Since nothing new really happens in Milwaukee (except getting drunk and working), I guess I'll reflect on my little jaunt to Lansing, Michigan. I've been thinking of a title, possibly:
"All I Really Need To Know I Learned At...Michigan State volleyball camp."
Don't piss off the drag queens. If you make nice with the head drag queen after she chases one of your friends across the dance floor with a high heel over her head for making out with HER shot boy...you get invited to a pool party. A pool party? A pool party! At 3 am. When you have to be at work to coach little 14 year old girls at 8:00. A pool party.
OR
"This One Time AT...Volleyball Camp..."
I'm not going to lie, I was a little excited to go to stripper night at X-Cel in downtown Lansing. Stripper night? Really? Yeah. Considering I was in Lansing to coach 12-18 year old girls during the day, it didn't seem quite right to go and watch strippers at night. But, I was assured that people don't really watch the strippers, it's just the night that lots of people go out and get all ho-ed out after the strippers. I was all about that.
There's something about going to a gay bar to watch strippers with 10 hottie women athletes that...makes me uneasy for a couple of reasons.
One..."the invasion mentality": Two years ago when my friend Maren and I went to Spiral in out-of-the-way Lansing, I got a quite shocking talking-to by one of the regulars about all the straight women who were "invading" the bar. Are you serious? WTF? First off, have you heard of Fruit Flies? (Maren doesn't like fag hag). Second, she's one of the nicest people anyone will ever meet. Third...SHE'S HOT. I would think that gay men in a smaller college town would be more than happy to have an entire team of athletes become fruit flies/fag hags...which they now are. Hell, two of them are majoring in Fashion Design at MSU...isn't being a fag hag a prerequisite for that?
Two..."is this a straight bar?": Now, at the point when five of said hottie fag hags pulled the two...count em, two...drinks out of my hand and dragged me onto the dance floor and acted out the wet dream of 20,000 straight Lansing college men, I should have been in heaven. But...alas, the pudenda and boobiges are not my thing. Not that I can't appreciate the boobiges. I can. And I do. But not in a gay bar...after strippers...with a whole bunch of hotties in non-Abercrombie sleevelesses meandering about.
And then...boom...they're gone. Like a Harry Potter character disapparating. That's when I saw the head drag queen storming across the dance floor with the high heel over her head chasing two of my friends. Now, that's not something I've ever seen in a bar, club or party...well, I've seen that at a party. Drama ensued.
Half and hour later, I found myself thinking: "This is a situation my parents never envisioned for my life." I was standing outside of a gay bar in Lansing, Michigan at 2:30 am helping a drag queen and a stripper retrieve a sparkly high heel out of a tree while helping one of my friends look for a crack whore that stole her purse while simultaneously getting directions to an afterhours pool party with Slurpees and pot. It's like the opening montage of a religious right video.
So this one time at volleyball camp...
More to come.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Is it Tuesday?
So, yeah, I haven't blogged in awhile. I'm a bad blogger. A bad bad blogger. I've now decided that I'm going to blog at least every other day. We'll see how that goes.
Well, at the beginning of July, I headed over to ole East Lansing, Michigan and Michigan State University for what has become for me an annual pilgrimage. Six years ago I got hired to work summer volleyball camps after a friend of a friend referred me to the MSU assistant coach. As someone who was never really taught any kind of fundamentals, I was REALLY excited to learn from then head coach Chuck Erbe. Basically, Coach Erbe was and is one of the BEST coaches of volleyball fundamentals in the history of United States volleyball. Considering I learned how to play the sport watching men's and women's U of Hawaii volleyball on TV and listening to coaches who basically said, "Set better...pass better....serve better," I didn't have a lot of previous experience to fall back on when I became a coach.
I actually wasn't going to go back this summer because Coach Erbe and his staff retired/left. I didn't personally know anyone on the new staff, so I figured I'd take this summer off. But, I got an e-mail asking me to come back to Lansing to coach all four summer camps and I couldn't really turn it down. Stroked my ego a bit, it did. And a thousand plus dollars in the bank account is always a nice cushion.
A lot happened over the three weeks...a lot. From the drag queen chasing two of my friends across a dance floor with a high heel in her hand...to the drunken half-price wine night...to my semi-fan-club-of-16-year-old-girls...to the image of a 50 year old coach tucking her shirt into her bra seered into my brain...to the serious fat camp experience that it became...to almost being hit by lightning...yeah, a lot happened.
For now, I'm back in Milwaukee. Stuck for awhile. The boss isn't going to give me time off for quite some time, so I'm back to working 5-day weeks again. Oh woe is me, I know.
Well, at the beginning of July, I headed over to ole East Lansing, Michigan and Michigan State University for what has become for me an annual pilgrimage. Six years ago I got hired to work summer volleyball camps after a friend of a friend referred me to the MSU assistant coach. As someone who was never really taught any kind of fundamentals, I was REALLY excited to learn from then head coach Chuck Erbe. Basically, Coach Erbe was and is one of the BEST coaches of volleyball fundamentals in the history of United States volleyball. Considering I learned how to play the sport watching men's and women's U of Hawaii volleyball on TV and listening to coaches who basically said, "Set better...pass better....serve better," I didn't have a lot of previous experience to fall back on when I became a coach.
I actually wasn't going to go back this summer because Coach Erbe and his staff retired/left. I didn't personally know anyone on the new staff, so I figured I'd take this summer off. But, I got an e-mail asking me to come back to Lansing to coach all four summer camps and I couldn't really turn it down. Stroked my ego a bit, it did. And a thousand plus dollars in the bank account is always a nice cushion.
A lot happened over the three weeks...a lot. From the drag queen chasing two of my friends across a dance floor with a high heel in her hand...to the drunken half-price wine night...to my semi-fan-club-of-16-year-old-girls...to the image of a 50 year old coach tucking her shirt into her bra seered into my brain...to the serious fat camp experience that it became...to almost being hit by lightning...yeah, a lot happened.
For now, I'm back in Milwaukee. Stuck for awhile. The boss isn't going to give me time off for quite some time, so I'm back to working 5-day weeks again. Oh woe is me, I know.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Don't eat here. The noodles are hot and they charge for them.
Well, let's review the score.
DMV: 7
Brent: 3, Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
I started Day #2 down by 4 but hoping to make up the difference. Before I left the ole apartment, I did a little inventory. Registration renewal slip: check. Emmissions test form: check. Checkbook: check. Good to go.
I headed down to the downtown emmissions testing site around 10:30, leaving more than enough time for me to counter some DMV trick and run play before it closed at 1:00. I tried to talk myself into a sense of confidence knowing that them DMV people smell and prey on fear. It took about 15 minutes to weed my way through traffic and actually find the damn place. But, despite what I'm sure was the testing site moving itself, I nailed it down and pulled into the parking lot.
DMV: 7
Brent: 4
There was a line. Of course there was. But, unlike the lines at the DMV sites, this one was moving. I was hopeful. And, there was some eye candy to satisfy my sweet tooth.
Three people in front of me, including the eye candy, ended up walking out the door quite unhappily without doing anything. This didn't look good. But, I was determined. "I'm good enough. I'm strong enough. And...I will get my registration sticker," I repeated to myself. I confidently stepped up to the window when my turn came after only 15 minutes in line.
"Hi, I need to renew my registration. Here's my emmissions test and my renewal slip," I stated in my best masculine yet sensitive tone. I smiled. DMV woman didn't. In fact, she didn't even look at me.
"60 dollars," she threw back. Apparently the glass barrier was happy-proof as well. She couldn't tell I was confident and assertive yet grateful and humbled. I wrote out the check carefully in my best, but butch, handwriting. If sissy writing was a reason for DMV woman to turn me away, I wasn't going to give her the chance.
"Here," she barked, starting to hand over my new registration printout. Almost home. Almost home.
"Wait...," she pulled back as quickly as her hand yanked back the printout.
DMV: 8
Brent: 4
"I can't take this check. It's from Hawaii...and it's in the hundreds," she said, looking up at me for the first time.
"But...but..." Nooooooooo. DMV rounded home as the ball whizzed past my catcher.
I wasn't sure if she knew that Hawaii was, in fact, the 50th state. Or, maybe it was the fact that it was a check numbered in the hundreds. I slapped myself on the inside for forgetting my copy of the U.S. Constitution...you know, the part about "Full Faith and Credit." Maybe the DMV, like the Health Department (that issues marriage licenses) was exempt. I should probably have done a findlaw.com search before leaving as well...something explicitly stating that Hawaii is in fact part of the United States...although good ole G.W. Bush may have changed something and I haven't heard about it yet. An atlas may have helped too (for G.W. in general and DMV woman for this particular instance). If it was the check, I've had the account for 8 years now; it's just my checkbook was stolen and I had the checking account changed...but the nice woman in Hawaii told me that I would be okay in the hundreds.
I tried to explain it to DMV woman. I thought about complimenting how fabulous her hair looked. Maybe I should have brought an XL bottle of Aquanet...you know, as a peace offering.
It didn't work.
"No. You're going to have to pay cash." She bunched together all of the printouts in front of her and tore them...not in half or fourths...but into little pieces.
DMV: 9 (point for DMV woman's drama)
Brent: 4
30 minutes later I returned to my apartment. Give up? Possibly.
45 minutes later, I had $80 in cash and a new game plan. I was going to find a check-cashing place. They do registration renewals. Yes. Yes. I had it this time.
30 minutes later, and I finally got to the transaction window.
"Hi, I need to renew my car's registration." I handed over the worn copy of my renewal slip.
"Just a second," said Sheniqua with the three-inch fingernails. Noooooo. Apparently I had chosen the only cashier who didn't know how to do car registration.
DMV: 10
Brent: 4
"I went to the training. She just didn't go over this part..." snapped Sheniqua at the two other cashiers who had made her way over to her. People standing in the other cashiers' lines bored a hole into my skull. I wrote down the number 5 on my hand...the number of minutes I bet myself would pass until a riot started.
At first, the transaction was going to cost me $63. Five minutes later, it was $67. One minute later it was $75. Three minutes later it was $61. "I think that's it. $61." I handed over the cash. Under the window she handed me my registration printouts and sticker.
DMV: 10
Brent: 6
I got to my car and carefully lined up the '06 sticker on the plate.
HHHHOOOONNNNKKKK.
Of course. Of course. Of course a fire truck blasted by me just as I placed the sticker over the plate....crooked...very crooked...so crooked it may give me O.C.D.
DMV: 11
Brent: 6
I got home and, just in case, looked up everything to do with registration on the wisconsin.gov site. OH...HELL NO.
Registration is $55. The late fee is $10. The lowest service charge for renewing in person is $5. The least amount I should have paid was $70. I paid $61.
DMV: 12
Brent: 6
Acknowledgements--- Thank you to all who contributed to my DMV experience: DMV man #1, DMV man #2, drunk guy, bra-less drama queen, emmissiosn testing site #1 manager, emmission testing site #1 DMV office woman, emmission testing site #2 DMV office woman, Sheniqua and the Milwaukee Fire Department...and citizens of Milwaukee.
DMV: 7
Brent: 3, Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
I started Day #2 down by 4 but hoping to make up the difference. Before I left the ole apartment, I did a little inventory. Registration renewal slip: check. Emmissions test form: check. Checkbook: check. Good to go.
I headed down to the downtown emmissions testing site around 10:30, leaving more than enough time for me to counter some DMV trick and run play before it closed at 1:00. I tried to talk myself into a sense of confidence knowing that them DMV people smell and prey on fear. It took about 15 minutes to weed my way through traffic and actually find the damn place. But, despite what I'm sure was the testing site moving itself, I nailed it down and pulled into the parking lot.
DMV: 7
Brent: 4
There was a line. Of course there was. But, unlike the lines at the DMV sites, this one was moving. I was hopeful. And, there was some eye candy to satisfy my sweet tooth.
Three people in front of me, including the eye candy, ended up walking out the door quite unhappily without doing anything. This didn't look good. But, I was determined. "I'm good enough. I'm strong enough. And...I will get my registration sticker," I repeated to myself. I confidently stepped up to the window when my turn came after only 15 minutes in line.
"Hi, I need to renew my registration. Here's my emmissions test and my renewal slip," I stated in my best masculine yet sensitive tone. I smiled. DMV woman didn't. In fact, she didn't even look at me.
"60 dollars," she threw back. Apparently the glass barrier was happy-proof as well. She couldn't tell I was confident and assertive yet grateful and humbled. I wrote out the check carefully in my best, but butch, handwriting. If sissy writing was a reason for DMV woman to turn me away, I wasn't going to give her the chance.
"Here," she barked, starting to hand over my new registration printout. Almost home. Almost home.
"Wait...," she pulled back as quickly as her hand yanked back the printout.
DMV: 8
Brent: 4
"I can't take this check. It's from Hawaii...and it's in the hundreds," she said, looking up at me for the first time.
"But...but..." Nooooooooo. DMV rounded home as the ball whizzed past my catcher.
I wasn't sure if she knew that Hawaii was, in fact, the 50th state. Or, maybe it was the fact that it was a check numbered in the hundreds. I slapped myself on the inside for forgetting my copy of the U.S. Constitution...you know, the part about "Full Faith and Credit." Maybe the DMV, like the Health Department (that issues marriage licenses) was exempt. I should probably have done a findlaw.com search before leaving as well...something explicitly stating that Hawaii is in fact part of the United States...although good ole G.W. Bush may have changed something and I haven't heard about it yet. An atlas may have helped too (for G.W. in general and DMV woman for this particular instance). If it was the check, I've had the account for 8 years now; it's just my checkbook was stolen and I had the checking account changed...but the nice woman in Hawaii told me that I would be okay in the hundreds.
I tried to explain it to DMV woman. I thought about complimenting how fabulous her hair looked. Maybe I should have brought an XL bottle of Aquanet...you know, as a peace offering.
It didn't work.
"No. You're going to have to pay cash." She bunched together all of the printouts in front of her and tore them...not in half or fourths...but into little pieces.
DMV: 9 (point for DMV woman's drama)
Brent: 4
30 minutes later I returned to my apartment. Give up? Possibly.
45 minutes later, I had $80 in cash and a new game plan. I was going to find a check-cashing place. They do registration renewals. Yes. Yes. I had it this time.
30 minutes later, and I finally got to the transaction window.
"Hi, I need to renew my car's registration." I handed over the worn copy of my renewal slip.
"Just a second," said Sheniqua with the three-inch fingernails. Noooooo. Apparently I had chosen the only cashier who didn't know how to do car registration.
DMV: 10
Brent: 4
"I went to the training. She just didn't go over this part..." snapped Sheniqua at the two other cashiers who had made her way over to her. People standing in the other cashiers' lines bored a hole into my skull. I wrote down the number 5 on my hand...the number of minutes I bet myself would pass until a riot started.
At first, the transaction was going to cost me $63. Five minutes later, it was $67. One minute later it was $75. Three minutes later it was $61. "I think that's it. $61." I handed over the cash. Under the window she handed me my registration printouts and sticker.
DMV: 10
Brent: 6
I got to my car and carefully lined up the '06 sticker on the plate.
HHHHOOOONNNNKKKK.
Of course. Of course. Of course a fire truck blasted by me just as I placed the sticker over the plate....crooked...very crooked...so crooked it may give me O.C.D.
DMV: 11
Brent: 6
I got home and, just in case, looked up everything to do with registration on the wisconsin.gov site. OH...HELL NO.
Registration is $55. The late fee is $10. The lowest service charge for renewing in person is $5. The least amount I should have paid was $70. I paid $61.
DMV: 12
Brent: 6
Acknowledgements--- Thank you to all who contributed to my DMV experience: DMV man #1, DMV man #2, drunk guy, bra-less drama queen, emmissiosn testing site #1 manager, emmission testing site #1 DMV office woman, emmission testing site #2 DMV office woman, Sheniqua and the Milwaukee Fire Department...and citizens of Milwaukee.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
He told her to get up on the counter and *snap* work it...
And then there was the...DMV.
It took about 6 hours over 2 days, but I finally renewed my car's registration. Of course, I waited until the last minute, but...eh...what else is new?
Decided to avoid the downtown DMV. Never any parking. One-way street hell. And usually about two hours of waiting around. So, I headed out to another DMV center about 20 minutes away. Smart me. I pulled into the parking lot and saw a sign that said... "Estimated wait time: 49 minutes." With my powerful mastery of mathematics, I deduced that 49 minutes was less than 2 hours.
Brent: 1, DMV: 0
I walked up to the first counter to get a number. "Hi, I have to renew my registration." I told the nice man, who seem to personify the phrase "One more and I'm gonna go postal", and gave him my license plate number. He punched it into the computer, handed me a slip of paper and a number. D405. I could handle that. I looked at the row of counters and DMV workers...wow, 7 of them and looked at the numbers there were on. D376. Not bad at all. 29 more people, 7 counters. Things were looking up.
Brent: 2, DMV: 0
Of course, this wasn't really the case. I heard a computerized voice that said, "Serving A124 at counter number 3." I looked at the numbers and letters over the counter themselves. B689. A122. A124. B687. 909. C834. D374. D376. Things were not looking up.
Brent: 2
DMV: 1
Half an hour later and the DMV was up to D380. I leaned against the back wall and decided to do some people watching. Many were on their cell phones, some obviously coming or going to work, a few trying to keep control of their little tykes as they ran around the waiting area. I discovered I was also standing next to the bathrooms and also found that the women's bathroom was out of order. This was going to be interesting.
Brent: 2, Women: 0
DMV: 2
A few disgruntled women swore a little as they approached their door and, having been inconvenienced enough by the DMV, grabbed their kids and walked out with a "what the hell would you expect" look. One woman, having finished her DMV transaction, walked toward the door, looked at it and said, "what the f-ck am i supposed to do." I surveyed her and made a few observations. One: She was extremely well-endowed in the chest-us maxim-us region, well-the whole body region, too. Two: She did not believe in bras. Three: She wore what I expected was a sort of dark purple XL t-shirt that hugged her body. Four: She did not believe in bras. Five: She really had to pee. I could see she was considering whether or not to squat in front of the Out-of-Order sign and pee on the door in protest. After about 10 seconds of that thought, she had made her decision; she hiked up her jeans shorts, huffed a little, lifted her chin and stormed over to the men's bathroom, pushing it in as only a drama queen would or could. You go girl.
Brent: 2, Women: 2 (you gotta get an extra point for that one)
DMV: 2
I heard a phone ring next to me, one of those really really really annoying rings. The slightly older man, dredlocked hair pulled up into a serious pouf was swaying slightly as he looked at the phone. He opened it up and said, "hello, he-llo, hell-o...hello...hello," then looked at the display and closed the phone. He swayed a bit more and leaned down to take a drink of water from the fountain next to me. There was some serious beer breath going on. It took him a second to figure out how to work the water fountain, but he persevered. When he figured it out the water came spurting out and...hit him in the nose. Instead of lifting his head a bit to, you know, get the water in his mouth he lowered it and hit his chin on the bottom of the fountain. Finally, he did get some water, although quite a lot ended up on the front of his shirt.
His phone rang again. "hello, he-llo, hell-o...hello, hello." A minute or two later, it rang again. Same thing. Again and again. Six times in 20 minutes by my count. Same results. Now, I've gotta admire this guy. There seems something, oh i don't know, brave/idiotic/ironic about walking in to a DMV center to do any number of things concerning a vehicle and being drunk. And, there was this phone matter...that's gotta be some kind of patience to answer a phone six times in 20 minutes and hear...nothing...and then to keep doing it over and over again. At some point a fully decked out police officer walked by. Having spotted the officer about two steps before he passed, drunk guy turned and tried to walk into the bathroom. The women's bathroom. The locked women's bathroom with the "Out of Order" sign.
After some deliberation, the judges doing the scoring award 1 point to the drunk guy for getting past one DMV counter and having the guts to do it. 1 point is awarded to the DMV for: the bathroom and the water fountain.
DMV: 3
Brent: 2, Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
At the 35 minute mark, something happened. Three of the DMV counter people stepped away and did not return. 2 minutes later, two more stepped away and did not return. 10 minutes passed. Another 10 minutes passed. Only two counter people faced the crowd of people. Crafty. Crafty.
DMV: 4
Brent: 2, Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
So, after 1 hr 10 min my number was finally called. Yay. An all-time record low waiting time. I walked up to the counter and handed over my registration slip. "That will be 60 dollars," he began. I started to write out the check, quite giddy that I was about to cut the DMV's lead to 1. "Hold on a second..." said DMV counter man. Ahh, here comes DMV's trick and run play. "You need a vehicle emmissons test," he said. "But...," I said, trying to cover the court. "I got an emmissions test last year." Now see, I had a little problem with tickets and didn't renew my registration for a little while. So, when I renewed my registration about 7 months ago, I was told (during a game where I got blown out by the DMV something like 25-0) that I needed an emmissions test, so I got one. 7 months ago. "They're only good for 90 days," said DMV man. "But, no..I...I...got it for last year's registration." "Sorry. You need an emmissions test." DMV shoots and scores. At counter #1, DMV man #1 having seen on his handy screen that my car needed an emmissions test didn't tell me before giving me a number to wait for 1 hr 10 min. DMV man #2 burst my bubble in 20 seconds. "Where's the closest testing site?" I asked. He handed me a slip of paper and pointed to a site about 20 more minutes away from the city.
DMV: 5
Brent: 2, Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
I jumped in my car and headed toward the testing site. Aha, I thought, you can do registration at the testing site. Great. But, knowing that some kind of last minute play by the DMV would thwart me, I considered all the possibilities. Emmissions. Hmm. Oil change! Of course. I passed a Valvoline station and it was....empty! Yes. I was due for an oil change soon anyway. I was in and out in about 20 minutes. Feeling a little more at ease, I was sure I could pull out at least a tie with the DMV. I arrived at the testing site and pulled up. Two of the four lanes were open and there was only one car waiting in each lane. I knew there was trouble when the man in the car in front of me, waiting to be tested, started arguing with one of the staffers. Two more cars immediately pulled in behind the car in the other open lane. I was stuck. I looked at the clock... 4:43. Everything closed at 5. At this point, I nodded my head and laughed.
DMV: 6
Brent: 3 (for the oil change), Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
4 minutes later, my car having passed the emmissions test, I pulled into the lot to see the man from the car in front of me arguing with some official-looking man in a tie. I grabbed my registration slip, my test paper and my checkbook and ran for the door. 4:47. 13 minutes to spare. But...
Of course. Of course.
Someone had written on a white piece of paper with a sharpie: "Office closed at 4:45" I pulled on the door anyway. Locked. Of course.
DMV: 7
Brent: 3, Others: 3
25 minutes later I unlocked the door to my apartment...no '06 sticker and an obvious blowout by the DMV.
On deck: Day #2
It took about 6 hours over 2 days, but I finally renewed my car's registration. Of course, I waited until the last minute, but...eh...what else is new?
Decided to avoid the downtown DMV. Never any parking. One-way street hell. And usually about two hours of waiting around. So, I headed out to another DMV center about 20 minutes away. Smart me. I pulled into the parking lot and saw a sign that said... "Estimated wait time: 49 minutes." With my powerful mastery of mathematics, I deduced that 49 minutes was less than 2 hours.
Brent: 1, DMV: 0
I walked up to the first counter to get a number. "Hi, I have to renew my registration." I told the nice man, who seem to personify the phrase "One more and I'm gonna go postal", and gave him my license plate number. He punched it into the computer, handed me a slip of paper and a number. D405. I could handle that. I looked at the row of counters and DMV workers...wow, 7 of them and looked at the numbers there were on. D376. Not bad at all. 29 more people, 7 counters. Things were looking up.
Brent: 2, DMV: 0
Of course, this wasn't really the case. I heard a computerized voice that said, "Serving A124 at counter number 3." I looked at the numbers and letters over the counter themselves. B689. A122. A124. B687. 909. C834. D374. D376. Things were not looking up.
Brent: 2
DMV: 1
Half an hour later and the DMV was up to D380. I leaned against the back wall and decided to do some people watching. Many were on their cell phones, some obviously coming or going to work, a few trying to keep control of their little tykes as they ran around the waiting area. I discovered I was also standing next to the bathrooms and also found that the women's bathroom was out of order. This was going to be interesting.
Brent: 2, Women: 0
DMV: 2
A few disgruntled women swore a little as they approached their door and, having been inconvenienced enough by the DMV, grabbed their kids and walked out with a "what the hell would you expect" look. One woman, having finished her DMV transaction, walked toward the door, looked at it and said, "what the f-ck am i supposed to do." I surveyed her and made a few observations. One: She was extremely well-endowed in the chest-us maxim-us region, well-the whole body region, too. Two: She did not believe in bras. Three: She wore what I expected was a sort of dark purple XL t-shirt that hugged her body. Four: She did not believe in bras. Five: She really had to pee. I could see she was considering whether or not to squat in front of the Out-of-Order sign and pee on the door in protest. After about 10 seconds of that thought, she had made her decision; she hiked up her jeans shorts, huffed a little, lifted her chin and stormed over to the men's bathroom, pushing it in as only a drama queen would or could. You go girl.
Brent: 2, Women: 2 (you gotta get an extra point for that one)
DMV: 2
I heard a phone ring next to me, one of those really really really annoying rings. The slightly older man, dredlocked hair pulled up into a serious pouf was swaying slightly as he looked at the phone. He opened it up and said, "hello, he-llo, hell-o...hello...hello," then looked at the display and closed the phone. He swayed a bit more and leaned down to take a drink of water from the fountain next to me. There was some serious beer breath going on. It took him a second to figure out how to work the water fountain, but he persevered. When he figured it out the water came spurting out and...hit him in the nose. Instead of lifting his head a bit to, you know, get the water in his mouth he lowered it and hit his chin on the bottom of the fountain. Finally, he did get some water, although quite a lot ended up on the front of his shirt.
His phone rang again. "hello, he-llo, hell-o...hello, hello." A minute or two later, it rang again. Same thing. Again and again. Six times in 20 minutes by my count. Same results. Now, I've gotta admire this guy. There seems something, oh i don't know, brave/idiotic/ironic about walking in to a DMV center to do any number of things concerning a vehicle and being drunk. And, there was this phone matter...that's gotta be some kind of patience to answer a phone six times in 20 minutes and hear...nothing...and then to keep doing it over and over again. At some point a fully decked out police officer walked by. Having spotted the officer about two steps before he passed, drunk guy turned and tried to walk into the bathroom. The women's bathroom. The locked women's bathroom with the "Out of Order" sign.
After some deliberation, the judges doing the scoring award 1 point to the drunk guy for getting past one DMV counter and having the guts to do it. 1 point is awarded to the DMV for: the bathroom and the water fountain.
DMV: 3
Brent: 2, Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
At the 35 minute mark, something happened. Three of the DMV counter people stepped away and did not return. 2 minutes later, two more stepped away and did not return. 10 minutes passed. Another 10 minutes passed. Only two counter people faced the crowd of people. Crafty. Crafty.
DMV: 4
Brent: 2, Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
So, after 1 hr 10 min my number was finally called. Yay. An all-time record low waiting time. I walked up to the counter and handed over my registration slip. "That will be 60 dollars," he began. I started to write out the check, quite giddy that I was about to cut the DMV's lead to 1. "Hold on a second..." said DMV counter man. Ahh, here comes DMV's trick and run play. "You need a vehicle emmissons test," he said. "But...," I said, trying to cover the court. "I got an emmissions test last year." Now see, I had a little problem with tickets and didn't renew my registration for a little while. So, when I renewed my registration about 7 months ago, I was told (during a game where I got blown out by the DMV something like 25-0) that I needed an emmissions test, so I got one. 7 months ago. "They're only good for 90 days," said DMV man. "But, no..I...I...got it for last year's registration." "Sorry. You need an emmissions test." DMV shoots and scores. At counter #1, DMV man #1 having seen on his handy screen that my car needed an emmissions test didn't tell me before giving me a number to wait for 1 hr 10 min. DMV man #2 burst my bubble in 20 seconds. "Where's the closest testing site?" I asked. He handed me a slip of paper and pointed to a site about 20 more minutes away from the city.
DMV: 5
Brent: 2, Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
I jumped in my car and headed toward the testing site. Aha, I thought, you can do registration at the testing site. Great. But, knowing that some kind of last minute play by the DMV would thwart me, I considered all the possibilities. Emmissions. Hmm. Oil change! Of course. I passed a Valvoline station and it was....empty! Yes. I was due for an oil change soon anyway. I was in and out in about 20 minutes. Feeling a little more at ease, I was sure I could pull out at least a tie with the DMV. I arrived at the testing site and pulled up. Two of the four lanes were open and there was only one car waiting in each lane. I knew there was trouble when the man in the car in front of me, waiting to be tested, started arguing with one of the staffers. Two more cars immediately pulled in behind the car in the other open lane. I was stuck. I looked at the clock... 4:43. Everything closed at 5. At this point, I nodded my head and laughed.
DMV: 6
Brent: 3 (for the oil change), Women: 2, Drunk guys at the DMV: 1
4 minutes later, my car having passed the emmissions test, I pulled into the lot to see the man from the car in front of me arguing with some official-looking man in a tie. I grabbed my registration slip, my test paper and my checkbook and ran for the door. 4:47. 13 minutes to spare. But...
Of course. Of course.
Someone had written on a white piece of paper with a sharpie: "Office closed at 4:45" I pulled on the door anyway. Locked. Of course.
DMV: 7
Brent: 3, Others: 3
25 minutes later I unlocked the door to my apartment...no '06 sticker and an obvious blowout by the DMV.
On deck: Day #2
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
The Perfect Birthday
I just had THE perfect birthday.
I got to sleep in, which rocks big time. After waking up, I got halfway through Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix for the fifth or sixth time. I love that book! Even though it's a little morbid by the end, there's something hopeful, even uplifting about that little dude Harry Potter. Isn't there a little Harry Potter in all of us? J.K. Rowling deserves a Pulitzer.
I got to work at Bucas to find that I was back-up closing again. Basically it means that I have to be there until about 10:30 or 11:00 pm. Considering it was my birthday and I wanted to go out, I was a little bummed. But, two of my tables told me that I was the best server they've ever had at a restaurant. Two more tables told me that I rocked big time. I made almost 25% tips on my total sales which meant some good money. And...none of the little kids running around took a pee-pee on a booster seat...again. How much better could a night of work be?
I ended up at Fluid with James, Becky and Peter...and had the best birthday celebration I think I've ever had. I wanted low-key but fun. I didn't need a huge deal made out of it or...even worse for me, a drag-happy-birthday-show. I didn't need drag queens in dresses that cost more than my entire wardrobe wishing me a Happy Birthday. I just wanted good friends and a good time with a few drinks. Low key. Awesome fun. There was a Chocolate Martini waiting for me at the bar when I walked in...plus a couple free shots. Then, James, Peter & Becky and I ended up playing some pool at Etc. I won $2 in the raffle because I chose envelope #28...considering I turned 28 on the 28th. Rock star.
I got to have my Long Beach at Etc. with Chambourd, which very few bars use in LBs. It rocked.
Who needs random hook-up sex when there's a great birthday night with ggggreat friend like I have? Not me. No way.
Oh, and I found the ABSOLUTE best blog I've ever read...Rotten Ryan, who seems anything but...
The BEST birthday in 28 years.
Or, at least I think I'm 28.
Life rocks.
I got to sleep in, which rocks big time. After waking up, I got halfway through Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix for the fifth or sixth time. I love that book! Even though it's a little morbid by the end, there's something hopeful, even uplifting about that little dude Harry Potter. Isn't there a little Harry Potter in all of us? J.K. Rowling deserves a Pulitzer.
I got to work at Bucas to find that I was back-up closing again. Basically it means that I have to be there until about 10:30 or 11:00 pm. Considering it was my birthday and I wanted to go out, I was a little bummed. But, two of my tables told me that I was the best server they've ever had at a restaurant. Two more tables told me that I rocked big time. I made almost 25% tips on my total sales which meant some good money. And...none of the little kids running around took a pee-pee on a booster seat...again. How much better could a night of work be?
I ended up at Fluid with James, Becky and Peter...and had the best birthday celebration I think I've ever had. I wanted low-key but fun. I didn't need a huge deal made out of it or...even worse for me, a drag-happy-birthday-show. I didn't need drag queens in dresses that cost more than my entire wardrobe wishing me a Happy Birthday. I just wanted good friends and a good time with a few drinks. Low key. Awesome fun. There was a Chocolate Martini waiting for me at the bar when I walked in...plus a couple free shots. Then, James, Peter & Becky and I ended up playing some pool at Etc. I won $2 in the raffle because I chose envelope #28...considering I turned 28 on the 28th. Rock star.
I got to have my Long Beach at Etc. with Chambourd, which very few bars use in LBs. It rocked.
Who needs random hook-up sex when there's a great birthday night with ggggreat friend like I have? Not me. No way.
Oh, and I found the ABSOLUTE best blog I've ever read...Rotten Ryan, who seems anything but...
The BEST birthday in 28 years.
Or, at least I think I'm 28.
Life rocks.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
The one day Rosie doesn't strap on the hip flask...
So, I guess it's final...I'm a blue-stater. Found this little link to create a map of the places one has been to. I shall, at this time, exclude the link I found to create a map of the places where tricks have been done. I didn't include places where I've stopped out of necessity (New Jersey, Tennessee) or sped through out of pure fright (West Virginia, Kansas).
create your own personalized map of the USA
or write about it on the open travel guide
create your own personalized map of the USA
or write about it on the open travel guide
Monday, June 27, 2005
Oooohhhh no. We're not telling my mother I'm...28.
I don't really celebrate birthdays. Yes, it gives me an actual reason to go out. But that's about it.
Some signs that I really didn't think about my birthday:
1) I forgot it was my birthday. I went to buy cigarettes and got carded. The guy behind the counter looked at the birthday and said, "Happy almost birthday." What? "It's your birthday in 2 days." It is? After that I think he thought I had a fake ID.
2) I didn't ask for time off of work. I guess the upside is that maybe I can milk it for some extra tips.
3) I didn't know that I'm 27. For the last year, I thought i was 28. I've told people I'm 28. I've written down that I'm 28. I got depressed for a little while that I'll be 29. Turns out, after several repeated mathematics, I'm 27 and soon to be 28. Well, at least I've had the practice.
Some signs that I really didn't think about my birthday:
1) I forgot it was my birthday. I went to buy cigarettes and got carded. The guy behind the counter looked at the birthday and said, "Happy almost birthday." What? "It's your birthday in 2 days." It is? After that I think he thought I had a fake ID.
2) I didn't ask for time off of work. I guess the upside is that maybe I can milk it for some extra tips.
3) I didn't know that I'm 27. For the last year, I thought i was 28. I've told people I'm 28. I've written down that I'm 28. I got depressed for a little while that I'll be 29. Turns out, after several repeated mathematics, I'm 27 and soon to be 28. Well, at least I've had the practice.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Well, there's that...
Just got this article e-mailed to me. It's not really bragging since I don't know that I contributed anything to it. Although....I did clap loudly at my television when fellow Punahou alumni got some airtime last year at the Olympics.
Punahou athletics rated No. 4 in nation: Sports Illustrated names itNo. 1 for state medals
Yeah, don't think I'm gonna be getting back to the high school reunion this time around. :)
Punahou athletics rated No. 4 in nation: Sports Illustrated names itNo. 1 for state medals
Yeah, don't think I'm gonna be getting back to the high school reunion this time around. :)
I love Paula Abdul. And I love that we live in a world that would give a Paula Abdul a second chance...
So, my computer is slowly crashing and burning in front of my eyes. Crash warnings. Can't start Task Manager. And I haven't even been looking at porn. I'll get over it.
And now...a week and a half later...Pridefest Part II
So, yet again, I was disappointed to arrive for my 12 noon - 12 am shift at the Bella coffee booth to find...no protesters. I would imagine that, you know, it being Sunday morning they were at church. Probably all, you know, carpooling to help save the environment on their way to let the homosexuals know they're going to hell and to ask not to take their children with them. I was fresh out of my "God save us from your followers" stickers, having passed them all out on Saturday, so I guess, you know, post hoc ergo propter hoc, it was my fault they weren't there to greet my arrival. My bad.
As soon as I arrived, I figured I'd need a drink. Considering I had 2 beers the entire day before (figured showing up at work drunk was not a good thing), I was aching for a drink. I sidled up to the "get your over 21 bracelet" booth, handed over my credit card and waited for my drink tickets. As I was standing there, I heard a voice that sounded vaguely familiar...then a throaty half-laugh that I couldn't quite place... Sarah Jessica Parker Broderick!!!! Could it be? Maybe? Really? Yes. It was one of my pledge brothers from the U of Illinois. Actually, a deactivated ex-pledge brother, but, whatever...details are usually soaked in suck-age. I had already known that, you know, he is 'da gay although hardly doing the parade all by himself. I would imagine, long before I even allowed myself to consider it, he knew more than he ever said about more than a few people in the circles we shared.
It's kind of ironical actually...in a potato-e-s kind of way. We were the only two guys since the refounding of the fraternity that were members of U of I sports club teams. Two of the most successful sports club teams at the whole damn school...but that's just ego.
So anyway we talked and caught up a bit. He being really happy in Chicago. Me being really happy in Milwaukee. He not at all surprised to see me there. Me not at all suprised to see him there. Both of us a little surprised not to see other people we knew there. Overall a cordial, but still distant, conversation. I really missed him not being around the last year and a half I was still in the house; he was one of those people who was just unapologetically himself without the need to be an utter ass--le. Good people. Good people.
Ok, so back to the kids. RuPaul preached taking care of the kids. Pride is thought by a lot of people to be a visible celebration benefitting the kids. Kodomo no tame ni (For the sake of the children).
The kids are doing pretty damn well. Better, it seems, than most of us had it. There are LGBT youth support groups at gay community centers. Gay-Straight Alliances at high schools. Gay and lesbian proms in virtually every sizable city in the country. Will& Grace and Ellen and Boy Meats Boy and Queer Eye and well...everything on Bravo and NBC and HBO and Showtime...well, maybe we should leave Showtime out of this for now...
This all came to me as I watched boy after girl after boy after girl, looking no more than 14 or 15, walk past the coffee booth holding hands with their boyfriend or girlfriend...and in some cases with their opposite-sex boyfriend and girlfriend, surrounded by their entourage of future Wills and Graces. Wow. They seemed as comfortable with themselves as I've ever been in my life. I'm sure it's still not a fabulous world that they live in, but they're working whatever world they're living in as well as anyone who grew up gay before 1990 ever thought life could be. And they're doing it in half the time. Is this what progress, whatever that means, looks like? Maybe. Maybe not. But, who the hell cares? Good for them.
So maybe it's more the kids, regardless of their sexual orientation, inspiring the rest of us older folk. Take Corey Johnson, captain of the high school football team (almost a half dozen years ago now), who stood and declared that gay boys lived and loved and played. Take Steven Cozza, Eagle scout activist, who stood and declared that, you know, the Boy Scouts were wrong, long before the post BSA v Dale Supreme Court backlash. Take Brad and Robby, two guys from that little known PBS series American High, who stood and declared that they define the roles that sexual orientation plays in their lives. Take Kelli Peterson (all the way back in the 90s), that Salt Lake City young lesbian, who stood and declared to whatever image of Mormon country that comes to mind, that gay kids can't be wished away. Take all the high school freshmen and sophomore boys and girls that stared down their principles and school boards and sometimes even city councils and state legislatures, standing and declaring that high schools are exactly the place where safe spaces, open discussions and GSA clubs belong.
So, what's the point to all this rambling?
Although progress can rarely be charted as the straight line x = 2y on a graph and more like, say John D'Emilio's idea of "leaping and creaping" or Kevin Jenning's idea of "progress ergo backlash ergo progress ergo backlash repeated," progress (whatever that means) has happened. Certainly its opposite, or more accurately its counterpart, has been proven true by good ole G.W. and the Religious Right (I'll give you a tow-pic...the Religious Right is neither religious nor right) and the whole marriage amendment movement. But progress seems, upon reflection, to have happened across time and space. Take three memories.
1994. Punahou School; Honolulu, Hawaii. Camp Paumalu: a four day camp up in the secluded wilderness for about 100 10th-12th graders led by the Peer Counseling/Peer Educating staff and teams. Self-exploration, touchy-feely, very Enya/Bob Marley-always-in-the-background kind of experience. Lots of hugging, lots of tears, lots of self-revelation, lots of honesty-and- emotion-as-a-result-of-sheer-exhaustion. During one process, far into the camp experience, people are seated in a huge "Truth Circle." It starts slowly, "Stand and walk across the circle to an open seat if...you have ever shoplifted...you have ever cheated on a test...if you have ever been in love...if you have ever..." Then it opens up and people stand and declare; others who share that experience walk across the circle to an open seat. It gets heavy. Really heavy. Really really heavy. So heavy it scares me to this day. In a post-camp staff debrief, the question is asked: "With all of the things that are shared in the truth circle...why has no one ever talked about being gay...or maybe being gay...or wondering if they maybe, you know, could be bi?" Blank faces. Shaking heads and shrugged shoulders. "No idea." Agreement. "Is it something we're doing wrong?" Blank faces. Shaking heads and shrugged shoulders. "Don't think so." Agreement. How many of those people sitting in that post-camp debrief room would stand and declare now? More than each of us could have imagined.
2001. Corner of Roscoe and Halsted. Chicago Pride Parade. Having worked with and recruited from GLSEN for our Americorps program, City Year, a group of us were invited to march. It started small, maybe 20 people gathering at Diversey and Halsted...the starting point. 95% high school students. 5% teachers. The students are mulling around, not really saying much, just looking around in awe. "How many people are there...out (pointing toward Boystown)...there?" asks a pink-streaked pony-tailed high school lesbian. "About 200,000, I think...along the whole route," I hear from our fearless leader. The word passes through the group. The teachers look resolute. The high schoolers a little less sure of it all. We pass the starting mark, Belmont and Halsted, and the crowd (a bit subdued for all the pride abounding about) begins to cheer...louder...louder...louder. I throw out GLSEN and City Year stickers and pins. "Thank you....thank you...thank you," yells a (really cute) 20ish guy in an Abercrombie sleaveless. "Hey guys, look, it's the gay teachers." More 20ish guys in Abercrombie sleavelesses tiptoe over or push through to the curb. "Thank you!" Did I see a tear? I might have been more emotional if it hadn't happened in front of the bathhouse. I look behind me at the high schoolers, huddled together a bit, waving cautiously, smiling a bit more, looking at each other a bit surprised but more...curious. It happens again and again. As the GLSEN banner I'm holding comes into view, the crowd on both sides of the street perk up, the cheering and the hooting and the hollering crescendos. The cameras snap pictures. People start waving. "Thank you...thank you...thank you." More than a few people wipe away tears. Somewhere around Broadway and Aldine, just in front of my very favorite Unabridged Bookstore, I turn around to check on the high schoolers. I nearly drop the banner. Our group numbers nearly 100. High schoolers, 20-somethings, 30-somethings. "It happens every year," says our fearless leader marching next to me. "They just walk off the sidewalks into our part of the parade. Not supposed to, I think. But, who cares?"
2005. Milwaukee Pridefest. "Can I get a lemonade?" asks a quite youngish looking boy with wavey blondish hair. "Three dollars," I reply. He pulls his left hand out of the grip of the quite youngish looking boy with spikey blackish hair standing next to him and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. "Do you want one too?" he asks spikey black hair. Ummm...no, we'll share yours," replies spikey black hair. "Okay." They lean in together for a quick peck on the lips. I do a double-take. "There you go," I say as I hand the over-priced lemonade across the counter. "How long have you two been together?" "Three and a half months," replies wavey blonde hair. "Wow, that's cool," I reply, not really knowing what else to say. "Where do you guys go to school?" Spikey black hair takes a sip of the lemo-nada, then walks to the end of the table to pour in packets of sugar. "He goes to Nicolet, but I go to Shorewood," replies wavey blonde hair. "How old are you guys?" I ask, curious and a bit confused. "He's fourteen and I'm sixteen," says wavey blonde hair. "It's all very scandalous. His parents think I'm too old for him." Spikey black hair returns and wavey blonde hair reattaches the lid and takes a sip. "Thanks," he says to spikey black hair. They lean in for another peck on the lips before walking away.
So maybe the kids ultimately show everyone what progress is. I don't mean "progress" as it's defined in sociology and history classes on college campuses. I mean progress as it's felt when taking a step back and thinking about...then and now...there and here. It's not linear. It's not cruise-controlled. It's rarely obvious.
And Sophie B. Hawkins rocked.
And now...a week and a half later...Pridefest Part II
So, yet again, I was disappointed to arrive for my 12 noon - 12 am shift at the Bella coffee booth to find...no protesters. I would imagine that, you know, it being Sunday morning they were at church. Probably all, you know, carpooling to help save the environment on their way to let the homosexuals know they're going to hell and to ask not to take their children with them. I was fresh out of my "God save us from your followers" stickers, having passed them all out on Saturday, so I guess, you know, post hoc ergo propter hoc, it was my fault they weren't there to greet my arrival. My bad.
As soon as I arrived, I figured I'd need a drink. Considering I had 2 beers the entire day before (figured showing up at work drunk was not a good thing), I was aching for a drink. I sidled up to the "get your over 21 bracelet" booth, handed over my credit card and waited for my drink tickets. As I was standing there, I heard a voice that sounded vaguely familiar...then a throaty half-laugh that I couldn't quite place... Sarah Jessica Parker Broderick!!!! Could it be? Maybe? Really? Yes. It was one of my pledge brothers from the U of Illinois. Actually, a deactivated ex-pledge brother, but, whatever...details are usually soaked in suck-age. I had already known that, you know, he is 'da gay although hardly doing the parade all by himself. I would imagine, long before I even allowed myself to consider it, he knew more than he ever said about more than a few people in the circles we shared.
It's kind of ironical actually...in a potato-e-s kind of way. We were the only two guys since the refounding of the fraternity that were members of U of I sports club teams. Two of the most successful sports club teams at the whole damn school...but that's just ego.
So anyway we talked and caught up a bit. He being really happy in Chicago. Me being really happy in Milwaukee. He not at all surprised to see me there. Me not at all suprised to see him there. Both of us a little surprised not to see other people we knew there. Overall a cordial, but still distant, conversation. I really missed him not being around the last year and a half I was still in the house; he was one of those people who was just unapologetically himself without the need to be an utter ass--le. Good people. Good people.
Ok, so back to the kids. RuPaul preached taking care of the kids. Pride is thought by a lot of people to be a visible celebration benefitting the kids. Kodomo no tame ni (For the sake of the children).
The kids are doing pretty damn well. Better, it seems, than most of us had it. There are LGBT youth support groups at gay community centers. Gay-Straight Alliances at high schools. Gay and lesbian proms in virtually every sizable city in the country. Will& Grace and Ellen and Boy Meats Boy and Queer Eye and well...everything on Bravo and NBC and HBO and Showtime...well, maybe we should leave Showtime out of this for now...
This all came to me as I watched boy after girl after boy after girl, looking no more than 14 or 15, walk past the coffee booth holding hands with their boyfriend or girlfriend...and in some cases with their opposite-sex boyfriend and girlfriend, surrounded by their entourage of future Wills and Graces. Wow. They seemed as comfortable with themselves as I've ever been in my life. I'm sure it's still not a fabulous world that they live in, but they're working whatever world they're living in as well as anyone who grew up gay before 1990 ever thought life could be. And they're doing it in half the time. Is this what progress, whatever that means, looks like? Maybe. Maybe not. But, who the hell cares? Good for them.
So maybe it's more the kids, regardless of their sexual orientation, inspiring the rest of us older folk. Take Corey Johnson, captain of the high school football team (almost a half dozen years ago now), who stood and declared that gay boys lived and loved and played. Take Steven Cozza, Eagle scout activist, who stood and declared that, you know, the Boy Scouts were wrong, long before the post BSA v Dale Supreme Court backlash. Take Brad and Robby, two guys from that little known PBS series American High, who stood and declared that they define the roles that sexual orientation plays in their lives. Take Kelli Peterson (all the way back in the 90s), that Salt Lake City young lesbian, who stood and declared to whatever image of Mormon country that comes to mind, that gay kids can't be wished away. Take all the high school freshmen and sophomore boys and girls that stared down their principles and school boards and sometimes even city councils and state legislatures, standing and declaring that high schools are exactly the place where safe spaces, open discussions and GSA clubs belong.
So, what's the point to all this rambling?
Although progress can rarely be charted as the straight line x = 2y on a graph and more like, say John D'Emilio's idea of "leaping and creaping" or Kevin Jenning's idea of "progress ergo backlash ergo progress ergo backlash repeated," progress (whatever that means) has happened. Certainly its opposite, or more accurately its counterpart, has been proven true by good ole G.W. and the Religious Right (I'll give you a tow-pic...the Religious Right is neither religious nor right) and the whole marriage amendment movement. But progress seems, upon reflection, to have happened across time and space. Take three memories.
1994. Punahou School; Honolulu, Hawaii. Camp Paumalu: a four day camp up in the secluded wilderness for about 100 10th-12th graders led by the Peer Counseling/Peer Educating staff and teams. Self-exploration, touchy-feely, very Enya/Bob Marley-always-in-the-background kind of experience. Lots of hugging, lots of tears, lots of self-revelation, lots of honesty-and- emotion-as-a-result-of-sheer-exhaustion. During one process, far into the camp experience, people are seated in a huge "Truth Circle." It starts slowly, "Stand and walk across the circle to an open seat if...you have ever shoplifted...you have ever cheated on a test...if you have ever been in love...if you have ever..." Then it opens up and people stand and declare; others who share that experience walk across the circle to an open seat. It gets heavy. Really heavy. Really really heavy. So heavy it scares me to this day. In a post-camp staff debrief, the question is asked: "With all of the things that are shared in the truth circle...why has no one ever talked about being gay...or maybe being gay...or wondering if they maybe, you know, could be bi?" Blank faces. Shaking heads and shrugged shoulders. "No idea." Agreement. "Is it something we're doing wrong?" Blank faces. Shaking heads and shrugged shoulders. "Don't think so." Agreement. How many of those people sitting in that post-camp debrief room would stand and declare now? More than each of us could have imagined.
2001. Corner of Roscoe and Halsted. Chicago Pride Parade. Having worked with and recruited from GLSEN for our Americorps program, City Year, a group of us were invited to march. It started small, maybe 20 people gathering at Diversey and Halsted...the starting point. 95% high school students. 5% teachers. The students are mulling around, not really saying much, just looking around in awe. "How many people are there...out (pointing toward Boystown)...there?" asks a pink-streaked pony-tailed high school lesbian. "About 200,000, I think...along the whole route," I hear from our fearless leader. The word passes through the group. The teachers look resolute. The high schoolers a little less sure of it all. We pass the starting mark, Belmont and Halsted, and the crowd (a bit subdued for all the pride abounding about) begins to cheer...louder...louder...louder. I throw out GLSEN and City Year stickers and pins. "Thank you....thank you...thank you," yells a (really cute) 20ish guy in an Abercrombie sleaveless. "Hey guys, look, it's the gay teachers." More 20ish guys in Abercrombie sleavelesses tiptoe over or push through to the curb. "Thank you!" Did I see a tear? I might have been more emotional if it hadn't happened in front of the bathhouse. I look behind me at the high schoolers, huddled together a bit, waving cautiously, smiling a bit more, looking at each other a bit surprised but more...curious. It happens again and again. As the GLSEN banner I'm holding comes into view, the crowd on both sides of the street perk up, the cheering and the hooting and the hollering crescendos. The cameras snap pictures. People start waving. "Thank you...thank you...thank you." More than a few people wipe away tears. Somewhere around Broadway and Aldine, just in front of my very favorite Unabridged Bookstore, I turn around to check on the high schoolers. I nearly drop the banner. Our group numbers nearly 100. High schoolers, 20-somethings, 30-somethings. "It happens every year," says our fearless leader marching next to me. "They just walk off the sidewalks into our part of the parade. Not supposed to, I think. But, who cares?"
2005. Milwaukee Pridefest. "Can I get a lemonade?" asks a quite youngish looking boy with wavey blondish hair. "Three dollars," I reply. He pulls his left hand out of the grip of the quite youngish looking boy with spikey blackish hair standing next to him and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. "Do you want one too?" he asks spikey black hair. Ummm...no, we'll share yours," replies spikey black hair. "Okay." They lean in together for a quick peck on the lips. I do a double-take. "There you go," I say as I hand the over-priced lemonade across the counter. "How long have you two been together?" "Three and a half months," replies wavey blonde hair. "Wow, that's cool," I reply, not really knowing what else to say. "Where do you guys go to school?" Spikey black hair takes a sip of the lemo-nada, then walks to the end of the table to pour in packets of sugar. "He goes to Nicolet, but I go to Shorewood," replies wavey blonde hair. "How old are you guys?" I ask, curious and a bit confused. "He's fourteen and I'm sixteen," says wavey blonde hair. "It's all very scandalous. His parents think I'm too old for him." Spikey black hair returns and wavey blonde hair reattaches the lid and takes a sip. "Thanks," he says to spikey black hair. They lean in for another peck on the lips before walking away.
So maybe the kids ultimately show everyone what progress is. I don't mean "progress" as it's defined in sociology and history classes on college campuses. I mean progress as it's felt when taking a step back and thinking about...then and now...there and here. It's not linear. It's not cruise-controlled. It's rarely obvious.
And Sophie B. Hawkins rocked.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
It's just like the first Christmas...except we got a room, none of us are virgins and instead of the baby Jesus we have a plate full of cheeses
So another Pridefest has come and gone Good times, good times.
I went down to the grounds on Friday to help set up the Bella Caffe booth and ended up on the channel 4 news. That was cool, although I didn't see it. Saturday, I spent time early on walking around by myself and browsing the booths. I'm not sure how many organizations I'm going to be getting e-mails from, but I'm sure I'll actually follow through this year and volunteer somewhere. I miss volunteering...feeling like I'm actually doing something, instead of just working in a restaurant, cleaning, reading and writing.
I also decided that I'm going to sack up and start going to church. I'm more than a little hesitant about organized religion. My entire family is Buddhist and I grew up with a lot of meditating (although I never knew what I was supposed to be meditating about), chanting (in Japanese that I never really understood) and listening to sermons about 'right conduct' and 'pure thoughts.' Then I went to Illinois and almost got sucked into a cult. Well, maybe they weren't a cult. But, they all did have the same haircuts, wore the same clothes, spoke in the same subdued intimidating tones...oh wait, that was my fraternity. :) But yeah, I decided it wasn't for me when i was told I was signing my ticket for hell and eternal damnation because I wanted to go to a volleyball team party instead of the all-night Bible study. What's next? If I miss church the oceans will dry up and man will cease to exist? That's too much responsibility. I passed. But, now I'm seriously thinking about going to MCC...even though everyone I told about my revelation laughed in my face and several spit food.
Speaking of hell and eternal damnation. Where were all the protesters? Where's the commitment? Where's the resolve? I spent a whole $6 at Outwords buying bumper stickers that read "God, save me from your followers" and all I got when I arrived at the grande ole gay time were three guys...two holding signs and one with a bullhorn. Now, I'm not a genius nor do I possess literary flourish, but there's something ironic/symbolic/metaphoric about the guy with the bullhorn yelling "Renounce or burn in the depths of hell" to a large line of people donating food to the needy. I had to chuckle nervously...pointedly even. I popped the bumper sticker on my back and walked past two of the three guys and got...nothing. No comment. No laugh. No, "may God sever your hand and slap you with it." Nothing. Inside the grounds, some friend of friends told me I was just egging them on...that my bumper sticker and I were the reason they can maintain their anger...that I should engage them in rational conversation. I guess I should have handed out copies of the Supreme Court's Lawrence v Texas decision and excerpts from the Rev. Mel White's book. But, let's face it, they're a long read. And, in the end, isn't the message, "God, save me from your followers" anyway? I'll take the cheap shtick, thank you.
So, I had to work at Buca's at 5, so I headed out pretty early and missed the fireworks and almost missed...RuPaul. At one point I declared I was clearing plates at 9:45 whether people were done eating or not. So I got out around 10:45, changed and sped down to the grounds where I found...a BFC...big f-cking crowd....a menagerie even. Well, maybe not. But I ended up watching from way off to the side which was still a pretty good show. It was a lot shorter than I thought it would be...20 minutes of on-stage time, someone told me later. And the message was...Live...Love...and Take Care of the Kids.
The kids. Before the festivities began, I re-read Dan Savage's Skipping Toward Gomorrah section on Pride. Savage went to L.A. for their Pride with an uber-couple--rich, young, high-status, gorgeous, ripped--and their friends, trying to indulge in the deadly sin of pride. What did he find? It's all for the kids. The kids? The kids. So I guess the butt-plugs (which I found out you insert a Pride Butt Plug, not wear one), the thongs, the drinking, the drugs, the 48-hour sidewalk sale are for the kids, he gathered. Then comes the revelation...
"Oh stop it, you two," said Jake, shirtless sweaty, and fresh from the dance tent. "Blah blah blah. Enough with the gay youth already. Pride parades are like slings. Tell people you've got a sling, and they're clutching their pearls. 'Oh, my God, you've got a sling!' But f-cking in a sling is fun. Same with the pride parade. Tell people you're going and they can't believe you would even want to. But once they get their asses to the parade they have a great f-cking time. And having fun is important. It's the whole point."
The whole point?
"Sure. When we were young, everyone said that the gays were unhappy and no one likes us and that our lives would be miserable. What better way to disprove all of that crap than having fun? With thousands of other 'miserable' gay people? In public? The party is the purpose of all of this. Pleasure is the whole point."
Well, although I didn't get in a sling this weekend, I had a good f-cking time. With more than 19,000 people...the Great Wisconsin Homo Migration. I got the point. Thanks for some perspective Dan.
On deck: Pridefest Part 2 --the long lost ex frat pledge brother, more about the kids and Sophie B. Hawkins.
I went down to the grounds on Friday to help set up the Bella Caffe booth and ended up on the channel 4 news. That was cool, although I didn't see it. Saturday, I spent time early on walking around by myself and browsing the booths. I'm not sure how many organizations I'm going to be getting e-mails from, but I'm sure I'll actually follow through this year and volunteer somewhere. I miss volunteering...feeling like I'm actually doing something, instead of just working in a restaurant, cleaning, reading and writing.
I also decided that I'm going to sack up and start going to church. I'm more than a little hesitant about organized religion. My entire family is Buddhist and I grew up with a lot of meditating (although I never knew what I was supposed to be meditating about), chanting (in Japanese that I never really understood) and listening to sermons about 'right conduct' and 'pure thoughts.' Then I went to Illinois and almost got sucked into a cult. Well, maybe they weren't a cult. But, they all did have the same haircuts, wore the same clothes, spoke in the same subdued intimidating tones...oh wait, that was my fraternity. :) But yeah, I decided it wasn't for me when i was told I was signing my ticket for hell and eternal damnation because I wanted to go to a volleyball team party instead of the all-night Bible study. What's next? If I miss church the oceans will dry up and man will cease to exist? That's too much responsibility. I passed. But, now I'm seriously thinking about going to MCC...even though everyone I told about my revelation laughed in my face and several spit food.
Speaking of hell and eternal damnation. Where were all the protesters? Where's the commitment? Where's the resolve? I spent a whole $6 at Outwords buying bumper stickers that read "God, save me from your followers" and all I got when I arrived at the grande ole gay time were three guys...two holding signs and one with a bullhorn. Now, I'm not a genius nor do I possess literary flourish, but there's something ironic/symbolic/metaphoric about the guy with the bullhorn yelling "Renounce or burn in the depths of hell" to a large line of people donating food to the needy. I had to chuckle nervously...pointedly even. I popped the bumper sticker on my back and walked past two of the three guys and got...nothing. No comment. No laugh. No, "may God sever your hand and slap you with it." Nothing. Inside the grounds, some friend of friends told me I was just egging them on...that my bumper sticker and I were the reason they can maintain their anger...that I should engage them in rational conversation. I guess I should have handed out copies of the Supreme Court's Lawrence v Texas decision and excerpts from the Rev. Mel White's book. But, let's face it, they're a long read. And, in the end, isn't the message, "God, save me from your followers" anyway? I'll take the cheap shtick, thank you.
So, I had to work at Buca's at 5, so I headed out pretty early and missed the fireworks and almost missed...RuPaul. At one point I declared I was clearing plates at 9:45 whether people were done eating or not. So I got out around 10:45, changed and sped down to the grounds where I found...a BFC...big f-cking crowd....a menagerie even. Well, maybe not. But I ended up watching from way off to the side which was still a pretty good show. It was a lot shorter than I thought it would be...20 minutes of on-stage time, someone told me later. And the message was...Live...Love...and Take Care of the Kids.
The kids. Before the festivities began, I re-read Dan Savage's Skipping Toward Gomorrah section on Pride. Savage went to L.A. for their Pride with an uber-couple--rich, young, high-status, gorgeous, ripped--and their friends, trying to indulge in the deadly sin of pride. What did he find? It's all for the kids. The kids? The kids. So I guess the butt-plugs (which I found out you insert a Pride Butt Plug, not wear one), the thongs, the drinking, the drugs, the 48-hour sidewalk sale are for the kids, he gathered. Then comes the revelation...
"Oh stop it, you two," said Jake, shirtless sweaty, and fresh from the dance tent. "Blah blah blah. Enough with the gay youth already. Pride parades are like slings. Tell people you've got a sling, and they're clutching their pearls. 'Oh, my God, you've got a sling!' But f-cking in a sling is fun. Same with the pride parade. Tell people you're going and they can't believe you would even want to. But once they get their asses to the parade they have a great f-cking time. And having fun is important. It's the whole point."
The whole point?
"Sure. When we were young, everyone said that the gays were unhappy and no one likes us and that our lives would be miserable. What better way to disprove all of that crap than having fun? With thousands of other 'miserable' gay people? In public? The party is the purpose of all of this. Pleasure is the whole point."
Well, although I didn't get in a sling this weekend, I had a good f-cking time. With more than 19,000 people...the Great Wisconsin Homo Migration. I got the point. Thanks for some perspective Dan.
On deck: Pridefest Part 2 --the long lost ex frat pledge brother, more about the kids and Sophie B. Hawkins.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
How am I supposed to know what they look like wet?
On Sunday's SportsCenter -- and yes, I do like to watch the occasional SportsCenter -- ESPN featured Dartmouth lacrosse player Andrew Goldstein. ESPN, I guess referencing Outsports.com, claimed that Goldstein was the first, most successful male athlete in a team sport in North America to come out while still competing...in any sport, at any level.
The 8 minute segment was the best feature on a gay sports figure that I've ever come across. I've seen a lot of features, read a lot of books, articles, theses, dissertations and webpages and listened to quite a few out gay athletes speak. I've done most of it trying to nail down a direction for a future thesis: "...and the volleyball was fun too": Communities, histories and the North American Gay Volleyball Association. (and yes...I'm a history nerd...and proud of it) It's been difficult to find material on sexuality and sports in American history.
So far, Dr. Susan Cahn's (SUNY-Buffalo) book, Coming on Strong has been an amazing source of info, but an even greater source of direction into how to incorporate a study of sports history with sexuality and gender while avoiding the need to focus on victimization. I've read so many books and other pieces that just try so damn hard to make the reader cry, or feel some sense of pity or worse yet, guilt. These stories almost always end in: "...and, rising above it all, Joe(anne) Schmo took to the court in spite of the suicide attempts, the millions of sleepless nights, the taunts and jeers from his(her) homophobic teammates, the betrayals, the heartbreak and the true yearning to one day be free." Also, when one piece started with the title "Swing That Purse, Girl" I knew I was probably going to need a cigarette, a hit of crack and a shot of...something that'll knock me on my ass.
So back to the very cute Andrew Goldstein. Maybe it was the fact that ESPN focused on Goldstein's accomplishments, the value he brought to his team. Maybe it was the focus on the team's actual reactions...shock, uncertainty, curiosity, understanding. Maybe it was the acknowledgment that not all athletes in so-called macho sports react in the way gay athletes are made to believe, whether by the gang mentality of straight or gay people, the media, internalized homophobia, etc etc. Maybe it was because ESPN didn't portray Goldstein as the angry activist or the Prozac-popping suicidal depressive. Maybe I'm a sucker for the cliched "and they lived happily ever after" ending.
Whatever the reason, I was finally unbelievably overjoyed to see a feature on a gay athlete that balanced the "gay" and the "athlete" in carefully measured proportions. Yes, he's open about his sexuality, but he's also a heck of an athlete...team MVP as a sophomore, all-conference, all-region, All-American, the first goalie to ever score a goal in an NCAA tournament game. Goldstein talks about wanting to open up to his teammates but feeling a pressure to maintain the balance that led them all to the best season in school history and the first NCAA tournament bid ever for Dartmouth.
I can already hear some people saying something like, "well, why should he ever have to be in the closet anyway?" True. Very true. But, as unfortunate as it may be, reality is reality. No matter what anyone outside the situation says, it's still a matter of choice for the person living it. Do I upset the delicate balance that's led to my team being ranked #1 in the country because I can't talk about my boyfriend? Do I possibly sacrifice the chance at a collegiate national championship because someone said "that's so gay?" It's not internalized homophobia, it's an athlete who's spent his/her blood, sweat and tears to get to the upper echelon of athletics being strategic within the framework that exists. And, it's not like Goldstein waited it out. He told his team after his sophomore season ended. Bravo. Bravo. Bravo.
I think part of what's been gnawing at me about too many of the "gay sports" stories I've encountered, is the anger and the blaming and the need to constantly relive some kind of victimization. It's not that the anger or the blaming or the victimization doesn't exist or shouldn't exist. It does, and that's reality, too. It's perfectly normal and natural to want to get that out. It's one of the things coming out allows.
But, it's still difficult to digest what happened at UWM's Coming Out Week symposium featuring Esera Tuaolo and members of the UWM athletic department. When the floor was opened up, question after question (or more like accusation after accusation) peppered the panel. Why aren't you doing more about homophobia on your teams? What do you mean you haven't heard your athletes saying fag or homo or dyke? Why won't your athletes come to Pridefest? I was seething in the back row. I've hung out with UWM athletes...the supposedly macho, homophobic, hate-crimes-waiting-to-happen guys most of the audience assumed them to be. They're, to a greater extent than any college sports program I've ever spent time with, more open-minded and generally cultured than any of the angry activists sitting in the first row could ever fathom. I've been asked about boyfriends, my comfort level, PC terminology, definitions, opinions, etc etc. And...for the record to the finger-pointing kid in the front row...they don't come to Pridefest for the same reason many gays and lesbians new to Wisconsin or Milwaukee don't go to Pridefest...they don't know anyone and walking around Pridefest alone is a pretty scary thing.
Maybe it took a straight sports reporter to tell the story of a successful gay athlete. Curiosity instead of pride. Perspective instead of anger. The process instead of the roadblocks. The success instead of the sadness.
There's something about an athlete like Goldstein or any number of the gay athletes, All-Americans, national champions, even ex-Olympians who still aren't listed on outsports.com's Big Gay List, that's really inspirational. They're out...to who they want to be. They're successful...with very little trophy-case space. They're humble...to a point. And, most importantly, they're just living their lives how they want to, where they want to and with who they want to. Maybe that's the inspiration.
The 8 minute segment was the best feature on a gay sports figure that I've ever come across. I've seen a lot of features, read a lot of books, articles, theses, dissertations and webpages and listened to quite a few out gay athletes speak. I've done most of it trying to nail down a direction for a future thesis: "...and the volleyball was fun too": Communities, histories and the North American Gay Volleyball Association. (and yes...I'm a history nerd...and proud of it) It's been difficult to find material on sexuality and sports in American history.
So far, Dr. Susan Cahn's (SUNY-Buffalo) book, Coming on Strong has been an amazing source of info, but an even greater source of direction into how to incorporate a study of sports history with sexuality and gender while avoiding the need to focus on victimization. I've read so many books and other pieces that just try so damn hard to make the reader cry, or feel some sense of pity or worse yet, guilt. These stories almost always end in: "...and, rising above it all, Joe(anne) Schmo took to the court in spite of the suicide attempts, the millions of sleepless nights, the taunts and jeers from his(her) homophobic teammates, the betrayals, the heartbreak and the true yearning to one day be free." Also, when one piece started with the title "Swing That Purse, Girl" I knew I was probably going to need a cigarette, a hit of crack and a shot of...something that'll knock me on my ass.
So back to the very cute Andrew Goldstein. Maybe it was the fact that ESPN focused on Goldstein's accomplishments, the value he brought to his team. Maybe it was the focus on the team's actual reactions...shock, uncertainty, curiosity, understanding. Maybe it was the acknowledgment that not all athletes in so-called macho sports react in the way gay athletes are made to believe, whether by the gang mentality of straight or gay people, the media, internalized homophobia, etc etc. Maybe it was because ESPN didn't portray Goldstein as the angry activist or the Prozac-popping suicidal depressive. Maybe I'm a sucker for the cliched "and they lived happily ever after" ending.
Whatever the reason, I was finally unbelievably overjoyed to see a feature on a gay athlete that balanced the "gay" and the "athlete" in carefully measured proportions. Yes, he's open about his sexuality, but he's also a heck of an athlete...team MVP as a sophomore, all-conference, all-region, All-American, the first goalie to ever score a goal in an NCAA tournament game. Goldstein talks about wanting to open up to his teammates but feeling a pressure to maintain the balance that led them all to the best season in school history and the first NCAA tournament bid ever for Dartmouth.
I can already hear some people saying something like, "well, why should he ever have to be in the closet anyway?" True. Very true. But, as unfortunate as it may be, reality is reality. No matter what anyone outside the situation says, it's still a matter of choice for the person living it. Do I upset the delicate balance that's led to my team being ranked #1 in the country because I can't talk about my boyfriend? Do I possibly sacrifice the chance at a collegiate national championship because someone said "that's so gay?" It's not internalized homophobia, it's an athlete who's spent his/her blood, sweat and tears to get to the upper echelon of athletics being strategic within the framework that exists. And, it's not like Goldstein waited it out. He told his team after his sophomore season ended. Bravo. Bravo. Bravo.
I think part of what's been gnawing at me about too many of the "gay sports" stories I've encountered, is the anger and the blaming and the need to constantly relive some kind of victimization. It's not that the anger or the blaming or the victimization doesn't exist or shouldn't exist. It does, and that's reality, too. It's perfectly normal and natural to want to get that out. It's one of the things coming out allows.
But, it's still difficult to digest what happened at UWM's Coming Out Week symposium featuring Esera Tuaolo and members of the UWM athletic department. When the floor was opened up, question after question (or more like accusation after accusation) peppered the panel. Why aren't you doing more about homophobia on your teams? What do you mean you haven't heard your athletes saying fag or homo or dyke? Why won't your athletes come to Pridefest? I was seething in the back row. I've hung out with UWM athletes...the supposedly macho, homophobic, hate-crimes-waiting-to-happen guys most of the audience assumed them to be. They're, to a greater extent than any college sports program I've ever spent time with, more open-minded and generally cultured than any of the angry activists sitting in the first row could ever fathom. I've been asked about boyfriends, my comfort level, PC terminology, definitions, opinions, etc etc. And...for the record to the finger-pointing kid in the front row...they don't come to Pridefest for the same reason many gays and lesbians new to Wisconsin or Milwaukee don't go to Pridefest...they don't know anyone and walking around Pridefest alone is a pretty scary thing.
Maybe it took a straight sports reporter to tell the story of a successful gay athlete. Curiosity instead of pride. Perspective instead of anger. The process instead of the roadblocks. The success instead of the sadness.
There's something about an athlete like Goldstein or any number of the gay athletes, All-Americans, national champions, even ex-Olympians who still aren't listed on outsports.com's Big Gay List, that's really inspirational. They're out...to who they want to be. They're successful...with very little trophy-case space. They're humble...to a point. And, most importantly, they're just living their lives how they want to, where they want to and with who they want to. Maybe that's the inspiration.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Find Dorothy & tell her to meet you at the yellow brick road. When you come to the end, ask the man for a brain...
I pulled a drama queen today and I'm a little embarassed.
I went to get my hair cut but couldn't get an appointment anywhere. Now, my hair's not that difficult to cut; it's the typical "asian fade" and there's not much else I can do with it except dye it, shave it all off or grow it out. So, I keep it the way it is. I went to (name deleted) and sat down in the chair.
There were many signs that should have pointed me out the door before the debaucle continued.
(1) To greet me in the waiting area, she reminded me of Caretaker Filch suspiciously peering around a corner in the Harry Potter movies
(1) It smelled like the woman had sat in the very chair I was in and chain-smoked all day until I arrived.
(2) Her hands shook as she put the paper thing around my neck.
(3) The razor shook as she buzzed my sides.
(4) She didn't spritz water on the top before attacking the bush that is my hair.
Now, I saw these signs and should have fled. But there's something about interfering with a professional doing their job before it's been done that prevented me from saying anything. What can I say? It's a pet peeve. I mean, the only time I've ever stopped someone providing a service was when a manicurist in Chicago drew blood. That's once in 27 years. (I think I'm 27, but I might not be...) But, it wasn't until she claimed to have finished and asked me -- is it short enough? -- that I began to tremble. I put one finger on the left side of my head where the shaving had stopped and the blending was supposed to begin, and then put my other index finger at its corresponding spot on the right side of my head. My two fingers were an inch and half apart. I found my midline and measured the length to the left side and then on the right. There was also an inch and a half (maybe more) difference. I showed her the difference. She looked at my head. She looked at the mirror. She looked back at my head.
"I don't see the difference."
Not only that, but I then found that the area that she had shaved...the part where the razor and guard seem to make mistakes impossible...was different lengths on the left than on the right. My sideburns were a mess. The stylist working across from this woman offered to fix the disaster that was this cut. I apologized to her, assuring her that I was sure she was a fully competent stylist, but expressed my intense need to run as fast as I could. She apolgized and I left, shaking me head and trembling in a state of disbelief. I think I was trembling more because I was embarassed about making a big deal out a haircut that will grow out in about a week or two.
But then, some benevolent being led me to Capricio. I walked in...not at all dressed to be in this type of salon... and proceeded to treat the receptionist like my own private therapist.
"It's...it's...it's...help me. Look at it. I....I ....I...help me." I think I even shook a little bit. I might have drooled a bit too. The beginnings of tears might have formed as well.
An ordinary psychiatrist would have prescribed Prozac immediately. Only problem was they closed in 15 minutes. The wonderful man of god, Munem, came down the stairs and, listening to my bumbling, asked me what was wrong. I pointed at my hair. "It looks like I put a toupee on crooked." He leaned his head to one side and led me to his chair.
After he completely fixed the debaucle on my head, washed, shampooed and trimmed a little more, I felt like a complete idiot. I reacted better and more calmly when Bush was re-elected. He then gave me a final rinse and waxed my eyebrows.
I tipped 80%...$20. I should have tipped more.
Hello, my name is Brent. I am a drama queen.
I went to get my hair cut but couldn't get an appointment anywhere. Now, my hair's not that difficult to cut; it's the typical "asian fade" and there's not much else I can do with it except dye it, shave it all off or grow it out. So, I keep it the way it is. I went to (name deleted) and sat down in the chair.
There were many signs that should have pointed me out the door before the debaucle continued.
(1) To greet me in the waiting area, she reminded me of Caretaker Filch suspiciously peering around a corner in the Harry Potter movies
(1) It smelled like the woman had sat in the very chair I was in and chain-smoked all day until I arrived.
(2) Her hands shook as she put the paper thing around my neck.
(3) The razor shook as she buzzed my sides.
(4) She didn't spritz water on the top before attacking the bush that is my hair.
Now, I saw these signs and should have fled. But there's something about interfering with a professional doing their job before it's been done that prevented me from saying anything. What can I say? It's a pet peeve. I mean, the only time I've ever stopped someone providing a service was when a manicurist in Chicago drew blood. That's once in 27 years. (I think I'm 27, but I might not be...) But, it wasn't until she claimed to have finished and asked me -- is it short enough? -- that I began to tremble. I put one finger on the left side of my head where the shaving had stopped and the blending was supposed to begin, and then put my other index finger at its corresponding spot on the right side of my head. My two fingers were an inch and half apart. I found my midline and measured the length to the left side and then on the right. There was also an inch and a half (maybe more) difference. I showed her the difference. She looked at my head. She looked at the mirror. She looked back at my head.
"I don't see the difference."
Not only that, but I then found that the area that she had shaved...the part where the razor and guard seem to make mistakes impossible...was different lengths on the left than on the right. My sideburns were a mess. The stylist working across from this woman offered to fix the disaster that was this cut. I apologized to her, assuring her that I was sure she was a fully competent stylist, but expressed my intense need to run as fast as I could. She apolgized and I left, shaking me head and trembling in a state of disbelief. I think I was trembling more because I was embarassed about making a big deal out a haircut that will grow out in about a week or two.
But then, some benevolent being led me to Capricio. I walked in...not at all dressed to be in this type of salon... and proceeded to treat the receptionist like my own private therapist.
"It's...it's...it's...help me. Look at it. I....I ....I...help me." I think I even shook a little bit. I might have drooled a bit too. The beginnings of tears might have formed as well.
An ordinary psychiatrist would have prescribed Prozac immediately. Only problem was they closed in 15 minutes. The wonderful man of god, Munem, came down the stairs and, listening to my bumbling, asked me what was wrong. I pointed at my hair. "It looks like I put a toupee on crooked." He leaned his head to one side and led me to his chair.
After he completely fixed the debaucle on my head, washed, shampooed and trimmed a little more, I felt like a complete idiot. I reacted better and more calmly when Bush was re-elected. He then gave me a final rinse and waxed my eyebrows.
I tipped 80%...$20. I should have tipped more.
Hello, my name is Brent. I am a drama queen.
Please tell me a teacher was helping you over a fence...
My sleep schedule is all messed up. All messed up. My typical day starts somewhere around noon to 2 pm. I leave for work at 3:45 (lately it's been to the gym at 2:30 to be at work by 4:15), get home around 11:00 if I'm lucky. Then, if I'm not too tired, there's a good reason or it was an annoying night, I'll get dressed and head out to grab a drink....or five. If I stay in, I'm up until...oh...say...the sun comes up. Then I'm all tired and I lie down...and I'm up at 2 pm. Now, I'm told that sometimes people that work in restaurants fall into this schedule, but it's completely anti-productive.
Then, there's my crazy ways to try to get back on a normal person's schedule. I'll stay up in the hopes that I'll be so tired when 10 or 11 pm comes around that I'll fall asleep at a more normal time. But, since I've been up for about 40 hours, I'll sleep for soooooo long that I'm back to waking up around noon. Or, as has been happening lately, I'll fall asleep around 7 pm and wake up around 3 am. Then, well, the schedule gets thrown off again. Hardly more productive. I'm not really sure what the answer is right now, but then again, I haven't been to sleep in awhile.
Ok, on to jello.
My mom has pulled some fast ones on me. Even though we lived in Hawaii where chocolate covered macadamia nut boxes grow on trees, she convinced me they were only for giving away, never for eating. Even though we had a HUGE mango tree in our yard, mangoes were only for pickling and giving away as gifts. It could be that I'm just a dimwit about certain things, but these things happened when I was really young, so I just believed everything my mom said, no questions asked. Well, when I was young, my mom just didn't like making jello. I have no idea why, but she just didn't. So, she told me that jello was too hard to make. So, when there was jello offered up at some kind of extended family meal, she would tell me to take advantage of it because jello was too hard for her to make. Now, this from the woman who would make cornbread from scratch every third sunday morning or so; the same woman who basically made the entire Thanksgiving dinner from scratch for my immediate family...all 15 or so of them. She did all but raise the turkeys herself.
But jello, she would always tell me, was too hard to make. No smile, no smirk, no giggle, or wink. Straight-faced, truthful, there-is-no-tooth-fairy-so-be-happy-with-the-50-cents-you-got kind of look on her face.
So, off I went to the University of Illinois and the wonderful dorm food that no college student could ever complain about. But, instead of going for the decked out salad and sandwich bar, the fifty kinds of cereal or - at the specialty restaurants - the cannolis, the just bbqed steaks, or cookies as big as your head...you guessed it, I went for the jello. All the time. Every time. Why, my friends would ask, do you always eat jello? Well, I would reply, I don't have the time to make jello, so if the cooks here spend all that energy making it, I'll take advantage of it. Wait...what are you talking about? If jello is too hard for my mom to make, I certainly can't do it.
No, I wasn't joking. I really believed making jello was a gift bestowed on the more fortunate. I once made a pan of bread pudding...from scratch...at a Boy Scout camp...using only a box oven (take a cardboard box, cover the inside with foil, place cans inside and put a grill on top). Jello, I had been convinced since infancy, was too hard to make.
One summer, I had an entire free weekend and decided to dedicate the entire 48 hours to conquer my fears. I was 21 and it was time I passed into manhood and just make the damn jello. I was prepared to skip all my monday classes and possibly the tuesday ones in case I needed the extra time. I was living in the fraternity house and we had no usable kitchen, but I had procured the use of one of my friend's apartments to...conquer jello. I called mom to ask for some advice, but she wasn't home so I left a message. I went to Meijer and picked up four large boxes of jello mix. Four boxes because I figured I would probably mess it up at least once and I wasn't going to use that as an excuse to quit. I read the back of the box several times, trying to make sense of why there were only two ingredients. Maybe this wasn't really jello. Slightly suspicious, I headed back.
In the kitchen, I took a moment to focus, breathe and meditate. I turned the box over again, and read the instructions. Hmmm....that can't be right. I went online and looked for other jello recipes. Still...that can't be right. I returned to the boxes. Well, here goes. I dropped the powder into a glass bowl, wondering if I had to wait for the water to boil before opening the package. I knew from high school science that here is a metal that, when exposed to oxygen, spontaneously combusts. I didn't want to set my friend's kitchen on fire in case this had the same effect. I stared at the powder and heard the water pot whistling. I carefully measured out the water and immediately began stirring. Needless to say, just as I practically yelled into my parent's answering machine, the hardest thing about jello was finding a container and a place in the refrigerator to make it. So, it was 9 am on Saturday morning and I had........figured out that mom had lied to me so convincingly for 21 years.
Then, there's my crazy ways to try to get back on a normal person's schedule. I'll stay up in the hopes that I'll be so tired when 10 or 11 pm comes around that I'll fall asleep at a more normal time. But, since I've been up for about 40 hours, I'll sleep for soooooo long that I'm back to waking up around noon. Or, as has been happening lately, I'll fall asleep around 7 pm and wake up around 3 am. Then, well, the schedule gets thrown off again. Hardly more productive. I'm not really sure what the answer is right now, but then again, I haven't been to sleep in awhile.
Ok, on to jello.
My mom has pulled some fast ones on me. Even though we lived in Hawaii where chocolate covered macadamia nut boxes grow on trees, she convinced me they were only for giving away, never for eating. Even though we had a HUGE mango tree in our yard, mangoes were only for pickling and giving away as gifts. It could be that I'm just a dimwit about certain things, but these things happened when I was really young, so I just believed everything my mom said, no questions asked. Well, when I was young, my mom just didn't like making jello. I have no idea why, but she just didn't. So, she told me that jello was too hard to make. So, when there was jello offered up at some kind of extended family meal, she would tell me to take advantage of it because jello was too hard for her to make. Now, this from the woman who would make cornbread from scratch every third sunday morning or so; the same woman who basically made the entire Thanksgiving dinner from scratch for my immediate family...all 15 or so of them. She did all but raise the turkeys herself.
But jello, she would always tell me, was too hard to make. No smile, no smirk, no giggle, or wink. Straight-faced, truthful, there-is-no-tooth-fairy-so-be-happy-with-the-50-cents-you-got kind of look on her face.
So, off I went to the University of Illinois and the wonderful dorm food that no college student could ever complain about. But, instead of going for the decked out salad and sandwich bar, the fifty kinds of cereal or - at the specialty restaurants - the cannolis, the just bbqed steaks, or cookies as big as your head...you guessed it, I went for the jello. All the time. Every time. Why, my friends would ask, do you always eat jello? Well, I would reply, I don't have the time to make jello, so if the cooks here spend all that energy making it, I'll take advantage of it. Wait...what are you talking about? If jello is too hard for my mom to make, I certainly can't do it.
No, I wasn't joking. I really believed making jello was a gift bestowed on the more fortunate. I once made a pan of bread pudding...from scratch...at a Boy Scout camp...using only a box oven (take a cardboard box, cover the inside with foil, place cans inside and put a grill on top). Jello, I had been convinced since infancy, was too hard to make.
One summer, I had an entire free weekend and decided to dedicate the entire 48 hours to conquer my fears. I was 21 and it was time I passed into manhood and just make the damn jello. I was prepared to skip all my monday classes and possibly the tuesday ones in case I needed the extra time. I was living in the fraternity house and we had no usable kitchen, but I had procured the use of one of my friend's apartments to...conquer jello. I called mom to ask for some advice, but she wasn't home so I left a message. I went to Meijer and picked up four large boxes of jello mix. Four boxes because I figured I would probably mess it up at least once and I wasn't going to use that as an excuse to quit. I read the back of the box several times, trying to make sense of why there were only two ingredients. Maybe this wasn't really jello. Slightly suspicious, I headed back.
In the kitchen, I took a moment to focus, breathe and meditate. I turned the box over again, and read the instructions. Hmmm....that can't be right. I went online and looked for other jello recipes. Still...that can't be right. I returned to the boxes. Well, here goes. I dropped the powder into a glass bowl, wondering if I had to wait for the water to boil before opening the package. I knew from high school science that here is a metal that, when exposed to oxygen, spontaneously combusts. I didn't want to set my friend's kitchen on fire in case this had the same effect. I stared at the powder and heard the water pot whistling. I carefully measured out the water and immediately began stirring. Needless to say, just as I practically yelled into my parent's answering machine, the hardest thing about jello was finding a container and a place in the refrigerator to make it. So, it was 9 am on Saturday morning and I had........figured out that mom had lied to me so convincingly for 21 years.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
You know how I'm into gangsta rap...
So yeah, I figured since i haven't posted in forever, I might as well post twice. I found this little questionaire and thought I'd diggldy down.
First Name
Brent
Were you named after anyone?
Nope. Considering the best option between my two parents was originally Herbert...Brent works just fine, thank you.
Do you wish on stars?
Call me sentimental...or maybe it's cuz I watched the Creek. Yes.
When did you last cry?
Watching All Over The Guy last week. I'm a sucker. What can I say?
Do you like your handwriting?
Yep. It's kind of like my mom's...creepy.
What is your favorite lunchmeat?
Honey-smoked chicken...shaven not sliced.
What is your most embarassing CD?
Found them cleaning at the parent's house...Michael Bolton and Kris Kros (the one with Jump).
Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell?
Yes. In high school.
Do looks matter?
68% yes...48% no...hey, I'm a mystery.
How do you release anger?
(1) I clean like a maniac...hey, mystery. (2)Sarcasm...hey, we're supposed to go right to sarcasm.
Where is your second home?
Still...the Kappa Delta Rho house at the University of Illinois...too bad I guess.
Do you trust others easily?
No.
What was your favorite toy as a child?
When I was really little, I used to sit in one of those circular laundry baskets ALL THE TIME and pretend it was a plane or a car or a spaceship. After that...Optimus Prime and the vehicle Voltron (not the tigers).
Do you use sarcasm a lot?
Me? Please. It's a my first language.
Favorite Movies
Remember the Titans
Hoosiers
Coyote Ugly...again...mystery.
Shakespeare in Love
And The Band Played On
In The Bedroom...but only the first time
Trick
Get Real
What are your nicknames?
Ping-Pong....Pat's a wierd guy.
Kookie...like the candy (don't think too hard about that one).
Margaret...yeah, cause all rice looks alike, even when it's not even the same sex.
Would you bungee jump?
Abso--f~ing--lutely.
Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
Looking around...no.
Do you think that you are strong?
Stronger than Davee...weaker than preschoolers. What sarcasm? I better be.
What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
Been craving Butterfinger in ice cream for about 8 years now...too bad about that anaphalactic shock. Now, Mint Chocolate Chip only from Baskin Robbins.
What are your favorite colors?
Navy blue. Clear blue (think an ocean where you can see perfectly down to the reef). Dark cream...mystery.
What are you listening to right now?
Huh...found another embarassing CD...the Dawson's Creek soundtrack...the first one.
Last thing you ate.
A fourth of an antipasto salad.
If you were a crayon what color would you be?
I can think of something else to do with that crayon.
What is the weather like right now?
According to my car? 79. According to every other sense I possess. 65
Last person you talked to on the phone?
Maren Witzel...in Huntington, West Virginia...the hidden gem of the United States.
How are you today?
Optimistic...hmmm...mystery.
Favorite drink?
Raspberry Ice Tea (with real brewed tea). Long Beach (especially the raspberry one from Roscoe's in Chicago...hmmm....I don't like raspberries, but I love drinks with raspberry in them). Chocolate Martini (FLUID!!!...but ask Brian real nicely and bat your eyes...but the all-time best is at Spiral in Lansing, Michigan).
Favorite sport?
Hockey. Curling. Both HUGE in Hawaii.
Hair Color?
Blacker than black...from last colorist that gave up before she started.
Eye Color?
Brown. Thought it was black for about 18 years...then was told that's not possible. Then again, mom had me convinced for 18 years that we never had jello cuz it was too hard to make.
Do you wear contacts?
Hell, I never take em out.
Favorite food?
Hands down, mom's shrimp curry...mom's chili...macaroni salad on Hawaiian plate lunches...certain types of sushi that shall remain nameless for now.
Last movie you watched?
Kinsey and All Over the Guy...
Favorite day of the year?
July 6...the first day of the Wonder's Hall salad bar experience every year.
Actually...January 1st. :)
Scary movie or happy ending?
Happy ending...but not the "happily ever after" kind of happy ending. Would much rather have some kind of peace.
Hugs or kisses?
"It's been a rough day" -> quality hug
"I hope I see you again" -> a little G-rated, peck on the kisser
What is your favorite dessert?
Sweet, ripe honeydew.
Living arrangement?
Renting a loft with two roommates
What book(s) are you reading?
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (AGAIN!!!), John D'Emilio's The World Turned and Wardell Pomeroy's Dr. Kinsey and the Institute for Sex Research
What did you watch on TV last night?
The West Wing rerun (two seasons ago), Bill Maher's V is for Victory.
Favorite smells?
Fresh pikake, Downy fabric sheets, someone's cologne.
First Name
Brent
Were you named after anyone?
Nope. Considering the best option between my two parents was originally Herbert...Brent works just fine, thank you.
Do you wish on stars?
Call me sentimental...or maybe it's cuz I watched the Creek. Yes.
When did you last cry?
Watching All Over The Guy last week. I'm a sucker. What can I say?
Do you like your handwriting?
Yep. It's kind of like my mom's...creepy.
What is your favorite lunchmeat?
Honey-smoked chicken...shaven not sliced.
What is your most embarassing CD?
Found them cleaning at the parent's house...Michael Bolton and Kris Kros (the one with Jump).
Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell?
Yes. In high school.
Do looks matter?
68% yes...48% no...hey, I'm a mystery.
How do you release anger?
(1) I clean like a maniac...hey, mystery. (2)Sarcasm...hey, we're supposed to go right to sarcasm.
Where is your second home?
Still...the Kappa Delta Rho house at the University of Illinois...too bad I guess.
Do you trust others easily?
No.
What was your favorite toy as a child?
When I was really little, I used to sit in one of those circular laundry baskets ALL THE TIME and pretend it was a plane or a car or a spaceship. After that...Optimus Prime and the vehicle Voltron (not the tigers).
Do you use sarcasm a lot?
Me? Please. It's a my first language.
Favorite Movies
Remember the Titans
Hoosiers
Coyote Ugly...again...mystery.
Shakespeare in Love
And The Band Played On
In The Bedroom...but only the first time
Trick
Get Real
What are your nicknames?
Ping-Pong....Pat's a wierd guy.
Kookie...like the candy (don't think too hard about that one).
Margaret...yeah, cause all rice looks alike, even when it's not even the same sex.
Would you bungee jump?
Abso--f~ing--lutely.
Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
Looking around...no.
Do you think that you are strong?
Stronger than Davee...weaker than preschoolers. What sarcasm? I better be.
What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
Been craving Butterfinger in ice cream for about 8 years now...too bad about that anaphalactic shock. Now, Mint Chocolate Chip only from Baskin Robbins.
What are your favorite colors?
Navy blue. Clear blue (think an ocean where you can see perfectly down to the reef). Dark cream...mystery.
What are you listening to right now?
Huh...found another embarassing CD...the Dawson's Creek soundtrack...the first one.
Last thing you ate.
A fourth of an antipasto salad.
If you were a crayon what color would you be?
I can think of something else to do with that crayon.
What is the weather like right now?
According to my car? 79. According to every other sense I possess. 65
Last person you talked to on the phone?
Maren Witzel...in Huntington, West Virginia...the hidden gem of the United States.
How are you today?
Optimistic...hmmm...mystery.
Favorite drink?
Raspberry Ice Tea (with real brewed tea). Long Beach (especially the raspberry one from Roscoe's in Chicago...hmmm....I don't like raspberries, but I love drinks with raspberry in them). Chocolate Martini (FLUID!!!...but ask Brian real nicely and bat your eyes...but the all-time best is at Spiral in Lansing, Michigan).
Favorite sport?
Hockey. Curling. Both HUGE in Hawaii.
Hair Color?
Blacker than black...from last colorist that gave up before she started.
Eye Color?
Brown. Thought it was black for about 18 years...then was told that's not possible. Then again, mom had me convinced for 18 years that we never had jello cuz it was too hard to make.
Do you wear contacts?
Hell, I never take em out.
Favorite food?
Hands down, mom's shrimp curry...mom's chili...macaroni salad on Hawaiian plate lunches...certain types of sushi that shall remain nameless for now.
Last movie you watched?
Kinsey and All Over the Guy...
Favorite day of the year?
July 6...the first day of the Wonder's Hall salad bar experience every year.
Actually...January 1st. :)
Scary movie or happy ending?
Happy ending...but not the "happily ever after" kind of happy ending. Would much rather have some kind of peace.
Hugs or kisses?
"It's been a rough day" -> quality hug
"I hope I see you again" -> a little G-rated, peck on the kisser
What is your favorite dessert?
Sweet, ripe honeydew.
Living arrangement?
Renting a loft with two roommates
What book(s) are you reading?
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (AGAIN!!!), John D'Emilio's The World Turned and Wardell Pomeroy's Dr. Kinsey and the Institute for Sex Research
What did you watch on TV last night?
The West Wing rerun (two seasons ago), Bill Maher's V is for Victory.
Favorite smells?
Fresh pikake, Downy fabric sheets, someone's cologne.
Ok. I'll ask the obvious question. Since when are gays allowed to own property?
So yeah, I'm a lazy ass. But, things are looking up. I've decided not to wait for funny moments or profound revelation. Just letting it all out.
Work has been interesting...especially with the little suspension not too long ago. But, I'm back and kissing that ass just like new. On my first day back, I got shopped. aarrggghhh. Basically every once in a while, some random party comes in with a list of about a bazillion things to listen for, look for, time, blah blah blah. Then they go home and we hope to god their memory is better than the three other schmucks we've had the last three months. Just my humble opinion. This time I got lucky. Fun people. Fun meal. Fun times. Low maintanence. Didn't trash the booth. No food stuck in the seats. No condiments emptied onto the table. No complete and total shredding of all napkins within two time zones. Didn't demand free food because their booth was dirty. And...a 25% tip. Lucky me.
Well, I'm headed back to good ole Lansing, Michigan this summer. Something must have gone right for the new coaching staff at Michigan State to ask me back to coach their summer volleyball camps. It's a pretty sweet deal for me. Room and board (in air conditioning, no less), a pair of Nike's, another half dozen MSU t-shirts, a pretty damn respectable paycheck and...THE SALAD BAR. Did I mention the salad bar? Now, for all those who have experienced, then hated college dorm food, when we move into our own apartments we find that preparing about 100 different things to choose from at every meal is...for the love of god...just not going to happen. Preparing 2 things to eat at every meal is...for the love of god...just too hard to handle. Really people...dorm food is a godsend. (That was a good buzz....I talked to Jesus). All I know for sure, besides what I learned in kindergarten...is that I can weigh my salad by the pound at Pick N Save and come up with the exact amount to pay without getting near the scale.
All I know for sure is that the salad bar in the Michigan State dorms rocks my world. Not so sure that the airplane I get into at least four times a year is going to land in one piece. But I do know that the Wonders Hall salad bar is my rock. So basically, the Michigan State volleyball camps have been my version of fat camp. Salad twice a day (alright, the occasional Jimmy Johns...vege sub I might add), about 20 gazillion miles of walking (sometimes to get my one of a hundred coffees a day), seven hours of coaching, a couple of hours of playing pickup games with the other coaches...and the occasional libation. Hey, I've gotta walk across the street to the Pub...that counts as exercise right?
So, I just got a bunch of back issues of my high school alumni magazine with all of its alumni updates. Basically at least two people in every class since...I swear to you...1924...write about what everyone's doing. There's the usual pictures of weddings, reunions, parties, yadda yadda yadda. But, after reading through three Punahou Bulletins I decided I would forgo forking over $700 for a roundtrip ticket home for my class' reunion. First off, it's a little intimidating reading about the half dozen or so people who went to Athens...not as spectators...but as athletes representing the United States in about four different sports. Then, there were the people who've just returned from presenting their films at Cannes or receiving their Ph.D.s from Columbia. Or maybe, the actors in a new series or models in some show in Europe. Maybe it was a picture of a former Miss Hawaii performing her talent segment at the Miss America pageant. Or maybe it's the fact that about half the people I read about have different last names or new wives...and not the Boston/New Paltz/Toronto kind. But, that's me being sour grapes. Learn, live, love. Good enough for me. Do they have the Wonder's Hall salad bar? I think not.
Work has been interesting...especially with the little suspension not too long ago. But, I'm back and kissing that ass just like new. On my first day back, I got shopped. aarrggghhh. Basically every once in a while, some random party comes in with a list of about a bazillion things to listen for, look for, time, blah blah blah. Then they go home and we hope to god their memory is better than the three other schmucks we've had the last three months. Just my humble opinion. This time I got lucky. Fun people. Fun meal. Fun times. Low maintanence. Didn't trash the booth. No food stuck in the seats. No condiments emptied onto the table. No complete and total shredding of all napkins within two time zones. Didn't demand free food because their booth was dirty. And...a 25% tip. Lucky me.
Well, I'm headed back to good ole Lansing, Michigan this summer. Something must have gone right for the new coaching staff at Michigan State to ask me back to coach their summer volleyball camps. It's a pretty sweet deal for me. Room and board (in air conditioning, no less), a pair of Nike's, another half dozen MSU t-shirts, a pretty damn respectable paycheck and...THE SALAD BAR. Did I mention the salad bar? Now, for all those who have experienced, then hated college dorm food, when we move into our own apartments we find that preparing about 100 different things to choose from at every meal is...for the love of god...just not going to happen. Preparing 2 things to eat at every meal is...for the love of god...just too hard to handle. Really people...dorm food is a godsend. (That was a good buzz....I talked to Jesus). All I know for sure, besides what I learned in kindergarten...is that I can weigh my salad by the pound at Pick N Save and come up with the exact amount to pay without getting near the scale.
All I know for sure is that the salad bar in the Michigan State dorms rocks my world. Not so sure that the airplane I get into at least four times a year is going to land in one piece. But I do know that the Wonders Hall salad bar is my rock. So basically, the Michigan State volleyball camps have been my version of fat camp. Salad twice a day (alright, the occasional Jimmy Johns...vege sub I might add), about 20 gazillion miles of walking (sometimes to get my one of a hundred coffees a day), seven hours of coaching, a couple of hours of playing pickup games with the other coaches...and the occasional libation. Hey, I've gotta walk across the street to the Pub...that counts as exercise right?
So, I just got a bunch of back issues of my high school alumni magazine with all of its alumni updates. Basically at least two people in every class since...I swear to you...1924...write about what everyone's doing. There's the usual pictures of weddings, reunions, parties, yadda yadda yadda. But, after reading through three Punahou Bulletins I decided I would forgo forking over $700 for a roundtrip ticket home for my class' reunion. First off, it's a little intimidating reading about the half dozen or so people who went to Athens...not as spectators...but as athletes representing the United States in about four different sports. Then, there were the people who've just returned from presenting their films at Cannes or receiving their Ph.D.s from Columbia. Or maybe, the actors in a new series or models in some show in Europe. Maybe it was a picture of a former Miss Hawaii performing her talent segment at the Miss America pageant. Or maybe it's the fact that about half the people I read about have different last names or new wives...and not the Boston/New Paltz/Toronto kind. But, that's me being sour grapes. Learn, live, love. Good enough for me. Do they have the Wonder's Hall salad bar? I think not.
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