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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that's why we had saltines...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need therapy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently, Mike hates America.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then...

CHAMPAIGN: 21 miles
MEMPHIS: 442 miles

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

More later.

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

Quote of the St Louis Weekend:

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

-- Winesha

I'm not embarassed. It was Winesha.

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

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

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

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

But, on to more important matters!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Brittany had better taste in baby daddies."

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

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

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

"The Bedazzler is less tacky..."

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

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

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

But...

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

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

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

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

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

Love it. Love it all.

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

I'm back. Kind of.

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

But, more importantly...

TOP CHEF!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Manners, I am not...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she did it again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really couldn't give a fuck.

Is that a sports arena?

Obviously, I voted today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All-Big Ten

Happy. Rested. Still unemployed. Not totally broke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good times. Ggood times.

Remembering the Gaymes...

Literally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently the same is true of little gay twinkie chicklings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More later...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, it took that long.

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

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

I almost forgot...

So yeah.

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

I'm a little bummed.

That's about it.

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

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

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

So, the schedule went a little like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, the cell phone breaks in half.

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

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

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

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

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

See. I told you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I lost my cell phone.

Two weeks ago.

Maybe more.

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

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