Mental Exhaustion

Anytime someone asks me about my blog, I feel guilty about updating so spottily.  So, here's something new:

I feel like over the last year I have become a lot less politically motivated.  For instance, I care about healthcare from a wider, ethical perspective.  I believe everyone should have access to care that can save their lives and improve the quality of existence for those with medical conditions.  However, policy-wise, I don't really give a shit, and it kind of makes me cranky when people start talking about it. And I feel this way about a lot of things:  the Copenhagen debate and accords, economic stimulus, congressional races in 2010...the list grows and grows.  But, my thoughts on things haven't stagnated and it's not like I stopped thinking.

Once upon a time, like high school, I would have engaged this issues straight on.  Arguing with people, telling them they were wrong, and generally getting all up in arms about the whole thing.  Feeling superior, playing the devil's advocate (because even the Devil deserves an advocate), and just generally being a smarmy asshole.  But, the older I get, the harder that gets.  There are progressively fewer black and white issues.  Everything fades to shades of tan with every day that I walk and every new person I meet.  I know this is such a stereotypical thing to say, and I feel like I've said it before. But, this time, I swear it feels different.

This amount of ambivalence, case-by-case analysis, love despite choices, understanding and helping, disapproving but being there, and having to rethink the entire world burns mental calories worse than the LSAT.  But, it makes me a better person, I guess.

Catie once told me that the moderates didn't have very much to say because they were too busy getting shit done.  Because I'm getting shit done for America and for the world right now, I think that all the posturing of the non-idealists is exhausting.  And those of us in the trenches fight with something more substantial than words.

Brain Image

I lost my camera somewhere between 112th and my apartment some time in the last three weeks of November.  I remember having it around the time of Opening Day, but I don't remember where I have left it.  I doubt that it has been stolen, but I have terminally misplaced it.  So, I'm trying to find a copy of it on Ebay for cheap.  Wish me luck!

Also, I have to tell a heavy story about my life to the entire CYLA staff and corps on Friday.  I did my first dry run with my team today, and I felt like the story wandered and didn't necessarily have the impact that I was looking for.  I want it to be relateable and heartfelt.  We'll see what happens.  Plus, the ending sucked.  I don't know what I'm going to do about that, but I can't just very well say, "The End," and just be done with it.  This is something that is going to require major tweaking over the next couple of days so that it doesn't blow right at the end of the day.

Early Morning Snooping

Some mornings, I wake up and I go read in our living room until the rest of my roommates wake up. It's peaceful, relaxing, and it's one of the few times when it feels like I have the entire apartment to my self.

So, this morning when I woke up, I go in there, as per usual, after having some really weird dreams (like that I was dating this girl and we went out to dinner and had a $250 check and I was freaking out...so strange...and the restaurant kind of looked like Stix in Birmingham). Regardless, I was going to go sit on the couch, read some of Vonnegut's Hocus Pocus, and plan my day hanging out with Val and Sophie.

But, then I started looking around. Okay, Tom and Hollywood's bedroom door is closed. That's a little odd, because Tom usually leaves it cracked when he stumbles in late from a night of debauchery. But I don't really think anything of it.

Then, I see a pair of jeans laying on the ground. I pick them up and try to remember if they're mine. No, I threw my jeans in my closet last night. So, I just assume their Tom's, but they don't really look like his. So, I start going through the pockets. I find an iPhone with a text message that I don't recognize (hey, I'm an amateur detective, and his stuff was in my house), but, then again, Tom has an iPhone, so that wasn't definitive proof.

Further, the underwear that had been carelessly left on the couch did not necessarily serve as proof positive that this was someone new...I mean, Tommy could have been plastered, gotten naked in the living room, and then gone to bed. Hasn't that happened to the best of us? (not really, no...)

But, then Sophie got up and joined the hunt, finding the dude's wallet. I always carry my wallet in my bag, jacket, or front pocket because I don't like to be off-center when I'm sitting down, so I completely missed it. But, apparently "America" (name changed to protect the probably hungover) spent the night last night, and spent some naked time on my couch. Which means I have to buy some Lysol while I'm out today.

And I almost slept on the couch last night. God, that would have been awkward.

My roommates may not be the classiest bitches west of the Mississippi, but life in 205 is never not interesting.

Update: Upon further investigation (aka we found his keys), we discovered that he is a Stanford alum who drives a BMW, and is a member of the YMCA. The jeans are Rock and Republic, the shoes are Kenneth Cole. God, we're some nosy bitches.

Update 2: "He was about average, and I am not about average." So, at least we know that about this guy now. He got up and left. Tom is a hot mess. The guy was Middle Eastern and seemed sort of closeted, but then again, how well do you know somebody from glaring at them over a gin and tonic as they walk of shame?

Thanksgiving

My mother says that my last few entries haven't sounded like me.  I guess working in the elementary schools has quelled my sardonic-ness and my penchant for language.  I just hope it doesn't destroy my wit to be working in schools.  Anywho, that's something to obsess about late at night when I'm falling asleep, not on this fine day off.

No, today is a day to talk about Thanksgiving.  I don't do Black Friday, so today is recovery from the event.

I hosted my first Thanksgiving ever yesterday.  My family was all split up, and my mom, dad, and Morgan went to see my mom's family in north GA.  I didn't fly home because I'll be home in a month anyway.  So, I hosted Thanksgiving for some of the City Year folks that didn't have any plans.  So, the final guest list ended up being smaller:  me, Sophie, Tom, Kat, Jyrell, Valerie, Charles, Will, and Jake.  Everybody brought stuff, but my job was to make the stuffing and the turkey.  I figured if I was going to host, I could at least knock out the "must-haves."

So, I started on my mother's dressing recipe.  Made the eggs, no sweat.  Crock-potted the hen, no problem.  Made the cornbread.  Okay, some issues.  There is no self-rising corn meal in California, so you have to make it out of normal corn meal.  And then I forgot that there was a difference in baking soda and baking powder, thus nearly poisoning my entire T'giving party with an overdose of sodium bicarbonate.  Luckily, Val tasted and made a face like she was dying, so I went back to the grocery store late Wednesday night to buy ingredients to redo the cornbread correctly.

Day of, I got up early (like 7 AM...so, technically, I slept in two more hours than I usually would have done on a Friday) and started making the turkey.  I have never made a turkey before, so I didn't really know what was going on.  I took out my thawed turkey, removed all the bits (that always make me want to vomit, touching raw meat.  Why is poultry so much more disgusting than anything else?), and prepped it, put it in the oven, and waited around.  Watched a documentary on Burlesque dancing.  (This post is becoming a boring point-by-point...)

People started arriving and I started chugging mimosas.  Football and tennis were watched.  I made dressing and helped Val finish up the vegetables.  We made a spread that covered my entire dining room table.  Some people said some things that they were thankful for and we all dug in.  We had so many leftovers, it looked like we hadn't even touched the food.

Then, we played some drinking games.  Some people got plastered.  Everybody passed out.  People army-crawled to throw up.  Then, we cut some pies and ate some more.  I fell asleep from being up so early, and loved it.

My first T'giving by myself was a success...and I'm going to write up a list of the things that I'm thankful for a little later today, but for now, I'm thankful that the day rocked.

Some memorable quotes from the day:
"I met the bar-back of my dreams last night."
"(Name removed) is coming over?  Shit, I can't be nice when I'm drunk!"

Reflections on the Day

Today was a lazy day, but I kind of loved that.  I read Book 4 of Y: The Last Man, watched Outfoxed, Smokin' Aces, Dr. Horrible, and Scream 3.  It's been a media heavy day, and I needed that after the week I just had.  Seriously, there were two days this week when I left my apartment at 6 AM and I didn't get home until after 10 PM because work was crazy and there were things that I needed to do for America.

In other news, the CYLA newsletter, The Young Idealist, was released on Friday.  Someone had messed with my design, though, and it was starting to piss me off.  Then I realized that they had removed the sponsor block.  I talked to the editor, and she said that because of my article on inter-corps dating, the newsletter could not be shown to persons outside of the office.

Now, while I think my article was tame (and if they were going to keep it internal, I could have cranked the volume to make it a lot better of a read), the possibilities of an internal newsletter to me are a lot more interesting than some sort of weird mix of internal/external.  But, not everyone agrees with me, so this is going to be something I'll have to attack over time.

Also, Watts C might be getting a sponsor (I need to do a post to decode CYLA lingo...that'll be tomorrow.), but we'll see how the meeting on Dec. 1st with them goes.

I'm hosting Thanksgiving in four days, so I have to learn to cook a turkey and get all of that stuff together.  Here goes nothing!

Mikhail Was a Friend of Mine

Whenever my past intersects my present, I always take a second to stop and consider whether I wish that this thing or person were still in my life.  Usually, it's people from Tifton or Shorter that look me on FB.

And, sadly, usually I don't miss them.

Take tonight's find.  We'll call him Mikhail in this age of Googling ourselves.  Mikhail was someone that I was friendly with in high school.  He acted the part of the philosopher.  If we had gone to school in the city, I'm sure he would have read a lot of Camus and psychedelic poetry while preaching that everything we were taught was simultaneously beneath him and a lie.  He was someone who believed that truth came from pop culture.  He was one of the few people I knew who still believed in the power of parables.  He could play chess.  For some reason, it seemed like he wasn't built to any model.  I stole pieces of him that I liked and modeled parts of my life after that.  He left before my junior year.

The one time I saw him after he left my daily existence, he proved himself to be one of the most homophobic people in my social set.  Until that point, I thought that ignorance equated to prejudice, but on that Halloween night, that illusion was shattered.  (On a side note, that was one of two nights that proved to me that I will never want to be a cool kid).

I guess I like that Mikhail friended me on FB.  It gave me the chance to think of old conversations and old lies.  He's a great example from my high school life of when I realized that everyone had the potential for great good and great evil at the same time.  And it proved to me what I've come to internalize recently:  pretension blows.  People consistently describe what I say or write, no matter how much work is put into it, as "raw."  Maybe it's because I don't give a shit what other people think about the words I say, I want them to get the message, and I'll use whatever verbal weaponry is necessary to do that.

And people who talk and circles and argue for its own sake and break out of boxes for the sake of breaking and nothing more, I guess that's their prerogative.  But if I'm going to do something to waste time, I'd rather watch SVU. 

Sick to Walgreen's (with a Diversity Diversion)

Okay, so I haven't updated WaHo Life in a while.  And I'm a little at a loss of what to write about, so I'm just going to spend the next fifteen minutes writing about my life in LA for use in my possible book about service years in America.

This will be from the section entitled "Shredded Cheese, Trash Bags, and Sour Patch Kids."

I'm exhausted.  Scratch  that.  I was exhausted three days ago and fifty work hours ago.  Right now, I'm bitter and vitriolic, and I don't even know what I'm doing.  I'm stumbling down the road with my roommate Sophie and our friend Joe.  Sophie is in her usual state.  Joe and I are comparing notes about our lives working in Watts schools.  I'm telling him about why the double D's quit.  D-female quit because of some unhealed family wounds.  I totally understand how that happens.  And I don't know if it was entirely unresolved issues or if something new came up or if CYLA just wasn't her place, but she quit.  I'm not going to say that she and I were best friends, but we got along okay.  Had that common interest in theatre. 

But the other D...Lisa Bohn once told me that "two perfectly good midgets could have been made out of the skin wasted" on her philosophy professor.  While boy-D wasn't this malevolent, he was rather useless.  Always asleep in circle.  He was the poster child for diversity.  Wore a wig everyday.  Multi-racial.  Bisexual.  Bipolar.  But, being the poster child for diversity isn't enough to get you employed.  Or at least it shouldn't be.  The only reason your differences ever become a difference at CYLA is when they are an issue.

(For instance, we watched the documentary Made in America;  Bloods and Crips about ten days ago at the office.  Regardless of what you think of the movie, it's well made and it raises some interesting questions about the interconnected relationship of race history, crime, and gang culture.  Does oppression bring out violent responses?  Are whites responsible for gangs by jailing or eliminating more organized and peaceful black movements?  Are the conspiracy theorists correct?  Were gangs inevitable?  And, with a group of people who don't see color, all of the sudden color was the issue to talk about.  And everyone was very conscious of where they sat on the color divide.  So anyone not black had to be careful about what they said, regardless of the aptitude of the statement.  So many people responded with emotion instead of reality or intellect.  God, that's why those conversations degenerate into uselessness.  If everyone can't say what they think realistically, then all of our walls stay up.  Diversity is a goal.  It's not a location that's easy to stay on top of it.

After all, what is the goal of diversity?  Making everyone able to work together?  Making sure we all understand each other?  Or just looking like we come from all places?  Is diversity an appearance or a reality?  What does it mean?  I don't know.  But CYLA tries to hit it really hard.  So, that's something I'll have to attack more in the future.  Figure out on my Idealist's Journey path...but certainly not in group.  Note to self: figure out what diversity means to you.  Then, get someone not like you to agree.)

To Be Continued.

Los Angeles Life Begins

I stopped writing online when I got to LA.  For some reason, I just felt like I didn't have the time.  And I'm not going to promise to write everyday.  But I've found my feet.  The job starts tomorrow.  And once again, I'll publishing stories from this WaHo Life.

By the way, I have yet to see a Waffle House in Los Angeles.  I'm beginning to believe they don't exist.  And the IHOP is simply not the same.

I'm kind of tapped for stories right now.  It's not because I have nothing to talk about; it's because there is way too much.

This weekend was really amazing.  Friday night, had an incredibly chill group of people over including Creon, Chris (nee Brittany), Gabby Torres, Allen, Tristen, Joe, Amanda, Mara, and Valerie.  Then, Saturday, I went to a party at Lindy's apartment, spending most of the time with the beautiful Kathy Sanchez.  Bought a camera on B'way, so expect pictures soon (some are already on FB).  Went and saw Painted Churches at the Group Rep in North Hollywood (review pending as I left my program in Kat's car).  Chilled out, did laundry, and decided the path to sanity.

I make these vows to myself:
1.  There is nothing noble about suffering.
2.  I will remember what attracted me to LA and I will exploit those things.
3.  If I decide to quit, I will work for one more week and give everyone at CYLA the chance to talk me out of it.

But now, I have to go to sleep since I have to wake up in six hours.

Meant For Me

The first Postsecret this week says:

I never thought I'd be able to pin it down so precisely.

But I've realized today is the last day of my childhood.

Weekend Rundown

Spent this weekend visiting people and saying goodbye before my move to LA.

Nerd Fest ('09?') was a lot of fun.  Catherine worries far too much about making a good impression and making sure everyone has a good time.  Basically, the evening went really smoothly, and everyone who was in the mood to mesh had a decent time meshing together.  I played poker with a gaggle of straight men (who made me feel beyond nelly), did the vodka thing, talked to people about volunteer work, learned about others, told stories, heard an impassioned rant on healthcare advertising, delivered a misleading tweet, made Catie briefly paranoid about my enjoyment level, gave two back massages, and crashed on a couch two feet shorter than my 6.5 foot frame.  The next day, we had Chick-Fil-A.

Catie sent me to Rome with some Amish Friendship Bread for K'Fain.  This baggie of mush looks like your sending someone a yeast infection.  Apparently it's good though.

(Quick side note:  Apparently iTunes wants me to be sad right now.  We're rocking the Death Cab for Cutie and the Steeltrain.  Kathleen loaded me up with new music to shift the balance of my collection towards a more upbeat/higher bpm music.  Mostly, I'm pleased with her selections.)

Going up to Rome was weird.  I loved getting to just spend chill time with K'Fain and Chris.  I haven't gotten the chance to do that in months...when neither of us had stuff that we were supposed to be doing.  When nothing bad was happening.  When it was just chill.  The stress of school was lifted, and personal crises were being resolved left and right.  Problem solving.

On the Hill, I don't know what to say.  I'll miss Shorter, and I can easily see how I could go back for another year and meld it back into my life.  I fit there.  I could easily go back.  But, it's not a challenge anymore, so I guess that means that I need to move on.  I'm too young to plateau, as comfortable as that would be.

I move to LA in about 30 hours.  I can't sleep.  I feel like I want to throw up.  I'm super excited.  I'm nervous about my safety.  I'm worried about getting robbed.  I'm worried about money.  I'm worried that people will look down on me for my Southern roots and education.  I'm worried that I'll be behind the curve.  I'm worried that it's going to suck before it gets awesome.

But it's a challenge, and I don't back down from a challenge.

The Writing List

Sometimes, I don't really feel inspired to write whatever is in my head.  It doesn't make sense, and because their is no one expecting it, then it's much easier to procrastinate those tasks, even though Denise Austen once told me that "the only person you cheat by procrastination is yourself."  So, I end up writing on commission most of the time.  Truth be told, I enjoy it a lot better because it usually makes me focus on something that I didn't know.  But, when I decide to write a lot of short articles on commission in one day, the subjects get a little crazy.  Here's a list of my topics from today:

-Michelle Obama's short shorts
-Paypal's pricing policy
-Parking lot stripes
-Female hair loss
-Air Force Cyber Command
-Motion comics
-Flickr and the iPhone
-Andalusian Stitch
-Anal Probes

See, the joke about that list is that it isn't a joke.  So, now for a day when I barely left the house, I actually became a lot better informed about the world and what's going on.  Sure, some of its stupid and I'll never use again (Cyber Command is in San Antonio; the Andalusian Stitch is knit and purl alternating rows).  Other knowledge, though...well, at least I can bring it up in conversation if things go south.  Because who doesn't love a good chat about anal probes?  What if I meet those Shop Erotica women in LA?  I want to be on their conversational level.  So, thank you random writing assignments for that chance.

---

By the way, this might be tomorrow's blog post, but a march means nothing if you don't have a purpose.  Dissatisfaction isn't enough.  What is your goal?  Here's a hint for those working on the essay question:  for full credit, answers are more tangible than "change" or "hope."

---

In other news, nothing else is really going on.  I'm worrying about my friends a lot today as they go back to school, finish up the quarter, or embark upon their real lives for the first time that they don't have to go back to school.  I move in seven days.  Bizarre. Absolutely bizarre.

Quick Update

I'm moving to Los Angeles on August 26^th. I know that I've said this before, but it still doesn't feel real. I have no concept of what my life is going to be like once I make it out there. But, hopefully it will be fantastic. There's no sense in worrying about the things that I can't affect change in. It's amazing how Zen things feel a lot like emotional laziness.

A few quick things:

-There is no healthcare reform without a public option. Anyone who says otherwise isn't looking at the Census Bureau statistics.

-One of the only reasons I keep my Netflix is so that I can rewatch Margaret Cho comedy specials all the time.

-I have written over 120 short freelance articles in the last month.

-I am traveling to Rome on Saturday to see people. I can't f'ing wait.

More To It Than That

I was asked the question about nine months ago. It's not the first time that I've ever been asked it, but for some reason, that time, it stuck with me. Maybe its because there was no malice in the question that time. Someone was just genuinely curious. I had the answer, but nothing more. No reasons. No examples. Nothing to back up what I knew instinctively was true.

The question is: “Is there more to being gay than sleeping with other dudes?”

And I instinctively knew that the answer was “yes.” I knew that there was more to being gay than the literal definition. I felt that there was something else to be said, but I didn't know what it was. But then, it finally hit me.

In an ideal world, there's nothing more to being gay than your sexual preference. In a vacuum, there's nothing else to it. When there is no stigma attached to a label, then you don't make a culture out of it. There's no glasses culture. There is no Methodist culture. There is no red-head culture. Because these things don't exclude people from the normal at-large society that we all belong to.

But, at any time, someone could say “You don't belong here” as has so long been said in the subtext of American society. And so what literally means “sleeping with the same gender” suddenly comes to mean so much more. So, yes, there is a lot more to being gay. Because we've had to fight for a long time to be who we are.

For the longest time, I used to say that I didn't ever want to be a banner-waving queen. I took it as a badge of honor that I didn't read “queer.” And then, I ran across a quote from someone (can't remember right now who said it), and it said “Whenever you rail against those that are too 'feminine' and 'swishy,' think about where we would all be without them.” Where would we be?

Fucking nowhere, that's where.

Once upon a time, a brave man dared us to push ourselves. He dared us to come out, because the community would stand with us. And we did. We came out so much that a bad coming out story is becoming less and less common. We're coming out at such a rate that a 15 year old can come out in small town south Georgia and not have a word said to him. Sure, it was the talk of the school and church for a few months, but people (well, most people) got past it. And as we came out, we got to have a good look at ourselves and we realized something: We were not the same as everyone else. But then, we encountered a problem: We are not all the same.

We run the gamut from gym bunnies to politiqueers, from DILFs to gerds. Every aspect of society can be found in the queer community. There's nothing to unify us. There's nothing that ostensibly binds us together. After all, just because you share a common trait doesn't mean that you have to have the same agenda or even similar characteristics.

But through it all, gay culture has come into its own. There are some things that bind us together as a gay culture. First off, we all have a coming out story. At some point, we all had to tell the world that we weren't quite so heteronormative. I don't know if its universal, but I love hearing people's coming out stories. I love reading strangers' stories. I love watching it in movies. I think it becomes such a common motif within gay culture for two reasons. First, its something that we all have a common, so easily becomes common ground among an incredibly diverse group of people. Second, this is one of the hardest things that many people ever have to do. Thus, it obviously has an effect on people. And hard stories are interesting stories.

Another thing that binds the gay community together is the stigma that comes with being gay. I don't care if you've never had a negative personal experience, the illwill generated by those opposed to the homosexual community is palpable to us all. For every person that is totally fine with us, there are more that give lip services and vote against us, rejecting hate crimes legislation, marriage equality, and equal rights for military service. For every person that is not us but that stands with us, there are those people who choose any place that cameras show up to protest our very existence.

This hatred of us isn't rejected to any religion, creed, race, or class of people. There reasons are varied, but their goal is not: the eradication of the homosexual community. And yet these same people have the audacity to ask us why we reject their culture. Why we make our own. Why it becomes so dreadfully important for us to have an identity all our own. If these people want nothing to do with us, then we want nothing to do with them. And as such, we must create a culture and a life that allows us to live without them.

For some unknown reason (call it the collective unconscious), gays have gravitated towards certain people. We fall in love with stage divas. We love Margaret Cho and Kathy Griffin. We will be there for every Cher come back tour. We unabashedly own copies of Spice World. And for all of our trashiness, we also as a culture support the arts. We feature a huge number of writers and artists in all mediums. We love a good wine tasting (and a good vodka tasting...and a good rum tasting). But none of these single things bind us together because they aren't complete characteristics, so we start to squabble. Is it okay to be effeminate? What's the best way to look? What's the place of bears in all of this? Is there a place for the stupid? The intelligent? The blue-collar? As a culture, how do we all fit together and how do we make a stand? Shit, if we can't even agree about what rights we want, then how the hell are we ever going to make any headway?

I don't have the answers. But every time that I think that I can make rules for the world, I have to take a step back and realize what an idiot I'm being. We're all obviously not going to agree. Our diversity makes us stronger as a culture. And we're allowed to have disagreements. But, sometimes we have to look at the bigger picture.

A friend of mine recently made the point that we have a history that includes some incredibly illustrious individuals and that so many of our people have no idea about their history. It blows my mind that I have gay friends who didn't know the story of Harvey Milk until the Gus Van Sant film. It worries me that they don't know about Stonewall. It worries me that they don't realize how tenuous the rights struggle has been in this country or how capricious the courts of the US have been in granting our rights. It worries me that they don't know me and it angers me that they don't care.

If we as a culture decide that we would rather be left alone than confront things that make us uncomfortable, if we decide that it's simpler to live our lives in our tiny worlds rather than exploding out and demanding our rightful place, then we fail. We allow all of the ignorant assholes to believe what they want and we damn another generation to the hell of growing up gay.

Yeah, it's hard to fight. You're not going to convince them with your fists or your knives. No bombshell or hail of legislation will swing public opinion, though these things are not entirely to be discounted. A few more celebrities coming out is going to change society. No, the force of change is you and me. Its in our faces. Its in our lives. Our smiles. Our culture. Our history. That is where our strength comes from, because many people have stood up in the past and said, “I'm not going to fucking take this anymore.”

So, if you're completely happy with the state of the American homosexual, I commend you. But I'm not. Sure, we've come along way. We made it to the top of a hill. Now, though, I can see the road ahead for the next little bit. And its important that we keep walking.

Until I was 15, the most important thing that I had ever done was to come out of the closet. I have a feeling, though, that that's where many of us stop. We just barely make it out of the closet. Instead of just creeping out, though, we should set fire to the door so that we can never go back. And don't stop walking when you hit the bedroom. Go out of the door and into the streets. Confront the world with who you are. Don't take their shit. Don't make them force you back into your house. Stand and march. Where once it was said that we would stand with you, I hope we enter a new generation. I hope now that we march together, literally and figuratively, until we get to wherever it was decide we want to go. Together. All of us.

I didn't start this to be a rant at the gay community. And you are more than welcome to disagree. But that brings me back to my larger point: so long as their stigma attached to homosexuality, than American culture forces us to adopt our own culture.

This is the birth of any sort of group counterculture. If you willfully exclude someone from being a full member of your society, you beg them to create a counterculture to subvert yours. The disparity of racial culture in the United States is one major example of this. “Why can't they be normal?” I ask you, why can't you be more accepting?

Acceptance is uncomfortable. Acceptance means that you take all of us. No exceptions. You don't get a chance to say you don't like bull-dykes or swishy queens. You don't get a chance to say that bear culture freaks you out. You take people as they are. That's acceptance. Only then will we become part of your culture. Part of your world. Once upon a time, tolerance was simply enough. But I reject that defeatist philosophy. We're here. It's your move. Until then, though, there's going to be a lot more to being gay than just being gay.

"Normal" Gay?

My friend, Jason Styres, recently posted a note on Facebook with a quote from Larry Kramer's The Normal Heart. This play was one of the first dramatizations of the AIDS crisis and the effect it was having on the LGBT community. One of the characters makes a speech about the importance of the queer community uniting as a community that has to claim its right to exist because we have a history made up of people who were not invisible.

It makes me question all of the times in my life that I've ever said that I didn't want to be a "banner waving queen." All the times that I've ever looked down my nose at someone I thought was too swishy. Doesn't make me feel too great. I don't know if this is an internalized bit of homophobia or whatever...that doesn't actually matter. I don't actually dislike these people, but for some reason, I don't want to be identified with them. Which is stupid, because I readily would jump to their...our...defense were it ever needed. But, they are people who are different from me. And I don't know how to interact with the community as a whole.

I have a hard time getting worked up about the injustices being done to the LGBT community. And I think that the reason is because nothing audacious has happened that directly effects me. I'm just barely an adult...I'll turn 21 in three weeks. And in my life, nothing bad has ever happened to me as a gay man. Sure, I came out in south Georgia in conservative surroundings, but I pulled a wild card in how well it turned out. I was never accosted in high school. I was called a fag three times in college. That's it. That's everything bad that's ever happened to me. And so I don't know how to relate to a world that seems dangerous, reactionary, and unfair when I read about it but not when I live it.

I have no plans to get married anytime in the discernible future (for that, you'd have to date...), so gay marriage isn't an imminent concern. I've never been the victim of harassment or a hate crime, so the Matthew Sheppard Bill doesn't effect my gut.

It's a little known fact about me, but I briefly planned on going into the military in 2005 once I graduated from college and serving a basic stint before moving on with my life. It's just something that I privately thought was important--I think that it's every person's responsibility to serve their country and their neighbors if there is a need that you can fulfill. But, with Don't Ask, Don't Tell, fulfilling this goal wasn't worth nailing back up the door that I'd already kicked in. So, I joined AmeriCorps instead, beating a sword into a plowshare.

I intellectually understand that these are the issues facing my community, but I don't know what I can do. It feels like nothing. And if there's nothing I can do, then it feels like fate. And I'm no Lachesis.

---

When I went to college, I went to find myself. And every summer from 2006 to 2008 I considered my summer in the Booley House, referring to my favorite book, Leon Uris's Trinity. In this section of the novel, the two main characters spend the summer tending herds in a booley house. While there, they learn who they are and how to be men.

I feel like I've become more who I am than I ever have been. At the same time, though, I don't know how I feel about so much of the world. Years ago, opinions were simple. But I've been dragged to see the middle ground and to occasionally walk that path. I've been forced to concede that the lines are moveable and that black and white are just extreme shades of gray. Maybe one day I'll be set in my ways...right now, that feels like the opposite of my constant confusion.

Consternation and the Flu

Okay, first off I want to say that right now, at the beginning of August in anno domini 2009, I have the flu.  My head is all congested, I could barely speak yesterday, and I feel weak.  I can't focus long enough to read a single page of a book, leaving me to "rest" by mindlessly staring at the TV.

Anyway, I don't want to talk about being sick.  I'm not interesting enough sick to turn it into an article (no Tay-Sachs, no glittery skin...).

For those of you who don't know, I started writing for the online market on a freelance basis.  Doesn't allow me to get all of my sarcastic kinks out, but that's where I've been for the last month...trust me, I've turned out about 30,000 words in the past months an articles for hire.  I'm making okay money doing it, and I have reviewed almost every mobile phone known to man...and if I haven't done it yet, I'm sure it's on my "to write" list.

But something is bothering me:  am I really as bad as all of these people?  Now that I've joined some websites that easily host writing, I take some time to give back to the community and read some of the writing posted.  And it makes me crazy.  Articles usually are only about 400 words and they express none of the detail or style that makes me want to read.  This enabling of the entire populace with a keyboard makes me want to pull my eyelashes out.  Articles about scamming hypnotist fathers should at least pique my interest, but alas, all is for naught.  And then, I did something stupid.

I searched Twilight.

Here's my opinion:  Stephanie Meyer did a good job of writing for her audience.  I thought Twilight (the first book, not the series) was long and boring with too little action to justify its page length.  I think Bella is a character too intensely flawed to be likable while Edward is too perfect to be attracted to Bella.  I can't even remember what happened in the third book.  I liked Jacob, but then, in Breaking Dawn, he imprinted on a child, giving his relationship a pederastical quality that I wasn't quite a fan of.  That, mixed with vampire baby, vampire sex, and the great foreplay-but-no-intercourse that is the "battle" sequence at the end of the novel make the series fall apart.

Do I understand why people like it?  Sure, it gives you an escape from reality.  I just happen to find real people, who have both flaws and redeeming characteristics more palatable.  Plus, the movie's acting and color scheme made me wretch.

But, there are tons of articles, blog posts, and whatnot detailing every minutiae of this series.  If you don't have anything new to say, put up and shut up.  And if what you have to say is bizarre, then say it well.  If you're going to make an argument for whether Wicked or Twilight is going to send you to hell faster, than I insist it have paragraph breaks.

If you're going to scream about a novel, then at least italicize the title.

If you're going to suggest a summer reading list, then I insist no more than half the list be made up of classics, books that have recently become movies, or popular series that have already been read.  Make your suggestions mean something.

Give me some detail that I didn't know before.  Force me to consider things from a new perspective.  Otherwise, shut the hell up.

And if you catch me not following my own advice, let me know, and I'll fix it.

(By the way, for those of you looking for a great article about Twilight and what it's doing to relationship expectations, check out this piece that recently was placed in Slate)

Great Fear #1

I have a combination fear slash hope.  I hope that on the best day of my life I don't realize it.  People have always said that Graduation Day, your wedding, or your most successful moment at work is the greatest day of your life.

But if you know, then you have nothing else to look forward to in life.  Every single remaining day becomes a percentage of the day that was the best.

Besides, I suspect the greatest day of my life will have nothing special happen in it.  Instead, I'll be quietly contented and surrounded by people I love...that sounds like how a lot of people die, but I don't want to wait til the end.

Dear Dad #1, or a Brief History of Franken's Win

My father pissed me off as I was walking out of my parent's apartment a few minutes ago.  I had, forgetting my own rules that I'm not allowed to talk to my father about PRS (politics, religion, and sex), told him that the DFL candidate from Minnesota, Al Franken, had won the election by decree of the Minnesota Supreme Court and that his Republican adversary, Norm Coleman, the incumbent, had conceded.  He then embarked on an impassioned rant about how Franken was a joke, an idiot, and how he had stolen the election because the votes kept being counted until the Democrats won.

Usually, I don't like to take the bait.  But, I didn't have my facts in front of me and it's been awhile since I've tried to make sure my stance was politically accurate and that my indignation could stand on its own.  So, here we go with a brief time-line on how Al Franken became the 100th senator in the 111th Congress.

On November 18, 2008, the State Canvassing Board of Minnesota certified that Norm Coleman had beaten Al Franken by 215 votes of the more than 2.8 million votes cast.  This percentage of less than .0075% triggered an automatic and mandatory recount since the margin of victory was less than .5%.  The recount began on November 19th and was concluded by December 5th.

On December 16th, the Board began ruling on more than 1,300 individual ballots and reallocating 5,300 ballots from whom the challenge had been withdrawn.  Some of these ballots were improperly rejected absentee ballots or contested ballots (from both sides).  Coleman consistently rejected the most ballots and was not in favor of ruling the entire batch of previously rejected absentee ballots into the complete count.

Coleman's term in the Senate expired on January 3rd, 2009, leaving the seat vacant.  On January 5th, the recount was officially certified with Franken holding a 225 vote lead (the total number of votes changed being 430).  The next day, Coleman filed an election contest that prevented an election certificate from being filed.

On March 31st, a three-judge panel recounted improperly rejected ballots.  On April 7th, 351 more ballots were counted.  These recounted ballots expanded Franken's lead to 312 votes.  April 13th, the panel dismissed Coleman's case and ruled that Franken had won.  Coleman filed an appeal with the Minnesoa Supreme Court and oral arguments took place on June 1st.  The ruling on June 30th certified that the court unanimously declared Franken the winner.  Coleman then conceded the election.

In short, here are some talking points over the issue:

• The total margin of victory swung by approximately .015% of the vote.  In an election with over 2.9 million votes cast, this margin of political change is minute.  Thus, a change in victor, while surprising, isn't outside the realm of mathematical possibility.
• To my understanding, Coleman initiated both lawsuits that forced delays in seating the 2nd senator from Minnesota.  

So, there we go.  And, if anyone doesn't like courts and canvassing boards deciding elections on the Republican side, that's how Democrats felt in December of 2000.  

Court TV

Okay, so I've already written about my (slightly) neurotic obsession with QVC as a child.  However, this wasn't the only channel on television that I ever had a fling with.  In fact, my next thematic obsession was to swing from campy to carnal--I became a Court TV addict.

I'm not such a fan of truTV, Court TV's new name and format.  It adds in reality shows that I don't care about.  I basically need a channel devoted to playing reruns of Forensic Files, The Investigators, Masterminds, and any other show like this (I'll take a Psychic Detectives in a pinch).  For some reason, this sort of televised misery told in a systematic, unemotional way lulls me to sleep.  Some people watch the news or reruns of Sex and the City, but give me misery, mayhem, and the guy who says "blunt force trauma" in that oh-so-special way.

I started my true crime kick when Court TV did a special one Christmas when I was spending a lot of time at my G'ma Helen's house.  Late at night, they were doing a "12 Serial Killers of Christmas" special.  I got introduced to all of the big names in mayhem and terror:  Dahmer, Gacy, Bundy, Eichmann, BTK (before he was caught), the Boston Strangler, the Manson Family, the Son of Sam...a motley crew of death dealers.  Anyone who had ever had a well-publicized trial was fair game.  Their televesion introductions made me want to know more.  This was something different, this was something...dare I say it...cool.  Although I liked the story of Eichmann being abducted from Argentina by the Israelis to stand trial (and that his final meal was a bottle of red wine), the stories that affected me the most were Dahmer and Gacy by scaring the absolute shit out of me.  What Bundy did to co-eds, these two freaks did to me.

But, regardless of how they scared me, I wanted to know more, like a violence junkie.  Because, as GI Joe knows, knowing is half the battle.  Plus, the stories, well, I just had to know more.  Motives, methods, victims, styles, years, numbers...if I could quantify it, then maybe I could understand it.  Because when you're nine, you think that everything can be understood if you just get enough information.

That makes me sound like a creep, but most people are interested.  I just put my fascination from a young age up front.

I eventually became fascinated with all sorts of true crime statistics and stories, but those are tales for another day.

A Fantastic Ph.D In Horribleness

Brief update today.  I, being a Whedon-flunkie, just got around to watching Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog.  Can I just say that I absolutely loved it?  Of course, given my Buffy and Dollhouse obsessions, this "crazy, random happenstance" surprises no one.  Although, as clever as the web marketing, superhero musical, writer strike/innovation combo is, that is not the single thing that impressed me the most.

The bonus features on this DVD are why I must own it asap.  The ten application to the Evil League of Evil are hilarious and give me one of my new favorite catch-phrases (from Princess Zombie):  "I learned that there was a Zombie King and I may be evil, but I'm not going to sleep my way to the top."  They're all pretty funny, but I have a special love of Princess Zombie, The Preacher, and a special shout-out to Broadway Dork for being a for-real Youtube video-maker who can make fun of her self.

Lastly, the track called Commentary! The Musical plays the movie with all of the principal film-makers, writers, and actors in the same room, singing commentary about the movie, each other, and life.  I want the soundtrack to the commentary possibly more than to the actual web series itself.  It's hilarious, and anyone who appreciates the movie, metafiction, Joss Whedon, or gratuitous contemporary musical theatre must check that track out.

Suffice it to say, I've seen this movie four times in the last 24 hours.  And I Can Hardly Believe My Eyes...I love it.

True Life: I Love Jewelry on TV

I'm going to start doing what I say I'm going to do on this blog, otherwise, what's the point in making promises? You become the stereotypical bad father from a television children's comedy, and my metaphorical children would thus be abandoned and have to fend for themselves, engineering a world in which their imaginations are as good as the love and care that they have been deprived of from a caring parent.

That metaphor got dark in a hurry.

So, yesterday, I said that I'd spent a good chunk of the last week watching television that sells jewelry. My favorite network (there are at least 10 on the south Georgia extended satellite package) is by far the Gems TV. They employ a reverse auction system. Basically, what they do is they start at a price and they keep lowering the price until the entire stock of a gemstone is sold.

Okay, now I know some of you don't compulsively watch the Gems, so here are some terms to be aware of:
-Let's Play the Game-This phrase starts every game. A game is any round where jewelry is sold. No, it's not a commercial; it's a game. Commerce is a hobby that you can be good at.
-The Crash-this is when the price drops dramatically (usually around 70-80%) from the original start price. In some games, the price might crash multiple times.
-AAA Tanzanite (Triple A Tanzanite)-The single most expensive gem sold on TV. Usually starts at a list price of about five or six thousand dollars. A purple cut gem, it usually actually sells for about a thousand dollars. The realization that someone bought a 1k piece of jewelry on TV is truly it's own reward.
-The host-Each host hosts for FOUR HOURS by themselves and they talk and yammer and sell as much jewelry as possible in that time. They don't go to the bathroom, they don't take a phone call, nothing. Sometimes, they talk to the unseen producer or the phone bank people. Occasionally, they'll yell random names of "shoppers" out to encourage people...I doubt these names are real. I guess they sit on a bucket and piss while smiling on camera and selling saltwater black pearls.

Why do I love the game? No idea, but I have ever since I was a young child. Flipping channels one night in the giant house in Panama City (it had three stories and I have no idea what the street name was), I stopped on QVC selling a ring that had five different colored gemstones in it (pink, green, orange, red, and blue). It was horribly ugly and gaudy, but I loved it. I started watching QVC so I could see it again. I never did. But that didn't matter, I was hooked. Toys, Star Wars memorabelia, vacuums, make-up...it didn't matter. I wanted to watch people sell things. But jewelry was always my favorite.

I got so into this selling (and QVC would sell multiple things at once) that I kept a record in a notebook of everything that was sold. In columns, I had, in order of item introduction: item number, description, type of item, cost, and flex pay cost. I would keep records for hours. It was fascinating. I'd get up and watch it. I never did quite like HSN as much. And I didn't like outdoor shows. But I'd slug through them for the chance to look at some truly tacky things.

Why do I watch this for hours now? Because I like seeing "beautiful" things. Not all of it is tacky and awful but enough it is that I wonder who buys it. Who wears it? Do they have a lot of it? Do I need citrine in my wardrobe? Is iconocline a real gemstone? The questions, the path...that's what's important. And to find the answers...

Well, I just have to play the game.

Slamming Repetitive Towns

I spent the last four days in Swainsboro/Twin City area with my best friend Mandy and her mother Neta (pronounced, if you're me "Net-uh"). Sometimes, I do things that when I look back on them, I know that some people will judge me pretty hardcore for. Basically I watched a lot of Golden Girls and therapy TV (Obese and Pregnant, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant, Intervention, etc.) these past few days. I also, although Mandy usually abstains, love to watch television that sells jewelry (stay tuned...that's going to be tomorrow's post).

Anyway, I just wanted to put a brief observation about my drive home today. I forgot to reverse my directions on Google Maps, so when I tried to come home and the dual-highway I was on split and I took a wrong turn, I ended up in Alma, about forty miles away from where I needed to be.

I didn't notice my error for about twenty miles and then it took me another twenty to get back on the right path. The reason that I didn't notice is that every depressing town of less than ten thousand people in southern and middle Georgia looks the exact same. The same weathered "cash stores," the same discount retailers, the same lack of fast food places, the same overabundance of trailer parks on the outskirts of town, the same bleached, dead feel to downtown It's like watching the same bad story happen again and again. And maybe it's a little sad to go over the junction of some highway and some state road and not just suspect but know that this junction...this crossing of asphalt paths, is the only reason this town still exists.

One of three things happens to all of us: we either end where we start, we blow far away, or we go as far as we can or want or until we get uncomfortable or tired, and we settle. We say that these trees are nice enough...this town is good enough. And we give up in the middle of home and a dream, living and attending the First Baptist Church and attending the women's auxillary until the end of time. Once is bad enough...it's a bad southern tragedy...a ghost town of flesh and blood. But to see it every thirty miles, as some sort of sociological deja vu...

The pretty town squares aren't enough. The regional cutesieness isn't enough. Why is your town here? What makes it special? Why should I stop? And if I shouldn't stop, why should anyone? You know, in Star Wars, there is a city that takes up the whole planet of Coruscant. I've never forgotten that name because it reminds me of a future of efficiency and usefulness...instead of an aborted attempt at urban maturity.

---

I use this service called Zemanta to add links and pictures with Creative Commons licenses to my blog. I just started using it, but this picture came up as my first random picture today:

Image by Stuck in Customs via Flickr

The image is called "Roadside Beauty Salon." Like the sky, which is probably not real, but it seems like the place where you'd get your hair did at the end of the world.

British Movies, Bakery Mirage

Something about Swainsboro puts me in the mood to watch British movies. Well, scratch that. I might not be in the mood to watch British films, but it is films from Brittania that we end up seeing. And I have enjoyed every single one of them. The last time I was up here, we watched Billy Elliot, The Calcium Kid, and Millions. Please give me a well-written story with some good lines and a lot of heart. Tonight's fare of Run, Fatboy Run continued in that tradition.

It's basically about a fat guy who has just been let back into his son's life after he left his pregnant wife at the altar about eight years ago. The ex-fiance is now dating a new guy from the financial district who runs marathons. To prove to his ex-fiance, his friends, and his son that he isn't a loser and that he is just as good as the new guy, he vows to run in and complete the Nike marathon that is going to take place in three weeks.

Favorite quotes:
"I thought I'd rather ruin one day for you than the rest of your life."
"I have a rash...in my scrotal area."
"I know you're not going to fall back in love with me. But I'd settle for your respect. I'd settle for you smiling when you think about the time we had together instead of thing that it was a waste of time."

I think I saw that Michael Ian Black wrote it and David Schwimmer directed it. Will have to check in on that to make sure, though.

---

Yesterday, I bought a crapload of things at the bakery graveyard for things that are past their expiration date at the Wal-Mart. Love it and it's 40% off. Today, Mandy and I went back and there was no bakery graveyard. Damn mirage of deliciousness.

Questions on Life, Writing, and Obama

Okay, I'm working on a really sketchy internet connection up here in Swainsboro/Twin City at the manse of Mandy's mother, whom I have always called "Net-a." So, I'm probably going to be making comments over the next few days that don't have appropriate links or research, but trust me, I've read up on it, and if you want some confirmation or links, shoot me a comment.

Questions that I'm struggling with in my life:
--I worked almost my entire life to become a mature, responsible adult. Now that I have graduated college (which was always the penultimate goal of attainability beyond which lie only wild dreams), I'm afraid that I didn't allow myself the chance to have a childhood because I thought that I was better than that. Is it possible to go back? And if not, then what's the use in regretting what didn't happen? You gotta dance with the girl you came to the dance with.

--Why is Shorter so anti-box wine? Five liters for $14 as opposed to a 1.5 liters for $9...as they say in Smash when you opt of out of Brawl because you don't want to fight on Norfair or one of the crappy levels that your host has built: no contest.

--What should the subject of my next play be? I'm thinking that I want to swing at another comedy...I might finally get around to doing The Tift Theatre Proudly Presents. I mean, it was conceived about twelve feet below where I'm sitting right now. My mother runs a community theatre in small town south Georgia. And the band of misfits, town icons, freaks, and normal citizens that have come to inhabit her circle are a dramatic farce begging to be exploded and placed on the stage. You know what, I'm going to map out some characters tonight before I go to bed.

--Why am I unable to live up to the promise of my "devil may care" last days at Shorter? I already feel like I want to apologize to those that I perceived to have wronged by not being my best self to them. Damn my upbringing. Damn my soul.

--Why did President Obama defend the Defense of Marriage Act (DoMA) with rhetoric from the Bush administration? Why hasn't he appealed Don't Ask, Don't Tell (DADT)? Why hasn't he made a public, bold statement of support to the GLBT community that was not only words but married to actions? Why hasn't he publicized his personal views on these issues? What are his views on the dramatic speed-up of the legalization of gay marriage in Iowa, Vermont, and possibly New York? There are no answers, and the man that made me toast a new generation of politics and say that, for the first time in a long time, I was proud to be an American, has let me down. I need a vote of confidence. I need progress on something. Anything.

--What should the first movie Jamel and I review be? I haven't forgotten about our project, but I've been unexpectedly busy the last few days.

Okay, I'm out. I'll talk to everyone soon. Oh, in the LA update, the house fell-through for financial reasons and lack of two roommates, so now I'm once again on the prowl. If you hear of anything, let me know!

2009 Tony Awards: My Recap

Okay, so I came a little late to the 2009 Tony's...I didn't see Bret Michaels get creamed by the set in the opening number because I've been battling a nifty bit of insomnia. Here's my rundown on how I thought the evening went (from the perspective of a home viewer in Georgia).

First off, I didn't expect Liza at the Palace to beat Will Ferrell's You're Welcome America for the Award in Best Limited Engagement. I expected the liberal leanings of the theatre voting lobby to easily shoo this performance to victory. However, when I said that I didn't expect Liza at the Palace to win, my friend Kate immediately responded with the accusation, "You didn't expect Liza Minelli to win a Tony Award?" Well, when you put it like that, it does sound a little foolish.

As was to be expected, Billy Elliot: The Musical walked with practically every award that it touched, coming to a grand total of ten for the evening. I couldn't watch the kids accept their awards because it made me uncomfortable not being able to know if they won for being the best performers the year, for their novelty, because they were little kids, or some bastardization of these reasons. They are impressive dancers, but are they the "Best Actor" of the year? Not in my opinion. Further, I find the music to the show forgettable, so I'm glad it shared the award for Orchestration with Next to Normal. Also, I didn't think they're performance was that great. I thought that the staging was awkward and compressed and that, out of context, this number lacked any of the emotional heaviness that usually makes it a compelling end of the first act.

Also, whoever presented the award for Best Featured Actress in a Play was an ass. He starred in A Man for All Seasons (I think it was Frank Langella). The category he would have been nominated in had occured immediately before his presentation. However, he hadn't been nominated. He spent about five minutes talking about not being nominated, took out his Oscar acceptance speech, and a press clipping that was a full page ad for the show in a major newspaper. Deprecating jokes can have their place, but this just seemed bitter and churlish.

Further, the sound for the Guys and Dolls revival performance of "Sit Down, You're Rocking the Boat" had sound issues (as did the beginning of the song from Next to Normal, it seemed). So, Benny sang the song with a handheld. Frankly, if Guys and Dolls continues to be revived and the show continues to be nominated for Tony Awards, can it please choose a different song to portray. Perhaps one that features the leads (Lauren Graham, we love you!). Or any of the leads.

My last complaint goes to the strange acceptance speech given by Alice Ripley. Congrats on the win, but this was just strange:



I loved the performance by Next to Normal. Congrats to Angela Lansberry for tying the most Tony Awards (excluding special awards) ever won at 5 last night for her Blithe Spirit win. I thought Neil Patrick Harris was great as a host (and if you like B'way showtune spoofs, listen to his closing song here.) And congratulations to Hair for an appropriately sexy and rocking performance and win for Best Revival. I leave you with their performance.

Billy Elliot Wins Tony...Did I See the Same Show?

Maybe I'm going to get shot for this, and I'm going to do a more complete rundown tomorrow morning, but am I the only person who has ever seen Billy Elliot: The Musical that didn't like it? I liked the movie and I think that the show works well with what it's got, but I think it's both overly-sentimental and ultimately forgettable. Although, I will have to say that the boys who play Billy are amazing.

Congratulations to all the winners at the 63rd Tony Awards, and look for an update on what I liked (Angela Lansberry, Next to Normal) and what I didn't (the road pieces, the presentation for "Best Featured Actress")

Views on a Judge, Hope, and a Drunk Club Girl

I am not built for sleep. Once upon a time, maybe, but not anymore. I'm so used to going a million miles every day and squeezing everything from every moment that having an abundance of time makes me go crazy. Tonight, I was hanging out with Mandy, Ty, and Andrew and I got really tired at about 12:30, so I came home. I was just going to check my e-mail...and then I got sucked in and I've been doing stuff for the last five hours (I also swept the house because the dirt on my feet was grossing me out). So, anywho, I figured I'd update.

I have a couple of brief thoughts, some serious, some not, to catch you up on my current state of mind:

Nomination of Sonia Sotomayor to the Supreme Court will probably pass. I am begrudgingly supportive of this move. I like that she is a hispanic woman who has a rise-above past and a solid basis in legal theory and practice. I appreciate that she has been a sitting judge for many years. I, however, wish that the chance had been taken to establish a much more progressive or liberal canditate for this office...the conservative slant of the Roberts Court is unlikely to change in the near future, so what is the harm in stacking it to the left to balance it out? What is the problem with a legislative battle for confirmation as opposed to her just sailing through? Democrats have the power...why aren't they trying to use it?

The more I hear the song "Just Dance" by Lada GaGa, the more I'm concerned for the main character. This woman has lost her phone, drink, man, and keys, she doesn't remember the name of the club, she can't see straight, and, at some point, her shirt got turned inside-out. Her solution to this dilemma is to "just dance." I feel like this girl needs help...maybe a taxi home...a good counselor to work out some deep-seated emotional problems. Actually, I was talking to Mandy earlier, and she said that she thought that the cops had busted in during this song, and this girl was the only one still dancing because she was so blasted and that the second verse is her continuing to dance as the entire club gets put in jail. Interesting theory...but it doesn't lessen my concern.

I support the general message of President Obama's Cairo speech. I think it's a good step towards diplomacy. However, I'm getting a little tired of the lack of tangible planning that is visible to the American people. So far, there is no tangible health care plan, immigration reform, education initiative, or withdrawal plan from Afghanistan or Iraq. Don't Ask, Don't Tell has not been repealed despite the ease of its dismissal (having been enacted by executive order). And I'm little tired of platitudes. Further, the President's bungling of his support of same sex marriage on the federal level during his recent NBC interview has only served to sharpen my suspicion. I feel like something tangible should be done...and if nothing is...well, hope can only sustain national pride for so long. I need something to be proud of...something daring. Something...audacious.

I'm going to go to bed, eat lunch with Mandy in a few hours, and send her off to Twin City.

College Advising

I have a lot of critiques about Shorter College which, on a long enough timeline, I will air all over this blog.  But don't get me wrong:  I loved college.  When I go back, I'm going to love it some more.  It was by far the best four years out of the twenty I've lived, and it doesn't hold a candle to high school.  Yet, for all of my praise and all of my critique, something that has proven to be a hassle for so many of my friends was never an issue for me.  And that's the subject of today's post:  College Advising.

Full confession:  I was a double major and for every semester after my initial semester at Shorter, I owned my advising.  I registered for classes before meeting with my advisor and I only met with them so they could sign off on my forms.  I had done a graduation check-out a class plan before either of them had thought about it.

I had two advisors, so whenever one of them gave me an answer that wasn't going to work for me, I ignored it and went to the other advisor and tried to receive a more favorable response.  Also, I often requested blank reforms because both my advisor and I were in a hurry, and I would fill it in with different information than I had admitted (for instance, I used a blank add form to jump from 18 to 26 hours one semester).  And everything was good.  And everything was fine.

Every semester, I had to go by the Provost's office and smile while he smiled his chilly shark smile at me and asked me how many hours I was taking...I mean, I was managing a paltry 3.9 GPA, so I understand why we each needed to take time out of our busy lives to go through this rigamarole every semester.  But whatever.

I understood academic advising so intuitively, that I advised several of my friends and build class plans for them in under twenty minutes based off of a transcript a degree requirement sheet.  I understand that professor advisors are busy, but it really isn't that hard...it takes a little time up front, but its nothing once you sit down and work on it.  And my advisors tended to be good at this, they just didn't have to be for me.

Contrast this with my friend Elizabeth's story at ABAC:  She arrived her first day to register for classes to be told (after she had paid) that her degree program had been cancelled.  Or take Ty at GCSU who had all of his summer classes cancelled and most of his department's faculty leave in the same month.  Or Mandy at SCAD who have not only pushed her a quarter behind on graduation due to not realizing that a pre-requisite should come before her other classes, but now, she's pushed furhter behind because her summer quarter classes have been cancelled.

For those of you about to enter college or are already enrolled, do the following ASAP:

• Plan your own class schedule:  no one knows your goals like you do.
• You can do more than your advisor says is full-time:  no one ever fell apart at 12-15 hours.  Pump it up and get out early.  Don't pay for more than you have to.
• Contact your department to get the degree requirement sheet:  Course catalogues often have out-dated lists.  Check the website and compare it to the class requirement sheet for your entrance year.  If they don't match, get an answer from the Registrar's Office before being forced into classes you may not need.
• Keep the plan updated as you move on.

You know, there are a lot of things I didn't appreciate about Shorter College, but at least my education was never sabotaged by an ineptness in simply trying to get me in classes.  At least they're good at that.

Stories from the Past: Coming Out Cow

My senior year of high school, the theatre director a TCHS declared that we would do a one-act version of the three-hour Sondheim monster Into the Woods.  Because I didn't sing, I would be the Narrator for  the play, and she had planned to enlist all of the pretty, preppy, show choir kids to play most of the parts.  The traditional corps of the department would serve as back-up artists and crew...which, while crappy, was better than an earlier idea to dress them all up as trees and have them dance around as different parts of the scenery.

Just like this...but made of dancing high school theatre kids.  Image via Wikipedia

Anyway, I had decided months ago that I was going to come out before my senior year started because I was tired of living the lie.  So, on Sunday, August 8th, 2004, I told my parents, which is another story for another day.  It intersects with Into the Woods because I was working on that show at the time.  In fact, I was the theatre intern with my friend Alisabeth.  Between us and Mandy, we were given the job of doing the cow.

For those of you who aren't very familiar with Into the Woods, it's a musical mash-up of the stories of Jack, Cinderella, Rapunzel, and Little Red Riding Hood all going into the woods to get their dreams.  Okay, well, Jack obviously has to have a cow because he's going to the market to sell his cow for food for him and his mother.  Now, there are two ways that you can do this.  You can either hire an actor to play the part of the cow or you can build a cow prop.

We, sadly, attempted the latter.  It was maybe the most dangerous weapon that I've ever seen on wheels.  Made of two-by-four, chicken wire, plaster, paper-mache, and white paint, more people bled on this cow than I would have thought possible.  It was a hot disaster.  The casters wouldn't stay straight, the back of the cow buckled, and it needed so much plaster to make it look like a cow verses a box covered in chicken wire that that was what I was assigned to do with Alisabeth for the second week of school.

Friday, we were sitting out in the courtyard outside the drama room.  This was right after the outdoor furniture that had been used at the previous year's prom had been donated to the school but before they screwed on that brass nameplate that dedicated it to that kid that died.  Alisabeth and I are slathering plaster on the cow and talking about the election.  She had proven to be mostly conservative, and this being 2004, my senior class could vote for the first time, and it was shaping up to be an important decision:  you could either vote for President Bush or you could vote against him (Kerry not actually counting as a canditate because he stood for nothing).  Although we could agree on the upcoming pro-liquor referendum for Tift County (which was dry at that time), we eventually ended up on thornier subjects.  Like gay marriage.

Obviously, I defended gay marriage against her arguments, but at the same time, I had to admit to myself that it looked like it was going to be an uphill battle, even for civil unions.  I mean, two of the four states to have same sex marriage have happened in 2009, and this was five years ago.  If I'm not mistaken, Massachusettes was the only state to have anything like this going on.  My fervent support made Alisabeth ask me if I was gay.  To which I immediately replied "no."

I started to kick myself and got really quiet. I guess Alisabeth was either embarassed that she had asked and I wasn't or didn't know what to say because she knew I was closetted.  I actually surprised most people when I came out.  And I had promised myself that although I wasn't going to throw myself a "coming out" party like a debutante, I also wasn't going to deny it any longer if anyone asked me.  And this was my first test, and I had already screwed it up.  After another couple of minutes of silence, I back-tracked:

"Wait, scratch that."
"Scratch what?"
"I am gay.  Not many people know.  Don't spread it around."
"Okay..."

We talked about my coming out for a little bit.  I didn't want the news to get around because I was afraid, this being the deep South, that I'd be harrassed.  But, I didn't trust this girl, and the circle of people who knew was getting big.  Soon, it was going to explode.  But for now, I was just another guy covered in plaster, trying to make a cow for the musical theatre.  And the future was a story for another day.

By the way, the cow never did become satisfactory.  Instead, we dressed up a short girl like a cow.  She did a much better job than a plaster representation.

Reccomended: Abandoned Theatre Photos

For all of my fellow theatre people, check this photo project out.

www.abandonedtheaters.com

It's a set of about thirty pictures (it's only as a slideshow, so I couldn't tell exactly how many there were). I thing that they're beautiful in a completely destroyed way. Plus, it reminds me of how many different performance spaces there are in the world. I wish I could recover one of the sites and make it awesome again, but sadly, I don't have the contracting skills or the money.

One day, though...

Weekend Recap: Catie and Paul Move-In

Alternate title: Golden Child Proves Pyrite, Lives in Sin

Okay, so here's how this weekend went.

First off, I rolled out of bed at my parent's apartment at 11 AM. I would rather have gone home, but my mother didn't want me to drive considering that I had just finished a margarita roughly the size of a fish bowl. Had to be real fast when I didn't have my ID and all that, but anywho, spent most of Friday evening with my parents, having dinner at Sonny's, have a drink, and then headed to their apartment. Plus, I couldn't go home until I taught my little sister all of the yoga poses that I know and a basic tango step. I mean, you have to keep your priorities straight.

Rolled out, packed at my house really fast, went and got about six inches of my hair chopped off, and got on the road. By the time I got to Macon, they were mostly done moving in. I hung some curtains and went on an expedition out into the middle of nowhere to get a table. But, for the most part, I just stayed out of the way. Catie, I have always known, is anal-retentive about where her stuff goes. Turns out, so is Paul. While we were getting the table, her mother and sister unpacked the kitchen. In the 24 hours between then and when I left, most of the stuff in the kitchen had been moved to a new, better location. Plus, the tension between Catie and her mom (who doesn't agree with Catie moving in with her boyfriend whom she is not married to) could have been cut with a knife and slathered on corn, so rich and creamy was its texture.

Anywho, we did dinner at Ron and Chang's, a combination Chinese and home-cooking diner. It was really good, and I think orange chicken, mashed potatoes, and okra is a too-long-overlooked dinner selection.

One of my other friends that I've met that was hanging out after the move is what really piqued my interest though. She's been dating this guy for about six months now, and they've gotten to the point to where they don't know exactly whether or not it's going to be super long-term. Well, that's putting it mildly. My friend wants to breakup with her boyfriend because she misses the chase. She provokes him into fights so that maybe things will get bad enough that they'll just fall apart. She wants out, because she doesn't believe that this is forever. I mean, she hadn't gone so far as to delete the naked picture of him from her phone, but she was bored and this girl who had never done the relationship was ready to move on.

And then, in a moment that I think is beautiful, we were sitting in the living room, bitching the past year, and she started smelling the blanket she was wrapped up in. When I gave her a look of "what-the-hell-are-you-doing," she explained: "It doesn't smell like (boyfriend's name) anymore."

"You are a veritable bundle of contradictions," I responded. I mean, maybe I get it. It's new and whatnot, but right now, I can't explain it. And it's mostly intriguing me.

The thing that I love about going to hang out with my best friends is that there is never an agenda of things that we're going to do to have a good time together. There doesn't have to be one, and to make one would fly in the face of what makes us such good friends. It makes me sad that I don't carry a tape recorder to record what's said and what we talk about while I'm with them. Since I don't live with any of these fantastic people any longer and we're spreading out to the corners of the known world, I feel like I should write down every witty thing said in case I never get to hear it again. Plus, it takes a while to break in new people so that you know that you can talk about anything, transitioning easily from the concept of reach-arounds and how best to prep for anal sex into what is metaphysically troubling us about the future and our friendships. Whatever, this is getting a little heavy for what I wanted to write about.

Later on, I had poured with too heavy a hand, and since the world wouldn't stop spinning, I made myself throw up so that I wouldn't go too far down the rabbit hole.

Next day, did Mexican, Lowe's, came back to apartment, read Remains of the Day, played some Wii, went home, watched Forensic Files with mom, came home, went to sleep in the recliner in the living room with my glasses still on.

Songs of My Life

I, like almost everyone else on the planet, have certain songs that take me into very specific places in my past. They're not even all songs that I necessarily like, but as soon as the introductory music starts, I'm taken back. A few examples:

"The Ocean Breathes Salty" by Modest Mouse--This just came on my Pandora station (a modified Hold Steady group). This is the song that I quoted on the title page of Edgar's Ashes. I was exhausted, sitting in the Mac Lab, writing out Matthew's storyline in maroon crayon when this song came on. Modest Mouse didn't usually come on that channel, so I had to tab over and see what was playing. And I loved it. Sure, it's from an album that a lot of people didn't really enjoy, but the line "You waste life, why wouldn't you waste death?" became the dedicatory quote for the play. And hearing it takes me back to those exhausted, middle-of-the-night writing marathons where I was putting that show together. It feels like a burned mouth from too much coffee

Eddie Izzard's Definite Article CD--For a while in the spring of 2007, I fell asleep every night listening to spoken word stuff. It usually was an Eddie Izzard CD, because I enjoyed it but I knew the CD well enough that it wouldn't keep me awake. I did this for a few months until I slung my mp3 player across the room in my sleep and broke it.

"You Oughta Know" by Alanis Morrissette--My senior year in high school (2004-2005), I began listening to this CD non-stop for about two months while I was doing errands around town or driving to-and-from school. Mix that in with my expressive interpretations and the fact that it looked like I was screaming at invisible people in my car when I was driving led to some interesting conversations with people that I knew that had seen me driving. I eventually had to take this CD out because it was making me too angry and it was starting to make men piss me off as a general concept. Needless to say, that wasn't going to work any longer.

"The Pineapple Song" from Cabaret--This song actually has little to do with me, but it does go into that same era when I first got a car in high school and I fully believed that the most important part of driving was what you were listening to. I permanently cured my brother of worrying about driving with reckless drivers because I would veer into oncoming traffic if I didn't like the song tha twas on. Well, I would always sing full-out. And after a few months, he started lightly singing along. Then, I wouldn't sing a certain song or whatever, and I catch him singing. And the moment that I knew that I had infected him, at least a little bit, is when we were driving home from the S-curve in front of The Little Pantry and he asked if we could listen to this song because he thought it was hysterical. Score one for musical theatre.

CYLA Senior Corps

Why do I love the song "I've Just Seen a Face?"

Okay, here's what's up with me: I got a call yesterday as I was driving out to my house with my little sister, Morgan. The guy introduced himself as Jeffrey H******** and told me that CYLA (City Year Los Angeles) wanted to interview me to become a Senior Corps member for the upcoming year. Basically, it's the next step up: I would be in charge of a group of between 6 and 8 of my peers, and I would have to attend planning sessions and extra training. Which is fine. If there is one thing that I'm good at, it's being in charge. I get a thrill off of leadership, and I'm good at organizing tasks and making sure that everything gets done.

The only catch is that I have to interview for the job tomorrow at 4 and, if I get the job, I have to be out there by July 16th to start training. Which means that I'm moving 45 days before the September 1 start date that I thought that I was aiming at. Which means I have to bump everything up.

I'm really thrilled about this opportunity. I mean, most of the people with this job are people from the Corps who are coming back for a second year of AmeriCorps experience. If they think that I can handle the job at this point, then I'm thrilled to offer any extra work that I can do. I just want to try to do some good in the upcoming year.

On the other hand, my mother isn't thrilled. She's supportive, don't get me wrong. Dot would never tell me not to go after something like this, but, at the same time, she thought that I was going to be home a lot longer. So, I'm trying to stay near the home base until I have to go, but it also means that I've got to move up any plans that I had...I mean, I haven't even told Erica that I might be moving.

Basically, I need to start planning if I'm moving that quickly. But I don't know for sure that I am yet. So, I'm in a holding pattern.

Minor Update

The background noise of my life lately has been television on DVD. So far, I've had Buffy Seasons 3 and 4 and Dexter Season 1 playing for the last few weeks. Sometimes, I'll play documentaries in the background on my computer...I don't know...I have a drive to learn stuff. Ever since I've left school, I feel like it's going to be really easy to stop learning stuff. And there is s0 much that I still don't know, so I need to keep up with the education and whatnot. I finally finished Naked Lunch tonight, so I'm 3 for 3 on my major works of the Beat Generation. I can't say that I liked it, but it did intrigue me a great deal. I feel like I need to go back to it when I'm in a more emotional or off-kilter place. It doesn't seem to be best read when under the influence of a well-reasoned temperament.

I'm starting to have remarkably vivid dreams at night. If it keeps up, I"m going to start a dream journal. Passe, I know, but I've never dreamt before. I usuall sleep in blackness. I had about five dreams before this past year, but my subconscious is really starting to kick in.

I didn't realize that it was Memorial Day today. But, whatever, it didn't matter until I tried to mail something and realized the Post Office was closed. Suck.

I don't have anything really witty to say. Come back tomorrow for something more than an elongated status update.

Post-Grad Plans

For those of you that don't know, I'm moving to Los Angeles at the end of the summer. My job with City Year Los Angeles starts on September 1, but I have to be there a little bit earlier to do registration and whatnot.

I started looking for apartments tonight. I'm still outside the 60-day window, so mostly I'm just getting a feel for neighborhoods and price ranges. I know that things are ridiculous, so I guess that's why it's not freaking me out too badly. Four of us CYLA people are going to be living together. We're looking for a two-bedroom in Korea Town. The cheapest apartments are 1300 but usually they run in the 1500-1800 range and up from there. Between the four of us, that'll be about half of our monthly combined income. Woohoo AmeriCorps jobs and volunteer pay.

I don't know why moving out to Los Angeles makes me want to panic sometimes. I mean, I know that it's totally understandable. Reasons that it should freak me out:

• Rome, GA (population: 45,000) is the largest place that I have ever lived. My hometown, Tifton, GA has a population of 28,000, which is about 3/10 of a single percent of the size of LA. There are more than 10x the amount of people in my hometown in the five square miles of Korea Town.
• This is the first place that I'll have lived outside of the normal education plan. I lived at home and then college. This is the first place where I really have to take care of my self.
• I don't know how to survive in a city. I really don't want to be in charge of apartment hunting and whatnot in my group, but my type-A personality just won't let me take a backseat.

I have the fear, sometimes. Other times, I fully believe that this is going to be the best year of my life and that I'm built for LA. But, when I have to work on the logistics, it makes me panic.

I think that it makes me panic because I'm afraid that I'm going to fail and end up doing something that I don't believe in because I couldn't cut it out there. I've never really failed at anything that I've really wanted to do. In fact, I usually am spectacularly successful. I have high expectations for myself...and I don't want to disappoint myself or others.

My hometown breaks down like this: 60% are perfectly content staying here forever, 30% screamed so loud about getting out in school, but they had no follow-through and they ended up back in Tifton, broken, pregnant, getting married, dreamless, goalless, and full of compromise. The last 10%...well, we're the one's who went off to school...the one's who left town. Of that, maybe 4% of us will get our degree. And maybe, just maybe, a couple dozen of us will leave the state of Georgia and go on to fantastic things.

I want so much more than where I come from. It's a nice place to hail from, but you have to go somewhere else to hail from there. So, I guess what I'm saying is, I'm going to have to fuck my fear. Because I can't stay here...and I've made a commitment.

As a wise woman once texted me when I almost killed some people outside a Carraba's: It's a challenge now, and we don't lose challenges.

Damn straight.