I LOVE Kathy Griffin's "My Life On The D-List." Seriously, she's a gay man in a woman's body without the gender identity issues. She's not even a fag hag or a fruit fly or just in love with gay men. She's a gay man. Here's some reasons:
1) Binge. Purge. Workout. Binge. Purge. Workout. Sound familiar? Come on now, be honest. She eats tacos! Lots and lots of tacos!
2) Living above our means? That house of hers could house all of Katrina's refugees. How many gay men are paying twice as much rent as they can afford for a place the trick of the night will be impressed with? Not me, but... But, how many gay men's abode's are straight out of Ikea's, Crate and Barrel's or Pier One's "Too Expensive For Normal People" catalog? Everyone. Me? $250 bookshelf to match my 2 $175 four drawer pull-out tan cloth/rattan style drawer set among some other things I don't want to mention. Two hours of furniture shopping and spent a month's paycheck.
3) She thinks Diet Coke tastes good. Gays are predisposed to think Diet drinks and food are tastey. Screw the "finger length," "hypothalamus" and "pheromone" theories, hand a guy a Diet Coke and if Mikey likes it, hand him the Big Gay Pamphlet.
4) Aren't her act and her show just like a group of gay men having a normal conversation? It is. Fess up and just admit it already.
5) Cher. Clay Aiken. Barbara. Joan Rivers. And she hates Star Jones and Jay Leno. "Even the Fab Five is like...'that fag?'" Exactly.
6) All press is good press.
7) Bravo isn't even bi-curious. It's full on Fire Island, Cher-loving, Mykonos-going, 12-month tanning homosexual.
I rest my case.
So, I was watching D-List tonight...and of course taping it as well. I was sitting in my new bean bag chair that is way too comfortable to try to read in, which is why I bought it.
I fell asleep.
I woke up 5 hours later....
...to hear Kathy continue the last sentence I heard before I fell asleep.
"So, my assistant called me the other day..."
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Zzzzzzz. Zzzz. Zz. Z.
"...to tell me that Renee Zellweger wanted my address..."
That's freaky. And WRONG on so many levels.
I need to stop watching Bravo.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
karma, love it or...
Dad headed home Friday morning. Got to see him off at 6 am from Mitchell Airport (which looks nothing like the one shown at the beginning of Dogma). Had another in a series of unusually candid talks about everything that's going on back home. Unlike most of my friends, my relationship with both of my parents has always been more than slightly distant in a typically Asian kind of way. Don't embarass us and we'll stay out of your business....in a lovingly unspoken kind of way. Maybe more on that later...probably not though.
So, I found a couple of blogs by and for waiters, servers and bartenders. HILARIOUS. Disturbing at times, but hilarious. We server-type people have some funny ass stories. Just a few just from this weekend.
Saturday (aka: the day karma kicked me in the ass)
Table #1: Five minutes after I arrive and halfway through a bite of ravioli, Hostess Stacie (ravishingly beautiful blog reader) informs me that I can have an 8-top at the Kitchen Table if i can clear and set it in 5 minutes. 10 minutes later, as the guests are seating, I'm handed a note that says the party is celebrating a 90th birthday party and a 30th wedding anniversary. Ordinarily I'd be happy. But, when half the people showed up in t-shirts and the daughter crawled under the table to sit in the booth seats facing out, I started to worry. I'm a judgemental asshole at work...this much I know. So, I gave the benefit of the doubt.
Their order: 8 waters with lemons and/or limes, 1 cup of coffee, a small miller lite and a kiddie cocktail + a large salad to start ("Do you bring out bread for free?"= not a good sign)
An hour and a half, fifteen million water refills, a birthday singing, a sincere congratulation and a search for a manager to take $10 off the meal because of a coupon (using a coupon for someone's 90th birthday and 30th wedding anniversary = even worse sign), the bill comes to $88. ($11/person vs the usual $25+/person). They hand me cash, thank me very much, tell me they had a great time, promise to come back, etc etc. I count the cash. $92. I count it a second time. $92. I ask Gloria, my wait assistant, to count it. $92. I hand Gloria the $4 tip and ask her to stab me in whichever temple she wants. She takes the $4 and walks away. Of course. I deduct $4 from my declared tips in my version of a tax writeoff for donating my time to people who make the short bus look like Air Force One.
Table #2: Five minutes after the initial drink order was set down on #1, I noticed that I had been seated in my section. A nice big 7-top. Drink orders...wine, mixed drinks...things are looking up. Then...
Woman: What kind of beer do you have on tap? (I love a woman who can down a 22 oz tap beer)
Me: MGD, Miller Lite, Sprecher Amber, Leine's Red, Leine's Creamy Dark, Budweiser, Moretti and Sprecher Root Beer.
Woman: Do you have Diet Sprecher?
Me: No ma'am, the only diet drink we have is Diet Pepsi.
Woman: Do you have Diet Sierra Mist?
Me again: No, we only have Diet Pepsi.
Woman: Do you have Diet Coke?
Me: No, we only have pepsi products and the only diet drink we have is Diet Pepsi...and water.
Woman: So, no Diet Sprecher?
Me: No. We only have Diet Pepsi. Can I get you a Diet Pepsi?
I pondered whether I had accidently lapsed into speaking Hawaiian. Only I don't know how to speak Hawaiian. I always meant to learn...
Man: Honey, just get water.
Woman: Ok, I'll have a water with no ice and two lemons on the side.
As I'm walking away from the table, another hostess hurries up: "Brent, you're supposed to have a 15-top there in 15 minutes. You have to move them."
Now, for those who don't know, all the tables in our (and most sit-down full service) restaurant are plotted out and reserved on a Saturday night. It's busy. There are reservations. That's why we don't post a "Seat Yourself" sign. That's why you can't decide there's a nicer table in the restaurant and just sit down at it. It's not George Webb here.
So I walk up to the table with their drink orders and before setting them down sidle up to the man who looks like the ringleader.
Me: "Sir, I'm going to have to move you to another table..."
Man (angrily): "What? Why? We've been moved twice already."
Me: "Really? Let me check with the hostess to see if we have any other open tables."
Man (beginning to hyperventilate): "We made a reservation for the Pope table two weeks ago but your reservationist lost it."
Me (inwardly): Are we now the last stop on the short bus line? Did he really say reservationist?
Hostess: They were seated at another table. They must have moved. Nothing else is open. Maybe 32...but then you have to walk the farthest distance across the restaurant to your two tables."
Me: Wonderful. Superb. Lovely.
Hostess: Brent, you know we do this to you on purpose just to hear the funny shit that comes out of your mouth when you're stressed.
Me: Why do i get the whackjobs? I'm going to file worker's comp for all the lost IQ points.
Manager #1: Just pretend that you're doing community service.
Me: This isn't the fucking food depository. Do you see a sign that says Milwaukee fucking food depository? No. Hell no.
Manager #1: Would you like a hug?
Me: I hate you.
Me: "Sir, I can move you back to the table you were originally seated at."
Man: "No. It's too loud over there."
Now, the reason many people come to our humble restaurant is it's a LOUD place, informal and fun. You're supposed to have too much wine. You're supposed to laugh and holler and whoop, loudly. You're supposed to bring your bachelorette party with the penis straws and the naughty scavenger hunt lists (I SWEAR that's why I keep a condom in my pouch...okay, that didn't come out right.)
Me: "Sir, all of our tables are set aside for reservations. The table you're sitting at now is going to be seated in 15 minutes."
Eventually they were moved to another table, after complaining that they were moved twice. First: Maybe that's why a hostess shows you to a table to begin with. In fact, I'm sure of it. Second: Our Pope's tables on Saturdays starting aroud 4 pm have a two week waiting list and NOBODY takes a Saturday reservation for that table for less than 10 people. So, while you may have talked to a reservationist, it wasn't one that works at our restaurant. Third: Reservationist is not a word.
Total Bill: $115 - $10 coupon = $112 (I have no idea...none at all. That's what the printed bill said.) Total tip: $12.
Table #3: Became other server's Table #3. Apparently, and I swear this is true, they didn't like the shape of their tables. "We just don't like the way it's...look at that. A table shouldn't be shaped like that." I'm not even going to bother explaining how a table is shaped.
At that point, I just started laughing at myself in that Twelve-Monkeys-I'm-laughing-at-that-other-voice-shut-up-no-i-don't-like-in-my-head kind of way. The woman looked at me. I looked at the air conditioning vent. I smiled. I nodded. A hostess led the woman away. A couple that had just been sat at one of my other tables looked at me. I looked at them. I smiled. The young woman smiled back.
Young woman: "Have all your tables been like that so far?"
Me: "Yes. Yes they have. Do you have a coupon?"
Young woman: "Who uses a coupon in a restaurant like this on a Saturday night?"
Me: "I love you."
Young man laughing: "Are you going to be okay?"
Me: "What can you get me to drink?"
Young woman: "I used to work as a server downtown. I feel your pain."
Me: "I love you."
So, I found a couple of blogs by and for waiters, servers and bartenders. HILARIOUS. Disturbing at times, but hilarious. We server-type people have some funny ass stories. Just a few just from this weekend.
Saturday (aka: the day karma kicked me in the ass)
Table #1: Five minutes after I arrive and halfway through a bite of ravioli, Hostess Stacie (ravishingly beautiful blog reader) informs me that I can have an 8-top at the Kitchen Table if i can clear and set it in 5 minutes. 10 minutes later, as the guests are seating, I'm handed a note that says the party is celebrating a 90th birthday party and a 30th wedding anniversary. Ordinarily I'd be happy. But, when half the people showed up in t-shirts and the daughter crawled under the table to sit in the booth seats facing out, I started to worry. I'm a judgemental asshole at work...this much I know. So, I gave the benefit of the doubt.
Their order: 8 waters with lemons and/or limes, 1 cup of coffee, a small miller lite and a kiddie cocktail + a large salad to start ("Do you bring out bread for free?"= not a good sign)
An hour and a half, fifteen million water refills, a birthday singing, a sincere congratulation and a search for a manager to take $10 off the meal because of a coupon (using a coupon for someone's 90th birthday and 30th wedding anniversary = even worse sign), the bill comes to $88. ($11/person vs the usual $25+/person). They hand me cash, thank me very much, tell me they had a great time, promise to come back, etc etc. I count the cash. $92. I count it a second time. $92. I ask Gloria, my wait assistant, to count it. $92. I hand Gloria the $4 tip and ask her to stab me in whichever temple she wants. She takes the $4 and walks away. Of course. I deduct $4 from my declared tips in my version of a tax writeoff for donating my time to people who make the short bus look like Air Force One.
Table #2: Five minutes after the initial drink order was set down on #1, I noticed that I had been seated in my section. A nice big 7-top. Drink orders...wine, mixed drinks...things are looking up. Then...
Woman: What kind of beer do you have on tap? (I love a woman who can down a 22 oz tap beer)
Me: MGD, Miller Lite, Sprecher Amber, Leine's Red, Leine's Creamy Dark, Budweiser, Moretti and Sprecher Root Beer.
Woman: Do you have Diet Sprecher?
Me: No ma'am, the only diet drink we have is Diet Pepsi.
Woman: Do you have Diet Sierra Mist?
Me again: No, we only have Diet Pepsi.
Woman: Do you have Diet Coke?
Me: No, we only have pepsi products and the only diet drink we have is Diet Pepsi...and water.
Woman: So, no Diet Sprecher?
Me: No. We only have Diet Pepsi. Can I get you a Diet Pepsi?
I pondered whether I had accidently lapsed into speaking Hawaiian. Only I don't know how to speak Hawaiian. I always meant to learn...
Man: Honey, just get water.
Woman: Ok, I'll have a water with no ice and two lemons on the side.
As I'm walking away from the table, another hostess hurries up: "Brent, you're supposed to have a 15-top there in 15 minutes. You have to move them."
Now, for those who don't know, all the tables in our (and most sit-down full service) restaurant are plotted out and reserved on a Saturday night. It's busy. There are reservations. That's why we don't post a "Seat Yourself" sign. That's why you can't decide there's a nicer table in the restaurant and just sit down at it. It's not George Webb here.
So I walk up to the table with their drink orders and before setting them down sidle up to the man who looks like the ringleader.
Me: "Sir, I'm going to have to move you to another table..."
Man (angrily): "What? Why? We've been moved twice already."
Me: "Really? Let me check with the hostess to see if we have any other open tables."
Man (beginning to hyperventilate): "We made a reservation for the Pope table two weeks ago but your reservationist lost it."
Me (inwardly): Are we now the last stop on the short bus line? Did he really say reservationist?
Hostess: They were seated at another table. They must have moved. Nothing else is open. Maybe 32...but then you have to walk the farthest distance across the restaurant to your two tables."
Me: Wonderful. Superb. Lovely.
Hostess: Brent, you know we do this to you on purpose just to hear the funny shit that comes out of your mouth when you're stressed.
Me: Why do i get the whackjobs? I'm going to file worker's comp for all the lost IQ points.
Manager #1: Just pretend that you're doing community service.
Me: This isn't the fucking food depository. Do you see a sign that says Milwaukee fucking food depository? No. Hell no.
Manager #1: Would you like a hug?
Me: I hate you.
Me: "Sir, I can move you back to the table you were originally seated at."
Man: "No. It's too loud over there."
Now, the reason many people come to our humble restaurant is it's a LOUD place, informal and fun. You're supposed to have too much wine. You're supposed to laugh and holler and whoop, loudly. You're supposed to bring your bachelorette party with the penis straws and the naughty scavenger hunt lists (I SWEAR that's why I keep a condom in my pouch...okay, that didn't come out right.)
Me: "Sir, all of our tables are set aside for reservations. The table you're sitting at now is going to be seated in 15 minutes."
Eventually they were moved to another table, after complaining that they were moved twice. First: Maybe that's why a hostess shows you to a table to begin with. In fact, I'm sure of it. Second: Our Pope's tables on Saturdays starting aroud 4 pm have a two week waiting list and NOBODY takes a Saturday reservation for that table for less than 10 people. So, while you may have talked to a reservationist, it wasn't one that works at our restaurant. Third: Reservationist is not a word.
Total Bill: $115 - $10 coupon = $112 (I have no idea...none at all. That's what the printed bill said.) Total tip: $12.
Table #3: Became other server's Table #3. Apparently, and I swear this is true, they didn't like the shape of their tables. "We just don't like the way it's...look at that. A table shouldn't be shaped like that." I'm not even going to bother explaining how a table is shaped.
At that point, I just started laughing at myself in that Twelve-Monkeys-I'm-laughing-at-that-other-voice-shut-up-no-i-don't-like-in-my-head kind of way. The woman looked at me. I looked at the air conditioning vent. I smiled. I nodded. A hostess led the woman away. A couple that had just been sat at one of my other tables looked at me. I looked at them. I smiled. The young woman smiled back.
Young woman: "Have all your tables been like that so far?"
Me: "Yes. Yes they have. Do you have a coupon?"
Young woman: "Who uses a coupon in a restaurant like this on a Saturday night?"
Me: "I love you."
Young man laughing: "Are you going to be okay?"
Me: "What can you get me to drink?"
Young woman: "I used to work as a server downtown. I feel your pain."
Me: "I love you."
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Hypothetically speaking...
If your Mom/Dad showed up at your apartment with no warning, what would you do...first?
98% - hide condoms/drugs/beer/porn
60% - FREAK OUT...no time to do anything else
42% - throw as many things as possible in the closet
33% - Febreeze and air freshener every cubic inch
1.9% - HIDE
2.5% - shove your trick out the back door.
.73% - scream like a ninny sissy fairy
(Margin of Error +/- 100%)
When I was at the U of Illinois, some of my friends were paranoid about the possibility that their parents would decide to drive the 30 - 150 miles to visit them for the weekend...on the spur of the moment. It was an ever-present threat.
I never really had to worry. Mom and Dad were 4,000 miles, two planes and a rental car away. They would always visit on designated weekends where everyone was on their best behavior and everything was clean. Not a problem. And, partly by design.
So, much to my shock and surprise, my roommate knocked on my door this afternoon...
"Your dad is downstairs," said Chris.
"What are you talking about? No he's not," I replied incredulously.
"He says he's your dad."
Of course, it was my dad. Apparently he was really worried about this little car insurance problem I'm about to have...which I took care of, switching from USAA to Progressive (my premium payment drops by literally 750%). Only I hadn't told him about it and it's been more than difficult to get me on the phone recently. And...I think it's also true...my mom's side of the family is driving my dad nuts and he wanted a little time away...4,500 miles and five time zones away.
Every once in awhile, one (or a few) of my aunts and uncles goes a little nutty and either disowns, kicks out or otherwise shuns some member of the family for a time. It's like The Joy Luck Club without the sentimental flashbacks or The Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood without the happy ending. There's the uncle who married a white woman. There's the cousin who dated black men. There's the cousin whose fiance moved into the apartment her parents were paying for. There's the cousin who was forced to choose between being welcomed back into the village and the potential fiance that didn't properly ask her parents if he could marry her. Nutjobs, I tell you.
I'll never forget the question put to me some years ago at a 50-family-member Christmas dinner... "You're not dating a WHITE GIRL are you? Look at "Dan" he only dates proper Japanese girls."
Now, every self-respecting homo has a witty response to this type of interrogation. Usually something like (in order of appropriateness):
"Of course not..."
"In a manner of speaking."
"Kind of, in the right light...(insert polite chuckling)."
"Have you met me before?"
"Has anyone seen Telemundo recently? It's simply fabulous."
"That's the last thing you should be worrying about."
"So, how's (insert closest-related disowned family member)?"
"Only when he's not in drag."
"Of course not...I'm a big fucking homo you f-cking moron. Does anyone else want some jello?"
"Well, my boyfriend takes it up the ass like I imagine a white girl does. Does that still count?"
"(Insert favorite scene from When Animals Attack)."
Alas, I said nothing at that particular time. I'm sure it'll come up again.
Spending time with certain branches of my mom's family tree is like...well...Dante's Hell, but not as pleasant or well-mapped.
So back to Dad showing up at my doorstep in Milwaukee.
There''s always some shock and confusion that sets in. Spur of the moment travel from Hawaii to Milwaukee just doesn't happen. Unless it's me, but even escape plans are...well...planned to some degree. I felt so horribly horribly bad that my Dad had so totally stressed out that he felt it necessary to spend all that money to come to Milwaukee for something I had already handled. I was close to tears, which doesn't happen often.
But, he told me that I'm his son and he's my dad and that he's really happy to see me and see that I'm doing well. I gave him the tour of Milwaukee, which takes about 30 minutes in traffic. I showed him the places I've worked, the places I've lived, the school I went to for a time. When he left to go back to his hotel, he told me he was really happy to see how well everything's worked out for me in Milwaukee.
Tomorrow (or today) we're gonna drive to Madison.
98% - hide condoms/drugs/beer/porn
60% - FREAK OUT...no time to do anything else
42% - throw as many things as possible in the closet
33% - Febreeze and air freshener every cubic inch
1.9% - HIDE
2.5% - shove your trick out the back door.
.73% - scream like a ninny sissy fairy
(Margin of Error +/- 100%)
When I was at the U of Illinois, some of my friends were paranoid about the possibility that their parents would decide to drive the 30 - 150 miles to visit them for the weekend...on the spur of the moment. It was an ever-present threat.
I never really had to worry. Mom and Dad were 4,000 miles, two planes and a rental car away. They would always visit on designated weekends where everyone was on their best behavior and everything was clean. Not a problem. And, partly by design.
So, much to my shock and surprise, my roommate knocked on my door this afternoon...
"Your dad is downstairs," said Chris.
"What are you talking about? No he's not," I replied incredulously.
"He says he's your dad."
Of course, it was my dad. Apparently he was really worried about this little car insurance problem I'm about to have...which I took care of, switching from USAA to Progressive (my premium payment drops by literally 750%). Only I hadn't told him about it and it's been more than difficult to get me on the phone recently. And...I think it's also true...my mom's side of the family is driving my dad nuts and he wanted a little time away...4,500 miles and five time zones away.
Every once in awhile, one (or a few) of my aunts and uncles goes a little nutty and either disowns, kicks out or otherwise shuns some member of the family for a time. It's like The Joy Luck Club without the sentimental flashbacks or The Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood without the happy ending. There's the uncle who married a white woman. There's the cousin who dated black men. There's the cousin whose fiance moved into the apartment her parents were paying for. There's the cousin who was forced to choose between being welcomed back into the village and the potential fiance that didn't properly ask her parents if he could marry her. Nutjobs, I tell you.
I'll never forget the question put to me some years ago at a 50-family-member Christmas dinner... "You're not dating a WHITE GIRL are you? Look at "Dan" he only dates proper Japanese girls."
Now, every self-respecting homo has a witty response to this type of interrogation. Usually something like (in order of appropriateness):
"Of course not..."
"In a manner of speaking."
"Kind of, in the right light...(insert polite chuckling)."
"Have you met me before?"
"Has anyone seen Telemundo recently? It's simply fabulous."
"That's the last thing you should be worrying about."
"So, how's (insert closest-related disowned family member)?"
"Only when he's not in drag."
"Of course not...I'm a big fucking homo you f-cking moron. Does anyone else want some jello?"
"Well, my boyfriend takes it up the ass like I imagine a white girl does. Does that still count?"
"(Insert favorite scene from When Animals Attack)."
Alas, I said nothing at that particular time. I'm sure it'll come up again.
Spending time with certain branches of my mom's family tree is like...well...Dante's Hell, but not as pleasant or well-mapped.
So back to Dad showing up at my doorstep in Milwaukee.
There''s always some shock and confusion that sets in. Spur of the moment travel from Hawaii to Milwaukee just doesn't happen. Unless it's me, but even escape plans are...well...planned to some degree. I felt so horribly horribly bad that my Dad had so totally stressed out that he felt it necessary to spend all that money to come to Milwaukee for something I had already handled. I was close to tears, which doesn't happen often.
But, he told me that I'm his son and he's my dad and that he's really happy to see me and see that I'm doing well. I gave him the tour of Milwaukee, which takes about 30 minutes in traffic. I showed him the places I've worked, the places I've lived, the school I went to for a time. When he left to go back to his hotel, he told me he was really happy to see how well everything's worked out for me in Milwaukee.
Tomorrow (or today) we're gonna drive to Madison.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Mary Poppins got her message across but she did it in a nice little musical number...
Gave away all the weekday shifts this week. Not being able to move my neck after a 6-hour shift combined with white trash that thinks 11% is a GREAT tip equals Bitchy Brent. So, when friends called and asked to take my shifts, I acquiesced...all but begrudgingly. "Yes, sure, absolutely, take it take it take it...do you want to work my Thursday too?" I can't wait until the fall rush comes. In the meantime I've gotten a lot done:
- Worked on all the sleep I missed pulling all-nighters twice a week in college.
- Got another spot out of the hardwood floor in my room
- Finally figured out my hardwood floor doesn't have a finish layer.
- Discovered that Yoplait Chocolate Mousse Style (Style? really?) Whips may be the most horrid tasting food item every created.
- Memorized Kathy Griffin's standup act.
- Improved my shaving technique. (Is it funny that I always hear Kyan's voice in my head..."Slow down buddy, that's a knife next to your jugular.")
- Listed things my parents kept from me: jello, driving stick-shift, shaving with a razor
- Listed things my parents didn't encourage but didn't care if I did figuring I would either not like them or prove Darwin's Natural Selection theory: alcohol, pot, Hawaiian Punch, gambling, shoplifting, asbestos...not a complete list.
- Listed other reasons I like going to Alterra On The Lake for coffee, reading and writing: the yogurt/granola/fruit cup, the dissolved sugar water, the indoor ambience, the shirtless tennis players across the street, the shirtless roller bladers, the shirtless bikers, the shirtless runners, the shirtless walkers, the shirtless beachgoers, and the impending eating disorder.
- Listed things I want to buy with my paycheck from volleyball camps: a new bed (why must Ikea be so...far...away?), matching 500 thread count blankets, a digital camera, a recordable DVD, the Garden State DVD, the Garden State soundtrack, a shirtless runner (where the hell is the strike through key on this thing?), actual furniture for the living room, new sluttly t-shirts to wear out to the bars.
- Listed the things I've listed.
- Worked on all the sleep I missed pulling all-nighters twice a week in college.
- Got another spot out of the hardwood floor in my room
- Finally figured out my hardwood floor doesn't have a finish layer.
- Discovered that Yoplait Chocolate Mousse Style (Style? really?) Whips may be the most horrid tasting food item every created.
- Memorized Kathy Griffin's standup act.
- Improved my shaving technique. (Is it funny that I always hear Kyan's voice in my head..."Slow down buddy, that's a knife next to your jugular.")
- Listed things my parents kept from me: jello, driving stick-shift, shaving with a razor
- Listed things my parents didn't encourage but didn't care if I did figuring I would either not like them or prove Darwin's Natural Selection theory: alcohol, pot, Hawaiian Punch, gambling, shoplifting, asbestos...not a complete list.
- Listed other reasons I like going to Alterra On The Lake for coffee, reading and writing: the yogurt/granola/fruit cup, the dissolved sugar water, the indoor ambience, the shirtless tennis players across the street, the shirtless roller bladers, the shirtless bikers, the shirtless runners, the shirtless walkers, the shirtless beachgoers, and the impending eating disorder.
- Listed things I want to buy with my paycheck from volleyball camps: a new bed (why must Ikea be so...far...away?), matching 500 thread count blankets, a digital camera, a recordable DVD, the Garden State DVD, the Garden State soundtrack, a shirtless runner (where the hell is the strike through key on this thing?), actual furniture for the living room, new sluttly t-shirts to wear out to the bars.
- Listed the things I've listed.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Honey, I don't read...I'm read to.
Done with a few reads and re-reads in the past couple of weeks and my head is buzzing...buzzing I say.
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling
I'm a HUGE Harry Potter fan. I've yet to buy a Harry Potter book on anything but the opening day, although I'm not the kind of guy who reserves ahead of time...hell, I don't do anything ahead of time, so who am I kidding? (See previous DMV posts) Not to give anything away, but I did NOT see what happens at the end coming. And I'm a little perturbed. A little saddened. A little betrayed. And while I'm at it, I'm a little peeved that Ginny Weasley is now the whore of Hogwarts. Not to be judgmental and all but...she's a big ho. Attention hikers all roads lead to Mount Ginny. Now, Oliver Wood...meeooowww. Is he just British or is he gay? Yeah, I'm a big dork.
How I Learned To Snap by Kirk Read
Now one of my favorite books of all time. Read recounts his middle and high school years as a writer, music afficianado, fashion guru, theater writer, budding homo and general wise-ass making his way through the world with a little style and a lot of dignity. I've read this book 2 or 3 times in the last year or so, each time in a single sit-down. It's funny. It's witty. It stings and barbs. It hugs and cuddles. It resonates with every boy who ever struggled to understand the world and how to live in it. My favorite quote comes from Read describing the older gay boy who showed what it meant to live:
"The bravest of angels often travel with dignity as their only weapon. Jesse also packed a knife throughout high school, just in case."
Dr. Kinsey and the Institute for Sex Research by Wardell B. Pomeroy
After reading this book, the Kinsey movie was a letdown. A big letdown. Dr. Pomeroy, one of the research assistants on the Human Behavior series, describes the enigmatic character that was Dr. Alfred Kinsey; he does it not so much as an extended list of characteristics and motivations, but by recounting vignettes that begin to expose the core of the man who legitimized discussion of the diversity in all things sexual. Originally written in 1972, it does leave out certain parts of Kinsey's life that seem to have been common knowledge among the people, like Pomeroy, who were closest to Kinsey: the same-sex experimentation/experiences among the staff and their families, Kinsey's motivations (if only secondary to his scientifc ones) to explain and, in some ways, justify/normalize his own homosexual sexual drives. But, considering the irrational and baseless accusations that have been leveled at Kinsey's work from then until now (which not coincidentally are similar to, if not the same as, the "arguments" against homosexuality), I'm not the least bit surprised at the missing pieces.
The World Turned: Essays on Gay History, Politics and Culture by John D'Emilio
A compilation of writing from Dr. D'Emilio that reflects on the successes and struggles simplified into the slogan-esque term "The Gay 90s." What happened between the 1950s and the 1990s carrying over into the 2000s? No five-word soundbites here. Here's a quote from the introduction that stuck in my mind as I read each part:
"If I had to summarize succintly the nature of the difference between the present moment and the Stonewall era...pretty much every gay man or lesbian...came of age believing that we were the only person like us in the world, and that what we were was not good. Today, when I listen to the undergraduates in my...courses, I hear something very different. However much my queer students may be struggling with their emerging identities, and however uninformed about gay life my heterosexual students may be, all of them begin with the assumption that gays and lesbians are very much a part of the world in which they are reaching maturity. It's a starting point much to be preferred to the conditions that prevailed a generation ago. It offers more openings for dialogue, more possibilities for continuing change, more hope for the future. And this transition came about in the course of the 1990s."
Now, I'm onto some new reads:
The End of Gay and the Death of Heterosexuality by Bret Archer
In The Game: Gay Athletes and the Cult of Masculinity by Eric Anderson
Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them by Al Franken
Life Outside by Michelangelo Signorile
Beyond Queer: Challenging Gay Left Orthodoxy edited by Bruce Bawer
So, I swear, when I'm sitting at a coffee shop with a big cup of coffee and an open book, I'm not there to cruise. Well...everything in moderation, I guess. And, I've found a new coffee shop since Comet was turned into a bar/restaurant: Alterra on the Lake. I can work on the tan, do some good reading, eat something almost healthy and...yes, I'll admit it, watch the hottie shirtless runners go by.
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling
I'm a HUGE Harry Potter fan. I've yet to buy a Harry Potter book on anything but the opening day, although I'm not the kind of guy who reserves ahead of time...hell, I don't do anything ahead of time, so who am I kidding? (See previous DMV posts) Not to give anything away, but I did NOT see what happens at the end coming. And I'm a little perturbed. A little saddened. A little betrayed. And while I'm at it, I'm a little peeved that Ginny Weasley is now the whore of Hogwarts. Not to be judgmental and all but...she's a big ho. Attention hikers all roads lead to Mount Ginny. Now, Oliver Wood...meeooowww. Is he just British or is he gay? Yeah, I'm a big dork.
How I Learned To Snap by Kirk Read
Now one of my favorite books of all time. Read recounts his middle and high school years as a writer, music afficianado, fashion guru, theater writer, budding homo and general wise-ass making his way through the world with a little style and a lot of dignity. I've read this book 2 or 3 times in the last year or so, each time in a single sit-down. It's funny. It's witty. It stings and barbs. It hugs and cuddles. It resonates with every boy who ever struggled to understand the world and how to live in it. My favorite quote comes from Read describing the older gay boy who showed what it meant to live:
"The bravest of angels often travel with dignity as their only weapon. Jesse also packed a knife throughout high school, just in case."
Dr. Kinsey and the Institute for Sex Research by Wardell B. Pomeroy
After reading this book, the Kinsey movie was a letdown. A big letdown. Dr. Pomeroy, one of the research assistants on the Human Behavior series, describes the enigmatic character that was Dr. Alfred Kinsey; he does it not so much as an extended list of characteristics and motivations, but by recounting vignettes that begin to expose the core of the man who legitimized discussion of the diversity in all things sexual. Originally written in 1972, it does leave out certain parts of Kinsey's life that seem to have been common knowledge among the people, like Pomeroy, who were closest to Kinsey: the same-sex experimentation/experiences among the staff and their families, Kinsey's motivations (if only secondary to his scientifc ones) to explain and, in some ways, justify/normalize his own homosexual sexual drives. But, considering the irrational and baseless accusations that have been leveled at Kinsey's work from then until now (which not coincidentally are similar to, if not the same as, the "arguments" against homosexuality), I'm not the least bit surprised at the missing pieces.
The World Turned: Essays on Gay History, Politics and Culture by John D'Emilio
A compilation of writing from Dr. D'Emilio that reflects on the successes and struggles simplified into the slogan-esque term "The Gay 90s." What happened between the 1950s and the 1990s carrying over into the 2000s? No five-word soundbites here. Here's a quote from the introduction that stuck in my mind as I read each part:
"If I had to summarize succintly the nature of the difference between the present moment and the Stonewall era...pretty much every gay man or lesbian...came of age believing that we were the only person like us in the world, and that what we were was not good. Today, when I listen to the undergraduates in my...courses, I hear something very different. However much my queer students may be struggling with their emerging identities, and however uninformed about gay life my heterosexual students may be, all of them begin with the assumption that gays and lesbians are very much a part of the world in which they are reaching maturity. It's a starting point much to be preferred to the conditions that prevailed a generation ago. It offers more openings for dialogue, more possibilities for continuing change, more hope for the future. And this transition came about in the course of the 1990s."
Now, I'm onto some new reads:
The End of Gay and the Death of Heterosexuality by Bret Archer
In The Game: Gay Athletes and the Cult of Masculinity by Eric Anderson
Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them by Al Franken
Life Outside by Michelangelo Signorile
Beyond Queer: Challenging Gay Left Orthodoxy edited by Bruce Bawer
So, I swear, when I'm sitting at a coffee shop with a big cup of coffee and an open book, I'm not there to cruise. Well...everything in moderation, I guess. And, I've found a new coffee shop since Comet was turned into a bar/restaurant: Alterra on the Lake. I can work on the tan, do some good reading, eat something almost healthy and...yes, I'll admit it, watch the hottie shirtless runners go by.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
What I learned in Lansing Pt 2: That's Mr. F*g to you...
I love Lansing...well, East Lansing. I go back there at least a couple of times a year, three weeks in the summer for camps, usually once to visit friends and go to a game and/or once or twice for tournaments with teams I'm coaching. It's fun. It's relaxed. It's safe. There's always the threat of a riot. Them Spartans love to riot. And break stuff. It makes Stonewall look like a gallery opening. Tear gas can be fun in the right context.
For the homos it's a pretty sweet setup with a few minor flaws from the usual nutjobs and the usual moans about too little to do and not enough places to go. Hell, Saugutuck is the gay city of the midwest. If cities can have sexual orientations, that one is gayer than a hot pink sweater on Clay Aiken's dog...or oddly shaped ferret...your choice.
In the ten years (ouch!) I've been going to East Lansing, I've yet to meet a woman who didn't come out of the womb looking for a homo to cuddle with.
Example #1: Every women's volleyball player that I've ever known. Hell, they want to go to the gay bars more than I do. Can I hear marketing to the gay community? They wear skin-tight tops with spandex to work that attract gay men more than Cirque du Soleil.
Example #2: I got dragged to the Riv by a friend for his roommate's birthday. Jason's roommate was a petite little thing with big boobs and...just picture your typical sorority girl that was too good for Greek life. She wasn't drunk yet, so I didn't feel bad buying her a shot. I gave her a hug, wished her a happy birthday, handed over the shot and then....realized I was the only guy in the bar whose eyes weren't glued to her chest. Having not been in a Big Ten manly-man bar since my last jaunt to Murphy's in good ole Champaign in 2001, I was a little out of practice. I tried to turn the flame off and considering sidling up to the nearest wall to wipe some of its smeared testosterone onto me. Of course she noticed it and I could see in her eyes the thought formulating..."You're a big homo..." "Will you be my best friend?" I tried to distract the inevitable with a strategy that Jason and his roommate had cooked up. "We went to high school together...You don't remember me do you," I asked. It didn't work. How was I supposed to know only Jews lived in West Bloomfield?
The only time in the 6 years I've been going to gay bars (or being "out") in Lansing that anything has ever happened was this summer. I was walking into Spiral to watch the fourth-to-the-last Queer As folk when two kids on bikes rode by and yelled out, "That's a gay bar." My, I thought, the Michigan Visitor's Bureau has kids riding around identifying buildings for people? I found it informative and helpful. I thanked them.
On my last afternoon in East Lansing, I had to go back to a Hawaiian BBQ place in a strip mall south of campus...L&Ls. Hawaiian plate lunches in central Michigan? Yeah, pretty f-ed up. I dragged some other coaches/friends and headed over there yet again free of guilt. I burned about 5,000+ calories a day for three weeks, a little heart attack on a styrofoam plate was most deserved. The four of us parked, walked in, ate, talked, laughed and then hit the inevitable wall where sitting upright becomes tiresome.
Walking out to my car, I saw something I could only register as a prank. Written in chalk on the ground in front of my car was: "Fag" with an arrow pointing toward my license plate. I'd been drive-by chalked. Or walked-by chalked. Or, for the hate crimes statistics bureau...Just Chalked.
The very first thought that went through my head, I swear, was, "Who the hell carries chalk around?" My very next thought: "What beautiful block lettering." Hell, even the lines of the arrow were straighter than Pat Robertson's outlook. Mike, Jason and Josh looked like they were watching me deep throat a banana...again (ha! as if.) Incredulity and curiosity. They swore they didn't do it. I didn't have time for that. I was trying to think of a witty comeback while simulatenously trying to figure out why my navy blue toyota corolla looked gay enough to get Chalked. Now, I know part of my license plate says DVA. But, I SWEAR that the damn Wisconsin DMV gave it to me randomly. I'm not that cheesy.
All I came up with was, "That's Mr. Fag to you. And what nice lettering you have."
For the homos it's a pretty sweet setup with a few minor flaws from the usual nutjobs and the usual moans about too little to do and not enough places to go. Hell, Saugutuck is the gay city of the midwest. If cities can have sexual orientations, that one is gayer than a hot pink sweater on Clay Aiken's dog...or oddly shaped ferret...your choice.
In the ten years (ouch!) I've been going to East Lansing, I've yet to meet a woman who didn't come out of the womb looking for a homo to cuddle with.
Example #1: Every women's volleyball player that I've ever known. Hell, they want to go to the gay bars more than I do. Can I hear marketing to the gay community? They wear skin-tight tops with spandex to work that attract gay men more than Cirque du Soleil.
Example #2: I got dragged to the Riv by a friend for his roommate's birthday. Jason's roommate was a petite little thing with big boobs and...just picture your typical sorority girl that was too good for Greek life. She wasn't drunk yet, so I didn't feel bad buying her a shot. I gave her a hug, wished her a happy birthday, handed over the shot and then....realized I was the only guy in the bar whose eyes weren't glued to her chest. Having not been in a Big Ten manly-man bar since my last jaunt to Murphy's in good ole Champaign in 2001, I was a little out of practice. I tried to turn the flame off and considering sidling up to the nearest wall to wipe some of its smeared testosterone onto me. Of course she noticed it and I could see in her eyes the thought formulating..."You're a big homo..." "Will you be my best friend?" I tried to distract the inevitable with a strategy that Jason and his roommate had cooked up. "We went to high school together...You don't remember me do you," I asked. It didn't work. How was I supposed to know only Jews lived in West Bloomfield?
The only time in the 6 years I've been going to gay bars (or being "out") in Lansing that anything has ever happened was this summer. I was walking into Spiral to watch the fourth-to-the-last Queer As folk when two kids on bikes rode by and yelled out, "That's a gay bar." My, I thought, the Michigan Visitor's Bureau has kids riding around identifying buildings for people? I found it informative and helpful. I thanked them.
On my last afternoon in East Lansing, I had to go back to a Hawaiian BBQ place in a strip mall south of campus...L&Ls. Hawaiian plate lunches in central Michigan? Yeah, pretty f-ed up. I dragged some other coaches/friends and headed over there yet again free of guilt. I burned about 5,000+ calories a day for three weeks, a little heart attack on a styrofoam plate was most deserved. The four of us parked, walked in, ate, talked, laughed and then hit the inevitable wall where sitting upright becomes tiresome.
Walking out to my car, I saw something I could only register as a prank. Written in chalk on the ground in front of my car was: "Fag" with an arrow pointing toward my license plate. I'd been drive-by chalked. Or walked-by chalked. Or, for the hate crimes statistics bureau...Just Chalked.
The very first thought that went through my head, I swear, was, "Who the hell carries chalk around?" My very next thought: "What beautiful block lettering." Hell, even the lines of the arrow were straighter than Pat Robertson's outlook. Mike, Jason and Josh looked like they were watching me deep throat a banana...again (ha! as if.) Incredulity and curiosity. They swore they didn't do it. I didn't have time for that. I was trying to think of a witty comeback while simulatenously trying to figure out why my navy blue toyota corolla looked gay enough to get Chalked. Now, I know part of my license plate says DVA. But, I SWEAR that the damn Wisconsin DMV gave it to me randomly. I'm not that cheesy.
All I came up with was, "That's Mr. Fag to you. And what nice lettering you have."
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
What I learned in Lansing, Pt 1
Since nothing new really happens in Milwaukee (except getting drunk and working), I guess I'll reflect on my little jaunt to Lansing, Michigan. I've been thinking of a title, possibly:
"All I Really Need To Know I Learned At...Michigan State volleyball camp."
Don't piss off the drag queens. If you make nice with the head drag queen after she chases one of your friends across the dance floor with a high heel over her head for making out with HER shot boy...you get invited to a pool party. A pool party? A pool party! At 3 am. When you have to be at work to coach little 14 year old girls at 8:00. A pool party.
OR
"This One Time AT...Volleyball Camp..."
I'm not going to lie, I was a little excited to go to stripper night at X-Cel in downtown Lansing. Stripper night? Really? Yeah. Considering I was in Lansing to coach 12-18 year old girls during the day, it didn't seem quite right to go and watch strippers at night. But, I was assured that people don't really watch the strippers, it's just the night that lots of people go out and get all ho-ed out after the strippers. I was all about that.
There's something about going to a gay bar to watch strippers with 10 hottie women athletes that...makes me uneasy for a couple of reasons.
One..."the invasion mentality": Two years ago when my friend Maren and I went to Spiral in out-of-the-way Lansing, I got a quite shocking talking-to by one of the regulars about all the straight women who were "invading" the bar. Are you serious? WTF? First off, have you heard of Fruit Flies? (Maren doesn't like fag hag). Second, she's one of the nicest people anyone will ever meet. Third...SHE'S HOT. I would think that gay men in a smaller college town would be more than happy to have an entire team of athletes become fruit flies/fag hags...which they now are. Hell, two of them are majoring in Fashion Design at MSU...isn't being a fag hag a prerequisite for that?
Two..."is this a straight bar?": Now, at the point when five of said hottie fag hags pulled the two...count em, two...drinks out of my hand and dragged me onto the dance floor and acted out the wet dream of 20,000 straight Lansing college men, I should have been in heaven. But...alas, the pudenda and boobiges are not my thing. Not that I can't appreciate the boobiges. I can. And I do. But not in a gay bar...after strippers...with a whole bunch of hotties in non-Abercrombie sleevelesses meandering about.
And then...boom...they're gone. Like a Harry Potter character disapparating. That's when I saw the head drag queen storming across the dance floor with the high heel over her head chasing two of my friends. Now, that's not something I've ever seen in a bar, club or party...well, I've seen that at a party. Drama ensued.
Half and hour later, I found myself thinking: "This is a situation my parents never envisioned for my life." I was standing outside of a gay bar in Lansing, Michigan at 2:30 am helping a drag queen and a stripper retrieve a sparkly high heel out of a tree while helping one of my friends look for a crack whore that stole her purse while simultaneously getting directions to an afterhours pool party with Slurpees and pot. It's like the opening montage of a religious right video.
So this one time at volleyball camp...
More to come.
"All I Really Need To Know I Learned At...Michigan State volleyball camp."
Don't piss off the drag queens. If you make nice with the head drag queen after she chases one of your friends across the dance floor with a high heel over her head for making out with HER shot boy...you get invited to a pool party. A pool party? A pool party! At 3 am. When you have to be at work to coach little 14 year old girls at 8:00. A pool party.
OR
"This One Time AT...Volleyball Camp..."
I'm not going to lie, I was a little excited to go to stripper night at X-Cel in downtown Lansing. Stripper night? Really? Yeah. Considering I was in Lansing to coach 12-18 year old girls during the day, it didn't seem quite right to go and watch strippers at night. But, I was assured that people don't really watch the strippers, it's just the night that lots of people go out and get all ho-ed out after the strippers. I was all about that.
There's something about going to a gay bar to watch strippers with 10 hottie women athletes that...makes me uneasy for a couple of reasons.
One..."the invasion mentality": Two years ago when my friend Maren and I went to Spiral in out-of-the-way Lansing, I got a quite shocking talking-to by one of the regulars about all the straight women who were "invading" the bar. Are you serious? WTF? First off, have you heard of Fruit Flies? (Maren doesn't like fag hag). Second, she's one of the nicest people anyone will ever meet. Third...SHE'S HOT. I would think that gay men in a smaller college town would be more than happy to have an entire team of athletes become fruit flies/fag hags...which they now are. Hell, two of them are majoring in Fashion Design at MSU...isn't being a fag hag a prerequisite for that?
Two..."is this a straight bar?": Now, at the point when five of said hottie fag hags pulled the two...count em, two...drinks out of my hand and dragged me onto the dance floor and acted out the wet dream of 20,000 straight Lansing college men, I should have been in heaven. But...alas, the pudenda and boobiges are not my thing. Not that I can't appreciate the boobiges. I can. And I do. But not in a gay bar...after strippers...with a whole bunch of hotties in non-Abercrombie sleevelesses meandering about.
And then...boom...they're gone. Like a Harry Potter character disapparating. That's when I saw the head drag queen storming across the dance floor with the high heel over her head chasing two of my friends. Now, that's not something I've ever seen in a bar, club or party...well, I've seen that at a party. Drama ensued.
Half and hour later, I found myself thinking: "This is a situation my parents never envisioned for my life." I was standing outside of a gay bar in Lansing, Michigan at 2:30 am helping a drag queen and a stripper retrieve a sparkly high heel out of a tree while helping one of my friends look for a crack whore that stole her purse while simultaneously getting directions to an afterhours pool party with Slurpees and pot. It's like the opening montage of a religious right video.
So this one time at volleyball camp...
More to come.
Is it Tuesday?
So, yeah, I haven't blogged in awhile. I'm a bad blogger. A bad bad blogger. I've now decided that I'm going to blog at least every other day. We'll see how that goes.
Well, at the beginning of July, I headed over to ole East Lansing, Michigan and Michigan State University for what has become for me an annual pilgrimage. Six years ago I got hired to work summer volleyball camps after a friend of a friend referred me to the MSU assistant coach. As someone who was never really taught any kind of fundamentals, I was REALLY excited to learn from then head coach Chuck Erbe. Basically, Coach Erbe was and is one of the BEST coaches of volleyball fundamentals in the history of United States volleyball. Considering I learned how to play the sport watching men's and women's U of Hawaii volleyball on TV and listening to coaches who basically said, "Set better...pass better....serve better," I didn't have a lot of previous experience to fall back on when I became a coach.
I actually wasn't going to go back this summer because Coach Erbe and his staff retired/left. I didn't personally know anyone on the new staff, so I figured I'd take this summer off. But, I got an e-mail asking me to come back to Lansing to coach all four summer camps and I couldn't really turn it down. Stroked my ego a bit, it did. And a thousand plus dollars in the bank account is always a nice cushion.
A lot happened over the three weeks...a lot. From the drag queen chasing two of my friends across a dance floor with a high heel in her hand...to the drunken half-price wine night...to my semi-fan-club-of-16-year-old-girls...to the image of a 50 year old coach tucking her shirt into her bra seered into my brain...to the serious fat camp experience that it became...to almost being hit by lightning...yeah, a lot happened.
For now, I'm back in Milwaukee. Stuck for awhile. The boss isn't going to give me time off for quite some time, so I'm back to working 5-day weeks again. Oh woe is me, I know.
Well, at the beginning of July, I headed over to ole East Lansing, Michigan and Michigan State University for what has become for me an annual pilgrimage. Six years ago I got hired to work summer volleyball camps after a friend of a friend referred me to the MSU assistant coach. As someone who was never really taught any kind of fundamentals, I was REALLY excited to learn from then head coach Chuck Erbe. Basically, Coach Erbe was and is one of the BEST coaches of volleyball fundamentals in the history of United States volleyball. Considering I learned how to play the sport watching men's and women's U of Hawaii volleyball on TV and listening to coaches who basically said, "Set better...pass better....serve better," I didn't have a lot of previous experience to fall back on when I became a coach.
I actually wasn't going to go back this summer because Coach Erbe and his staff retired/left. I didn't personally know anyone on the new staff, so I figured I'd take this summer off. But, I got an e-mail asking me to come back to Lansing to coach all four summer camps and I couldn't really turn it down. Stroked my ego a bit, it did. And a thousand plus dollars in the bank account is always a nice cushion.
A lot happened over the three weeks...a lot. From the drag queen chasing two of my friends across a dance floor with a high heel in her hand...to the drunken half-price wine night...to my semi-fan-club-of-16-year-old-girls...to the image of a 50 year old coach tucking her shirt into her bra seered into my brain...to the serious fat camp experience that it became...to almost being hit by lightning...yeah, a lot happened.
For now, I'm back in Milwaukee. Stuck for awhile. The boss isn't going to give me time off for quite some time, so I'm back to working 5-day weeks again. Oh woe is me, I know.
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