) to leave the office at the office. It has made all the difference in the world.

My mouth has gotten me in quite a few tight spots over the years. When I was younger, it was mostly due to naiveté , instead of anger.

• Like the time my sister, my cousin and I were playing near the front porch of my cousin's grandfather's house:

My sister was twirling a baton, and the Queer said to the grandfather, "I can do that better than she can."He just raised his eyebrows, smiled, and said "I'll bet you can." (He had me pegged as gay from the get-go).

• Like the time my best friend moved into his first apartment.
  

A bunch of us guys were hanging at the new place, when his brother and sister-in-law stopped by to visit. We were watching soft porn on cable. The sister-in-law was former military and couldn't be offended. So when they walked into the apartment, my best friend announced "Hey, we're watching naked women on TV!" The Queer quickly added, "There's naked guys too!" The brother just laughed and said "I bet you like that..." (Again ... busted).

• Like the time a close friend of my then soon-to-be ex-wife invited me out to meet her downtown.

And we ended up making out. I had recently come out to my soon-to-be ex-wife (hence, the "soon-to-be ex-wife"), and her friend knew that I had identified myself as gay (apparently quite a few other people had come to that conclusion too). But her friend was all over me. I stopped it, telling her that it was wrong, wrong, wrong. She told me that she had a crush on me from way back. And I told her that those feelings she had for me were wrong, wrong, wrong. And then in his bewilderment what did The Queer do? Call my soon-to-be ex-wife after the weird rendezvous and say: "You'll never guess what happened!!!" You bet she couldn't. So I told her. I trashed that friendship .... oops, DANG!


From the above examples, you can see that I went to the hard-knock school of learning to keep the mouth closed when one is uncertain or clueless how one's audience will react. Now I guess I'll just foot the tuition for the degree in mouth-control during bouts of anger.