On Sunday's SportsCenter -- and yes, I do like to watch the occasional SportsCenter -- ESPN featured Dartmouth lacrosse player Andrew Goldstein. ESPN, I guess referencing Outsports.com, claimed that Goldstein was the first, most successful male athlete in a team sport in North America to come out while still competing...in any sport, at any level.
The 8 minute segment was the best feature on a gay sports figure that I've ever come across. I've seen a lot of features, read a lot of books, articles, theses, dissertations and webpages and listened to quite a few out gay athletes speak. I've done most of it trying to nail down a direction for a future thesis: "...and the volleyball was fun too": Communities, histories and the North American Gay Volleyball Association. (and yes...I'm a history nerd...and proud of it) It's been difficult to find material on sexuality and sports in American history.
So far, Dr. Susan Cahn's (SUNY-Buffalo) book, Coming on Strong has been an amazing source of info, but an even greater source of direction into how to incorporate a study of sports history with sexuality and gender while avoiding the need to focus on victimization. I've read so many books and other pieces that just try so damn hard to make the reader cry, or feel some sense of pity or worse yet, guilt. These stories almost always end in: "...and, rising above it all, Joe(anne) Schmo took to the court in spite of the suicide attempts, the millions of sleepless nights, the taunts and jeers from his(her) homophobic teammates, the betrayals, the heartbreak and the true yearning to one day be free." Also, when one piece started with the title "Swing That Purse, Girl" I knew I was probably going to need a cigarette, a hit of crack and a shot of...something that'll knock me on my ass.
So back to the very cute Andrew Goldstein. Maybe it was the fact that ESPN focused on Goldstein's accomplishments, the value he brought to his team. Maybe it was the focus on the team's actual reactions...shock, uncertainty, curiosity, understanding. Maybe it was the acknowledgment that not all athletes in so-called macho sports react in the way gay athletes are made to believe, whether by the gang mentality of straight or gay people, the media, internalized homophobia, etc etc. Maybe it was because ESPN didn't portray Goldstein as the angry activist or the Prozac-popping suicidal depressive. Maybe I'm a sucker for the cliched "and they lived happily ever after" ending.
Whatever the reason, I was finally unbelievably overjoyed to see a feature on a gay athlete that balanced the "gay" and the "athlete" in carefully measured proportions. Yes, he's open about his sexuality, but he's also a heck of an athlete...team MVP as a sophomore, all-conference, all-region, All-American, the first goalie to ever score a goal in an NCAA tournament game. Goldstein talks about wanting to open up to his teammates but feeling a pressure to maintain the balance that led them all to the best season in school history and the first NCAA tournament bid ever for Dartmouth.
I can already hear some people saying something like, "well, why should he ever have to be in the closet anyway?" True. Very true. But, as unfortunate as it may be, reality is reality. No matter what anyone outside the situation says, it's still a matter of choice for the person living it. Do I upset the delicate balance that's led to my team being ranked #1 in the country because I can't talk about my boyfriend? Do I possibly sacrifice the chance at a collegiate national championship because someone said "that's so gay?" It's not internalized homophobia, it's an athlete who's spent his/her blood, sweat and tears to get to the upper echelon of athletics being strategic within the framework that exists. And, it's not like Goldstein waited it out. He told his team after his sophomore season ended. Bravo. Bravo. Bravo.
I think part of what's been gnawing at me about too many of the "gay sports" stories I've encountered, is the anger and the blaming and the need to constantly relive some kind of victimization. It's not that the anger or the blaming or the victimization doesn't exist or shouldn't exist. It does, and that's reality, too. It's perfectly normal and natural to want to get that out. It's one of the things coming out allows.
But, it's still difficult to digest what happened at UWM's Coming Out Week symposium featuring Esera Tuaolo and members of the UWM athletic department. When the floor was opened up, question after question (or more like accusation after accusation) peppered the panel. Why aren't you doing more about homophobia on your teams? What do you mean you haven't heard your athletes saying fag or homo or dyke? Why won't your athletes come to Pridefest? I was seething in the back row. I've hung out with UWM athletes...the supposedly macho, homophobic, hate-crimes-waiting-to-happen guys most of the audience assumed them to be. They're, to a greater extent than any college sports program I've ever spent time with, more open-minded and generally cultured than any of the angry activists sitting in the first row could ever fathom. I've been asked about boyfriends, my comfort level, PC terminology, definitions, opinions, etc etc. And...for the record to the finger-pointing kid in the front row...they don't come to Pridefest for the same reason many gays and lesbians new to Wisconsin or Milwaukee don't go to Pridefest...they don't know anyone and walking around Pridefest alone is a pretty scary thing.
Maybe it took a straight sports reporter to tell the story of a successful gay athlete. Curiosity instead of pride. Perspective instead of anger. The process instead of the roadblocks. The success instead of the sadness.
There's something about an athlete like Goldstein or any number of the gay athletes, All-Americans, national champions, even ex-Olympians who still aren't listed on outsports.com's Big Gay List, that's really inspirational. They're out...to who they want to be. They're successful...with very little trophy-case space. They're humble...to a point. And, most importantly, they're just living their lives how they want to, where they want to and with who they want to. Maybe that's the inspiration.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Friday, May 27, 2005
Find Dorothy & tell her to meet you at the yellow brick road. When you come to the end, ask the man for a brain...
I pulled a drama queen today and I'm a little embarassed.
I went to get my hair cut but couldn't get an appointment anywhere. Now, my hair's not that difficult to cut; it's the typical "asian fade" and there's not much else I can do with it except dye it, shave it all off or grow it out. So, I keep it the way it is. I went to (name deleted) and sat down in the chair.
There were many signs that should have pointed me out the door before the debaucle continued.
(1) To greet me in the waiting area, she reminded me of Caretaker Filch suspiciously peering around a corner in the Harry Potter movies
(1) It smelled like the woman had sat in the very chair I was in and chain-smoked all day until I arrived.
(2) Her hands shook as she put the paper thing around my neck.
(3) The razor shook as she buzzed my sides.
(4) She didn't spritz water on the top before attacking the bush that is my hair.
Now, I saw these signs and should have fled. But there's something about interfering with a professional doing their job before it's been done that prevented me from saying anything. What can I say? It's a pet peeve. I mean, the only time I've ever stopped someone providing a service was when a manicurist in Chicago drew blood. That's once in 27 years. (I think I'm 27, but I might not be...) But, it wasn't until she claimed to have finished and asked me -- is it short enough? -- that I began to tremble. I put one finger on the left side of my head where the shaving had stopped and the blending was supposed to begin, and then put my other index finger at its corresponding spot on the right side of my head. My two fingers were an inch and half apart. I found my midline and measured the length to the left side and then on the right. There was also an inch and a half (maybe more) difference. I showed her the difference. She looked at my head. She looked at the mirror. She looked back at my head.
"I don't see the difference."
Not only that, but I then found that the area that she had shaved...the part where the razor and guard seem to make mistakes impossible...was different lengths on the left than on the right. My sideburns were a mess. The stylist working across from this woman offered to fix the disaster that was this cut. I apologized to her, assuring her that I was sure she was a fully competent stylist, but expressed my intense need to run as fast as I could. She apolgized and I left, shaking me head and trembling in a state of disbelief. I think I was trembling more because I was embarassed about making a big deal out a haircut that will grow out in about a week or two.
But then, some benevolent being led me to Capricio. I walked in...not at all dressed to be in this type of salon... and proceeded to treat the receptionist like my own private therapist.
"It's...it's...it's...help me. Look at it. I....I ....I...help me." I think I even shook a little bit. I might have drooled a bit too. The beginnings of tears might have formed as well.
An ordinary psychiatrist would have prescribed Prozac immediately. Only problem was they closed in 15 minutes. The wonderful man of god, Munem, came down the stairs and, listening to my bumbling, asked me what was wrong. I pointed at my hair. "It looks like I put a toupee on crooked." He leaned his head to one side and led me to his chair.
After he completely fixed the debaucle on my head, washed, shampooed and trimmed a little more, I felt like a complete idiot. I reacted better and more calmly when Bush was re-elected. He then gave me a final rinse and waxed my eyebrows.
I tipped 80%...$20. I should have tipped more.
Hello, my name is Brent. I am a drama queen.
I went to get my hair cut but couldn't get an appointment anywhere. Now, my hair's not that difficult to cut; it's the typical "asian fade" and there's not much else I can do with it except dye it, shave it all off or grow it out. So, I keep it the way it is. I went to (name deleted) and sat down in the chair.
There were many signs that should have pointed me out the door before the debaucle continued.
(1) To greet me in the waiting area, she reminded me of Caretaker Filch suspiciously peering around a corner in the Harry Potter movies
(1) It smelled like the woman had sat in the very chair I was in and chain-smoked all day until I arrived.
(2) Her hands shook as she put the paper thing around my neck.
(3) The razor shook as she buzzed my sides.
(4) She didn't spritz water on the top before attacking the bush that is my hair.
Now, I saw these signs and should have fled. But there's something about interfering with a professional doing their job before it's been done that prevented me from saying anything. What can I say? It's a pet peeve. I mean, the only time I've ever stopped someone providing a service was when a manicurist in Chicago drew blood. That's once in 27 years. (I think I'm 27, but I might not be...) But, it wasn't until she claimed to have finished and asked me -- is it short enough? -- that I began to tremble. I put one finger on the left side of my head where the shaving had stopped and the blending was supposed to begin, and then put my other index finger at its corresponding spot on the right side of my head. My two fingers were an inch and half apart. I found my midline and measured the length to the left side and then on the right. There was also an inch and a half (maybe more) difference. I showed her the difference. She looked at my head. She looked at the mirror. She looked back at my head.
"I don't see the difference."
Not only that, but I then found that the area that she had shaved...the part where the razor and guard seem to make mistakes impossible...was different lengths on the left than on the right. My sideburns were a mess. The stylist working across from this woman offered to fix the disaster that was this cut. I apologized to her, assuring her that I was sure she was a fully competent stylist, but expressed my intense need to run as fast as I could. She apolgized and I left, shaking me head and trembling in a state of disbelief. I think I was trembling more because I was embarassed about making a big deal out a haircut that will grow out in about a week or two.
But then, some benevolent being led me to Capricio. I walked in...not at all dressed to be in this type of salon... and proceeded to treat the receptionist like my own private therapist.
"It's...it's...it's...help me. Look at it. I....I ....I...help me." I think I even shook a little bit. I might have drooled a bit too. The beginnings of tears might have formed as well.
An ordinary psychiatrist would have prescribed Prozac immediately. Only problem was they closed in 15 minutes. The wonderful man of god, Munem, came down the stairs and, listening to my bumbling, asked me what was wrong. I pointed at my hair. "It looks like I put a toupee on crooked." He leaned his head to one side and led me to his chair.
After he completely fixed the debaucle on my head, washed, shampooed and trimmed a little more, I felt like a complete idiot. I reacted better and more calmly when Bush was re-elected. He then gave me a final rinse and waxed my eyebrows.
I tipped 80%...$20. I should have tipped more.
Hello, my name is Brent. I am a drama queen.
Please tell me a teacher was helping you over a fence...
My sleep schedule is all messed up. All messed up. My typical day starts somewhere around noon to 2 pm. I leave for work at 3:45 (lately it's been to the gym at 2:30 to be at work by 4:15), get home around 11:00 if I'm lucky. Then, if I'm not too tired, there's a good reason or it was an annoying night, I'll get dressed and head out to grab a drink....or five. If I stay in, I'm up until...oh...say...the sun comes up. Then I'm all tired and I lie down...and I'm up at 2 pm. Now, I'm told that sometimes people that work in restaurants fall into this schedule, but it's completely anti-productive.
Then, there's my crazy ways to try to get back on a normal person's schedule. I'll stay up in the hopes that I'll be so tired when 10 or 11 pm comes around that I'll fall asleep at a more normal time. But, since I've been up for about 40 hours, I'll sleep for soooooo long that I'm back to waking up around noon. Or, as has been happening lately, I'll fall asleep around 7 pm and wake up around 3 am. Then, well, the schedule gets thrown off again. Hardly more productive. I'm not really sure what the answer is right now, but then again, I haven't been to sleep in awhile.
Ok, on to jello.
My mom has pulled some fast ones on me. Even though we lived in Hawaii where chocolate covered macadamia nut boxes grow on trees, she convinced me they were only for giving away, never for eating. Even though we had a HUGE mango tree in our yard, mangoes were only for pickling and giving away as gifts. It could be that I'm just a dimwit about certain things, but these things happened when I was really young, so I just believed everything my mom said, no questions asked. Well, when I was young, my mom just didn't like making jello. I have no idea why, but she just didn't. So, she told me that jello was too hard to make. So, when there was jello offered up at some kind of extended family meal, she would tell me to take advantage of it because jello was too hard for her to make. Now, this from the woman who would make cornbread from scratch every third sunday morning or so; the same woman who basically made the entire Thanksgiving dinner from scratch for my immediate family...all 15 or so of them. She did all but raise the turkeys herself.
But jello, she would always tell me, was too hard to make. No smile, no smirk, no giggle, or wink. Straight-faced, truthful, there-is-no-tooth-fairy-so-be-happy-with-the-50-cents-you-got kind of look on her face.
So, off I went to the University of Illinois and the wonderful dorm food that no college student could ever complain about. But, instead of going for the decked out salad and sandwich bar, the fifty kinds of cereal or - at the specialty restaurants - the cannolis, the just bbqed steaks, or cookies as big as your head...you guessed it, I went for the jello. All the time. Every time. Why, my friends would ask, do you always eat jello? Well, I would reply, I don't have the time to make jello, so if the cooks here spend all that energy making it, I'll take advantage of it. Wait...what are you talking about? If jello is too hard for my mom to make, I certainly can't do it.
No, I wasn't joking. I really believed making jello was a gift bestowed on the more fortunate. I once made a pan of bread pudding...from scratch...at a Boy Scout camp...using only a box oven (take a cardboard box, cover the inside with foil, place cans inside and put a grill on top). Jello, I had been convinced since infancy, was too hard to make.
One summer, I had an entire free weekend and decided to dedicate the entire 48 hours to conquer my fears. I was 21 and it was time I passed into manhood and just make the damn jello. I was prepared to skip all my monday classes and possibly the tuesday ones in case I needed the extra time. I was living in the fraternity house and we had no usable kitchen, but I had procured the use of one of my friend's apartments to...conquer jello. I called mom to ask for some advice, but she wasn't home so I left a message. I went to Meijer and picked up four large boxes of jello mix. Four boxes because I figured I would probably mess it up at least once and I wasn't going to use that as an excuse to quit. I read the back of the box several times, trying to make sense of why there were only two ingredients. Maybe this wasn't really jello. Slightly suspicious, I headed back.
In the kitchen, I took a moment to focus, breathe and meditate. I turned the box over again, and read the instructions. Hmmm....that can't be right. I went online and looked for other jello recipes. Still...that can't be right. I returned to the boxes. Well, here goes. I dropped the powder into a glass bowl, wondering if I had to wait for the water to boil before opening the package. I knew from high school science that here is a metal that, when exposed to oxygen, spontaneously combusts. I didn't want to set my friend's kitchen on fire in case this had the same effect. I stared at the powder and heard the water pot whistling. I carefully measured out the water and immediately began stirring. Needless to say, just as I practically yelled into my parent's answering machine, the hardest thing about jello was finding a container and a place in the refrigerator to make it. So, it was 9 am on Saturday morning and I had........figured out that mom had lied to me so convincingly for 21 years.
Then, there's my crazy ways to try to get back on a normal person's schedule. I'll stay up in the hopes that I'll be so tired when 10 or 11 pm comes around that I'll fall asleep at a more normal time. But, since I've been up for about 40 hours, I'll sleep for soooooo long that I'm back to waking up around noon. Or, as has been happening lately, I'll fall asleep around 7 pm and wake up around 3 am. Then, well, the schedule gets thrown off again. Hardly more productive. I'm not really sure what the answer is right now, but then again, I haven't been to sleep in awhile.
Ok, on to jello.
My mom has pulled some fast ones on me. Even though we lived in Hawaii where chocolate covered macadamia nut boxes grow on trees, she convinced me they were only for giving away, never for eating. Even though we had a HUGE mango tree in our yard, mangoes were only for pickling and giving away as gifts. It could be that I'm just a dimwit about certain things, but these things happened when I was really young, so I just believed everything my mom said, no questions asked. Well, when I was young, my mom just didn't like making jello. I have no idea why, but she just didn't. So, she told me that jello was too hard to make. So, when there was jello offered up at some kind of extended family meal, she would tell me to take advantage of it because jello was too hard for her to make. Now, this from the woman who would make cornbread from scratch every third sunday morning or so; the same woman who basically made the entire Thanksgiving dinner from scratch for my immediate family...all 15 or so of them. She did all but raise the turkeys herself.
But jello, she would always tell me, was too hard to make. No smile, no smirk, no giggle, or wink. Straight-faced, truthful, there-is-no-tooth-fairy-so-be-happy-with-the-50-cents-you-got kind of look on her face.
So, off I went to the University of Illinois and the wonderful dorm food that no college student could ever complain about. But, instead of going for the decked out salad and sandwich bar, the fifty kinds of cereal or - at the specialty restaurants - the cannolis, the just bbqed steaks, or cookies as big as your head...you guessed it, I went for the jello. All the time. Every time. Why, my friends would ask, do you always eat jello? Well, I would reply, I don't have the time to make jello, so if the cooks here spend all that energy making it, I'll take advantage of it. Wait...what are you talking about? If jello is too hard for my mom to make, I certainly can't do it.
No, I wasn't joking. I really believed making jello was a gift bestowed on the more fortunate. I once made a pan of bread pudding...from scratch...at a Boy Scout camp...using only a box oven (take a cardboard box, cover the inside with foil, place cans inside and put a grill on top). Jello, I had been convinced since infancy, was too hard to make.
One summer, I had an entire free weekend and decided to dedicate the entire 48 hours to conquer my fears. I was 21 and it was time I passed into manhood and just make the damn jello. I was prepared to skip all my monday classes and possibly the tuesday ones in case I needed the extra time. I was living in the fraternity house and we had no usable kitchen, but I had procured the use of one of my friend's apartments to...conquer jello. I called mom to ask for some advice, but she wasn't home so I left a message. I went to Meijer and picked up four large boxes of jello mix. Four boxes because I figured I would probably mess it up at least once and I wasn't going to use that as an excuse to quit. I read the back of the box several times, trying to make sense of why there were only two ingredients. Maybe this wasn't really jello. Slightly suspicious, I headed back.
In the kitchen, I took a moment to focus, breathe and meditate. I turned the box over again, and read the instructions. Hmmm....that can't be right. I went online and looked for other jello recipes. Still...that can't be right. I returned to the boxes. Well, here goes. I dropped the powder into a glass bowl, wondering if I had to wait for the water to boil before opening the package. I knew from high school science that here is a metal that, when exposed to oxygen, spontaneously combusts. I didn't want to set my friend's kitchen on fire in case this had the same effect. I stared at the powder and heard the water pot whistling. I carefully measured out the water and immediately began stirring. Needless to say, just as I practically yelled into my parent's answering machine, the hardest thing about jello was finding a container and a place in the refrigerator to make it. So, it was 9 am on Saturday morning and I had........figured out that mom had lied to me so convincingly for 21 years.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
You know how I'm into gangsta rap...
So yeah, I figured since i haven't posted in forever, I might as well post twice. I found this little questionaire and thought I'd diggldy down.
First Name
Brent
Were you named after anyone?
Nope. Considering the best option between my two parents was originally Herbert...Brent works just fine, thank you.
Do you wish on stars?
Call me sentimental...or maybe it's cuz I watched the Creek. Yes.
When did you last cry?
Watching All Over The Guy last week. I'm a sucker. What can I say?
Do you like your handwriting?
Yep. It's kind of like my mom's...creepy.
What is your favorite lunchmeat?
Honey-smoked chicken...shaven not sliced.
What is your most embarassing CD?
Found them cleaning at the parent's house...Michael Bolton and Kris Kros (the one with Jump).
Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell?
Yes. In high school.
Do looks matter?
68% yes...48% no...hey, I'm a mystery.
How do you release anger?
(1) I clean like a maniac...hey, mystery. (2)Sarcasm...hey, we're supposed to go right to sarcasm.
Where is your second home?
Still...the Kappa Delta Rho house at the University of Illinois...too bad I guess.
Do you trust others easily?
No.
What was your favorite toy as a child?
When I was really little, I used to sit in one of those circular laundry baskets ALL THE TIME and pretend it was a plane or a car or a spaceship. After that...Optimus Prime and the vehicle Voltron (not the tigers).
Do you use sarcasm a lot?
Me? Please. It's a my first language.
Favorite Movies
Remember the Titans
Hoosiers
Coyote Ugly...again...mystery.
Shakespeare in Love
And The Band Played On
In The Bedroom...but only the first time
Trick
Get Real
What are your nicknames?
Ping-Pong....Pat's a wierd guy.
Kookie...like the candy (don't think too hard about that one).
Margaret...yeah, cause all rice looks alike, even when it's not even the same sex.
Would you bungee jump?
Abso--f~ing--lutely.
Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
Looking around...no.
Do you think that you are strong?
Stronger than Davee...weaker than preschoolers. What sarcasm? I better be.
What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
Been craving Butterfinger in ice cream for about 8 years now...too bad about that anaphalactic shock. Now, Mint Chocolate Chip only from Baskin Robbins.
What are your favorite colors?
Navy blue. Clear blue (think an ocean where you can see perfectly down to the reef). Dark cream...mystery.
What are you listening to right now?
Huh...found another embarassing CD...the Dawson's Creek soundtrack...the first one.
Last thing you ate.
A fourth of an antipasto salad.
If you were a crayon what color would you be?
I can think of something else to do with that crayon.
What is the weather like right now?
According to my car? 79. According to every other sense I possess. 65
Last person you talked to on the phone?
Maren Witzel...in Huntington, West Virginia...the hidden gem of the United States.
How are you today?
Optimistic...hmmm...mystery.
Favorite drink?
Raspberry Ice Tea (with real brewed tea). Long Beach (especially the raspberry one from Roscoe's in Chicago...hmmm....I don't like raspberries, but I love drinks with raspberry in them). Chocolate Martini (FLUID!!!...but ask Brian real nicely and bat your eyes...but the all-time best is at Spiral in Lansing, Michigan).
Favorite sport?
Hockey. Curling. Both HUGE in Hawaii.
Hair Color?
Blacker than black...from last colorist that gave up before she started.
Eye Color?
Brown. Thought it was black for about 18 years...then was told that's not possible. Then again, mom had me convinced for 18 years that we never had jello cuz it was too hard to make.
Do you wear contacts?
Hell, I never take em out.
Favorite food?
Hands down, mom's shrimp curry...mom's chili...macaroni salad on Hawaiian plate lunches...certain types of sushi that shall remain nameless for now.
Last movie you watched?
Kinsey and All Over the Guy...
Favorite day of the year?
July 6...the first day of the Wonder's Hall salad bar experience every year.
Actually...January 1st. :)
Scary movie or happy ending?
Happy ending...but not the "happily ever after" kind of happy ending. Would much rather have some kind of peace.
Hugs or kisses?
"It's been a rough day" -> quality hug
"I hope I see you again" -> a little G-rated, peck on the kisser
What is your favorite dessert?
Sweet, ripe honeydew.
Living arrangement?
Renting a loft with two roommates
What book(s) are you reading?
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (AGAIN!!!), John D'Emilio's The World Turned and Wardell Pomeroy's Dr. Kinsey and the Institute for Sex Research
What did you watch on TV last night?
The West Wing rerun (two seasons ago), Bill Maher's V is for Victory.
Favorite smells?
Fresh pikake, Downy fabric sheets, someone's cologne.
First Name
Brent
Were you named after anyone?
Nope. Considering the best option between my two parents was originally Herbert...Brent works just fine, thank you.
Do you wish on stars?
Call me sentimental...or maybe it's cuz I watched the Creek. Yes.
When did you last cry?
Watching All Over The Guy last week. I'm a sucker. What can I say?
Do you like your handwriting?
Yep. It's kind of like my mom's...creepy.
What is your favorite lunchmeat?
Honey-smoked chicken...shaven not sliced.
What is your most embarassing CD?
Found them cleaning at the parent's house...Michael Bolton and Kris Kros (the one with Jump).
Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell?
Yes. In high school.
Do looks matter?
68% yes...48% no...hey, I'm a mystery.
How do you release anger?
(1) I clean like a maniac...hey, mystery. (2)Sarcasm...hey, we're supposed to go right to sarcasm.
Where is your second home?
Still...the Kappa Delta Rho house at the University of Illinois...too bad I guess.
Do you trust others easily?
No.
What was your favorite toy as a child?
When I was really little, I used to sit in one of those circular laundry baskets ALL THE TIME and pretend it was a plane or a car or a spaceship. After that...Optimus Prime and the vehicle Voltron (not the tigers).
Do you use sarcasm a lot?
Me? Please. It's a my first language.
Favorite Movies
Remember the Titans
Hoosiers
Coyote Ugly...again...mystery.
Shakespeare in Love
And The Band Played On
In The Bedroom...but only the first time
Trick
Get Real
What are your nicknames?
Ping-Pong....Pat's a wierd guy.
Kookie...like the candy (don't think too hard about that one).
Margaret...yeah, cause all rice looks alike, even when it's not even the same sex.
Would you bungee jump?
Abso--f~ing--lutely.
Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
Looking around...no.
Do you think that you are strong?
Stronger than Davee...weaker than preschoolers. What sarcasm? I better be.
What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
Been craving Butterfinger in ice cream for about 8 years now...too bad about that anaphalactic shock. Now, Mint Chocolate Chip only from Baskin Robbins.
What are your favorite colors?
Navy blue. Clear blue (think an ocean where you can see perfectly down to the reef). Dark cream...mystery.
What are you listening to right now?
Huh...found another embarassing CD...the Dawson's Creek soundtrack...the first one.
Last thing you ate.
A fourth of an antipasto salad.
If you were a crayon what color would you be?
I can think of something else to do with that crayon.
What is the weather like right now?
According to my car? 79. According to every other sense I possess. 65
Last person you talked to on the phone?
Maren Witzel...in Huntington, West Virginia...the hidden gem of the United States.
How are you today?
Optimistic...hmmm...mystery.
Favorite drink?
Raspberry Ice Tea (with real brewed tea). Long Beach (especially the raspberry one from Roscoe's in Chicago...hmmm....I don't like raspberries, but I love drinks with raspberry in them). Chocolate Martini (FLUID!!!...but ask Brian real nicely and bat your eyes...but the all-time best is at Spiral in Lansing, Michigan).
Favorite sport?
Hockey. Curling. Both HUGE in Hawaii.
Hair Color?
Blacker than black...from last colorist that gave up before she started.
Eye Color?
Brown. Thought it was black for about 18 years...then was told that's not possible. Then again, mom had me convinced for 18 years that we never had jello cuz it was too hard to make.
Do you wear contacts?
Hell, I never take em out.
Favorite food?
Hands down, mom's shrimp curry...mom's chili...macaroni salad on Hawaiian plate lunches...certain types of sushi that shall remain nameless for now.
Last movie you watched?
Kinsey and All Over the Guy...
Favorite day of the year?
July 6...the first day of the Wonder's Hall salad bar experience every year.
Actually...January 1st. :)
Scary movie or happy ending?
Happy ending...but not the "happily ever after" kind of happy ending. Would much rather have some kind of peace.
Hugs or kisses?
"It's been a rough day" -> quality hug
"I hope I see you again" -> a little G-rated, peck on the kisser
What is your favorite dessert?
Sweet, ripe honeydew.
Living arrangement?
Renting a loft with two roommates
What book(s) are you reading?
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (AGAIN!!!), John D'Emilio's The World Turned and Wardell Pomeroy's Dr. Kinsey and the Institute for Sex Research
What did you watch on TV last night?
The West Wing rerun (two seasons ago), Bill Maher's V is for Victory.
Favorite smells?
Fresh pikake, Downy fabric sheets, someone's cologne.
Ok. I'll ask the obvious question. Since when are gays allowed to own property?
So yeah, I'm a lazy ass. But, things are looking up. I've decided not to wait for funny moments or profound revelation. Just letting it all out.
Work has been interesting...especially with the little suspension not too long ago. But, I'm back and kissing that ass just like new. On my first day back, I got shopped. aarrggghhh. Basically every once in a while, some random party comes in with a list of about a bazillion things to listen for, look for, time, blah blah blah. Then they go home and we hope to god their memory is better than the three other schmucks we've had the last three months. Just my humble opinion. This time I got lucky. Fun people. Fun meal. Fun times. Low maintanence. Didn't trash the booth. No food stuck in the seats. No condiments emptied onto the table. No complete and total shredding of all napkins within two time zones. Didn't demand free food because their booth was dirty. And...a 25% tip. Lucky me.
Well, I'm headed back to good ole Lansing, Michigan this summer. Something must have gone right for the new coaching staff at Michigan State to ask me back to coach their summer volleyball camps. It's a pretty sweet deal for me. Room and board (in air conditioning, no less), a pair of Nike's, another half dozen MSU t-shirts, a pretty damn respectable paycheck and...THE SALAD BAR. Did I mention the salad bar? Now, for all those who have experienced, then hated college dorm food, when we move into our own apartments we find that preparing about 100 different things to choose from at every meal is...for the love of god...just not going to happen. Preparing 2 things to eat at every meal is...for the love of god...just too hard to handle. Really people...dorm food is a godsend. (That was a good buzz....I talked to Jesus). All I know for sure, besides what I learned in kindergarten...is that I can weigh my salad by the pound at Pick N Save and come up with the exact amount to pay without getting near the scale.
All I know for sure is that the salad bar in the Michigan State dorms rocks my world. Not so sure that the airplane I get into at least four times a year is going to land in one piece. But I do know that the Wonders Hall salad bar is my rock. So basically, the Michigan State volleyball camps have been my version of fat camp. Salad twice a day (alright, the occasional Jimmy Johns...vege sub I might add), about 20 gazillion miles of walking (sometimes to get my one of a hundred coffees a day), seven hours of coaching, a couple of hours of playing pickup games with the other coaches...and the occasional libation. Hey, I've gotta walk across the street to the Pub...that counts as exercise right?
So, I just got a bunch of back issues of my high school alumni magazine with all of its alumni updates. Basically at least two people in every class since...I swear to you...1924...write about what everyone's doing. There's the usual pictures of weddings, reunions, parties, yadda yadda yadda. But, after reading through three Punahou Bulletins I decided I would forgo forking over $700 for a roundtrip ticket home for my class' reunion. First off, it's a little intimidating reading about the half dozen or so people who went to Athens...not as spectators...but as athletes representing the United States in about four different sports. Then, there were the people who've just returned from presenting their films at Cannes or receiving their Ph.D.s from Columbia. Or maybe, the actors in a new series or models in some show in Europe. Maybe it was a picture of a former Miss Hawaii performing her talent segment at the Miss America pageant. Or maybe it's the fact that about half the people I read about have different last names or new wives...and not the Boston/New Paltz/Toronto kind. But, that's me being sour grapes. Learn, live, love. Good enough for me. Do they have the Wonder's Hall salad bar? I think not.
Work has been interesting...especially with the little suspension not too long ago. But, I'm back and kissing that ass just like new. On my first day back, I got shopped. aarrggghhh. Basically every once in a while, some random party comes in with a list of about a bazillion things to listen for, look for, time, blah blah blah. Then they go home and we hope to god their memory is better than the three other schmucks we've had the last three months. Just my humble opinion. This time I got lucky. Fun people. Fun meal. Fun times. Low maintanence. Didn't trash the booth. No food stuck in the seats. No condiments emptied onto the table. No complete and total shredding of all napkins within two time zones. Didn't demand free food because their booth was dirty. And...a 25% tip. Lucky me.
Well, I'm headed back to good ole Lansing, Michigan this summer. Something must have gone right for the new coaching staff at Michigan State to ask me back to coach their summer volleyball camps. It's a pretty sweet deal for me. Room and board (in air conditioning, no less), a pair of Nike's, another half dozen MSU t-shirts, a pretty damn respectable paycheck and...THE SALAD BAR. Did I mention the salad bar? Now, for all those who have experienced, then hated college dorm food, when we move into our own apartments we find that preparing about 100 different things to choose from at every meal is...for the love of god...just not going to happen. Preparing 2 things to eat at every meal is...for the love of god...just too hard to handle. Really people...dorm food is a godsend. (That was a good buzz....I talked to Jesus). All I know for sure, besides what I learned in kindergarten...is that I can weigh my salad by the pound at Pick N Save and come up with the exact amount to pay without getting near the scale.
All I know for sure is that the salad bar in the Michigan State dorms rocks my world. Not so sure that the airplane I get into at least four times a year is going to land in one piece. But I do know that the Wonders Hall salad bar is my rock. So basically, the Michigan State volleyball camps have been my version of fat camp. Salad twice a day (alright, the occasional Jimmy Johns...vege sub I might add), about 20 gazillion miles of walking (sometimes to get my one of a hundred coffees a day), seven hours of coaching, a couple of hours of playing pickup games with the other coaches...and the occasional libation. Hey, I've gotta walk across the street to the Pub...that counts as exercise right?
So, I just got a bunch of back issues of my high school alumni magazine with all of its alumni updates. Basically at least two people in every class since...I swear to you...1924...write about what everyone's doing. There's the usual pictures of weddings, reunions, parties, yadda yadda yadda. But, after reading through three Punahou Bulletins I decided I would forgo forking over $700 for a roundtrip ticket home for my class' reunion. First off, it's a little intimidating reading about the half dozen or so people who went to Athens...not as spectators...but as athletes representing the United States in about four different sports. Then, there were the people who've just returned from presenting their films at Cannes or receiving their Ph.D.s from Columbia. Or maybe, the actors in a new series or models in some show in Europe. Maybe it was a picture of a former Miss Hawaii performing her talent segment at the Miss America pageant. Or maybe it's the fact that about half the people I read about have different last names or new wives...and not the Boston/New Paltz/Toronto kind. But, that's me being sour grapes. Learn, live, love. Good enough for me. Do they have the Wonder's Hall salad bar? I think not.
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