Beyond Queer

"Faggots, faggots everywhere and not a drop to drink."

- Emmett (QAF)

A lot has happened the past few days. Or as I call Wednesday and Thursday: my weekend.

Let's see... (1) Billie's birthday party! and (2) Milwaukee's Brokeback Mountain premier

Maybe there really is a "gay lifestyle."

(1)
I was all in a tither about Billie's party. Seriously, a tither. While trying to find someone at work to be my "guest," so I'd be assured of having someone to talk to, I repeated the line over and over.

"But, it's invitation only. Strict invitation only. That's gotta be a reason to go: others can't."

Am I the only person who thinks this is just a grand ole reason to go to a party? Plus, it's Milwaukee. Nothing's exclusive in Milwaukee. Nothing. At all.

Alas, no luck at work. You'd think the fag hags, at least, would get it.

Besides the whole "exclusive party" thing, I was all about celebrating. When I moved to Milwaukee there were people here and there who befriended me and introduced me to their friends and so on.

I really took a leap of faith when I moved from Chicago to it's far northern suburb in Wisconsin. I knew a total of two people in the entire southeast Wisconsin area; both were actually mere acquaintances that were friends of friends of friends that I didn't have too much in common with. I started to go out to the bars as often as i could, pretty much alone, to meet people. It wasn't a sad thing at all because I was all about having fun. It's not like I was a hermit or a recluse. I had school and work and volleyball teams. But still...

Enter Billie one summer. To be honest, I don't remember too much about when or how we met, but that's a good thing. He just kind of befriended me and treated me like we had known each other for a long time. Anyone who can skip the whole awkward "getting to know you" stage straight to "bitch, where u been?" is my absolute favorite kind of friend.

Back to Billie's party. Of course we were packed at work and, of course, I got stuck in a crappy section AND STILL sat with a late party that refused to leave an hour and a half after our closing time. I ended up walking into La Cage, invitation in hand, around 12:30.

A few things struck me: (a) the "invitation only" sign was hand written, off centered, in sharpie, (b) it seemed I was one of the few who didn't think that just showing up was present enough and (c) I knew a total of 6 people...in the entire place...including the bartenders.

Now, the sign really wasn't a big deal. I wasn't exactly expecting a red carpet and I was a little late for that anyway. I was still hoping though...just a little. Walked in, looking for the big bouncers with sun glasses and ear pieces demanding my invitation. Nope. I ended up looking like a big dork who thought "exclusive" was a big deal. Who thinks that?

I found Billie to give him a little ole gift certificate from the gay bookstore. I wanted to assure him that if he wanted to buy porn, it was a-okay with me.

Billie was so happy he just licked me.

On the eye.

I still want my contact back. It's expensive. I have a stigmatism. And, it's half of a pair.

I considered leaving.

Four Corona's later and I was all about hanging out and having a good time.

Plus, there's this really cute guy who seems really cool. Only, he looks a lot like this other really cute guy who doesn't. Four Corona's in about 45 minutes makes things even more difficult.

The only way I can tell them apart is when they speak. Or sign. Sign language? Cool guy. Speaks? Wrong one.

I SWEAR, that's not the only reason I'm taking ASL classes starting in January. It just helps.

Overall, it was a good time because Billie was just having the grandest ole time in the world sans any of the drama (which--believe--was never more than a whisper away). Maybe everybody was being so damn cordial out of respect or maybe they didn't bring a present and figured not-causing-drama was a damn good gift. I can't really argue too much about that. And, in Milwaukee, that's one helluva gift.

More on Brokeback later.

And the gays have it...

Today's quote:

"I was against the whole gay marriage thing until I found out it wasn't mandatory."

-Jon Stewart

And now on to more important things in life.

Project Runway Episode #3

I'm vindicated! I've been saying since the very beginning that Daniel Vosovic is this year's Jay. All the way back to the very beginning of this season. All the way back.

His lingerie line was hot.

(On a side note, if I didn't spell lingerie correctly, please don't e-mail me that I'm a bad homosexual. I already lost my gay I.D. I failed the eye test. I couldn't tell mauve and purple apart. I also incorrectly applied a Listerine breath strip, couldn't identify the low-fat hummus from the regular stuff, and didn't get properly excited about Hypercolor t-shirts.)

I loved when Daniel V. sat down with Heidi and she did everything but dedicate herself to being his fag hag until death do them part. And then Daniel was all, just put on my panties and love it bitch. But in a loving kind of way.

I will take this moment to own up to my shame. A tear trickled down my cheek when Daniel F. gave his speech...which turned into a hand-over-the-mouth emo moment when Heidi booted him. I could tell the show editors tried to make him look like he should be physically booted, but it didn't work. He was endearing. And I feel shame for feeling that.

I about came when Nina threw down with Santino. That chick is fierce. It totally turned me on. In a loving, platonic, I-wanna-fondle-Heath-Ledger kind of way.

Santino's line really was horrid. In a Survivor-gone-wrong, I-wanna-fondle-Heath-Ledger kind of way. His runway might have been better if Dame Judi Dench made a cameo model appearance.

My predictions of the Final Three have changed a bit. I'm still going with Santino. I know, I know, he's gonna make it, get over it. It's the only reason he didn't get the boot this time. But the final 2 will be a battle between Nick, Chloe and Daniel V. I'm still holding out hope that the final elimination challenge will involve oil wrestling and thongs with the model contestants doing the refereeing.

I know. I know. I'm wierd.

Take out the model refereeing.

There.

Normal again.

Cough. Cough. I said...and boy are my arms tired... cough. cough.

Quote of the day:

"Metrosexual is just a rest stop on the highway to homo. Kyle? He took the expressway."

The bird flu is contagious.

My computer caught a couple of viruses. Luckily for me, the only thing the viri got a look at was a couple of annotated bibliographies and a lot of free porn. No really, viri is the correct pluralization of virus. In the biblical sense.

Ha ha.

Just kidding.

About the annotated bibliographies.

(cricket chirps). (cough). (spit hocking). (laundry machine spin cycle whirring).

In other news of the day. Mom sent a care package for me, which she likes to do on occasion. The roomies like to have a look when I open the box up and have a laugh at what's inside. Usually it's stuff like dried squid, wasabi-covered peas, ma po tofu sauce in a box, mochi mix, even freeze-dried sticky rice . Sometimes I have to call her cuz I don't even know what the stuff is. Which, methinks, is the reason she sends it.

Always at the bottom is my high school alumni magazine. I like to read it and then fall into a deep depression. It's my thing. I own it.

This time around there were the usual, "what's new at Punahou?" Apparently they've got this whole study abroad thing going on. Study abroad in high school? Yep. There's a class: Art History in Europe summer school class where they study art history for a couple of weeks on campus and then head over to Rome, Florence, Sienna, Venice, Paris and London to live it up for a month or so. There's a group picture in front of the Louvre and the teacher is not only obviously homosexually-inclined but a hottie.

Methinks it should be crossreferenced in the course listing book: Arts: Art History in Europe (see also Psychosocial Education: Introduction to Hit That Homosexuality Running, see also Social Studies/Service Learning: Gay Paris, More Gay than Paris).

Also in the curriculum. Middle School: interdisciplinary study of flight including lessons in physics, the history of flight, an actual flight simulator, orienteering and the like. I guess that $15,000 a year is going to something. $15,000/year for K-12? Yep. I'm out.

This season's Bulletin was mostly about this summer's Class Reunions. Shit. I forgot this was my 10 year reunion. I don't feel so bad. Out of 400 in our graduating class, only 70 or so showed up. I'd have gone, but I'm not that invested. Which classes had more people there? 1985, 1980, 1975, 1965, 1960 and 1955. Damn. Then again, I either don't recognize or can't name more than half of the people in my class's picture. Check that. More than half.

Four. Am I average?

So a table full of giggly, college freshmen girls in my section was talking last night. Usually I'd shove a dirty meat-poking pitchfork into my ear to dig my eardrum out before returning to the table. But, they asked me my thoughts and -- unfortunately -- I both responded and proved their point. I considered hara-kiri. Honorable death.

Blonde #1: "So, Mitzy was saying that people, like, change majors, like, 4 times before they finally graduate."

Me: "Uh huh. I guess. I don't know. Can I get you another Diet Pepsi (before I swallow every painkiller in the first aid kit in the back)?"

Blonde #2: "So, yeah, what about you? Like, How many majors did you have?"

Me: "Well, my parents wouldn't let me go away to school unless I picked a major and stuck to it. (Let's see, 40 packs multiplied by 2 pills per pack...gosh math is so hard.)"

Blonde #3: "Cool. Like, what was your major?"

Me: "Elementary Education. (80. 80 pills. I think that'd do the trick.)"

Blonde #1: "So, like why aren't you teaching?"

Me: "I decided I didn't like kids. (Or there is that new industrial strength bleach...)"

And then it hit me...I've had 4 majors.

Major #1: Elementary Education w/ math, science and social science endorsements.
Duration: 6 1/2 semesters
Reason for leaving: 3/4 of the way through student teaching, I realized I don't like kids.

Major #2: Geography
Duration: Toooo long.
Reason for leaving: (1) Realized that all countries, lakes, rivers and mountains already have names, leaving me with few job prospects. (2) All the geography majors were REALLY wierd. (3) Geography of the Grasslands is REALLY NOT as interesting as the people in the class made it out to be. (4) The ex-elementary ed major should NOT BE THE ONLY person in the entire class of geography grad students who points out problems with Jared Diamond's "Guns, Germs and Steel." I know I was the only non-white, non-Chicago suburbanite in the class, but come on now people...

Major #3: Secondary Education - History
Duration: 1 semester
Reason for leaving: Re-realized I don't like kids. Slow learner me is, I guess.

Major #4: American Studies

I don't know which was more depressing: Having 4 majors? Proving Mitzy and Co. right?

Huh?

A little help please.

I just found a shirt that says:

"Friends don't let friends drive GREEN TRACTORS"

...with a picture of a red tractor.

Does anyone know what that means? Or why I bought it? Or when I bought it? Or where I bought it from?

Just wondering.

The Runway...Live It, Love it

A little more than 7 hours until the Runway, Episode 2. Dressing one of the most fashionable icons? Who is it? Who could it be? Oh the suspense.

Not really.

It really doesn't matter who this hot hot celebrity is. Hell, it could be one of Kara's other personalities from a different dimension.

It's all about the designers.
It's all about the drama.
It's all about the verbal diarreah that gets thrown from wall to wall.

Some things I hope I see:

- The judges decide that Chloe and Santino are tied as the winners. They are given a ball of twine, two paperclips, a bottle of mace and half an hour. They don't have to design anything, just do with it as they may. Project Runway Episode 2: The Gauntlet.
= Nina says: "I would like to have seen more eye scratching and better use of the twine. Rope burn is in. Mace doesn't express who you are."
= Michael says: "I know you're both talented designers, but you're a bunch of pussies."
= Heidi says: "If I didn't have this bump, I could whoop both of you bitches."

- Diana creates a wormhole from hand soap, her magnets and Kara's right eye. It sucks in and transports Zulema to Alpha Centauri. Everyone pretends not to notice until Tim asks why everyone looks so calm and rested and there's no hand soap anywhere in Parsons.
- Daniel Vosovic gets more than 2.5 seconds of airtime.
- Kara takes her meds and admits to being from Topeka.
- Nick gets drunk and sews Lupe to her bed while singing "I Will Always Love You."

I'm not gonna lie, that would be hot hot hot.

Weasel

Weasal? I have no idea.

I decided to take a little break. I'm out of funny right now. Although there is lots and lots of fodder for the funny to explode all over and stain the carpet, alas, the funny is lacking. I couldn't even come up with a witty analogy or metaphor for the last few sentences. Accckkkk!

The highest corporate execs will ALL be in town this week at work. It's been pretty high stress for the managers. They're tired and freakin out in their own way, so we've all just tried to stay out of the way as much as possible. Even the dumpster area out back -- yeah the one that nobody but the staff can see -- has been tidied up. Ordinarily a gay would love all this organizing and tidying, but, alas, no. Not at all. Their stress is becoming our stress. I've come to defensively use the phrase,"I'm not that invested," way too much. I've recorded it so I don't have to say it cuz I'm just not that invested. Damn, (sigh) I did it again.

As much as I do, from time to time, find myself enjoying my job, I always come back to the fact that it's just a job for me. I really am not, in fact, that invested. I smile and make nice. And that's about it. Being a server isn't a career, but it's what pays the bills now and something I'm pretty good at. At this point, it's wearing on me though.

Apparently not as much as the server that quit last week. Not so much quit as stormed out toward the beginning of his shift. It's meant that people have to pick up more shifts, which some people want. I thought it was fun to think of ways I would have done it. I'm thinking a little Martha Graham number followed by a runway walk out the door to some theme music. It's not gonna happen, but it's fun to think about.

Seasonal affect disorder sucks.

I ain't yo ho...

The Ignorant Vegas list is now on temporary (like a few days methinks) hold. I need to refocus, which means I need to remember. Not an easy task. I have many people, places and things left to blame for the birth of Winesha Malamalamanakoolaumekeainaikapono Lee.

How, fair bystander may ask, was Ms. Lee named?

Apparently, according to the rules of the Tragic Name guidebook, the required first name is bestowed by one's favorite drink. Captain was a little too butch, apparently. And, just because I went through two bottles of wine in about 45 minutes, I guess I deserved Winesha.

In high school, one of my friend's was Malama, which was the shortened version of a Hawaiian name I could never remember, so I used to just add the only long string of Hawaiian words I knew. Ua Mau Ke Ea O Ka Aina I Ka Pono. The Life of the Land is Perpetuated in Righteousness. The motto of the State of Hawaii.

Lee? I don't know either. And by the time I got around to coming up with a last name, I was too hammered and...maybe more.

At least I've actually named one of my other personalities.

Winesha has not made an appearance since Vegas. She may still be sleeping. Or she might be passed out. Maybe still trying to hail a cab on the Strip. I'm not gonna lie, Smeagal may be involved. Tragic.

And Project Runway rocked. I'm totally addicted already.

Andrae needs to go. And soon. Am I a bad person for wanting Nina to throw her chair at him standing up there on the runway?

Nick is way too funny for his own good. "Ooohh shut uuuuuuup! Girl better not come in this area." If he doesn't have an episode-long face-to-face throw down with Lupe, I'm gonna be mad disappointed.

If I was in the habit of dating women, I would be all over Chloe. And she's Asian, so the family would be all about me dating her. Oh, and she's a her, so that would probably really help too.

I find myself secretly cheering for Diana in all her geekdom.

The big secret of the show is going to be that Kara isn't really South African. She's really from Topeka and a third generation multiple personality girl off her meds.

Zulema? Where do I start? She's gotta stay for the drama. There can't be true drama without at least one strong Black woman to bitch slap the fags.

Pregnant big-boobed Heidi is, somehow, so much hotter than big-boobed Heidi. Michael is throwing the smack down early. Nina is the ultimate dominatrix. She soooo turns me on for some tragic reason.

I have my prediction for the Final Three. It's gonna be Santino (obviously already), Chloe and................................ Daniel Vosovic. I don't know what it is, but I have a feeling (as who-the-hell-cares ludicrous as it is that I care enough to have a feeling, much less think about the feeling, try to discount the feeling and then finally agreeing with the feeling) that he's gonna be in a fight with Raimundo and probably Nick and Lupe for the final spot.

And now a word from our sponsors...

I'm really embarassed about being really excited for tonight. I haven't actually told anyone about my unabashed glee out of pure fear that all the years of breaking stereotypes will be for nothing. I even made sure I wasn't scheduled to work tonight.

Tonight at 8:00 pm, the new Project Runway season premiers.

And, I'm not gonna lie, I've had a post-it note on my cable box for the last month and a half.

I'm thinking I'll watch a little Sports Center or some lumberjack competition before and after The Runway. But, trust, I'm gonna be faggier than a homo at a Cher concert tonight. However, I'm confident and secure in my masculinity, that I can admit and share. Well, I can blog about it. But, if anyone asks me, I'll deny, deny, deny and then change the subject. Oh look, I'm George Bush! Yay me.

I know there are more people out there who share my addiction to The Runway. There are meetings and we have t-shirts. They're fabulous though so, obviously, expensive.

I spent a few hours last night online looking at all the contestants...and their bios...and their Q&As...and their audition videos...and their portfolios...and watching the previews...and reading some behind the scenes dirt. Hasn't everyone?

No one can ever overtake Kara, Jay and Austin. But there are crazy cool people on this year. Not Daniel, the rejected on the first episode last year guy. But there are lots of (all?) big homos and strong Black women and quiet (but wild!) Asian/Latina women in the middle. Lots of Drama! Lots of glamour. Lots of drinking.

I'm in heaven.

But don't ask me about it, I'll deny it all.

Tragic Vegas Part II

Maybe a few more. And considering we were there to play volleyball, perhaps some about the actual playing...

#19: Team Vegas Tragic

There are reasons I say I will never play with John again. It's not that John's not good or that John doesn't know players that are good. He is and he does. It's just that John putting together a team, AND AN A TEAM AT THAT, is much like Stevie Wonder rating America's best art museums. Tragic. Funny and amusing, downright hilarious, but TRAGIC. Unfortunately, when John registered us for Vegas, he did not sign us up for the: "Mostly 6'0 and under, Mixed B/BB, drunk, high, distractingly horny United Colors ad" division.

#18a-e: Did she just...

a) ...face his back to the net...toss the ball up...backwards backspin serve...AND get called for a foot fault? Yes, yes he did. We're fucked.

b) ...pass Kim Willoughby on the NCAA kill and attempts list...after six games? Yes, yes he did. His arm is fucked.

c) ...hit a ten foot line pipe...under the net? Yes, yes he did. We've been fucked, so who cares.

d) ...Yell "GET IT TOGETHER!" before I set the ball? yes, yes he did. With good reason, though so fuck it.

e) ...set match point, tournament one-two-bbq point, into the net? Yes, yes he did. Fuck this shit, where the hell's my drink? Coffee, tea, cigarettes?

Seriously, "She bang, she bang...oh baby she move she move..." had a better showing on American Idol.

#17: Why you gotta be sweatin the brotha?

Apparently it's no longer "appropriate" to set up your own bar at the gym. Before play starts. During play. After play. Anytime. I don't know where Mr. Rent-A-Cop got the idea, but maintaining a steady buzz through tournament play has got to be some kind of NAGVA bylaw. But of course, the only member of Team United Colors that gets busted by the cracka cop is Giniqua. It was, in retrospect, logical to appeal to his sense of aesthetics by displaying the sleek new design of Smirnoff Ice, but not entirely effective. So THAT'S WHY WE LOST. Damn cops. Girl couldn't get her drink on properly.

#16: Provo is so beautiful in autumn.

For a team that has never played together before, doesn't know each other's names and can't, in fact, point to their teammates yet, a practice session or ten is a good idea. However, was there no gym in the ENTIRE STATE OF NEVADA open for use on a Friday afternoon? It's not that I didn't enjoy driving to BYU, because I DIDN'T, but I'm still coughing up dust and tumbleweeds. Nobody else liked it either. Thanks a lot John. We still sucked something sour.

#15: No black soled shoes or prissy nelly bottoms.

Not only did we drive into the heart of Mormon country, risking our lives as it was, but what darling warning did we receive as we began the four day car ride to get there? "Okay, we all have to act straight." Girrrrrlllll. Awww Hellll no. And, for the record, it was Vlad and John that the underage chicken thought were the big homos. Take that bitches. *snap* *snap* *snapsnap*

To be continued.

Tragic Vegas Part I

And without further adieu...ala VH1 Great Things About

Top 25 Most Ignorant Moments, Vegas 2005

Honorable Mention: La Quinnnnntaaa....

I'm not saying that the southwest La Quinta Inn building style isn't cute and cozy and, I'm sure, functional. But, does EVERY non-casino building in Las Vegas have to be built that way? And must Brent yell La Quiiinnnntttaaaa out the window every 5 minutes? Bitch is gonna get slapped...and hard.

#25: Chicken...the other white meat.

If there's a straight boy, "straight" boy or "straight but has only f-cked boys for the last decade or two" boy within three zip codes in any direction, rest assured that Giniqua will know. And I mean "know" in that creepy Highlander-immortal-sixth-sense kind of way. Oh look a fowl has wandered away from the flock...poor things.

#24: "No cameras, camera phones, Etch-A-Sketches allowed..."

I'm not saying that a certain someone whose name starts with Jay and may or may not live on the eastern coast of some country that is the U.S. has pictures of the UNLV men's swim team....showering...in the locker room...wearing...??? But apprently, he might. And by might, I mean he does. If anyone asks, that spot next to the showers was the only spot on the whole UNLV campus that he could get any reception. But, seriously ask yourself: If a university swim team is showering in public, aren't you morally obligated to share that with everyone? Go Rebels! Run! Run! Run Away!

#23: Cosmos aren't just for brunch anymore.

I'm not gonna lie, Mike, John and I started drinking at 9:00. In the A.M. On Friday. 15 minues after I got off the plane, 3 minutes after John ate breakfast and 30 seconds after Mike woke up.

#22: Dear, John...you're stupid.

When you ask John where his shot glasses are, he'll tell you he doesn't have any. And, he doesn't. But if you REALLY need one, they're on top of his refrigerator. I'm just saying they're there if you need one. But, he doesn't have any. Anywhere in his apartment. Except on top of the refrigerator. Right there on top. At eye level, in fact. But, he really doesn't have any.

#21: Porn is the new art.

I'm not saying that anyone named MIKE will search for, download and save as the wallpaper on your computer a hung, hard man draped over some piece of furniture, playing with himself, EVERY time you leave the room. But, he might. And by might, I mean that he will. And does. And then he giggles.

#20: I'm not saying you're sleeping on a porn set, but you might be...

Anyone who has more than two computers is producing porn. Period. End of discussion. I don't buy the whole "internet gambling as a career" excuse. I walked into John's apartment and found: (1) numerous bottles of booze, (2) three side-by-side-by-side computers, (3) a futon in the middle of the living room, and (4) a straight boy in a white t-shirt and boxers "sleeping" on the futon. I don't know much, but I know a porn set when I see one.

To Be Continued...

And now you're picturing tracing your...

I just spent 15 minutes staring at my Raspberry Green Tea brewing in my new-ish French Tea Press Gay Toy Pot. I even dragged my roommate over to stare with me.

Me: It's soooo cool.
Roomie: That is so cool! I love it.
Me: I knoowwwww!

5 minutes later...

Me: You can play with it too if you want.
Roomie: (watching tv in another room)....what did you say?
Me: You can play with the teapot if you want.
Roomie: ...Really? Are you sure?
Me: Hmm...maybe not. But you can watch it with me.

No really, that was the last 15 minutes of my life.

The way you were drinking your tea...

Ha Billie! If I have to watch every episode of Will and Grace, believe, I will.

To all those (tens of) people out there: I am, in fact, still alive.

My bout with the Bird Flu has passed. Although I still predict immediate unconsciousness if I even see a snake, the worst has come and gone.

I would like to send out a big thank you to all those people who called, e-mailed, texted and messaged me to ask if I was dead. Although if I was indeed dead, the e-mailing, texting and messaging probably wouldn't have been as funny or productive. I still appreciate the sentiment.

To those who have sent messages demanding the Top 25 Most Ignorant Moments, Vegas 2005, I am almost there. A few drinks, a bottle of wine, three more drinks, a little Divas Live and then three more drinks and I will be right back in the zone that led to more than a few of the Top 25.

Some updates from the last two weeks or so:

1) I missed out on the encore presentatin of Divas Live: Back in DC. Although I would have liked to have given thanks to Krave for the pocket gift in an appropriate place and context, I could not join the raucous that was DC 2005. I did hear about some of the tragicity, but nothing will compare to Vegas.

2) Tragicity is now my favorite word.

3) I headed down to Evanston to watch Michigan State volleyball at Northwestern. After the match, I waited to say a quick hi and bye to the players and staff before they got on the bus.

I waved a quick hi at one of the players as I was talking to the head coach. Said player, who I last remember being chased across the X-Cel dance floor by a drag queen with a high heel over said drag queen's head, exclaimed, "Oh my god, when are you coming back to Lansing so we can go back to the gay bar!?!" I was assured later on that pretty much everyone in the western hemisphere and most of the other hemispheres knows I'm a big homo. That, my fairy friend, is not the point.

I don't know what the point is, but letting the head coach of a major volleyball program know that you hang out with her players at gay bars with strippers, drag queens, coke whore thiefs and the like is not the best way to get "come back and work for us" and/or "Dear Fellow Coach: Brent is an excellent and inspiring coach" letters.

4) The biggest thrill of the last month or so was my purchase of a new tea-brewing pot. It's like a combination teapot-french-press-accessory-plaything. I also bought some Raspberry Green Tea to put into my new toy because I was assured the color was crazy cool.

Yes, that's one of the coolest things that's happened. That's pretty tragic.

Beware: Thanksgiving

I'm almost over the bird flu.

I still ache all over all the time.
I can't breathe.
I have a serious fever.
I've developed a debilitating fear of snakes.
The thermometer I put in my mouth just laughed at me.
I think I coughed up some feathers last night.

And, I'm not gonna lie, I swear there's a chicken hobbling around in my room somewhere.

I probably shouldn't have gone to work this past weekend.

I'm siiick...

I'm sick. It sucks. I blame Vegas.

12 minutes and this trip is officially ruined...

The Top 25 Most Ignorant Vegas Moments 2005 will appear as soon as the votes have been collected, counted and verified by a Republican party representative. For more info, please contact the accounting firm Homo, Flaming Homo and "Metrosexual".

Tragic? No, just sad.

Maybe I should be in Vegas, or somewhere Winesha can come out a little more.

I just watched A Cinderella Story with Hillary Duff.

And I was interested in how it ended.

I ain't gonna lie...That's just sad.

Tragic...

I'm back in Milwaukee after what seems like a month in Vegas. There was a general consensus from everyone there for the NAGVA tourney that we all had to get the hell out of Dodge before we all dropped dead or went permanently nutty.

But, all I have to say is...Damn.

Pictures were taken. I remember some of them. I don't remember most of them. Divas Live was a huge success raising a lot of money for char...wait...hmm...let's just say Divas Live was a success and leave it at that. Which I never do.

There will be, in the coming days, a recap of all things Vegas October 28-Nov 1, 2005. This past weekend will go down in the annals as one of the most tragic, ignorant, Anna Nicole T-S fabulous weekends in the history of human kind, and also baboons with their flaming red asses. Apparently my Biological Bases of Human Behavior class at Illinois has come in handy.

To all those in Vegas, Henderson, Provo, Tempe, Idaho and the Four Corners that played host to my and my teammate's debauchery this weekend, I say to you: (1) What the hell happened? (2) If any of you find my cat, Skittles, please call, write or e-mail. I never really knew what she looked like, but work with me will ya? (3) You were gracious hosts but I'm not really sure why the hell John drove us to most of your cities.

In the coming days, as more information is relayed back to me about all the things that may or may not have happend, I will report back for the good of a nation, the benefit of the world and the advancement of humankind.

You think you know. But you have no idea...Diary: Whitney does Vegas.

Some of the Things I Learned in Vegas:
1) There are only two places in Nevada that serve eggs.
2) I feel like chicken every night. All night long. Everywhere. Is my ass red, or did I just de-evolve?
3) I cannot, in good conscience, go anywhere near the east coast...specifically D.C., Boston and New York because Winesha is too much of a tragic mess to be let out ever again around certain people.
4) Tragic is not just an adjective anymore. It's a way of life.
5) Mike, Jay, Scott and John are the reason my mom wants me to move home.
6) Keeping a consistent buzz the entire day of a tournament is the only way to live.
7) Any friend of John is a friend of Dorothy. Seriously people, "metrosexual" is just a rest stop on the highway to homo.
8) Salt Lake City or bust

Of course, there'll be more.

And also, to those who were actually at Krave on Sunday night, the T-shirts will be available as soon as possible:

I SURVIVEDED BRITTANEY IN VEGAAS 20005 1/2

...Bar and Grill

On Deck:

The Top 25 Most Ignorant Moments, Vegas NAGVA 2005

Preview? Of Course.

2) Somebody peel Brittney off the floor. Oh wait, that's just her costume. No, I don't think it is. Whatever, just leave her.

4) Giniqua anoints Wine-isha Malamalamanakoolaumekeainaikapono Lee. But...damn. I ain't gonna lie, it was tragic...

9) Driving 30 minutes just to throw shade to Smeagel at the Cheesecake Factory.

10) Smeagel at the Cheesecake Factory. Somebody just give the boy his damn ring back already.

Oh, we got rid of the crabcakes. We switched to the chicken sate..

I'm off to Vegas for the weekend! What happens in Vegas...aw hell, I'm gonna be drunk the whole time anyway, so who cares.

As usual, I've overpacked. The roomies asked if I'm moving out.

I'm hoping my team has a decent showing, but I'm not expecting much. I'll be happy as long as I don't get six-packed by a tranny...again. I'll tell ya, it's the little things in life.

Gambling's pretty much out of the question since the whole car thing ($550) and the landlord thing ($1200) zapped my bank account. I'll get over it. I do have my "Why did the gays have to ruin the rainbow for everybody else" and "This seemed funnier when I bought it" shirts and some new jeans to wear, so the weekend won't be a total bust.

In case there's some Halloween festivities on Sunday, I've decided to go as...

Miss Swan. :) He looka like a man. Appropo at a gay volleyball tourney party, methinks. Not very original, I'll agree. But, not very difficult for me to pull off either. We've got one real female on our team, so I'll have some makeup to steal.*** At least it's better than doing the Cho and yelling, "STICK IT IN," to everyone in sight. Hmmm, on second thought... Then again, there's gonna be lots of gay rice there probably doing the same thing. I should have bought that shirt that said, "This is my clone."

I'm hoping to take pictures. Then, I'm hoping that I don't lose the camera...again. Seriously though, who am I kidding?

Good times. Good times.

***Ever hear yourself creating a sentence that has never been spoken before and will never be spoken again?

"No, I'm serious. I'm trying to help M get her purse back from some fucking cracked out whore thief, but I have to help this drag queen get her shoe out of this tree. Thestripper threw it up there. No, I'm just trying to make nice with her so we get invitied to her drag daughter's pool party. They have slurpees and pot." Exactly.

"All I saw was Mikasa headed at my head. Then she started dancing while her team sang that Milkshake song. Yeah, that's gotta be some kind of delay of game going on. What would you give her? A pink card? Hmmm...I couldn't tell...no...uh uh...maybe...no, I don't think she's had the operation yet. Right, she's probably just on hormones. I don't know, she was wearing spandex, but she might have taped it down. Yeah, girl can play some volleyball. No...the gay volleyball league... Right. Yeah, I know. We HAVE to find a tranny to play middle for us next tournament." Ditto.

Aerosmith? No, Madison Square Garden...

I told you tear gas can be fun in the right context. Them Spartans know how to riot something crazy.

From Ben, hands down, the funniest guy I know.

No really, they're his...

Oh great, the stock dumb character...

I used to watch She-Ra. Do you remember? She was He-Man's sister or something and lived in some parallel universe with a unicorn and some homos and future characters on the O.C. She had a castle like He-Man's except cleaner and brighter and happier...you know, spring colors. And the jewels. Jewels everywhere.

I miss that.

Oh, and if I haven't already mentioned it, I'm a big homosexual.

Not related in any way, shape or form.

Then why am I yelling...?

Figure out that quote Billie! ha.

I finally got a time to take Ole Bessie into the shop. Apparently a part that never fails, of course, failed and messed up a whole bunch of other things. The mechanic was explaining what he found to me but all I heard was, "chitty chitty bang bang, chitty chitty bang bang." I actually danced along to it for a little while before my roommate started looking at me funny.

I did catch the end of it which was: "I called around to all the parts places in Milwaukee and no one has that part stocked. It rarely ever needs to be replaced." Of course.

I will get Bessie back in about 4 days. A week before I'm about to leave for Vegas, I'm out $550. I guess I'm gonna nix my idea to gamble at least $300 at the blackjack tables. Every casino I've been to has gotten about $100 of my money and then I get really bored. And then I start drinking. Or keep drinking.

Oh, touche my friend, touche. With your lemons I will make lemon bars. Yum. lemon bars. I haven't had me one of them in about a year. Great, now I want a lemon bar.

We're burning Catcher In The Rye today...

I'm always asked how someone from Hawaii could ever end up in the midwest. Honolulu to Milwaukee is not a normal migration, I'm told. I don't get why not. There's cheese and beer and the Packers and...cheese and...snow...pretty snow. you can pee in the snow. When you're drunk. With nowhere else to pee. I swear officer.

So anyway, as beautiful as it is, Oahu is a really small island in the middle of a really big ocean. It's literally as big as an...ocean. In every direction.

When a hurricane or a tsunami or a tidal wave hit we would evacuate to...higher land. There were a couple of options for higher land: (1) head toward the closest mountain or (2) take three steps away from the ocean (which, now that I think about it, is the same thing as #1...you're either heading toward the mountain or away from the mountain, as my mom would say). Both #1 and #2 offer exactly the same amount of protection from impending natural disasters.

So, I've moved from Honolulu to Champaign-Urbana to Chicago to Milwaukee. I'm slowly migrating north. Like a really confused swallow. Which I don't.

I think I can finally give a proper explanation: I'm trying to get as far away from the Mason-Dixon line as possible. Those folks in Green Bay have got something going for them. Not the accent. That's just wrong. But, they are as far from the crazies known as Southerners as could be without being Canadian. Which come to think of it, isn't such a bad thing anymore. The joke's on us Americans apparently.

I know that G.W.Bush has ushered in a new era of, as Bill Maher put it, "a promise not to overthink shit," but I mean...come on already. Our president and Congress and certain state governments (which, again, I'm trying to move as far away from as I can) have espoused the notion that it's just as possible, realistically speaking, that God created the universe as the whole Big Bang/Evolution nonsense.

There's the whole post-a-tablet-of-the-Ten-Commandments thing outside of southern courthouses. Which of course leaves one to wonder what to think when looking at said tablet and reading "Thou shalt not worship idols." "That's powerful stupid." Yes, Bill Maher, it is.

There's a, you know, Attorney General who couldn't stand to see liberty's private parts. I'm guessing that's some indication of the whole "the right to privacy lies in the penumbra of rights guaranteed by the Bill of Rights." Again, overthinking shit. I know. I'm sorry G.W.

There's a whole goal to do away with pornography, starting with redefining "I'll know it when I see it" to "shit I wouldn't want people to know I do." Wonderful. I guess the War On Terror didn't poll well enough in the red states. I never thought I'd fight for porn, but, you know...if it pisses off the Religious Wrongs, I'm all about it.

There's the whole WMD, then biological warfare rationales for the war in Iraq. Then the Saddam-Hussein-tortures-people. So we invade using what, I would imagine to a 13-year old with a pistol on a camel, looks like a WMD and torture people until they tell us what we want to hear. Then they die. And we take pictures of it.

And then, I found this article that just topped the sugarless, low-carb, low-calorie cake.

"(Prussian Blue) considered the Olsen Twins of the White Nationalist Movement"

Of course nothing should be surprising anymore. The last election was skinned and stripped and boiled down to two choices.: "Bush doesn't want boys kissing each other" vs "Kerry wants to make all boys kiss each other all the time." Thomas Jefferson, an opponent of boys kissing I would imagine, turned over and spit in his grave. So much for Jefferson's whole: "the purpose of education is to develop citizens who will become responsible voters."

Why would I move from Honolulu to Milwaukee? The Mason-Dixon line is moving farther north and I'm trying to ease my transition to being Canadian.

You speak to people and enjoy free time...

Fortune cookie "fortunes" usually have the creativity and daring of a crushed walnut. Same with internet personality quizzes. But, just for sh-ts and giggles, I did one I found online.

The results may describe every other person with wo intact frontal lobes, but...wow. This one was spot on perfect. Someone find me a boyfriend catalog, cuz I finally know what I want to ord...wait, that sounds like a hook...I mean, escort. Never mind. I have crazy friends.

The Keys to Your Heart

You are attracted to those who are unbridled, untrammeled, and free. In love, you feel the most alive when your lover is creative and never lets you feel bored. You'd like to your lover to think you are loyal and faithful... that you'll never change. You would be forced to break up with someone who was emotional, moody, and difficult to please. Your ideal relationship is lasting. You want a relationship that looks to the future... one you can grow with. Your risk of cheating is zero. You care about society and morality. You would never break a commitment. You think of marriage as something precious. You'll treasure marriage and treat it as sacred. In this moment, you think of love as commitment. Love only works when both people are totally devoted.

What Are The Keys To Your Heart?

Ahhh, the days of yore...

I've finally embarked on a massive cleaning spree. A Good Old Fashioned Cleaning Party of 1, if you will. I finally decided that I do not, in fact, need to keep my lecture notes from Geology 101, ArtEd 203 (Art Education for Elementary Teachers), C&I 330 MS (Middle School Math Curriculum and Instruction) among many others.

I came across a little paper I typed up way back in my sophomore year. The Resident Director that hired me for his new R.A. staff wanted to know what we were involved during our training semester for scheduling purposes, I guess. I printed out two copies; turned one in and filed the other for who knows what reason.

Here it is...Brent's Sophomore Spring Semester:

Astronomy 100 (Intro to Astronomy -- which ended up being far from "intro"...should you really need to know calculus to take a 100 class?)
English 102 (Intro to Fiction--which ended up being far from "intro"...7 papers plus a 8-10 page midterm paper and a 12-15 page final paper)
Music 133 (World Music--which ended up being far from "intro"...our exams had us ID the types of instruments and beat used along with the region and cultural group.)
Art&D 140 (Art Appreciation for Elementary Teachers--yeah, cruiser...although the professor hated me. Some people have no sense of humor.)
Math 117 (Experimental Math for Elementary Teachers--yeah, cruiser)
C&I 330 (Middle School Math Education)

Member, U of I Men's Club Volleyball Team
Intramural Sport Supervisor (volleyball, sand volleyball, wallyball and...softball?)
Illinois High School Association Volleyball Referee
Founding Member, Hawaii Club
Founding Member, Out-Of-State Illini Club
Pledge, Epsilon Delta School of Education Fraternity
Member, Minority Association of Future Educators
Pledge, Kappa Delta Rho Fraternity
Weston Resident Hall Government Rep
Weston Fl. 4 Rep
Reach One Teach One Tutor, Urbana HS.
Alternative Spring Break (Cleveland)
Resident Advisor Training

I used to keep one of those huge calendars on my desktop and wrote my schedule using 4 different colored inks. Somehow I managed a 3.4 GPA and Dean's List. The volleyball B Team won the Midwest Regional championship. The two clubs I helped found are still going strong. And, well, the U of I resident hall government system no longer allows representatives to push through legislation that allows slip-n-slides in its hallways. If only I could find a way to use my powers for good...

All those memories of being busy 24/7 are far in the past. So is the ability to pull an all-nighter twice a week. But believe that I'm catching up on that sleep now. Or I'm just old. Well that's depressing.

Good times. Good times.

You have a haze colored like a 5 mg Valium and...wait, let me show you my swatches...

My life is so manic-depressive that me thinks I shouldn't wait to make more money to develop an addiction.

I didn't get scheduled to work on Friday for the first time since July, so I headed the 90 miles south to Chicago to play in the gay volleyball open gym. Gas went down to $2.75 a gallon, I found a new way to avoid Milwaukee rush hour traffic and then darted my way through standstill Chicago traffic to make it to the gym by 6:30. Yay for me.

It was cool seeing old friends again and remembering why I need to find me one of them eating disorders that doesn't require too much time and effort. A few people asked when I was just going to move back to Chicago instead of being stuck in Milwaukee. Probably never. I'm just a country boy at heart. But, it was nice to hear. In a way the whole trip felt like going home again...if only for 12 hours. At least the people that never really liked me were cordial.

For the first few games I sucked it up something bad. Eventually I played something that resembled volleyball. I left feeling pretty good about next weekend's tournament in Vegas. At least I'll be drunk the whole time. That's a pretty good excuse for sucking it up. Then again, I play pretty well while drunk. I'll blame it on the desert heat instead.

Then everything went to shit. Saturday morning my roommate knocked on my door and showed me a letter from the landlord/slumlord that said he hasn't gotten me or my other roommate's rent checks for 4 months and wants $1200 by next week. I've been sending money orders for the last year or so because the guy likes to wait a good five months or so to cash our rent checks. Drama ensued.

Saturday night at work sucked something acrid.

The More You Know #124: (Bobby Flay) "When you dine out at your favorite restaurant, have a great time with good friends. But always designate...THE PERSON WHO CALLS TO CANCEL YOUR F-ING RESERVATION IF YOU"RE NOT GOING TO SHOW UP. No-Show is a four letter word your child should never learn. You heard me. Ole."

Showed up at 3:45 to serve two tables right away. I was assigned a party of 18 at 5 pm, a party of 19 at 7 pm and a party of 13 at 9 pm. Almost two hours for each party. Awesome.

At 5:30 I was told the hosts declared my 18-top a no-show. So, I lost out on an entire turn at my two biggest tables of the night. Cost to me: $50-70.

At 7:15, the manager came back to see what the hold up was with setting up my 19-top party only to find the stuffy, snotty, stick-up-the-ass, humorless, coupon-bearing party of 5 sipping their espressos and nibbling at a single piece of cheesecake squatting on one of my big party's two tables (the 5-top squatted, not the cheesecake...although that would have been pretty cool and appropo). Exactly the crowd that loves a server like me. After excusing themselves one by one to use the restroom and leaving a 9% tip, my 19-top party was already sat in another section. Cost to me: $50-70.

At 9:30, I was told the hosts declared my 13-top a no-show. So, I got 2 wonderful parties of 5 instead. Of course, coupons were presented and a gracious tip was not. Cost to me: $20-40.

On Sunday, I headed back to work. Of course, as I pulled out of the laundromat parking lot...my check engine light went on. Then it blinked. Blinked. Blinked. Wonderful.

Any ideas for a cheap addiction? Glue is pretty ghetto. Microwaved crayon shavings are too laborious to prepare. I need something trendy yet original and classy.

A dime short and a camel too late

October 11 is National Coming Out Day. Or was. I'm 22 minutes too late. I guess I can't come out till next year. You didn't hear it here.

I think you're mistaking my allergic reaction for excitement...

I've decided to do some shopping. I need more funny t-shirts. I've got a few...

"Are you stalking me, cuz that would be super"

"It's not gonna suck itself"

"I'm really excited to be here"

Since I can't really walk well (damn new work shoes), I decided to head to T-Shirt Hell to find a few little somethings. I've narrowed it down.

Maybe...

But, I'm leaning toward these...

Yay for fun t-shirts. That should tide me over for awhile.

It reminds me of the Old West...The Old West Village. Howdy domestic partner...

So a certain men's volleyball team has asked me to coach them...again. I made that mistake before...twice in fact. It's not so much that my head coaching winning percentage dropped faster than a slut to his knees in a bathhouse. It's just that both times, both teams were lazier and more immature than 6 summers of 14 year old girls at volleyball camp. Even the little pre-teen girls who wanted to talk about the O.C. instead of anything involving a volleyball actually broke a sweat once in awhile.

While accepting the team captain's offer would allow many of my friends another opportunity to live their ultimate wet dream, I need to say no. Rent some porn guys. Same idea. It's not all showers and sweaty shirtless conditioning and...well, it's not ALL that. Just kidding. Or am I?

While none but one of the guys on the team know that I hold hands with boys, I have to admit they're pretty progressive in their thinking concerning the matter. Last year we needed money something bad for uniforms and hotels and vans and tourney entry fees so they embraced a certain idea. I didn't propose it although, believe, I thought about it.

The captain's girlfriend's mom (Hello, you're speaking to Adam Corrola and Dr. Drew) proposed they do a calendar. A calendar? A calendar. "The Men of ___ Volleyball." Not quite the nude European league rugby calendars...but one could hope...not me, cuz that we be inappropriate...but, um...yeah...

The guys (well 14 of 15 of them) were all about it.

"And you could...," began captain's girlfirend's mom, "sell it at the gay bars and make a small fortune."

"Hmmm...what would that get us?" asked a few of the players.

"Well, I'm no math genuis but," I offered, "a new set of uniforms, suite rooms instead of two bed closet hotel rooms, and probably a team dinner once a road trip. Possibly some new sweats."

"Let's do it."

Unfortunately none of it came to fruition. Ha, fruit-ition. Ha.

Life Is Like A...

About a year and a half ago I submitted a piece of writing to be considered for publication. Getting published? Yep. By who, Kinkos? No.

The little piece was for a second edition anthology by the Lambda 10 Project. The info I got was that the editors would be receiving about 100 submissions from people around the world, more than were submitted for the first book, Out On Fraternity Row: Personal Accounts of Being Gay In a College Fraternity. I think they were accepting a few dozen pieces or so to be published. I didn't hold out much hope. But, I wrote a little something and sent it off with my forms and such. Mine probably wouldn't make it very far in the editing process, but I figured I had something to give back.



The first Out on Fraternity Row literally jumped off the shelf at me way back in 1998. I was haunting the gay/lesbian section at Borders FAR FAR FAR off campus (I might have been in Bloomington-Normal) and, while reaching for a book, OOFR fell off the shelf. I scooped it up and ran off to an empty corner. Looking back, it was one of those moments that make me wonder about guardian angels.

A few months earlier, I was reading my 3rd grader's journals and making up a few student teaching "reflections" while my brothers ate another horrid dinner in the frat house basement a few floors below. Steak and potatos isn't always a good thing. I turned on the TV and found CNN reporting that some guy named Matthew Shepard had died out in Wyoming. Reporters called it a hate crime. I had to look that one up.

It wasn't that I got caught up in all the mob reporting that built upon and built upon and built upon itself. I cared. And I didn't know why. Blah blah blah, gay boy finally wakes up...and finds himself student teaching in rural central Illinois, living in a fraternity house and coaching a college men's sports team. Interesting...

I used to hide my OOFR in different places. Ironically, the only place I couldn't put it was in the closet, since my roomie and I shared that. Literally, not metaphorically, it turns out. It took me a while to read the whole thing because I kept skipping to the ending of each narrative. Maybe I was looking for some kind of happy ending. Maybe it was my ADD.

Mushy,touchy-feely stuff ensued involving some pretty difficult and, at times, painful self-reflection. The true value came in understanding that endings can be happy even though they don't seem to be.

So, at any rate, a year and a half ago I mailed off my manuscript draft and forms out to North Carolina or some other GFP (God-Forsaken-Principalite for those that haven't read Andrew Tobias/John Reed). I didn't expect anything but a 'thank-you-but-no-thank-you' e-mail in return. Well, at least I tried, I thought.

A month or so later I got the e-mail. But, as feel-good stories go, it wasn't the one I thought would come. It welcomed me into the second phase of editing. My piece had been accepted!

BUT: Not all of the pieces accepted would be included. There were rewrites and revisions and restructuring and...basically reworking the entire thing. There were phone calls with the editor and lots of e-mailing and second, third, fourth and fifth deadlines. I hadn't expected to make it past Round One that I hadn't REALLY thought about what I was writing. Did I really want THIS published?

As I really read what I had written, I grew increasingly uncomfortable. My piece sounded angry in a passive-aggressive sort of way. It didn't feel 100% true to life. It pointed a literary finger and wagged it at a number of people who didn't deserve it. It had a certain feel that indicated a need for medication (Sorry Tom Cruise and Co.!). It read like an invitation for pity. And, I hadn't meant it that way at all.

I e-mailed it to a couple of people. I got a few e-mails back. The consensus was: I hope that's not the way you remember things; good luck, but not too much.

I ended up withdrawing the whole thing from further consideration. Thereafter, every other day I got a message on voicemail or an e-mail (with the subject line in capital letters no less) asking me to reconsider. There were offers to make me an anonymous contributor, to change certain identifying details (not sure how that would have worked out) and the like. It was flattering. Which, come to think of it, usually goes a pretty long way to get me to do something. I responded to one e-mail and cut off correspondence with the editor.



Now, the book, Brotherhood Revisited, has been released and is in bookstores now. I'm definitely feeling a sense of regret. But, I'm also feeling a pretty considerable amount of relief. I appreciate not having made a big mistake in telling a story that wasn't as true as it should have been; my memories of all things Champaign-Urbana aren't as reliable as I'd like them to be. But, the honor of having my writing published...that's a pretty big regret.

Here was the opening to the story which was assigned the title "Flyin' Hawaiian" by the editor. How was he going to change some identifying details? Oh well. Enjoy.


“It’s my Flyin’ Hawa--iian!” squeaked a familiar voice.

I knew it was Leslie, our House Sweetheart, hidden somewhere in the mass of people. She appeared, pushing through the crowd gathering in the narrow second floor hallway of the fraternity house. Seeing her arms outstretched and that one-of-a-kind Cheshire-size smile reaching across her face, I forgot all about the week’s troubles.

“Hawa--iian!” echoed Amy and Kristen, pushing through the crowd. They both reached out their arms for hugs of their own, Amy sticking her tongue out at me.

“Cool tongue ring. Bet that’ll come in handy,” I joked. “So how’s everyone doing?”

“Just fine now that we have our Flyin Hawa--iian,” sang Leslie, Amy and Kristen together.
A stein full of seven and seven appeared in my hand and I turned to see Scott, lip full of chew, towering over me.

“That’s for my Hawaiian brother,” Scott proclaimed, aiming at my forehead, but poking me in the shoulder.

“Thanks…,” I started to say, taking a sip that I regretted a second later. “But, you all know I’m not Hawaiian, right?”

“You’re not? I thought you said he was,” said Amy, looking to Leslie and Kristen.

“No, if you’re from Hawaii, it doesn’t mean you’re Hawaiian…,” I started to explain.

“But…,” Amy stuttered.

Leslie tucked her hands into her overalls, Kristen toed a stray carpet square back into place and Amy’s brain tried to work past the alcohol and through her new tongue ring. Scott spit his chew into one cup and stared into the other.

By all accounts, I was killing our buzzes.

“Never mind. It’s your FLYIN’ HAWA--IIAN!” I cheered, trying to toast my drink without pouring it on my head yet again.

“Hawaiian!!” the trio of women sang again, heading down the stairs for another night at the bars.

There’s no harm, I thought, in letting people believe what they wanted. Assumptions may involve an “ass,” but, in the end there’s still “u” and “me” together. I learned to live with the assumptions people made about me because, I reasoned, no one got hurt in the end.

In central Illinois, few people really needed to know the difference between “Hawaiian” (the ethnicity) and “from Hawaii” (the home state); the assumption that I was Hawaiian made me unique and interesting.. In all my time in the fraternity, no one really needed to know that I was gay. Hawaiian wasn’t bad. Just one of the guys? Even better.

Aren't you tired Jack?

Warning: Although I still have a lot of funny left in me, today's post is my once-in-a-long-while serious post. Maybe I just have to get it out of my system.

The other day, one of the hostesses at work said something that has gotten itself stuck in my craw: "If you hadn't told me you were gay, I would never have known."

I hear that pretty often, relatively speaking, and I should be used to it.

I first heard it from my very first true fag hag, Janel. Janel and I first met in Room 23 at the KDR house at the U of I when she was on her first date with Dan (who became one of my best friends in the house) and I was at my first pledge rush event (I was a naive little boy who didn't even know what "getting rushed" meant). That's a lot of firsts. When Janel told me, "I had no idea at all and I don't think anyone else could guess," I took it as a compliment.

Looking back, I put a lot of energy into a lot of different pursuits, one of which was trying to convince myself that I was some kind of normal. I worked just as hard to live up to some perverse ideal of normal (not exceptional, just normal) as I did in every other area of my life. To think that I passed in and out of some of the most homophobic circles on campus (ROTC frat brothers, conservative religious student teaching instructors/professors, fraternity life and intercollegiate athletics...did I miss anything?) filled me with a kind of pride that is anything but today. If i could convince the uber-straights that I was normal, then maybe I would be. So the "I would never have guessed you were gay" filled me with an uber sense of pride and...relief.

When I finally decided to start opening up to my closest friends and allies (90% of the time they were one in the same), I found myself needing to hear that I had succeeded at concealing all things gay from the people that knew me best. To use all the gay buzzwords: I was coming out while taking pride in my fabulously successful closet. What a horrible psychological mess.

Nowadays, I have a better (but still not perfect) understanding of the role that being gay has in my life. And its usefulness in comic relief. It can be funny. Really funny

Over the past six years or so, I've had mixed emotions about hearing variations on the theme. I've heard similar phrasings in different area of my life: work, play, sports, old friends, new friends, etc etc. While the intentions differ as much as the contexts, I'm more than hesitant to point out that it's...well...not the best thing one can say. Honest? Yes. Entirely appropriate? Not really. I know people mean well. I really do. And I appreciate the good/great intentions.

But, I finally came to the realization that I'm uncomfortable and, depending on the context, offended to hear any variation of the theme. Of course, context means a lot. But, when someone just walks up to me and says, "You know, you don't seem gay at all," it's not that I don't know what to say. I'm just trying to suppress the need to throw a nutty. A really big nutty. A more intense version of the nutty I would throw if I ever heard: "You know, you don't act Black."

Now, I understand that part of the problem is that "HMSXL 101: Introduction to Conversing With Homosexuals" was not offered at any (well, maybe a few) American school prior to about 2000. There's no social convention to fall back on.

We learned how to talk to waiters in restaurants by watching our parents and other people when dining in restaurants. We learned how to flirt with the opposite sex by watching TV and experiencing the messes that were junior high dances. We learned how to have appropriate, polite conversation about current events from our high school social studies classes.

But, except for people that fall into a few fortunate categories, anyone older than 25 grew up completely unfamiliar with any point of reference for discussing sexual orientation. There was normal (heterosexual) and...well...um...ok....there's...uhh....something your parents will talk to you about. But, very few parents had or wanted the luxury of a handy homosexual to converse with appropriately around us children. Until (in chronological order) The Real World (up to but not beyond New Orleans), Will & Grace and Queer Eye, there was no model for discourse with Nancy or any Friend Of Dororthy.

I will admit that I didn't know anything either. I didn't know that "homosexual" was out and "gay" was in...sometime around 1980, I guess. I didn't know what to say to the first homo I met...well...er, um...had a conversation with. "How bout them Bears?" No. That's got a whole other meaning. How was I supposed to know? How is anyone supposed to know? By being around homosexuals. Apparently, patient homosexuals helps as well. I mean gays. I mean gay people. I mean gay or lesbian person. Well, LGBT. Or, LGBTQ? Hell, what am I supposed to know what they look like? Oh wait, that's not appropriate. Or is it? I don't know either. This is too hard. I mean difficult. I'll pass. Can I have Greek Mythology for $200?

So, I guess everything turns into a big joke with me anyway. But, I'm still left with the gnawing feeling of frustration in being forced to accept the consolation prize. They meant well. How can you be angry at someone who means well? Ask me how I feel about the Democratic National Committee's position on same-sex marriage.

They should just call it..."F-ck Me In The Ass...Bar and Grill"

The other night I was helping close Triangle. I had planned on going for one drink (Ha! As if.) but Phil the bartender had to leave a little early to be up at some ungodly hour, or he wanted to get some from the boyfriend. Either way, perfectly legitimate and important reasons. I'm not about to get in the way of a man/woman and their sex (let's call it, "doing laundry").

On a sidenote... It seems to me that a productive way to protest George W. Bush and the rest of the religious fundy ideas about morality is to do lots of gay laundry. If you don't want to do any gay laundry, don't particularly care for the image of lots of gay laundry doing itself over and over and over again or just don't feel like doing gay laundry every moment of every day...then here are a few more ideas:

1) Take Bush's tax cut money and spend it on something really gay...donate it to a gay organization, community center, or other non-profit entity...like my bank account, I don't make a profit and I'm gay as hell. The past three years, I've taken my tax refund and put it into trips to gay volleyball tournaments.

2) Take Bush's tax cut money and spend it in gay Canada. Take a pen and write on a dollar bill..."George W. Bush's tax cut money" and stuff it in the sock of some naked stripper in a Canadian gay bar. That's porn (I knew it when I saw it), gays, strippers and...uh...men of the night. That'll REALLY piss em off. Oh, touche my friend, touche.

More later. I guess that's a really long sidenote.

Back to Triangle. I hadn't planned on staying very long at all. But, I'm all about helping out...for free drinks and a fellow in need. Then, I realized why I've been persona non grata at the bars lately.

I absolutely LOATHE stupid drunks. It's probably why I voted against Bush both times.

By the time I'm done with working at the restaurant, I've dealt with all the stupid people I can handle for one night. Thinking about going out to the bars and trying to make conversation with someone or involuntarily listening to a conversation that's forcing my IQ into the "short bus" range is no longer my idea of fun. I really don't go out looking to hook up with someone nowadays, so there's no reason to sacrifice my sanity just to talk to someone cute, drunk, easy or all of the above.

I was sidled up to the Triangle bar at about 1:40 am, begging to hear the beautiful words..."LAST CALL. Unless you work here or sleep with someone who works here..."

1:40 am. The exact time that the pre-sidewalk sale ritual usually begins. Horny gay guys drunk enough to admit it to themselves that they really want to do some laundry scan the bar for someone. Said randy fellows begin a conversation with other said randy fellows that, on average, lasts about 4.22 seconds before both people see the perm press cycle tumbling about in their minds. Stupid drunk talk ensues.

It was at 1:41 that I experienced something psychologists refer to as "repressed memory." Memories so horrific that they are pushed to the deep recesses of subconsciousness and forgotten so that one may continue to live a sane, unmedicated life.

The guy standing next to me...cute, blonde...said something to me. It might have been a question. It might have been a statement. But, either way, I can't remember. No, really, I can't remember what the guy said. I've tried to remember. I've struggled to remember. I called and asked someone standing next to me if he remembered.

I was so horribly embarassed for the guy that I repressed the memory for him. It was like the time I couldn't remember the American Idol reject who fondled himself and "sang" "Like a Virgin" no matter how many times people tried to remember it for me.

I do remember my reaction. I stared at the mirror on the wall behind the bar. I asked Glenn, the bartender, "Can you see me?" I lit a cigarette and pounded my drink...at the same time. I think I might have piddled a little in my pants. I don't exactly know what piddling is, but I'm pretty sure I did it.

My IQ dropped.

Now, I must say that I thoroughly enjoy funny drunks. Everyone needs to laugh and laugh a lot. Funny drunks find the comedy in everything and usually create some for themselves. Love it. Well, in the right context.

Like when an actual crack whore steals your purse and then answers your cell phone when you call it...hangs up on you...then answers again when you call back from the same phone.

Like when you're standing in the gay part of Bourbon Street (all 15 cubic feet of it) and start leading a sing-along of "Let's Hear It For The Boys" and "It's Raining Men" when the police cars drive through.

Like when you're at a straight club hosting a gay volleyball party in Vancouver, BC, and proceed to convince the bouncer of the "Cher Rationale" for letting a drag queen skip the line into the party because, duh, she had to have her costume change. And then convincing him that, yes, that IS the same drag queen.

But, stupid drunks make me angry. Just like holiday theme knit sweaters. THE KNITTING SHOULD NOT ILLUSTRATE AN ENTIRE HOLIDAY SEASON.

The ex-gays have it all wrong. They should stop with the whole "play masculine sports" and "watch ESPN" and "take your electroshock therapy like a man." They should just put a homo in a room full of stupid gay drunks. Hell, I questioned my ability to ever be turned on by a man again after hearing one sentence from one stupid gay drunk. Imagine a room full of them.

Now, I'm not saying that while drunk in a bar, one should be able to name all 7 of the current U.S. Supreme Court Justices. I'm just saying one should know that the Supreme Court exists...hell there's 51 of them.

I'm not saying that while drunk in a bar, one should be able to name all 50 U.S. states (well, add in D.C. I guess). I'm just saying that you should be able to make eye contact with the U.S. on a map.

I'm not saying one should know the middle names of the first or last couple of Presidents. I'm just saying one should know their own middle name.

I'm not saying that one should be able to discuss the multidimensional symbolism of "Empire Records." I'm just saying one should not be seriously advocating for a 90210 reunion movie.

Alcohol can do many things, like heighten certain characteristics that one has: funny, emotional, quietness, femininity, masculinity, aggressiveness and, yes, an inability to execute intelligent thinking.

Instead of venting this at an actual person and making a shitload of permanent enemies, I think I'm gonna take some time off from the bars. Maybe I'll start cruising coffee shops for...oh wait, I already do that.

You just doubled your pleasure, now double my fun...

I was showing a friend of mine at work the NAGVA website and realized, for the first time, how funny the team names really are. You don't find this in the USAV leagues. The funny speaks for itself:

Atlanta Smack Some Wood
Dallas Cheeri-hos
Dallas The Good The Bad and You
Dallas CockAsians
Dallas Whorigami
Dallas Shut up and hit her again!
Houston Strangers With Candy
Midwest Off White Trash
Minneapolis Stinky Kitties
Pittsburgh Glamazons
St Louis Desperate Houseboys
Salt Lake City SL,UT
Seattle Get Your Own Bitch
Texas Hold 'Em Poke 'Em
Vancouver Shut Up Hooker!!!

When I registered a team (which later got withdrawn...thanks Topher and Dewayne...yeah, I'm looking at you two...), I tried to get creative, but it didn't work out too well...

Milwaukee Tastes Great More Filling. Too slutty?
Milwaukee Visit Our Cream City. Too much explaining? Too slutty?
Milwaukee Drunk and Slutty. Too much...yeah, too much.
Milwaukee Queens Queens and 4 Really Big Queens. Too...faggy?
Milwaukee Easy But Not Slutty. Too much...eh, who are we kidding?
Milwaukee Five Girls Two Real Girls and a Pizza Place. Too long?
Milwaukee Easy Squeeze Cheese? Too...ewww....never mind.

I need a mission statement.

If Ikea were a religion...

Three days off!!! After my long stretch of working days, I finally have some time to catch up on the true joys in life...sleeping, eating well, working out and CLEANING!!!

There's something sick and twisted about my bipolar organizational skills. There are times when my room/apartment looks like the last scene in Twister. There are times when I'm so manic about cleaning that I've found myself re-organizing my bookshelf according to the Dewey Decimal system and bundling Band-Aids by brand, type and color. What can I say? I'm trying to get back the gay membership card that was taken away after I wore two different shoes to work. Apparently there's also an eye exam. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Now I'm on a mission to buy a new bed.. Something with a certain modern traditionalism.

I went to Ikea's (aka Gay Church) website and I was thinking:

Too Japanese Geisha House? Yeah, I thought so too.

On Crate and Barrel's website, I found this gem for only $350...

Too monastary? Yeah. There's simple, then there's this thing out of Sister Act I and II.

But, then I thought about a futon. I like to read on a couch and I don't like to venture out of my room here into the ole apartment. So, maybe...

Too Petting Zoo? As tempting as that may be...probably not. There's easy and then there's slutty. This is full on slutty Star Wars Princess Lea bondage bed. This isn't the "Orion" style, it should be called "80's porn set." Nope.

I think we have a winner. For now. I'm still trying to find out how this thing from Brady Street Futons is actually a futon, but, eh...who cares. At some point it may take flight, but I'll take my chances.

It doesn't matter if you're not gay or a teenage girl. If Gaiken is playing in your town... GO!

I'm going to VEGAS!!! Yay.

I talked to my friend John a month or so ago. He's now apparently is living in Sin City - let me be more specific - Las Vegas and he told me that I'm playing with his NAGVA team in the Vegas tournament at the end of October. At the time, I wasn't aware this was the case. I figured I should buy a plane ticket and start making some plans. $400 and a little pleading and begging with the boss to let me off work and...voila.

My last trip to the Vegas tournament was less than stellar. My flight that was supposed to land 45 minutes before my team's first match started but was delayed and I'm pretty sure I flew from Milwaukee to Vegas through Iceland. I discovered, running through the UNLV campus, that (a) the UNLV campus map is worthless, (b) I don't know how to read campus maps and (c) I don't have a good side to photograph when I'm running with two huge travel bags over my shoulders and an upside map in my hand.

My team pretty much ended up on the bottom and not in the good way. I finally learned my teammates names, unfortunately it wasn't until we lost two matches in a row in the Sunday double elimination tournament. And I reconfirmed that I'm not a gamblin man. I don't even like watching gambling. I like drinking. A lot. Why waste all that money that can be spent on liquor?

Things are looking up for this year's good times in Vegas. I've got a reasonably priced flight landing on Friday night, staying with John who already has a bottle of brand name liquor waiting for me and I'm told the team's pretty good.

We'll see.

Yee-haw. I'm back! A few shout-outs...

Marshall women's volleyball rockin the world... Seriously now people -- Huntington, West Virginia is THE hidden gem of the United States.


Michigan State women's volleyball surprising all the nay-sayers. And...wow...can we hear hotties?

Marley, you rock. And, uh, Mike...nice pose.



Billie is tearin it up, workin it out, rockin it...I don't know...sideways? No, I didn't say horizontally...or at least not that I know of.

And me? Just finished 13 shifts in 14 days at good ole Bucas. Wow. I'm tired. The three other servers that were on vacation are back and I'm thinking about taking some time off to...oh, I dont' know...check into a hermitage. Sounds pretty good.

Good times. Good times.

Spell...GQ. GQ? Congratulations, you've made it to the next round.

I decided that I'm going to write a mission statement. If my new favorite coffee shop has a mission statement and my restaurant can make up some character to explain its history and culture (What? Exactly...), then I should have a stated mission in life.

A statement of mission? Yes. Which mission? The stated kind. Stated to whom? A...missionary...I don't know. Leave me alone.

I need something that has a certain literary flourish. Something memorable. Something quotable. Something for the ages.

Four scores and two tricks ago...
No, maybe not.

I hold these shoes to be self-evident...
Huh?

Ok, this is harder than I thought. Never mind.

Karma sucks

So, this is where the blog becomes free therapy. Or Confession without the Hail Mary-s.

I've been an ass lately and I understand how life has a way of evening itself out.

I'm An Ass

- Yes, I made fun of Perky Blonde Cashier at the coffee shop. Yes, making change is not always the easiest thing to do. Yes, I've had to use cash registers and calculators to subtract whole numbers in the not so distant past. Yes, I'm a hypocritical ass.

- Yes, I kind of yelled at one or two of the hostesses at work last night. Yes, I actually did yell at one or two of the hostesses last night. Yes, I actually did yell at two hostesses last night. Yes, I'm 99.9% sure they were completely faultless. Yes, I'm an unforgivable ass.

- Yes, I spent more time thinking about flirting with a cute guy instead of caring about the other people in his party. Yes, I did in fact spend more time flirting with a cute guy instead of caring about whether his party was doing okay. Yes, I'm a... Alright already! Yes, I'm a horny ass.

- Yes, I dialed 911 when a scary man kept knocking on my window when I pulled up to a gas pump at the gas station on North Ave. Yes, even when he kept saying "Answer one question and I'll leave you alone," I did dial my cell phone and showed him that it was ringing. Yes, I did have more than a dollar to give him and I didn't. Yes, I'm a snotty ass.

- Yes, I have been turning the air conditioner on in the apartment after my roommate has gone to bed. Yes, I'm part of the reason that our electricity bill went up by 50%. Yes, I denied it. Yes, I'm an environment-hating, money-wasting ass.

- Yes, I've been wearing white socks to work for three years now. Yes, I've been lying and saying that I've been wearing black socks. Yes, I'm a...I don't know....inappropriate white sock wearing ass.

- Yes, I've been going to Alterra On The Lake to watch the eye candy running/biking/walking by more than to read and write. Yes, I'm a...hmmm...horny ass.

- Yes, I'm sure that there are other things I've done in the last week or so that make me deserve whatever's been happening. Yes, I'm a forgetful ass.

But I got/I'll get mine.

- I have the most uneven tan ever seen. Someone at work asked if I had gone skiing and then told me I slightly resembled a raccoon. My arms look like a frosted mini wheat -- golden brown on top, lightly frosted underneath. My legs...lets leave them out of this. If there was ever a visible symptom of Multiple Personality Disorder...

- I'm going to get yelled at at work for being an insufferable ass. And, if the bosses forget on Monday, they'll have Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, a double on Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday to make up for it.

- I changed out of my uniform at work and found that the shooting pain on my heel was not coming from a growing blister. The shooting pain was coming from a broken bloody blister that had popped and soaked a pretty big spot on my sock. My white sock. The white sock I was wearing because I thought it was thick enough to pad my heel while I broke in my new work shoes. Okay, I lied. I wore the white sock because I hate black socks.

- I realized after my biggest party of the night left ($160) that the woman that payed the bill had taken the credit card receipt with her. The credit card receipt showing the tip. The "if-she-had-left-it" biggest tip of the night. Total tip: $0.00. $0.00/$160 = 0.0%. How's that for easy math?

- I was seated the third-to-the-last table of the night. The 4 people ended up eating slower than an anorexic nibbling in front of a mirror and didn't leave until 11:00 pm, 2 hours after we closed. The closing servers had already cashed out, finished tidying up the entire restaurant and taken off their aprons when the table was just over half way done with their meal. The cooks waved goodbye. The dishwashers shut off the dishwasher. The dishwashers left. The table asked for the bill, said the food was "pretty good" and left a 9% tip. I ended up washing out their wine glasses in a sink so I wouldn't get talkened to for reconvening a fruit fly convention.

- At 11:15 pm, I put the key in the ignition and turned. I heard a click. The Check Engine light went on. I turned again. Click. I turned again. Click. I turned again. Click. I turned again. Click. I said Hail Mary 10 times. Click. Turn. Click. Turn. Vroom. Sputter. Click.

- Ole Bessy finally started then I pulled up to aforementioned gas pump on North Avenue. Aforementioned man knocked on my window, asked for $2 to buy some smokes. I said no. This went on for a couple of minutes before I could find my cell phone. I thought about driving away, but remembered that it would take awhile before the car started and I didn't want to share that tidbit of info with $2 man.

- Bought $20 in gas. $2.47/gallon. About as low as it seems it would go. That would have been a great deal had I pressed the right button. Of course not, though. I pressed the $3.02/gallon button after tripping on the guard that stops cars from running into the gas pump. Oh well.

Of course, OF COURSE, this doesn't even begin to compare with the Katrina disaster. No stretch of anyone's imagination should ever think that Karma has something to do with Katrina. Anyone that makes that leap...I won't even go there. Tomorrow I'm going to start doing my research to find a legitimate disaster relief agency aiding the people affected and writing a check that very second. I should have done it a week ago. There's no excuse. None at all.

We met at the Space Needle...quite possibly America's greatest Needle...

I've found another great coffee shop on the east side. It's trendy but not pretentious at all. They coordinate community service projects, offer coffee and tea "tours," have open mic nights, poetry readings, artist galleries and all that jazz. And really now...they have a Mission Statement... And the owner is a hottie.

There are a couple of drawbacks, especially now that school has started up again. It'll probably be packed like sardines...or pickles...and good luck finding a table. The parking nazis around the UWM campus are in full force again.

And...

Well...

I'm not one to be an asshole...but who am I kidding?

I dropped by yesterday for a little iced mocha action while my work clothes were in the washer.

Me: "Could I please have an extra large Iced Mocha, no whipped cream, to go?"

Pretty standard. I pulled out a $20 bill and then stuffed a dollar in the tip jar.

(Sidenote: If you're a REGULAR at a certain coffee shop, or you really enjoy going to a certain cafe/coffee shop, you should be tipping at least a dollar to thank the staff for making it, obviously, somewhere you want to go to. If you order a triple shot decaf, extra hot soy milk latte...and you don't tip...well, karma's a bitch. Yes, ALL coffee shop coffee is overpriced. But, none of that money goes into your favorite barrista's pocket. Chances are, except at Starbucks...yuck...your fav barrista doesn't make more than $6.50/hour. If you go to Starbucks...they're getting sweet benefits, so screw them. :) And, if said favorite barrista slips you a little something extra, or the occasional free cup for being such a loyal and appreciative customer, then all that karma balances out.)

Then, Perky Blonde Cashier girl started in on one of the things that makes E.C. endearing.

PBC: "What kind of milk would you like with your coffee?" The owner would be proud.
Me: "2% is fine. Thank you." Gotta live a little every once in awhile.
Cute. I like it. Asking what kind of milk you want in your coffee is courteous. It shows that the place cares about its customers, especially the ones that don't know that you have at least 3 different kinds of milk to choose from.

PBC: "What size was that again?"
Me: "Extra large please. Thanks."
PBC: "Would you like whipped cream?"
Me: "No thank you."
She must be new. I was new at coffee-slinging at one point and I can empathize with the fact that the million and one different ways people want their coffee can be a little overwhelming.

PBC: "Okay, that'll be...$4.12."
Me: "Great." I hand over the $20 bill.

Then, I remembered that I hate carrying change in my wallet. If I have 88 cents in change in my wallet, by the time I get home to drop it in my change container, I'll have...maybe...on a good day...25 cents that hasn't fallen into whatever kind of black hole has been sucking out all my spare change.

Me: "Oh wait, I have...a....quarter." I hand it over, realizing I'm being high maintanence. But, she'll get 13 cents more in a tip.

PBC holds my $20 in one hand and my quarter in the other. She stares at the computer screen that's already telling her...I assume...that I should get back $15.88. I'm just making a guess there. She stares back at the money in her hand and then back at the screen. At some point, she probably estimated...how much easier this would be in Canada.

Oh no. She looks over at the other Eager Barrista.

PBC: "Ummm...what do I do?"
EB: "What are you trying to do?"
PBC: "He gave me a $20 and I punched it in. But then he gave me a quarter."

Maybe you have to enter in the exact amount the customer gives so that...I don't know...the computer will keep track of exactly how many of each denomination would be in the drawer. No, of course that can't be it.

EB: "So what are you trying to do."
PBC: "I don't know how much to give him back."

Did she really just say.....?

EB: "What?"

She did.

EB: "So he gave you $20.25. It costs $4.12."

I waited there so long, I thought of some things I just COULDN'T bring myself to say out loud.

"So how long before Train A passes Train B?"
"This is why I'm not a teacher."
"Sunny day...sweeping the...clouds away....On my way...to where the...air...is...sweet. Can you tell me how to get, how to get to..."
"Today's lesson is sponsored by the letters...give me my damn $16.13."
"How many college students does it take...?"
"beep beep beep...Beeeep. Beeeeep. Beeeeep....beep beep beep." (Translation: S.O.S.)
"Mr. Rogers always wore two different sweaters. And those hand puppets. Do you remember those hand puppets?"

Instead, I just smiled and giggled pointedly to myself.

Just before PBC's head exploded, I stepped in. I assumed E.C. didn't offer worker's comp or "accidental death by math" insurance, so I figured I'd be the good guy.

Me: "That's okay. I'm sorry. I'll just take back the quarter. Sorry about that."
PBC: "Oh, thank you so much."
Me: "I apologize. I was being high maintanence."
PBC: "Ok, so now I owe you..."

FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD IN THE WORLD.....IT ACTUALLY SAYS IT ON THE SCREEN IN FRONT OF YOU.

PBC: "Oh that's right." She hands over the change.

Believe me, I counted it...again.

EB: "What kind of milk did he want?"
PBC: "Umm, let me see... 2%, I think."
Me: "..."
EB: "Did he want whipped cream?"
PBC: "Umm...yes."
Me: "....??!!??"

At this point, I started taking inventory of my favorite customers during my time at Bella.

Lewis: Small latte with skim milk. Cup of vegetarian soup with wheat roll. Refill of regular coffee.
Hottie blonde Neroli woman: Triple shot decaf soy latte in a small cup.
Fun group of ladies: 2 cups of hot tea (usually Lemongrass and Chamomille), 2 cups of decaf coffee. 1 raspberry filled scone. 1 muffin, usually blueberry.
Architect man with cool glasses: Small orange juice, raisin bagel toasted and a banana.
Tall architect man: Large decaf coffee, no room for cream
Lawyer man: Triple shot espresso.
Two lunch guys: 1 cup chili each, 1/2 turkey bagel sandwich each, 1 cup water each.
Roaming woman: 15 minutes of browsing followed always by small latte, chocolate chip cookie.
So-Cute-Couple: 1 large coffee, 1 coffee in silver insulated cup. Pay by credit card.
Kamakura guys: 1 caramel espresso shake, 1 caramel mocha shake, 1 strawberry banana smoothie, 1 extra chocolate iced caramel mocha.

It's been a year and a half, maybe two years, since I've worked regularly at Bella. I still see some of my favorite customers out in the world and I instantly remember what kind of coffee and food they used to order. Seriously, it's not rocket science. At some point someone will teach a chimpanzee to work in a coffee shop.

The kicker:

PBC to EB: "Wow. I really have to start doing math again now that school's starting up."