Triple Toe Loop (A Dream I Actually Had)

I lived in a spacious loft apartment in downtown Los Angeles. The BREWERY was the name of the loft community. Which really exists, by the way. I was there with my boyfriend Naughty Nurse and three of our friends: Kitty Charles, Ricky Brazil, and Joely. This was an enormous space. Below us lived John Zimmerman; the sexy, hunky figure skater currently on Skating With Celebrities. I can't recall who he lived with. But, in my dream, John Z lived in squalor. It was disgusting. He was doing drugs and always having parties. His apartment had no furniture and he and his housemates all slept on one huge mattress on the floor in the middle of the loft space. He was, simply, a nuisance.

It was early morning and the music from John Z's apartment was blaring. My boyfriend and I awoke in a fury. Naughty Nurse reached for his earplugs. But I, apparently, was plain fed up with this bullshit. So were my other housemates. I went downstairs to try and solve things on my own. I knocked on John Z's door. He answered shirtless, sweaty, and in his underwear. Now, in my real life this would normally be a very sexy image. In my dream, however, I knew it meant he was cracked out of his mind. I wasn't turned on in any way, shape, or form. I asked him sternly to turn down the music, some of us worked nights and were still trying to sleep at 8:30 in the morning. He grabbed me by the arm and threw me into his apartment. I struggled to breakaway from his grip. He led me to this dank and dirty room where there were all kinds of women. They were all smoking out of crack pipes and scantily clad. It dawned on me that I was possibly being abducted by John Zimmerman and his bevy of working girls. I was forced to smoke crack with them, which I failed at miserably. The music was so loud this entire time. I was so frightened that my boyfriend and housemates would never find me.

Just as John Z was climbing on top of me to pin me down for some reason (drugs, sex, fun...who knows?), Fupa walked by the window. I guess she lived in Los Angeles as well. I don't know why she was there. The dream didn't tell me. As a matter of fact, in the dream I didn't know Fupa personally. She was an innocent passer-by. She passed by the window and noticed something weird. What she saw was me in a very compromising and strained position. She called 9-1-1. I made eye contact with her and could see she was there to help. She saw the fear and frustration in my eyes.

The police arrived instantly. (So, unlike L.A.) By the time they arrived I was in a full fledge brawl with John Zimmerman. Fisticuffs. Kicking, punching, wrestling practically. The police breakdown the door and behind them stand my housemates and boyfriend still in their pajamas. John Zimmerman tried to woo the cops with his good looks, charm, and fame. He tried to pay them off. He tried to get us kicked out of the building. I can't remember what happened next. I do know that John Z was handcuffed and before they took him away, I punched him in the face. Then my housmates went over to the stereo that was still blaring music and began to kick at it break it into pieces.

Suddenly, I woke up. It was 8:30 in the morning, and the upstairs neighbor of my apartment building in midtown Manhattan was blaring "He Wasn't Man Enough For Me" by Toni Braxton. I couldn't believe how loud it was. I couldn't go back to sleep. I turned to see if my boyfriend was affected. He had his earplugs in.

Let's just say the upstairs neighbor is lucky she's not a sexy figure skating champion, and that I love that song!

Day 3 and 4

Yesterday, Feb 26th, was Day 3 of my 30/30 challenge. I made it to the gym while on a small break from work. It was exactly 30 mins. I rode the bicycle and did some leg machines. Today (Day 4) doesn't seem to be presenting me with any obstacles. I should be able to smoothly squeeze in my required 30 mins. In fact, I have it scheduled so that I can manage an hour at the gym. All this, and I don't even have a day off til Oscar Sunday. Tomorrow looks tough. I have a day-time work committment at the yoga studio that is a longer shift than usual as I am training to take on more duties, and I have to be at my bar the same time my shift ends at the yoga studio. Wish me luck!

More interesting posts to come, I promise.

Confessions on a Gym Floor

Day 2 of the 30/30 Challenge complete!

I made it to the gym today and did 21 minutes on that machine. I don't know it's name. The one that is easy on your knees, but you can adjust the levels from cross-country skiing to extreme hiking. I started out at cross-country skiing, moved up to stair climber, a full ten minutes at hiker level, and cooled down with cross-country again.

Then I put in 10 mins on the assisted chin-up machine with various pull-ups and dips. Then I finished with 50 varied reps of crunches.

This is dreadfully boring, isn't it?

Throughout all this, I selected a soundtrack for my work out. My confession is that Madonna's album "Confessions on a Dancefloor," is the best work-out CD in the world. I have never felt more motivated, excited, choreographed, or gay in my life. It helps that when I close my eyes I imagine myself in high-heeled character shoes, dance tights, and a sparkly, corsetted leatard. With Madge's buns o' steele and long, lean thighs as my own.

Shhhhhhhhhh.........

The 30/30 Challenge!

Today is February 24th. Today marks the beginning of my own personal challenge to myself. I am challenging myself to 30 minutes or more of exercise for the next 30 consecutive days. I realize that there is nobody to monitor me, which makes it easier to cheat. But, I plan to post everyday (as honestly as possible) to document my success or failure on this endeavor.

I am challenging myself to embark on this fitness craze for many reasons. The first being purely superficial. I am flying home on March 25th (day 30!) to see my family. I want to look good dammit! I want my family to comment on it. I want to get noticed. That's honesty. The other reasons are about the changes I have noticed in my energy, well-being, and body since falling off the fitness wagon months ago. Since March of 2004, I have been fitness focused. I worked really hard. Three times to the gym a week, at the very least. Rollerblading, conditioning classes, running, and in 2005 Bikram Yoga! But November and December 2005, I fell/flopped off the fitness wagon. I can count, on one hand not using my thumb, how many times I visited my gym in those 60 days. I can count, on two hands not using my thumbs or my pinky fingers, how many times I took a class (yoga or other wise). I can't begin to count how many pints of BEN & JERRY's I shoveled.

January was a little different. New Year. New crap. I started meeting up with a friend every Friday to train together at the gym. That motivated me a little. I work at the Bikram study now, so I at least take a class once a week. I pulled out my dumbbells from storage at home and my resistance bands. The weather has been teasing my rollerblades, but alas, not yet.

So, today I went to the gym and worked my chest and arms for one hour and a half. Nice start. 29 days to go.

PART II...Eternal Questions of My Reckless Mind

But what was I crying about? And did I really have to be that dramatic? Turn on some lights for cryin' out loud! I probably only let 20-30 minutes pass after listening to Joely's voicemail before calling her back. It felt like hours.

I call her back. She hears the heartache and heaviness of my voice and pries it out of me. I told her I really thought I had messed it up with the guy from SWEET and VICIOUS. I told her meeting him really made me realize that this "thing" with Wiseman was over. The guy from SWEET and VICIOUS stirred something in me that no one had stirred in quite some time. I was tired of settling just to avoid loneliness. We must have talked for nearly two hours. Actually, we didn't do much talking. There was whinning and bitching and moaning. There was a lot of silence and sighing. We were wallowing, no languishing, in our self-pity together. Joely's attitude, however, was slightly more up than mine. So, it was her that had to pull me up by my boot straps and rally. She kept saying...'let's do something...grab a drink...see a movie...just come over....come on'....clem don't be like this....let's do something....'

I reluctantly offered up the suggestion of seeing this new movie that I knew nothing about, called Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind. I can't recall if she had heard anything about it or not, but it didn't matter. She was being a good friend and knew I needed company. She jumped on my suggestion with a definitive, 'where and what time?'

It was a Sunday. I hadn't showered. I was still hung over. I was hungry. I remember that I wore cords and a t-shirt with a thermal underneath. I probably still had a trace of eyeliner left over from the night before, and my eyelashes were still holding on to their curl. I wore that ugly scarf. The one responsible for giving me diaper rash on my neck with my cheap H&M corduroy coat with the fake lamb's wool inside. I sent Wiseman's call to voicemail, never listened to it, and never called him back. I picked up my journal, caught the subway and wrote about the guy from SWEET and VICIOUS.

Joely and I caught the last showing of Eternal Sunshine at the AMC 25 on 42nd Street. So, it was probably a 10ish showing. Roughly two hours later, after midnight, we left the theatre in silence. Well, silent except for the sounds of our running noses and the crunch of our popcorn napkins being used as tissue. Neither one of us spoke when collecting our coats and things. Neither one of us spoke when waiting for the other to use the bathroom. No words down the escalators. Nothing spoken in the first ten yards away from the theatre.
Finally,
words.
Words, words, and more words flew from my mouth. Joel searched for words. We felt it. The movie worked for us, and it couldn't have happened at a more appropriate time in both of our lives. We went to Collin's Bar. Joel ordered a vodka-soda. I ordered a beer. We talked about memories. How memories are sometimes painful even though they're fond ones. How we can't remember all the things we wished we could. How this moment we were sharing would soon be over and be only a memory. We talked about dreams. How Michel Gondry captured the dream-state so accurately. How haunting and real our dreams can sometimes feel. We talked about lovers. How lovers come and go. How do we know when to stay with a lover? How lovers are complicated and if only we could go back to the beginning of every one of our relationships and start it all over again. We talked about which character we identified with the most. Joel was the character who suffered quietly. Joel was the mourner of his lost memories. Clementine was the spontaneous and spastic character. Clem's emotions were always on a rollercoaster. Thus, how I became Clementine and CC became Joel.

That movie and it's message resonated with me and stayed with me for days. I made the call to "call it off" with Wiseman. I journaled obsessively about the movie, the guy from SWEET and VICIOUS, my complacency with my own life's journey. Eternal Sunshine moved me, made me think, and kick started my heart. That movie has actually stayed with me nearly two years later. I own it on DVD. Joely bought for me as my birthday gift in 2004. I probably watch it once every 2-3 months. I watch it alone. While it was still in theatres, I saw it four times. One of those times was with the guy from SWEET and VICIOUS. That's right! He looked me up on FriendSter. He wrote me a short and sweet message. Basically, I did come on too strong but after a few days he realized he liked that and would love to have a date with me.

As March 19th 2006 approaches, it marks the two year anniversary of the birth of Joely and Clem. It marks two years of forward steps with very few back steps. It marks two years of constant change for the better.

On March 19th 2004, I weighed in at 131lbs on my 5'11" frame. On March 19th 2006, I will weigh in somewhere between 153-156lbs. On March 19th 2004, I was eating hot dogs and turkey burgers. On March 19th 2006, I will go to Bar Centrale and order a bottle of wine and the lobster quesadilla. On March 19th 2004, I was working part-time filing ticket orders for Broadway shows for $13 hour. On March 19th 2006, I will have my first day off after five consecutive work days as the full-time manager of a successful bar/lounge in midtown Manhattan. Salary plus benefits. On March 19th 2004, I was living in Brooklyn with mice. On, March 19th 2006, I will be at home in midtown Manhattan with my boyfriend. The guy from SWEET and VICIOUS. It will be one week before our 2 year anniversary.

These are my eternal comments on my speechless mind.

Eternal Questions of My Reckless Mind....Part I

It was March 19, 2004.
It was a Sunday. Of that, I am sure.

I was living in Brooklyn with mice and a roommate. My financial situation was still teetering on survival. Although I was eating more than oatmeal and a third of a foot-long tuna sub by this time, the money was consistently never enough. I always had money for cigarettes though. Fags that I smoked with disdain but had nothing better with which to occupy my time. I was more than 20 pounds thinner than I stand today. I was hanging on to a one night stand for six weeks too long, just to keep someone around to like me. My cell phone had been disconnected for non-payment. Non-Payment that had my bill weighed and delivered in a box. I think I even had to sign for it. I got a temporary T-Mobile number while waiting and saving to pay off the disconnected phone. I had a Sunday hang over (slightly). It was late morning or probably early afternoon. Okay, I admit it was around 4:00 PM. I strapped on my rollerblades, locked my discman, and proceeded to blade the Brooklyn Bridge while listening to Frou Frou in hopes to bring some clarity to my thoughts and some peace to my angst ridden emotions.

I called Joely. She didn't pick up. I left a long winded message. (Surprise Surprise) I had so much to talk about. I had to tell her about things that happened the night before at the three parties I bounced to throughout the night. Specifically, the last party I attended at SWEET and VICIOUS on the lower east. I rollerbladed back over the bridge and into Brooklyn. I listened to "Only Got One" probably six or seven times. "...it's your life. ummhmm it's your life. and you've only got one....you've only got....." I tried Joely again. This time, no message. She would get the message without a message, that I had something to say.

Finally, somewhere on Fulton Street or Jay Street, I can't quite remember, she called. I answered. I have always felt it unsafe to rollerblade and use a cell phone. I stopped on a corner. I rattled off the course of my evening prior. Gave her the time line and all the necessary reference points. All the while, I was skating back and forth, round and round a three to five foot radius. It was starting to get cold. It was, after all, approaching 5:00 or 6:00 PM. I wasn't dressed for the weather. I was probably an idiot for being on my rollerblades in March in the first place. But, endorphins are supposed to make people happy, right?

I told her everything. I told her about the first party and how it was uneventful. That party was an obligatory appearance party. Quick in and quicker out. I told her about the second party and how the drinks were too expensive but it was my first function with people from my new job and I had to do whatever to fit in. I told her that I left Wiseman at his place. I needed to go out without him. He wasn't my boyfriend. And to make that very clear, I did not want to have him tagging along, inevitably forcing me to uncomfortably and awkwardly introduce him to everyone. I explained how I hadn't even seen Wiseman in two weeks. I had been avoiding him hoping we would just fizzle out. "WE" that there never was. The third party was the one with all the juice. It was the one I should have went to earlier, before I was intoxicated. I told her how fun SWEET and VICIOUS was. I told her about Cherry's new boyfriend. I told her about the people I met, including one really gorgeous, funny, fascinating and friendly guy that I spent over an hour talking with. A guy that I felt had potential. A guy with a sense of humor and a sassy sarcasm. A guy that I acted like a drunken fool in front of. I told her how I had come on too strong, but it was only because I felt something. "He GRABBED my HAND on the way to the bathroom. Then he waited for me to finish so we could walk back to the table together. It was magical." I just blatantly asked him out. He said he couldn't. Not that he didn't want to, but that he couldn't. I told Joely that "couldn't" probably meant, "couldn't be seen in public with a drunken fool who desperately needs a haircut." I tried to express my truth to her. I was really frustrated. She sensed it and told me to get my ass home before it froze to death, and to call her immediately.

I went home, and as the sun was setting, with no lights on in my apartment, I listened to Howie Day's Madrigals CD. I didn't call her when I arrived home. Forty-Five minutes later, she called me. I let it go to voicemail. The voicemail said..."I know you are home avoiding my calls. Don't get depressed. Let's go see a movie or go to Dive 75. What else are we gonna do? Just sit around and wallow in our own self-pity? Call me back!" I was under a wool blanket in the dark. What was I avoiding? Why was I falling into this depression? Was it about Wiseman? Was it about the gorgeous guy I met who "couldn't" go out with me? Was it about how complacent my life had become? Had I reached a point in my life where nothing mattered except getting by, and I would do whatever it took just to function on a daily basis and nothing more? I lit a fag, breathed in, blew out, and began to cry.

Short Sleeves

Everyday (almost) I make a mid-afternoon, ten minute call to Joely. It's usually on my way to work and after she's grabbed lunch. My walk to work takes exactly ten minutes. Which includes a mandatory stop at The Coffee Pot for one large cup of hazelnut with skim. They have the best hazelnut coffee in NYC. When the walk is over, so is the conversation. Sometimes we both have tons to say. Other times not so much. Either way, Joely and I have developed a wonderful trust when hanging up with each other. Joely might be the only friend I could hang up on without a proper good-bye and there would be no hard feelings or even a second thought about it. In fact, this happens more often than not with Joely and I. The conversation could be trucking along at interstate speeds when I suddenly see my manager coming down the stairs at therapy and I say, "I'll call you back." Click. Or, better yet, Joely is surfing some blog while carrying on a conversation with me, something catches her eye and in the middle of my saga about money woes she abruptly says, "I gotta go. Talk to you later." Click.

And we will talk to each other later. Later, however, does not always mean ten minutes. Sometimes it doesn't even mean that day. Later can sometimes mean the next afternoon walk to work. She knows this. I know this. It's understood. I don't know how we got to this point. But, I like it. I like knowing that I can check in for four minutes and just as quickly check out until the next time. We are secure that there will be a next time, therefore the candid abruptness is acceptable on both parts.

So, with this in mind, today's conversation was no different. We talked about each other's blogs. We talked about a few other people's blogs. We talked about money. I stopped and cracked a hazelnut. We talked about the upcoming weekend. Then, we talked about the weather. Yes, the weather. The type of talk two people who are meeting for the first time within a mutual circle of friends talk about. I commented on the sudden shift. She commented on the temperature being ideal. I was elated with today's weather. I thought it was perfect. It made me long for the days of spring. It made me long for my rollerblades. It made me think about renting bicycles with my boyfriend. It made me think of outdoor cafes. It made me think of having the sunlight linger longer into the evening. Joely wasn't ready for this. She killed my buzz in a few short statements.

"Yea, it's nice but I am not ready for it yet. It's just a wake up call to remind me that time's a wastin' on getting to the gym in time for short-sleeves and tanks. I guess you could say my body's not ready for it yet."

My smile went from ear to ear to chewing on my lip with anxiety. Joely was right. Spring was just around the riverbend, and I still had bean poles for legs and broomsticks for arms. March is twelve days away. I haven't been tanning yet. I have been hiding under my blazers and button downs. I have been comforted by my sweaters and thermals. The topic of weather quickly shifted to the topic of motivation and exercise.

"I really wanna try to get to yoga this weekend."

"Me too. I want get to the gym and maybe cut back on the yoga."

"Yea, totally."

"I'll call you later."

Click.

Mones

Miss Peppermint is a relatively popular and successful (not to mention gorgeous) Drag Queen in the NY scene. She has been on the cover of HX and NEXT Magazines and has been compared to the one and only RuPaul.

She hosts a talent night at therapy every Wednesday called "Cattle Call!" Tonight during some banter between contestants she told this story.....

"You know what I heard walking down Ninth Avenue last weekend? Besides, 'hey hot stuff!' These guys were saying, as discreetly and growly as possible, 'moans? moans? moans?' I had no idea what they were doin' or sayin'. I stopped. I asked. I found out. They were selling hormones on the street. 'Mones? Got Mones?' They were selling ghetto hormones on the street to trannies. How weird, right? (audience responds with oohs, ahhs, and applause) I got me a whole batch of mones, 2 for $5!"

I don't know if that's a true story or not, I forgot to ask her. Either way it's a brilliant story. I like to think she might have conjured that one up herself.

Mones anyone?

Carl and Jody

After close to two hours of catching up, bitching, and advice giving, I hung up the phone. I needed that. It had been awhile since we had a phone call like that. I was already nostalgic for the conversation that had just ended. I wondered when the next chat similar to the one that just passed would take place again. I have this tendency. (See entry: The Moment I Said It)

Our conversation was easy. Like it always was. Wait, like it always is. Was. Is? They happen so infrequently. I am not quite sure what to think.

We talked about theatre, film, music, boyfriends, work. We offered up advice to each other. We referenced just a bit of our past. We made each other laugh. We made each other think. We taught each other something. We listened. We made time for each other. We made each other happy.

Best friends are hard to find. They are few and far between. They can come and go so quickly. Sometimes, we don't even have a best friend. Sometimes, we settle for the most convenient best friend. Sometimes, only sometimes, do we reach a certain maturity within our friendships. A maturity gained through a history of experiences and growth together. When a friendship reaches this level, we can always fall right back into our groove, for lack of a better word.

I'll try to curb my nostalgia for the conversation that passed. I won't be upset with the length of time that may pass between this and the next conversation. I won't hold anything against you anymore. I will try to put aside my expectations. I will cherish the times we spend together. I will be grateful for the history we share only. I will be your best friend. I will call you mine.

"I think everything good is attained through simplicity. I think that's why when you're all fucked up, they say you have a complex."
--Carl in Lonely Planet by Steven Dietz

Faggot Firsts

Fifth Grade.
Approximately 11 years old.
Roughly 4' 10"-5' tall and God only knows how skinny.
Creston, Iowa.

I was attending my first session of my school's T.A.G. program. This was a program designed for Talented And Gifted students to allow them to move at an advanced pace in the areas they excelled in. Mine happened to be READING. (Not writing) On my first day meeting with the instructor to discuss my schedule and my entrance exam scores, I was nervous and mad. I was mad that I had been chosen. Singled out. I had been noticed for something, and I wanted to go as unnoticed as possible. I was nervous because I would have to walk the halls alone to the teacher's office which was in the (insert loud, scary voice over) Junior High Building. Everyone knows that when you hit Junior High you start to change classes. You don't sit with one instructor, you travel at the sound of a bell to the next instructor on your schedule that specializes in math, science, etc. I had to travel through those Junior High Hallways to get to the T.A.G. room during a class change. Keep in mind my stature at this point in my life in comparison to all the puberty stricken Junior High kids. You could say I was petrified.

However, I am excellent at maneuvering through a crowd. I was then. I still am. I went practically unnoticed save for a few big-dumb-jock types who had absolutely no spacial (is that a word?) awareness of others or how big they really were, and I made it safely to the teacher's room.

It was there that I was introduced to a word that would stick with me for the rest of my life. A word I wouldn't understand until sixth grade. A word that I despised and would cry about in seventh, eighth and ninth grade. A word that would make me stronger, wiser, and harder in tenth and eleventh grade. A word that would exhaust me in twelfth grade. A word that somebody shouted at my high school graduation. A word that would haunt me during my freshman year of college. A word that I seldom heard in a derogatory fashion during my second year of college. A word I finally felt I would never hear again when I left college and hit the real world of New York City. A word I eventually used within my own community as an adult. A word that I would be blogging about today as I approach my thirties. A word that will still be here when this blog is done.

As I sat in the T.A.G. room with the door wide open to the noisy halls of Junior High, Travis Brown and Nathan Kool (two of the most "popular" assholes in the sixth grade) glared into the classroom, called out my name in this strange high-pitched voice, waited for me to look over at them, and then proceeded to wave at me with limp-wrists and hands on their hips, bouncing around, calling out "Chad the Fag! Chad Means what? Chad Means faggot!" I turned to look at the teacher. The actor in me had kicked in already and I gave her a blank stare. What she saw wasn't blank at all. Hey, I didn't say I was good actor yet, I just said I started pulling out the acting chops. She saw something in my eyes and she went to close the door. I stopped her. I laughed. I waved back to the boy's with the same limp-wrist they gave me. I said...."They're so funny. It's a joke we have. No biggie. You can keep the door open." (Can you say...the first stages of denial?)

I had no idea what a fag was at eleven years old. Was a faggot the same thing or something different? Did I really walk and talk like that? I mean, I know that I was a late bloomer in the puberty department. I know I was a tiny boy. But, I didn't think I did that with my wrists. I definitely didn't do that with my hips. And, I know I didn't have a lisp or do any kind of bouncing. All I knew in that moment, and would come to learn in the daily moments that followed, was that a faggot or a fag (same thing btw) wasn't a good thing. It was bad. No one wanted to be it. And, no one especially wanted anyone else to be it at them. (How much has changed? This entry is not about that....so blah!)

As I matured, I remained in denial about where all this was coming from. I never dressed like a girl. I spiked my hair with a flat-top like all the other boys. I mean maybe I checked it a few to many times in my mirror that hung in my locker. But, I wore clothes that advertised my favorite sporting team. The Iowa Hawkeyes. The Seattle Seahawks. The Denver Broncos. Of course, everything matched the respective team colors including my underwear if I could help it. (ummm...okay, maybe that one was a bit much.) I played sports. I didn't say well, but I played. I tried them all. Football, baseball, basketball, cross-country, track & field, even wrestling. (I wonder why I never got into that?) I dated girls. The girls definitely liked me, to say the least. I never looked at another boy in the locker room. At least not until I was a freshman, and even then I never got caught. I think? The denial grew even deeper as I realized that faggot meant that I might be gay. Gay? Homosexual? You mean, like Uncle Arthur and the Black Guy on Designing Women? OHMIGOD! Please not that! Then religion came into play. All that time I spent at Sunday School, bible study summers, church picnics, choir, scripture. Now I definitely didn't want to be a faggot, or a fag, or gay. None of the above please. So I prayed. Yes, prayed. Prayed like my mother taught me.

Alas, it wasn't until I moved to NYC ten years ago that the word started to linger, haunt, and intrigue me. Finally, I came out. (You had to see that coming?) I spent the next four years harboring all this resentment toward all the people that called me a fag. I carried it with me everywhere I went. I grew to loathe the word. It stayed with me like a wound that never healed. I was constantly picking at it, never giving it a chance to scab over and leave me with only a scar. I felt especially strongly about it's use within the gay community.

Then, in 2001, it would take one playwright and hundreds of famous women talking about their vaginas off-Broadway for me to come anywhere close to embracing my truth. (Go Figure!) The truth about who I was. The true faggot within. The real way to use the word fag. I spent the next 3 1/2 years tossing the word around loosely. Perhaps too loosely. It began to be used to put down other gay men that were sissy-like. I couldn't believe that I had come full circle. Finally, in 2006 I was watching some old reel-to-reel silent movies of my childhood (approximately 5 years old) when I saw it. I saw the hand on the hip. I saw a faint limp-wrist. I saw myself clap like Joan Rivers. My pant legs were rolled up so not to get dirty, and I was constantly wiping-no tossing- my hair out of my eyes. I was 5.

These are my Faggot Firsts. There's a first for every fag out there.

This entry is not intended to make my situation look any harder or easier than any other faggot's childhood. This entry is also not advocating nor condoning the use of the word fag within the gay community. This entry is not to be paralelled to re-claiming the word faggot the way that the Black community has and has not reclaimed their famous N-word. This entry is not denying that I may be a fag. This entry is also not confirming that I may be a fag/faggot. This entry is not intended to make you laugh. But, if you did that's okay. This entry is not intended to make you cry, sympathize, empathize or gather a pity party. But, if you did that's okay. This entry does not conclude that I forgive everyone, everywhere, for everytime I heard those words. This entry does not conclude that I don't still harbor hate and resentment for all those years I heard that word. (5 days a week, 9 months a year, 8YEARS YOU FUCKING HOMOPHOBIC REDNECK DICKS!) This entry does not intend to convey anger. This entry does not intend to convey sadness. This entry isn't about you, faggot. It's about me. Chad Means what? Chad Means nothing. It's Chad Ryan! Get it right, faggots!

A Place at The Table

"What to wear? What to wear?" I thought to myself while preparing to attend one of my first ever business dinners. Well, not really a business dinner where you talk about business. It was more like a dinner with all the people from the business I work for eating and talking about dinner. It was a thank you dinner courtesy of the co-owner of Therapy Bar and partner of Chow Down, Inc. The company that writes my checks. It was for the managers from the four establishments that Chow Down, Inc. has control over--VYNL diner, Barrage Bar, Hell's Kitchen restaurant, and Therapy.

I wanted to look sharp, simple and professional but still maintain my personal touch. I purposely shaved about three days before the scheduled dinner so that I could have the appropriate amount of stubble to still look trendy and not shabby. I settled on black, flared dress slacks; a simple Banana stretch, long-sleeved, black v-neck; a charcoal, wool/polyblend Old Navy Blazer, black boots, and a belt with silver studs all the way around it. I think I looked rather nice, if I do say so myself.

I arrived the perfect amount of fashionably late. 12 minutes into the pre cocktail half hour before dinner. I was nervous, excited, and proud. This was an intimate gathering. With three managers of Therapy, one from Barrage, one from VYNL, two from Hell's Kitchen, and the main owner with his wife. There were only 10 of us in a private dining room. We were missing only one person. Our beloved Roza. She is like the administrative powerhouse behind all these establishments. She's the secretary, the payroll girl, the financial advisor, the accountant, the secretary. Nuff' said. There's one in every company. She was missed.

Most of us rarely get to hang out together and learn about one another because we all work similar schedules at the four locations. It was fascinating to see this people with a little wine greasing their comments not too mention their inhibitions. I, personally, was impressed with my politeness and poise that seems to fall in place just when I need it most. We were all enjoying ourselves immensely. Everyone got to have a moment at some point throughout the evening where they held the conversation briefly and addressed the entire group. There wasn't a lot of snickering about any problematic employees. There weren't any brainstorming sessions on how to bring up revenue. There really was no "biz" talk to speak of. If so, they were stories or jokes about crazy things that one can come up against in this industry. We jabbed at each other's personality quirks. Then as the wine flowed so did the conversations. I realized I was among some savvy, sensitive, creative, cultured individuals. Discussions about painters, movies, heritage, wine country, politics, love, and life.

As our belly's filled so did the silences. We were getting drunk, full and tired. In the silences, I was in thought, I found myself retracing my steps.
"Did I do well tonight?"
"Am I drinking slowly enough?"
"How the hell did I ever end up at this table?"
"Is there a place for me at this table?"
"This is a hell of a long way from Saints Bar and Dorothy's Shack!"

I came to the conclusion that I did have a place at this table. I moved from the kiddie table to the adult table. It has taken me ten years, but I made the transition. I am not at the head of the table. (yet!) I am not even next to the guy at the head of the table. But, I have a place at this table. I felt so adult. I felt mature. I even felt a little old. I felt classy. I felt intimidated. I felt hopeful. I felt secure. I felt proud. But, most of all, I felt grateful. Grateful for all the time I had put in to get here. Grateful to those around me who helped bring me to this table. Grateful for all the hardships I suffered through in order to feel the greatness of this moment at the table.

FOUR

I stole this from Joely who posted it on her blog. She stole it from someone else's blog. Now many of us are stealing it from everyone and using it as an excuse to blog (easily without much thought)!

FOUR JOBS I HAVE HAD
1. Bartender
2. Actor
3. Receptionist
4. Wedding Singer

FOUR MOVIES I CAN WATCH OVER AND OVER
1. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
2. American Beauty
3. 9 to 5
4. Tootsie

FOUR PLACES I HAVE LIVED
1. Creston, IA
2. Astoria, NY
3. Jersey City, NJ
4. Manhattan, NY

FOUR PLACES I HAVE VACATIONED
1. Puerto Rico
2. Hawaii
3. Montreal
4. San Francisco

FOUR OF MY FAVORITE DISHES
1. Spiced Edamame from Citrus
2. Hawaiian Chicken Salad from City Grill
3. Corn on the Cob
4. Curry Supreme from Zen Palate

FOUR SITES I VISIT DAILY
1. www.mymixedcompany.com
2. www.airingmydirtylaundry.com
3. www.karmainthecity.blogspot.com
4. www.goblinbox.com

FOUR PLACES I WOULD RATHER BE RIGHT NOW
1. Puerto Rico
2. In a Movie Theatre
3. At a concert
4. Lost in a good book

FOUR REASONS I GOT OUT OF BED THIS MORNING
1. Need to clean the apt
2. Because no one should sleep all day
3. To get some coffee and juice
4. So, I could still catch some daylight

FOUR MORE RANDOM THINGS TO PONDER
1. White before Red or vice/versa
2. Brokeback Mountain
3. Imogen Heap ( www.imogenheap.co.uk)
4. Piano Bars