Ahhh, the days of yore...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good times. Good times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday night at work sucked something acrid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A dime short and a camel too late

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

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

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

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

"It's not gonna suck itself"

"I'm really excited to be here"

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

Maybe...

But, I'm leaning toward these...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let's do it."

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

Life Is Like A...

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But…,” Amy stuttered.

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

By all accounts, I was killing our buzzes.

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

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

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

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

Aren't you tired Jack?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My IQ dropped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need a mission statement.

If Ikea were a religion...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm going to VEGAS!!! Yay.

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

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

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

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

We'll see.

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

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


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

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



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

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

Good times. Good times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karma sucks

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

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

I'm An Ass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I got/I'll get mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And...

Well...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did she really just say.....?

EB: "What?"

She did.

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

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

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

Instead, I just smiled and giggled pointedly to myself.

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

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

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

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

Believe me, I counted it...again.

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

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

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

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

The kicker:

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