Blending In and Sticking Out

Shall we shorthand it? NO!

2007-05-25T02:21:00.000-05:00

99% of the time I hate rubberneckers. 99.9% of the time I hate pictures of whatever tragic mess Brittney has gotten herself into. 99.999% of the time I despise the political commentary shows where lefties and righties regurgitate approved talking points at each other with increasing volume.

BUT!!! The Rosie vs Elisabeth Smackdown on The View was the greatest thing since that third grader let Quayle think he was the smarter of the two.

I didn't actually see it live. I stopped watching The View just before Starr obviously stopped taking her prescribed Crazy/Bitchy pills. I do love me some Barbara Walters. And Joy Behar. And all the guest hosts.

But I got an e-mail that said I HAD HAD HAD to watch the blow by blow on Youtube.

Y'all it's HOT HOT HOT.

At one point early on Sherry tries to go to commercial but Rosie lays out the backslap, rolls up the sleeves and goes for the jugular. Later on, Joy demands that the directors/producers go to commercial. Undaunted, the Viewies skip -- SKIP!!! - a commercial break to split screen the two throwing bitch slaps.

Trust me. IT'S F-ING AWESOME!!!

There's 6 or 7 versions with over a million views combined. And I'm sure I've got about half of them.

The only thing that calms me after listening to Elisabeth show her utter stupidity and gullibility is watching ALICIA SILVERSTONE!!! No really, Alicia Silverstone. Serious. Alicia Silverstone.

Sherry introduces AS and what followed gave me that warm fuzzy feeling, almost a loving hug from god. AS walks out and STEPS AROUND Elisabeth's outstretched arms. AROUND! Lis sits her ass down and pouts while AS group hugs the other three.

Warm hug from god, I tell you.

It's the television moment of the year and deserves an Emmy and some kind of bitchy, gay, passive-agressive version of a Nobel. Which I think is called a Tony.

Enjoy.

Do you know how hard it is to get sidewalk salt out of raw silk?

2007-05-23T20:18:00.000-05:00

Okay, folks. All two of you who read this damn thing.

Halloween 2007.

1) Margaret Cho?

2) Hiro Nakamura?

3) Hello Kitty?

Thank you for your input.

P.S. How f-ing sad is it that these are my 3 options?

But Karen, we're playing poker...

2007-05-03T06:04:00.000-05:00

Latest blows to the ego:

-1- Just when I was certain that I can at least claim "intermittenticus alcoholicalism" as a defining characteristic, I have to go and get a serious buzz during beer training at the new job. Seriously, it was just a beer sampler. Soon I'll be getting sugar highs from gum.

-2- Apparently I have a smaller dearth of liquor knowledge than the average middle schooler. I thought my response - "Does it matter?" - to customer questions - "What's your well vodka?" - was my attempt at the funny. Nope. The only liquor that's coming to mind as I prepare for a serious beer & liquor test is Bombay Sapphire. And only because it's the gayest name for a liquor since, "Blowing Sailors Under A Dock Single Malt."

-3- The managers at the new job have all asked about my availability at different times to which I've answered, "Nope, nothing. Totally open, no plans." Which is depressing as fuck the more and more I think about it.

-4- The results of my personality test were 93% across the board. I guess that's 7% closer to Hannibal Lector. Although, thanks to Heroes, we all know who's going to play me in the movie ala Monster. Goodbye Tom Welling. Hello Hiro Nakamura. Fuck me.

Just to play devil's advocate...Pt 2

2007-03-10T14:41:00.001-06:00

I have a post in the works about a certain person. The March 6 version of her hate speech dressed up as "political commentary" came in the form of another attempted justification. Actually, it was more of a follow-up to her comment that she knows lots of gays that quite enjoy being called fags by the likes of her and the fundamentalist right.

"And I don't think there's anything offensive about any variation of faggy, faggotry, faggot, fag. It's a schoolyard taunt. It means -- it means wussy. It means, you know, Hillary giving a speech in a fake Southern drawl -- that's faggy. A trial lawyer who weeps before juries is faggy. Lifetime-type TV, faggy. So, in point of fact, I called John Edwards nothing. I said I couldn't even discuss him because using any variation of that totally excellent word would send me into rehab."

K. Got it. At least Michael Richards kept his mouth shut upon leaving the scene of the crime.

Over at Media Matters they have the continuously updated list of newspapers still carrying her column along with corresponding contact information.

Newspapers in California, Georgia, Indiana, Illinois, Louisiana, Mississippi, North Carolina, New Mexico, Nevada, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, Texas, Vermont, Virginia and, of course, Wisconsin still need a little help.

Newspapers in Illinois, Lousiana, North Carolina have already done good.

So that's why we had saltines...

2007-03-06T14:38:00.000-06:00

You know you're somewhere close to the bottom of the barrel when:

...well, for one thing, you have to look up how to spell barrel, but also...

...you start measuring your status in society by comparing your neat, tidy and organized stack of groceries at the checkout counter to other people's slapdash-throw-it-on-the-conveyer-belt mess.

I like to stack my groceries by perishable (heaviest to lightest), non-peishable (heaviest to lightest) all the while obscuring the items I fear will bring on judgment (jello, Spam, minute ramen, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter; you know, that kind of thing) between large items (cereal boxes, Prego bottles, milk cartons).

Today I realized that I totally judge people whose grocery stacking has no rhyme or reason.

I blame the Jewel Osco in Chicago's Boystown for this character flaw. Shopping there taught me how to:

-- Shop during off-peak hours for items with more than 2 g of fat per serving

-- Hide potentially embarassing purchases among other larger purchases should it turn out that the guy behind you in line could have been Mr. Perfect if only he didn't see that you were buying spam,

-- Arrange groceries so as to appear that you are hosting a fabulous, yet obviously exclusive, dinner party,

-- Always buy some obscure item in the "organic" aisle that could lead to flirtatious conversation at the checkout counter about "how great this Organic Multigrain Trail Mix Granola Yumtastic tastes with a little nonfat, unsweeted vanilla yogurt in the morning....right after we find your underwear that got thrown somewhere earlier..."

I need therapy.

Wait, you have a little CD player? That's so not fair..

2007-03-04T04:36:00.000-06:00

I roadtripped down to St Louis this past weekend for another NAGVA volleyball tournament. But like most NAGVA weekends or weekends with Mike & Giniqua, it seemed more like a weeklong bender with every tragic mess from every season of The Real World. Which, methinks, is the reason I keep going back.

But this time I forwent the usual flight. And yes, I just used the word 'forwent' and if anyone doesn't like it they can get their own damn blog. Instead, I drove. Which, in the end, proved to add to the tragicity of the entire weekend.

(The plan was formulated along the following lines) [And then became a new plan]:

(1) Thursday afternoon: Pick up rental car in Milwaukee. Pick up Giniqua from O'Hare. Stay with Joe and The Roger in Gayville in the hopes of tragicity breaking out all over the place.

[1a] Thursday: Got cockblocked by the rental agent in Milwaukee. Which turned out to be a good thing because otherwise I may have had to spend a night with ex-friend-until-I-hear-three-years-worth-of-genuine-apologies Vodkina who I'd definitely already have thrown off a sixth floor balcony if it weren't for those damn CSI shows.

[1b] Thursday night: Got a phone call from Vera Wang, the pink-polo wearing 'straighty' our team met during Gay Games week, who can name fashion magazine editors in pictures but still claims to prefer the puntang. He and others at Joe and The Roger's pad wanted this blog address to peruse the bitchery contained within. Because of that mistake, I may or may not have a hit out for me. Not a gay one like Whitney or Sexyback. I mean the Sopranos kind.

(2) Friday: Drive from Gayville, Chicago to St Louis with Giniqua's I-pod playlists blaring every reason for us getting gaybashed in the Bible Belt.

[2a] I don't know cars. At all. Apparently, an Aveo and an Alero aren't the same car. I don't understand why the hell not. Also discovered that the Alero-sounding Aveo doesn't normally come equipped with a CD player or cruise control, both of which are painfully necessary when driving through 4,000 miles of Illinois prairie.

We hadn't even left the far south suburb of Chicago before Mike almost jumped out of the car and walked it to StL. Instead, Mike was treated to central Illinois' idea of the "latest hits" and the constant move between 60 and 90 mph. I got the distinct impression, somewhere around Kankakee, that Mike was playing in his mind those scenes in Monster In Law when JLo and Fonda imagined using a frying pan to the face instead of a polite smile.

I spent nearly the entire drive trying to convince Mike that the Illinois prairie is:
-- "A classic American landscape. Very O'Keefe meets Old MacDonald."
-- "The true heartland where honest people connect with the land..."

And some other bullshit like that. Mike didn't bite. And may have said the following over and over:
-- "Look, I can see the Washington Monument."
-- "Look, there's Denver."
-- "The weather looks nicer over Houston today."
-- "This isn't a hill. It's an overpass."
-- "There's the east coast, the west coast, and NOTHING in between."
-- "That's not a city, that's a village."
-- "If I had to live here, I'd kill myself. I might kill myself right now. And you."
-- "I'm calling the airline to see if I can just fly out of St Louis. This is bullshit."
-- "AAARRRRHHHHH"

Apparently, Mike hates America.

[2b] The roommate and her daughter came along for the roadtrip to visit family in StL. Which only meant that front-seat Mike's knees were pushing up against his larynx instead of his chest for 5 hours. I, having the genetically designed freakishly disproportional leg to body ratio, was just fine. I kept my mouth shut about that fact.

[2c] I discovered that stopping in good ole Chambana would only add 15 or so miles to our little Tragicity Road Trip. The added plus being that Mike would have time to either stretch his legs for an hour or find the nearest Amtrak station.

Introducing Mike to Champaign, I announced that we would soon be driving through "Downtown Champaign." He said something like, "...and what? Five story buildings." No, asshole. Little did I remember that Downtown Champaign's buildings don't exceed four stories. Luckily I only had to withstand Mike's bitching for all six blocks of Downtown Champaign. I offered to drive through "Downtown Urbana," to which Mike may or may not have grabbed the steering wheel and threatened to guide us into a streetlight if I "ever said shit like that again."

I got to revisit the old frat house with the added benefit of having someone to throw at the potential lynch mob while I ran for the car. I would never. But it was an option. And I thought about it. In my defense, Mike did get a free meal pass to the all you can eat "straighty" bar. Then again...instead of playing spot-the-newbie-gay, we ended up trying to figure out which frat boy wouldn't end up living at a Boystown bar in the very near future.

I spent most of my time desperately trying to prove that I was, in fact, a member of the fraternity for any amount of time. The few current brothers I met took the handshake as proof positive, but I had a helluva time convincing Mike. Apparently I only sat for one composite picture and the paddle with the list of pledges from my year was stolen at some party in the recent past. In the hallways I found a few group pictures with me in them. Mike pointed out that it was a shoulder here, an arm there and my face back then was so ambiguously asian that it could have been anyone. I considered leaving Mike and driving away but decided he'd like that too much.

*Actual events*
(KaBamm. Brent, bone dry sober, runs sideways into a brick wall.)
Mike: Did you REALLY just run into that brick wall?
Brent: I might have.
Mike: They just jump out at you, don't they?
(Four steps later)
Mike: I can't believe you just walked into that wall.
Brent: I didn't see it.
Mike: It was a fucking WALL. How could you NOT see it?
(Four steps later)
Brent: I can't believe I ran into that wall.
Mike: Really?
Brent: No, I can believe it.
Mike: And, scene.
*The End*

We stopped at good ole Murphy's for lunch, even after their brick wall attacked me. I spent a good amount of time trying to get into the heads of more than a few coeds there. I know a few women who got the most amazing sex of their lives from their turned-out-to-be-gay ex-boyfriends, but the couples sitting at Murphy's made me a little sad. The females were obviously living out some kind of Hallmark Precious Moments commercial instead of taking Dan Savage's advice. Seriously girls, ride that orgasmic sex wave while he's still givin it away to those without external genitalia. But don't fall in love. Everyone with intact frontal lobes hears the theme to Fame when your "boyfriend' walks by. Especially when he's checked out Mike the four times he's gone to the counter to "get you another napkin."

Mike made me do it so none of the following was my fault: I bought a t-shirt at Walgreens. So we could stay and check out the SERIOUS eye candy buying mints or the one using the ATM. The shirt was green. With pink lettering. And it was a small. It might have been a women's small. I don't know which was the worst. I swear I pulled out a 20 bill, grabbed the shirt and stuffed it in my coat. I may have told the cashier to keep the change.

Mike claims to have never before seen a sign on a highway stating:

DANVILLE: 4 miles
CHAMPAIGN: 29 miles
MEMPHIS: 450 miles

And then...

CHAMPAIGN: 21 miles
MEMPHIS: 442 miles

For a good hour and a half Mike had a very quiet nervous breakdown because of these signs. The main reason may or may not have been because he -- a big city dude -- couldn't handle being anywhere that measures distances between anything resembling "civilization" in hundreds and hundreds of miles.

More later.

...putting together parts to create the perfect man...?

2007-02-28T01:22:00.001-06:00

Quote of the St Louis Weekend:

"Seriously, the first person to talk nerdy to me is getting laaaaiiiiid."

-- Winesha

I'm not embarassed. It was Winesha.

But Mike and Vasili totally judged. And that wasn't cool.

...c'mon, Mandy and Andy...snap

2007-02-01T14:55:00.000-06:00

After a night/day of sleep and careful consideration, I've come to the same conclusion: A robot hosted last night's Series Premier of Top Design.

I don't believe the real Todd Oldham could have looked at this whatsamawhythehell and honestly said that everybody's taste is different. The caption to this whatthefu should be: "Best Little Whorehouse in Bejing."

But, on to more important matters!

Jonathan Adler, Margaret Russell and Kelly Wearstler rock my world. The Holy Trinity. After the premier, a season preview was offered with some quips that made me moist:

JA: "If I had to live here, I would kill myself."
KW: "It looked like I stepped into an assisted living facility."

Of course, His Honor Jonathan Adler let one out last night: "Oh my God, (that room) needed a Zoloft or something."

Take that Michael Kors and Nina Garcia. In a good way, of course.

So in honor and reverence, I thought I'd offer some quips that the judges might slap this season's contestants with. Or that anyone may want to fit into everyday conversation.

"I wouldn't wish this room on the blind."

"I'd rather be quail hunting with Cheney."

"Oh my god, just drink your juice Shelby...I said NOW."

"They solved the mystery. That's where Baby Jane happened."

"It's like a party of drag queens exploded all over and they're selling it as is."

"Brittany had better taste in baby daddies."

"The inspiration was 'sensual,' not Tara Reid's Cooch."

"That wasn't modern Little House. That was Amish Fundamentalist."

"Greg Brady, party of 1. Greg Brady, party of 1."

"The Bedazzler is less tacky..."

I'm sure more will come to me. Feel free to add.

....and so does Karen #2...

2007-01-31T22:14:00.000-06:00

Alright I'm on to my next tv show addiction. Top Design!

But...

It's only been 15 minutes and I'm a bit perplexed and slightly grated; if that's at all possible.

1) Where's Todd Oldham? Star Trek's Data was more human in the first 10 Next Generation shows in its first season than whatever is hosting TD. If I can make some suggestions to the Bravo execs before they set out to rescue the actual Human Oldham:

(a) Robot Oldham was constructed near some kind of makeup factory that just exploded in every direction.
(b) Robot Oldham's voice was probably recorded from a pre-student teaching collegiate's reading of "Heather Has Two Mommies" at a Barnes & Noble. You know, that voice used by education majors before a professor or advisor or fellow student teacher tells them to "fucking cut it out" because "if you keep it up, I'll punch you in the windpipe." "Seriously. Right in the windpipe. Really fucking hard."

2) He's married. With a beautiful daughter. And a gorgeous wife. I know I'm not the only one who thinks that women -- no matter how intelligent and cultured -- need to take responsibility for marrying The Most Obviously Gay Man Ever. I know a lot of straight men who take their daughters pumpkin picking but MOST enjoy deciding where in the exquisitely decorated house to place this perfect pumpkin. Okay, I don't know any straight guys who do either of those things. If he knows what Vera Wang and Nina Garcia look like without ever watching Project Runway...It's all your fault you gorgeous-but-soon-to-be-ex-wife-when-your-husband-runs-off-to-strip-in-West-Hollywood-and-doesn't-come-back.

3) He wants to stay with the women. Because it wouldn't make a difference. Hethinks the women are butcher than the men. You'd think an interior designer has looked in a mirror. Apparently, he hasn't. Kettle, meet pot.

Love it. Love it all.

...the one with the funny drunk girl...

2007-01-24T20:55:00.000-06:00

I'm back. Kind of.

Went to New Orleans. Giniqua and I accomplished 1 of 2 goals for the weekend: (1) Avoid all STDs and (2) Find the largest drinking "vessel" ever made and consume whatever liquor one can fit in said vessel.

But, more importantly...

TOP CHEF!!!

I didn't want to get addicted. I tried not to. I tried really really hard. But have you seen Sam and Ilan? And Elia could make a gay boy switch teams faster than... I don't know. I'll come up with something to end that one.

This week's episode features the first part of the Top Chef Final Four in Hawaii. I wanted to take this opportunity to offer some words of wisdom for any cooks and/or party planners getting all giddy over a Hawaiian theme luau...which seems to be the only thing anyone thinks of when they think "Hawaii-themed party."

(1) Stuffing something in leaves and slopping it on a piece of wood does not make whatever crap you made "Hawaiian" food.

(2) Spam is not the official State Meat of Hawaii. Just because you serve it doesn't mean you've cooked "Hawaiian." And nobody outside of Hawaii likes spam.

(3) GET RID OF THE PLASTIC LEIS. Seriously, if you're not attending a college kegger party, leave the plastic at home. It's stupid.

Just a bit of advice that should have been given to them Top Chef people before they got to Hawaii.

Miss Manners, I am not...

2006-11-20T11:34:00.000-06:00

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?

2006-11-08T01:25:00.000-06:00

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

2006-10-17T17:05:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-09-22T06:32:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-09-19T05:54:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-09-15T04:30:00.001-05:00

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...

2006-09-15T04:30:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-05-29T21:52:00.000-05:00

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

2006-04-28T00:14:00.000-05:00

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

2006-04-28T00:07:00.000-05:00

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

2006-04-18T15:27:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-04-05T16:31:00.000-05:00

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!!!

2006-03-30T19:21:00.001-06:00

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...

2006-03-30T19:21:00.000-06:00

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...

2006-03-23T13:55:00.000-06:00

Apparently a quad of barristas in Vancouver finally snapped.

World, be warned.

It went around the world...

2006-03-17T15:23:00.001-06:00

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.

2006-03-16T00:14:00.000-06:00

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

2006-03-11T16:09:00.000-06:00

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

2006-03-10T15:57:00.000-06:00

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...

2006-03-10T14:48:00.000-06:00

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."

2006-03-06T14:19:00.000-06:00

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

2006-03-01T23:56:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-03-01T22:16:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-03-01T00:43:00.000-06:00

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

2006-02-25T14:50:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-02-21T23:18:00.000-06:00

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...

2006-02-20T23:43:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-02-18T01:29:00.001-06:00

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."

2006-02-16T16:58:00.000-06:00

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.

Uuuuuuuoooouuuuuuu

2006-02-14T02:44:00.000-06:00

I loves me some curling.

It only makes sense. I like well-designed sweats. I like brooms. I quite enjoy rocks. I enjoy circles. I'm not too shabby at geometry. And, when need be, I don't mind a good yell. Plus, you're supposed to drink while you curl.

Seriously now, what's there not to love?

Maybe it's the tofu, but I believe I've turned over a new stone.

I spent all night watching Telemundo, worried sick about you.

2006-02-13T15:23:00.001-06:00

I've finally decided on an appropriate reaction to what used to be my favorite show, Project Run-a-f-ing-way.

Until there is vindication for Nick, I am starting The Great Tofu Fast. I've now wholly adopted tofu and henceforth reject all meat.

All this came to me this afternoon. I needed to find a place to release my anger and remember my inner Zen, so I found myself at Outpost. I felt cleansed upon entering. I walked the aisles, searching for a way to explain this crazy crazy sans-Nick and Michelle world.

Then it came to me in the organic whole grain cereal and oatmeal aisle.

Fight ridiculousness with ridiculousness.

There, on the top shelf sat my inspiration. In response to all of the crazy fundamentalist ultra-orthodox Bible-thumpers, I decided to commit myself to Ezekiel.

Ezekiel 4:9 Sprouted Grain Cereal.

The front of the box says:

As described in the Holy Scripture

"Take also unto thee Wheat and Barley and Beans and Lentils and Millet and Spelt and put them in one vessel and make bread of it..." Ezekiel 4:9

A Complete Protein Crunchy Cereal

I didn't really see anyone to whom I could point out the fact that the product isn't, in fact, bread. You know, like Ezekiel 4:9 says. It's cereal. Bread and cereal----two completely different food items. Similar ingredients, but different foods.

Eh, I bought it.

In the very next aisle, I found boxes of tofu and soy milk and soy chocolate milk and what may or may not have been a soy cow. Eh. At that moment a guy who looked a lot like Nick walked by, picked up a box of soy milk and continued on his merry way. I had found my calling, right there in the soy aisle. I grabbed a number of boxes of tofu and made my vows.

Do you know how many things you can do with tofu?

No really, I'm asking.

I have no idea.

You doubled your pleasure, not you better double my fun...

2006-02-12T21:49:00.000-06:00

I'm trying to get excited about the Olympics. I really am. Trying. So. Hard.

It's not working.

The only event I'm looking forward to is curling.

That's sad.

I know that living in Wisconsin means I have to get excited about winter sports. And beer. And cheese. And hating everything Illinois.

Eh.

I blame Project Runway.

Why be gay?

2006-02-11T22:29:00.000-06:00

I'm here at work. I've just been informed that Michelle Kwan has withdrawn from the Olympics.

Between this and Nick Verreos on the sham of a show formerly known as Project Runway, I'm at a loss for what to think.

Seriously now, why be gay?

Betwixted

2006-02-10T13:33:00.000-06:00

Dear Bravo,

Henceforth, forthwith and a little dippety do, I am boycotting your network. You allowed this week's episode of The Runway to be a fiasco of the highest order. I was planning on using a more obscure word than fiasco from the French, German, Spanish, possibly even Swedish, Latin or English language, but I'm not that invested anymore. I considered just sending you a picture of a gesture. If the gay mafia and I were on good terms right now...

It has become quite obvious that you have taken the purity of The Runway and applied your television witchcraft. You have allowed The Runway to slink and sludge into a flaky triscuit of a show. I believed The Runway to be the only good in this mad, mad world. Instead, I have to see the last great hope for reality shows become a ghost of its past self.

With each passing week you have shown that which started as a competition based on talent, endearing itself to our hearts, has de-evolved into a parody of Survivor. No matter how many celebrities you try to lure me back with, I'm not biting anymore.

You can try and draw me back in with Bonus Videos of Dan Vos in his underwear and shots of what may or may not be outlined in the tight fit of the pants Nick made for him. Okay, I'm not gonna lie, that might work. But, no. No more.

I'm also angry that I couldn't use the latest Jack quotes in my latest post. "I'm against this whole charade. Did I pronounce that right? A--gainst. Yep."

Okay, maybe I got to use it, but I'm still flaming mad.

Run all the Criminal Intent marathons you want. Nothing can bring me back to you.

Except Kathy Griffin. I'll come back if you gives me some of that Kathy Griffin.

(spit)

I'm done.

Love,
Brent

P.S. I tried rearranging my roomate's rainforest into something "vulgar." The farthest I could go was "white trash." Plants being "vulgar" is impossible. Now, tell Nick you're really really sorry.

(spit)

Done.

February 9, 2006

2006-02-08T22:15:00.001-06:00

Tomorrow will be Nick Verreos Day.

I will speak only in quotable one-liners.
I will demand that everyone around me butch it up.
I will find a safe space to imagine Paris Hilton in Mykonos.
I will shun all bearded men.
I will try to get excited about Sasha Cohen.
I will play with a Barbie.
I will rearrange my roommate's plants in a vulgar way.
I will begin and end every conversation with "Shut uuuuup!" and "wickety-wack."
I may or may not get up early enough to watch the Today Show.
Sorry Nick, I have to draw the line somewhere.

Tomorrow, I will celebrate Nick Verreos Day.

Dear Sirs and Madams

2006-02-08T13:19:00.001-06:00

Dear Bud Light,

Bud Light Daredevil Ted Ferguson needs to go.

Now.

At least Miller gives us eye candy to look at.

Best wishes,
Brent

Runway Crazy

2006-02-08T13:19:00.000-06:00

Ahhh, Wednesdays. Time for The Runway.

Many people have the Runway as well, but it's all because of me. You know who you are. You tried to come up with excuses not to watch. Or you tried to make me look all crazy....okay, more crazy. But then you watched, and you're more invested than I am.

Apparently, we're not the only ones. I read on one of the 3.2 million articles listed on Blogging Project Runway that the Runway season premier was the #1 show at their time slot across all networks. Then again, it's up against "Three Midgets, A Tranny and a Sweaty Puffy Coke Whore," "Everyone Kind Of Doesn't Mind Ronald Fitzgerald" and "Christians That Spin."

Eh, #1 is #1.

This past week on our #1 rated Runway, I was prepared for the worst episode of the season. The figure skating episode was forgettable in my mind. "Garden Party," "Flower Power"or "Red Lobster" as I've seen this past week's episode called, could have been another strike, but it turned into one of my favorite episodes. While they showed very little of the actual planning or construction (seriously, how did Nick's dress come to be?), they did manage to catch Daniel V, Chloe and Nick's Hallmark Precious Moment.

No, really, there'll be dolls coming out. Two mini-homos and a fag hag.

Of course, I went to the Runway website to look at their Bonus Video section. There are three videos there that made my week.

1) Daniel V. on coming out (3:15)
D.V.: "My mom teaches Sunday School...I sometimes feel more comfortable walking around New York City at 2:00 in the morning than I do walking around my own small hick town."

D.V.: "I've been shouted at walking down the street on a random afternoon,"faggot," because I had a messenger bag...The stupidest little things will just label you."

2) 80/20? Girls can only hope. (3:30)
D.V.: "Doing this in front of the camera, my relatives still don't know. But, at this point...I'm done. I'm just done....But, my ex-girlfriend still doesn't know."

D.V.: "If you want to consider me bisexual, I guess you can. I'm like 80/20....My parents think that this being bisexual is just a stage. Like I'm...trying things out."

Nick: "He's shopping."

D.V.: "And the gays will judge you just as bad for being bisexual."

And, we get final confirmation that Chloe is a true fag hag.

Chloe (to her gay friends): "That's okay, I wouldn't sleep with you either. Gross. You ho, I know where you been."

3) Nick, you know what camp you're in honey. (3:30)

Nick: "If I was on a desert island and I had to do it...for something. For food money. It can happen."

Chloe: "Those models are waiting for you to turn. Those models are dying to have you honey."

D.V.: "It's true they are. I heard them talking about it."

Nick: "Okay, back to Daniel."

Chloe: "I always have my gay radar on. That's my biggest fear...to date a gay guy."

I loves me some Chloe. And, really, the parents would love for you to be my girlfriend. There are technical and logistical problems with that, but I'm sure we can figure something out.

On a final note, I am still checking the site meter for certain keyword searches that would necessitate me taking certain parts of this blog down. I don't want to embarass or cause trouble for certain people or groups that I've blogged about. Except John and Mike. You bitches are S.O.L. And Smeagel. Screw him. But, not literally.

About 90% of the visitors to this blog are referred here by some combination of search engine keywords involving Daniel Vosovic. I'm not going to say what the other keywords are, but let's just say that I'm not the only one smitten by one Mr. D.V. Yeah, let's leave it at that.

Hella sad

2006-02-06T12:04:00.000-06:00

Which Project Runway designer are you?

Awww. hell no.

I ain't even gonna say who it turns out I am. Where the hell are my meds?

Maybe if I keep saying

"It's simple in a JC Penny kind of way..."

I can channel DV.

2006-02-03T13:58:00.000-06:00

I love me some eye candy on television. But, I get a little confused with all the straightys or maybe not so straightys playing gay, then playing gay basher, then playing straight best friend, then... Maybe that's why I don't mind reality tv.

Huntley Ritter. On Popular, he played the gay-bashing football/baseball player with that scary look in his eye.

Then in Bring It On, he was the gayish cheerleader who gave an Oscar-worthy performance highlighted by a scene where he got all nervous about telling some blondey that he was "great." Oscar, I tell you. Not totally true to life, but, eh, all in a day.

There's Charlie Hunnam. He was the boytoy "Michael" of the U.K. version of Queer As Folk. Whereas the U.S. QAF was a little past softcore, the U.K. pushed past hardcore. I'm not complaining, I'm just sayin...

Then in Young Americans, possibly the best television show of all time, he played the rotten apple that hated on the turned-out-not-to-be gayish couple. When one person is crossdressing, though, I'm not sure what to call it. That's the brilliance of Y.A. Why, oh W.B. execs, did this show end?

Of course we'll move onto Ian Sommerhalder.

In Rules Of Attraction, we wished casting had found someone other than James Vanderbeek. But, eh, we'll take it. With his dancing scenes in front of the mirror and on the bed, Ian made us forget about Crazy Cruise. Thank Scientology God.

In MTV's Anatomy of A Hate Crime, he played Aaron McKinney, one of Matthew Shepard's murderers. Busy Phillips, one of the gay's favorites on The Creek College Years, also played McKinney's girlfriend.

On Young Americans, he thought he was gay when he fell in love with a guy. Turned out to be a girl crossdressing as a guy to piss off her parents. Not really sure how that one worked out. Who cares. He took his shirt off a lot.

There's John Driscoll. On the Creek, he played the Frat rush chair who HAD to have Jack join the house. Then, he turns and not in the good way. He leads the charge to push Jack's boy-loving out of the house's memory.

And then, he appears on Book Of Daniel. He flirts with Christian Campbell after their church choir performance. He's sweet and believable as the masculine, metro straight guy.

Of course, me loves me some Christian Campbell. Trick will always have a special place in my heart. It wasn't the best movie, but it was one of the first. It wasn't really comforting and there wasn't much in the way of plot, but at least it seemed real. And, they showed in in Champaign-Urbana. I couldn't believe it.

In Trick, he played the young, naive, showtune-writing, go-go boy-chasing, living day-to-day-in-NYC twink.

In Book of Daniel, he plays the chess-playing, dorky, son-of-a-preacher-man, church choir-singing gay boy who isn't against sleeping with women.

Disconnect? Nope. But, me loves me some Christian Campbell. Have you seen those dimples?

I'm guessing the problem isn't so much that I don't know whether they're gay or gay-bashing characters, but that I'm watching things like Bring It On and The Creek. Just a guess.

Sometimes I'm not supposed to understand

2006-02-02T22:13:00.001-06:00

From time to time, I'm reminded how there are people out there in the world that I just cannot understand. I try to understand where people are coming from, try to listen to their opinions and to think logically about different ideas.

But, maybe there are time when I'm just not supposed to understand.

A certain Topeka, Kansas, defrocked Baptist minister has announced that he and a small, but vocal group of followers are planning on protesting the funerals of Wisconsin soldiers killed in the Middle East. The group is infamous for protesting the funerals of gays and lesbians as well as those who have passed as a result of complications due to AIDS and HIV.

But, as far as has been verified by the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, none of the late soldiers were gay. I believe that the military actively screens soldiers for HIV/AIDS in their routine physicals. However, the group has posted images of the signs they plan on carrying.

They include:

"Thank God For 9-11" and "God Hates America."

Mr. Defrocked claims that God killed these Wisconsin soldiers in the Middle East because the United States "harbors gays". These soldiers were fighting for a nation that "harbors gays" and were rightfully struck down by God. Therefore, their funerals should be protested.

.....

Anyone?

Anyone?

The Wisconsin state legislature and Governor Doyle are considering legislation.

Preventing Mr. Defrocked from protesting? Nope. First Amendment issues. If the KKK could do it in Skokie, then....

Forbidding him from entering the state? Nope. But, wouldn't that be just swell.

No, the governor and legislature are considering a law to require a certain distance to be maintained by protesters and funerals. I guess when I go and protest some KKK funeral, I'll have to stay a certain distance as well. Eh, all in a day.

However, Republican senators are calling any legislation a restriction on free speech. Exactly what needs to be said that will piss off the suburban/rural moderates enough to get as angry as I and more than a few people are?

Then again...

1) Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell blamed the 9-11 attacks and murders on "the pagans and the abortionists and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way -- all of them who have tried to secularize America -- I point the finger in their face and say "you helped this happen."

2) Bush and every Republican that can get near a microphone, tape recorder and camera has said that gay marriage is a threat to the institution of marriage. Didn't The Bachelor, Married In America, Brittany Spears #1, Brittany Spears #2 and all the divorced couples already pretty much seal the deal? Bill Maher hypothesizes that Bush may be correct because gay marriage looks more fun. However, as Maher points out quite eloquently, political speeches and laws aren't the only thing keeping male-on-male blowjobs from breaking out in sports bars across the country.

Oh well.

Brokeback Soreass

2006-02-02T17:39:00.000-06:00

From today's LA Weekly and one of a number of blogs:

How Gay Will Oscar Go?

Given that it's Oscar time, I nominate the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for Best Bunch of Hypocrites. That’s because this year’s dirty little secret is the anecdotal evidence pouring in to me about hetero members being unwilling to screen Brokeback Mountain...

Frankly, I find horrifying each whispered admission to me from Academy members who usually pose as social liberals that they’re disgusted by even the possibility of glimpsing simulated gay sex. Earth to the easily offended: This movie has been criticized for being too sexually tame. Hey, Academy, what are you worried about: that you’ll turn gay or, worse, get a stiffie by just the hint of hunk-on-hunk action?

It doesn't look like the Academy members will have much of a choice.

Felicity Huffman in TransAmerica seems to be the clear frontrunner for Best Actress. Reese and Charlize could cancel each other out. Both were inspiring performances. Though, never count out the British, I guess.

Philip Seymour Hoffman has won both the Golden Globe and SAG Award. His Capote was spectacular and fabulous in every way. I'm not the only one in thinking this one isn't even a race. Heath Ledger can take all the clothes off he wants and Joaquin can sing his little heart out but if PSH doesn't walk home with little ole Oscar, it's a travesty of justice. Then again, Bush is still our president.

From there on out, though, the Academy could give a collective "that's enough." Well, maybe the Cinematography award to Brokeback. The geezers like their nature. And sheep. Baaaaaa.

To be completely honest, I'm not the biggest Brokeback fan. The landscape was breathtaking. The acting was honest and, I hate to say it but, pure. I bought it. From the very beginning. Heath and Jake and Michelle and Anne were the perfect ensemble and the bit parts were meticulously groomed and perfectly placed.

Now saying I'm not the biggest Brokeback fan is just to say that I'm not about to call it "groundbreaking" or "monumental" or "a breakthrough for gay (or sexually ambiguous) cinema" or "the most important film of the 20th century."

I saw the film on Milwaukee's opening day. I ordered tickets online and went with my friend Jamie and fought the huge crowds. I considered driving to Chicago because, I'll admit, I cried when I watched the preview online and I thought I had to go and see it right then and there.

"There are places you can never go back to..."

I mean, come on. Seeing that line on the screen and listening to the theme music, I lost it.

But, I didn't have the same reaction that most people seem to be having about The Mountain.

1) My ass fell asleep at the 45 minute mark. Right about when Heath and Jake were still "coworkers" and bitching about eating beans. I spent the next 14-1/2 hours of the movie wondering if working my gluts at the gym would have helped me to be more comfortable. A little more cushion for the pushin? Or more hard for the guard?

2) I didn't cry. Not once. At three points during the movie, it sounded like the theater itself was crying its eyes out. Complete emotional breakdown. I didn't feel a thing. I cried more watching 54. Now, I loved the performances and I really forgot that it was a movie. But, I didn't ever feel a tear even thinking about rolling out. Well, I'll admit that I felt a little coming on at the end when Jack's mom opened that brown paper bag for Ennis. That one hit a spot. But other than that, it was 15 hours of wondering if I still had a soul.

3) The previews before the movie freaked my shit out. For five minutes, all I saw were boxes and assembly lines carrying dolls in various stages of construction. They all started out looking the same and later in the process some of them were cute little Cabbage Patch Kids, some were bloody amputated messes, some were My Buddy (remember that one? My Buddy, My Buddy, My Buddy and meeeeee....ha!) and some were disgusting half-headed monsters. I don't think Ang would like that preview freaking the shit out of audiences before his movie. Someone should look into that.

4) I should have waited. Obviously, on the first night, the theater was packed for the first showings in Milwaukee. It was the Great Wisconsin Homo Migration. Pridefest doesn't have that kind of draw. I'm not complaining about that, but it stressed my shit out a little. I kept wondering if what I had on looked expensive enough. I went with a light Gap sweater over a collared shirt and my Gap jeans and decent looking loafers. I even wore dark socks. That's huge. Monumental, even.

5) I spent quite a while, 2-1/2 hours or so when nothing was really happening onscreen, thinking about how easy all the porn-adaptations were going to be. It's really not that difficult. But, I think I laughed inappropriately.

In the end, I enjoyed The Mountain. I was thrilled at Michelle Williams and Anne Hathaway's performances. I was impressed by Jake and Heath. I loved the cinematography, score and music. But it still wasn't, to me, "groundbreaking." It was an excellent movie and most deserving of a few Oscar nods. Definitely Cinematography and Directing and, considering the other nominees, I think it could squeak in for Best Picture with all things being equal. Unfortunately, I doubt that the gays will be happier than normal come Oscar Day.

Project V

2006-02-01T16:43:00.002-06:00

As much as I didn't want to be the biggest fan of the Foliage Is Fun challenge, there were many many highlights. Overall, I'd have to say I was pleasantly surprised that the show is back on track - true to fashion design and entertaining to watch.

The new title of the show should be Project Vosovic.He's now won more than half of the challenges and the judges (even the guest judges) just seem like they want to make out with him. As soon as Heidi kicked it over to Daniel to talk about his dress on the runway, her face lit up faster than Giniqua at a strip club. I couldn't tell if the two guest judges were talking about D.V.'s dress or Daniel himself.

"I think this looks great. I think it's adorable....Love the proportions..."

They both looked like they were about to stick a couple of bills in his g-string. Eh, who can blame em?

D.V. also revealed that he only recently came out to his parents. Being from a smaller town and a religious family didn't help. I'm pretty sure there are more than a few people out there in Michigan...(cough) (cough) who wouldn't mind being his best friend whenever he returns home.

The absolute best quote though:

Heidi: "I have no problem with it being shiny."
Michael: "Because you're German..."

I guess you had to be there.

Walk it

2006-02-01T16:43:00.000-06:00

T minus 4 hours 20 minutes to the Runway.

I've been losing a little faith in the producers. Barbie stands as THE BEST challenge of the show over a season and a half. Lingerie was a good idea even though the designs didn't exactly live up to the exciting potential.

Then came the challenges for the Republic and Sasha Cohen. While D.V. and Andrae's outfit worked it and Santino/Nick's was actually quite interesting, there wasn't much room for creativity or any kind of "breakout" performance. The skating challenge offered ZERO room for any kind of creativity. Sasha basically chose the outfit that most looked like a skating outfit. And we all know what kind of bullshit that caused. Good riddance Zuzu.

Thankfully the designers, Michael and Nina and the fabulous Tim Gunn (look out Anderson Cooper!) have saved the day for the crappy challenges. Nick and Daniel V and Chloe are so endearing. Santino is the Jerry Springer Show that keeps me coming back for all the bullshit I can't stand and can't stand not to watch. Nina works it and rocks it better than any reality show judge. And Tim Gunn is just...Tim Gunn. Love him. Love everything about him.

I'm not feeling the whole "nature" theme that seems to be this week's challenge. It's kind of corny. It's a little cliche. It's not very original.

Here's hoping this week's show gets a Hogwarts E: Exceeds Expectations.

Throwing your lot in with...

2006-01-30T14:17:00.000-06:00

Although we, as a nation, passed 'enough is enough' about five years ago, it's obscure political positioning like this that reminds us that we're being coralled far past the wrong side of the fence. (from someguysarenormal). Is this the final straw? Of course not. That would be sensationalizing. We passed the final straw a whiles back.

In a recent United Nations vote, the U.S. delegates voted with the majority to deny consultative status to the International Lesbian and Gay Association (ILGA) and a Danish gay and lesbian association. As a result, neither group nor any gay and lesbian organization, will be heard at the United Nations. The European ILGA, Canadian and German LGBT organization's applications are still pending.

In 2002, the U.S. ILGA application was supported by the U.S. and 16 other nations buoyed by a U.S. State Department report that cited a duty to corral international support for LGBT human rights.

The recent vote broke down as:

In favor of a hearing on consultative status: Chile, France, Germany, Peru, and Romania.

Against: United States, Cameroon, China, Cuba, Iran, Pakistan, Russian Federation, Senegal, Sudan and Zimbabwe.

So, it's us and five countries that have executed young men for "homosexuality" in the past five years.

Okay. Canada ain't looking as cold as it did before.

Beware Giniqua

2006-01-30T01:27:00.000-06:00

Quote of the Year:

Giniqua to 16 year old boy in Vegas:

"...carry daddy's liquor."

And....seen.

Sparkles!!!

2006-01-28T03:55:00.000-06:00

Dear Bravo:

I've been faithfully watching you since the very first Queer Eye nearly 20 years ago. The Fab Five was rightfully engrained in television history. Not only did it paint OCD gay men cleaning up the world as good and moral and pure, but it showed how dependent straight people are on the gays when it comes to relationships and marriage. Hell, the straights learned they wouldn't know where to start if it weren't for the homos.

I lost a little faith after Boy Meets Boy. Even you, oh prophetic network execs, must have known that there were practical problems with putting twenty cute, sexual gay and straightish men together in one house to frolic by the pool, sleep in single bunk beds, lift weights and shower together while pretending to pursue one man. You should have known the world doesn't work that way. The gays didn't believe it. The straights didn't care. The women, well, they were happy, but who cares?

Inside The Actor's Studio is scraping the bottom of the rusty pail. We loved watching Bette Midler, the cast of Will & Grace, Jude Law, Stockard Channing among many others. But, Martin Lawrence, Dave Chappel and, as much as we love her, Rosie are pulling down the prestige of the Studio. If I see that guy that played the 3rd Munchkin in my sixth grade fall play, you're going to be getting a lot of hate mail.

Signing Kathy Griffin to her own series restored my faith. Keep Kathy and her gays on TV. Since Will & Grace is bidding adieu, we need our fag hags and the homos we wish we were and wish we were with. If Kathy asks for a couple more million to keep the series going, GIVE IT TO HER. For the love of God, people. Give it to her. Bravo needs their gays. The gays love their Kathy. Ergo Bravo must love and need the Kathy. Simple.

Battle of the Reality All-Stars was okay. We had our gays. And more than enough eye candy. By the way, there's no law against putting Burton on every other show you air. We like our Coral. She's got big knockers. The gays respect that. Still, we don't really need to see Season Two of this one.

Showdog Moms and Dads was a bust. Those crazies don't need their own show. We like our pets, but not that much. The gays on that show were cool, but none of the other pet parents liked them. They hated the gays. Yes, the pet-obsessessssssed gays were a bit annoying and quite clueless, but all that hating on them is what the 700 Club is for. We didn't appreciate that.

I've grown a little disappointed, however, in the past few years. Queer Eye was a fad. It's over. It, like Pamela Anderson's boobs, needs a makeover every once in a while to remain fresh and new. By now, even you must admit that Jay does nothing. Kyan must take his clothes off more. Ted must make something that someone, anyone, will enjoy consuming. And Carson is going to learn that the straight boys don't like even a good-natured fondling on national TV. Please, Bravo, we must have something new.

Dear sirs and madams. We don't want to watch any more Whitney. We do enough on our own.

Nobody watches Party Party. If we wanted to watch snotty, stuck-up, spoiled, whiny little kids having fabulous parties, we would have our own. No thank you.

You have given us the Runway. Yes. You redeemed yourself for a time. I thank you. But, in the past few weeks, even the Runway has gone askew. Inventing a challenge to put Sasha Cohen on Bravo was cheap and insulting. The gays like their figure skating with the best of them, but Sasha? What about Michelle Kwan? We loved our Kristi Yamaguchi. And weren't there any of those young "metrosexual" male skaters to make a guest appearance to make the show truly fabulous? Please, Timothy Goebel is pronounced with a "gay." We liked him a lot.

We did love our Banana Republic for a time. But the Banana is no longer of much interest. The Banana has let the gays down. Last season you let Wendy Pepper win for the Republic. We didn't like that. This year, you stressed out our favorites and stuffed two worthy challenges into one. Designing an outfit AND THEN a window display all in one day? We didn't believe it. We can't even dress ourselves in that amount of time.

But the final straw was when your Nina replacement called one of our gay's designs "vulgar." How dare you let that happen. Shame. Shame shame shame. Vulgar would have been putting Omorosa on Celebrity Poker Showdown. With the slutty blonde from Real World Vegas. And Wendy Pepper. Shame shame shame.

I'm told that the next Runway challenge involves foliage. Many of us were shunned by the Boy Scouts. Some of us stuck it out but got beat up at camp. We don't have good memories of nature. That's why we live in cities. Please don't get all Nature Boot Camp on us. Please.

And To All A Good Night...

2006-01-27T13:30:00.000-06:00

In the theme of the slightly more serious blogger...

I've heard it a number of times from friends, on previews, articles and other blogs.

This is the last season of Will & Grace.

Now, this shouldn't be that big of a problem. It's only TV. Anything more and I (more obviously) have no life.

I didn't have that big of a problem when other shows ended. Friends. Cheers. Seinfeld. The Education of Max Bickford. Young Americans. Popular. Dawson's Creek. (What is it with me and the WB?) The West Wing (I mean really now...they got moved to SUNDAYs).

But, now that it's sunk in that Will & Grace is coming to an end, I'm going through my just-like-QAF-seperation-anxiety. It's a bit traumatic. A bit depressing.

Yes, it's true that W&G has become a bit bland and not something I HAVE to see every week. Somewhere around two seasons ago, the funny started to disappear. The witty social commentary, the zingers, the have-to-use-all-the-time quotes. Gone.

But, it's something more than that.

Will & Grace was, and maybe still is, more than just a show. As much as Max Mutchnik and David Kohan say again and again in interviews, the show has changed the way people think about sexuality, about society and about the place of sexuality in society. I've heard KoMut saying that they never set out to change people's minds or make a social statement. Will will never have a real, long-term relationship. Will won't ever be shown in an intimate moment. The goal has always been just to make people laugh. And stay on the air.

But, isn't it more? In a time when all we had was every third episode of pre-suckage Real World, the occasional after-school special on Lifetime and the occasional movie, W&G was truly revolutionary. True, Ellen paved the way, but it didn't exactly resonate and it wasn't really that funny. And, except for the controversy and the "first-ever" moniker, it wasn't something EVERYONE was watching EVERYWHERE.

I watched my first episode in the college frat house. It was awkward and uncomfortable. But, it was funny. And endearing. And it started conversations. True, I didn't want anything to do with the conversations, but "it" was out there. "It" became more acceptable to talk about. "It" was on a prime-time, mega-Thursday night, major network lineup. "It" became a lot less taboo. "It" made it a helluva lot easier to think about honestly. "It" gave a name and a code for the the relationships that were instinctually made over and over again.

"Does this mean I'm your Grace?"
"Yeah. I guess it does."
"So who's our Jack and Karen?"

As corny as it sounds, W&G made it monumentally easier to come to grips with everything that was happening in my life. W&G was the gay social circle that I was too afraid to actually go out and find. W&G made it easier for the people who knew me or would come to know me to talk about things they may have been too uncomfortable with to actually talk about.

Like the time I went home for Christmas. My cousin, out of the blue, asks me, "Do you watch Will & Grace?" Yes. "Do you like it?" Of course. "Do you really like it?" I do. I smile. She smiles. We go back to eating. Christmas was that much better that year.

And what about the "coming out" episode? The one when W&G remember that Thanksgiving in college when W&G dealt with it all. It wasn't all hugs and kisses and warm moments. It's difficult. And maybe it's supposed to be sometimes.

There's the Hot Gay Nerd episode. The one that helped me to finally admit that I only like nerdy gay guys. It's trendy. And people can stop making fun of me.

So now that W&G is coming to an end, I have this feeling that things won't be the same. Not in that tragic, life-changing kind of way. It's just TV. But, the show won't be there like it has been for the last however many years. I may not have watched it all the time. I might have missed a season. But, it was there. The whole time. Making it that much easier for the gays to just live our lives, for the straights to get a little more comfortable and everyone to take some time to just laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Happy 1000

2006-01-26T03:23:00.001-06:00

I just noticed that I'm a few hits shy of 1000 visitors since I attached the little Site Meter to this blog about a month into my blogging adventure. To be honest, I really don't look at it very often, but it seems almost absurd that this blog has been viewed 1000 times.

Except for exactly 3 people (in Nevada, Virginia/D.C. and HUNTINGTON, WV!!!) I have no idea whatsoever who any of these other people are.

Now that I've reached my 1000th, I've decided to do some soul searching and make soem adjustments to how and why I blog. There'll be some changes. I don't know what kind of changes, but changes nonetheless.

To whomever you are out there who reads this entry, scroll down to the very bottom of the page. If you're the 1000th visitor, I'll send you some kind of prize. I'm not sure what, exactly. But, a prize nonetheless. And by prize, I mean something.

Happy Freakin New Year.

The Runway Is, Again, My Rock

2006-01-26T03:23:00.000-06:00

If you missed this week's Project Runway, fear not. Trust, it'll be on about 10 times a day until the Earth stops rotating on its axis.

Without giving too much away.... Aw, who cares. You snooze, you lose.

I have been saying FROM THE VERY BEGINNING that Daniel Vosovic is this year's Jay. Minus the bitchiness. Not that Jay's bitchiness wasn't endearing, especially since it was directed at Wendy. Gotta love Jay. Kind of.

But, back to Daniel V.

It's official.

Daniel V. is the most websearched name in Project Runway history. Yahoo. Google. And your's truly's blog. More people click on this damn blog searching for Daniel Vosovic.

Even more than "it hurts when I f-ck her". Without the quotations. Apparently, in some entry the words "it," "hurts," "when," "I," "f-ck" and "her" appear close enough together, that a number of people have been sent here via google and yahoo.

No really. I'm totally serious.

My family would be so proud. Even prouder than if I decided that the whole homosexual thing wasn't working out and decided to start holding hands with girls. In the biblical sense. But, then again, they're all Buddhists, so I don't know what kind of "sense" that would be.

So anyway. Daniel Vosovic. Hottie. Gay? Bi? Naked? Love. Sex. Boyfriend.

(Sorry, I just want to see how the search engines love that one.)

Really now, he seems like the kind of guy that everyone would want to hang out with. That one friend that's friends with everyone. The sweet guy with the shoulder to weep softly on.

It must really be awkward now though, I would imagine. According to a Blogging Project Runway source, Daniel V. has been incommunicado whereas other Runway contestants seem quite open to all the hoopla and popularity. Then again, people are posting his high school yearbook photos and random snapshots and Daniel sightings and apparently searching every nook and cranny of the internet to find something about him.

On a side note, I kind of wouldn't mind having a stalker. But not the once-a-week-mandated-intensive-therapy-by-the-courts-soon-to-be-committed kind of stalker. I want one of those once-a-month-group-therapy-just-to-kind-of-check-in kind of stalker. You know, someone to make the t-shirts and start the fan club and do all the mailings and send me different kinds of teas to sample. That kind.

So...the Runway.

As soon as I saw the previews, Santino's dress stuck out like a sore thumb. He chose the exact same material that Austin used for the 'auf whatever-ed' Grammy Dress that Nancy O'Dell wasn't too keen on. Exact same material.

As much as I think Daniel V. is going to win the whole she-bang-she-bang...

Andrae's dress seemed to be a clear winner.

I'll admit that I thought that Andrae was riding D.V.'s success. The lingerie challenge. The B. R. Challenge (Or from here on out, The Challenge That Shall Not Be Named). But, Andrae really pulled this one out. He turned a sewer water runoff pic into a truly amazing masterpiece.

I really hope that Nick pulls out of the rut he was put in by Zuzu (or from here on out, She Who Shall Not Be Named). I'm ready to make the prediction that the Final Three should be Nick, Daniel V and Chloe. Kara is out next. Then Andrae. Santino makes it to the Final Four, but gets edged out by Nick at the finish line. And from there, it's truly a toss-up. If some kind of shakeup happens, then it'll involve Andrae, Santino and Nick. But Daniel V seems to be a lock for the Fantastic Four. He's won more challenges than anyone by far and Michael and Nina and the producers can't oust him.

Invested? You bet your bottom dollar I am.

VEGAS...I SWEAR!!!

2006-01-23T00:52:00.000-06:00

And I'm finally gonna get it all out there. Mike, in particular, I'm sorry it took so long. I ran out of funny. Thank you to Krave's parting gift and a certain industrious somone for the inspiration.

#15 Shade. Shady. Shadiest.

The Las Vegas Cheesecake Factory deserves to be on Reality TV. Bravo, can you hear me? Let's see, where do I start?

First off, all the "straight" boys at LVCF need to repeat after me:

"Metrosexual is just a rest-stop on the highway to homo."

If I hear one more story about "LVCF straighty #1" or "LVCF straighty #2" wanting to hook up with some female, I'm gonna be angry. If said "straighty" ends up alone in bed at 4 am with an obviously gay boy (sorry John, just deal), because it's "too late to go home," I suggest counseling and a good male-on-male infomercial. If said "straighty" goes to hang out with the gay boys cause "it's so much more fun," just accept that you're probably going to be Mike's newest future ex-boyfriend. With all the fag hags at LVCF, you'd think someone would come to their senses.

#15 1/2 : There And Back Again, A Hobbit's Tale

And then there was Smeagel. The story I heard was that he wanted to get on someone John can't admit he wanted to get on when said gotten on wanted to get on someone without external genitalia. Then Smeagel got on the gotten on and the Great Shade Battle of 2005 began. Three dicks, one vagina and The Ring. Tolkien's got nothing on the Factory.

Smeagal wasn't a server. His nametag read: "Official LVCF Shade-Thrower." She threw shade at John at the host stand, Mike on the way to the bathroom, and the whole party a good five or six times over two days and, oh say, a few dozen of our visits to the LVCF. I thought it only appropo on our last outing to LVCF to sit in the corner of the booth, place a napkin over my face, replace my sunglasses over my eyes, sip my martini and throw the shadiest of shade back at He Who Throws Shade For No Reason. Apparently, this was funny. I thought of it as my duty to all Americans. And I was drunk. Big surprise.

#14: Liquor By The Crate.

I don't know where y'all shop for liquor, but Vegas' Wholesale Liquor Outlet is the portal to heaven. Upon entering said Garden of Eden, Mike and I stopped for a moment of silent prayer and had a true moment of Thanksgiving for the holy gift bestowed upon us. Mike and I played every gay boy's favorite, Supermarket Sweep, and grabbed anything not bolted down on one clean sprint. I'm not gonna lie, the boxes didn't all fit in the trunk. It was like Costco for Alcoholics. I was so happy I just piddled right there. No really, I piddled. Literally. Right there at the checkout counter.

#13: Coffee Tea Cigarettes?

Seriously John. What exactly were you worried about? Prude. I may be naive and virginal, but, girrrrrrl, come on. Winesha may be young but she wasn't born yesterday.

#12: Little Pre-Party on the Prairie

As always, a little Saturday night pre-party was necessary. Luckily, John's La Quinta was available (as was Scott's Shangri La hotel room but we'll let bygones be bygones). Although we didn't have shot glasses anywhere in John's apartment, except for, you know, right on top of the refrigerator, we made do.

Scott and Jay made the three hour trek from the Strip to find "Straighty Bottom Boy" and Winesha on the futon in the living room, Giniqua downloading porn again and John trying to gather enough coffee, tea and cigarettes to supply every man, woman and child on earth for the next millenia or so.

Now, I'm not gonna lie. I had a bottle and a half of wine, three martinis and two Big Gulps of light tan Captain and Coke before I loaded up a sippy cup the size of the Statue of Liberty for the six hour busride over to the strip.

#11: All Aboard, MENSA only...

I will say, first of all, that I do extremely well with puzzles. No really, I do. But really, on Saturday night, we ALL had a time of it fitting this puzzle correctly.

Puzzle pieces: 6'5, 6'3, 6'1, 6'2 and 5'9 peoples. Five sippy cups each about the size of the Sears' Tower.

Puzzle board: A mini-Bug.

Go.

Oh, I forgot, there's a sunroof.

Go.

#10: Room Service

I didn't know many things on Saturday night. My name. What city I was in. Where we were going. I learned much in Vegas, but most importantly, I did acquire a certain crucially important bit of info.

You can order liquor up to your hotel room on the Strip. And a martini shaker. And martini glasses.

Fortunately, someone in Scott's room had the coordination to put all said items together to make a drink. The sippy cups were empty.

#9: Jay and Giniqua in the Scott's shower

Nuff said.

#8: You Forgot What?

Yes, I forgot my wallet at John's La Quinta. Yes, it had my ID, my credit cards and my cash. Yes, it had John's address and phone number. Yes, my cell phone battery was dead. No, I couldn't tell it was me when I looked in the mirror. Problem.

Luckily, while walking along some street I couldn't identify again even if I fell on it, divine intervention intervened. Right between, "I have no idea how you're getting in anywhere" and "you're fucked" a door opened. John yelled to run in the door. I, not knowing an open door from my left foot, ran in. Luckily, the door was wide enough because I just aimed for the middle of the dark hole I thought might be a doorway. Followed by Scott. Who's a good foot taller than I am.

So I'm running like a nelly bottom and Scott's yelling something like "run you stupid nelly bottom" past all these people that were probably Krave employees. I was lost in a maze that really was of my own invention. Turned out to be exactly one hanging curtain. I'm pretty sure I ran in a circle several times and kicked out half of N Sync's Tearing Up My Heart dance routine.

I ran for the only light I could see. As soon as I found myself in some corner of Krave, I tried to act nonchalant. I think I waved at a stripper. I turned a corner and some hottie bouncer asked me for some kind of VIP badge. I'm pretty sure I pretended not to speak English. Scott soon followed. I ran into exactly...everyone...between me and wherever the hell I ended up. Scott helped a little. And by helped, I mean he laughed until he piddled.

Somehow John, Mike, Jay and Christian found me. Scott was on the floor peeing himself silly.

John: I can't believe you got in!
Mike: Girl, you are one tragic mess.
Me: Ain't NOBODY keeps the Cho out of NOWHERE!!!
...
Me: Aren't we going to Krave?
Mike: Girrrrrlll. We're already here.

Thanks a lot everyone.

#7: Taxicab Confessional

Apparently, at some point in the night, Giniqua turned back into Mike and wanted to go home (considering she had exactly 1252 attempts on Day 1, I'll let it go). Scott and Jay either hooked up or ditched. So there I was, talking to people I will never be able to identify again. My cell phone was 3 minutes from being dead. I had no wallet. No money. No credit cards. No ID. No keys. No clue. No ability to focus on objects any distance from my face.

I had to get home. Whether it was Honolulu, Milwaukee or Tempe, AZ (John's apartment), I didn't care. So I started to walk. Along the street. On the Strip. With 75% of the world's electricity lighting up flashing lights that didn't help the balance problem I was having.

A cab. I needed a cab.

Three things occurred to me, at various times over the next forty five minutes.
(1) Hailing a cab to take me back to Tempe with exactly 12 cents in my pocket would prove difficult.
(2) Hailing a cab and asking them to take me to "John's apartment" was an ineffective way of getting home.
(3) Hailing a cab is impossible when [a] cabs don't pick people up on the street, [b] walking in the direction of traffic (not against traffic) while holding my hand out is quite inefficient irregardless of the city and [c] I would have better luck falling in front of a cab then into one.

I got home.

Thanks a lot everyone.

#7 1/2: Bedside Furniture

If memory serves me right, I found quite a comfortable spot on the floor next to the futon in the living room. John's carpet was quite thickly padded and it had that wonderful down-home feeling to it. Unfortunately, I later found out that no one else was sleeping in the living room much less on the futon beside which I fell asleep. Yes, I fell asleep next to the empty bed. On? No. Next to.

Thanks a lot everyone.

#6: Biological Bases of Human Behavior

Now, Giniqua deserves to have her fun. But, I'm all about telling all about it. At exactly three casinos, amid the growing crowds of America's finest straight boys, Giniqua wasn't beyond trying to cop a feel. Giniqua did more laps around the Hard Rock than...Giniqua around a Hard Rock. Girl's split times were faster than a Kenyan at the Olympics.

As thrilling as that was to watch, it compares not at all to the hunting of a certain "straight" boy playing in the tournament. In describing what I witnessed, I am reminded of a few videos I watched in my BBOHB class at the University of Illinois. In said video, a certain type of mammal, in order to invite copulation, places their swollen hind parts in direct eyesight of the sexual target. Baboons got nothing on Giniqua. Giniqua has well-practiced opposable thumbs. That grasp firmly. While the other baboon plays pinball.

Unfortunately, said baboon has the sexual taste of early paleolithic man. If there's a hole, plug it. Tragic.

Girl, you can do SOOOO much better.

Upcoming:
#5: Can we stop at that house? Maybe they'll make us something to eat.
#4: Tragic Four Corners
#3: Skittles, can you hear me?
#2: Tragic Brittney.
#1: Hell no. Someone done stole Donna's costume.

Finding Nemo

2006-01-11T08:02:00.000-06:00

I found Nemo at Walmart.

Ordinarily, my nonsensical ego prevents me from setting foot in Walmart. It's the breeding place for future hate crimes suspects. But they do have those cheap cheap cheap collared white shirts for work. Seriously, $12.99. A little starch and ironing and you can't tell it apart from more expensive versions.

But yesterday, I was on a mission.

I've started to knit.

No really.

I knit.

Mini scarves (scarfs?), potholders, bookmarks. Well, actually they all look the same. I just like to label them as different items.

The only problem was that I've moved past my "Knitting for Kids" kit with the two plastic needles held together by some plastic thing and the yarn that unwinds when exposed to oxygen, I suppose. But, I've been unable to find a specialty craft store. Well, I haven't really looked.

But yesterday I was on a mission. I wanted to knit. I wanted to knit right then and there. So I found myself at Walmart. That's when it hit me.

I still feel some kind of lingering shame and embarassment about embracing my postmodern masculinity. Or, more accurately, my ninny sissy fairiness.

I realized this as I pushed my cart through the fabric section looking for the shelves of yarn. Several of the women stole a few glances at me. Although I had no intention of buying fabric, I spotted a really cool pattern with Nemo characters. Cheesy enough to be cool. As I was standing there and pretty much fondling the fabric, I realized the women were staring at me and whispering.

I suddenly felt so self-conscious that I considered running to the hardware section, grabbing a hammer or some kind of manly implement and returning to fondle my fabric. The implement and my interest in fabric would have cancelled each other out.

As I finally found the shelves of yarn, I realized that I had been having a conversation in my head about what anyone would think or say or do after seeing me shopping for yarn and fondling fabric.

I really shouldn't have cared. Shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't give a shit. Yeah, I knit. Yeah, I worship the Runway. Yeah, I like to hold hands with guys. Find me something wrong with any of that.

As I'm writing this, I'm remembering a quote from Beth Loffreda's book, Losing Matt Shepard. In detailing the complex, intricate ways in which sexuality has been understood, expressed and expereinced in Laramie, and by extension across the country, she observes a recurring theme of

"...the frustration that comes with having been forced to study the perimeter of (one's) own safety."

I thought I was over the sense of shame that kept me from understanding and accepting the parts of my life that aren't what I thought they should be. As much as I'd like to think that I'm secure enough in my own skin, it's moments like shopping for yarn and imagining what I could do with Nemo themed fabric at Walmart that remind me that "coming out" is such a multilayered, complicated, complex process. There really never was a moment when I was "out" in every sense of the word. To different people at different times and in different places, I'm necessarily guarded or completely open about my sexuality. And a little dippity-do.

As "out" as I'd like to think I am to the people in my life, I know there's a far more complicated story. My parents would rather not talk about the whole deal, but will if they have to. My relatives would rather not speak about such unspoken topics. My friends at work tend to be more open about my sexuality than I am. My friends in the volleyball world walk the same line I do. Openness with people who want to know and untruth by omission to those who will react unkindly. The men's teams I've coached would rather ignore the whole subject. The women's teams feel more at ease and ask questions, sometimes too many questions.

In the end, I bought a couple of different kinds of yarn and some new knitting needles. At the checkout counter the cashier asked, "Are these for you?" While I'd like to say that I came up with some witty retort, I didn't. All I could come up with was, "Yeah, but it's better than smoking." It didn't make sense then or when I lit one up after I started the car.

And a little dippity-do.

I didn't know your costume would be THIS elaborate

2006-01-09T14:29:00.001-06:00

Yes, I am obsessed with the Runway. I loved the first season. I love this season.

Why, oh wise sage, many have asked.

Unlike the other reality shows where the whole goal is for the contestants to backstab, hoodwink or otherwise fuck over the other contestants in order to win something, the Runway is moral and pure. If it weren't for all the homos and hags, the Red States would love it. (But, I don't think Heidi "All-About-Trim" from BumFuck, Egypt and her pals designing shawls and burkas in a Lynchburg studio would be too interesting, but you never know. Huntington, West Virginia? Yes. Lynchburg? Probably not.)

It's all about beauty. It's all about creativity and innovation and vision. It's all about the talent of the designers. Wendy Pepper, from last season, was the exception and was rightly ostracized and demonized for all the strategery-izing and backstabbing and double-talking. She didn't have it, even though she, incomeprehensibly, got to the Final Three. (Although, I just read that both Austin and Kevin did show their lines at Fashion Week on the Runway runway. Yay for both of them!).

Ultimately, everyone on the show has to let their work speak for itself. And, if it's not beautiful and fabulous, then it's obvious they're going bye bye. They can't ally themselves with each other to vote someone out or screw someone over. They can't strategize to kill their biggest competition and cook them in stew.

Yes, there's all the drama in the workroom and at parties and in the suites and out on the Runway. But, the difference is, they're all saying the same stuff we're all saying out in front of the tv and it has no bearing on the results. They can talk all they want on the show, but they still have to produce up to standard or they're out.

And...FINALLY!, a reality show that isn't corny or truly stereotypical made up wholly of fags and their hags! There is no better entertainment. There can't be better one liners and catfights on the telly.

"...Uh uh. This ain't my first time at the rodeo."

"Oh, no, she better not come up in here."

"I don't believe in fair. [Take your hillbilly shoes over there...all in a look]"

"Sparkles!"

"I grew up playing with Barbies. I lived the whole Barbie culture."

I mean, come on now.

But, I'm not the only one. Every single person I've hounded into watching just ONE episode of the Runway is hooked. While I won't take all the credit...I will. In my acceptance speech, I'll thank Nick and Chloe and Daniel Vosovic and Zulema and Diana and Andrae and Santino and Jay and Kara Saun and Austin and Nora and of course Tim Gunn and Michael Kors and Nina Garcia and Heidi.

Then again, I'm apparently not as Runway-crazy as some others.

Project Runway: All Project Runway, All The Time

Project Outcast: Okay seriously, she takes the challenge requirements and materials and does it up like she's actually on the show.

Television Without Pity: Runway discussion board
AOL Project Runway discussion board

And from the Project Runway site:

The Runway auction top winners:

Nick's All Dolled Up

Starting Bid: $20.00
Winning Bid: $1,700.00

I thought I had it at $1500. Just kidding. Or am I? And, the PR blogsite says one can preorder Nick's actual Barbie. Believe, I'm all over it the second I see it.

Santino's Barbie

Starting Bid: $20.00
Winning Bid: $690.00

How much more did Nick get?

Nick's Social Scene

Starting Bid: $20.00
Updated bid: $510.00
2 days left!

Santino's Social Scene

Starting Bid: $20,00
Updated Bid: $365.00
2 days left

Daniel Vosovic's Social Scene

Starting Bid: $20.00
Updated Bid: $ 355.00

Two days left folks!

Eh...all in a day.

2006-01-06T13:30:00.001-06:00

Happy Freakin New Years!

I'm not saying certain online job websites have my resume, but they might.

Highlights of Brent's schedule:

Dec 24 : Closer, 4 pm - 11:45 pm
Dec 26 : Closer, 4 pm - 11:30 pm

Dec 31 : Backup Closer, 3 pm - 12:30 am
Jan 1 : 3:30 pm - 11:30 pm

Granted, closing on Christmas Eve was my idea, mostly because Dan's family was in town and I was, well, sans plans. And, I guess I'm now a closer on Mondays.

New Years Eve was a mixed blessing. Customers were unusually polite and well-mannered so that offset most of the fact that I celebrated the New Year with a papercut from a placemat and mashed potato in my shoe. Still not sure how the mashed potato got into my shoe, but eh...all in a day.

The kickers have been:

(1) An older male customer whose party spent a mere $11/person yelling, "Sonny, was that too difficult for you to understand? Or do I have to explain it to you AGAIN?" This was preceded by another older male customer from the same party tapping me on the shoulder as I was talking and clearing dishes from another table with actually couth customers. He asked for ginger ale in a tall thin glass. We have neither. He started to ask to see a manager. Turns out he had already yelled at the only manager I could find. I discovered he was upset because he was seated later than his reservation time...by two minutes...on a Friday night.

I guess this doesn't sound so bad, but he also complained that there weren't enough settings on the table when in fact there were, minus one chair that a nearby party had swiped and put at their table. The salads weren't set out when his family sat down, which we don't do unless you actually tell someone that works at our restaurant that you want it that way. The wine he ordered (the $15/1.5 liter wine from a fucking tap) took 5 minutes to get to his table. And the cans we put on the table to place the pizzas-as-the-only-entree on top of were detracting from the decor...as if the Christmas lights on the wall and his own Walmart-designer-clothes-on-a-budget-wearing group hadn't already accomplished that. And, he spoke with an east-coast-Ivy-professor accent.

I guess it was the accent that pissed me off the most.

(2) Party of 25 Russians. 45 minutes late for a 7:30 reservation. Of course, the first person to show up doesn't speak enough English to explain to me the problem. The only thing I understood was, "No." Turns out Grandma likes the flowers on the ceiling in a room we keep closed on Monday nights. But, nobody bothered to tell any of the restaurant staff.

Fast forward past the point where several women invaded the work station and claimed it for mother Russia, planted a flag and...well I guess that's all you have to do. Thanks a lot Eddie Izzard. Past the parts where barely-English-speaking woman tells me not to order the next course until she says so. Past the part where she yells at me that her next course is taking to long...exactly 3 minutes after she tells me to order it. Past the part where she yells that we don't carry Russian vodka. Past the part where she yells at me to get out of the room as I'm filling water glasses.

And now to my favorite part of the evening. An older Russian man holds out his full water glass and speaks to me in Russian. I take the water glass and look at it, thinking there's a crack in the glass. Nope. I put it in the workstation, sidestepping the flag, and place it on the counter. Nothing's wrong. I walk out of the workstation and the man starts gesturing wildly at me and starting in on that Russian I'm a little rusty on, seeing as how I never took Russian. He starts to yell. Well, at least we're back in a familiar place.

Older Russian woman: "Fucking water."
Me: "Excuse me? Did he want that water, ma'am?"
Older Russian woman: (A little bit louder now, a little bit louder now) "Fucking water. Fucking water. Fucking no ice."
Me: "Oh."
Older Russian woman: "FUCKING WATER NO ICE."
Me: (on my cell phone in the work station) "...Immigration please. Yes, I'll hold."
Me: "Here you are sir. Enjoy your meal."

I understand that waitering is a job that I chose and that certain downsides come with every job. I get it. I really do. Every job has a shitty side. There's, 99% of the time, some loss of dignity and blows to the ego. There's the occasional contractual obligation to occasionally cover up the occasional child molestation in Neverland. There's the lung cancer that comes from chain smoking the day away holding that "SLOW" sign on the interstates.

And by the way, if anyone can get me that job, I'd do just about anything. Well, almost anything. I don't like wearing white after Labor Day. But, other than that, I'm game.

Seriously. Anything.

I did a little looking online and there are a lot of jobs out there in Milwaukee for someone with my qualifications and experience. Let's see, I've been an administrative assistant, cashier, teaching assistant, barrista, waiter, actor, writer, director, sound editor, nuclear engineer (I assume that's what breaking up a fight at a gay bar is), barback (I said bar people. sheesh), bartender, security guard (you try keeping the liquor away from unwelcome visitors at a homo house party), customer service peon, receptionist and the like.

And, I'm totally in a right place in my life and state of mind to do a little hooking if the situation presented itself.

How hard could it be for me to find a job that I can really like?

Beyond Queer

2005-12-29T05:26:00.000-06:00

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

- Emmett (QAF)

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

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

Maybe there really is a "gay lifestyle."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Billie was so happy he just licked me.

On the eye.

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

I considered leaving.

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

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

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

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

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

More on Brokeback later.

And the gays have it...

2005-12-23T02:38:00.001-06:00

Today's quote:

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

-Jon Stewart

And now on to more important things in life.

Project Runway Episode #3

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

His lingerie line was hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know. I know. I'm wierd.

Take out the model refereeing.

There.

Normal again.

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

2005-12-23T02:38:00.000-06:00

Quote of the day:

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

The bird flu is contagious.

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

Ha ha.

Just kidding.

About the annotated bibliographies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four. Am I average?

2005-12-15T11:26:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Major #4: American Studies

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

Huh?

2005-12-14T14:48:00.000-06:00

A little help please.

I just found a shirt that says:

"Friends don't let friends drive GREEN TRACTORS"

...with a picture of a red tractor.

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

Just wondering.

The Runway...Live It, Love it

2005-12-14T13:50:00.000-06:00

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

Not really.

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

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

Some things I hope I see:

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

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

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

Weasel

2005-12-13T22:27:00.000-06:00

Weasal? I have no idea.

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

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

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

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

Seasonal affect disorder sucks.

I ain't yo ho...

2005-12-10T08:11:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now a word from our sponsors...

2005-12-07T16:13:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm in heaven.

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

Tragic Vegas Part II

2005-12-06T10:44:00.000-06:00

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

#19: Team Vegas Tragic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#17: Why you gotta be sweatin the brotha?

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

#16: Provo is so beautiful in autumn.

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

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

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

To be continued.

Tragic Vegas Part I

2005-12-05T22:26:00.000-06:00

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

Top 25 Most Ignorant Moments, Vegas 2005

Honorable Mention: La Quinnnnntaaa....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#21: Porn is the new art.

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

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

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

To Be Continued...

And now you're picturing tracing your...

2005-12-02T10:16:00.000-06:00

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

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

5 minutes later...

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

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

The way you were drinking your tea...

2005-12-02T08:30:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Some updates from the last two weeks or so:

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

2) Tragicity is now my favorite word.

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

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

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

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

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

Beware: Thanksgiving

2005-11-08T13:47:00.000-06:00

I'm almost over the bird flu.

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

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

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

I'm siiick...

2005-11-04T17:35:00.000-06:00

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

12 minutes and this trip is officially ruined...

2005-11-03T13:30:00.000-06:00

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

Tragic? No, just sad.

2005-11-02T14:47:00.000-06:00

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

I just watched A Cinderella Story with Hillary Duff.

And I was interested in how it ended.

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

Tragic...

2005-11-01T17:55:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, there'll be more.

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

I SURVIVEDED BRITTANEY IN VEGAAS 20005 1/2

...Bar and Grill

On Deck:

The Top 25 Most Ignorant Moments, Vegas NAGVA 2005

Preview? Of Course.

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

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

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

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

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

2005-10-28T00:08:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good times. Good times.

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

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

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

Aerosmith? No, Madison Square Garden...

2005-10-27T03:32:00.000-05:00

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

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

No really, they're his...

Oh great, the stock dumb character...

2005-10-25T04:52:00.000-05:00

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

I miss that.

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

Not related in any way, shape or form.

Then why am I yelling...?

2005-10-22T04:02:00.000-05:00

Figure out that quote Billie! ha.

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

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

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

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

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

2005-10-21T16:56:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You speak to people and enjoy free time...

2005-10-20T04:55:00.000-05:00

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

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

The Keys to Your Heart

You are attracted to those who are unbridled, untrammeled, and free.

In love, you feel the most alive when your lover is creative and never lets you feel bored.

You'd like to your lover to think you are loyal and faithful... that you'll never change.

You would be forced to break up with someone who was emotional, moody, and difficult to please.

Your ideal relationship is lasting. You want a relationship that looks to the future... one you can grow with.

Your risk of cheating is zero. You care about society and morality. You would never break a commitment.

You think of marriage as something precious. You'll treasure marriage and treat it as sacred.

In this moment, you think of love as commitment. Love only works when both people are totally devoted.

What Are The Keys To Your Heart?

Ahhh, the days of yore...

2005-10-19T22:08:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good times. Good times.

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

2005-10-18T14:03:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday night at work sucked something acrid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A dime short and a camel too late

2005-10-12T00:21:00.000-05:00

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

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

2005-10-11T05:24:00.000-05:00

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

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

"It's not gonna suck itself"

"I'm really excited to be here"

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

Maybe...

But, I'm leaning toward these...

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

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

2005-10-10T13:38:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let's do it."

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

Life Is Like A...

2005-10-06T14:21:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But…,” Amy stuttered.

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

By all accounts, I was killing our buzzes.

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

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

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

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

Aren't you tired Jack?

2005-10-04T06:06:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2005-09-29T14:16:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My IQ dropped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2005-09-22T15:09:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

I need a mission statement.

If Ikea were a religion...

2005-09-22T07:49:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2005-09-20T22:44:00.000-05:00

I'm going to VEGAS!!! Yay.

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

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

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

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

We'll see.

2005-09-18T23:57:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good times. Good times.

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

2005-09-06T01:36:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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