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