Miss Manners, I am not...

When boredom looms in my life I get a little bitchy. Ok, a lot bitchy. The little things that I would probably brush off get on my nerves. At its extreme, I actually do or say something to express the normally internalized bitchiness.

It's kinda like that part in Wanda Syke's "Sick and Tired" when she talks about how "I don't give a fuck..." has become her personal mantra.

Paper or plastic? I don't give a fuck.
Box or soft? I don't give a fuck.
Would you like the dark or medium roast? I don't give a fuck.
Top or bottom? I don't give a...oops, TMI.

Giniqua, stop laughing and get off the floor. You're at work for goodness sake.

So yeah, I'm pretty bored. And bitchy. And, unfortunately for some lady -- who I'm sure didn't think she'd get a can of whoop-ass opened on her at the grocery store -- I expressed my bitchiness.

This morning I went to the Pick-N-Save across the street. As I was waiting in line at the customer service counter to buy a pack of cigs, there was this short stocky lady in a hideous winter coat standing in front of me. We were standing there together for a little more than 5 minutes because the lady at the front of the line couldn't quite grasp the idea of a discount only applying to 5 items when the signage says MAX 5.

I stood patiently and felt for the clerk. I remembered back to diners who were outraged because they couldn't use a $10 off coupon even though it had expired a year and a half earlier. Or the clueless assholes who would declare that their coffee didn't taste like a latte.

Seriously, the expiration date is printed on the front of the card. And really now, a latte is espresso and steamed milk, there's not a lot else to say.

As I'm waiting more than patiently, I notice that short stocky lady in hideous winter coat standing in front of me -- heretofor known as Tragic -- has turned around for at least the second time to stare at me.

And then she did it again.

It wasn't even that "I think I know you from somewhere" kind of stare. It wasn't that "I'm really just staring off into space and you happen to be in the sight-line" kind of stare. It was a full-on "is that a terrorist standing behind me as I board a plane" stare combined with a "what would Jesus do?" stare.

Now, I know that I live in an area that doesn't seem to attract/allow very many minorities. A few blocks north of me is Whitefish Bay, which I recently found out is nicknamed Whitepeople Bay.

I've been stared at before. Maybe it's because people don't think I speak English and therefor assume I can't see them stare. I don't really give a fuck. Most often it's kids who are trying to figure out what the hell I am.

Back to Tragic at the Pick-N-Save. The fourth time Tragic turned around to stare at me, my internal censor switched off and the internal became external.

Me: "Can I help you with something? Anything?"
Tragic: "...."
Me: "Usually staring at someone is considered just plain rude. Turning around to stare at someone is even ruder. Doing both of those things as many times as you have is incomprehensible to me."
Traigc: "I...dont'...uhh..."

I stared her down. Then I realized that the woman behind the counter was looking at me incredulously. Tragic walked up to the counter and asked to buy something or other. I walked up to register #2.

Me: "May I have a pack of Parliament Light 100s?"
Counter lady #2: "There you are, anything else?"
Me: "A mask of some sorts (motioning to my face). Apparently I need it..."

And then I turned to my left and stared down Tragic. She knew I was staring at her. She did that whole if-I-don't-look-at-the-mugger-he-won't-mug-me stare into the horizon directly in front of her.

As I was loading my groceries, I realized that after my little outburst I was the last person who should be lecturing on manners.

I really couldn't give a fuck.

Is that a sports arena?

Obviously, I voted today.

And I left my polling place with that dirty dirty slutty slutty feeling. Even tragic Winesha made fun of me.

I voted a straight party ticket for the first time. Ordinarily I'd say gay ole party ticket but it was a horrible day for Wisconsin gays.

I'm definitely an Independent. I always read up on candidates and issues before I head to the voting booth and usually have to bring a list into the booth with me. I've voted for Republicans. I've voted for Democrats. I wanted to vote for Nader the first time around. I didn't want to vote for Kerry. If given the choice, I wouldn't want to vote for Hillary Clinton -- Mr. Hillary Clinton notwithstanding.

A majority of Republican candidates in recent history have effectively communicated their vision and determination to achieve that vision. A majority of Democratic candidates have bumbled and wavered and shown an unwillingness to inspire, lead or - at the very least - grow a spine.

Then again...like Bill Maher said so eloquently...

While the Democrats have been the party of no ideas, the Republicans have been the party of really bad ideas. Economic and tax policy. Education. The environment. International relations. Disaster management. Urban policy. Medicare. Social Security. Social policy. Immigration and naturalization. Civil rights, privileges and issues of equality. Budget and debt. And -- lest I forget -- a determination to do away with that nagging system of checks and balances. And the Bill of Rights. And every Supreme Court decision since -- oh about -- 1789.

Seriously now. Anyone who half listened to their junior high social studies teacher or went to at least one of their Intro to Poli Sci classes in college -- you know, to get the syllabus -- should have raised an eyebrow every time a politican used the words "activist judges." Or "legalized torture." Maybe "held indefinitely without due process at the discretion of the President." At the very least, "conversations with God" should have flagged some concern. Even among the most faithful.

Democrats' responded to these confounding developments with a resounding...

... ... ... ... ...

...yeah, I don't know either...

But, the only way to vote against the American Inquisition has been to vote Democrat. And that makes me feel dirty. And slutty. Voting a straight Democratic party ticket makes that even worse. I might as well have gone commando in ripped jeans with a t-shirt that said "Pre-lubed."

I looked down the ballot and listened to my conscience for a bit. Attorney General. Police Chief. State Senate. I wanted to vote for a Republican, Independent and a Greener. I stared at the Police Chief section for the longest time.

In the end, I thought of a Republican Attorney General who says gays and lesbians should have "no special rights," a state legislator who speaks about "family values" in only exclusive rhetoric and a history of Police Chiefs who were overtly hostile toward Milwaukee's gay community. The differences between the Democratic and Republican candidates other positions are almost nil.

I filled in the straight Democrat arrow, shook my head and shoved my ballot quickly into the machine.

The constitutional amendment banning the recognition of same-sex relationships passed by a huge margin. The margin was so big that the decision was called with barely 3% of precincts reporting.

I could go on and on about all of these amendments, but common sense and logic hasn't seemed to work anywhere. Even in Hawaii. I guess it just hasn't been enough that both state and federal governments say I'm not a full and equal citizen. An overwhelming majority of people in my two home states had to make sure that I never will be.

All-Big Ten

Happy. Rested. Still unemployed. Not totally broke.

Not too shabby at all considering I'm still dealing with another one of them life changes.

The funny is still there. Especially after last weekend's little jaunt to Chicago.

Giniqua was in Chitown for a conference and I figured, "eh, what else am I doing?" Joe and the Roger were gracious as ever to host us, so I knew it was gonna be a good time for all. And Max - Joe's gay dog - was so excited to see me that he just pee-pee-ed on the floor when I walked in the apartment. After Max, it's hard to believe that anyone is really happy to see me unless they pee themselves with excitement. Then again, the sentiment would be nice but, you know, eww.

Andersonville was even gayer than I remember from the Gaymes. In July, I was kind of surprised to see a bank sign on Clark Street flash, "Welcome Gay Games." After less than a day soaking in the gayness this time around, I half expected to see a line of lesbians waiting for Mayor Daley to marry them in front of Ann Sather. Andyville would have been LESS gay if there were guys blowing each other on street corners. I knew there was a reason I was sad that N & J weren't there with us.

I had a little bit of a time finding the apartment at first. I was distracted by the realizations that cities can, in fact, have sexual orientations. I was blind. I didn't have brake pads. And, I was told the address was "5605" (changed to protect the innocent...from Joe. Ha, just kidding. Or, not). After parking my car, I walked north past 5601, then 5603, then...5609.

Mike, who could see me from the apartment, told me to open my eyes. I - apparently - yelled something like, "why don't you get to the back of the bus, bitch." Which didn't go over well with the people around me. Read the crowd, I didn't. Instead of telling me that the door to 5605 was - in fact - at 5611, Mike giggled himself into a piddle.

Fortunately, after climbing the 20 flights of stairs to the loft, I found that Joe, the Roger and Giniqua had cleaned out some outlet liquor store.

The rest is pretty much a blur. Not because I was drunk, but because I was inexplicably exhausted the whole weekend. Okay, I was a little drunk. I can admit that much.

I remember some kind of reasoning about why Mike and I ended up at a McDonald's on Friday night instead of one of the cute little bistros in Gayville. The cashier asked what kind of sauce we wanted with the mcnuggets. "Surprise us," said Mike. Ultimately, not the best thing to say.

I remember being at Crew, Chicago's gay sports bar. Love it. Love it. Love it. Where else can a row of televisions be playing: baseball, hockey, Cher, SportsCenter, soccer and Project Runway? And, they had Blue Moon on tap. Heaven, I tell you.

I remember Giniqua and Winesha trying to talk Joe into accepting that Max is gay. And a big ole bottom. It's okay that Max ONLY sniffs guys crotches, or stretches out in front of guys by arching his back, or waits until everyone leaves the room to eat or constantly needing someone to tell him he's pretty. Come one now Joe, we're all God's little loveable snowflakes.

I remember someone - who shall remain nameless because, you know, Joe deserves a little anonymity, not being a "public figure" and all - saying to Mike's lawyer friend, "Can I just be my dog and put my head on your lap." I'm not gonna say that it was a tragic moment because everyone knows that context is important in judging tragicity. Context: Mike's lawyer friend is lying on the pullout sofa bed. A certain someone has had a few drinks, walks over to the sofa bed and says, "Can I just be my dog and put my head on your lap." There. See? Wait. Never mind. At least I told Joe that I wouldn't say it was him when I blogged about it.

I remember the Roger. And Giniqua. And stories that I probably shouldn't retell.

I remember lunch at Hamburger Mary's on Clark. There were three of us. Then four when the Roger surprisingly showed up. Giniqua piddled a little. Then our group became five after Giniqua sprinted out of the place to literally drag our friend's new "friend" in to sit with us. We met "friend" the night before at Crew, privately "impressed" at what working out 9 days a week can do. We all finished our lunches. And drinks. And drinks, round two. But, alas, the Roger's food didn't come. I surmised that it was because he was straight. "Maybe they put your food out back on the bench where the straightys are supposed to eat. I mean, it's not that being straight means you're not as good, just not as important." At the time, I thought it was the comforting and empathetic thing to say.

Good times. Ggood times.

Remembering the Gaymes...

Literally.

I don't remember a lot. For the first time since the Champaign-Urbana era, I drank for 8 days in a row. The problem was that I was broke, so it was a lot of Bud Light cans and combinations of whatever liquor was just, you know, sitting around.

I'm relying on people remembering for me. So, thanks to Giniqua, I have another list of I-swear-I-wouldn't-have-done-it-said-it-concieved-of-it-if-I-were-sober moments to retell.

1) Joliet is a lot farther from downtown Chicago than one might think. Or, Joliet needs a furniture store something bad.

On a map, Joliet doesn't look all that far from downtown Chicago. And considering more than half the team was 12 hours from panhandling, hooking and dealing for money, a free place to stay was a godsend. I need to say how thankful and grateful I am that the twinkie chickens offered their place. But, more than half an hour into the drive away from the eighteen hour long Opening Ceremonies, I almost made my own rest stop on the shoulder of I-55. 8 days of that wasn't gonna work.

And, it wasn't so much that I could count the amount of furniture in the house on one hand. Or that there wasn't really air conditioning during Chicago's major heat wave. Or that Vodkina was shadier than an Ohio/Florida election official. If memory serves, Mike slept on a towel I found in my trunk, I slept on a pile of clothes I didn't have time to wash in Michigan, Nate slept on a rug and his t-shirt. And I couldn't give two flipping fucks where Vodkina passed out. Two days later, I pulled a nail out of my foot...which may or may not have been from the house.

In the end, I really am grateful that the chickens offered. Andersonville was a little more convenient and a lot more fabulous. Plus, there was The Roger...

2) Here straighty, here boy, here straighty straighty straighty... Some gay social service agency set us up at the Andersonville palace we moved to the next day. There was air conditioning...kind of. There was room...kind of. There was a large enough window for me to throw Vodkina out of and down three stories if the motivation and opportunity presented itself...I would never, but it made me feel better to keep that one in the back of my mind.

But, the kicker for Giniqua was The Roger...the "straight" rommate. I think the Roger's funny speaks for itself:

Exhibit A - Two ho's were online setting up tricks. Brittany was blaring. Giniqua was yelling for people to wash their holes. Vodkina was organizing Whitney tickets. The door opens and in walks The Roger with...his parents....who stood in the doorway as if it was the only safe haven and we were all extras from 28 Days Later. No matter The Roger's insistence that he was almost sure that we had all been vaccinated and the gay isn't contagious, the parental units wouldn't budge. I'd kill to hear the conversation that ensued.

Exhibit B - From what I remember, The Roger may or may not have learned...how to use manhunt...how fabulous Project Runway is...that he could get laid any time, any place, any how...pink Abercrombies, opposable thumbs and an affinity for Perrier are the only differences between Giniqua and velociraptors...and...

Exhibit C - The Roger is crazysexycool when he's drunk...and "straight" in a room full of gays...and naked. Mental note: the Roger likes to watch lightning in the living room -- drunk and naked -- at 4 am, regardless of who else is there. Pinky swear, I thought I was dreaming the opening scene of a porn.

3) Vodkina's tragicity. John had a story about how he -- I mean Vodkina - had a tragic night. I was probably hung over (safe assumption) and confused from running into too many of Navy Pier's oddly-placed pillars (even safer assumption).

I remember something about shots, more shots, more shots, shots within shots...wait, that was me. Okay, I remember something about a couple of shots, John throwing up on Christian -- his twinkie-hunting friend from Vegas, then John making out with Christian's friend. And then John ended up at a hotel, locked out of Christian and his easy ho friend's room. And then somehow a big burly guy taking a chainsaw to the locked door and then some sort of trickery ensued. There may have been a dwarf, a hooker and a clown too.

Eh, John bought me a burrito and -- I'll be honest -- I was just being polite and pretending to listen.

4) Attachment Theory. If I remember correctly from all the psych classes, psychologists and biologists have proven that little chicklings will latch onto the first thing they regularly see after birth. Dogs. Cats. Humans. Dolls. Shoes. They latch on and don't let go...

Apparently the same is true of little gay twinkie chicklings.

Now, to be fair, all gay men can remember a time when they first started coming out that involved hooking up with a guy who did something that seemed no one else could ever do again...hold their hand, not call them a fag, stick their dick in a hole -- you know, revolutionary. Intense attachment, infatuation and dreams of his and his flaming pink cell phones ensues. Most won't admit that's true. Trust, it is.

But, it's still fun to watch it happen all over again. Kind of. Well, only for a little while.

I knew that our dear old friend Olive -- who I'm almost certain cruises malls and lemonade stands for twinkie chickens - would fight his way through a crowd to sink his claws into the two chicklings on our team. Of course, it happened. In fairness, I did forget the fire hose I was planning on bringing to the Gaymes to fight him off. My bad. But, it started a chain reaction for Chickling #2...

Day 1: Opening Ceremonies -- Chickling #2 (from here on, C2) starts asking questions about Olive that I mostly answer with a "You Don't Need To Know...Do Not...Please Don't..." I snap a picture of Olive and the two chicklings in the event that authorities want to place a "Have you seen...?" on the side of a milk carton after the Amber Alert is sounded, the hounds are released and the Chicago River is dredged.

Day 2: Olive gives C2 "a ride" back to the house in Joliet. C2's Love Affair #1 (C2's LA1) has commenced.

Day 3: C2 LA1 ends. Olive gives C1 "a ride" back to the house in Joliet without anyone noticing. C2 is left at North Avenue Beach with the rest of us. A few concealed tears, a 12 oz liquor-with-diet-coke-for-color and a hunger strike follow.

Day 3/Part 2: C2 LA2 begins. C2 meets RyRy. RyRy, being the great guy that he is, feels bad for C2 and comforts him.

Day 4: C2 LA2 has bloomed. RyRy, on the other hand, already has a cell phone and isn't a big fan of flaming pink, or chicklings.

Day 5: C2 LA2 ends. A few concealed tears, a 12 oz liquor-with-diet-coke-for-color and a hunger strike follow.

Day 6: C2 LA3 begins. C2 meets Derek, a AA/Open volleyballer from California. C2 follows Derek around (see above psychology experiments), enamored of his volleyball skills and imaginative x-ray vision.

Day 7: C2 LA3 ends. Derek already has a cell phone and isn't a big fan of flaming pink, or chicklings. A few concealed tears, a 12 oz liquor-with-diet-coke-for-color and a hunger strike follow.

Day 8: Gays Of Our Lives is cancelled. Forever.

More later...

Oh my God...Karen's a bottom...

So, the unemployed thing is going...well, it's going.

I went grocery shopping for the first time as an unemployed individual. Now, I'm not exactly shopping at Aldi. Yet. And, I'm not exactly broke. Yet.

But, I'll admit to being a little embarassed that other shoppers were judging me by what was in my cart. Like the way I usually judge other people by what's in their cart. I had a little unemployed self-pity moment when I reached for the generic canned corn and bought oranges by the prepackaged bag because they were both on sale. I went for the Bisquick and the sale-item cereals because, hello, breakfast foods aren't just for breakfast anymore.

I swear to you, this was my thought bubble...

"Okay, when all the food and money is gone, you can get by on cereal. And the generic-not-even-bisquick can make pancakes and biscuits and...hell, I'll snort it and see what happens. Might as well go down with the ship."

I ended up with exactly $49.00 of food, saving $12.38 by buying with self-pity. Then I went home and had some Intelligentsia Organic Strawberry Green Tea brewed in my French Press tea pot, sifted through my Pier One cloth-drawer shelves, watched a rerun of Real Time with Bill Maher on HBO2 on my 35 or so inch tv in my Shorewood 3-bedroom apartment. Shortly after thinking that the cashier had double-scanned a 79 cent Roundy's can of kidney beans and wondering whether I could get by on cereal, generic cigarettes and water for the rest of my life, I realized the absurdity.

Yeah, it took that long.

Yeah, being unemployed sucks. But, there are those unemployment checks coming and my mental health is very very much improved. Ironically, I feel like less of a failure now that I don't work there any more. And, I'm not eating really fatty Italian food 5 days a week.

I may or many not be finding God in the next few weeks. I started watching the 700 Club cuz, you know, what else is there to do?

I almost forgot...

So yeah.

At 10:48 on Sunday night, I got fired.

I'm a little bummed.

That's about it.

I guess I have time to do some cleaning now...

I'm a horrible, horrible blogger. Seasonal affect disorder SUCKS!!!

Around April and May, it finally hit me that the Gay Games were around the corner and I was a wee bit shorter on cash than I thought I'd be. I stopped going to the bars. I stopped going to Potowatomi. I picked up shifts at work and tried doing some creative calucluating with the bank account. Which helped by.... Ok, it didn't help much.

So, the schedule went a little like this:

July 5-15th: Volleyball Camps
July 15th-22: Gay Games
July 23rd: Beg for job. Panhandle....

I left for MSU's summer volleyball camps at 3:13 a.m. on July 5th with $50, a check card and a dream. Dramatic-like, almost Thelma & Louise if you will. Well, without a Louise. Or a convertible. Or a vagina. Or guns. Or the need to cause havoc and destruction. Or considering the possibility of driving my non-Louise-convertible-vagina-with guns-causing havoc and destruction Toyota Corolla over a cliff. So, I guess it's not too much like Thelma & Louise.

Somewhere around Gary, Indiana, the Corolla's ole check engine light went on.

Somewhere around Kalamazoo, Michigan, I found out my check card wasn't working right.

I say, "somewhere," because I don't actually know where these things happened. See, I've been kind of blind for some time now. And I don't mean the "I forgot my reading glasses" kind of blind. I mean the "my face is 3-1/2 inches away from the computer screen and the 25 pt type is still a bit fuzzy" kind of blind. Let's just say that the big "E" at the top of the eye chart was pushing it the last time I went to the eye doctor.

So, back to driving 375 miles blindly across four states in the dark of night following a 7 hour work shift with no sleep.

Six hours after I left good ole Milwaukee, I arrived at Butterfield Hall on MSU's campus, ready to check in and get them camps started. Lots of impressionable young, budding, excited girls wanting to learn from my vast knowledge of the sport.

(When I went to summer volleyball camps at the University of Hawaii, I thought my player-coaches were the best thing since sticky rice. Every time I did anything, their advice seemed god-like. After 8 summers of being that coach, I can safely say the #1, or so, thing going through most coaches' minds when doing drills with players that aren't their own is...: "Don't hit her in the face. Don't hit her in the face. Don't hit her....damn it. Don't hit her in the face again. Don't hit her in the face again...Is she crying? Whew. Okay now, don't hit THIS ONE in the face.... Fuck, I need a beer.)

I checked in at the front desk and asked who else had checked in. No one. Okay, so, it's 10:15 am with a staff meeting at 11 am and no one has checked in except me. Something wasn't quite right. Whatever, I thought, I smelled pretty bad. I needed a shower like K-Fed needs a vasectomy. Federal mandate or not.

I grabbed two of my bags out of the car, the keys to the dorm room out of my pocket, the cell phone out of the other pocket and walked it all up two flights of stairs. Note: still blind as a headless bat.

I'm standing outside what I think is probably my room, working the key into the keyhole when...I dropped my cell phone. Which has happened a lot in the past. Those people that know me aren't surprised if I walk into a wall, or an oddly-placed six foot diameter pillar, or fall up a flight a stairs (I'm coming to that one...) or drop something that's practically glued to my hands. Opposable thumbs and panoramic vision, I sometimes don't have.

This time, the cell phone breaks in half.

So, I'm holding the two halves of my cell phone, trying to reconnect the connecting ribbon that I assume is probably important to some aspect of the phone fuctioning properly by banging the two halves together like a homo erectus trying to discover fire for the second or third time.

At that point, the keypad half starts lighting up. Flash flash flash....flash flash flash...

I'm not gonna lie, I started crying right there and then.

Camps weren't too bad at all. Not what I expected, but not bad for my last go around there. One of the highlights was the Project Runway 3 Premier Party at Tracy's place. I'd like to think Tracy and I should patent the phrase, "I just want to punch him in the windpipe." It was fun trying to explain to the uber-straight 6'9 volleyball guy about the whole concept of Project Runway and its fabulousness without using any gay buzzwords.

Try it. It's not easy, but kind of fun. It's like ex-gay Password, except ______.

See. I told you.

The ENTIRE time I was in Michigan, Mike's words haunted my every move.

"Girrrrrl, you BETTER just be eatin that salad. I'm not taking one in the face because of you..." ....which doesn't sound quite right now that I actually type it out. I guess it's a volleyball thing.

I'm not gonna lie, I lost at least 15 pounds in a week and a half. Nobody on my team in Chicago would believe it, so I didn't say anything.

I guess the next post will be about all the debauchery and ridiculousness and crazysexycool that was the Gay Games in Chicago. Oh, and I think some volleyball was played, but I still can't say for sure. Since I like lists, I'll leave a little note for me to remember for next time...

1) On my new cell phone heading to Chicago from Michigan -- "Girrrrrrl. John done lost her wallet somewhere in the Burger King at the Vegas airport.... It had your cash, her credit cards, all her shit... What the fuck she doing at Burger King??????"

2) It IS possible to fall UP a flight of stairs. And then Giniqua rolls her suitcase over you to get in the apartment.

3) In the gym at 1 pm: "Hey, I was watching you guys playing. You're really good." "Uh, thanks, but no, we're not. (Do we know you?)" "So yeah, I heard you were the guys with beer." "What? We would neve...yeah, it's in the suitcase over there."

4) "Hey, it's Brent. I just wanted to apologize for anything the manager in Chicago claims my friends did when he calls you about the homos he kicked out of the restaurant..."

5) Watching Project Runway: "Is that Vera Wang?" Nine homos turn in unison to look at the ONE straight, I mean "straight," guy in the room. And, he's wearing a pink polo.

6) Someone: "Okay, someone has to find a trick and sleep somewhere else every night so there's enough room." Nate: "Done."

7) Wherever the "I'm Not Your Bitch, Bitch" team goes, there's always the possibility of an orgy just breakin on out all over the place. I'm not saying it happened, I'm just saying it's a possibility. On the balcony. In the middle of a bar. At the IHOP. On the train. In the gym. On any and all couches. Just sayin, there's potential.

8) SEVEN TIMES. SEVEN. Seriously now, SEVEN TIMES. And, it's huuuuuuuge. I'm innocent and virginal, so I don't know. I'm just sayin...SEVEN TIMES.

9) Me: "So yeah, Mike and Nick, just a little request. While I'm driving down Michigan Avenue in rush hour traffic, do you mind NOT waving the Smirnoff Ice bottles out the window...you know, just when we pass the traffic cops."

10) There's NO WAY your boyfriend can think he's straight. He's like Jessica Simpson, but not as butch.

11) "Hey there young men, do you mind talking to us for a minute. So, how do you feel about God?" which wasn't all that funny until 20 minutes later when Mike the lawyer talked her out of believing in heaven and the afterlife.

12) "....and I don't think I can make it... (inhaaaaaaaale) again..."

13) When operating a washing machine: (1) Load laundry into machine. (2) Pour detergent into THE SAME machine. (3) Insert quarters into THE SAME machine as was used in steps 1 and 2.

Nate: "Hey Brent, let's unload John's laundry so we can get out of here."
Brent (standing next to Nate): "Hey Nate, look, this machine is washing air."
Nate: "Hey Brent, why is John's laundry dry already? And it still smells."
John: "Okay, I dropped this bag full of bottles of liquor, but everything fell into the bag. Here, I scooped the smirnoff out of the bag...drink this. I know, I know, I'm bleeding. I cut it on the broken bottle."
N & B: "Uhh, no, I think we're gonna pass. But thanks anyway. So, how did you get the all of the broken glass out of the liquor before you scooped it into the cup? And, are you sure you're actually washing your laundry?"

14) "....so, we're going to a Black....gay...dance....club....where exactly? So, left on...was that Fucking Beatdown Street...oh, ok, right on No Prayer In Hell Blvd...got it. Toodles."

We're on our way. We're there. Where are you?

I lost my cell phone.

Two weeks ago.

Maybe more.

I'm pretty sure that Skittles swiped my cell phone and ran off. There're some odd charges from a few one-nine hundred kitty singles "services."

I'd do something about it, but I'm not exactly sure what that conversation would sound like.

Operation Rescue

Skittles has been sighted.

I first sighted the tragic furball in Vegas. Well, not so much sighted as heard somewhere in or around John's apartment in Henderson.

I remember waking up sometime on Sunday morning on the living room floor next to the empty futon bed. Apparently, Winesha had drunkenly stumbled off somewhere early in the morning. I, however, found myself completely wrapped in some kind of evil blanket device that had been bewitched to evade all attempts at removal. After much concentrated and taxing effort, I got the damn thing off and stood up.

That's when I heard her.

Skittles.

It wasn't quite a meow. Not really a yelp. A distant relative of a high-pitched cry.

Possibly a me-yelp-ry

At any rate, I was told that Winesha had adopted the damn hairball and I, by default, was responsible for her well-being. As time has passed, I've come to miss her.

So, if anyone has seen Skittles, PLEASE contact me ASAP.

Skittles, where are you?

Cook? Well that doesn't make any sense

I won a nice chunk of change at the casino again, so I decided to buy a couple of new and fun shirts.

I think they're funny as all hell, but I'm sure the joke's on me somehow. So, in the next couple of days, I need someone to play devil's advocate. Otherwise, in a month, I don't wanna hear it.

Love,
Brent

Uh oh

Pickle.

Last week I turned in my 4th request for time off from work.

-- April 22-23: Women's spring tournament @ Great Lakes Center, Chicago
-- May 23 - 28: North American Gay Volleyball Association Championships @ Atlanta
-- July 4 - 15: Volleyball Camps @ MI St
-- July 15-23: Gay Games @ Chicago

The big boss is on vacation in Florida right now, so I won't get the worst dirty look ever given for a few more days. He's already approved my time off for this weekend's women's tournament and the Gay Games. With the volleyball camps, I'd be taking the entire month of July off, so it's not looking good for the NAGVA championships.

..yeah honey, I'm the designated driver...

I haven't stepped foot in a bar, tavern, pub or club since January 10th.

When I mention this fact to people, they start to laugh...and calculate the statistical improbability of my declaration.

In fact, it's the same reaction I get when I profess that I'm innocent and virginal.

All three are true: bar estrangement, innocence and virginality...kind of.

Technically, I guess, I walk into a bar 4 times a week. But, the bar in my restaurant shouldn't count. I'm not allowed to drink before, during or after my shift. And, I'm not a big fan of well whisky old fashioned sweets or generic gin martinis on the rocks, which seem to be the only drinks my tables seem to be ordering lately.

On a sidenote: To the diners who seem to think that I, the lowly waiter, am personally and single-handedly responsible for the following things, kiss my fucking ass:

-- Pepsi products instead of Coke.
-- Sierra Mist is WAAAAAAAAAY to sweet
-- Your favorite microbrew isn't one of the 11 beers we have on tap.
-- MGD doesn't come in a bottle.
-- Only 2 options for double-malt whisky
-- Your drink arrives more than 3.4 seconds after you order at 7:30 pm on Saturday night.
-- Our water is too cold. Our ice is too big.
-- The bottle of wine you ordered is more expensive than at the Discount Liquor across the street from your trailer.

Okay, I feel better.

Wait, one more thing...

WHEN YOU SHOW UP AT A RESTAURANT ON A SATURDAY NIGHT WITHOUT A RESERVATION AND ARE TOLD THE WAIT WILL BE AN HOUR AND A HALF TO TWO HOURS....AND ARE SAT AN HOUR AND FORTY FIVE MINUTES AFTER YOU ARRIVE...YOU ARE ONE LUCKY MOFO. YOUR WAITER HAS DONE ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NOTHING WRONG...BY GETTING ANGRY, YOU'RE THE FUCKING MORON.

There, all better.

I can't say that I haven't had a drink. I had a few glasses of wine during a dinner date in February. On two of my off days, I had a total of three drinks while waiting for my roommate to get off work so I could drive her home. Last time, I had a chocolate martini and a grasshopper and got a little buzz going. That's just sad.

Winesha's been banging at the closet walls for awhile. Apparently, someone peeled her off some Vegas sidestreet and air mailed her back to Milwaukee via some kind of poultry and livestock transport. From time to time, I'll wake up in the middle of the night and hear her calling out "Skittles" and ransacking my closet. Girl is a mess.

Bitch, get out of here. You spilled my skittles!!!

I don't know what skunked or poodle-balled means.

And I'm using every ounce of energy trying NOT to use my imagination.

...and making me spoon you until you fall asleep...

Do you remember a time when it was surprising and, daresay, shocking to hear Brittany Spears say...

"Whatever you got, I'll ride it, eat it or snort it."

Ahh...the days of yore, when Christina was heaven's only missing hooker. And Justin Timberlake was still white.

And Shazam. free coffee every hour on the hour and sometimes...

Apparently a quad of barristas in Vancouver finally snapped.

World, be warned.

It went around the world...

I'm confused. Really really confused.

Wisconsin-Madison steamrolled by Zona.
Wisconsin OUT in Round 1.

Marquette knocked out by Bama.
Marquette OUT in Round 1.

Wisconsin-Milwaukee upsets Oklahoma.
Picked to pull another Cindarella on Florida.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee possibly in Sweet 16.
Again.

Example #3,888,297 of how messed up this state is.

My surfer friends, they get me. They say, Jack, we get you.

I just re-read my volleyball post from a week ago. And I'm.... I don't know.

I've never really thought too much about what sparked, and still sparks, my passion for the sport.

When I was a wee tyke, I played AYSO soccer like everyone else. I played "sweeper." Which I still don't believe is an actual position in soccer. I kind of remember having fun. I do remember that my teams didn't win much. Mom and dad like to remember that I was better than the kid on my team who liked to pick weeds and flowers during our games.

I tried playing baseball. Mostly because it was important to my dad. Baseball had been a way out of the old plantation towns and, eventually, scholarship offers from Northwestern, Michigan and a few California schools. From time to time, dad would tell a few baseball stories. Not very often, though. And, only in the last few years, he's started to talk about what it all meant in the context of the times. I tried to play baseball. It didn't work.

I did start to train and compete in kendo in the 3rd grade or so. I would think it's a kind of martial art, except the body armor weighs about 20 pounds. We used a bamboo "sword" to hit the other person. I enjoyed that. Each year, I got a little better at hitting the armored part of my teachers and opponents. I guess I got pretty good. I always got 1st or 2nd in my division at district and state tournaments. Eventually, I quit to focus on school and volleyball. I also finally figured out that it wasn't exactly a self-defense kind of martial art. I doubt a thief with a knife or a gay-basher with a gun would wait about 15 minutes while I suited up the ole body armor. And I wasn't planning on carrying around my bamboo stick -- which probably wouldn't do much against a knife or a gun anyway. Slow learner, me is, sometimes.

I wanted to play football. In 7th grade, I brought home the permission slips for my parents to sign so I could try out. Dad sent me to mom, which seemed odd. Mom took one look and said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll sign this form when you can carry the piano on your back in the marching band." I pondered that for a moment. "Does the electric piano count?" She shook her head and pointed to our piano and said, "Even if you do it, I still won't go and watch your games." Mom had spoken. Football was out.

Which brought me to volleyball. It's hard for people in the continental states to understand Hawaii's obsession with the sport. It's a little excessive. A lot excessive, actually. College volleyball players are almost godlike and get more attention than movie stars. Even opposing teams and players get stopped on the street or have their pictures placed on store walls next to rock stars and pro athletes.

Once, I was home for the holidays and threw on an MSU volleyball shirt to grab some lunch. After I ordered my chili rice and lilikoi drink, the cashier looked at me. "Do you go to Michigan State?" I said no. "Then, why would you wear that shirt? You trying to cause trouble?" No, not at all, just threw on a clean shirt to get lunch. She considered that for a moment and decided that I shouldn't be killed and stewed. Seven years earlier, Michigan State upset the then-undefeated and #1 ranked Hawaii women in the Honolulu NCAA regional final. Seven years earlier. Seven years. Seven.

Volleyball has been great to me for a long time and in a lot of ways. But, until recently, I haven't really taken a step back to look at the things I've learned. As unorthodox as it's been. Maybe I needed some time away from playing and coaching to really appreciate the things that've gotten me to this point.

I have a lot of friends that like cheap Asian food and unisex bathrooms

The Girls Scouts are evil.

And if anyone knows any of these evil Girl Scouts with more of those new cookies , I need their phone number right the fuck now.

You know, the new Cartwheels: Cinnamon Oatmeal Bites.

Right now.

Yesterday, even.

Thanks

Eating Out For Dummies: Occam's Razor

Excerpt from page 23,

Occam's Razor

When conversing with a waiter, remember the following: Stay simple.

The following are a few questions that you, the diner, may wish to say. Followed by what you should be say.

Example #1

You may, but shouldn't: "Does your Spaghetti with Meatballs come with marinara or meat sauce? Marinara? Ok, I would like the Spaghetti with Meatballs with meat sauce instead of the marinara and meatballs."

What you should say: "I would like the Spaghetti with Meat Sauce. Yes, the item listed just above the Spaghetti with Meatballs."

Example #2

You may, but shouldn't: "I would like a virgin Bloody Mary. But, I don't want it to be spicy."

What you should say: "I would like a glass of tomato juice."

Example #3

You may, but shouldn't: "Could you wrap up the chicken in one container, the rigatoni in another container, the green beans in another container and the salad in another container."

What you should say: "Yes, please wrap our food."

And...scene.

I feel like nesting...

My roommates think I'm a perv. Or a stalker. When we first moved in, they helped me haul up more than two crates worth of VHS tapes.

I have tapes. Lots and lots of tapes. As of yesterday, 188 to be exact. Not including movies. And that pilates series I ordered that night I got really drunk. Now that I know what's on a good number of them, it could be a little frightening for people that don't know me.

I swear it's not porn. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not porn. I'm not that interesting.

Honest.

[3/10/06 Edit: The following is my full-blown volleyball nerd breakin on out.]

Tapes 1-30 are all volleyball games. All together, I think I have something to close to 200 matches. I'm a volleyball nerd. I've admitted as much for a long time. I know I've scared more than a few professional volleyball people with how much I can remember. Like the starting lineups of each team in every D-1 women's national championship match since 1988.

Then again, when I was in 3rd grade I could recite the introductions from Miss Alabama to Miss Hawaii from the Miss America Parade of States. With proper inflection and regional accent. That was the year Miss Texas won with a cheesy baby blue poofy prom dress.

I probably should have kept that one to myself.

But really now. I just found the 1988 National Championship match between Hawaii and Texas. The one where Martina Cincerova pretty much just set Teee Williams and Carolyn Taetafa. Anna Vorweck (Fer-verk), Karrie Trieschman and Mary Robins were pretty much just observers.

In that match, Teee Williams showed that very few other American women had what it took to go from the American college game to the international game. I believe she had something like 25 kills in the 3 game loss, .400 hitting percentage and most of the team's digs and blocks. In '88 that was absolutely unheard of, especially in a national championship game. Nobody else was hitting the ball so high over the block and so hard that the opposing defense didn't even make a move for the ball. Since then, only 4 other players have come close to, but not equaled, that performance: Kerri Walsh ('96), Lauren Cacciamani ('98), Logan Tom ('01) and Ogonna Nnamani ('04). Others had spurts of greatness: Tara Cross ('89), Natalie Williams ('91), Danielle Scott ('91, '92, '93), Kristin Folkl ('94), Terri Zemaitis ('97), Cacciamani ('99), Sherisa Livingston ('00), Tayyiba Haneef ('01) and Keao Burdine ('02, '03).

[Of course, none of those compare to watching the Unified Team's Irina Smirnova getting 56 kills in 130 attempts in ONE match or 16 year old Eugenia Artamanova's 14 kills, hitting almost .900 while only playing 3 rotations per game in the same match against the U.S. in Barcelona Olympic pool play.]

But, in that 88 match, Williams was the most dominant player in a national championship of all time. And, she barely said a word.

As much as I learned to hate Texas (and even more so when my team lost to them in another national championship), they really shaped how I see the sport. I do have to admit that Texas team and the matches they played against UCLA and Hawaii, showed me what it looked and felt like to play with nothing to lose. The underdogs that nobody gives a second thought to before, during or after the match. The kind of team that, after a match, leaves their opponent wondering, "Did we just lose? How the hell did that happen?"

Maybe it's not necessarily an underdog mentality. There are times when I'm watching a match -- or even a practice or an open gym or a tryout -- when I see that one player who has a certain aura about them. Most often, it's that quiet player who isn't afraid to talk or yell or push someone out of the way. It's the player who's found a way to channel all of their emotion and grit into something that looks calm. Except when you look in their eyes. It's that player who plays like they have something to prove to him/herself. It's the player that has a hard time taking a compliment because, she/he thinks, it was exactly what they were supposed to do. It's the player whose baseline is 90%, but can push it to 110% because they just couldn't do anything less.

Which brings it back to that '88 match.

There was a quiet, fiery and almost-but-not-quite angry demeanor about setter Sue Schelfout. And yet she was still very much in control of every part of that match in a way that can only be described as "you know it when you see it." I remember my dad telling me, in his wisened coach-like way, "That is what a true leader looks like. Doesn't matter the sport, that's what it feels like."

Since '88, I've only seen a handfull of setters like Shelfout in that championship match: China's Kun Feng, Hawaii's Robyn Ah Mow, UCLA's Stein Metzger, Lewis' Jose Martins, Pacific's Melanie Beckenhauer, Ohio State's Laura Davis, Long Beach's Joy McKienzie and Keri Nishimoto, Michigan State's Courtney DeBolt and Cuba's Marlenis Costa and Lilia Izquierdo. Those 12 setters are my benchmarks. None of them are flashy, except maybe Metzger and Davis, but they all have this intangible (something) that comes across just by watching them.

I've got a lot of volleyball matches, and the dorkhood that goes along with having watched all of them over and over again, because I was never really taught how to play the game. Even as early as 7th grade, the school's coaches weren't there to teach a player how to play. You were already supposed to know how. Then again, I guess Punahou is a different kind of volleyball program.

I tried out for my 7th grade with 50 other 7-9th graders. I got cut. First. No really. First. The coaches were like, "Brent. Thanks. Uhhh, good luck with something else." Then again, thinking about the people on those two intermediate teams, it's not surprising. That year, my dad took me to the state championship game between Punahou and Kamehameha. Punahou's starters were, I believe: Kevin Wong, Stein Metzger, Sean Scott, Mike Lambert and three other guys who ended up being D1 All-Americans. On the bench, were four future D1 All-Americans.

In the 8th grade I tried out again and, somehow, made it. Well, actually, the coach pulled me aside after the first practice and told me that I was 13th of 13 players on the team and that if I wanted to pursue other interests, he wouldn't hold it against me. I ended up staying with the team. And starting. Still pretty humbling.

In the second week of practices, our coach took us to watch a varsity practice which pretty much freaked my shit out. For the first twenty minutes, the balls stayed in the carts and the team did a "shadow pepper." I watched Stein Metzger and Mike Lambert the entire time. About two minutes into it, Lambert dove to his left to get a ball Metzger had "hit" to some spot. Stein went on a full-on basketball-court-length sprint over to where we were sitting and watching. He yelled "MOVE! Get the fuck out of the way!" as he came barrelling at us. He dove and slid about ten feet until he crashed into the wall we had been sitting against. Then, he got up and full-on sprinted back where Lambert had dove and was "watching" the ball go to the ceiling. Twenty minutes later, everyone was at a full-on-have-to-change-shirts-cuz-it's-too-dangerous sweat. Then the coach unbagged the balls. If I was going to play volleyball for Punahou I was gonna have to get a lot better really fast.

I watched as many televised games as I could and just copied what those players did. Every once in a while, my dad would say, "she's good" or "he's good." And, I would watch that player do whatever they did well, pause the tape, go through frame by frame, and then copy it.

I used to back my dad's car out of our driveway and take my dingy little outdoor volleyball and try to copy the way Lyman Lacro set or Teee Williams passed or Cheri Boyer served. On more than a few occasions, the police would show up. Apparently my senile old neighbor would call the cops because he was old and senile and needed something to bitch about. The police would show up and, after a few minutes, walk over and ask me how it was going. "Five more minutes, okay? But, it looks like your serve is getting better. When you start jump serving, your dad is gonna have to build a bigger garage." I would agree, thank them and head back inside.

The thing I realize now is that I wasn't just learning how to play the game. I was learning how to coach. Or, more accurately, how to act like a coach. There were coaches I loved to watch. Dave Shoji, John Dunning, Brian Gimillaro, Andy Banachowski, Mike Hebert, Don Shaw and Lisa Love. Al Scates, Carl McGowan and Marv Dunphy. And, more recently, Russ Rose, Jim Stone, Jim McLaughlin and Christy Johnson.

I remember so clearly the night my dad took me to a men's game in Klum Gym to watch Mike Wilton's first match as head coach. They lost. Bad. But, after the match, my dad walked over to Coach Wilton. I followed. Dad shook Coach Wilton's hand and asked, "How much longer?" I didn't understand. Coach Wilton smiled, looked my dad in the eye and said, "I really don't know." My dad smiled. Coach Wilton smiled. I wondered what the fuck was going on.

Back in the car, I asked dad what it all meant.

"Did you see the look in his eye?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You can tell by the look in his eyes. It's like fire. He doesn't show it because that's not what a coach is supposed to do. But, you can see it. He's into the match so much. Into what the players are doing. Into what's happening. The way they're playing. How hard they're working. And you can just tell by looking at him that he's so invested in all of it. He's going to get them all to play like winners because they'll want to follow him there."

Three years later, they were in the Final Four. Four years later, they were in the National Championship match. My dad called to tell me, "I told you so." I laughed. Then reminded him that I told him to bet that Michigan State would beat Hawaii in '95. He laughed.

My dad taught me to watch coaches during matches. You figure out a lot about their teams. There are some teams that have a hard time adjusting to situations they're not used to -- usually their coaches are up off the bench and giving advice after every play. There are some teams that always win the broken plays -- those coaches are usually the ones that sit back and watch carefully. it's not always true, and there're a lot more examples, but it kind of pans out in the end.

Every once in a while, the camera and microphone people will catch some snippet of a coach's speech during a time out. It's always been interesting to hear what they say. Some are all about effort and emotion: "Come on ladies, the game is in your hands." Some are all about systems and responsibilities: "Our transition game is slowing down too much. Let's really focus on where you're supposed to be." Some are who-the-hell-knows-where: "We really need to get that touch on the block. Come on 5'6 girl, Bibi Candelas is killing us out there." Or some, and I'm not naming names at all are...well...: "Okay, it's 28-14. But don't look at the scoreboard, let's get some momentum." No really. I heard that once. About starting laughing, I did.

So, even though I have no idea what they're actually doing or thinking, I have copied a few coaches from what I've seen of them.

I have NO FREAKING clue what or how Russ Rose or Al Scates keeps in those damn notebooks, but I have found my own stat tracking quite useful. Plus, it keeps my ass in the seat and away from telling my players things they already know and would feel annoyed or patronized if I actually said to them during a match.

I don't actually know what Russ Rose or Jim Stone or Mike Hebert is saying when they pull one, just one, player aside. But I've learned why it can be necessary. Sometimes one player is off about a certain thing and doesn't need it pointed out to the whole team. And I've learned why it's important for that player to walk away either smiling/chuckling or feeling really confident.

I wonder what was going through Chen Zhonghe's mind when he had that goofy grin on his face watching his Chinese team. I remember seeing that same smile on Bond Shymansky's face when his Georgia Tech team was playing Kim Willoughby, I mean Hawaii, in the regional finals in Honolulu. I guess there are times when players do something that seems so unlike their norm that a coach has to laugh it off. Brain fart, I guess. No harm, no foul. It happens. But the thing I've noticed is that I can only find the humor in a player's brain fart on the court when I -- as a coach -- know that the team is so well-prepared and well-practiced that one error really doesn't make a difference.

I have no idea what Russia's Nikolai Karpol or Cuba's Eugenio George or Brazil's Bernadino are saying. Or, except for George, what they're yelling. Screaming even.

I once read that Russia's Karpol told a reporter that in a gold medal Olympic final ('88, I believe, though I might be wrong) he spent an entire timeout yelling at his star, Irina Smirnova, something like: "After this match, you will be known as a failure and a national disgrace. I will personally tell your mother and grandmother that your pathetic performance was the only reason we did not bring home to the Soviet Union a gold medal and you will live with that shame for the rest of your life." And, hell if Smirnova didn't single handedly win the next three games and the gold medal. Now, I'd never do that or say that or even think that. First off, I've yet to coach a team or a player or in a situation where that may even seem possible to think. Second, as unlikely as it is to ever happen, not even an Olympic medal is worth that much. Third, I could never say that to a woman. It's not sexist, it's just completely defeatist and unnecessary. I have, however, said (not yelled) something close to that to a male player. And, I'll never do it again. Ever.

I love watching Brazil's Coach Bernadino. In the '04 Olympics, he was right up on the sideline in every match and basically threw a tantrum every time one of his players did something wrong. Again, I'd never do that. I've got too much else to worry about than getting caught up in every single contact or every individual rally. I like to think about big picture stuff: Are we competing as best as we can? What are the weaknesses in our system that nobody has thought of yet? What is our mental state? But, I guess it's my dad's voice I hear when I watch Bernadino. It's all in the eyes.

Cuba's ex-coach George gave me a totally different feeling. Similar to Karpol's without the red-faced hysterical yelling. Once, I watched on television as he sat calmly in his chair and called out, "Marleny..." raised his hands and narrowed his eyes. And then crossed his arms again. The Cuban setter, Costa had hit into the block, gotten tooled several times and trapped a couple of sets. With just a single look and a name, he showed the power of a coach's expectations. Set an achievable goal (play well) and expect the players to play at that level. There isn't really a need to go on and on about specifics or motivation. Just a reminder of the expectation that the players completely understand.

But, it wasn't until I watched Lang Ping coach the Chinese women in several Grand Prix matches before the Olympics, that I finally understood something I had read in Mike Hebert's book. During China's match against Cuba, L.P. sat in her chair and watched her team very carefully. She didn't say much, except the occasional snippet that obviously was her telling her young outside hitters what to look for when hitting against the huge Cuban block. Somewhere near Cuba's match point, a free ball came over the net and four Chinese players let it drop between them. As less-experienced players do when they make a mistake at a really bad time, they were visibly shaken. L.P. sat quietly in her chair and watched her players. They lost the next point and the match and she stood up, grabbed her folder and smiled as Coach George came over to shake her hand. "Good match," she said, smiling and shaking with both hands.

I had read something similar in Mike Hebert's book about the process of building the programs at Pittsburgh, New Mexico, Illinois and (although long after the book's writing) Minnesota. He said that sometimes a team or specific players need to learn for themselves what winning is. Especially teams and players that aren't used to winning or success. In my first few coaching gigs, I was more than fortunate to coach teams with very expereinced and successful players. The next few taught me what it's like to be on the other end. There were times in those next few years that I couldn't understand why players wouldn't do the simple things they normally do to win a tournament or a championship, instead of just being a "participant." I would scrutinize the little things I thought they weren't doing. But, when I finally got to my last coaching gig, I understood how much more important it was to sit back and watch a "failure" or deficiency than to coach it not to happen.

I think, now, that Lang Ping was watching how her players reacted to blowing an important point. Watch and listen. See what happens next in the context of the whole picture. See how individual's react to adversity. Don't be obsessed with winning at the expense of how the players and the team think and feel and do.

In a way, it's been a "fake-it-till-you-make-it-and-then-you'll-figure-out-why" kind of thing.

Or, I really really really have no life.

Yep. Dork. Full-blown, inescapable. Dork.

...she leaned over, spilled her manhattan in my eye and said, "oh, i give up."

Causes of Gayness #148

When I was 11 or so, my family went on a vacation to somewhere. In preparation for going on holiday, my mom thought it would be a good idea to take me to the barber, who happened to be my aunt.

"Let's cut your hair so you won't have to worry about it."

I sat in the chair as my mom and my aunt talked out of earshot. I closed my eyes and they went to work.

I opened my eyes to find....

A perm.

They gave me a perm.

I should have worried when I felt the curlers. Or the chemicals. Or went under the hair dryer.

No really, mom thought it would be a good idea to give her male 11 year old only child a perm.

And...scene.

Coincidentally Interesting

In the interest of disproving a few people's theory that I do indeed have multiple personality disorder, I decided on a little change. Or at least trying it on for size. Which I like. Even though it doesn't really matter. But it kind of does. We'll see. All of us. My preciousssssss.

Henceforth, forthwith and a little dippety do, I've started an "addendum blog" to this one called "Coincidentally Interesting."

One of the reasons I started to blog was that I recognized that laughter was a little lacking in my life. I took the good, the bad and the ugly way too seriously to actually enjoy all the great things that have been and are happening. I was getting hung up and aggravated at the little things that really shouldn't matter. And it was taking up more of my psychic energy than it should have. So I started blogging as a way to take a step back and laugh at what needed to be laughed at and learn from what needed to be learned from.

My goal in What Hurts was, and still is, an outlet for the child in me.

The one who, in Art Education for Elementary Teachers, built a clay koala holding onto a tree/pencil holder in the shape of a bong and declared to his older, stuffy professor that it was an homage to Ginsberg in Australia.

The one who declared, for his final assignment in Music for Elementary Teachers, that he required a high-powered fan, a smoke machine and a reenactment of the drowning scene in Titanic "to create the mood," before he would play "My Heart Will Go On" on his recorder.

The one who, at his team's pleadings, gave 110% lip synching to "Barbie Girl" at a volleyball camp talent show, thereby ensuring that it would be the last time said volleyball camp had a talent show.

The one who tried to transform ruralish Michigan's O'Malley's Irish Pub into Ye Old Gay Irish Pub Next To Big Dick's simply by word of mouth.

The one who tried to lead an a capella sing-a-long to "Ass and Titties" at a gay bar's karaoke night.

I'm a big fan of the child in me. And blogging was a way to acknowledge his contributions to humanity. I wanted this blog to be all about the funny.

But, I've also been seriously itching to write again. There have been a number of posts in the last month or so that have taken on a serious and more academic tone. There've also been nearly a dozen unpublished posts that read more like a thesis than a blog entry.

So the addendum to What Hurts, "Coincidentally Interesting," will allow my inner dork to blab all he wants. If it's interesting to anyone but me, I'll be shocked out of my gourd. And probably want to start dating you immediately.

Everything I need to know I learned in...Illinois, Wisconsin and Hawaii. What? Exactly.

So, I came across this link again.

"You Know You're From (insert state) When..."

Either I know a lot, or I need to just pick ONE damn place to live.

You Know You're From HAWAII When...

- You go to dinner and "make one plate" with all the extra food leftover.
- You automatically take off your shoes in people's homes.
- It's "shave ice" not"snow cones".
- When someone says to "dress up" it means one nice aloha shirt and jeans.
- You went to the War Memorial Stadium parking lot to learn how to drive.
- It's SHOYU, not soy sauce.
- To you, sushi means sushi, not RAW FISH!
- You have a billion pairs of slippers in front your door when your family gets together
- You buy large quantities of toilet paper in case there's a longshoreman strike.
- You don't understand why anyone would buy less than a 20 lb bag of rice...
- You can taste the difference between teriyaki and kal-bi
- You know what the "stink eye" is; and how to give it.
- You can correctly pronouce kalanianaole, kalakaua and aiea (and likelike?)
- You give directions using mauka and makai.
- You think 70 degrees is freezing cold
- Rainbow Drive-Inn is a special date.
- When you hear the words "fund raiser", you know it means Zippy's Chili
- You have said "wat, owe you money?", "karang your alas", or "dakine"
- You never understood why adding pineapple and ham to a pizza made it Hawaiian to the rest of the world
- You measure the water for the rice by the knuckle of your index finger
- You go to Maui and your luggage home includes potato chips, manju, cream puffs, guri-guri and fresh saimin from Sam Sato's
- You call everyone older than you "Aunty" or "Uncle" even though they aren't related to you
- You are barefoot in most of you elementary school pictures (and high school...hello?!?).
- You feel guilt leaving a get-together without helping clean up.
- The only time you honk your horn is once a year during the safety check.
- Nobody is sure exactly where "north" is.

You Know You're From ILLINOIS/CHICAGO When...

- You know if someone is from southern, middle or northern Illinois as soon as they open their mouth.
- When you say "the city" - you mean Chicago.
- All the festivals across the state are named after a fruit, vegetable, grain, or animal.
- You know what "cow tipping" and "snipe hunting" is.
- "Vacation" means going to Six Flags.
- Whenever anyone mentions going out for steak, the first place you think of is Ponderosa.
- You have no problem spelling or pronouncing "Des Plaines"
- You think Chicago is a completely different state from Illinois.
- People from other states love to hear you say "Illinois" and other words with "Os" in them.
- You drink "pop."

- You know what Kennedy, Dan Ryan, Eisenhower, Edens, and Bishop Ford, have in common and curse one of them daily.
- You can name three or four extra taxes nobody else pays.
- You can use two or three Daleyisms in context.
- You say Chicawgo and not Chicaago.
- You expect corruption in local politics.
- You've been caught speeding in Wisconsin because you had Illinois plates. (ummm...can I hear a "You've been caught speeding in Illinois with Wisconsin plates"?)
- You guard your shoveled parking space with an old chair and unusable broom.
- You know exactly how many cars are "legally" allowed to turn left after the light turns red.
- You can recite many of "The Blues Brothers" lines and know where they filmed certain scenes.
- You don't pronounce the "s" at the end of Illinois. You become irate at people who do
- You measure distance in minutes (especially "from the city"). And you swear everything is pretty much 15 minutes away
- You refer to Lake Michigan as "The Lake"
- You understand what "lake-effect" means
- You know the difference between Amtrak and Metra, and know which station they end up at. You have ridden the "L"
- You can distinguish between the following area codes: 847,630,773,708, 312, & 815
- You respond to the question "Where are you from" with a side" example:"WEST SIDE", "SOUTH SIDE" or "NORTHSIDE."
- You live two miles from work and it takes you two hours to drive there
- It's January and you see someone's kitchen chair in the street, and you know that if you're a responsible citizen and bring it back to the sidewalk you will be shot on sight
- You don't flinch when you pay the fifth toll of your 45-minute car ride on the highway
- You've paid $105 for towing, $30 for more than one "street cleaning" ticket, $58 for a city vehicle sticker, and $70 for a license plate sticker -- and chalk it all up to "neighborhood taxes."
- You've taken the Red Line past the point where all white people get off and all black people get on -- or vice versa.

You Know You're From Wisconsin/Milwaukee When...

- You can taste a difference in cheese made somewhere else
- You can find and pronounce : Eau Claire, Oconomowoc, Menomonee Falls, Waukesha, and La Crosse, Fond du Lac.
- When the weather hits 0 degrees you decide that maybe it's time to get out a jacket instead of a sweatshirt.
- You know how to make a very good sled out of normal household items.
- You have watched Fargo and not noticed an accent.
- You drive around with the air conditioning on until it hits 30 degrees, because it just was so darn hot outside.
- You live in a house that has no front steps, yet the door is one yard above the ground.
- You think everyone from south of Madison has an accent.
- You can identify a Michigan accent.
- Down South to you means Chicago.
- You can recognize someone from Illinois from their driving.
- You buy cat litter every winter, but you don't own a cat.
- Bucky the Badger hangs on your Christmas tree even if you didn't go to University of Wisconsinm Madison.
- You can use the word "ya der hey" easily in a sentence
- There was at least one kid in your class who had to help milk cows in the morning
- You have ever seen or played in a "broom ball" game.
- You know people who have tied dead animals to the hoods of their cars.
- You think "The Safe House" is better than Disneyworld.
- You won't let a car from out of state go faster than you.
- No matter where you go you see the Jesus Car - and can't understand what's coming out the speakers
- To you, Martin Luther King Drive is still 3rd St. and Cesar Chavez Drive is still 16th St

I guess that's a lot to know. All of the above have made life quite confusing at times.

There have been times that I know which accent I'm supposed to be using, but have no idea which accent will come out. Am I in central Illinois? Chicago northside? southside? west side? Wisconsin? northern Wisconsin? western Wisconsin? Michigan?

"I guess it's all aboot the pop you drink at the baarr, hey?"

Sheesh.

Some say moment...some say security issue.

Apparently I'm a 16 year old girl.

Let's all take a moment to channel a little Johnny Weir:

...and there's nothing wrong with that.
...and there's nothing wrong with that.
...vodka shot, snort of...wait.
...and there's nothing wrong with that.

Work pretty much blew chunks when I was hit with 16 people who seemed to have been misled into believing they were at Chuck E Cheese or Denny's. You know, the Denny's just past the trailer park on the left. No, not that one. The one after the third 4x4 up on blocks after you take the right past the kiddy pool with the duct taped Xs all over. Yeah, the off brown one. That Dennys..

I was in a pretty foul mood. Then I found that a table had written on their credit card slip: "Tip: Don't run with scissors." By the way assholes, The Shitty Tipper Database is a bitch.

I walked into the kitchen. I may or may not have been looking for some kind of sharp implement.

Only to find...

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

A Certain Reality TV Star.

No, not Screech again. Hollywood Squares doesn't count.

I use the label, "star," very loosely. Every season after New Orleans was pretty much bad straight porn meets Jackass.

Okay, Chicago wasn't all that bad. But only because I was living in the Windy City at the time and everyone was all about RW sightings. If I remember correctly, I witnessed Chris and Aneesa's little jaunt to Circuit. Or at least the camera crew trying not to catch gay. Of course, they were walking in as I was coming home from work. Ten p.m. at Circuit will just find you side by side with all the closet underage suburban homos and guys with mesenger bags who whisper "rock," or "puff," or "skittles" under their breath.

But, I digress.

At seeing said reality tv guy, who apprently got in a fight with a police horse in Madison, I will admit to having turned into a 16 year old girl. To my credit, I kept it on the inside for the first twenty minutes or so. After that, I let it out like I was chasing the N Sync bus at my sixth concert.

Ha! As if.

The only words that escaped my lips as I attempted to fan myself with any object I could grasp, were: "Ooooh mmmmyyyy ggggoooodddd, he's soooooo hot!!!" and "Um, can't you see I'm having issues right now?" and "I. Just. Can't. Deal."

I then spent the next hour or so trying to convince the rest of the staff that he, indeed, was God's gift to everyone too broke to buy porn.

Realizing that my tables were trying to figure out if 45 minutes was too long to wait for a house salad, I walked into the kitchen and tried to pretend like he was any old schmo.

I failed.

Badly.

Shortly thereafter, I was leaning against the staff-service-only-bar-railing, fanning myself with a paper napkin and dabbing my face with a wet towel. I started to laugh until I couldn't breathe. Tears flowed. I tried to blow my nose. And gave thanks that we have to wear aprons.

Then my manager, who had been talking to said reality tv guy, came into the bar area and started hysterically laughing at me.

"Come on. I'll take your picture with him."

I channelled my inner 13 year old Japanese girl at her first Backstreet Boys concert . Then I ran away.

Then called a few dozen people. Each time, I may have said:

"Oh. My. God. You will not believe who is here eating. I'm having issues."

"What? Do you not understand how awesome this is? What's wrong with you? I'll talk to you later when you've come to your senses."

To all those people I called, I'm sorry.

I'm so embararssed right now.

Soooooo embarassed.

I so deserve every ounce of ridicule I get because of tonight.

I almost pulled a Cho

I was in a good mood. I swear.

I was driving to the laundromat this morning to do some laundry for work.

No, Kim, not that kind of laundry.

Anyway, there was a bumper sticker on the minivan in front of me. Suburban soccer mom was still waving thanks to me for letting her in despite the fact she almost totalled the passenger side of my car. At first, I just saw the boldface, all-caps words.

SCOUTING

(tiny tiny words)

AMERICA

It's been a while since I've seen any kind of Scouting bumper sticker.

But then I got closer. At the stop light, I pulled close enough behind the van and, in disbelief, read the rest of the bumper sticker.

SCOUTING

reinforces the values of

AMERICA

I swear to you the following is totally true.

I took off my seat belt. I put the car in park. I pulled the hand brake. I opened the door.

Margaret, our dear Cho, talked about how she was so offended by a bumper sticker that she pulled up next to a car, rolled down her window and YELLED until the driver made a quick turn to get away from Cho The Great.

At that moment, I realized that what I was about to do wasn't worth whatever might follow. Shorewood, Wisconsin, is not the kind of place that one makes a scene. Especially someone who isn't white. And the "victim" is.

For some reason, I'm still steaming mad.

My Eagle badge is just as good as her spoiled, sheltered, homophobic, probably-will-turn-out-gay-cause-karma's-a-bitch, son.

I guess this ramble hasn't really screamed MATURE.

I'll get over it.

And, believe, I'll be a-writin tonight.

We waited for two hours for a table in the back...so she wouldn't be gawked at.

From time to time, I've used this space to express my frustration with some of the more colorful characters that I've had the privilege of serving or watching other people serving. But, thanks to the intoduction of meditation and tofu into my life, I've turned over a new napkin.

In the interest of public service, I thought I'd begin a new section called "Eating Out For Dummies." I don't really know who it speaks to, but hopefully it does some good in the world.

Chapter 6: Restaurant Etiquette According To Kaballah

Before you say or do any of the following things, just remember. Don't. Seriously, don't do it.

1) Swearing. This includes any word that would cause any of your elementary school teachers a moment of self-reflection on what the hell was wrong with your parents.

For those reading this in Russian translation, "fucking" is never the appropriate way to initiate a dialogue with a waiter. In everyday conversational English, the use of the word "fucking" indicates one of two impending actions: a serious beatdown or insertive sexual intercourse. Your waiter will, in all likelihood, not be particularly receptive to either. Especially if you're, say, over 60. That is, until your waiter has verified the amount of your gratuity. Only after you've given a generous gratuity and gotten your waiter pretty well lubed up can you, the diner, successfully accomplish either type of "fucking." So remember, before you throw out a big bag of "fucking," buy your waiter a drink. See where it goes from there.

For those reading this in the original English, there are more productive ways of phrasing: "This tastes like ass." Remember back to the ass you tasted that was similar in nature to what you just put in your mouth. Assuming that the memory of the ass in question was not particularly pleasant, describe in greater detail to your waiter your problem with your food's texture, odor or other sensations that caused your unease. As you do this, point to the parts of your meal which resembled the offensive ass, but don't talk about the actual ass.

If you happen to be dining with the person to whom the original offensive ass belongs, you may find it productive to tastefully intiate a dialogue with that person about the ways in which both your food and their ass may be improved. See folks, everyone wins!

If you intend for the phrase, "This tastes like ass," as a compliment to the food, we have ourselves an altogether different ballgame. I suggest that you try to communicate to your waiter your feelings and emotions instead of announcing that you are thorougly enamoured by both a particularly memorable ass and the food you have just consumed. In certain circumstances, a diner and their waiter will have developed a close relationship. But, rest assured, this does not mean that any discussions of an anus or several anuses is appropriate.

2) Food Depositories. There is a difference between dining at a restaurant and receiving food from any number of benevolent non-profit organizations. This difference can be observed by various and plain-sight signage.

(a) The sign at the front door. If a certain establishment's sign does NOT involve the words "Food Depository" or "Food Bank," you should expect to pay money in your immediate possession in exchange for food.

(b) The menu. If you announce that you would like to consume food that you did not enter the particular building with, and you are given a list of items from which you may choose with numbers indicating a price of some kind, you should expect to pay that amount. This must be done in the currency issued by the particular country wherein the particular restaurant is located.

There are items in these things called restaurants that will be provided to you with no expectation of payment. However, these items should not make up the entirety or majority of your meal. Some establishments provide you with various condiments that you may enjoy with your meal. Grated cheese, for example. But, you should not open the bottle of said grated cheese and dump the entirety of its contents onto your meal. On one hand, you have become quite a chef in your own right. You have turned 'Spaghetti with Marinara' into 'Grated Cheese with Spaghetti." However, this is considered uncouth. And not good.

These complimentary items are provided to you because you have agreed to pay for other items. Some establishments offer these items as a meal unto themselves. However, just because a certain Italian restaurant offers "Breadsticks and Soup," it does not mean that EVERY restaurant offers a similar item. Especially when they don't serve soup.

I would like to take this time to warn against some common faux pas. The following questions and statements should be avoided during the entirety of your dining experience.

"What can I get for free?"
"Is there anything for free?"
"That isn't what I thought it would be. It should be free."
"What can I get for $(insert any amount)?"
"The menu says this is $12.99. If I don't want the whole thing, can you charge me for less?"
"It's my birthday. What do I get for free?"
"I don't remember paying for this the last time I was here."
"Your bread is free, right?"
"This coupon is for a free appetizer. I thought the appetizer came with an entree."
"I couldn't find parking. This should be free."

Restaurants will, from time to time, offer a diner an item for no cost. Do not take offense that someone with, say, the same hair color or name as you received something at no cost and you did not. Do not approach someone to state that you feel left out and demand something for free.

There are several restaurants that are tickled rosy pink to hear that your birthday was last Tuesday. They climb over themselves to give you whatever your heart desires and expect nothing in return except that shiny happy smile of yours. Take careful, accurate note of the names of these restaurants. If you enter a restaurant with a different name than the one you previously notated, chances are pretty good that they will not react with the same intense zeal.

I heard you were a good pet. Little trouble with the wheel...

I've made a plan to go back to Hawaii. I want to finish school. Actually, I know I need to finish school. But, the thought of moving back to a place called Paradise scares the shit out of me.

I thought about going back to Champaign, which I recently found out is a viable option. But, I think that ship sailed a while ago. I would have to major in social geography at the U of I. Irrelevant as it is, the most interesting class I would be taking for 2 1/2 semesters would be "American Landscapes," which is all about the changing landscape of rural farming architecture. As much of a dork/nerd as I am, I'm having a panic attack just thinking about spending a semester staring at slides of barns.

I think I had a nightmare that looked a lot like that.

I think it was last night.

I woke up crying...

in a barn...

with a herd of angry cows...

yelling "let's see you tip us now, bitch."

Then I woke up for real.

Mental note: No more tofu before bed.

Part of me thinks it would be great to move back to Champaign for a year to just up and finish. I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And I know not to buy anything orange this time around. The whole anaphylactic shock thing is probably my gay gene's way of getting the point across.

For a while, I thought I needed time and space away from all things Illini to deal with some kind of psychic trauma. As I was editing and rewriting my piece for Brotherhood Revisited, I remember thinking that I would be satisfied with my narrative only when I reached something like 'closure.' Of course I was just being way too dramatic. And neurotic.

There are people from my past that I'd like to get to know again. There are people I'd like to stay the hell away from. And a lot of people somewhere in between.

I doubt I'll ever forget how quickly and decisively some people turned against me. But only insofar as I know what true friends really are. Some people will throw boxes of your stuff in a dumpster just to see you fish through trash. True friends convince you that nothing is worth that. And provide a friendly reminder that you still know the combinations to every lock inside and outside of the house. Oh, the things nobody notices go missing.

But, if I were to go back to Champaign, there is the issue of money. The new FAFSA is a little distressing. I may or may not have to sign over the rights to either my first-born or a kidney, the left one, that still works.

So, the best option right now is to move back home for 2 semesters in American Studies at the University of Hawaii. Academically, it's exactly what I've wanted to do. Economically, it's the most feasible. From what I can tell, it would be about $2000 a semester in Manoa versus $15,000 at the U of I.

I started looking at all my options not too long ago. I came to the understanding that my current job was never meant to be a career or anything like a career. The restaurant has been great to me in a lot of ways. But, the fact that I've been there almost three years hit me about a week and a half ago when I waited on a family. They come in once a year to celebrate mom's birthday, and I've waited on them in one form or another the past three years. They asked if they could make a reservation for me to wait on them next year.

I got chills.

Turns out the air conditioner had kicked in and i was standing under the vent.

Nevertheless, something gave the appropriate kick and I started seriously weighing my options of going back to school.

He's here, he's Weir.

Yes, that was a newspaper headline. Pretty catchy methinks.

I started another post a little while ago that turned into a master's thesis proposal called one of the following:

"I Swear I Read Sports Illustrated For The Articles: The New Generation of Gay Athletes"

"He's Weir, He's Q***r: You*g G*y At*letes and Th* New C*ming Ou*"

"Quidditch Is Soooo Last Year, Real Men Play Wizard Chess: Sexual Ambiguouty (?) in 21th Century Sport"

"And The Band Played Christina Aguilera: Men, Sport and Society" (not so great, I'd have to work on that title)

"The Gay Olympic Games; Neither Gay, Olympic Nor Much Of A Game: Discuss." (yeah, I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel.)

"Spandex, Jockstraps And All That Glitters Gold: Sport and Sexuality in the 21st Century."


Much to many a writing teacher's chagrin, I always start with a title. The piece (of something) usually flows from there.

The whole point of the now-unpublished post was that everything about Johnny Weir seems to me to be indicative of a new generation of young, successful and celebrated athletes whose sexual orientation has become a part of the whole story. Not the subject of the story. Not ommitted from the story. Part of the story. "It" is wrapped up in the whole image.

It can be understood that Weir is gay. But, that doesn't seem to matter. His flamboyance, if one were to try to describe it in a word, is refreshing in its honesty. His words, honest to something less than a fault, are almost comforting. His skating at the Olympics may have left something to be desired, but his short program was just short of brilliant and inspiring.

And, for American figure skating, it's about damn time.

I felt like a sentimental fool, but the more I read about Johnny Weir, the more I feel inspired. Although I don't plan on wearing sequins, giving up the volleyballs or adopting a Weir demeanor, I'm all about Johnny Weir. Or, at least, his message.

I've known those who may or may not have been labelled "big nelly queens" all the way back to high school.

One of my best friends was that guy. In P.E., when we had to do all those track & field events, even I made fun of him when he attempted the long jump. He tried to do it the way it's supposed to be done. On his second try, he said, "fuck this," and when he planted his foot on the board, he sprung forward into a ballet split and flew into the sand. Of course, he went farther than everyone except the school's star long jumper. But not by much.

Throughout high school, he wore Prada and Gucci and Ferragamo. Yes, even in Hawaii. He had a Coach handbag and Louis Vutton flip flops. He took ballet and dance and, from time to time, would break out into a tap dance routine in the middle of the quad.

The thing I'll always remember, and the thing that bothered me the most in high school, was that he was 110% unabashedly himself. What you saw was what you got. He was the most loyal friend anyone could have. The most honest. The most insightful. The most. The most. The most. Now, he's getting his Ph.D. from Yale and the sky's the limit. But, he's the same guy I knew when I was a bratty, frustrated and angry 14 year old.

I've matured, maybe, and changed a lot. The kids that used to call him names and make fun of him have grown up. But, he's been true to himself for a lifetime, and that takes more balls than I'll ever know.

The first year I went to volleyball camp, there was this one coach. I'll call him Spock. Everyone had something to say about him. Including me. And I'll admit that I wasn't his biggest fan for all the wrong reasons. No one will ever find me tattooing a rainbow onto any part of my body.

I had a rainbow sticker on my car once. Once. For about 5 minutes. That's another story, I guess.

While Spock would get all primped at coifed to head out to the gay bar, I was in my room "bonding" with my roommate and, as embarassing as it is to say now, talking about how hot some of the women's college players were (and still are!). While I spent most of the two weeks worrying about whether or not I could find a coaching job if I became known as the homo, Spock was living it up. Not necessarily in the way that I would live it up, even now, but having a great time nonetheless.

I'm still not Spock's biggest fan. He's kind of an ass to me. But, I have a pretty deep respect for him. He was unabashedly himself among people who could have created all kinds of problems for him professionally and maybe personally. But, he didn't care. I'm sure he thought, "why should I care?" And that's admirable.

There are still more than a few times in the past couple of years that I've butched it up and gone back in the "closet." Lies by omission, I guess. It's what's comfortable for me. Especially when it has to do with my professional goals.

I cringe when I remember April of 2000. I was coaching the Illinois women's club volleyball team. Before the first practice back in September, I told the team that we were going to be playing in the National Championship match on center court in Reno in April. I told them that, by the end of the year, the Floridas and Purdues and Marquettes and Colorados and Miami of Ohios were going to be gunning for us because we would clearly be the team to beat. And, they bought it.

When we got to Reno, we were as confident as we had been all season. On the final day, we got by #8 Kentucky, swept #1 Florida and #6 Marquette and got by a good Washington State team.

But, while the team was prepping themselves to play Texas in the National Championship match, I was outside and around the corner. Practicing my wave.

The national championship game is the only time a club team will be introduced. I had to wave when the said my name. I went into the bathroom and waved in front of the mirror. Too nelly. Too fem. Too. Too. Too. I finally got it when I put all my fingers together, put my hand up and shook it once. I did it again. And again.

My team was prepping themselves for a collegiate national championship and I was in the bathroom trying to practice a wave that wouldn't announce to the world that I was a big homo.

I probably should have been looking at Texas' hitting patterns by rotation. Or trying to figure out how to match up our blockers against their hitters. Or figuring out a way to stop their two All-American middles. Or coming up with some kind of speech like "Well. Here we are. Right where we knew we'd be. Now we can relax and play our game."

I'd like to think that I'm not going to be consumed with regrets. But I have them. A bunch of them.

Well, Johnny Weir didn't get a medal. He's pretty pissed about it too. Vancouver, look out. The Weir is a-coming.

Oh, and I'm sure he'll skate the hell out of it, too.

Oh great...the only straight guy in the place. You hit a gay guy in the head and all he does is say, "Eh, all in a day."

T minus 2 hours to the men's long program and... Well, not a whole lot else.
(Edit: Okay, so it already happened and the results are posted, but I'm trying not to watch it until tonight)

No really. Here in Milwaukee we've had record 10+ inches of snow, large hail, sub-zero wind chill, closed or undrivable highways and roads, freezing rain, 235 car accidents by 2 pm, school closures. And of course, the weather's not making any sense in general cuz I see that there are tornado warnings in Michigan. Really?

By the way, if anyone watched The Runway last night, don't tell me. My tofu and I are quite happy.

I'm all giddy with anticipation about the men's figure skating long program tonight. Russia's Plushenko skates an inspiring program. Sometimes it's difficult to watch figure skating and know the difference between a gold medal and a 9th place performance. Not the case with Plushenko. Even without the sometimes annoying and vulgar commentating**, it was obvious that Plushenko had the gold and everyone else was a clear also-ran.

Interestingly, one of the best stories at the Games is the U.S.'s Johnny Weir, currently in second (for all those living under a rock, or in Charleston, WV. Not Huntington, that's the U.S.'s hidden gem). He's an insurmountable 11 points back from Plushenko but with a chance to walk with a medal.

Of course I have to be drawn to the stories about Weir. He's referred to another skater's program as "a shot of vodka, snort of coke." His short program costume is that of a jewelled swan with a red "beak" of a glove that he calls "Camielle." U.S. Figure Skating officials have tried to censor him and major newspapers are hesitant to fully quote or poetically describe him, calling him "outspoken" and "eccentric" more often than not.

Over at Outspots.com, their commentators/columnists are still "speculating" that he may be gay. On the discussion boards, opinions about Weir range from the greatest admiration, to anger that he won't say he's gay, to labelling him a "bitchy diva" who just needs to shut up. Really folks?

Isn't this what progress looks like for gay men in (the gayest) sports? Weir is accomplished and decorated as the best male figure skater in the U.S. for the past how many years. And he's still improving. He's honest to a fault and a great story for the media. He's confident and self-assured.

He hasn't spoken the words, "I'm gay." But, he doesn't have to. It's just understood as part of the whole story. In the past he's said that training has made it impossible to keep seeing someone in Boston. His expressive skating style is refreshing on the men's side of the sport, but even led to one NBC commentator to say how comforting the masculinity of another American skater's routine was for "audiences."

Malcontent has the video capture of NBC's Weir feature as well as his short program. Check it out.

Some Weir quotes:

"I know that a lot of people, especially the more Republican [Edit: sorry John!] style people, are very afraid of what I mean to the sport and what I'm going to say, what kind of revolutionary, crazy things are going to come out of my mouth. And...good for them. They should be scared."

"I'm not for everybody. There are going to be people that like you and people that hate you. And...there's nothing I can do."

"My harshest critics will probably just say that I'm full of air and fluff and I don't mean things that I say. But for now....., my critics can...eat it."

Of course, it's all about performing and competing. If you can do both, then everything else becomes the background and a nice story for the media to tell. I would think that's what one type of progress looks like.