2012 – Yellow Brick Missives

December 13, 2012

Two Gays, a Prius, and a Powerpointed Plan

Finding someone who tolerates my quirks and finds most of them endearing was hard enough.

Combining households, thus subjecting him to my neurotic OCD-ADD-informed organizational structures and unyielding design aesthetics, was fraught with the usual hiccups when any two people move in together.

(Okay, so not everyone has to deal with a partner who has OCD or ADD or both or squirrel!)

So. Deciding to drive across the country together hasn’t really seemed like a big deal.

I mean, sure. It’s across the country. Like, from here to there.

Over mountains, through woods, to a rusted-out bus in the middle of the Alaskan tundra.

Kidding!

At least about the bus.

***

We’ll have ups and downs and plenty of turnarounds and screaming matches with the GPS and little spats and possible tears as we pass through Oklahoma and Texas to New Mexico without Starbucks.

Still, we’ll have an amazing adventure. Something we’ve both wanted to do individually, but are now fortunate enough to do together.

And while I know that we’ll have plenty of moments that’ll make others pale in comparison, I’ll still savor the quiet moments, no matter how brief they’ll be.

Like the sun slowly warming the car.

Like me reaching over to rest my hand on his.

Like the exhilaration of passing into another state we’ve never visited.

Like eating great food at random holes-in-the-wall.

Like catching up with far-flung friends.

Like laughing at our fleabag accommodations along the way, and dreaming of the amazingly beautiful, swanky California hotel rooms that await us.

Like making a peanut butter sandwich on the side of the road while contemplating a visit to the Grand Canyon.

Like making macabre references to Thelma & Louise.

Like forgetting all of the work-related bullshit that’s been weighing us down.

Like sleeping in until 7.

Like a threesome in The Standard’s rooftop pool with Joseph Gordon-Levitt or Ashton Kutcher. (Hey, it could happen!)

Like enjoying life a little bit.

***

Maybe I’m less concerned about the what-ifs because I’ll have a copilot.

A copilot with a printed Powerpoint presentation of our trip.

(Yes, I’m a lucky bastard.)

Regardless, I know we’ll be fine. We’ll make it work. Because we’ve made far more stressful things work before.

And this time around, we’ll have the wind behind us, the music blaring, and the knowledge that we’ll be free for a few weeks calming our nerves like a vodka tonic.

With nothing but open road ahead of us and a dust cloud in the Prius’s rear-view.

December 13, 2012

Traffticked

I’ll go ahead and admit that I have road rage.

Every now and then.

Fine.

Most of the time.

Still, as someone who drives nearly 180 minutes round trip every single work day, I think I’m entitled to it. In fact, I even get a cool moniker: Extreme Commuter.

*Creepy giggles*

***

Okay, so being an extreme commuter isn’t cool. In fact, I revile it.

Because not only do I encounter every type of driver out there—tailgaters, slow-goers, texters, weavers, excessive speeders, cell phone talkers, drunks—but I have to try and keep myself in check to ensure I don’t become one of them.

Sure, we’ve all been stupid more than a time or two—tried to steer while Instagramming a sunset, docking the iPod, and daydreaming about what we’d do if Joseph Gordon-Levitt appeared at that exact moment.

What?

Most of the time, though, I keep it at 2 and 10, and get myself from Point A to Point B.

And yet, despite cooling myself down, remaining vigilant, and taking the higher road, morons still find me.

Like the geriatric driver with the suspended license who destroyed my Camry on a very rainy, extremely cold Halloween.

And then blamed me for it.

Because I really wanted to ruin my paid off car by veering into the turn lane and hitting him. Because I loved dumping $400.00 into it two days before, just to watch my car’s grill–two lanes over–be pummeled to pieces by passing drivers.

Or, the idiot who jacked up my “new” (not paid off) car because he felt like running a light to go up an off ramp.

Now, I’m not super proud to admit that I’ve flipped-off drivers, blared my horn at weaving texters, and screamed my share of expletives.

And I’ll throw a PSA out there: “Kids, road rage is no laughing matter. Although laughing about it really pisses off the bastards.” Okay, so maybe leave that last part out.

Because some people get ridiculously lost in it.

So, to avoid all that–and anger management classes–I do my best to let it roll off.

***

But then I find myself driving along on a Friday, humming Pink’s “Let’s Get This Party Started,” when a speeding car hydroplanes, ricochets off a car in front of me, spirals into oncoming traffic, and hits two drivers there before crashing into a ditch.

So much for a quiet Friday night. Brought to you by idiotic driving!

Because now I’m standing in the rain (why, why always the rain?!) comforting the undergrad who’s freaking out in the middle of traffic and assuring her that she’ll be fine if she gets out of the middle of traffic.

At least being a crash veteran equips you with coping mechanisms. (Like envisioning the speeder being hit by a passing 18-wheeler. Kidding!)

So there we are, standing by her car. And while she calls her dad, I watch other speeding cars merge, then speed around the wreckage.

But I also watch rubberneckers slam on their brakes for a better view.

“We may want to step onto the shoulder,” I whisper to the undergrad. “These drivers are going to cause another accident, and I’d rather not be crushed by your car should they smash into what’s left of it.”

(So maybe I could’ve been a bit more empathetic.)

She snuffles a response before grabbing her purse and stepping off into the grass.

About three minutes after we plant ourselves well off the road, a Camry full of rubberneckers smashes into the back of an SUV.

Just a few feet from where we’d been standing.

Smoke billows out from the car’s mangled front. The driver and passengers fall out of their respective doors, punching airbags as they do.

And I just stare.

The police officers across the road stare.

And we almost synchronize our face-palms.

***

Now, I’m not the only one who’s ever experienced some car-related misfortune. Or caused a little accident myself.

And even though you don’t like hearing about people getting into accidents, or like getting into them yourself, you do learn some useful things.

Like how to deal with an epileptic driver who’s smashed into a power line and continues to seize. And a group of sorority bystanders.

Me: “Okay, you go call 911!”

Sorority Girl 1: “AHHHH!”

Seizing Driver: *Slams foot on accelerator. Pushes car through fence.*

SG 2: “AAAAAAAHH!”

Me: *Hanging out door, pulling SD’s foot off accelerator*: “I’ve got this. Y’all go get help!”

SGs 3-5: “AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

SD: *Smashes head into horn*

SGs: “AHHHEEEEEEAAHHHHH!”

Me: “FINE! I’ll call 911!”

SG 6: “Oh, I called them.”

Me: “Where in the hell did you come from?”

SGs 1-4, 7: “AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

Me: *Pulls SD away from steering wheel and turns off car*

SG 8: “AEAHHHHH!”

Or laugh.

Like when my dad took his brand new truck to a car wash and ended up incurring nearly $3,000 worth of damage in four simple steps.

Step 1: Hug a pylon.

Step 2: Freak out, then back into another pylon, breaking out a tail light.

Step 3: Cuss excessively, floor it, and rip off a side panel with another pylon.

Step 4: Scream even more, back up, and knock off a side-view mirror.

Or, when my paternal grandmother waved to a neighbor, then drove right into a ditch. After which my grandfather turned with a rolled newspaper and tapped her on the head.

***

But think about it. We’re all just fleshy blobs hurtling through space in metal- and plastic-molded shells. So it’s simply a matter of probability that we’ll bang into each other.

It’s not fun, but it happens.

And then we’re launched back into space. Trying to find our way through the chaos.

Back to that spot on the horizon.

December 12, 2012June 17, 2013

I Don’t Care About Your Terrific Kid

It was a slight against nature itself.

And me.

And every other person in the coffee shop.

Perhaps it was because I was still waiting on my mocha, and thus not yet properly caffeinated. But I couldn’t really acknowledge the banshee wreaking havoc in my favorite coffee shop as human.

Now, now.

Not your cherub.

I mean the hellion running around screaming, picking his nose, knocking over glass bottles, and jumping off things.

And what, pray tell, was his parental unit doing?

Disciplining?

Corralling the little darling?

Apologizing to the man whose pants became a Kleenex?

Of course not.

She.

Just.

Smiled.

Even as the baristas stared daggers at her, along with every single patron who’d retreated to this caffeinated oasis for that necessary early morning pep in their step.

And maybe a scone.

And croissant.

***

Now.

Parents reading this are probably already switching to Apartment Therapy or some other, cooler blog (god, I hope so for your sakes), all the while rolling their eyes at me, the nasty mo disparaging The Children.

But I’m not against children.

Just the lackadaisical parents who enable their disruptive behavior. Because the minute I’d have politely asked the parent to manage her child, I would’ve received a scoff and possibly a subpoena in the mail for emotional damage.

How dare I, The Childless Wretch, insist that she, A Parent, subscribe to social morays whilst sharing public space!

Maybe I’m just a little touchy because I’m now of an age where, if I don’t have a child, I’m immediately suspected as being (1) Delusional; (2) Damaged Goods; or (3) Gay.

(And bless the hearts of those who really have to suspect Choice 3 with me.)

But I have several friends with kids—well-behaved, cute kids because their parents are responsible. (Okay, so cute is just a fortuitous byproduct of genetics and good wardrobes.). Still, they don’t expect me to treat them differently, other than understanding that they might not be able to pop by for a quick drink. And while I acknowledge that having kids changes things like that, it doesn’t have to change how you treat people in general.

Now, Choice 2 is one of those nastygrams parents project onto singles who want kids. You know, the whole Oh-you’re-still-single-there-must-be-something-wrong-with-you message. In lieu of a more understanding, truthful Oh-there-are-a-lot-of-assholes-you-have-to-meet-before-someone-good-comes-along-and-wow-I’m-fortunate-I-found-someone-in-this-wreck-of-a-dating-pool–who-didn’t-give-me-crabs-and-sometimes-remembers-my-birthday.

And Choice 3 isn’t really a disqualifier. Although LGBT parenting is much more legally complex, which might dissuade some. (Hey, that’s the truth. If you don’t think so, ask yourself “Do my spouse and I both have legal rights to our child?” Yes? Then count yourself fortunate that the American Theocracy tilted in your favor.)

But you know what?

I don’t want kids.

Not even one.

And it’s not because I don’t want to go through the legal hassle, or identify a surrogate, or initiate the painstakingly long adoption process. And it’s certainly not because I’m a damaged gay.

I just don’t want children.

And I’m not going to be guilted into having them.

Do I respect those who have children and provide responsible, safe care for them?

Sure I do.

Just like I respect anyone who excels at their chosen profession. Good for you.

You wanted this. You’re doing the best you can. Bravo.

***

But.

Sometimes.

That “bravo” just doesn’t seem to cut the mustard. It seems that we all require little reminders of your Precious Moment. (Or, as often seems the case, your That-Time-We-Forgot-To-Strap-On-A-Rubber.)

Like your chalkboard family. (Because fellow motorists care that you chose to have five children. And the girls like Cheerleading! And the boys like Fishing! Even though you’re not engendering your children!)

Or your tacky “Baby on board!” sign. (Because that’ll stop an inattentive driver from smashing into you.)

Or your neon, turtle-shaped “Slow!” sign in the public right of way fronting your house. (Because I’m not going to intentionally swerve and take out that aesthetically offensive, unnecessary traffic hazard.)

Because we all secretly want children and should craft our lives around yours.

You just know it.

***

Here’s the thing: I’m pretty laid back about kid stuff in the public domain.

I don’t care if you breastfeed. We’re all primates; the tiniest ones require feeding at inopportune moments. And I’d much rather see a feeding curtain than hear a screaming child.

I don’t care if your kid is crying and you’re trying to quiet it and are taking a lot of time grabbing the stroller to escort your kid out of the theatre, room, immediate vicinity of me. Because you’re trying.

I don’t care if you’re watching your child walk around unobtrusively, watching as s/he putters around.

But when I’m going about my day, and your lil’ bit continually gets in my way, or others’ ways, or disrupts the path of a special needs dog, do the right thing.

Don’t be a-wholes.

And be cognizant of the fact that, while you may think children are the best things ever, I may not, and that’s just fine.

Because the last time I checked, two stick figures, or one with a martini glass, are just as good as three, or four, or five.

Actually, just nix the stick figures.

They’re fucking annoying.

December 11, 2012December 12, 2012

Stuff-ed

“Well, I didn’t know it was an adult magazine!” my saintly mother insists, folding the black-veiled porno rag, tucking it inside the garbage can. “I thought it was, you know, stuff.”

While Mom dumps lunch leavings on top for safe measure, I picture her ordering the rancid publication from the door-to-door seller’s list.

And wonder how the person kept from cracking up.

“I can only imagine what the mailman must think!” she adds, shaking her head and toting the can outside.

***

Porn aside, we’re all attached to our stuff.

The most seemingly insignificant tchotchke can be layered with so much meaning that it physically hurts when it shatters across the floor. (And more so when it’d received a little nudge.)

And yet, it’s just stuff—tangible reminders of experiences, the memories from which are far more valuable than the physical things.

Still, we have so many things. Like security blankets, our stuff buffers us against the things we try to avoid thinking about every single day—that things could fall apart; that we could be left with nothing; that all of this is transitory; that there’s really no point in having all of it.

And in a very basic way, it all anchors us to a place we may no longer want to be.

Yet, we’re still hesitant to part with any of it.

It’s like we want to stay shackled to a place.

Get larger and larger spaces to fill, only so the voids in our lives seem less expansive.

But, why the stuff?

For some sense of stability? Or rootedness?

I mean, who hasn’t yearned for both?

As a shovel bum, I once believed tranquility follows stasis.

And yet, post-shovel bum days, I’ve found myself moving constantly, like a hummingbird to flowering plants—flitting here and there, my thirst never being quenched.

So I’ve started to wonder if this is normal. If, like Earth itself, everyone keeps moving. Even if we’re standing still. (And not in the Jewel sense, either.)

If I’ll fluctuate from one extreme to the other—maximalist to minimalist with one fell load of a Penske truck—and not even notice.

Or care.

***

We’ve been conditioned to measure our success in life by how much stuff we’ve accumulated. That if we have little, we are little.

But I haven’t changed for the worse when I’ve shed a ton of junk.

In fact, I’ve felt freer. Even more enlightened.

Still, Andy and I have three bedrooms, a dining room, a kitchen, a bathroom, three closets, and a living room chocked-full of stuff. (And we won’t even talk about the emergency escape–the back staircase.)

***

Sometimes, though, it just makes sense to let go. Being less encumbered affords mobility.

And right now, that seems pretty damn desirable.

At least until we land somewhere where our jobs aren’t draining us; where we can breathe a bit easier; where we have the same rights as our neighbors.

We don’t want much, and we don’t expect the world to be fair.

But I do know that the cut glass punch bowl won’t help us achieve these things. I’ve never made punch in it. And probably never will. (Hence, why it’s full of cars.)

Neither will the cool hexagonal chair I bought because it was cool and hexagonal. And that we rarely use.

Nor will the lot of carnival glass–my first auction purchase–that we use sparingly.

Neither will my first refinishing project: the chair I once used to facilitate a life-saving self-Heimlich maneuver. Its payment for being so generous? The closet. It deserves better.

Nor will a bazillion wine and martini and juice glasses. Because there’re only two of us. And when we actually do have time to throw a party, we’re probably not going to feel like washing them all. (I can attest, it sucks.)

Nor will more chairs.

And certainly never will the things I only bought because they were cute or pretty or interesting and have never used. (Yes, little milk glass salt and pepper shakers, I’m looking at you.)

It’s all here.

Clogging space we don’t really need.

Trapping the memories that we do.

Preventing us from leaving and making more.

***

As both a physical place and mental concept, home is fluid.

So why shouldn’t its composition change every now and then?

Especially when the most valuable possession I have is right beside me, holding my hand.

December 5, 2012December 12, 2012

Booked

Isn’t it fascinating how we change?

With every degree until the full 180, we undergo infinitesimal augmentations before casting quizzical retrospective glances at that stranger of yore staring back through the mirror.

Alright, so that made me sound too much like Don Quixote.

Even if I’ve tilted with a few windmills.

***

Like a lot of kids, I had a penchant for spending chunks of time outside, and equally as many in front of the Nintendo—banging on its top when Duck Hunt froze mid-quack, or blowing on the game cartridge until, miraculously, the Blue Screen of Death disappeared.

Those activities were enough for me. Throw a pet dog and cantankerous parrot into the mix, and I was set. So I spent very little time poring over books, losing myself between the pages. I left that to my sister, whose love of books rivaled that of our parents.

Soon enough, though, my friends got more involved with sports, shed their baby fat, and left me for a soccer ball or pigskin.

Still, I tried. Coupled with an accident-prone nature, my soccer playing resulted in bloody noses, jacked glasses, and busted lips—all collateral damage from misguided kicks by my team’s largest member. It didn’t help that my Boost bar consumption added pudge to my baby fat instead of transforming me into a muscled, testosterone-fueled jock.

So, I self-relegated myself to the bench. Which would seem like the perfect segue to a bookworming future, right?

Meh, nope.

Not until Book It! sensationalized the appeal of reading (and Pizza Hut’s personal pan pizzas) did I entertain the thought of reading for pleasure.

Overcoming a general disinterest in reading, and a profound rebelliousness toward my parents’ slightly overbearing book-pushing, was a very gradual process. Because even if I toted a thick book around the house, my reading became a spectacle, accompanied with, “Oh, look. You’re reading!”

If that patronized praise had been accompanied with a biscuit, then maybe I’d have responded positively. But I wasn’t a dog, and I resented the slightly barbed undertones with every book-inspired insinuation.

So I started hiding the fact that I was reading.

Mostly because I felt profoundly stunted and ashamed.

That is, until I was introduced to Brian Jacques and his Redwall series. Book after book, I lost hours winding through the vivid details about banquets and battles; it wasn’t until a decade later that I learned that he wrote for blind children.

***

Much later on, well into graduate school, I became enamored with memoirs.

Reading personal stories about how people figured out their lives, or at least tried to do something with them, struck some sort of chord. It made me think about all of the journals I’ve kept since I was nine—from my very first journal entry, which revolved around Zack from Saved by the Bell and a blue sequined suit (clues, clues everywhere!), to the family stories I’ve collected.

Something in my journals captures so much of who I am. And not just because they include crazed ramblings about my latest personal experiences.

The whole act of writing calms me—makes me feel like I’m doing something right. I just don’t get that from work, or anything else that I do.

That alone should tell me something.

***

Last weekend, while Andy and I perused one of my favorite local bookstores, we both remarked about how great it’d be to write a book.

I’ve mulled it over before—books and history and humor and life, and synthesizing them all. So I figure, what the hell?

I may as well try to do something that’ll make me feel like I’ve captured something about life, experiences others can relate to and laugh about.

Even if I once hated to read, maybe something I create can become some kid’s Redwall-like retreat.

So, I’ll do it.

I’ll try my hand at writing a memoir.

And even if I don’t succeed—don’t ever take a dust jacket photo, don’t deliver a reading like some of my favorite authors—I’ll recount some pretty good memories.

And laugh hard along the way.

December 4, 2012December 12, 2012

And All That [Gay] Jazz

Something happened to me between the self-revelatory statements “I’m gay” and “WHY DON’T I HAVE A BOYFRIEND?!”

And not just jar after jar of Nutella. (But who’s counting?!)

It was more of a self-realization about the dating scene. A realization that a lot of people are having in this iPhone-driven, text-heavy age.

Let me preface this by writing that a few of these problems aren’t necessarily LGBT-centric. But since I’m a flaming mo, my perspective’s a bit skewed.

***

From best friends and family members, to colleagues and angsty passersby, I’ve developed more than a peripheral knowledge of the most effective dating [avoidance] strategies.

Avoidance strategies, you ask?

Well, yes.

Because (1) It’s damn difficult to click with people in person. Like the time I tried to flirt with this one guy, pivot on a dime, and walk away confidently. Instead, I stuttered a goodbye and whipped around so quickly that I slipped, overcompensated, and knocked over a lube display. Classy lady.

And (2) It just gets exhausting writing profile after profile after profile on the most cutting-edge, most widely used dating sites “Proven to get you a date is less than a month!” or “At least get you laid.” Because then you turn into that person whose profile reads, “I HATE EVERYONE. THERE ARE NO REAL PEOPLE LEFT!” with an accompanying profile picture of a pixilated torso.

***

It just became easier to throw my hands up after a few bombed dates, blame it on the economy draining the last of an increasingly shallow dating pool, and sidle up to my computer for a Golden Girls marathon.

Alright, so I hadn’t quite spiraled to the point of a Goldie Hawn Death Becomes Her cat mo—mostly because I’m allergic, and can’t stomach that much frosting. But I did break out the hole-ridden jeans and stained hoodie to venture to Harris Teeter for a sweet treat.

Or treats.

At least self-checkout stations make eye contact avoidable.

Most of the time.

***

Maybe I’d just become so far resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going to find someone that I finally did. When I least expected it.

I know, I know. I hate that saccharine “It happens when you least expect it!” bullshit. Because I’d recited that to myself time after time (whenever I took my head out of my chocolate-covered pretzel feedbag).

But I ignored the fact that entertaining that very thought meant that I was still seeking out that ever-elusive complement to myself, even if I told myself I wasn’t.

Then, boom.

Andy happened.

So I figured, “Finally! I’m set. Relationship maintenance can’t be too demanding. The hard stuff is over!”

Oh, naivety.

Now, before I have to sleep in the guest bedroom, I’m not saying the effort involved in maintaining a relationship is bang-my-head-against-the-wall bad. Quite the contrary–it’s made me more mature, more patient, and (hopefully) more empathetic.

Still, there’ve been unexpected issues that’ve challenged us. Issues that I think other LGBTs encounter and, sometimes, can’t quite reconcile.

***

Andy and I hadn’t been together two months before I got horribly sick and had to go to an urgent care clinic, then to the hospital. I could barely keep both eyes open, and had to deal with filling out mountains of paperwork.

Then I got to a page I’d seen plenty of times before when I was single–one I’d never panicked over or had to think intensely about. It was the “right to medical information” page–where you list out who’s able to receive your medical information or request it, and their relationship to you.

The ink blot started to grow larger as I wondered, hesitating about broaching the topic for fear of freaking out Andy and making him think I was moving too fast.

Did I list him?

Should I tell him that I’m listing him?

What if I don’t list him and they run me to the E.R. and he’s not “privileged” with the information regarding my whereabouts?

Would they acknowledge a gay relationship?

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t danced through my sleep-deprived mind.

But one good side-effect of feeling crappy is that you give less of a damn about dating etiquette than usual. And while potential hospitalization isn’t a desired litmus test to see if you have a keeper by your side, it does the job.

We cleared the hurdle.

Even if the “A” was more of an inkblot than a letter.

***

Albeit thankfully short, that situation made me think about my LGBT friends, and the whole topic of “gay relationship time” versus “straight relationship time.” Sure, the latter are good topics for poking fun, but I think there’s a little something to it.

For a lot of LGBT couples, it’s hard to avoid heavy-hitting topics like healthcare, end-of-life decisions, housing issues, and property rights. In fact, like Andy and I learned, you have to broach them much, much earlier than some straight friends. That’s not to disparage our allies, or presume that heterosexual couples don’t have to engage in such intense dialogue. (The latter is clearly not true.)

By and large, though, most LGBT Americans don’t have the luxury of a temporal cushion to lighten the blow of such charged topics; we can’t assume that we’ll be afforded particular rights just because we have a partner of the opposite sex. So, a few months in, Andy and I were well-versed in familial histories, medical issues, end-of-life decisions, health and life insurance providers, and general contingency plans.

But for every story like ours, plenty of others don’t go so well–and not necessarily because of ill-suited matches. Heavy conversations have a way of exhausting a relationship speedily, smothering the initial flames of exuberance with overwhelming, sudden responsibilities and stressors. Pressures specific to LGBT relationships aren’t often understood by the general public. To everyone else, on the surface, it’s yet another failed LGBT relationship; it’s easier to default to that stance rather than think about the heteronormative, theocratically-legislated context in which LGBT relationships are established. Instead of attempting to change that context, though, ignorant people are more content to buy into the crazed, Santorum-ish perception of the “inherent instability” of LGBT relationships—and use that fallacious argument to continue LGBT-based discrimination.

Traversing bumpy relationship terrain early on does have a bonding effect, too. Even if conversations along the way don’t exactly come easily, and may shave off a few weeks from the honeymoon period. Because very few want “More peas?” followed by “Cremation or burial? Organ donation?”

Still, in the span of a few weeks, Andy and I jumped from hesitant-to-fart to peeing-with-the-door-open. Because with other, more pressing matters at hand, who really cares?

(Other than visitors.)

So, while Andy and I aren’t Olympians, we’ve cleared a number of hurdles.

Not without a few stumbles or scuffs.

But we’re still going strong.

And if we can do it, plenty of y’all can, too.

November 28, 2012November 29, 2012

Together, We Remember and Fight

Andy watches Gwyneth Paltrow drive by in a Land Rover; I scratch my head and try to figure out how far off Christopher Street Two Boots actually is, and how long it’ll take us to order pizza once we finally get there.

Clearly, my stomach isn’t affected by star power. (Especially since Gwyneth probably hasn’t eaten a carb since Hush. Bless her heart.)

***

Soon enough, we’re powering through massive sauce-slathered slices and watching as hipster after hipster pours in for their daily carb fix. And as we look out at passersby puttering along sidewalks, I imagine how much this street has seen, especially with our next stop just a few blocks away.

We finish up, and join the hive buzzing outside. As we remark at a particular mo’s great cowl neck sweater, the air chills and the remaining sunlight filters behind 1 World Trade Center.

We turn a corner, dodge some taxis, then walk up to Stonewall Inn. Surprisingly unimposing, Stonewall’s façade is bathed in light, its slightly tattered rainbow flags fluttering in the breeze.

It still has the Bam–Pow! effect it did when I first saw it earlier this year. And I almost recite exactly what I did back then: So, this is where it happened.

***

To most people, this building isn’t anything special—just another bar with poster ads featuring scantily-clad, ripped models. The same can be said for Christopher Street Park across the way, minus the poster models (on most days, I mean).

After the requisite pictures, we venture inside. And that’s when I feel the “something else” about this place. No, it’s not the booze. It’s the ambience, the tacit understanding that these boards, these walls, are hallowed ground to many LGBT Americans.

We sidle up to the same bar where generations of LGBTs and prominent civil rights figureheads initiated romantic conversations or decided to take a stand.

With two cosmos in tow, we leave the tab open and seat ourselves in a dimly lit corner.

A trio of men carouse at the bar, and two women on a date navigate the awkwardness of ice-breaking conversations. The older bartender surveys the bar with a measured, seasoned eye, and strikes up conversations with a few nervous single guys sitting at the opposite end of the bar.

There’s no pretense. No expectations. Just unencumbered joy.

And I imagine this to be the atmosphere in 1969 when the police attempted to quash this haven and imprison those who railed against them. But thanks to those brave figures, Andy and I, along with all the others, are able to enjoy a drink or two, and absorb the history through osmosis.

***

Framed photographs along the wall depict various scenes before and after the Stonewall riots—the tension and catharsis are palpable.

“I wonder where these people are now,” Andy muses. “Especially that one.”

He points to a young guy seated on the steps of the neighboring business front. With his gaze fixed on something far away—perhaps processing the moment—he pushes his blonde hair behind one ear. Above him, two women share a celebratory kiss, and three men wrap their arms around one another, each smiling directly into the camera. In the foreground, a brunette with glasses smiles wryly, his eyes betraying a mischievous air.

Looking from the photograph to the present scenes unfolding before us, I think how little has changed. But how everything did.

How one event can propel others forward, out of societal shackles, into action. How ardently and passionately our forbearers have fought for our rights, and how far we still must go. How indescribable it is to have Andy by my side, in a place like this.

Knowing that, in a different time, we could’ve been sitting there, reflecting on our respective days, when the door crashed open and batons started flying. Knowing that there’re still heinous crimes committed against people just for dallying in front of such an establishment.

Knowing that we have the ability to craft a better future for a gay couple who, years into the future, will sit exactly where we are and ruminate about the people who’ve been seated at this table.

And, with hope, will thank us, too.

November 28, 2012November 29, 2012

Timing

Time is such a crazy little critter.

Everyone who’s ever had to get up at the ass crack of dawn for work, to celebrate an anniversary, to declare someone dead gets it.

And while I’ve always thought of myself as being pretty good about time—real life time and gay time (gays, you know what I’m talking about)—it’s shocking how quickly it can get away from me, slip between my mental frames.

Then slap me across the face two weeks after my last blog post. (Yes, I know I’m a slack blogger.)

***

It’s jarring how suddenly time can collapse yet encompass innumerable life experiences; it boggles the mind how chocked-full those collapsed lapses can be.

This thought was sandwiched between a few others as Andy, his sister Lindsey, and I commuted back from a whirlwind Thanksgiving trip to their hometown of Pleasantville, and a jaunt to New York City.

Sure, the bracketing thoughts may have been a little catty given the expected stress-fueled spats that bubble out when three adults are packed into a Prius, along with all necessary accoutrements (and by “necessary” I mean two gays over-packing and attempting to convince Lindsey that there will probably be enough oxygen left in the backseat for her to breathe); are exhausted by idiotic drivers (driver of the Honda Odyssey, who couldn’t quite grasp the concept of cruise control, I remember you); and are forced to use rest area porta potties due to the “mass volume” of users (while blinding our minds’ eyes against the disturbing mental images associated with using “porta potty” and “mass volume” together.)

So, despite the fact that Andy and I were fuming over something that now escapes me, I still couldn’t believe where I was and how fortunate I was to be there.

***

A year prior, I’d been quietly ruminating about why it was that I had so many wonderful friends and family surrounding me, but felt I was missing out on something great.

Six months later, when I was stressed, exhausted, smelly, and, quite literally, a hot mess, I met him. The him him I’d be thinking about and telling myself I hadn’t been searching for over the past few years.

But there he was.

Just like that.

He’d just dropped into my life.

And I cringed about how the trite yet apropos “when you least expect it” cliché happened to be.

***

Nearly six more months later, Andy and I have blown through the honeymoon period, navigated the consolidation of two households, argued here and there and made up, met the parents, and settled into a life together that’s only gotten more development, more grounded, and more rooted every single day.

Even still, it’s hard for me to imagine how delightfully quickly my life has changed.

Sure, time is still a beast, and there’re plenty of friends and family with whom we’d both like to spend more time. But we’re still balancing the personal with the professional, and trying not to let our extreme commutes and stressful jobs get the best of us.

And acknowledging that it’s okay to take time for ourselves, to grow our relationship more and more without guilt.

And knowing that our friends and family understand this, and love that we’re happy.

Because for so long, time was an enemy—reminding us of what we didn’t have. Now, though, it’s cherished, crystallized in moments along a path to an unknown future.

And while time isn’t infinite, and we never know what’ll happen next, we do know that we’ll each have a hand to hold along the way.

That we’re in it together.

November 20, 2012November 28, 2012

T is for…

Every year around this time, everyone starts cramming in gym sessions in the hopes that those extra crunches and lunges will somehow offset the caloric intake of Thanksgiving dinner.

They think about the long commutes to their destinations, what dishes to prepare, and try to figure out how in the hell they’re going to distract their crazy grandmother long enough to snatch away her hoarded painkillers and substitute them with multivitamins.

***

But rarely do we stop and consider that (1) Thanksgiving is a celebration of the upheaval of Native American life-ways, courtesy of colonists and their smallpox blankets; and (2) Clichéd attempts to be “good people” shouldn’t be reserved for the holidays.

You shouldn’t wait to donate to a food pantry. You shouldn’t carelessly throw your money into a shiny red bucket and feel the weight of your good deed lift off your shoulders (because you just funded bigots). And you shouldn’t forget that plenty of people don’t have homes or friends or any support to lean on during these socially-reinforced, absurdly ritualized holidays.

Now, I’m the first to admit my guilt for doing all of these things. (And that I’m a Scrooge.) But after realizing that The Salvation Army is severely anti-LGBT, I began ignoring their ringing bells.

And when I’ve celebrated difficult times in my life with friends by my side, especially when I’d isolated myself to such a degree that I didn’t return home for the holidays, I realized how important each of them is for keeping me going 24/7—even if I don’t touch base with them for weeks or months.

Just knowing they’re there means the world.

Knowing there’re people out there who’ll do the right thing has a profoundly comforting effect. And it’s even more comforting to know that that effect is like a stone cast into a pond—the subsequent waves ripple through your life, informing your decisions.

***

Had I not had parents who were determined to show my sister and I how life isn’t fair, that it isn’t balanced, it would’ve taken me much longer to learn how to pay it forward.

Until I saw unexpected joy flash across the faces of kids who didn’t think they’d get anything for Christmas; until I understood the value of sitting and talking to a blind woman, and letting her dog feel the grass outside instead of the scattered, waste-stained newspapers it used; until I watched a curmudgeonly nursing home resident abandoned by her family crack a smile at a pack of Reese’s and a carton of Marlboro Lights—I didn’t truly comprehend the enormous responsibility we each have to extend a hand and do something good.

***

This time last year, I was prepping a turkey for the first Transgiving at the LGBT Center of Raleigh. Over that year, the Center had become a home base for me, and had been the primary reason I’d moved to Raleigh. Getting involved—giving back in some small way—brought together a family of good people. Up to that point, I’d never known anyone who identified as trans, and I quickly realized how uninformed I’d let myself become.

While I’d been obsessed with gay male subculture and understanding everything I’d let myself believe it to be to about—butch, fem, top, bottom, vers, bear, twink…—I’d let myself forget the very thing that united LGBT individuals during the Stonewall Riots, that bonded them in a way: community.

So often we jabber about the LGBT community, like it’s a cohesive whole. But let’s face it: the “T” in LGBT is always tossed to the back. The “T” is never at the front. Because being “T” isn’t as seemingly trendy or cool or understood as being “L” or “G” or “B.”

***

But this time of year, there’s a reason why TDOR begins with a “T.” Today, on the Transgender Day of Remembrance, we—the TBLGs, the allies—remember every trans or gender non-conforming person who’s been killed this year for being themselves.

For trying to live their lives to the fullest. For giving themselves a shot. For trying to educate others. For simply trying to be.

For searching for companionship and support in a sometimes cold, unforgiving world.

Every year, TDOR reminds us just how callous and hateful people can be, and how easily ignorance and fear can destroy us.

Can blind us.

Can lull us into complacency.

Can keep us from giving back.

But we also have reminders of just how wonderful we humans can be to one another.

***

So, last year, after the first Transgiving ended with smiles, laughter, and joyful tears, we surveyed the mountains of food and did what made sense. With our cars loaded down, we distributed as many plates as we could to those who didn’t have a home to go to, who didn’t have a friend to chat with or a shoulder to lean on.

And as we emerged empty-handed from one dark park, I realized that it didn’t matter that we were trans, gay, lesbian, bi, queer, straight.

What mattered was that we were human.

That we tried to share that humanity.

Even a little bit.

November 13, 2012November 29, 2012

Bonded, James Bonded

Okay, so I already wrote this post once. Then accidentally deleted it in a flurry of excitement surrounding the latest episode of The Walking Dead.

Worse yet, the episode sucked.

The Post Lost Forever was much better, mostly because it was infused with the enthusiasm borne out of a day off work. So forgive this iteration’s jagged edges.

But first, let’s start off with the good news: Daniel Craig isn’t a bigot. Or at least I don’t think so. The bad news? Plenty of his fans definitely are. Well, at least some bubbas.

***

This past Saturday, I wasn’t focused on the movies or James Bond, and I certainly wasn’t contemplating the politics of cinema. With my parents leaving town, and Andy receiving the Parental Seal of Approval with flying colors, we figured a little downtime was in order. And seeing as how movies provide much needed escapist fodder in our post-work day routine, we thought something splashed across the big-screen was appropriate.

Double-plus bonus: it was late. That meant the crotchety seniors were well into bed, and the hormone-high tweens had been picked up in minivans hours ago, taking their overinflated senses of misunderstood selves with them, along with their manic texting, LOLs, and like-cluttered drivel. The theatre closest to our place was a magnet for drunken undergraduates, so we’d be free of them, too.

After driving to the far-flung theatre and paying an exorbitant amount for Sour Jacks and Mike and Ikes, we settled into the unexpectedly crowded theatre.

But I really didn’t think about anything other than the movie, and sharing it with Andy.

And Sour Jacks. Always Sour Jacks.

***

By the time Skyfall started, I’d eaten almost all of our candy, and knew I’d have to sit through a painfully long introduction full of Bond poses, shooting, blood splatter, scantily-clad women, and random explosions.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Before I knew it, Bond had gotten blasted right off the train (Spoiler alert! Or was I supposed to write that before I gave it away? Oh well.), and I halfway expected the 28 Days Later actress responsible for his big fall to be attacked by rage-fueled sacks of flesh as she sat contemplating her unfortunate gunnery.

Meanwhile, Judi Dench made some caustic remarks, because she’s friggin Judi Dench and can do that. And Bond fed a sex-slave’s bodyguard to a komodo dragon, had shower sex, and ventured onto a deserted island resort city—which, coincidentally, Andy had told me about the day before.

A bad dye job later, we were vis-à-vis with Silva. Everyone in the theatre seemed to like his eccentricities.

But the minute it became clear his hands were getting pretty homey with Bond’s inner thighs (a.k.a., the Holy Lands), the audience erupted with expletives, gasps, and slightly muffled epithets.

That’s the moment when Andy and I were ripped off the island and brought crashing back into the overstuffed movie seats—to reality. In such an unexpected way that I thought I was dreaming. But when I shot a glance to Andy, I could tell it wasn’t a dream.

More of a nightmare than anything.

It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark. Just what lurks under its convenient veil. And, in that moment, I thought of the rash of very public shootings and violence earlier this year, and how easily nighttime and a generalized mob mentality can become quick bedfellows.

That’s where I hate to be: the edge—on it, wondering when I’m going to be reminded of my slight difference, and by whom. And I hate the feelings of helplessness associated with that liminal position. Knowing that, if I say anything—go right over the precipice—I’ll be putting more than myself in jeopardy.

So we took it.

In darkness.

In silent solidarity—bonded.

And sat as our movie experience was derailed, unbeknownst to those surrounding us.

***

And then we watched as a victim of the sex trade—having been bound and tortured—was shot in the head.

The response: nothing.

Not even a gasp.

Clearly, the majority of our lovely audience preferred rape, imprisonment, and misogyny over the slightest hints of homoeroticism. (Which reminded me why Romney/Ryan won NC. But I digress.)

And while I’m sure the loudest objecting bubbas pitched tents with every rub of Silva’s hands, I couldn’t help but become more embittered about the double standard LGBTs still face—how any sign of affection is perceived as an explicit display; how every exchange is suspect; how everything we do is thrown before voyeurs, who are afforded the ability to pass legislated judgment on our lives. Who take our lives in their hands and play with them.

Or end them.

Do I care about straight people showing affection? No. Would I have been equally as distressed to see the Bond-Silva exchange transpire with two opposite-sex actors? Yes. The principal elements are Bond’s captivity, and Silva’s insinuations of Bond’s imminent death.

Is there a sexual overtone to the whole scene? Sure. When isn’t there with captivity, regardless of the players’ biological sex?

***

So, as the rest of the movie blurred by, and Skyfall fell into a fiery heap, I focused on the little things.

Like how Bond joked about Silva’s hands, and didn’t care about the villain’s sexual wiring.

Like how he focused on life and living over everything else.

Like how we all get shaken and stirred.

But it’s what’s left that counts.

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