Hollyday

He asked her to clear an entire day. He said he would need her from morning till night. He was dedicating a day to her.

It was June. It was warm but not yet hot. She was awakened by him at an earlier hour than she was used to. There was some cheesy earth music playing in the background. She turned over on her back and slid up from her blankets so that her breasts were revealed bra-less in a grey, spaghetti strap tank top. He wasn 't in bed with her nor was he even in the bedroom. On the night stand sat an 8x10 frame. In the frame was a purple paper that declared....The First Ever Day of Holly Hammond! She giggled with surprise and mischief. On the same night stand sat a cup of steaming hot Peppermint Tea with two tea bags the way she liked it. She was just about to test the temperature of her tea when he threw open the door with his foot. In one hand was a small plate of homemade apple pancakes drizzled with syrup. In the other hand a dish of fruit and massage oil.

He proceeded to awaken her body with a light 10 minute massage and then feed her small bites of the apple pancakes dripping with syrup that he kissed off of her lips and cheeks. While the morning decadence had only just begun, he explained how the remainder of the day would work. He would be sending her through the city on a kind of self-pampering scavenger hunt. He had detailed the day out for her and had separate envelopes for her to open after each stop she made through the city. Each envelope would contain details of the next step in the scavenger hunt along side a poem, letter, thought regarding their six months together. The theme for the day would be Body, Mind, Spirit. She was overwhelmed, overjoyed, and couldn't control her giggling. It was the giggles of embarrassment, like she had been plucked from the audience and unwillingly thrown onstage by a cabaret performer and the spotlight was on her.

After a shared bubble bath, some fruit feeding, and a subway ride downtown, they stopped off at the cafe where they had their first date. They shared a cappuccino and shared words about love. He stood up from the table almost abruptly and handed her a large manila envelope that contained all the smaller step by step envelopes of the day and a cassette tape and walkman. He instructed her to enjoy herself and to listen to the tape when instructed by the different steps of the hunt. He kissed her on her forehead and bolted out the door with excitement. She was disappointed to discover he was not going to be with her throughout the day's scavengering. She immediately tore into the manila envelope. She found 6, maybe 7, smaller envelopes with detailed pictures drawn on to them. She opened the first one, read the letter, which professed his love for her and the excitement for a full day of Body, Mind, and Spirit ahead. At the end of the letter his instructions were to put on the walkman and listen to the first two songs of the soundtrack he made for the day while on her way to stop #1.

She left the cafe with her headphones on, feeling sexy and, for lack of a better word, special. If you'd have seen her walking down the street you could tell this was a girl in love. She stepped with confidence and grace down the subway steps already thinking of ways to repay her lover's day of dedication.

Her day consisted of a spa treatment, a pre-paid shopping spree for clothes to be worn later that night, a visit to the bookstore, and a detailed treasure-like map leading her through central park midday, only to discover him on a secluded section of green grass under a shade tree. He had an entire picnic prepared. She pulled off her earphones and ran to him. She threw herself on to him knocking him to his back on the grass where she proceeded to tickle, kiss and swat at him for going way overboard on this dedicated day. They ate together, talking about all the planning that had gone into this day and how he did it all. She couldn't believe there was still more to come. She repeated the phrase 'thank you' over and over. Her emotions were spilling over. She wanted to cry. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to run.

They finished up their sandwiches and veggies after more than an hour of laughing, kissing, and holding. He needed to return home to prepare the dinner she would come home to after making her last stop at the paperie to purchase that gorgeous diary she spotted weeks ago. Before they parted, he insisted that they take this certain path of sidewalk in the park. She didn't understand his insistence, since it seemed to be in the wrong direction of the paperie store or the subway he needed. They were just walking and talking and she was fixed on his profile. His full lower lip, his long eyelashes, the few freckles on his nose, his height, his gait, the hair on his forehead reminding her he needed a trim. She was so transfixed by her beautiful beau, that she almost missed the biggest part of an already larger than life day. There, on the sidewalk they strolled upon, etched in multi-colored sidewalk chalk that was nearly six feet long, were the words
I
LOVE
HOLLY!

It took her a few moments to realize what it said. When she did finally realize, she turned to him with her mouth gaping open and the damn breaking in her eyes. She jumped into his arms wrapping her legs around his waist twisting at the ankles to lock her position. She didn't want to leave this moment. They spun around like they were in the closing scene of a movie. Like they were Richard Gere and Debra Winger. She was in an unexplainable food, love, lust, life coma. She was speechless and laughing. She was jumping and crying. She caressed his face and looked him in the eye. She kissed him nearly two dozen fast quick kisses all over his face. She wanted to kiss him 100 times. Maybe even 1000 times. Maybe those 1000 kisses would show him how grateful she was to have him in her life. Maybe those 1000 sweet kisses would leave lipstick marks all over his body that he would never wash off as a constant reminder of how much she loved him back.

The final envelope.

Her instructions were to take the long way home. Dinner was waiting and then a night of theatre, drinking, and dancing to follow. She was instructed to listen to the remainder of the soundtrack on the long ride home and journal her thoughts about the day in her lovely, new, crushed red velvet covered diary. He wanted her to be able to remember this day and this moment in her life for years to come.

She wasn't sure how to put it all down on paper. She wanted to capture her emotions and feelings. But, she also wanted to detail the events so not to forget where the cafe was or the name of the spa that fed her grapes out of an ivory chalice. She wanted to write down all the songs from the soundtrack of her day in case one day she couldn't play the tape because it would be eaten by the aging boom box she used. She listened to the Indigo Girls....

"I could go crazy on a night like tonight.

summer's beginning to give up her fight.

why do you spend this time with me?

may be an equal mystery."

She wrote something close to this...

--I will be loved tonight. Love is rare and life is strange. Tonight. Tonight, I will be loved. I will have a soul entangled in mine. For tonight. Remember me. Remember this. Today, life was beautiful.--

Twist and Turns

I could start with how nice the strangers were and how shocking it is everytime I visit. How every person at every check-out was polite and at times what seemed to be overly friendly. They obviously read their employee manuals. It was the same in BEST BUY and K-MART. The same at THE PIZZA RANCH and KUM and GO GAS! I could include all the people who said thank-you when I held the door for them, or the ladies who smiled at me when passing by, and the conversation starters at the airport. People are just friendly everywhere else but here. These people haven't lost their basic skills of communication and politeness, no matter how ignorant they are.

Or...I could begin with how fat everyone was and how frustrated I get watching some of these people carry on. These people are large and in charge. I don't mean over-weight people like, say Doris Roberts from Everybody Loves Raymond or Queen Latifah. I mean fat people like Dan and Roseanne Conner from Roseanne. People requesting the seat next to them remain empty for their comfort. People who stand on the moving sidewalk but there is no room to pass them. People who wear sweatshirts that hang to their knees like a night shirt with stretch pants underneath that. The girl behind the counter at KUM and GO GAS was super sweet, but she was super sized as well. She actually told me that on Friday and Saturday nights, they go through all their cheese balls. The cheese balls are the biggest sellers. She said she guesses they sell $150 worth of cheese balls every weekend. At the pizza ranch, the four seater booths were only seating two people. The salad bar consisted of shredded cheese, ice berg lettuce, hard boiled egg, bacon bits, croutons, cucumbers and black olives. My mother and father's fridge was stocked full with cases of Diet Dr. Pepper, Regular Dr. Pepper, Root Beer, Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. Where was the juice, water, wine, beer, soy milk?

Or I could talk about how popular my mother is. Her birthday party consisted of nearly 115 people. People who love her very much. People who accept her for all that she is. They don't mind that she repeats herself or complains a lot. They also know she laughs a lot, dances a lot, cries a lot, and talks a lot. (Like mother like son) The people at her party were eldery women from church who've been widowed, other divorcees, friends from high school and even grade school, co-workers, relatives, ages 2-86, I believe. There was food. If it can be made in a crockpot, it was probably brought to my mother's party. There was music; country, rock and roll, 80's, slow dances, line dances, and songs sung solo. Most of all, there was fellowship. People of various walks of life brought together for one single purpose.

Or...what about the comments made by so many people, including family.

Just a few of the weekends overheards....
"I had to tell Larissa to be careful with that boy. For some reason she likes the color-eds and the Mexicans. I asked her Dad what that was all about."
"When is Chad and Cody gonna git married?"
"Do you have to wear the pair with holes in the knees? You're gonna be meetin' some older folks. They probably won't like it."
"No gay jokes guys while were are up at the party. Especially you, Claire!"
"I didn't invite her because she's dating that guy who everyone thinks is a child molester."
"I wished the neighbors would just move. They're such cruddy people."
"She's so weird. I think she does drugs. Look at her teeth! They're all rottin' away!"

But, there is also the time spent with Mother, Father, Brother. The jokes, the memories. The same stories we tell everytime we are together are told again with the same joy and laughter. My father had dinner with me twice. He slipped me $25 toward gas for the rental car. My mom always has her newspaper clippings for me to catch up on. This person married, this one had their third child, this one moved back to Creston. The late night talks with my mom over a bag of Hershey Kisses. The gifts I brought home. A T-shirt for my brother, a thermal for my Dad, some earrings for my mother.

Or, better yet, how about the fact that I called my boyfriend my roommate. Couldn't confide in anyone the love I feel or the personal struggles our relationship faces. I never explained what kind of a bar I manage. I took off my rings. I didn't wear the belt with the silver studs on it. I didn't curl my eyelashes. I barely did my hair. I hid my IN TOUCH and US WEEKLY magazines. I drank cheap beer out of a can. I let my speech and grammar match those around me. I pretended to remember everyone and their daughters. I commented on the beauty of the new female newscaster. I dodged eye contact with any remotely attractive male. I acted happy when people talked of pregnancy...again. I laughed at jokes that made no sense to me. I bit my tongue when I heard something derogatory or prejudiced. I didn't dance they way I usually dance. I tried not to cross my legs. I kept a watchful eye on my pinky finger. I didn't talk about yoga. I didn't talk about work. I didn't talk about my blog. I didn't talk about my friends. I didn't talk about me.

Now, after twisting and turning around all the bends of my weekend in Iowa, I unravel back in NYC. I lie on my back on the floor of my apartment looking up at the ceiling. I take my arms out from behind my back where they felt tied. I roll my ankles around to crack the metaphorical shackles that restricted my walk, my talk, myself. I untie the knot in my stomach. It takes awhile. It's one of those crafty, boy scout, double knots. Or better yet it feels like a noose. I take the gag out of my mouth. I breathe in through my nose. I breathe out through my mouth letting out a whimper. I think about the Nurse. This whimper turns into a cry. I think about wine and laughter at a bar down the street. The cry turns into a muffled moan. I think about the ease with which I carry on my life in this city, far away and kept a secret from everyone back there. The moan becomes a sob. I sob. I sob. Still sobbing.

I dart up. Brush myself off. Slap myself "Annette Benning-American Beauty" style. Stand straight. With composure I put myself to bed.

The twisting and bending has to stop. I can't handle the unraveling. I am good at the twists. I have been doing it for years. Decades. But, after being tied up like that, when you untie yourself, all the fresh new blood, sweat, tears, and experiences go flushing through your body. It's overwhelming.

Killing Time

East Village--alone--for the first time in what may be nearly 2 years. I used to kill so much time here in the East Village. I used to have so much more time to kill. I stand here trying on thumb rings that used to be $5-$8.

When I used to have time to kill, I would stop at that cafe on Second Street and Second Avenue that has internet access. I would travel down the information super highway for my allotted ten minutes with coffee sloshing around in my "to go cup." Then I would skip over to the used CD stores on First Avenue, the one on St. Marks, the one on Second Avenue. The usual stop in Adramada Tattoo Parlor wishing I had the money for that tattoo I always wanted. Thank God I didn't have the funds, because that is not the tattoo I would want now. I would proceed down St. Marks making a stop at each and every street vendor's cubby. The one's who sell cheap jewelry and sunglasses. I was always on the hunt for the perfect pair of "faux" eyeglasses. I thought wearing fake glasses was a perfect accessory when going for that geek-sheik or Clark Kent look.

This thumb ring that I want is priced at $15. What? What happened to the $8 ring that I would eventually talk down to $5. I mean the ring practically bends and molds to fit your finger. It is only one step away from being a gumball machine prize. $15!!!!???? I remember when....Oh my God, I just said, "I remember when..." That sounds so old. But in a city like New York, "I remember when," can be 2 years ago. This city is in constant change. This city reminds us all that the grass is greener. That we can always have something better, do something more, make something easier.

As I walk through the East Village, I look like a tourist who has never been to this area of Manhattan. I walk slowly and deliberately, soaking up all that I pass by and that passes me. I look in the windows of all the shops. I pass by familiar landmarks and try to remember a memory of times gone by. I wonder what happened to that fantastic thrift store, 'FiFi Le Frock,' on 9th Street, and the guy who ran the place? He had sexy arm hair and always the perfect funky, trendy, vintage look going on. What happened to Wonder Bar? That restaurant IN PEDELLA is gone and replaced with a Starbucks. How did it go out of business? It was always so busy. I had my first dinner with Anthony there. I was still straight. He knew I was not. There are so many people with babies in the East Village now. Where is the cast of RENT?

I stop at Yaffa Cafe. A staple of the East Village, I believe. I hope my retreat into one of my East Village memories will stop my yearning for things gone and make me feel like the East Village and myself haven't disappeared. I order the sunshine burger platter. In 1997 it was priced at $5.95. It is now $7.95. I begin to think about more than just the East Village.

McCale's Pub on the northeast corner of 46th and 8th Avenue-- gone. The entire building McCale's sat under--gone! I performed in 3 shows, rehearsed numerous times, auditioned once, and sat in the audience of two shows, inside that building. Gone. In McCale's, I drank lots of beer post-theatre and ate lots of fried food pre-theatre. Dan and I would exchange casting notes over onion rings and $4 pints of Brooklyn Lager. When trying to pick a place to meet a friend in the Times Sqaure area that was cheap, McCale's was it. I saw John Lithgow and Billy Joel there once. Gone.

Galaxy Diner in Hell's Kitchen--gone. This place had the best lunch special for a kid who was making $8 an hour, standing out in the cold, passing out flyers to ANNIE GET YOUR GUN.

The list could go on. But, sitting here in Yaffa Cafe, I realize I made a mistake. Actually, I made the wrong assumption. I assumed coming here looking for fond memories would make me feel better. It only reminds me of how everything must change and nothing stays the same. My side of avocado was $1, now it is $2.25. It's a side of avocado. The music in Yaffa used to be new, unheard music. It used to consist of progressive bands and alternative artists that only cool, East Village, hipsters were in-the-know about. Now it is dance-esque tracks by Janet, Whitney, Celine, and Pink. I hate it here today.

When I walked to the back to use the restroom, I saw the section of tables that I believe to be where I sat for the first time at Yaffa. I was freshman in college. It was December of 1996. It was a group of 8-10 kids. We were so cool. So hip. So edgy. We wore black and leather, chains and piercings. I had yellow lensed glasses and black fingernail polish. We ordered mud cake and coffee. I hated coffee then, but it was so college to drink it. It was so New York to order it. I remember feeling, that night, accepted for being myself. Not my gay-self, just myself. I felt comfortable. I remember this event making me feel "right," for lack of a better word. I was in a cafe in NYC while in college with an eclectic group. We were speaking with our minds and hearts. We were speaking and thinking with reckless abandon. It hit me. This is where I am supposed to be. This is the yearning I never knew I had. I chose right. I was going to be happy. Happiness did exist. I was going to be myself for the first time of the rest of my life.

2006, I am here again. I am different. Yaffa is different. I feel uncomfortable here. I feel old. I feel forgotten. I feel lost.

I feel nostalgic.
I feel bigger.
I feel beyond this.
I feel new.

I step out of the bathroom to wash my hands in the smallest sink in the city. I look up at my reflection in the mirror while drying my hands. There, just over my shoulder, sits the younger version of myself. I am surrounded by all those crazy college folk. I look cute, comfortable, happy, and unaware of the change that will flood my life to come. I love my blue, polyester, vintage shirt. I miss it. The younger me makes eye contact with me through the mirror. I wink, smile and wave good-bye before returning to my new table, with my new thoughts, and my new journal.

March 21, 2006

Crutches and Wheelchairs

Growing up working class or poor isn't easy. The obvious hardships aside, being poor, even for a limited time in one's life, can make someone feel an obligation to their work, lifestyle, and finances throughout their entire life. Even when the money is there, your sensibilities remain that of a member of the poor folk.

In my life, my stock has seen some major ups and downs. This constant up and down hill path has left me to conclude there is no such thing as financial stability. You either have no money and do what you can, or you have money that is all spoken for to live your given lifestyle.

When my family was "remotely" stable, shall I say holding down a steady job at barely above minimum wage, we had hamburgers from McDonald's and Pizza Hut pizza. We finally got an Atari (used of course). We even did some mild "do-it-yourself" remodeling of different rooms of our house. But, throughout the various struggles, my parents were always very vocal. They were always reminding my brother and I how little money we had. There were fights every two weeks (payday) about the finances, the bills, the money or lack there of. They were often so loud and vicious you could be anywhere in the house or even out of it and still be within earshot.

I can't speak for my brother, but I felt a lot of guilt. I felt helpless as a young boy. I felt guilty for ever asking for things. I remember wanting a package of Dolly Madison chocolate covered donuts once and grabbing them from the shelf and going to the check-out counter to pay for them with my own money while my mom was still do her shopping. I didn't want to trouble her. I didn't want my two dollar box of goodness to play a part in the fight that would ensue between my father and her on the next pay day. I can even recall telling my little brother to stop asking for certain things. I was desperately trying to get his young mind to comprehend.

When my family was at it's poorest, we had government cheese and powdered milk delivered to our door by a man with sympathy in his eyes. People at the church would find out my Dad lost another job and would bring us casseroles or cakes. I remember my mother dropping only change into the offering plate when it was passed during service. Our allowances were carefully monitored at $3-$4 a week based on a very detailed rate per chore. 25 cents every time we took out the garbage. 50 cents to water the plants. 1 dollar to vacuum. It was left up to us how much money we would make. My mother waited tables at a musky, edge-of-town chicken inn. My father cleaned drains, shoveled snow and collected unemployment. We didn't have cable, or a pet. We bought all of our clothes (the ones that weren't handed down) at K-Mart. We kept our thermostat at a ridiculous 68 degrees in the dead of deadliest Iowa winters. Our vacations (if you can call them that) consisted of visiting relatives in Omaha, or going to the crappy little amusement park in Des Moines called ADVENTURELAND. The passes to ADVENTURELAND were discounted by my mother collecting enough points at our local grocery store. I even paid for groceries a few times with the discount I received by working as a bagger at HY-VEE. My first official "on the books" job. I had been mowing lawns, raking leaves, and delivering papers long before my job as a bagger. But, the law stated you had to wait until you were 14 to be an official employee of any company. I began training at HY-VEE before my 14th birthday. I remember my parents encouraging me to apply a few weeks ahead of time, so that I could be trained and ready for work the day after my 14th birthday. My birthday is September 29th. On September 30th, 1991, I attended my first day of work at HY-VEE and bagged groceries and stocked shelves for 6 hours. I have been working for a living ever since.

Later, as an adult, I would experience my own form of "government cheese poor." I would also experience a salary that out weighed any of my parent's salaries combined. During my ten years on my own in NYC, I still feel like I never have any money. Regardless of how much I make, I am constantly fighting the urge to spend. I am always second guessing my decisions with money. Maybe I should move to Jersey so I can start saving? Maybe I should start packing a lunch? Every Wednesday when my paycheck arrives on my desk, I hear the shrill voice of my mother, through her tears, defending some purchase at the grocery store. She thought the boys would love it. Dad thought it was a waste of money. I hear my Mom telling me to live a little. I hear my Dad reminding me to plan for the future.

Ultimately, what I end up doing is planning to save, plotting out all the appropriate steps to take, and falling short by throwing caution to the wind and swiping my debit card for the tab at Centrale. I have every intention of saving money, but just when I am about to go to the bank to open a mutual fund or a CD, I check my account balance and there is only enough to get by until the next payday. I don't know if it will ever change. I look at my parents and realize it hasn't changed for them why would it change for me.

A large percentage of people spend their lives working to live. We get up in the morning and answer to our alarms and our bosses, all for the sake of some dough. Are we ultimately striving for money? Isn't that what we want? Money and lots of it. We want to be rich. That's why you can buy a lottery ticket just about anywhere. I am surprised Thai restaurant haven't started issuing powerball numbers. We want quick cash. The quick fix. Fix what? What will the money fix? I think one of the reasons I never have more than enough money to live on, is because I live. I spend the money I have while I have it. If I don't have it, I don't spend it. I can't spend it. Throughout my childhood, fear was instilled in me regarding money. I heard my parents cries of fear. They were cries of "where will the next dollar come from," "how can we ever afford this/that/the other," "don't spend it, we finally have it, let's just hold on to it." I could have grown up constantly afraid to spend in case I don't have any money the next day. Or, I can grow up the way I have and spend it as though there may not be a next day. I am sure neither way is the "right" way. But, I don't know if I need any more money. I was fine when I had even less than I do now. In fact, I might even say I did more with my time and worried less about money, because there was none to worry about.

We spend our lives angry at the rich, envious, jealous, pitiful, only to desire to be just like them. They spend their lives never understanding the value of an earned dollar, most anything at their fingertips, and a strange aversion to discussing and/or owning up to their true financial freedom. When the reality of it is-that the poor, the rich, and the in between just want to be recognized, respected, and revered for who they truly are.

If the poor stop using their experiences and struggles as a crutch, and the rich stop using their circumstances as a high-speed, automatic wheel-chair through life, maybe one day we can all get along and never again let money ruin/run our lives.

Paddy's ain't...

Shit.

St. Patrick's Day.

A day that, for anyone who works in the service industry, is dreaded. It is also a day that is referred to as "amateur Night." People who work in a bar call it that, because the drinkers you see on the streets and in the bars aren't bar regulars who know how to handle their shit. They are amateurs. They don't know how to drink for 10 hours, like many of us in this biz do. They, inevitably pass out early, throw up, piss themselves, get carried home, get kicked out, etc, etc, all before 10p.m. Which is why it is safer to go out on St. Patrick's day after midnight.

Tonight, while on the job, I saw the worst of it. Now, believe me, I have seen puke, piss, drugs, guys and girls with their pants down. You name it. I probably saw it. But, tonight, this one takes the cake.

This is not for the weak of stomach.

Somebody took a shit in the bathroom. But they took it into a pint glass.

Top a' the mornin' to ya!

Time

Is there a second in time in a day in my life where I can step away and say... "this is it."
Nothing wasted.
Nothing wanted.
Just this.

In that second, will I know that this IT is IT?
Is there time remaining in that second to also feel that this IT is IT?

And, if it's not too much to ask, if there is still any time left in that second, can I remember the second in time in a day in my life?
Where I stepped away and said..."this is it."

A memory. Please.

Perfect Strangers

Today is his Birthday!

The obligatory call must be made.

I called while he was at work. I hoped to get the answering machine. She (the other woman) picked up the phone. She always picks up the phone. Does she work? Does she have a life outside of him? She tells me he is at work and after work they will be going out for supper.

Supper? I haven't used that word since 1996.

I tell her to pass on my birthday wishes. She informs me that he will be home after supper and I should try to call if I am not too busy.

"He would really love to hear from you," She says.

Would he? Would I? Why do I hate these calls so much?

I don't hate him. I love him. I am grateful for him. I just feel distant. The farther and farther away we are from each other, the more comfortable in the distance I become. Can't I just love him unconditionally and be there for him in times of need but remain strangers?

Never knowing each other. Never understanding each other. Never needing these things. Yet still loving one another. Isn't that what would make a perfect stranger?

If I could write a song...

i am not sure what the melody would be, but it might say something like this....

i'm spinning and shaking.
i'm overjoyed but aching.
my mind does the feeling.
my heart does the thinking.

what does it all mean?
where is it all from?
how will i know what is to come?

i'm learning and stumbling.
i'm excited but crumbling.
my body does the searching.
my soul does the fumbling.

when will we know?
who will play dumb?
how will i know what is to come?

Punch Drunk Hate

He beat the two women he was engaged to. I wonder why the marriage never came to fruition?

His parents had knock down drag-out fist fights.

He and his buddies have all punched eachother.

He even knows a gay male couple that have been together for five years. They are "always" at each other with the fists.

He believes it is in a man's hormones.

He believes it is innate.

He believes he can do it.

He is short, bald, and insecure about these things.

He is threatened by her beauty.

He is threatened by her height.

He is threatened by my wit.

He is threatened by my sexuality.

He is threatened by life itself.

He throws a left-hook, a right-hook, a jab to the stomach. He throws my balance off. My masculinity is challenged. I feel like I am a sophomore in high school and I have been thrown up against my locker. He gets my adrenaline pumping. My heart is racing.

He stands.

I stay seated. I feel small but not powerless.

He never literally hits me. I never hit him.

But, he did hit home.

Running Up That Mountain....

With all the commentary floating around on the web, publications, and podcasts about the Oscars and their outcome, what is one more....really?

Before I tout my opinions and comments, let me begin by saying that the selection of movies nominated this year were superb. It has been at least 5 years or more, in my opinion, that the movies being represented at the Oscars tackled such an array of topics and did so with such intelligence, intellect and style. Everything, from Memoirs of a Geisha to Brokeback Mountain, Transamerica to Munich and Crash to King Kong, had elements of a well made film. I couldn't have been more proud or pleased with the year in cinema at 7:59 p.m. on Oscar Night. By 11:37 p.m., however, I was humming a different tune.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon darling, Let me steal this moment from you now.
C'mon, angel, c'mon, c'mon, darling, Let's exchange the experience, oh..."

"And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
With no problems."

One of my favorite songs from the 80's, is Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill." I loved it then. I love it now. I am not quite sure if I liked Kate's song when it was popular or if I liked it when my parents began to allow me to go to the skating rink. Henry's Skateland was my local rink, and Henry was always a few years behind the trends in music. In fact, I remember going back there just for shits and giggles in 1997 when I was 20 and they were still doing couple skate to "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now," by Starship. The first time I was allowed to go to the skating rink without an adult chaperone, was in the third grade. I was nine years old.

Henry's Skateland was where a lot of my "firsts" happened. I was first introduced to popular music (even if it was two years late). I was in my first fist fight. Henry's was where I first kissed a girl. I sent her a note on a napkin, which was passed through a mutual girlfriend, that asked if I could kiss her on the lips behind the bushes 10 minutes before our parents picked us up. She wrote back yes with a bubble-letter exclamation point ending with a heart. Henry's was also were I experienced my first break up.

Some of the music that still haunts me to this day, from that time in my life, includes "Wild Boys" by Duran Duran, "Owner of a Lonely Heart by YES, and "Running Up That Hill by the chilling Kate Bush. (come to think of it, I still have a thing for voices like Kate's. maybe this is where it all started?)

I used to love that song. I even recall taking the sheets from my bed and twirling around like Stevie Nicks. In fact, I think for little while, I probably thought it was Stevie Nicks. At nine years old, I did not know why I wanted to make a deal with God. But, that was my favorite part of the song. If I only could make a deal with God and swap places. Maybe it was the word "swap"? A word that a nine/ten year old can understand. I didn't know myself well enough. I just knew that I wanted to make a deal with God.

I grew up fairly religious. When I say fairly, I mean faux-religious. My family wasn't devout.

But, they knew the basics of Christianity and followed the structure of religion.

Lie=go to hell

Masturbate=go to hell

Sex before marriage=go to hell

Breaking a commandment=go to hell

Being a big homo=go to hell

You know the basics that I'm talking about.

So, my point is, I believed in God. Wholeheartedly. But, even at nine, ten, and eleven years old, I felt my life was an uphill battle. I felt that if God was a forgiving and kind soul, that even she would swap places with me. Even with all the running I could muster, it wouldn't get me over the hill unless I made a deal with God. I am not sure why I felt my life was so hard in fourth or fifth grade. It wasn't until fifth grade that my faggot first happened. At such a young age, I needed to blame somebody. So, I blamed my father. He was abusive, mean and distant. He was the source of my uphill battle. Or so I thought? It's frightening to think that my sexuality might have been the source of my painful connection to Kate Bush's song. I have always said that I never had a clue in the world until I was twelve or thirteen. And even then I did not exactly identify the clues as "gay." But, maybe I did have all the clues in the world. I was just oblivious to them.

Here I sit, at nearly 29 years old, still loving that same Kate Bush song, stilling hoping for that deal with God, and in no need of clues. I am fully aware of who I am. If there are any clues to pay attention to, they are clues of my happiness or un-.... Not of whether or not I am gay.

So, I think...What does it mean that Brokeback Mountain did not win the Best Picture Award? It means everything and nothing to me. It means nothing, because it is just an award. It means nothing because I don't need one singular movie to take one giant step for gaykind. It means nothing to me because it is only one year in the lifetime of cinema that lies before me. It means nothing because Crash is a terrific movie.

However, it means everything to me because if this movie had been released when I was eleven, or for any eleven year old now, then the eleven year old me would have sat in front of that television on Oscar Night completely star struck. The eleven year old me would have begged my parents to allow me to stay up later than ten o'clock just to see the famous people. The eleven year old me would have never seen one movie nominated and would not have cared. The eleven year old me would have thought Jon Stewart was smart, funny, and sexy. The eleven year old me would have thought that the montage of cowboy movies made to look gay was weird. The eleven year old me would have never known that Brokeback Mountain was about anything remotely gay. The eleven year old me would have never known that there was a performance out there by an actor that told it like it is. A character that shows how painful it is to give in to your truth, your desire. The eleven year old me would have gone to sleep never knowing that a movie like Brokeback Mountain existed. The eleven year old me would have went to bed thinking, yet again, that gay is funny. Just like Uncle Arthur from Bewitched and Meshach Taylor from Designing Women. The eleven year old me would think that gay can only be made fun of, not taken seriously. That even though the word gay was never mentioned, there is something about these people they poke fun of, that is just like me. The eleven year old me would never know that gay is not about high heels or make up. That gay is not about fashion or musical theatre. The eleven year old me would never know that Brokeback Mountain was about the painful struggle to cope with what was going on inside you. That Brokeback Mountain was about giving into that battle. That Brokeback Mountain was about being a man. Men torn between what they think and what they feel.

The eleven year old me would be scared to death to be himself for another ten years.

At the same time, the eleven year old me would see heterosexuality in every movie. The montage of love stories wouldn't include one of two men. The eleven year old me would never see heterosexuality or race made into a ridiculous montage of "fun." The eleven year old me would see it celebrated. The eleven year old me would eventually know to put his penis in a vagina when the time came. The eleven year old me would know to fondle her breasts when the time came to go down on her. The eleven year old me would know that a woman doesn't come the same way a man does. The eleven year old me would know what my life was supposed to have in store for me.

The eleven year old me would never know what Heath Ledger portrayed as Enis when he disgustingly and reluctantly gave into that kiss. The eleven year old me would not be prepared to experience a similar kiss 9 years later with some boy I barely remember in the elevator of my college dorm. The eleven year old me would never know it would become a struggle. The eleven year old me would touch a man the way he saw men touch women. The eleven year old me would never know that gay is more than flamboyance and tragic deaths. The eleven year old me would never know that other people like me would get married and have children but painfully repress who they really are, or at least who they really desire.

The eleven year old me or any other eleven year old, would never know this or anything else remotely familiar, because...Did the Oscars do their part in the year 2006 to educate, motivate, elevate, or eradicate? No. No. NO! Considering the beautiful material that was delivered to them, the Academy and the media were oblivious to how human they could have made me* look. Brokeback was not about a cross dresser. Brokeback was not about gay rights. Brokeback was not about femininity. Brokeback was not about coming out. Brokeback was not about AIDS. Then why in the hell do we leave the Oscars not knowing the slightest thing about what Brokeback Mountain is about. Oh, that's right!

We know it's the "GAY COWBOY MOVIE!!!" (insert echo)

They had their chance to speak to the eleven year old boy in IOWA. They had their chance to treat a gay man, or even a straight actor playing a struggling man, with dignity and respect. They had their chance to focus on the subject matter of Brokeback Mountain with intelligence and modernism. They had their opportunity to introduce their nominees with courage and pride. Possibly describing Heath Ledger's performance as groundbreaking, raw, and the genuine capture of a human experience. Acknowledging that this role was not only the role of a gay man. But the role of a MAN. A MAN. A MAN so torn between society's definition of right and wrong.

Did they? No. No. NO!

Instead they made quick jokes. Crazy puns. They made montages of old westerns that meant something to our ancestors and made a mockery of it. Our ancestors that couldn't give a rat's shit about a movie like Brokeback Mountain. Our ancestors who treat those western films as some of the best movies ever made. Therefore, not only discrediting the meaning and importance of those movies to our elders, but discrediting the Oscar nominated movie Brokeback as well. A montage that is solid proof of many's choice to remain blind to the realities around them. A montage that sends us years back. A montage that is an excuse for a middle american man of 50 something to say..."I can't go see that movie. I can't stand to watch two men kiss or whatever it is they end up doin'."

I don't blame him. If I were 29 years old in 1976, and the media world treated topics of sexuality the same thirty years later, I wouldn't grow much in my thinking either.

Imagine if you will, I am eleven years old when this year's Oscars is airing. All that I know of "gay" is flamboyance, drag, limp wrists, and the tragedy of AIDS. I go upstairs to my bedroom, having no concept of the movie Brokeback Mountain and very little concept of myself. I go to my shelf of cassette tapes. I pull down Kate Bush's Hounds of Love. I think, briefly, about the clips they chose to show of Brokeback Mountain. The clip where Enis says, "...if this thing takes hold of us in the wrong place, at the wrong time..." The clip where Alma says, "...Jack Twist? Jack Nasty!"

I hum along with Kate.

"And if I only could,

I'd make a deal with God,

And I'd get him to swap our places,

Be running up that road,

Be running up that hill,

With no problems."

And, with no clear, conscious understanding of the uphill (upmountain) battle I would face for years to come.

*me -- a gay male.

also see this past post

9, 8, 7....

I stole this from Glamorama, who is oh so funny and worth the wait between blog updates.


Oh Numbers
9 Lasts.
Last dollar spent: At Zen Palate for the sesame medallions
Last cigarette: Probably two weeks ago. ( I hardly smoked it)
Last beverage: Bottled water with an emergen'c packet in it.
Last movie: Munich
Last phone call: Nick explaining the crazy "macro-biotic lady" I unfortunately stood behind in line at Zen.
Last song played: Jump by Madonna
Last Bubble bath: Sometime last summer
Last time you cried: While watching Munick last Tuesday
Last thing you ate: Spring Roll

8 have you evers.
Have you ever dated a best friend: No, but most of the time they become my best friend.
Have you ever skinny dipped: No. I am too insecure
Have you ever kissed somebody and regretted it: Of Course
Have you ever lost someone you loved: Yes
Have you ever been dumped: Yes
Have you ever been drunk and threw up: Yep!
Have you ever run away: I think I tried. I certainly dreamt about it.

7 states you've been to.
1. California. Too many times.
2. Iowa. I am from there.
3. Pennsylvania. I visited Philly with my BF.
5. Hawaii. My family's biggest vacation ever because we had an aunt who lived there and put us up for free
6. Texas. While on tour with Anne Frank
7. Arizona. I moved there for a summer to attend a theatre program.

6 things you've done today (in no particular order).
1. Made a list
2. Blogged
3. Ate lunch
4. Worked
5. Worked out
6. Called Joely

5 of your favorite things in no order.
1. Oprah
2. Edameme
3. Popcorn
4. Music
5. Beer

4 people you can tell [almost] anything to in no order.
1. Carrie
2. Mom
3. Brian
4. Nicky

3 Things that make you smile.
1. Ellen
2. Compliments
3. Snow

2 Things you want to do before you die.
1. Live in California
2. Be on Broadway

1 thing you cannot live without
1. Laughter

B-O-L-O-G-N-A

This 30/30 Challenge is bologney! I failed again. My two chances to miss are up. I can't fall off the challenge again. I missed yesterday (Fri. Mar 3rd). This was day #8. The saddest part about missing yesterday, is that Fridays are my regularly scheduled work-out day with my training buddy. It happens every Friday. We have only missed one since we began our weekly sessions in January. I just didn't want to go. I didn't feel good. I was tired. I was lazy. I was unmotivated. I also wanted to start preparing for my little OSCAR party I'm throwing on Sunday. When I say 'prepare' I mean clean. This is what I get by challenging myself and having no one to answer to, or keep tabs on me.

I know that I have been working a lot the past ten days. (Not a day off since last Wed. Feb 22) But, I am tired of using that as an excuse. I am also tired of being tired. If I would have just picked my ass up and made it to the gym yesterday, I probably wouldn't be as tired today. If I would stop procrastinating by writing this blog, I could be at the gym right NOW!!

The long and the short of it is this: Last night, after a long day during a long week of work, I was walking home at 4:40 a.m. when I had a sudden craving. I was craving comfort food of the rarest kind. Despite missing two workouts during this stupid 30/30 challenge I placed on myself, I have been fairly healthy in my eating. Not too many carbs. Not too many late night eating. Lots of greens. But, I was tired, cranky, stressed, and a little upset with myself. I needed comforting. I wasn't craving BEN & JERRY's or chocolate. I wasn't craving a LITTLE DEBBIE SNACK CAKE or DOLLY MADISON donuts. I was craving an old-fashioned BOLOGNA sandwich. I wanted bologna with iceberg lettuce and mayo on white wonderbread. The kind of bread that sticks to the backs and fronts of your four front teeth when you bite into it. I also wanted a small, cheap bag of wavy potato chips. Later, while eating my sandwich at home, I would take the top piece of bread off and place a few wavy chips on the sandwich, place the top back on the sandwich, and crunch-crunch may way through my "when I was 10 years old favorite sandwhich."

That is exactly what I did. It took till the third deli to find the classic bologna and the soft white bread. But, when I found it, I ran home with my 50 cent bag of wavys and my comfort sandwich, turned on my DVR-ed episodes of OPRAH, flipped the top off my sammy and crunched myself to sleep.

Now, I will leave you as I need to retreat to the gym for my 30 minutes minimum work-out. Not only does that white bread stick to your teeth, but it sticks to the ribs, and I am having trouble bending at the waist today.

You make me wanna SCREAM!!!

Day 4 of my 30/30 Challenge....nada! My work got the best of me and I failed.

That hasn't stopped me. I finished day 5 with flying colors in a 90 minute Bikram class. Day 6 I have actually resorted to working out in my office in the basement of therapy. I told the staff I would be in my office on an important phone call that would take about 30 mins. So, I just completed biceps, triceps, shoulders with a bottle of Absolut Citron in each hand (15 mins); pull-ups from a water pipe (5 mins); calf raises on the basement stairs while on a work related call (about 6-7 mins); and belive it or not I ran up and down two flights of stairs a few times until I had completed my remaining 3 mins. Don't believe me? Ask the barback who caught me during two different exercises and stared at me with a "what the fuck?" look on his face.

I refuse to fall off this challenge again. But, I have set some guidelines for myself. These guidelines are based in another challenge I took on last year with my yoga studio. I am allowing myself two misses. Meaning, I can miss two days of working out, but that means I have to do two different sets of exercise on another day within the 30 days. This does not mean that a 90 minute yoga class counts for two days. It means I have to take two separte chunks of time out of my day and two different forms of exercise to make up for the missed day. I am allowing myself only one more missed day.

We shall see....but, I have to tell you, committing to anything for 30 Days is damn hard work! It frustrates the shit out of me, and the "real life" things that are getting in the way make me wanna SCREAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!