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Absent Friends, Epilogue: Inspiration

2009-04-23T08:00:00.000-06:00

I awoke the morning of December 11th to an amazing sight as a steady stream of brilliant white snowflakes fell delicately to the ground, covering Baton Rouge in its first real snowfall in many years.

"It's a Christmas miracle!" Alan lightheartedly exclaimed.

While it may've fallen short of an actual miracle, I still couldn't believe my eyes. Snow! In Baton Rouge! It was a definite reminder that life could still surprise me.

As I hurried to get dressed, I spied a family of mourning doves taking refuge on our back porch, huddled together in warmth and safety. They were probably as confused as the rest of us.

Rushing outside, camera in hand, I found my neighbors already celebrating the excitement as they built snowmen and threw snowballs and carried on with reckless delight. I soon learned that I was having an honest-to-goodness "snow day," as the college would be closed for the duration of the flurry and I, too, could enjoy the uncommon phenomenon from the comfort of my home. Within moments, I had the Christmas tree lit, a fire crackling brilliantly in the hearth, and a cup of coffee accented by a splash of holiday-themed pumpkin spice cream by my side, completing the mood.

"What are you going to do today?" Alan asked somewhat bitterly after learning that he was one of the few in town expected to report to work.

I paused a moment, smiled, and said, "I'm going to write."

The end.

Absent Friends, Chapter Ten: Something to Remember

2009-04-22T08:00:00.000-06:00

While there were still other people and places I wish I could have seen during my brief homecoming, my last day in South Florida was gladly spent with Bart and A.J., kicked off by a lovely bonding experience wherein A.J. and I worked together to reconnect the detachable backseat of Penny's car. It became damaged upon removing it in order to make more room in the vehicle for transporting large items to the new house but, thanks to our unexpected mechanical expertise and an unfettered willingness to hit it repeatedly with a large mallet until it fit together again, we were able to save the day.

Later that morning, before heading to the airport and after saying an emotional goodbye to Penny and Joe, we drove to Doreen's apartment across town and spent a little time helping her prepare for Christmas. Doreen lives in a private community common to South Florida reserved for people over 55, meaning visits from kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids were exciting events looked upon with great anticipation by the many residents that dwelled within.

In a scene you might expect to find in a Lifetime made-for-TV movie, Doreen played Christmas carols on the old organ in her living room while we pranced about and adorned the small tree with handmade ornaments, each of which had a back-story imbued with history and sentiment. It made me think a lot of the holiday traditions Alan and I now share, like how we would be soon decorate our own Christmas tree as we've done in years past, wearing our matching flannel PJs and with Emmet Otter's Jug-Band Christmas playing in the background, drenched in all the hokeyness of the season as humanly allowed by parish law.

After, we sat around the living room and listened to Doreen regale us with tales of her late husband, a man I knew briefly in my childhood. She spoke of him having been at Pearl Harbor during the morning of December 7, 1941, and proudly shared with us a collection of his medals of honor she had on display an in old glass casing. She also spoke of the difficulty living through the Depression and how excited she is to bear witness to the dawn of an exciting new era under our recently elected African-American president. Such a fascinating history lesson all wrapped up in a delicate 83-year-old frame.

Before we departed, she expressed her joy in having spent time with us during the holiday.

"You kids are alright by me," she said more than once. High praise, indeed.

Our last hours together were spent in Fort Lauderdale, where I lived in the years between Coral Springs and Atlanta. Driving down US1 was like experiencing a postcard come to life. Much like Coral Springs, Fort Lauderdale appeared to evolve considerably in the eight since I left; everything about it screamed "vacation" … A.J. would even remark how strange it seems that anyone ever really "lives" in a town that seems so obviously meant for vacationers. I couldn't comment, as my years living in Lauderdale proper were never about the beach or "the scene." I suppose you sometimes don't fully appreciate living in place like that until you're gone.

But now, as a tourist, I could enjoy it as it was meant to be enjoyed. We found ourselves at a charming seaside bistro for lunch where we could see the grandeur of the ocean in full panoramic view. Pseudo-vintage trolleys rolling up and down the strip emitted a gentle hum while a nearby calypso band played Christmas music with a slight Caribbean spin. Just yards away, swarms of hard-bodied boys with rippling muscles and flawless abs emerged from the waves in droves, evoking a scene one might expect to find in a Night of the Living Dead flick, only much sexier and with far less bloodshed. God, how I hate them all.

When I wasn't distracted by the beautiful people or the leering advances of our lecherous waiter with the lazy eye (which were, after years in Baton Rouge not being cruised by anyone, completely welcome), I would turn my attention to Bart and A.J. and how unbelievably happy they seemed together. It's almost as if they are wrapped in a perpetual lullaby or inviting embrace, never afraid to show their love and affection. They are so very much like Bart's parents in their adoration and respect for one another … I wonder if they see it, too.

Following lunch, A.J. decided to take advantage of the locale and remain on the beach, so we said our farewells and I thanked him for being so unbelievably accommodating during the emotionally-charged voyage through my psychosis.

"I only wish we had more time together," he offered in earnest.

I did, too, but I imagine that spending time with me is a lot like when the radio stations first start playing nothing but Christmas music in the weeks leading up to the holiday: it's really nice in the beginning but, after a while, you feel like if you have to hear "Feliz Navidad" one more time you're gonna yank José Feliciano himself out of the radio and throttle him with your bare hands. He earned his downtime.

Leaving A.J. to enjoy the sand and the sea, Bart and I spent our last hours together driving around the city, passing familiar places and talking of old times. We instinctively sought out recognizable landmarks and places that held meaning to us, like the little marina tucked away from the main road where Peter docked his boat Dun Wurkin and the fading storefront that once housed an eclectic diner we used to frequent for Sunday brunches. I was saddened to discover it was now a restaurant serving Cuban cuisine.

"That's a shame," I said.

"Things change," he stated.

Things do change, I guess. But sometimes, even within those changes, things can stay the same.

Later, sitting in the car outside the airport, faced with that horrible moment we've experienced a dozen times before, I looked at my friend and asked, "Until next time?"

"Until next time," he smiled.

As I grabbed my luggage from the car and headed toward the gate, he called out the window to me. "Hey! This trip home … did you find what you were looking for?" But before I could think of a response, he added, "Never mind … I'll read about it later."

Soon after on the plane, I tried to scribble some sort of an outline for the tale I knew I wished to tell but still couldn't quite get it started. Despite Bart's unwavering belief that I would once again recount an important life event in a tastefully written anecdote shared via the Internet with only my closest friends, I still had my fair share of demons keeping it from becoming an absolute reality. After all, I didn't really succeed in putting the band back together. But I probably came as close as I could, for the moment, anyway. And life is all about the moments, isn't it?

Instead, I silently pondered of all the obvious things I had learned during my journey, clichéd truths and lessons and thoughts and beliefs that, if I were to write the story, would certainly never find their way into the last chapter unless I wanted to be perceived as trite or hacky. Truths like coming to terms with the reality that I may not be everything to everyone but I can be something to each of the people in my life — and vice versa. Lessons about how, for every person that may choose to distance himself from me, for whatever reason, there will be another that will never leave. Thoughts of how maybe, just maybe, my memories of a group of people linked together by a shared heritage were not just the mad delusions of a wishful thinker and how, whether we realize it or not, we truly are the summation of the people with whom we share our lives. And a belief that by embracing my past while at the same time charting my future, I can achieve continuity without regret. We all can.

But I would never end my story with such pedestrian conclusions.

I did manage to write something on the notebook before completely giving up, however: a note reminding me to update my Master Plan as soon as I returned home. But instead of striking through the line about reuniting with my friends, I thought perhaps to amend it to read "Reunite with My Friends More Often." That, and adding something about thanking Marc — in what may be his last act of friendship toward me — for inspiring me to finally begin recreating my lost memories.

Oh, and "Get Married."

It felt like it was time for a little music. When we finally reached an altitude where it was safe for us to begin using our "approved portable electronic devices," I put away the notebook and removed from my bag my iPod and, unable to decide on my mood, set it on "shuffle play," letting the expensive piece of equipment do the thinking for me. A staggering 8606 possible selections spanning a century of theatre and song and what does it choose to play first? Madonna's 1992 "This Used to Be My Playground," a powerful ballad about remembering one's past that I hadn't heard in years.

And why do they always say "no regrets"…? But I wish that you were here with me … well, then there's hope yet … I can see your face in our secret place … you're not just a memory … say goodbye to yesterday … those are words I'll never say.

In other words, continuity without regret. How freakin' cool is that?

To be concluded...

Absent Friends, Chapter Nine: Ken and Alexandria

2009-04-21T08:00:00.000-06:00

I entered through the foyer where so many great times both began and ended and saw my friend Ken sitting quietly in the remodeled waiting area. Suppressing a smile, I approached him as he stood up to greet me and, without words, we embraced.

Ken and I met on June 16, 1992. I know the day well because it was the day after I graduated from high school. He was a new friend of Ellen's and she arranged for the three of us to meet at the Coral Springs public library on the morning following my big graduation party, which incidentally was held at the hotel located right next door to Wag's.

"He's someone we need to know," she told me.

He was sixteen at the time and it wasn't long before he became inducted into our ever-expanding group of friends. Later labeled "Ken the Quiet Guy" by Jen DeWhats-her-face, he may have been the first among us to truly bridge the gap between my high school life and my adult one, participating in a number of adventures in the ensuing years that forever garnered him a place in my heart. The last time I saw him was in 1997, when he was home from college visiting his mother. Now, eleven years later, he's a renowned mathematician, finishing his Ph.D. and living with his wife less than a mile from 31st Street.

We took a seat in a booth near the front window and did what we had done a million times before: sit in Wag's and talk. For hours, we caught up on our lives up until that very point, speaking of shared adventures and mutual friends, like experiencing the many mad antics of Bart firsthand or the pain we felt the day Ellen moved away.

"We need to have a reunion," he said, reminding me once again that my memories were not as tainted as I feared they were. "All of us."

And while a reunion involving "all of us" seemed unlikely to happen anytime soon, a smaller, more immediate reunion was just around the corner as my longtime friend Alexandria was about to make her first appearance in my life in six years.

If you are one to believe in the existence of parallel universes, you might also believe that, as unlikely as it seems, somewhere in the cosmos exists a heterosexual version of me. And on this strange parallel world where I am straight and golden coins drop from the sky every time it rains, it is quite likely that my first romantic relationship was with Alexandria.

In our true reality, we met on our first day of fifth grade. Part Zooey Deschanel and part Princess Leia, she exuded an energy that fused siple girlhood charm with an unspoken strength and self-assurance. She was new in town and, without a qualm of hesitation, made her intentions known to me that she and I were going to be good friends. And thus began a friendship that has survived twenty-four years.

Whether in the background or as one of the main players, Alex was there with me throughout it all. She played alongside Tara and Bart when we were children, experienced the machinations of evil Jen DeWhats-her-face firsthand during our teens, partied with Michelle and Josh on Las Olas Boulevard in our twenties, and always — always — accepted me for the person I am.

Importantly, Alex holds a unique place in my life as being one of the first people ever to encourage me to write. She was an exceptionally creative child and, together, we spent many hours constructing a fictional universe of heroes, villains, science, magic, and fantasy. We would each write a chapter of our shared story during the day and then read it to one another by phone every night. This continued for years until we had crafted a connected body of work worthy of Tolkien. I still have boxes of our notes, sketches, and tales that I like to revisit every now and then for inspiration.

Married now with two children of her own, Alex works for a prominent nationwide bakery chain following a near-fatal collision with a dump truck that had run a red light, almost bringing to a grisly end a most magnificent life. Looking at her, though, you could never tell. She is still the same beautiful, bubbly, brazen girl that approached me in 1984 and changed my world forever.

The last time she and I saw each other was at our ten-year high school reunion, following which she got the chance to meet Alan, Christi, and another dear friend, Peter. I actually have the photo we all took together that evening in a frame on my bedroom dresser, a constant reminder of how lucky I am to know such marvelous people.

The three of us were sitting together for a good twenty minutes before I realized that Alex and Ken had somehow never met before, the assumption that they had the result of my overactive brain remembering the past the way I wanted to, not the way it was. It mattered not, as they immediately took to one another and a new friendship was born.

We spent the whole evening together, at one point landing in the Borders bookstore that once foolishly employed Jen DeWhats-her-face. I have mentioned Jen DeWhats-her-face several times throughout this narrative because she, too, was a huge part of my life that crossed into the lives of many others at my insistence, and no heartfelt melodramatic tale of days of old could be complete without her inimitable presence.

I refer to her as Jen DeWhats-her-face because I am mindful not to use last names in this story, but calling her "Jen" simply doesn't do her justice. Ever since I've known her, she is widely referred to by her first and last name spoken together in one long breath, kind of like a celebrity ... but a celebrity who steals your food and terrorizes your life partners. Something of a recluse who, on the surface, appears to hate everyone and everything, she is in fact a thoughtful and devoted friend, a stunning beauty with an equally beautiful soul ... it just takes some time to find it beneath the layers of cynicism and semi-digested Ovaltine powder.

We met when I was still in high school and I was immediately captivated by her brutal honesty and questionable disdain for the world around her. She could spit lyrical fire with her dry wit and impeccable timing, shredding her closest friends to tattered pieces and permanently scarring menfolk across three counties. But, like witnessing a wreck between a clown car and a bus full of nuns, you just can't help but be enthralled no matter how unsettling it is.

But that's Jen. Unusual, uncompromising, and unbelievably real. She found her way to Atlanta shortly after I did, a gesture that meant more to me than I think I ever truly admitted. She's still there, actually, living her life and frightening the natives on a path that veered away from mine years ago. Regardless, she'll always be one of us.

While inside Borders, Ken and Alex regaled each other with tales of Jen imprinting on their lives, their words highlighting an intricate and interrelated past that neither knew they shared before that moment. As they weaved yet another layer onto the complicated tapestry that is my life, I felt great pleasure in the continued validation of my mission.

Later, as we sat in a surprisingly tasteful microbrewery tucked away in the area of town that has come to be known as "Restaurant Row," indulging on German beer and goblets of Pinot Noir, we somehow got to talking about Bart and his enduring impact on our lives.

"It's his voice," Ken said with much certainty. "Not his intonation, as hilarious as that can be, but the way he expresses himself when he's not speaking. I've never known another living soul who could make such a powerful statement simply by standing in a room with you. It's inspiring."

"He does project a certain indefinable confidence," I agreed.

Alex added, "For me, it's definitely his spirit. I can remember how just being around him when we were kids was explosive, like a visit to a fireworks factory or a candy store. You always knew that having Bart around meant an adventure was about to happen."

I smiled as I absorbed the obvious fondness they both felt for my friend.

"What about you, Chris?" they asked me in near unison. "What is about Bart that you admire most?"

I thought briefly about how I could possibly sum up twenty-five years of friendship in one sentence. I also thought of how I began this journey seeking some kind of psychological affirmation and how, in the last forty-eight hours, I got it.

"He's Bart," I finally said through a half-cocked smile.

We lifted our glasses in a toast to our friend.

Later that evening, Bart joined me for a few moments in my bedroom — his old bedroom, the one in which we spent countless hours playing and laughing and dreaming in the days before the weight of the world made itself known to us — for our usual "moment alone" conversation that had become something of a standard in our adult visits with one another. He was wearing some random pink and white bathrobe that he insisted was seersucker and not terrycloth, although I wasn't convinced. It most likely belonged to his mother but somehow it very appropriately screamed "Bart" to me.

We sat side by side on the edge of the bed and spoke of many things. I briefly considered sharing with him my conversation with Alex and Ken but ultimately decided to save it for another day.

It was midway through our exchange that I had the most incredible sense of déjà vu. I think I may have also had a vision of the future, a vision of two little boys sitting together in their old age seeing glimpses of the their lives reflected in one another's eyes, and knowing with absolute certainty that such a day will come.

"You've been frightfully introspective since you arrived," he said moments later with an air of concern.

"Have I?" I shot back rhetorically.

"I worry about you, you know. Are you going to be okay?"

"Perhaps I'm purposely being pensive so I can later write about this very experience," I replied without really answering his question.

"Perhaps," he said, understanding me completely.

The tone soon shifted and we pulled out my iPod and listened to sound bytes from old Meryl Streep movies (yes, I have sound bytes from old Meryl Streep movies on my iPod), he with one extension of the headphones in one ear and I with the other, and quoted along merrily to some of our favorites in perfect unison, as perhaps only he and I could do.

Continuity without regret, I thought.

Soon after, he bid me farewell and retired to his room, leaving me alone with my iPod and a faith in a bright new tomorrow.

To be continued…

Absent Friends, Chapter Eight: An Interlude with Ghosts

2009-04-20T08:00:00.000-06:00

It was my initial intent to overlap my visits with assorted friends during this whirlwind tour of times gone by. In my mind's eye, I saw a grand gathering of relationships spanning my lifetime, all of us joyfully sitting together in a particular diner that held some meaning to us as we talked and laughed and silently validated my insane need to be the center of some illustrious group. But upon absorbing the magnitude of my intentions, as well as the difficulty of coordinating such an endeavor with all involved, it became quite clear that my delusions of grandeur would need to be shelved in favor of a little realism. The desire to revisit that particular diner, however, did not.

Following our visit with Tara and Missy, Bart and A.J. decided to break off for some "alone time." I was disappointed that Bart would not be present for my next reunion, as he also shared a history with the people I was about to see, but I understood and respected his wishes. And although A.J. was as open and sociable as he could be, I imagine it must be somewhat taxing to have to vicariously relive someone else's memories ad nauseum (in person, not via blog, which is of course perfectly fine). As such, they dropped me off at a Barnes and Noble down the street from the diner in question where I, too, relegated in some alone time before my next meeting.

Sitting in one of those oversized chairs scattered about the store, I jotted more of my thoughts down in my weathered notebook and contemplated titles and chapter names for the story you are currently reading. In fact, in keeping with the momentum we felt during the concert two nights prior, I briefly toyed with the idea of naming all of the chapters of this missive after Madonna songs but soon discovered that it's rather difficult to use words like "Erotica" and "Borderline" in a tender story about retracing your roots or spending Thanksgiving with Bart's family.

Anyway, a thought that kept replaying in my mind was how much Coral Springs had changed since my day, and how strange it felt to be a tourist in my own hometown. Perhaps it's because I've been so traumatized by life in Baton Rouge, but I couldn't believe how metropolitan Coral Springs seemed to me. As I walked up the street to my next destination, passing boutiques and taverns that surely didn't exist when I was a boy, I was somewhat taken aback by how clean and modern the city felt. Gorgeous weather, strings of manicured palm trees, and a bright blue sky punctuated by velvety clouds and a lovely breeze were complimented by lush landscapes, interesting architecture, and that distinct sea-inspired fragrance indigenous to South Florida in the fall.

I also couldn't believe the overabundance of pedestrian traffic I encountered on my walk, folks who were out and about window shopping and sipping designer lattes at any number of welcoming sidewalk cafés and coffee shops. Maybe it's a case of the grass being greener, or just simply seeing a familiar place through new eyes, but this was definitely not the Coral Springs I remembered.

As I passed one such café, I quickly noticed a group of teenagers sitting outside together: four girls and one very animated boy, laughing as they unknowingly lived the moments that would someday become their precious memories. I thought of my own friends as I watched them carry on from a comfortable distance, hearing only snippets of their conversation and knowing instantly that they could very well have been us, many years prior. Amy, Ellen, Heidi, and Jody … four other amazing souls who helped teach me what friendship was all about in the pivotal years between playing make-believe in Bart's secret garden and learning the meaning of the phrase "fiscal responsibility."

There were others — many others, actually — but it will always be Amy, Ellen, Heidi, and Jody for whom I credit setting the standard to which all things that followed were held. I saw them as larger-than-life beings, mythic spirits prone to spontaneous group reenactments of "The Pink Ladies' Pledge" from Grease 2 just for the hell of it. Each brought something wonderful and vital to the table: Amy exuded raw beauty, imagination, and attitude unlike anything I've seen before or since; Ellen was our spiritual center — our sister, our muse; Heidi, with her child-like temperament and infectious smile, always knew how to make me laugh whenever I needed it most; and behind Jody's sinister puff of hair (rumored to contain great knowledge) existed the sweetest and most loyal friend for whom anyone could ever ask.

I can remember all of us piling into Amy's purple car at daybreak on a cool January morning and stopping for breakfast on the way to school, but not before belting out a few B-52's songs in perfect harmony along the way. I can remember square dancing for some reason inside the rickety old elevator at the J.C. Penney's where Heidi worked, never once thinking it anything but normal. I can remember introducing both Tara and Bart to my new friends, and simply loving it when we all had an occasion to be together. I can remember passing notes, skipping school, all-nighters, and knowing beyond any doubt that the simpler times we were sharing would stay with me every single day for the rest of my life.

And to think it all began inside the diner I was about to enter.

In my day, social activities in Coral Springs were limited to two things: visiting the neighboring town's only 24-hour grocery store in the dead of the night and trying to identify the mystery meat in their infamous deli, or hanging out at Wag's. And as tempting at the former option was, we more often than not chose Wag's.

Wag's was our Central Perk. Morning, noon, or night, you could always find a world of activity within its smoke-filled walls. Teens from across town frequented the popular dive that played home to Lollipop the Clown every Tuesday for their boisterous Family Night and the "The Sunshine Delight," a rather obvious facsimile of a rival restaurant's more familiar Grand Slam.

After connecting with Amy, Ellen, Heidi, and Jody in the late eighties, we would frequently hold court in Wag's until we either had enough of the smell or our money ran out, whichever came first, befriending a crowd of waitresses, cooks, and busboys along the way. To us and our fledgling identities, it was so much more than just a hangout specializing in serving greasy food to greasy teenagers; it was the one place in the world that allowed us to come out of our shells, to bond without parental oversight or fear of judgment … to be ourselves. It only felt natural that at least one of my reunions should be within its walls.

Unfortunately, however, Wag's no longer exists. Well, the structure does, now going by the more typical name of Denny's, but Wag's itself closed its doors to the world around the time I stopped hanging out there. Coincidence or cosmic apropos, you decide. In either case, it'll always be Wag's to me.

I have to admit to some trepidation about returning to the scene of such significance after what was indeed a lengthy absence. Not that I necessarily expected to know a single soul that currently dwelled within, but I couldn't help but feel a sense of haunting familiarity, as if I might hear Ellen leading us in song with her guitar from the booth in the back or see Amy and Heidi sharing a large glass of Diet Coke with two straws.

As I stood at the entrance and peered inside, gathering my nerve and feeling pangs of bittersweet joy sweep over me, I was suddenly fifteen years old again, big hair and goofy grin and about to create another memory that I would keep for the rest of my life.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter Seven: Tara and Missy

2009-04-19T08:00:00.010-06:00

I awoke the following morning to the sounds of the Bart's relations scurrying about the kitchen, which was right outside my bedroom door. A fresh pot of coffee was on the burner and I was excited to begin the day.

As someone who revels in constantly having some source of electronic entertainment buzzing in the background whenever I'm at home, it's always a bit strange for me to be thrust into an environment where life revolves around life. But with the family stuck in transition from one home to another, there was a sort of imposed deprivation of all things modernly convenient: no TV, no computer, no connection to the outside world unless it was in printed form, variations of which existed in abundance throughout the house. Even so, where my childhood home echoed on any given day a zoo just before feeding time, Bart's home was always a world of tranquility and civility; then or now, intentional or not, it was really no different than how it always was, which made this eerie recreation all the more remarkable to me.

Following breakfast, I found my way, along with my notebook and surrogate pen in hand, to the backyard. I have vivid memories of playing for hours in Bart's backyard, reimagining it as some sort of clandestine wonderland that existed beyond time and space, accessible only through a secret passage within the large grandfather clock that sat beside the back door. It was a magical garden inhabited by talking trees, royal fowl, and a strange race of beings we called the Wigglesnorts. Day after day, hour after hour, we acted out stories made up as we went along, instilling within me that sense of marvel and mind I would carry over into my adult life. At some point during my visit, Penny commented on how creative we were as children, how in the days before computers and video games and everything instant and now we had no choice but to rely on our imaginations. I couldn't agree more.

We were indeed fortunate that our neighborhood had an abundance of children willing to play along with us during those special, early days. Among them was a sweet little blond girl named Tara. Tara is, without hyperbole, my oldest friend. She and I met in 1980, when I was six and she was four and our families lived in the same apartment complex a mile or so away from the homes we would eventually inhabit. Through serendipity, we both relocated to 31st Street and remained in each other's lives ever since.

While my house was several doors down from Bart's, Tara's was directly across the street, lending itself to a unique dynamic between my two friends. The three of us enjoyed a special friendship as we traversed adolescence together, and Bart and I watched her grow from a playful little girl with a love for ducks and dance into a stunning young woman with style and grace, currently expecting her second child. I have no doubt that it was knowing Tara in high school that made my social rating spike and propelled me into a world of moderate popularity that I may otherwise never have known. She was pretty, well-liked, full of life, and my dear friend.

Not uncommonly, Bart and Tara grew apart as they reached adulthood and their different priorities took shape. I maintained a connection to both, obviously, but the days of our adventures together ceased to exist, limited to the odd Christmas party or brief social gathering. There has always been a part of me that has mourned the loss of our trio.

I last saw Tara shortly before I moved to Atlanta, prior to her marriage, birth of her first child, and relocation to a town just outside Coral Springs. We continue to talk frequently via both email and phone, and I feel as if we have both made great efforts, despite our lives taking us in very different directions, to preserve the sanctity of a friendship that has lasted nearly thirty years. As such, seeing her during my trip home was definitely one of my priorities.

We decided to meet for lunch at the Coral Springs Olive Garden, yet another locale that, perhaps sadly, held some meaning for us. (We didn't have a whole lot to keep us occupied in Coral Springs, remember?) It was within those same faux Romanesque walls that Jen DeWhats-her-face earned the notorious reputation as "the monster with many mouths" for being able to consume seven sequential bowls of soup in one sitting; where Christi enraged the locals by fellating her first breadstick to the horror of her confused compatriots; and where Bart's cousin Hilary survived three grueling weeks as a waitress before being driven away by mobs of seniors indulging on unlimited salad for hours at a time without the consideration of leaving a proper gratuity. It seemed somewhat appropriate, then, to revisit such a sacred site during this pilgrimage.

I was delighted to learn that we were going to be joined by two additional guests: Bart's beloved A.J. and Tara's older sister Missy. Missy, like Tara, wore loveliness like a fine cashmere shawl. Growing up, she was the hip "older" kid on the block, the one who who always had an endless parade of suitors lining up and down the street just for a chance to walk her to the mailbox and back. But there was ever only one true love for Missy: her Mark, a man she courted for nearly twenty years before officially tying the knot several years back. If there's ever been a living example of a happy ending, it's Missy and Mark. And we're all of us better off for having experienced it through her.

As Bart, A.J., and I sat inside the hallowed walls of the infamous eatery awaiting Tara and Missy's arrival, I launched into a somewhat discomforting tale of one of Bart's more embarrassing indiscretions within these very walls years prior involving an unfortunate exchange overheard by a disgruntled waiter and ending with Bart refusing to eat anything that the waiter may have been able to taint beyond our view. Bart twitched uncomfortably in his seat while shooting me glances laden with worry, and I was silently reminded that there's always just a hint of unspoken concern that I may say something or tell a grisly tale of times past that would expose the Bart of yesteryear and cast him in a strange and different light in the eyes of his paramour. I usually operate precariously because of this knowledge and try my best to respect his boundaries, often with varying degrees of success. Yet I also know as well as he does that nothing I could say or do would shatter the obvious respect and admiration A.J. has for him.

That's yet another of Bart's special qualities: his loyalty. He sometimes humors, if not outright tolerates, my many idiosyncrasies and behaviors — such as the constant snapping of photographs or long tirades about how the world is most definitely out to get me — and I know it, even if he doesn't realize that I do. But it's within that very knowledge that exists the invaluable foundation of our everlasting friendship, a foundation built upon an unconditional acceptance of precisely who we are at our very cores.

Soon, Tara and Missy entered the restaurant and, for the first time in as long as I can remember, the trio of children that once played together every day after school reunited as adults. Tara was as sparkling as a glass of champagne, her golden blonde hair perfectly framing that sincere grin of hers that is forever etched in my mind ... still radiant, still charming, still Tara. Just being in the same room with her is enough to make even the most solemn among us smile. We caught up on years of lost time as we dined, taking pictures and recounting shared memories that somehow survived twenty-plus years, including Bart and Tara's ill-fated attempt as launching a "seeing-eye bunny" service and the time we rowed up the canal together in an old canoe while singing songs popularized by Fraggle Rock.

It was later, during a rather colorful retelling of the time Bart and Tara placed their respective pet rabbits in matching strollers and rolled them down the boulevard together hand-in-hand, that it occurred to me that maybe I hadn't completely imagined the bond the two of them shared independent of me, and that it truly meant something to the two people who, in more ways than one, now lived worlds apart. The idea that their lives could have taken such wildly different paths yet they still managed to somehow hold onto their intertwined past was what this trip was all about … continuity without regret.

The hours melted away like frost in the sun and it was soon time to part ways. I thought briefly about how it may be another ten years or more before we all have the opportunity to be together again, and for the first time in my life I was okay with that. I also couldn't help but wonder if Tara's son and daughter-to-be might one day know the magnificence of a friendship like the one their mother has with us.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter Six: Michelle and Josh

2009-04-18T08:00:00.005-06:00

That evening, as another Thanksgiving faded to memory and the first streams of Christmas lights began to sparkle across the world, Bart and I would reunite with two of our dear friends, Michelle and Josh.

I met Michelle sometime between 1993 and 1994, when I was the assistant manager of the Waldenbooks store at Fort Lauderdale's Galleria Mall, and she was one of my employees. I would make a lot of friends during my years at that store — Christi, Douglas, Lynne, Ric and Francisco — but Michelle and I enjoyed a very special kinship, partly due to the fact that we were the same age and shared many of the same sensibilities.

It may've been Michelle who first taught me what it meant to be rebellious without having to be labeled as a rebel. I can recall her willingness to join me in whatever foolishness was the order of the day, be it one my compulsory sing-alongs or a day of shopping for that which we could not afford. Her hair may've been long and jet black one day and shaved the next, but it was never about trying to stand out or get attention ... it was her, pure and simple, and how a genuine spontaneity helped define a young woman who refused to be defined.

She was also fiercely committed to animal rights. It was with Michelle that I first declared my own vegetarianism, a noble gesture that lasted until I developed a wicked protein deficiency and near-fatal anemia. Had I known that vegetarians need more that just cheese doodles and beer to survive, I might've done a little better. But that's my fault, not hers.

You know, when you get right down to it, she was like a pleasant version of my friend Jen DeWhats-her-face, minus the henna and the cursing.

Josh is Michelle's husband. They met in 1999 and, during their courtship, he quickly became a member of our little group. I always liked Josh for many reasons, among them the fact that he was sexy, straight, and never once had a problem with embracing Michelle's gay friends. His openness and playfulness with me bordered on giddy flirtation, only without the risk of it ever leading to something unsavory. He always viewed me as a man, not a gay man, and therein lies the secret of our friendship.

I can't recall just how Bart came to know them, although it was no doubt by my urging. That was very much like how these things always played out when it came to our circle(s) of friends: I befriended someone, built a rapport, earned their trust, and then sprung Bart on them like some insane living version of that fake can of peanut brittle that shoots snakes out at you when you open it. If I was the opening act, it was Bart's larger-than-life persona that brought you to your feet for thunderous ovation.

In the ensuing years, Michelle and Josh visited Bart as often as they did me. In fact, his relationship with them may be one of the few instances where a friendship I precipitated continued on without me. I always felt a great sense of pride when that happened.

Michelle and Josh have been married for a number of years now and have two children together. Bart and I were both gone by the time their family came into being, so our memories of them are of two contemporaries in the early days of their relationship joining us for dinners and parties and frequent outings to the cinema. It's strange, in a way, that their lives now are consumed with doing right by their offspring; part of me wonders if we would've shared that same level of camaraderie had we known them later rather than sooner.

The last time I saw either of them was when, ironically, they came to Atlanta in 2003 to spend Thanksgiving with me. Bart was also there for that holiday, and it seemed that perhaps we might make a tradition of it. Now, five years later, we were finally making good on that idea.

It being Thanksgiving evening, our choice of venues for our brief reunion was somewhat limited. Fortunately, we discovered a 24-hour International House of Pancakes just off US1 in Pompano Beach that was open and, although not our first choice, it would serve its purpose. With their children left with a willing in-law, Michelle and Josh arrived only moments after we did, and within a matter of seconds the four of us were swept into a scene I had been craving for years.

We defaulted without pause to our previous selves, laughing and joking and making ribald comments you could only make with your closest friends. It was as if we instantly devolved backwards to the people we were before maturity grabbed hold of us and beat a sense of responsibility into our heads. Both Michelle and I had our cameras, of course, and we each snapped photos as we spoke alternatingly of the economy and times past, of business ventures and absent friends, of then and now.

During the conversation, we were surprised to discover that Michelle, Bart, and I all attended the same junior high school in the same year, effectively discovering something new about a person we believed we knew everything there was to know. How strange that our paths may have crossed years before we were ever to become friends and we never even knew it.

After feeling as if we may have outstayed our welcome, we continued our carousing outside the restaurant for quite a bit more until we all knew it was time to go. As we began the sad process of saying our goodbyes, amidst hugs and smiles but just short of tears, Michelle turned to me and said, "It's so wonderful to have friends like you, friends that you don't see for years at a time but, when you do, you can carry on just like no time has passed at all."

Her genuine words encircled me and I thought to myself how, before setting out on this journey, it may've never even crossed my mind that it could be any other way between us. And I guess that's exactly why I needed to see them … to be reminded of that possibility … to experience that sensation with people I love.

During the drive home, Bart and I reflected on our visit with Michelle and Josh, thinking how strange it might've been had their children seen their devoted parents as the playful duo we just left. We spoke further about our own lives and the paths we've taken, and I thanked him again for joining me on my journey.

"Which one?" he asked

"All of them."

We returned to the quiet house to find A.J. curled up on a sofa, entrenched in both a blanket and a book. I made certain he, too, knew of my appreciation and left the two of them alone together, retiring to the bedroom where I sat silently on the bed and reviewed the photos we had just taken. If only we had digital cameras back in the day, I thought. Not long ago, I lost a treasure trove of photos that cataloged a lifetime worth of memories, a consequence of yet another of my unfortunate transgressions. The pain still stings whenever I think about it, which is pretty often.

In fact, it was Marc who once suggested that, in the absence of photographic evidence, I should attempt to recreate my memories through written word. It was a daunting challenge, and one in which I was not sure I could face. Yet on this evening, feeling inspired and with my visit with Michelle and Josh still fresh on the brain, I grabbed my notebook and attempted to record some thoughts before they, too, dissipated like so much mist.

The end result, unfortunately, was little more than garbled lines of incoherent scribble that would assuredly cause concern for any outsider who happened upon them. But I knew that somewhere within my disjointed scrawl sat the framework for something of substance, parts of which will no doubt find their way into this story while most will remain a closely guarded secret between the notebook and its careworn keeper. Another form of medication-free therapy … my former therapist would be so proud.

It was late and I was tired. I still had two more days ahead of me and much more to do in that brief amount of time. I cleared my mind of sadness and guilt and said a silent goodnight to my friends and family, wherever they may be.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter Five: Continuity Without Regret

2009-04-17T08:00:00.000-06:00

Exhausted from a long day of travel and a long night of screaming at a Madonna concert, I slept until late the following morning, conveniently missing having to participate in much of the Thanksgiving dinner preparation. It was probably for the best, I tried to convince my host family, as I've been known to set fires when fixing dry cereal. If this day was to be a splendiferous taste extravaganza, it would do everyone a world of good to keep me as far away from the kitchen as possible.

And a splendiferous taste extravaganza it was. Bart's parents, Penny and Joe, and his spitfire of a grandmother, the 83-year-old Doreen, joined Bart, A.J., and me as we sat around the family table and celebrated our unity. Two years earlier, I sat with this same group of people at Bart and A.J.'s wedding and was reminded of how, for as long as I can remember, I have always felt a part of this amazing family. I was also reminded of how I was barely nine years old the first time I sat with them in this same dining room. I think Penny was serving lamb and it may have been the first time in my life I showed signs of an inclination toward vegetarianism based on moral objection.

Following the feast, while the rest of the family indulged in a tryptophan-induced group coma, Bart and I decided to go for a walk through our old neighborhood. The weather on this Thursday in November was an unbelievable clear, breezy, and sunny … a perfect Florida autumn day.

Deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole we went as we revisited the canals where we once fed the ducks, the sidewalks where we once rode our bicycles in tandem, and the fields where I once pinned a dishtowel around my neck and forced Bart to be Lois Lane to my Superman. We saw old Mrs. Webber taking her trash to the curb and laughed at how we called her old Mrs. Webber twenty years ago. We marveled at the number of new buildings that populated our once quiet street, including a large Mormon church and an elementary school that all but brushed up against the edge of our backyards.

"It's different yet the same," he said, reading my mind.

"It's strange how the houses and buildings that once dwarfed us suddenly seem so insignificant in size and meaning."

"In size, perhaps," he corrected me, "but not so much in meaning."

By this point, we had found our way through the city park that rested several blocks to the south and were sitting on the edge of the playground we frequented when we were children. The ducks from a nearby lake immediately saw us and came running, expecting to be fed.

"So much like before," I said, gazing skyward with a glint of melancholy in my eye.

"You aren't going to start morbidly pondering the meaning of life again, are you?"

"Why else did we come here?" I asked.

"Touché."

We stayed in that one location for quite awhile, speaking much of the past but also much of the future. A theme that emerged during our conversation was one of achieving a sense of continuity without regret. As we understood it, it was about embracing your history while looking toward that which has yet to come. It was about finding new adventure on the road before you while not forgetting the roads you've already traveled. It was about moving on without ever having to let go.

It was easy to confide in Bart. Of all the people I have known in my lifetime, he is among the few whose benevolence truly knows no bounds. He possesses the invaluable ability to empathize and support, even when he disagrees wholeheartedly with the reasons or potential outcomes. To that end, he was courteous in his willingness to cart me around town to reconnect with people with whom he only had passing relations, which was not unlike how we operated during our late teens and early twenties. It was actually a relevant observation on my part, in that Bart always humored me in my mad desire to create a collective consciousness among my friends, despite his natural inclinations toward introversion. He always participated, smiled for the camera, and added that extra sense of permanence to every group gathering and event.

Continuity without regret.

As we walked back toward the house, he made mention of how much he missed reading my now-defunct online journal, regardless of his characteristic noninterest in such things.

"You and The Huffington Post," he smiled. "I never missed a day."

Whether he meant it or not, it was something that I really needed to hear.

Soon, as the sun began to set in the distance and the horizon became draped in a silhouette of crimson and gold, we found ourselves joined on our stroll by Penny and Doreen, who had awoken from their midday slumber and were now in the process of taking their eight-year-old Golden Retriever Emma for a walk. I've often said that, as someone who lost his last grandparent more than fifteen years ago, seeing Bart with his grandmother is a genuine treat for me. They share a love that I envy.

As the others headed back inside, I remained behind and walked up the road to the driveway of my old house, standing there alone as I looked fondly upon my childhood home before calling my parents and wishing them a happy Thanksgiving.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter Four: Music Makes the People Come Together

2009-04-16T08:00:00.000-06:00

I'm not a big concert-goer. At least not since joining the ranks of the middle-aged. But I maintain a certain appreciation for seeing live performances of various entertainment luminaries before I (or they) die. My list thus far includes Bette Midler, Prince, Whitney Houston, Carol Channing (yes, Carol Channing), and Billy Joel. And after my first night back in Florida, I was to add the legendary Madonna herself to that modest list.

As it turned out, Bart's mother Penny, an eccentric and brilliant woman known more for her love of Jane Austen than the later works of the world's most infamous Material Girl, thought it a nice surprise to purchase tickets to Madonna's Sticky and Sweet Tour concert, a one-night-only event being held in Miami's Dolphin Stadium on the eve of Thanksgiving. I would later learn that the seemingly noble gesture had a somewhat more devious purpose, as she needed to get us out of the house (and, thusly, out of the way) for a few hours in order to prepare for the following day's elaborate feast, but I wasn't complaining.

The drive down to Miami allowed for a perfect opportunity to catch up with Bart and A.J. Although I speak to Bart somewhat frequently, my contact with his partner is limited to the odd historic event, such as their wedding and now, two years later, our Thanksgiving homecoming. I was pleasantly surprised by how well we got on together, considering the scarcity of our visits with one another.

It wasn't long before we were swimming among 50,000 screaming Madonna fans. It was a bit jarring to suddenly be arm-and-arm with so many homosexuals after two years living in Baton Rouge, where the number of out gays can be counted on one hand, comparatively speaking. I am glad to say that I was cruised by at least one of them, reminding me that I hadn't lost it yet, whatever it may be. The fact that she was a lesbian mattered little.

As we waited for the lady of the hour to grace the stage with her electric presence, it dawned on me that I hadn't purchased a Madonna album since 1998's "Ray of Light," back when it felt appropriate for me to be a Madonna fan. In many ways, her career up to that point mirrored my own experience growing up in South Florida, and her music was a significant backdrop to that very journey. It struck me as odd that I stopped listening to her about the same time I left Florida for Atlanta.

Nevertheless, here I was thrust inside a concert tour celebrating her eleventh album when all I could think of was whether or not she'd sing "True Blue." I think it would have been easy to feel estranged from everyone around me but the night sky was abuzz with energy and whether you came to hear "Like a Virgin" or "4 Minutes" you were there together.

Finally, after keeping us waiting for a grueling two-and-a-half hours ("fashionably late" my ass!), the concert began and it was, without overstating a thing, absolutely amazing. For two straight hours she owned that stage, a force of nature that exuded a fiery vigor one must see to believe. Her banter was minimal, save for occasionally shouting obscenities at the audience for no discernable reason (not unlike Carol Channing), but her passion was unmistakable. And to my surprise, she peppered her act with songs spanning her illustrious twenty-six year career, making it so even the most socially detached among us could feel included in the fanfare.

It was during "Like a Prayer" that I first let the emotion overcome me, transporting me back in time to my parent's living room circa 1989 when, at the age of fifteen, I would sit by our television for hours and wait for MTV to play that controversial new video that somehow spoke to me in ways I couldn't quite explain. It was the first time on this trip that I would experience such a sensation, but certainly not the last.

Later, during a riveting rendition of "Ray of Light" just before the concert reached its epic close, I caught a glance of Bart and A.J. dancing and singing amongst the fans, they too taken to a time and place all their own. The powerful lyrics filled the night air inside the darkened arena as she repeated the words "and I feel like I just got home," and it was at that exact moment that it became strangely clear that this unplanned diversion into the world of a timeless icon, not unlike our unintended stay at a house from my youth, was absolutely meant to be part of my journey.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter Three: A Long Way to Go

2009-04-15T08:00:00.006-06:00

It was about six or seven years ago when I was finally diagnosed with recurring chronic depression. The medical term is dysthymia, which pretty much means he who is depressed all the time but can't do jack shit about it.

My therapist at the time believed that "medication" was a four-letter word and set about arming me with an arsenal of natural methods as ways to combat the disease, such as exercise, increased exposure to sunlight, and learning to recognize the triggers of depression before they occur. Well, that's all well and good until you're suddenly in the thick of an episode and it feels as though you're in the trash compactor scene from Star Wars ... it becomes rather difficult to activate your well-thought-out contingency plan when there are large steel walls closing in around you at an alarming speed and some alien monster is grabbing at your feet from the murk beneath.

Still, like it or not, I learned in time to embrace whatever homeopathic remedies or faux tonics I could, including something as basic as sitting down at my desk and writing. This one actually worked, for a while. But not since Baton Rouge. Not since the words stopped coming.

After learning of my dismal failure as Marc's friend, which catapulted me into the throes of a depressions not seen since the Spice Girls broke up, I proceeded how I always proceed when my heart has been broken, my soul has been crushed, and my very essence of self has been run through the washing machine and hung out to dry: I went shopping.

I hit every Target, Marshall's, and Bed, Bath, and Beyond in a 30-mile radius. I picked up glassware, houseware, underwear, and whatever other-ware/wear I could shove in my cart and fit on my ever-shrinking Visa. It's an actual disorder, I've read, when one recklessly goes shopping after experiencing something traumatic. But, like the Band-Aid that masks a cut and temporary stops the bleeding but doesn't actually do much to address the wound itself, it fulfills its purpose.

Besides, if I was busy calculating sales tax and imagining where in my home a particular vase or print would be most complimentary, I couldn't be obsessively revisiting every painful detail of the incident that drove me to shop in the first place. It's a brilliant plan, if only you didn't get a bill thirty days later to remind you of both your personal failings and your striking inability to cope with them. So maybe it's not so much a brilliant plan as much as it is a stupid one.

But I digress. The Thanksgiving holiday was days away and I needed to shift gears. Depression or not, Bart was expecting me to arrive in South Florida chipper and ready to cast off the shackles of adult responsibility and play once again like we did when we were ten years old. I had not seen my dear friend since his lovely wedding in Old Lyme, Connecticut, two years prior. I momentarily wondered if that's precisely why we continue to remain such close friends: lack of contact; if I'm not present to screw things up, our friendship is guaranteed to endure. No, that doesn't hold up, considering I somehow destroyed my friendship with Marc from 2500 miles away.

Anyway, the visit home was now upon me and I needed get moving. I purposely procrastinated when it came to packing for my jaunt, as not to tip off the dogs to my pending departure. But within moments of digging my suitcase from the closet and setting it on the floor in front of the dresser, they knew. They always know. And maybe that's just one more reason why I love them so damn much.

Alan graciously drove me to the New Orleans airport at the crack of dawn on a chilly Wednesday morning where I hopped a flight to Florida, but not before running into my boss and her sister standing outside the Southwest Airlines security gate as they awaited the arrival of their mother for the holiday. It was a most disturbing sight, as I have gone to considerable lengths to keep my professional life separate from my private one. It's nothing personal; I just hate everything that reminds me of my servitude to the capitalist regime that chips away at my identify like an ice pick dipped in battery acid.

Soon, thirty-one thousand feet over a state recently called "the unhealthiest U.S. state in the nation" by the American Public Health Association and the Partnership for Prevention, my troubles melted like the fried cheese that helped garner us such noble praise and I readjusted my frazzled mind to ready myself for my arrival home. And home it was, for despite my affinity for Atlanta or my current homeownership in Baton Rouge, I spent twenty years of my life growing up in South Florida. I typically defer to Fort Lauderdale when speaking of my history in the Sunshine State, since that's where I lived during the years when I came into my own, but I actually grew up about thirty minutes west of the beach, in a small, planned community known as Coral Springs.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with Coral Springs. On one hand, it was my home. It's where I went to school, formed my first friendships, met my first dog and my first love. But it's also the place I associated with oppressive suburbia, stifling the creative urgings of a little gay boy yearning to break free from the shackles of monotony and join his gin-soaked brethren in delicious big-city sin. In time, my memories of Coral Springs became clouded, maybe even distorted, as I distanced myself further and further from its innocuous mini-malls and overbearing family values. It was my past, and gay law states that I must always be on the run from my past.

But laws are sometimes revisited and repealed when they no longer serve a legitimate purpose, right?

With my parents and most of my friends long scattered across the four corners of the globe, I had little reason to return to the city of my upbringing, and hadn't done so for about eight years. Little reason, that is, except for Bart. His parents still resided in the town that the U.S. Census Bureau reports as having a population of 127,000 people and, as fate would have it, they had recently returned to the actual house in which he grew up, just two houses down from my old home. It wasn't until I was literally on my way that I would learn I would be staying in that very same house, in the very same room that was Bart's in his childhood.

The original plan was for us to celebrate Thanksgiving in a new, larger house that his family had recently purchased. Their intended home, minutes up the road from our old neighborhood, was a grand residence that sat against the water, sporting a swimming pool, tennis court, and a portachere with which I'm sure we could've had all sorts of fun when we were children.

Unfortunately, I've had more than my fair share of dealings with rehabs and contractors, and I know all too well that if one expects to be in a renovated home by a certain predetermined date, one is deluding oneself. As it was, the house was nowhere near ready to be inhabited and we were relegated to make do in the other abode.

Meanwhile, the flight allowed me time to reflect and ponder what was to come. Although the pain and subsequent depressive state I recently experienced was still lingering on the brain, I felt the first pangs of inspiration wash over me as I stared longingly out the little window and into the clouds. I had stopped writing shortly after starting my job as a counselor/catch-all in the registrar's office of a growing community college for several reasons, among them being unable to reconcile the pressures of professional responsibility with my own creative needs. I could either focus my energies on my career or I could write about my ongoing indignation at everything around me. I chose my career, as it seemed less destructive in the long-term and more likely to have a greater payoff in the end.

Besides, who has the time? When I'm not at work talking people down from ledges, I'm at home doing housework or spending time with the dogs or scouring the web for free porn ... writing doesn't even make the list.

But suddenly, soaring like a bullet across the sky, I felt the desire — no, need — to put pen to paper and record my thoughts. I pawed clumsily through my one carry-on personal item, the trusty red backpack I used in college to log around lofty texts on complex social theory, removed an untouched notebook and my favorite blue pen from within and started jotting down random ideas. It was the first time since I wrote about attending Bart's wedding two years prior that I felt such an inclination. And it felt good.

Was it Bart that served as inspiration, or was it the world he represents to me? I'd wager a little bit of both. As I thought longingly of how very much I needed to see him, I started writing the names of others I had hoped to see during my brief four-day stay in scenic downtown Coral Springs. Each name I wrote symbolized the last vestige of a life I had abandoned so many years before, those last few souls who've yet to leave South Florida themselves. Tara, Missy, Alexandria, Ken, Michelle, Josh … they represented a perfect cross-section of friends from 1980 on forward, friends I hadn't seen collectively or individually in many, many years. It was going to be a challenge, forcing my way back into their lives for just moments of borrowed time between obligations of family, work, and turkey, but I had managed to contact each of them just prior to my trip to let them know of my intent and, thankfully, they were all perfectly willing to see me again.

But were they willing to see each other? That was the test that lay before me, a test that would either validate my past or destroy it.

And what of Bart's role in all of this? My gracious host and unknowing chauffeur … he, too, shared a past with these individuals, but life had taken him on a very different path in the years since I last forced him to participate in my dementia. He would either embrace that past or serve as a painful reminder that you truly cannot go home again, no matter how hard you try.

It was while these various existential thoughts played ping-pong in my head that my favorite blue pen exploded, firing strange gobs of blue ink in every direction across seat 5A and barely missing the sleeping man just inches to my left. Was it a sign that my luck was running out, or just beginning?

One uncomfortable clean-up and a pretty decent landing later, I was on the ground and walking through the Fort Lauderdale airport in search of my friend. I spotted Bart and his partner A.J. from the top of the escalator, waiting for me anxiously by the baggage claim. If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were posing for me.

"I see a gooch!" I screamed, absorbing their smiles and cheer during my descent.

"Piguine!" he replied, pulling from the vault one of our strange terms of endearment we often use when speaking to one another. We embraced amongst a sea of harried travelers and I knew my adventure was about to begin.

"Welcome home! I hope you brought your voguing shoes," he hissed.

"My voguing shoes?"

"Absolutely … because Madonna awaits."

Strike a pose, I thought.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter Two: The Facts of Life

2009-04-14T08:00:00.001-06:00

Anybody who has even a modicum of pop culture film knowledge knows that the oft-repeated phrase "we're putting the band back together" originated in the 1980 classic musical comedy The Blues Brothers. It has since found its way into the lexicon of subsequent generations as a way to infer a reunion of some sort. As someone who bases much of his life in fantasy, it seemed an appropriate way to describe my intent of bringing twenty years worth of friendships back into my life.

If you know me, as I imagine those taking the time to read this do, you know that when it comes to my friends I'm like wolf or a termite or a lesbian: I mate for life. I'm a big believer of doing whatever it takes to maintain some level of contact with the people that hold meaning for me. That's why I have such a difficult time keeping up with phone calls and correspondence and the like; I'm still chatting with people I met thirty years ago.

And when you're fortunate enough to have as many friends as I do, and you make substantial efforts to keep them all a part of your life, it's only natural that some of them will crisscross with others and certain group dynamics will be born. This, people, is the story of my life. It's a story of great and everlasting friendship, and I owe it all to TV.

Well, not TV in general, but the ideas beat into my head by shows like The Facts of Life, Designing Women, The Golden Girls, Friends, and to a lesser extent The Muppet Show, those well-meaning, nicely-scripted, ensemble programs about groups of different people (and, occasionally, puppets) from different backgrounds carrying on together through good times and bad as they discover the value of solidarity, harmony, and the all-important notion that, no matter how ugly things possibly get, you always come back together in the end.

It's a nice idea on the outset but there's just one problem: it doesn't wash. It's fiction, derived from generic sitcoms and based on ideals that speak to our hearts but perhaps not to our nature. My simple mind never really accepted the truth that Blair and Jo and Natalie and Tootie were not BFFs but rather characters played by actors who were paid great sums of money to act out endearing plots as a means to secure ratings, sell commercials, and make oodles of money. Their "great and everlasting friendship," as I saw it, sustained life only as long as their contracts did.

Perhaps it was not the best model on which to base my own life but, nevertheless, that's just what I did. The idea that my friends would effectively transcend into being a family was difficult to shake and soon became the foundation for every non-blood-related relationship I would ever have. Little did my friends know that meeting me for a cup of coffee at the local diner necessitated their encapsulation into some mob-like fraternity where escape was not an option.

My good intentions notwithstanding, I forced this idea into every facet of my social life and went to considerable lengths to fabricate a sense of group camaraderie amongst my friends. Over the years, I would take this obsession to grand new heights, peppered with photo albums, theme songs, and charts and graphs that seemingly illustrated the unbreakable bond between men and women who, if given their druthers, may have had very little to do with one another if I was not there to coerce them.

Maybe it's because I set myself up with these ridiculous conceptions of great and everlasting friendship that I also held myself to ridiculous standards of how these relationships were meant to play out during my lifetime. Clearly, I've never found it easy to let go. But what is it they say about relationships being like living organisms? They're born, they live, they thrive, they falter, and then they die. I'm still trying to accept that analogy.

My friend Marc and I have a long, complicated history. We are as close as brothers, connected to each other in ways that go beyond regular friendships. For one thing, we share the same birthday, give or take nine years. We also share a warped sense of humor, a defined appreciation for the subversive, and a period of five long years when we went without speaking to each other over an incident about which I'm still not quite certain. Yet it happened, painfully suffocating the life out of a unique and dear friendship that meant more to me than words could reasonably describe, and it shook me to my very core.

And then something wonderful happened: Hurricane Katrina destroyed New Orleans. Now before you let the bile overcome you as you suspiciously absorb my vulgar comment that Hurricane Katrina was something wonderful, hear me out. He and his partner (who was also a dear friend of mine until the unpleasantness five years earlier) were living in New Orleans when the destructive storm changed the world forever. And there's nothing like a terrible godless tragedy to bring estranged friends back into your life.

Soon, we were reconnected and closer than ever. Or so I thought. Recently — very recently — yet another misstep in our intricate alliance has forced a wedge between us, one from which I fear we may not recover lest yet another American city is wiped off the map. In his estimation, I am clearly to blame, having grossly failed him during a time of emotional need, although I am not so convinced. Nevertheless, his resounding assessment of my shortcomings has had long-reaching consequences, and the back-and-forth of several heated tête-à-têtes have only widened the rift between us.

So what does all of this have to do with anything, you are surely asking yourself as you are being drawn further into my neurosis. As I walked barefoot over the shattered remains of a friendship I knew to be unbreakable, I asked myself the same question. I was soon forced against my will to reexamine my fractured ideas of friendship in general and an overall past I was beginning to believe was a myth. I was suddenly questioning if my relationships were nothing more than random strings of encounters that wither and die the moment I close my eyes, born of geographic convenience and doomed to failure once they cease to serve an immediate need.

But how could I know for sure? I've lived in Baton Rouge for more than two years and have yet to make a substantial connection with anyone save for a woman I met through work who shares my political views and love for two-for-one margaritas. Affairs of state and Mexican cantina happy hours aside, I have no local friends by which to test my suspicions that my world is, in fact, a lie.

And then it hit me: the Master Plan, and that solemn charge of reuniting with my friends.

Upon further introspection, it soon became clear to me that seeing Jody in Las Vegas may have actually pushed to the forefront of my subconscious my desire to visit with other old friends long gone but never forgotten. But if Jody ignited the spark, it was Marc that fueled the fire. If I was able to fail him so miserably, as he so empathically insisted, then perhaps my fond memories of other relationships I previously considered infallible were also nothing more than delusions brought on by bad TV, or very complicated placebos used to treat my depression, or a little bit of both. Knowing my penchant for imagining complex social relations where none existed, it seemed all too possible that my entire past was indeed a fraud, a well-meaning but self-serving panacea worthy of the best political spin-doctors used to mask my many failings on an epic scale.

If I was going to find out, however, I needed to do so in person. And as fortune — and a strangely convenient plot point — would have it, I had already purchased my airline ticket to spend Thanksgiving with my best friend in all the world, Bart, in our old hometown of Coral Springs, Florida, a place I once insolently described as Baton Rouge with more palm trees. Little did he know, however, of my suddenly critical agenda to validate the very essence of my being by revisiting twenty-eight years of history in the span of three days and one major American holiday.

But Thanksgiving was only a week away so it was now or never ... I was going home.

To be continued...

Absent Friends, Chapter One: The Master Plan

2009-04-13T08:00:00.002-06:00

So where were we when we last met? Oh yes, I was in hell. Figuratively and literally, in my own bitter assessment, as I had just graduated from college at the late age of 32 and followed my heart to start life anew alongside my love in his hometown of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I've never considered myself a particularly cosmopolitan sort-of guy, but living six years in Atlanta instilled me with a sense of modern stuck-uppery that only came to light when juxtaposed against the rural simplicity of a town about twenty years behind the rest of the civilized world. At least that was my appraisal of the situation after first arriving in Baton Rouge in the fall of 2006.

Gone were the days of weekly theater outings, trendy taverns, and dancing 'til dawn at some all-night club alongside a veritable smorgasbord of Atlanta's most intoxicated hotties. I was suddenly propelled into the land of endless dollar stores, roadkill, and a stark loneliness triggered by the realization that the life of adventure and excitement I thought I was getting was lost in the dull shadows of a one-area code town.

In retrospect, it wasn't just the selfish need for modern conveniences and artistic outlets and gourmet cheeses; it was about trying to build a brand new life amongst strangers. It was about trying to find my footing in a world where I was the outsider. It was about losing control. And we all know how much I hate to not be in control.

In time, my life in hell became replaced by a life in purgatory. Things evened out as I found work, bringing with it a much-needed income and sense of purpose and thusly, by default, some sense of control. Before long, Alan and I bought a lovely house and started to build a new life together, a life that, despite my incessant kicking and screaming, is actually not all that bad.

It was during this time that I was reminded of "The Master Plan," a list I wrote way back during my freshman year in college and stored safely away on my computer's hard drive amongst recipes and directions and other seemingly innocuous Microsoft Word documents. It was meant to be a reminder of all the significant, absolutely doable things I wanted to accomplish in the years ahead: graduate from college, buy a house, buy a new car, publish a book, visit Alaska, things like that. Whenever I would achieve one of my goals, rather than delete it from the list, I would strike through it with a bold dark line, letting the item itself remain as a powerful reminder of my accomplishment.

When reviewing my list of objectives, it struck me that everything I had written was concrete, measurable, and with a little hard work and perseverance, obtainable. Everything except for one: "Reunite with My Friends."

In truth, it had already been a year of lovely and overdue reunions. My friend Christi — whom I had known in two different lives, once in my formative years in Florida and later after she, too, relocated to Georgia following my own move to Atlanta — was kind enough to spend a week with me in Baton Rouge earlier in the year, feigning interest in the many sights and scenes of a city best known for its dilapidated roads, corrupt politics, and frightening fanaticism with college football.

Beyond that, I also had the great privilege of recently joining my childhood friend Jody, whom I had not seen in more than ten years, in Las Vegas for a few days of Sin City-style fun. We laughed and played and carried on like the sands of time had no affect at all on our friendship. And they truly didn't, which is a welcome discovery when you commit to spend five days with someone you haven't seen in a decade, as I'm sure she'd agree.

My objective when I typed those semi-ominous words at the bottom of my Master Plan, however, transcended simply connecting with long-lost friends in exotic vacation spots or local prisons. And although it had been a great while since I assigned to paper my earnest desire to "reunite with my friends," it took but a moment of reflection for the memory of my explosive intent to come crashing down around me like so much rubble: I wanted to put the band back together.

To be continued...

Big Fish

2007-03-02T09:00:00.001-06:00

"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."
_____-Martin Luther King, Jr.

When we were in the process of making the difficult decision to leave Atlanta last year and start life anew in Louisiana, Alan and I spent many an emotional night discussing all of the various pros and cons of such a challenging and important move. We had both been feeling like Atlanta had outgrew us and, longing for a simpler way of life, agreed that Baton Rouge offered a pace more to our liking.

In hindsight, of course, I would suggest that perhaps we should've researched our options a tad bit more before committing to the bayou. But, nevertheless, here we are.

One of the more compelling arguments made by Alan during the deliberation process was that he suspected that I never quite found my footing in Atlanta. He proposed that the vivacity and lifestyle of a city like that one made it difficult for people like him and me to stand out and shine.

I didn't disagree, having realized long ago that, for two young gay men living in an urban metropolis defined by its rich nightlife and vibrant social scene, we had neither the means nor the desire to support an ongoing presence. We were much more interested in the local community theater circuit than we were with dining out at five-start restaurants each week or spending Sunday afternoon in a motionless coma after a wild night of partying.

I have to say that I liked the idea of living somewhere that I could be a big fish in a little pond. And not just because I thought it would stroke my already swollen ego. There're other far more sincere and altruistic reasons for my desire to relocate to a place that was both physically and mentally better suited to my needs and personality.

It recently occurred to me that my overall outlook on life often follows the "big fish, little pond" paradigm. Especially when I write. When I started keeping this blog, for instance, I was in an academic program that revolved deeply around social issues. Each and every day I would find myself spending hours upon hours contemplating questions of ideology and philosophy, questions without answers that often only made sense to me once I took the time to write about them. Accordingly, I found that the technology now existed for me to channel my thoughts and opinions online for others to see.

And so this blog began. I didn't do it to impress my friends or win any "best blog" awards (which worked out really well, seeing that I didn't win any); I did it because I wanted to — maybe even had to — and it allowed me a special forum in which I could be unique and different from those using their web journals to spread celebrity gossip or talk about what they had for dinner the night before.

I could be a big fish.

But my life has evolved considerably since those first days of luxury postulating. I don't spend my days studying social theory or trying to make sense of abstract frameworks of patterns and behavior. Those days are behind me. Now, so much of what I think and feel about politics and social justice and human rights and all that jazz is utterly intrinsic, and the necessity for me to spell out every last thought and idea (or, as Elaine Benes so eloquently put it, "pore over the excruciating minutiae of every single daily event") in order to understand it all has become obsolete.

What's more, the Web is now full of impassioned bloggers with very important things to say and incredibly creative ways in which to say them, visionaries who are compelled to fight for what is right through their words and actions. We are no longer silent about the things that matter.

Am I suggesting that I was some kind of blogging trendsetter? Absolutely not. But I did enjoy my time as a big fish in a once little pond. And now I think it's time I got out, dried off, and left it to those with both the time and desire to give it their all. To paraphrase Sondheim one last time: I'll let the moment go ... but I won't forget it for a moment, though.

So, as I sign off, I want to say that it has been my humble privilege to be able to share my thoughts with you. I hope that, along the way, I left you with something worthwhile.

And finally:

Thank you to my fellow bloggers and writers who linked to me and made me believe I had something important to say.

Thank you to all of the anarchists, radicals, artists, and thinkers out there who stopped by regularly to share ideas and inspire me to greater heights.

Thank you to all of you open-minded and socially-conscious free spirits for making me feel less alone in this crazy, messed-up world.

Thank you to all of my friends for always being there.

And thank you all for being such an active part of this experience, and for being willing to indulge my narcissism, cynicism, criticism, opinions, and obsessions. You rock.

I leave you with this final thought: resolve to evolve.

~~Seacrest~~ Sarno out!

Who am I...?

2007-03-01T09:00:00.002-06:00

I resolve to evolve.

I read that somewhere once and thought it sounded deeply profound.

In the time since I began this blog, I've written two books, tackled higher education and earned my first degree, found true love, befriended the most talented group of actors and singers this world will ever know, met the cast of my favorite television show, saw my oldest friend get married, reconnected with two time-lost kindred spirits after many unfortunate years apart, inexplicably uprooted my life from a comfortable metropolis to a stinking bog, made new friends, alientated some others, saw my name in lights, experienced birth, experienced death, and wrote no less than 900 posts about it all.

I'd like to think that I've evolved.

Of course, evolution is, by definition, ongoing, so my work is not yet done. But as I set about embarking upon my new profession — which will ultimately redefine my identity once again — I can't help but think about how much I've grown and changed in the last three years.

This journey has been one of self-reflection and understanding, probably more so than anything else. Correspondingly, I have revisited the question of "Who am I...?" many times over since I wrote those exact same words in my very first post. And, despite being worded differently each time, I always seem to arrive at the same conclusion: like each of you, I am a composite of all that has come before, a being of infinite contradictions defined by moments and choices. I am both a faceless voice and a known loudmouth, a revolutionary and a conformist, a protagonist and a scoundrel, a spectator and a storyteller, an intellect and a fool. I am all of these things and more because I have no choice but to be. None of us do. We are simply and complexly the sum of our experiences.

We resolve to evolve.

You know, I've been listening to a lot of Sondheim lately. I've been especially taken by Sunday in the Park with George. There's a great moment at the end where Bernadette Peters, through her passion and tears, exclaims, "I chose and my world was shaken. So what? The choice may have been mistaken; the choosing was not. You have to move on."

I'm not ashamed to rely on someone else's words in order to express my feelings from time to time, and I think Sondheim more than nailed it right there. As our ongoing evolutions continue, we must all of us make those difficult choices along the way, choices that we might end up regretting but nonetheless define who we are in the end. Such is the beauty of life.

We resolve to evolve.

Once Was a Time I Thought

2007-02-28T09:00:00.002-06:00

As my weeklong masturbatory delusional retrospective look back continues, I thought I'd use today's post to reflect upon my favorite top ten contributions to this blog. I'm not referring to posts that I think are necessarily extraordinary but rather those that commemorate key moments in either my personal history or evolution as a writer.

Here it goes:

10) My Life in Hell

A morose series that brought my wherewithal for bitter cynicism to staggering new heights.

9) Grieving

Painful to write, painful to read, but invaluable in helping Alan and me deal with the death of our dear, sweet Abby. And by reaching out through my words, I learned that we had true friends in our lives and would never be alone in our grief.

8) Zeig Heil! (or, My Life with the Condo Nazis)

The post itself was nothing special, but it would mark the first occasion that Tobia posted a comment in response to something I wrote. She has since become one of my favorite people and I'm deeply grateful that it was my writing that brought her into my life.

7) Things You Shouldn't Know about Me ... but I'm Gonna Tell You, Anyway

I loved this series! It gave me an opportunity to blend fact with fiction while trying my hand at humor writing. I mighta failed 9 times out of 10 but the practice was great (and it saved me a fortune on therapy)!

6) Touched by an Extra Light

It all started with Ragtime: the day I discovered Onstage Atlanta and the amazing performers within. Alli, Kathleen, Royce, Laine, Kristie, Summer ... you didn't think I would go without working your names into at least one more post, right? You are each of you living proof that angels walk among us.

5) The SlayerCruise Chronicles

Reflecting upon seven incredible days lost at sea with the cast of Buffy the Vampire Slayer ... it just doesn't get any better than that.

4) Mister Mutley says...

You might think that I gave a voice to this opinionated little clown/gentleman, but it's really the other way around. I'd never known such love and devotion before he became my best friend.

3) Welcome to Saintsville; Sinners Need Not Apply

While certainly not my first angry critique of religious ideology run amuck, this is the one that got noticed by CBSNews.com and garnered me my much-enjoyed five minutes of blogging fame.

2) Baby Announcement

The day Maeby came into our lives, making our family complete.

1) The Hatchett Point Chronicles

A very different kind of series for me that provided lasting proof that I was capable of finding inspiration in the most unexpected places. Definitely the best thing I've ever written.

Well, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time (or, "When Worlds Collide!")

2007-02-27T09:00:00.001-06:00

I'm a man of many words and few convictions. I believe in saying what I mean and meaning what I say. I would hope you agree.

When I set out to keep an online journal three years ago, I was an unemployed college sophomore with little in my life to occupy my time and not much foresight into the long-term ramifications of having such a public voice and profile. But with the start of my new job just around the bend (thank you, Jebus!), I have been forced to ponder these consequences.

While I'm not at liberty to discuss the particulars in an open forum such as this, the position I've taken is somewhat high-profile within the community (well, as high-profile as possible in a community like this one) and I need to seriously think about how it might reflect upon both myself and the company for which I will be working by having my name and unfiltered thoughts plastered across the Internet for all to see.

I mean, let's face it: my outspoken views on government, politics, the local culture, and issues of gender and sexuality aren't exactly conventional in the strictest sense of the word, nor are they particularly in line with the dumbfoundingly conservative views of the community in which I now reside (the locals never did take to my all-boy, all-nude revue at their much-beloved Chicken-Fried Confederate Country Creole Cajun Catfish & Crabmeat Cookout Corral). And it would be foolish (if not a little presumptuous) of me to not consider that before embarking on this new and potentially rewarding adventure.

I was therefore left with few viable options short of compromising my values (or my ego) by voluntary sanctioning myself and this blog. That was one reason I decided to pull the plug. Another is because I just won't have the time once my new job begins. That's not to say that I won't eventually find a new anonymous home on LiveJournal or MySpace, but the days of delivering stimulating (and, in many cases, not-so-stimulating) exposition on a daily basis are indeed behind me.

However...

I am very happy to announce that I have, at long last, completed my second novel and am in the process of shopping it around to publishers. I am both excited by and proud of this accomplishment. I look back at my first book and cringe when I compare it to what I've produced the second time around; my writing has evolved immeasurably since I started this blog, and I owe a great deal of gratitude to each and every one of you for supporting and empowering me. Your unfailing encouragement instilled within me the crazy idea that I could succeed where I previously had failed.

Now, if only those bastards at Random House would remove their restraining order and start taking my calls again...

Going Out with a BANG!

2007-02-26T09:00:00.003-06:00

As you know, I am a connoisseur of the comic book. And comics, unlike the name implies, are usually anything but humorous. Rather, they are "illustrated magazines containing sequential art in the form of a narrative" (thanks, Wikipedia!). They tell serialized stories, typically dramatic in tone, about people, groups, or what-have-you on a month-to-month basis. An entire series, from start to finish, is called a run, and a particular storyline, be it a stand-alone issue or one that takes place over several, is called a story arc.

Now, when a comic book reaches the end of its run (i.e., it's being canceled), the final storyline, or arc, usually concludes the series by tying up loose ends in a fantastic well-written fashion. More often than not, however, a series runs out of steam prior to its final arc, leaving the reader with five or six issues of empty filler (also known in the genre as crap). We hate it when that happens, wondering why the series could not have ended on a high note rather than leaving us with poorly written filler material and possibly tainting an otherwise exciting run.

But I think it often happens that way because the writers (or publishers or Powers-That-Be or whoever) don't realize that the series is going to end until it's too late to do anything about it, thus having no choice but to end on a down note. Or they just don't care. Either way, it's disappointing for the loyal reader who has invested time and energy into the series.

The reason I am explaining all of this to you is because I've been looking back on my blog and I see startling parallels. Where once existed a daily column dedicated to the idea of reflection, contemplation, and change through social commentary and anecdotal narrative now exists another random web journal composed mainly of birthday greetings and pictures of my pets. I don't see anything inherently wrong with that except for the fact that it's not what I set out to accomplish by keeping a blog.

For that reason and others to be discussed in the days ahead, I am therefore announcing that Friday will be my last post for the foreseeable future. Both my blog and website will be bulldozed to make way for a new virtual chicken shack or something (I don't have all the details just yet). I'm giving myself until the end of the week in order to wrap up a few lingering thoughts and avoid closing my three-year-run with poorly written filler material undeserving of your attention, during which time I will be examining the overarching theme of evolution. I hope you'll join me.

So anyway, that's my big announcement. We've had a few laughs, killed a few brain cells, and proven that a narcissistic homosexual with too much time on his hands can hold the attentions of people with better things to do. And I thank you from the bottom of my deranged heart for that.

No tears! I'll see you tomorrow!

The Stars Shine in Atlanta this March!

2007-02-25T09:00:00.000-06:00

It is my great pleasure to announce the Atlanta premiers of two amazing shows in March.

First up, join Susan Atkinson, Michael Austin, Laine Binder, Lauren Berkley, Taylor Driskill, Kathleen McCook, Robert Ray, Alli Simpson, Joe Swaney, Randall Taylor, Zak Topor, Cynthia Watters, Hannah Wilkinson, and Stephanie Wilkinson at Onstage Atlanta for A Little Night Music in Concert. Under the direction of veteran Broadway performer Robert Ray with Gary Menzies on piano, the Sondheim masterpiece features Atlanta's brightest musical stars performing classics like "A Weekend in the Country," "Every Day a Little Death," and the timeless ballad "Send in the Clowns."

The show runs March 1-17. For more information and ticket prices, visit www.onstageatlanta.com or call the theater box office at 404-897-1802.

Then hop on over to Theatre Decatur later in the month for the world premier of Other People's Lives, a journey in song featuring Atlanta favorites Charlie Bradshaw, Matthew Carter, Jennifer Hendrickson, Kristie Krabe, and Kathleen McCook, with accompaniment by Paul Tate.

Shows are March 23, 24, and 25. Tickets are $15. For more information, call 404.373.3904 or visit them online at www.theatredecatur.com.

And as an added treat, don't forget to join the renowned Ms. Linda Uzelac and an all-star cast of thousands (well, maybe not thousands) on Friday March 2 at 8:00 p.m. for 2007's inaugural Stage Door Canteen, an evening of cabaret-styled entertainment at the Stage Door Players in Dunwoody. An Atlanta favorite!

Mister Mutley says...

2007-02-24T09:00:00.000-06:00

"Eeh, Macarena! (Ay!)"

Reno 911!

2007-02-23T09:00:00.000-06:00

Hooray! Reno 911! Miami opens in theaters today!

Reno 911!, Comedy Central's outlandish behind-the-scenes "reality" show about the goings-on of the endearingly incompetent and oh-so-hapless deputies of the fictional Reno Sheriff's Department (now going into its fifth season), is up there among my all-time favorite comedies. With it's brilliantly improvised dialogue and fractured take on the reality show genre, it's one of those original gems that I genuinely look forward to every time it's on, and one that has grown on me significantly throughout the years. As such, I'm very excited about their feature film debut.

While I've come to accept that I have peculiar taste when it comes to comedy and should back down from begging others to like what I like, I do feel the need to at least help spread the word when something like this comes along. So, if you like your comedy warped, silly, and very, very twisted, check it out in theaters everywhere today!

I Might Just Make It After All! (Meow)

2007-02-22T09:00:00.001-06:00

Pop quiz! True or false:

⁫ Somebody finally bought our condo in Atlanta.
⁫ Somebody finally gave me a job.
⁫ Somebody really rich died and left me their vast fortune.

If you guessed "true" on numbers 1 and 2, you get a shiny gold star! (I'm still working on number 3 ... check back after they settle this mess with Anna Nicole's estate.)

Ho-yeah, baby! My life in hell suddenly seems a whole lot brighter! Not only did we sell our condo after eight grueling months on the real estate market, but the good people of ■■■■■■■■■■■■ (name blocked for security reasons) found it in their infinite wisdom to bring me on as a ■■■■■■■■■■■■ (job title blocked for security reasons) after eight grueling months on the job market.

While it's true that I can't share the name of my employer on this here forum lest I want to risk being let go before my first day (I'll elaborate on this later), I can say that it is a long sought-after position whereby I'll be able to apply my education and, God willing, make a true difference in the lives of others (so no scaling smelt or driving a hearse for me!). Oh happy day!

All I need now is for Random House to start taking my calls again (damn restraining orders — bombard one highly-influential editor's Westport home with multiple copies of your manuscript and suddenly you're the bad guy) and we're in business!

Oh, and by the way ... if I have to explain the "meow" at the end of this post's title or what the funny lady tossing her hat into the air has to do with anything, you're probably too young to care. :-)

Quote of the Day

2007-02-21T09:00:00.002-06:00

"Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to."
_____-Mark Twain

My Life in Hell '07: Mardi Who?

2007-02-20T09:00:00.001-06:00

It's Mardi Gras here in hell and I couldn't care less. Whether it's because I'm new to the area or would foolishly rather see the substantial amount of money and resources pumped into the annual event go toward more pressings concerns, such as public education or a revitalization of the state's embarrassingly antiquated commercial infrastructure, I just don't give a flying fig.

Apparently, I'm taking my life into my hands by having the audacity to speak out against the state's overblown yearly carnival. In the eyes of the locals, I'm some treacherous heathen who has no sense of civic pride because I refuse to decorate my house with multicolored papier-mâché trinkets or go out in public wearing strings of plastic beads wrapped tightly around my neck or a feathered mask on my face. For shame!

Do you know that Mardi Gras is actually a legal holiday here in Louisiana? Can you imagine? Talk about misplaced priorities. Ultimately, wouldn't we much rather see this intensity of hoopla and effort go into rebuilding New Orleans or feeding the homeless?

Crap, I gotta run. A large parade is barreling down my block and I need to move my much coveted bales of hay from the front yard before they're trampled and ruined. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll be able to collect some of those rare metal doubloons that are sometimes tossed from the passing parade floats and buy my way out of this curious reality known as Louisiana.

Happy President's Day

2007-02-19T09:00:00.000-06:00

Petition to Save NPR and PBS

2007-02-18T09:00:00.003-06:00

Taken from MoveOn.org:

President Bush just proposed drastic cuts to NPR and PBS. We've stopped similar cuts in the past, but enough is enough. With the new Congress, we can make sure this never happens again. Please help save NPR and PBS once and for all by signing this petition to Congress.

"Harry" Ass

2007-02-17T09:00:00.002-06:00

With all this fuss about 17-year-old Daniel "Harry Potter" Radcliffe running around naked in London's West End revival of the Peter Schaffer play Equus, all I can say is SHAZAM! I have newfound respect for the magic-wielding waif and hope that my lascivious thoughts don't land me in prison.

Salmonella & Jelly Sandwich, Anyone?

2007-02-16T09:00:00.003-06:00

I like peanut butter. Who doesn't, right? (Well, Alan doesn't but he's a bit of an oddball anyway so I chock that up to his never-ending string of endearing eccentricities.)

So imagine my concern when I was greeted yesterday by an article presented by the good people at cnn.com, ominously adorned with a bright red border and the words "Danger Zones: Keeping Your Family Safe" plastered across the top, announcing that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have determined that a rather nasty salmonella outbreak has been linked to certain jars of Peter Pan and Great Value peanut butter with a product code beginning with "2111." Then imagine my more immediate concern when I remove from my cupboard two containers of half-eaten Peter Pan peanut butter, one creamy and one crunchy, both beginning with the product code of 2111.

No, this has not been a good year.

Federal officials have said that the outbreak has sickened 288 people in 39 states since August, with 20% of those infected having to be hospitalized (although there have been no reported deaths linked to the infection at this time). Fortunately, I don't currently exhibit any of the common symptoms typically associated with salmonella but should my uninsured tuchis succumb to the bacteria I'll gladly be accepting donations of leftover antibiotics fished out of the backs of your medicine chests and the like.

And beyond my own parsimonious self-interests, I ask that my fellow peanut butter eaters check their supply for the associated brand names and product codes. If you're among those who've purchased tainted products, you can send back your lid to ConAgra Foods for a full refund … although receiving a check in six-to-eight weeks for a paltry $2.98 (minus shipping and handling) hardly seems like fair consolation should you be stricken with diarrhea, fever, dehydration, abdominal pain, vomiting, or death. But that's just me.

My Life in Hell '07: "Broke"-back Mountain

2007-02-15T09:00:00.005-06:00

Actually, I'm not living on a mountain; I'm living in a humid subtropical sedimentary swamp region defined by alluvial deposits that consist of fine particles of silt, clay, sand, and gravel, a forgotten chunk of land that was recently referred to by an angry expatriate in the editorial section of 225 Magazine as a territory forever defined by its "broken civic culture, broken public education, and crumbling infrastructure." (Perhaps "Broken Bayou," then?)

So no, it's not exactly a land of milk and honey (although it has been known to excrete a sticky milk-like substance from its dilapidated highway overpasses from time to time). But the reason I call it "Broke"-back Mountain is because I'm broke! Bankrupt! Beggared! Bereft! Bust! Impoverished! In debt! Indigent! Insolvent! Penniless! Penurious! Poor! (Jesus, who knew there were so many exciting synonyms for "broke" … thank you, dictionary.com!)

As the relentless search for meaningful employment grinds on and continues to beat me down like Britney Spears' meth dealer, I've taken to sleeping fifteen hours a day and wearing the same articles of clothing for weeks at a time as not to spend money on laundry, showers, or deodorant. The smell's not so bad once you get used to it.

Meanwhile, I decided to swallow my pride last week and look into local area temp agencies but unless I want ten hours a day learning how not to fall to my death while mastering the exciting field of unskilled construction, or the possibility of a stimulating career in "freight handling, waste hauling, or demolition," I was told to keep looking.

No, this has not been a good year.

Since most of the informational tidbits offered in this maudlin installment really belong in a "Things You Probably Shouldn't Know about Me…" post, I'm gonna throw you a bone and give you one more: I've become hooked on televised Japanese obstacle course tournament programs, particularly SASUKE (roughly translated by boorish American standards as "Ninja Warrior" and currently airing Tuesday nights at midnight on the G4 network here in the States). I stay up every week to catch the latest energy-driven installment featuring my favorite Olympic athletes, K-1 fighters, and out-of-work pro-wrestlers from all around the world face off against the harrowing Ninja Warrior obstacle course, with subtitled play-by-play commentaries and more passion than a night at a cajun whorehouse. Will Toshihiro Takeda or Shunsuke Nagasaki make it past the dreaded Warped Wall and conquer the grueling hurdles of Stage One? Or will it be Makoto Nagano or Shingo Yamamoto who outwit the beastly Curtain Cling and claim the ultimate title of Ninja Warrior in Stage Four? I can hardly wait to find out!

Hey, it beats scaling smelt or driving a hearse for a living.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2007-02-14T09:00:00.000-06:00

Things You Probably Shouldn't Know about Me … but I'm Gonna Tell You, Anyway

2007-02-13T09:00:00.000-06:00

It's February 13th and I've yet
to take down my Christmas tree.

Birthday Wishes

2007-02-12T09:00:00.000-06:00

Team Abercrombie in: "Horrible, Painful Childbirth!"

2007-02-11T09:00:00.002-06:00

I loathe the shallow world of Abercrombie and Fitch but I sure love the way Mad TV makes fun of it.

You Will Believe a Dog Can Fly

2007-02-10T09:00:00.000-06:00

(Reposted from an earlier date):

One of the few nice things about my current living situation is that I'm living in a large four-bedroom house with plenty of room in which the dogs can run around and go crazy. Since the bedroom we're using is at the end of a long hallway, Mutley and Maeby have developed quite a few chasing games that usually culminate in me gasping for air or laughing my ass off. I know that they're having a blast anyway, but it's also great exercise/therapy for me.

One particular game is a variation of "keep-away," whereby Maeby grabs a toy and runs as fast as her little legs will carry her, taunting me to chase her while simultaneously determined to elude capture. There's nothing particularly extraordinary about this game, except for the fact that, when she reaches the end of the long hallway (where the door to our bedroom is), she hurls herself from the ground like a catupult and then soars through the air until she reaches the bed.

I'm just mesmerized by the image of this 10-pound poodle sailing in midair; it's by far one of the weirdest, funniest things I've ever seen. And, since I love you all so much and want you to be as happy as I am, I've decided to share an assortment of candid photos I snapped while hiding beside the bed during several such sessions of "leap dog."

These photos are not doctored in any way ... what you see is exactly what I saw while capturing the images on film:

(Click the image for a larger view)

I thank God every day that I have such a sweet, funny, and loving little angel in my life.

A+B = C

2007-02-09T09:00:00.001-06:00

So, the Southern Poverty Law Center, a nonprofit civil rights organization that tracks hate crimes, estimates that the number of active hate groups in the United States rose 33 percent and the number of Ku Klux Klan chapters rose 63 percent in the five-year period between 2000 and 2005. This is after previous data indicated that memberships in such groups had significantly decreased throughout the 1990s.

Let's concurrently look at that same timeframe in regard to a number of political and social issues in the United States: between 2000 and 2005 we have the start of the Bush regime, an increase in fundamental religiosity throughout the country, a raging national debate over immigration fueling a rise in racism, cutbacks in education and health care funding, a rise in unemployment, a significant widening of the income gap, and everlasting fear mongering about national security and the threat of domestic terrorist attack from foreigners.

Now let's see what I can remember from my social research methods class regarding issues of causality. There are three main criteria for determining causality in social science research: 1) the variables must be correlated (i.e., there must be an empirical relationship between two variables such that changes in one are associated with changes in the other or particular attributes of one variable are associated with particular attributes of the other); 2) the cause must take place before the effect (i.e., the casual variable must occur earlier in time than the variable it is said to influence); and 3) the variables must be nonspurious (i.e., the effect cannot be explained in terms of some third variable).

Hmm, methinks I see a pattern (well, maybe number three is a tad debatable, but still). Add it all up together and I believe we have a strong argument for causality (or possibly a much-needed regime change). Either way, I'd say we're in a lot of trouble.

Thanks, W.

Ever-liberally yours,
-C

The Top 10 Reasons You Need to Be Watching The Sarah Silverman Program

2007-02-08T09:00:00.001-06:00

Watching The Sarah Silverman Program is like watching your favorite episode of Pee-Wee's Playhouse … on crack.

Each episode of The Sarah Silverman Program contains full frontal jew-dity.

The Sarah Silverman Program is impulsive, impertinent, irresponsible, and inappropriate.

The Sarah Silverman Program is refreshingly not politically correct.

The Sarah Silverman Program features extraneous song-and-dance numbers.

Sarah's sister Laura "Spider-Eyes" Silverman can eat 30 hardboiled eggs in one sitting.

The Sarah Silverman Program features orange cough syrup-induced hallucinations that culminate in car crashes, talking dogs, and imprisoned crack whore prostitutes with daughters named Facetious.

Cookie Party! Cookie Party! Cookie Party!

Watching The Sarah Silverman Program is bound to make you feel better about your own life.

Watching The Sarah Silverman Program is a sweet way to go to hell.

Take it sleazy, beasy, and watch The Sarah Silverman Program tonight at 10:30 p.m. (9:30 central) on Comedy Central!

Birthday Wishes

2007-02-07T09:00:00.002-06:00

Snicker Puss

2007-02-06T09:00:00.000-06:00

So by now you've all heard the hullabaloo about the Snickers candy bar commercial that aired during the Super Bowl, right? The 30-second advertisement featured two manly-man mechanics who comically end up "accidentally" sharing a kiss in their mad attempt to devour a peanut-packed Snickers bar (mmm, peanut-packed Snickers bar) and then react in typical horrified fashion by pulling out a clump of chest hair to fix their mistake and "do something manly."

Now, Masterfoods USA, the maker of Snickers candy bars, has discontinued the ad campaign indefinitely following an outcry from various gay and human rights groups, including the Human Right Campaign and the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD), who've come forth saying that the commercial promotes anti-gay prejudice and condones violence against homosexuals.

Yeah, I saw the commercial when it first aired (yes, I was watching the Super Bowl at the time but it was not by choice, I assure you), and yes, the thirty second spot does indeed take a complex and contentious social issue and boil it down to the standard one-note homophobically-laden joke we're all used to seeing ad nauseum.

But so what? So what if two straight men freak out after sharing a gay moment (like that never happens)? I wasn't offended by it. Sure, I'd much rather it end with the two guys declaring their unending love and devotion to one another and moving out to the Bay Area to become social activists but what are you gonna do? It was a silly ad that played up on stereotypes in order to draw attention to a product, much like any number of silly ads that imply that only women are capable of doing housework or that men crave nothing more than a double thick roast beef sandwich from Arby's because they're men and that's all that men eat. It's not the smartest way to conduct business but it works because it sells products, which is the point of the advertisement in the first place.

As I've said many times before, controversial humor has its place and not everything can be taken at face value. I have studied at great length the many insidious ways in which the mass media work behind the scenes to reinforce heteronormativity, validate negative stereotypes that engender bigotry and homophobia, and basically spread the message that I'm a disturbed freak, and believe me when I tell you that this is not one of them. (This ridiculous fuss about Reverend Ted Haggard supposedly being "cured" of his homosexuality definitely is one of them, but that's another post for another time.) No, this is just a stupid commercial about a couple of idiots ripping out their chest hair in order to get you to buy a candy bar and not much more. We have to be smart enough to know the difference and not run screaming in the streets every time something the slightest bit deviant rattles our cages.

And I think of it this way: try getting away with showing two manly-men accidentally sharing a kiss during the most widely watched (and arguably heterosexual) sporting event of the year twenty years ago and see what would've happened. The hooting and hollering would most certainly not've come from gay advocacy groups but rather conservative ones claiming that the ad wrongfully promoted homosexuality and threatened the sacred institution of family or some such nonsense. While the social messages embedded within the commercial are certainly flawed and should be recognized as such, I also see it as a statement of how far we've come.

So to recap: Snickers doesn't have a secret agenda against me, only women should use Palmolive, and I'm not truly a man because I don't eat roast beef sandwiches from Arby's.

Vision and Perception

2007-02-05T09:00:00.000-06:00

We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are.

French surrealist novelist Anaïs Nin said that. I'm not particularly familiar with much French surrealism, but I do know a good quote when I hear one.

Sociologists study human behavior and the enduring obstacles in its path, impassioned about ideas and equality and action and justice and emotion. In a world saturated with deception and plagued with corruption, we attempt to express the strength of our convictions without hesitation and demand unwavering truth in the process, a demand that often goes unheard.

Still, we drudge on, forever seeking answers, forever asking questions. It is the nature of the beast, knowing but not knowing, seeing yet blind. We claim to want to make sense of the world from a safe distance, deep within our academic trenches as we observe and analyze institutions rather than individuals, as we sharpen our focus on broad social trends instead of single cases of the here-and-now.

But I can't but wonder if perhaps at the heart of every sociologist lies a great truth that we truly do what we do not to make sense of the world around us, but rather to make sense of ourselves.

Birthday Wishes

2007-02-04T09:00:00.000-06:00

Happy Birthday, ~~Kath & Kim~~ Marc & Chris!

My Life in Hell '07: Things I Miss

2007-02-03T09:00:00.001-06:00

Well, it's been three months and I'm still basking in the toasty glow of hell. To honor the anniversary of the beginning of my descent into absolute madness, I've decided to compile a list of everything I miss from my happier days in a happier place. Enjoy.

Things I Miss:

Carpool lanes.
10-digit dialing.
Movie theaters with stadium seating.
Shopping centers built after 1972.
Being able to make a right turn on red.
Borders Bookstores!
Visiting with dog walkers.
The view of downtown Atlanta from the top floor of my old building.
Living in a town that has a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Not living next to a man who sells used hay out of his garage.
Kroger and Publix.
Going to the theater.
Counties.
Not living in an area with seven radio stations that specialize in playing "spiritual music for blessed people."
Paying 8% sales tax (as opposed to the outrageous 9½ here).
Getting drunk and singing bad karaoke at Mary's.
Southerners who know the proper meaning of the word "y'all."
Readily available sweet tea.
Not being forced to shop at Wal-Mart.
Food servers that don't look at you cockeyed and confusingly scratch their heads when you ask for a meat-free alternative.
Local restaurants with online menus.
Local restaurants that serve food that tastes good.
Local restaurants without the word "crawfish" or "poboy" in their name.
Local restaurants ... ah, you get the idea.
And speaking of restaurants: Eats, Moe's, Willy's, Taco Mac, the Flying Biscuit, Rosa's, Café Nuevo Larado Cantina, and Everybody's Pizza.
Showtunes Tuesdays at The Oscars.
Having conversations with actual human beings.
Feeding the ducks at Piedmont Park.
And, if you're reading this, probably you.

Happy Groundhog Day!

2007-02-02T09:00:00.001-06:00

Molly Ivins, 1944-2007

2007-02-01T09:00:00.002-06:00

Liberal columnist and "Loudmouthed Texas Dame" Molly Ivins, well-known for referring to President Bush as "Shrub," has died of breast cancer at the age of 62.

Uncyclopedia

2007-01-31T09:00:00.000-06:00

Golly, I'm sure out of touch with things these days (and not just because I openly use the word "golly" in my sentences). I just discovered the existence of Uncyclopedia, "the content-free encyclopedia that anyone can edit," which is actually a wicked satirical parody of Wikipedia, "the free encyclopedia that anyone can edit." (You see the clever play on words there?)

The reason I'm out of touch — well, one of the reasons, anyway — is that Uncyclopedia was apparently launched in January 2005, meaning that it's been around for two whole years, making this "eureka moment" somewhat inconsequential and passé. Nevertheless, I have a new obsession.

Here's a blurb from their home page:

Uncyclopedia is an encyclopedia full of misinformation and utter lies. You might say it puts the "psych!" in "encyclopedia". It's sort of like Congress or Parliament, but unlike Congress or Parliament, we do have a sense of humor. Nonetheless, this is one of the only factual pages, before everything turns into a puddle of utter confusion and disarray. Savor it.

Brilliant!

And as someone who shamelessly relies on Wikipedia for world news, history lessons, fact verification, storyline spoilers, gossip, and anything and everything else that the monster site provides, I can really get behind the idea of a parody site filled with controversial humor, jabs at politicians, and extremely sophomoric vulgarity.

To see what I mean, check out Uncyclopedia's listings under Buffyliteralism — "the theological belief in the literal truth of the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer" (it's like it was written just for me!) — or George Dubya Bush, which is bannered by the disclaimer (Tobia, you'll love this) that "you probably reached this page attempting to find an article on someone/thing more intelligent. This, however, is the article on George W. Bush. Please accept our apologies."

Brilliant!

Now I have a whole new way to kill an afternoon. See you in the funny pages!

It's All Right to Cry (Part Two)

2007-01-30T09:00:00.000-06:00

I bring all of this up because, as you know, I enjoy comic books. Typically, the medium is far more progressive than one might expect, spotlighting a diversity of cultures, sexualities, social backgrounds, and what have you. I've always applauded them for that. But most readers, sadly, are not quite as progressive, as evidenced by the proliferation of bigoted, shortsighted, and often ignorant comments left on various genre message boards and interactive communities.

Introduce a gay character or announce that a female hero is stronger than her male counterpart and these boards become swept up in a firestorm of anger, insults, and contempt. I usually don't bother to get worked up over it, as I suppose I'm just asking for trouble by lurking around online communities populated with testosterone-charged thirteen years olds with severe delusions of grandeur and somehow expecting intelligent discourse. (I actually visit these boards to keep up with storylines and industry-related news since I no longer purchase comics on a regular basis).

Nevertheless, I was troubled last week by something other the usual hubbub, something that the sociologist, rather than the comic book fan, in me picked up on. There are several new threads on the DC Comics message boards (one entitled "Why is Superman always depicted as a cry baby?", another called "Superman Crying…") where a bunch of concerned posters have come together to discuss visual imagery of Superman, the company's highly-recognized flagship character, openly weeping:

While relevant images such as these can be traced back for decades, from a powerful image of a devastated Superman holding the body of his dead cousin to a single tear drop flowing down his cheek following the murder of a close friend, the current concern revolves around a forthcoming storyline thus far only hinted at via publicity stills. Within hours of DC posting a new image of a clearly grieving Superman in tears and cradled in the arms of Wonder Woman (see the third image above), their message boards became flooded with "concerned" readers expressing their anger over DC's recent proclivity toward showing the Man of Steel crying.

Check out some of their comments:

They're trying to evoke a powerful, emotional image […] However, he is being portrayed progressively weaker.

…we see him held like a baby to WW's chest, while everyone else seems to have a hard time watching it.

There's another word for what's happening to Superman these days... emasculation.

The most powerful being in the world is reduced to a sobbing baby.

It's quite embarrassing.

You'll believe a man can cry.

I was thinking the same, but I wanted someone else to say it... If the most powerful man can cry, then I would assume the "lesser beings" would be going insane... It's not a powerful image, its disappointing...

And so on, and so on, and so on.

It seems rather obvious, then, that to this particular societal contingency (which is no doubt echoed by many others), a grown man — especially a powerful one with identifiably masculine traits — openly showing emotion through his tears is considered to be "weak," "disappointing," "a sobbing baby," "emasculat[ed]," and "quite embarrassing."

I find these comments extremely indicative of how very much gender norms are still entrenched in our society, especially when we don't even realize it. No matter how far we come, the basic ideology that strength and vulnerability are mutually exclusive traits is still predominant, and I think it's incredibly sad that boys remain so significantly incapacitated by their emotions. I'm not suggesting that we all run around sobbing every time we stub a toe, but I would like to live in a world that supports rather than sanctions men who openly express themselves whenever the situation calls for it.

In writing this post, I remembered something from my youth that brought a smile to my face. Do any of you recall the Marlo Thomas 1974 television special Free to Be… You and Me? I know Amy, Ellen, and Jody do, as we were known to drive around Coral Springs in high school in Amy's purple car and sing along to the soundtrack with reckless abandon (ah, good times, good times).

Anyway, the program was an adaptation of a 1972 illustrated album designed for children and featured celebrities performing various songs and sketches about individuality, acceptance, and identity. One of my favorite numbers was a song called "It's All Right to Cry," which imparted the message to all children (but especially boys) that, you guessed it — it's all right to cry. What made the song even more powerful is that is was sung by former NFL defensive lineman and Christian minister Rosey Grier. I remember how stirring it was to see this large, deep-voiced, black male athlete singing about crying. What a thoughtful and beautiful way to impart the message to boys that showing emotion is okay.

It's really quite a powerful image to witness so I tracked down the video and embedded it at the end of this post. I hope it moves you as much as it's always moved me.

And when it comes to gaining practical, everyday knowledge about life and learning how to think before I speak, maybe I didn't need to study sociology after all. Perhaps all it ever truly takes is an open mind and access to some really great children's programming from the seventies.

It's All Right to Cry (Part One)

2007-01-29T09:00:00.001-06:00

Disclaimer: This post ended up being much longer than I had anticipated so I decided to break it up into two parts. The conclusion will be posted tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.

I made a dear, lovely friend during my residency in the sociology department at GSU. She had decided to switch her major over to sociology from something a tad more practical because she said "it just felt right" to her. She knew nothing of Marx or Weber or how social theory actually worked, and didn't have much interest to, either; she just wanted to take classes that dealt with important topics like race relations and sexism, thinking it would make her "a better, more well-rounded individual capable of critical thought."

When her friends and family would challenge her on her decision by asking that age-old question — What on earth are you gonna do with a degree in sociology? — she would hold her head up high and say, "I'm gonna learn how to think before I speak." I always liked that response.

Aside from spouting pompous altruisms on a blog, however, what exactly does having a degree in sociology truly prepare a person for? "A rich and challenging career in education, criminal justice, policy analysis, or human services," according to my wide-eyed advisor. But we all know how that usually pans out (especially down in the delta, where one has more luck becoming an aficionado in forklift mechanics than demography and community relations).

No, I'm not talking about gainful employment. I'm talking about practical, everyday knowledge that comes from studying social problems and human interactions. I'm talking about learning how to think before you speak.

Take, for instance, conventional male gender roles regarding emotion and vulnerability. Men are socialized from the moment they're placed in their crib in the deep blue room with the sports paraphernalia on the walls how to behave in a "masculine" way. They're taught both implicitly and explicitly that showing emotion is a sign of vulnerability, and men are always to be in control, independent, and invulnerable. Throughout their youth, these ideas are fortified by family, peers, the media, and everyone else that can influence personal development, and men who deviate from these expectations are usually sanctioned or ostracized.

I would argue that crying is considered the greatest infraction of idealized male invulnerability. Since men are generally regarded as providers of comfort and strength, they are trained that to "break down" in the presence of others can lead to a sacrifice of masculinity. Sadly, this, in part, accounts for why it has been statistically proven that men are more likely to turn to alcohol or commit suicide than women; rather than seeking help and risk appearing weak or exposed, men will often try to deal with their problems on their own ("like a man"), leading to chemical dependency, isolation, injury, and many times death.

Furthermore, we never seem to quite know how to deal with men who cry, proving that it's not only the men in question who are hindered by this prevalent social norm. We typically become uncomfortable in the presence of such a scene, sometimes going so far as to speak out against the transgressor as a way to assuage our own discomfort, proving that the associated fear, denial, and overall embarrassment thereby transcends the individual and ends up affecting society as a whole.

To be concluded tomorrow... (Don't worry; I'm going somewhere with this!)

In Memory of the Challenger

2007-01-28T09:00:00.001-06:00

Things You Probably Shouldn't Know about Me … but I'm Gonna Tell You, Anyway

2007-01-27T09:00:00.001-06:00

Distraught that I have to miss my friend Laine perform in the Atlanta Lyric Theatre's new production of Godspell, I quelled the pain last night by stripping down to my underwear, getting drunk, and reenacting the entire play from start to finish all by myself while Alan watched on in horror until I finally lost consciousness and passed out.

Prepare Ye, the Way of the Lord!

Always High Costs. Always.

2007-01-26T09:00:00.000-06:00

In a move that will no doubt affect my frequent pastime of loitering in various area Wal-Marts, as well as my stellar social standing in the community as a result thereof, the U.S. Labor Department announced on Thursday that Wal-Mart Stores Inc. will pay more than $33 million in back wages to thousands of employees after turning itself in for paying too little in overtime over the past five years, resulting in one of the largest settlements ever reached by the department's wage and hour division.

While the move is being argued by some Wal-Mart critics as "a sweetheart deal that favored the retailer rather than its workers," I for one am happy that the case moved forward and resolved itself, if for no other reason than because it draws more national attention to company's internal corruption, from the various ways in which the retail megastore conducts business to how it contributes to a system of endemic poverty in the United States.

For instance, it has been substantiated via both independent wage analyses and internal company reporting that a significant number of Wal-Mart workers earn far below the poverty line and also do not qualify for the company's health care program. This means that most of these people — estimated at over 775,000 employees — qualify for federal assistance and are forced to receive their health care through the government, meaning that taxpayers like you and me (well, maybe not me, since no one actually pays me to sit around and complain) end up footing the bill.

In fact, a report published in 2004 by the Democratic Staff of the Committee on Education and the Workforce estimated the total amount of federal assistance for which Wal-Mart employees were eligible in 2004 to be $2.5 billion, adding that one 200-employee Wal-Mart store can actually cost federal taxpayers $420,750 per year. That's a lotta bags of seedless grapes, yo!

I often oscillate regarding my feelings toward corporate boycotts, not entirely sure that such actions ever truly matter; since moving here, however, the point is moot as there is nowhere else to shop. Nevertheless, figures like these have to make you stop and think. I mean, sure, we might save some money by buying our sponges and light bulbs at Wal-Mart … but who really pays the price?

Godspell

2007-01-25T09:00:00.005-06:00

Support the arts in Atlanta and come see Laine Binder in Godspell at The Lyric!

Before there was Wicked, Stephen Schwartz was dazzling audiences with his string of recognizable songs like "Day by Day," "We Beseech Thee," and "Save the People." See the parables of the Gospel according to Matthew come to life in this heart-warming tale of peace, love, and hope for the future.

And I have it on very good authority that Laine will be sizzlin' and smokin' in black lipstick and spikes during this production. That's almost enough to get me to make a special trip to Atlanta just to see the show. (Anybody who's seen her dressed as Cabaret's Sally Bowles will no doubt appreciate this.)

Godspell runs January 26th until Febuary 11th at the Byers Studio Theatre at the Lyric, 1705 Commerce Drive, Atlanta 30318. Performances are Thursdays through Saturday at 8:00 p.m. and Sundays at 2:00 p.m. Tickets range from $21.60 to $27.00 and can be purchased online or by calling the Atlanta Lyric Theatre box office at 404-894-9600.

Hippie Chick Name

2007-01-24T09:00:00.004-06:00

In honor of Ellen:

Your Hippie Chick Name Is:

Hyacinth

Hippie Chick Name Generator

Funny. I always figured my official "Hippie Chick Name" would be something like Moondusted Rosemary Potatoes or Stinky. Ah, live and learn.

10 Items or Less: An Aggrandized Editorial Perspective with Heart

2007-01-23T09:00:00.000-06:00

It's a well-known fact by now that I have a soft spot for good television. Some people turn to the great works of literature to find inspiration, others to religion ... I turn to TBS and let the gods do their thing.

That's because, in my not-so-secret secret identity as a sociopathic sociologist with a lot of spare time on his hands, I get to examine and dissect various agents of socialization — those things in life that influence a person's emotions, attitudes, and behavior. Usually when sociologists speak of agents of socialization, they're referring to things like family or government or the education system (you know, those groups and institutions that warp and beat young minds into a life of submission and servitude). But every now again we get to break free from the classics and focus on some of the more contemporary agents, particularly those entrenched in pop culture and mass media.

That's where I come in.

I decided long ago that if I was going to obsess over something then I should know good and well what the hell it was I was obsessing over. And I do tend to obsess over TV. Fortunately, I was able to parlay that particular obsession into a rather pricey degree that has yet to earn me a dime but did instill me with the wonderful ability to occasionally offer critical commentary regarding my favorite (and not-so-favorite) shows rather than just generic "I love it" or "I hate it" statements. (Plus, anything seems less creepy if you can back it with a degree.)

And if you made it through that lengthy and bloated introduction, I solute you. It was a long way to go just to tell you to watch TBS's new original show 10 Items or Less, an improvisational comedy about a struggling New York City businessman (played by the very engaging John Lehr) who returns home to Ohio to take over the family supermarket following the death of his father. But I did it that way because I want to point out why I'm telling you to watch this show.

It's not enough to simply say, "Oh, I like it so you should like it, too." Who cares what I like? Personal taste is so extremely subjective ... I might like watching YouTube videos of naked go-go boys covered in hot oil and writhing seductively while stuffed in a steel cage and suspended from the ceiling of a smoky backroom while Japanese businessmen wearing mismatched bolo ties and cowboy boots adorned with decorative spurs cheer on voraciously from a comfortable distance below — which I do. It doesn't mean that you will, too. (And if you do, drop me a private message later on.)

And if ratings and popularity are any indication of a program's worth, then I should be watching shows like According to Jim and 'Til Death, shows that do absolutely nothing for me. That's because I need more than generic, rehashed sitcoms that reinscribe the tired notion that men are uncultured, lazy Neanderthals who can't relate to their submissive, unable-to-fix-the-garage-door-opener-without-calling-AAA wives, shows that subliminally train the viewer to assign certain traits to certain genders and thereby fuel societal stereotypes and influence individual self-conceptualization.

(And there you have it: subtle yet powerful, television is an agent of socialization! See what I did there, how I brought it all back to the beginning with the big words and all the blah blah blah? It might take me awhile, but I always arrive at my point.)

Nevertheless, you might find something enjoyable or satisfying about shows like According to Jim and 'Til Death, and that's fine. But we never seem to give equal (or even enough) attention to those few programs that dare to break free from the status quo by offering something unique and different. I argued this point with FX's brilliant short-lived series Starved, and later implored folks to check out Lifetime's hilarious Lovespring International before it, too, disappeared forever. And don't even get me started on Arrested Development. Sadly, it didn't help, as all three of these amazing shows weren't long for this world.

But now I have a chance to try again. Sure, 10 Items or Less is not groundbreaking or going to change gender politics in the 21st century, but in the small-screen-world of belching fathers and unquestioningly loyal mothers, amidst the pabulum of flavorless two-dimensional caricatures and forced political correctness, 10 Items or Less does indeed stand out on a very short list of different and imaginative programs that relies on solid acting skills and true comedic timing to provide twenty-two minutes of laugh-out-loud entertainment. We shouldn't take that for granted.

The show's first season consists of five episodes, all of which have already aired. However, TBS has graciously made them available online to watch for free; just click here. I thought that the talented cast really found their footing as the season progressed, displaying a chemistry that felt organic while giving each individual a chance to shine. I personally recommend episode 2 ("The Miracle Worker," which revolves around the appearance of a Jesus stain on the wall), episode 5 ("Bag It," about a bagging competition with a rival grocery store), and any scene at all that has the incomparable Jennifer Elise Cox (playing the grocery store's arch nemesis in perpetual pink, pictured right) in it. This woman can do no wrong.

I know I've rambled a bit today — and probably scarred you for life with that unnecessarily graphic naked go-go boy reveal — but I think we can all relate to that feeling we get when a TV show tickles us just right. We may not always agree on the content, but we can all appreciate the sentiment. Therefore, if you like what you see, take some time out to post a note on the TBS fan forum or send the network an e-mail. Let them know that we want original programming that makes us laugh, doesn't insult our intelligence, and lasts for more than a season.

(And if you don't like it, we can just keep this little diatribe to ourselves, kinda like we do whenever I post doctored photos of how I might look superimposed next to celebrities who've filed restraining orders against me or when I insult the entire population of southern Louisiana in one noxious statement.)

And remember: you're not just speaking out in favor of the underdog; you're validating my pointless education, longwinded nature, endless fixation with trivial things like television, and quite possibly my very existence!

If that's not worth a trip down the ten items or less lane, I don't know what is.

Age Before Beauty (or, "To Sir, with Love")

2007-01-22T09:00:00.001-06:00

A few weeks ago, I stumbled into a local Smoothie King in order to obtain a healthy vitamin-enriched beverage to sustain me until my midnight cake and pie festival. The clerk behind the counter, a young waif of a boy with floppy hair and a pierced lip, smiled politely as he took my order.

"Hello, sir, welcome to the Smoothie King. What can I get for you today, sir?"

"Um, give me a 20 oz. Lemon Twist with strawberry."

"Sure thing, sir. It'll just be a few moments."

"Thanks."

"No, thank you, sir."

He then turned to perform whatever voodoo it takes to make one these fruity concoctions and I was left alone with the lingering realization that this strangely polite child had called me "sir" four times within a fifteen second exchange.

I've never been one to excessively ponder the subject of age, always proud of my ability to grow old gracefully and resist buying into a culture that places the sinful act of aging somewhere between murder and pedophilia. But that was before some teenaged Smoothie King clerk called me "sir" four times within a fifteen second exchange.

How did I go from being this boy's contemporary to being his elder? True, while bobbing my head melodiously to a Muzak version of Ace of Base's "The Sign" that was coming from an overhead speaker *and* asking if my AARP card entitled me to a discount probably didn't help matters any, I'm hardly ready to purchase Matlock on DVD and start claiming Social Security. I mean, I was old enough to be his father, but he certainly couldn't know that.

Could he?

I calmly assessed the situation. I began by inspecting my attire, which consisted of a torn "Our Town '86" t-shirt I had won at a South Florida county fair some two decades prior, a pair of well-worn Old Navy jeans with a hole in the knee from where I fell while trying to install a Clapper in my bedroom, and faded black loafers purchased at a Payless 50% off sale about five years ago. Absolutely no images of Fergie or the words "Nike" or "Punk'd" adorning any of them.

My dull brown hair lined with ever-increasing hints of gray was, as usual, lacking styling product of any kind and still had a visible dent along the right ridge from where I had been leaning on it only hours earlier while perusing the latest issue of the Utne Reader at the Livingston Parish Senior Reading Room. Moreover, I hadn't shaved in about four days and most likely had bags under my eyes from my incessant insomnia (and staying up all night to watch a Barney Miller marathon on Nick @ Nite).

And in long ago keeping with my promise to myself to "look my age," I had removed all of my piercings on the eve of my thirtieth birthday, leaving my ears, lips, nose, and navel ringless.

Good lord, I looked like a "sir."

With my scrumptious Lemon Twist reaching completion, I momentarily stifled the coming panic by nervously browsing the nearby shelves filled with muscle powders, energy bars, and weight loss pills as colorful posters of beautifully smooth juveniles with ruby red lips and towering fauxhawks streaked with highlights lined the eggshell white walls, an unfortunate act that silently had me absorbing the all-powerful message that strong, energetic, thin young men with bitchin' coifs were desirable while weak, lethargic, slightly overweight thirtysomethings with the fashion sense of a wet towel were not.

My friend Paul had once told me that the first few "sirs" are the hardest but I had no idea how right he was until it happened to me. Christ, all I wanted was a damn smoothie, not some forced epiphany that my time in the spotlight was up and a new breed of youthful pretty boys had secretly arrived to take my place in the world and sign my commitment papers to Shady Pines.

And then I remembered something else once imparted to me on the subject of aging. I think it was my friend Bart who once said that getting older isn't the real problem; it's losing your grip on reality that's the kicker. I'm not sure I knew what he meant at the time, but lying motionless in the fetal position on the floor of a Louisiana Smoothie King and sobbing uncontrollably to the docile Swedish sounds of Ace of Base while several frightened bystanders look on in disgust simply because a polite young salesclerk with a conspicuous chin dimple called you "sir" might be an indicator.

I quickly regrouped, gave the nice young man $4.06 for the smoothie and another ten for the puddle I left on the floor, and exited, never to be seen again.

From my "it's funny 'cause it's true" file...

2007-01-21T09:00:00.004-06:00

Quote of the Day

2007-01-20T09:00:00.000-06:00

"A noble spirit embiggens the smallest man."
_____-Jebediah Springfield

Poor Sport

2007-01-19T09:00:00.004-06:00

Disclaimer 1: I originally wrote most of the following post several months ago, before leaving Atlanta, but shelved it because I thought it came off as too bitter and weird, even for me. But since I'm on such a roll with offending people lately, I figure I might as well pull out all the stops and go all the way.

Disclaimer 2: The views expressed in the following post are solely those of the individual providing them and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of blogger.com or its parent, affiliate, or subsidiary companies and strategic business partners.

I mentioned recently that I can forgive comedians who play up on stereotypes in order to defuse them and find truth and humor in social realities. As a homosexual, I am a major source of stereotypes myself. I love showtunes, love sex, love my mama, and hate-hate-hate competitive team sports. I mean hate sports! I hate everything about them, from the way they teach children to be brutally aggressive with one another to the way they breed an adult fandom so obsessed that a Biloxi, Mississippi, man, so infatuated with football legend Joe Montana, actually named his newborn son ESPN Montana Real.

(Incidentally, he's not alone; apparently, there are at least three other documented cases of children being named ESPN within the last two years.)

Furthermore, a three year study at the University of Maryland Medical Center reveals that grown men actually put off going to the emergency room for serious medical conditions when sporting events are being broadcast on TV. They actually wait until the game is over before being treated for potentially life-threatening physical ailments! That's the kind of social model that our much-loved sporting events teach our male children.

And the violence! Dear God, the violence! Forget about the inherent violence within competitive team sports themselves; how many times do we read an article or see a news report about two parents beating the hell out of each other at a Little League game or waiting for a referee in a darkened parking garage with a crowbar or broken two-by-four just because they disagree with one of his calls? In fact, it wasn't that long ago that USA Today reported that the father of a young football player in Philadelphia was charged with aggravated assault after pulling a gun on his son's coach because he didn't think the boy was getting enough playing time. CNN reported the same story, adding that the Center for Sports Parenting had recently completed an Internet straw poll of nearly 3,000 and found that 85 percent of the participants had witnessed parents or coaches becoming verbally abusive during games, and forty percent had seen actual physical abuse.

George Orwell once said that "serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence: in other words it is war minus the shooting." I think that pretty well sums it up right there.

As you can imagine, living here in the heart of LSU "Tiger Country" (God, how I hate that phrase) has only reiterated my epic detestation, as I'm forced to exist side-by-side with overenthusiastic supporters who live and breathe college football simply because they're expected to; people who drape LSU flags and decals on everything from their cars to their yards to their baby strollers to their checkbooks; people who unquestioningly revere Louisiana State University not because it's an institution of higher learning with a rich history of helping to educate and enlighten people, but rather because some group of men were able to throw a prolate spheroid covered in pigskin across a goal line so many times in a single season.

I can hear your collective groans pouring into my house from across the thin fiber-optic cables of the Internet now. "But Chris! What about teaching children about sportsmanship, strategy, and diplomacy? What about male bonding and camaraderie? What about a sense of hometown pride?"

You want sportsmanship, strategy, and diplomacy? Pick up Trivial Pursuit or Risk and have at it. You're looking for a little male bonding and camaraderie? Join a choir or visit a bathhouse! You want hometown pride? Invest in local education or do some charity work that feeds the homeless in your neighborhood. And while you're at, redistribute some of those insane salaries that athletes command to build shelters, clinics, and libraries. I simply cannot wrap my simple little brain around the crazed extent people go to when cheering for arbitrary athletes that just so happen to form a team in the city in which they currently reside, all in the name of supposed hometown pride (especially when there are so many other worthwhile ways ones pride can be displayed). It doesn't make any sense to me. If you must cheer, cheer because of the game, not the logo stitched to the player.

As a gay stereotype, I was extremely scarred by sports as a child (can't you tell?). I was that scared little stick figure who hid behind the racquetball court during P.E., praying to God that the coach would somehow develop a temporary-but-timely case of hysterical blindness and not see my name on the crumpled up roster dangling dangerously from his plastic clipboard with the faded Nike symbol on it. I was that little gay boy that all the other kids called a sissy because I couldn't toss the football far enough or pin someone down during a wrestling match.

It's not that I didn't try; I did. I just couldn't do it. I didn't want to do it. But every coach, every teacher, every adult, every unspoken gender norm is set up to make boys participate and compete, and God forbid if you lack the necessary coordination or just plain don't want to. If we must accept that athletic competition is a necessary component of life, we should be able to choose whether or not we want to participate in it without fear of ridicule or ostracization. Perhaps if that had been the case when I was a child, I wouldn't be so anti-sports today.

I actually know a lot of sociologists, friends, and normal people who disagree with me, and that's fine. Because even if you'd like to argue the good side of sports — which I've calculatedly whitewashed over in this very one-sided post — my only request is that you give equal thought to all the negatives, as well.

And for heaven's sake, go to the damn emergency room when your spleen is about to rupture or you have a shiv sticking out of your gut! And don't name your kid ESPN … he'll thank you for it later!

How Democrat Are You?

2007-01-18T09:00:00.000-06:00

You Are 84% Democrat

You are a card carrying Democrat, and a pretty far left one at that!
There's no chance anyone would ever mistake you for a Republican.

How Democrat Are You?

Canceled!

2007-01-17T09:00:00.002-06:00

Queer Eye has at last been canceled … finally, there is some justice in this world.

I know it's petty and childish and wrong of me to take pleasure in someone else's misfortune, but I can't help but feel some small amount of satisfaction ... despite the fact that they'll no doubt go on to amazing careers and make millions of dollars simply due to their ability to live as two-dimensional stereotypes in designer shoes. Or perhaps they'll take a cue from the South Park movie and spend their lives "shooting up in the trash, homeless on the streets giving handjobs for cash." It's easy, mmmkay!

Nevertheless, I'm glad to see them go. So long, bye-bye, and don't let the door hit you on your talentless, painted, vapid, snarky, offensive, superficial, sell-out, detrimental-to-our-cause, setting-us-back-fifty-years, collective designer derrieres on the way out!

A Little Bit of Graciousness

2007-01-16T09:00:00.000-06:00

I was very excited to be able to track down a videocassette copy of Whoopi Goldberg's out-of-print one-woman Broadway show as a gift for Alan this past Christmas. We both have incredibly fond memories of the show from when it originally aired on HBO in 1985 and it was a real treat to rediscover it all these years later.

For those of you unfamiliar with the show, it was based on Goldberg's versatile stand-up comedy performance consisting of different character monologues, from a strung-out male junkie/thief to a little black girl with fantasies of someday turning white to a crippled young woman with a badly contorted body who ultimately learns that ''normal'' is almost always in the eye of the beholder. The original run of the show ran on Broadway from October 1984 to March 1985, equaling a total of 156 performances, each and every one a sold-out event.

I vividly remember, even at the age of 11, being taken by the depth of each character and recognizing how vivid and powerful her performance was. That's because it wasn't just a typical stand-up comedy routine; she was instilling each segment with shrewd social commentary about racism, sexism, xenophobia, cultural prejudice, labeling, and so much more, delivering an emotional payoff not often found in the comedy of today.

This brings us to a Wal-Mart parking lot in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 2007. I was out adventuring through town and was dumbfounded by the discovery of yet another Wal-Mart within the city limits (bringing the total to seven, I believe) and, with nothing better to do on this particular day (or any other, for that matter), decided to pop in for a browse.

(And yes, I'm aware that, for someone who so vehemently hates Wal-Mart, I tend to spend a lot of time there nowadays, so please don't bother to point it out.)

Upon my departure, I chanced upon two young Chinese women in the parking lot, looking rather forlornly near their lopsided Lexus ES; it would seem that the back driver's side tire was flat, and the women had no clue how to go about fixing it.

To make matters a bit more interesting, neither one of them spoke fluent English, capable of only imparting a few rudimentary words here and there.

Two senior citizen women bystanders were trying in vain to assist them as a stout police officer looked on from his parked squad car in front of the main entrance to the superstore. I spied one of the older women crossing the parking lot to ask the cop for some assistance, which was met by his indifferent reply that his job was "not to help change tires."

I watched for a moment as people continued to come and go, not any one of them so much as bothering to slow down in the presence of the scene. Ashamedly, I also thought about making a dash for it, not because I didn't want to help but because I'm a silly little gay guy who knows very little about the masculine art of tire-changing (despite having had to clumsily fondle my way through the experience several hateful times in the past).

The young Chinese women smiled helplessly as I approached, speaking to each other in their native tongue as the two older women flagged me over and asked if I could help them. Within moments, I had the jack placed where it needed to be, the car lifted from the ground, the extremely tight bolts removed, and the tire officially changed, with only three small cuts on my right hand and a modicum of motor oil splashed on my shirt and face. I thought how funny it must've looked to the various passersby, and the completely useless cop, to see two Chinese women, two old ladies, and a sweaty frail queen trying to change a single tire.

It was as I approached them that I could hear Whoopi Goldberg, channeling her junkie/thief character, reciting a line from the end of that particular sketch. She (or rather he) recounts the unpleasant experience of being asked directions by a lost tourist who couldn't speak English. And, after having experienced being in a similar situation where he himself was the alien, came to realize how hard it is for someone in that position to have to ask somebody else for help, concluding that it doesn't take "but a little bit of graciousness" to be able to lend a hand to someone in need.

When I finished, they each attempted to hand me money, which I refused to take. It was unnecessary, and the pride I felt for not letting the language barrier or my embarrassingly misconceived ideas about my own sexuality stop me from helping these innocent strangers out of a jam was payment enough.

I did nothing extraordinary on this day and I'm not sharing this tale to suggest that I did. But I do hope that you take with you the inclination to extend a little bit of graciousness to someone else the next time the opportunity presents itself.

¡No Aceptamos Prejuicio!

2007-01-15T09:00:00.000-06:00

Sigh … more material acts of prejudice and racism in the United States. Will it ever end?

After offering to accept Mexican pesos as a form of payment in an attempt to appeal to its large Hispanics clientele, a Dallas-based pizza chain with several dozen stores across Texas, Colorado, Arizona, Nevada, and California has been hit with an onslaught of death threats and hate mail from the local and national community.

The racist rhetoric and subsequent backlash, not surprisingly, comes in the wake of the nation's continuous debate over the state of immigration in the United States. No one seems to mind, however, when American businesses that service communities along the Canadian border, such as Vermont-based resorts and various toll plazas near Niagara Falls, accept the Canadian dollar as a way to cater to and accommodate its diverse customer base. It's a business decision, plain and simple.

And as such, I think the bottom must be understood in terms of legality; that is, is it legal or illegal for the private business in question to accept a foreign currency in exchange for its product? If it's not against the law for the Pizza Patron to accept Mexican pesos — which it isn't — then this becomes simply yet another example of how living in a nation that continues to tolerate and somehow justify an ideology of discrimination in its social and political systems instills fear and racism in the ignorant masses of the populace.

By the way, I know this is old news already but I wrote this post last week when CNN originally reported the story but decided to wait and post it today, Martin Luther King Day. As much now as ever, I believe that we need to remind ourselves of his critical message of nonviolence, peace, and equality for all.

"The ultimate weakness of violence
is that it is a descending spiral,
begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy.
Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it.
Through violence you may murder the liar,
but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth.
Through violence you murder the hater,
but you do not murder hate.
In fact, violence merely increases hate....
Returning violence for violence multiples violence,
adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."
-Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Bauer Power!

2007-01-14T09:00:00.002-06:00

"I'm Federal Agent Jack Bauer, and this is the longest day of my life."
_____—Jack Bauer

My one major mainstream guilty pleasure, the high-octane, adrenaline-fueled, topsy-turvy world of 24, finally returns tonight! Oh, how I've missed it! I've already gladly suffered through five seasons of terrorism, torture, murders, moles, assassins, and asinine plot twists (Teri's amnesia, anyone?) and I'm ready for at least five more!

God, I'm lonely.

Anyway, the two-night, four-hour sixth season premiere starts this evening at 8 p.m. I know several of you are as excited as I am so this post is for you. Disconnect your phones, turn off the lights, set your TiVos on stun, and bunker down for a night full of thrills, chills, and Chloe!

Birthday Wishes

2007-01-13T09:00:00.000-06:00

Happy Birthday, Caleb!

Ragny Botz and the Bedtime Monsters

2007-01-12T09:00:00.000-06:00

Come see Ragny Botz and the Bedtime Monsters at Onstage Atlanta!

Part Muppets, part Where the Wild Things Are, and part Three Stooges, this children's play will make children of all ages laugh their furry tails off!

Ragny Botz and the Bedtime Monsters is directed by Laine Binder and written by Atlanta playwright Valerie Watts. Shows are 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. on Saturdays, and 2 p.m. on Sundays in Onstage Atlanta's fabulous O2 theatre and runs through January 20th. All tickets are $7.00.

For more information or to make reservations, call the Onstage Atlanta box office at 404.897.1802 or visit them online at www.onstageatlanta.com.

Emergency Rallies to Stop Iraq Escalation

2007-01-11T09:00:00.003-06:00

I'm sure that we all have our own opinions on Bush's controversial new plan to increase U.S. military presence in the Middle East by 20,000+ troops in the weeks and months ahead. And I'm also sure that we're all probably pretty tired of hearing about it. I haven't really spent much time dissecting it myself because so many other bloggers/pundits/late-night comedians have already done a damn good job of doing so and I, frankly, have very little to add.

However, I will pass along the following information: MoveOn.org Political Action, one of the largest and most active political action committees in the country, is sponsoring a series of nationwide emergency rallies tonight to try to stop the forthcoming Iraq escalation (which, aside from the inherent staggering loss of life the maneuver will no doubt bring, is estimated to cost the United States $6.8 billion). Despite the fact that the deployment orders have already been signed, MoveOn.org is arguing that Congress can block the escalation if enough voices are heard and urge interested citizens to join them at these rallies all across the country.

If you are interested in attending one in your area, check out their website for more information. If nothing else, it'll get you out of the house tonight and let you meet some interesting people!

Things You Probably Shouldn't Know about Me … but I'm Gonna Tell You, Anyway

2007-01-10T09:00:00.002-06:00

I'm the guy who does the voiceover narration on the "Girls Gone Wild" commercials.

What Musical Are You?

2007-01-09T09:00:00.001-06:00

From Scott:

Especially for all my theater friends out there, check out this QUIZ to have the marvels of science reveal what musical you are (in theory, that is):

On Stereotypes, Inspiration, Depression, and Showing No Mercy

2007-01-08T09:00:00.000-06:00

Comedian Carlos Mencia loves to play up on stereotypes in order to defuse them. Richard Pryor did the same thing, as does Dave Chappelle and George Carlin. Their provocative and extremely politically incorrect views of everyone from every race and background aren't necessarily meant to harm people but rather find humor and truth in social realities. It's for that reason that I can forgive them for saying things that the socially-conscious treehugger in me might normally find offensive. And I trust that you all can do the same whenever I might say something that offends you.

I'm no Carlos Mencia or George Carlin but I do try to infuse my observations with cheeky irreverence and clever hyperbole whenever possible. So, when it comes to my writing, I really hate having to explain my motivations because I feel that, if I must explain them, then I'm clearly doing something wrong.

But I've received word recently that some of you find my current posts to be unpleasant, arrogant, and pretentious. To each his own, I suppose, but I trust that if you're a regular reader of my blog than you know that I tend to write acerbically, with a tongue-in-cheek manner that I try to make socially pertinent yet lighthearted at the same time. I do this both to entertain and enlighten; it's what helps to keep this blog from becoming simply a social site, and to keep me from becoming just another faceless voice on the Web.

But some of you have criticized me for speaking so honestly about my thoughts and feelings lately, regarding both my move to Louisiana and my innermost sentiments about myself and those around me. Considering that this is my blog — an online journal designed to allow the user, should they so choose, to share their personal thoughts with the world — I find that criticism somewhat amusing. Nevertheless, I take it to heart and can't help but feel a little hurt by it.

But I ask you: what would be the alternative? Sugarcoat my impressions and write bland pleasantries about my ongoing life experience? Lie? Only post pictures of my dog? Discontinue this blog altogether?

I've thought about the fourth option a lot lately because the last thing I want to do is come off as "unpleasant," "arrogant," or "pretentious." But writing requires inspiration and, like it or not, my inspiration has been severely compromised since leaving school and leaving Atlanta. I no longer have the luxury of surrounding myself with academics and anarchists, people who challenge and provoke me. I no longer consistently associate with artists who instill me with a sense of self-worth and make me want to sing. I no longer see my world composed of individuals who embolden me to fight for what I know is right. I no longer regularly find the inspiration to quell my depression.

So I have to find it in other ways. And if that's by expressing my heartfelt opinions about my place in this world or poking fun at the local culture through satire and provocation, so be it.

I'm not entirely blameless, as I suppose I could make more of an effort to seek out positive inspiration and rebuild a support network that challenges and stimulates me. But I once wrote that coming out of a depression is sort of like waking from a really long nap. Anyone who's ever experienced clinical depression knows what I mean. It's more than a psychological experience; it's a physical one, as well ... nothing short of crippling. You're physically exhausted all the time, as if you have sandbags weighing you down and suppressing any desire to be productive.

And it's not something that changes overnight. It takes time and effort and creativity to overcome, and if I can find even a modicum of desire to write about it, than I know I am on the path to recovery.

And if you don't like it, don't read it. It's just that simple.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm meeting Bubba Joe and Curly Sue up at the Wal-Mart to play a stimulating round of Cajun Cranium (the exciting new game whereby you scour the parking lot of heartless corporate megastores and replace all of the conservative bumper stickers you find with rainbow flags and human rights decals).

Go Fighting Irish!

Sketchiness Factor

2007-01-07T09:00:00.000-06:00

From Christi:

Your Sketchiness Factor

You are 65% Sketchy

How Sketchy Are You?

In Bad Taste

2007-01-06T09:00:00.000-06:00

So have you heard the one about the New York cable provider that hung a hangman's noose in a workplace made up of predominantly black employees?

Sadly, that's not the opening line to some off-color politically incorrect joke. CNN reported yesterday that two white managers at 180 Connect hung a hangman's noose in a fenced-off equipment area visible to dozens of company employees, the majority of whom are black. According to reports, it was meant to be a humorous symbol that was "taken out of context."

I'm sorry, but openly positioning a noose in front of your black employees is not the way to be cute in the workplace. Such an act has historical significance in this country and is nothing short of hostile and therefore cannot be dismissed as good-natured ribbing or simply "taken out of context."

What's more, an attorney for one of the men charged in the suit has actually gone on record stating that his client couldn't possibly be racist since "[his] first marriage for 17 years was to an African-American woman." That's as ignorant a statement as saying a married man with children couldn't possibly be gay. In social science we call that an ecological fallacy; in the real world, we just call it damn stupid.

I'm not typically a supporter of our country's rampant litigiousness but I hope to God that these people sue 180 Connect for every cent they can get. I say that because we have proven time and time again that education and training always seems to fall short in this area and perhaps the only successful way to truly combat inexcusable ignorance and enduring racism in this country is to hit 'em where it hurts: their wallets.

My Life in Hell '07: Fresh Hell Update

2007-01-05T09:00:00.000-06:00

So, what's new in hell? Not a whole lot, which is exactly how the locals like it. It may be the year 2007 outside, but this place continues to look like it's stuck in 1982. "Progress" is indeed a four-letter word in these parts, kinda like "liberal" and "vegetarian."

Okay, now I'm just being mean. But it helps keep me sane, you know?

And believe me, my sanity is quickly fading. Left alone with my thoughts and no local support network to sustain me, I have absolutely nothing to do all day long except make multiple daily trips to the Wal-Mart in order to kill some time and stimulate my withering brain. While there, I play a new game I invented whereby I see how many people I can spot wearing some variation of LSU-related sportswear (t-shirts, sweaters, sweatpants, smocks, what-have-you) and then try to beat that total on my next visit. My current high score is 41.

(By the by, this game also works by sitting in the parking lot and counting the number of George W. Bush/Dick Cheney bumper stickers plastered across the backs of assorted Hummers and pickup trucks. And you get triple points if you find a Wal-Mart employee with both an LSU and Bush sticker on their car!)

No, this has not been a good year.

I've been out of school for nearly six months and don't have anything to show for it except a bad attitude and some amazing debt. My student loans go into repayment on February 6th and I've yet to find gainful and/or meaningful employment; God help me, but in a moment of desperation and weakness I actually came dangerously close to applying for a position at the Dollar Tree last week (or, as it's known around here, the Bayou Bloomingdale's).

To make ends meet, I've sold everything I own on eBay — and a few pieces of personal garments and other assorted unmentionables on an all-adult, male-oriented version of eBay called heBay — and have taken to performing erotic acts on hobos in a dark alley behind the Louisiana State Capitol building for fifty cents a pop. (Incidentally, you can see live streaming video of said acts on an all-adult, male-oriented version of YouTube called ScrewTube.)

No, this has not been a good year.

Earlier this week, I finally broke down and got my first haircut since moving here. In less than seven minutes, a large Cajun woman with a stuffed pig sitting atop a plastic gumbo pot at her station sheared the back of my head and instinctively gave me a military-esque coiffure, completely oblivious to the fact that I might not want to look like every other male in the tri-parish area. (Fortunately, I was able to stop her before she glued a synthetic microweave mullet to the back of my head.) I sat horrified and watched helplessly as tired clumps of grey fell like rain to the floor beneath me.

No, this has not been a good year.

I've become convinced that the house we're living in is haunted, as I regularly hear people belching when I'm home alone and find freshly folded socks and towels constantly scattered about the bedroom. I'd blame the dog but his belches are not quite as ominous-sounding as the ones I've been hearing lately, and he rarely helps with the laundry. Could this be the first sign that I'm slowly going mad?

Meanwhile, our beautiful fully-furnished Midtown condo with the spacious Jacuzzi tub and radiant hardwood floors continues to sit empty in Atlanta, gathering dust and mocking us with its modern charm and vaulted ceilings. God, how I miss that place.

To add insult to injury, the condo's Neo-Nazi homeowners' association has announced the discovery a mold problem within the building walls, meaning that each and every homeowner (including the one's not currently residing there, like me and Alan) must cough up an additional $2000+ to have it properly taken care of. This also makes it a challenge for prospective buyers, as banks charge higher rates for home loans in buildings that have mold problems (damn full disclosure!), meaning that it is now doubly hard for us to find someone to purchase our condo and ultimately save me from this life in hell.

No, this has really not been a good year.

And did I mention that I have an ear infection? Well, I have an ear infection. I've gone completely deaf in my right ear and occasionally find clumps of colorful goo oozing from within it. And no job means no health insurance, which means no doctor to prescribe a much-needed regiment of antibiotics. And with the local walk-in clinic charging $125 just for a consultation, one can see why I've argued so vociferously for universal health care in this country in the past.

(Luckily, the ear thing was taken care of by one of the hobos from the alley, and I'm told I should be able to start hearing again by early next week.)

On the plus side, my membership in P.U.S.S. (the Professional Unemployed Sociologist Society) has been made official, and I even received my genuine P.U.S.S. membership card in the mail this week. No, the man in the picture is not me, but I could see how I invite the comparison.

No, this has not been a good year at all.

Ah crap, it's only January 5th?! Sigh. 359 days to go…

Mister Mutley says...

2007-01-04T09:00:00.000-06:00

"I wonder if I should have this thing looked at by a professional..."

Carnage and Bloodshed, Courtesy of the 700 Club!

2007-01-03T09:00:00.000-06:00

Be ready for some major death and destruction in 2007! In his annual holy prognostication, nutty religious figurehead and evangelical lunatic Pat Robertson said yesterday that God, via the ~~Bat~~Jesusphone, told him that a terrorist attack on the United States would cause a "mass killing" in late 2007, affecting major cities and possibly millions of people. I guess that's his way of saying "happy New Year."

To read all the juicy details, click here.

Wow, a direct line to the big cheese Himself. I wonder who had to get bumped from God's Alltel "My Circle" network to give Patty-Pat-Pat-Pat a spot. Satan?

Sheesh.

Quote of the Day

2007-01-02T09:00:00.000-06:00

"Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each new year find you a better man."
_____-Benjamin Franklin

Happy New Year!

2007-01-01T09:00:00.000-06:00

The Last Angry Socialite

2006-12-31T09:00:00.000-06:00

I've always been something of an oddity. Whether it's my legendary hatred of mainstream culture or my inexplicable infatuation with all things Muppets, I'm a textbook example of someone who doesn't quite fit in. To quote Pee Wee Herman, "I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel."

Well, maybe not so much a rebel. But I do posses many loner qualities, qualities that have only been amplified as I've gotten older.

Since I've written this blog, I've occasionally joked about having an antisocial personality disorder, which must seem odd to some of my closest friends who've known me for many years because, back in the day, I loved large group gatherings and bringing people together. I excelled at coordinating outrageous outings and thrilled at being the center of attention, cherishing every flashy moment as if my friends and I were the main characters in some feel-good musical comedy filled with charming clichés and happy endings.

But not anymore. Nowadays I feel isolated, disenchanted, and alone, detached from my peers and unable to connect with my generation. One-on-one or small groups I can handle, but I'm extremely uncomfortable in large social crowds and have a very difficult time socializing at parties, clubs, bars, or anywhere loud or busy. I don't know why or even when I changed but I did and, like it or not, that's how I am now.

So you can imagine how difficult New Year's Eve is for me. While all of my friends are showing off their flashy new outfits and attending amazing year-end bashes and huge liquor-soaked shindigs, I usually hide away in my house, going through old receipts and giving myself an audit or holing up with my well-worn video cassette copy of The Muppets Take Manhattan, just waiting for that big nasty ball to drop and life to return to normal while simultaneously bitter and angry that I'm missing out on all the fun. It's a rather unpleasant sensation but I've more or less come to terms with it as being yet another extension of me being an oddity.

However, now that I'm separated from even the option of fraternizing with my friends, I'm having an even more difficult time dealing with it. In the past, when my isolation was self-imposed, I could hardly feel sorry for myself; but now, out here behind enemy lines, isolation has pretty much been thrust upon me whether I like it or not, and I'm not taking well to such enforced solitude and absolute powerlessness.

Oh, sure, I suppose options do exist, such as crashing a public bash filled with total strangers already in progress or suppressing any notion of my vanishing individuality by joining members of Alan's family at one of their hand-holdin', toe-tappin', sing-along queasy-bake-coven fêtes, but, frankly, I'd rather stay home and lament.

I think Mrs. Meers (from Thoroughly Modern Millie) said it best: "Sad to be all alone in the world."

Nevertheless, I wish you all a safe and happy whatever-it-is-you-do tonight. I'll be here, holding down the fort in the name of introverted social oddities everywhere.

Things to Do in Iraq When You're Dead

2006-12-30T09:00:00.001-06:00

You know, it's interesting to me how the world, and America in particular, has turned its unrelenting attention to the execution of Saddam Hussein, with special reports and breaking news and Anderson "I'm-So-Gay-I-Live-On-Nathan-Lane" Cooper leading a never-ending real-time symphony of experts and pundits in continuous (and at times quite tedious) coverage, while the passing of Gerald Ford, our nation's 38th President, stayed in the spotlight just long enough to became a secondary headline wedged between news of Julia Roberts' pregnancy and the latest arrest of anti-war protester Cindy Sheehan.

And people wonder why I'm so damned jaded.

I realize it's historic and worthy of intense analysis but, my God, can we please put things in a little perspective? We are not going to learn anything new about the man and his legacy of genocide by hijacking the news with nonstop sensationalistic coverage of his death designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator.

Besides, why take up precious TV time with so-called experts waxing and waning like a bunch of giddy children on Christmas morning when YouTube will no doubt feature the execution in full color for every red-blooded, flag-waving patriotic American to see for themselves in the next few days? I mean, if the Bush regime has taught me anything — and it hasn't — it's that nothing helps to strengthen the family unit than to have Mom, Dad, Timmy, and li'l Susie sit around the computer and watch a man get put to his death.

Compassionate conservatism, indeed.

Spend New Year's Eve with The Divas!

2006-12-29T09:00:00.000-06:00

Forget the film; come see a group of real-life "dreamgirls" in the flesh! From 8-10 p.m. on New Year's Eve, Onstage Atlanta will be hosting a special one-night-only DIVA NIGHT, featuring Atlanta's legendary divalicious Divas themselves — (pictured from left to right) Alli Simpson, Kristie Krabe, Laine Binder, Kathleen McCook, and Susan Atkinson! A reception featuring food, cocktails, dancing, and a midnight champagne toast will follow the show, making it the perfect way to ring in 2007!

Tickets are only $30 per person or $150 for a table (which includes 6 drink tickets). Reservations can be made by calling the Onstage Atlanta box office at 404.897.1802.

(And while you're at it, don't forget to check out the 2006-2007 Winter Cabaret Series, going on right now!!)

Birthday Wishes

2006-12-28T09:00:00.001-06:00

We Is Friends

2006-12-27T09:00:00.000-06:00

From Tara:

Word from the Front

2006-12-26T09:00:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas!

2006-12-25T09:00:00.001-06:00

(Early) Birthday Wishes

2006-12-24T09:00:00.000-06:00

Whatever Happens in Las Vegas, Stays in Las Vegas

2006-12-23T09:00:00.000-06:00

And sadly, not a whole lot has happened. I've taken about a million pictures, walked about a million miles, and clung to my desperate hopes of winning a small fortune like a cheap suit. Perhaps the slogan should really be "Whatever Money You Bring to Las Vegas, Stays in Las Vegas."

In less than two days I've been to Paris, Venice, New York, New Orleans, and Caesars Palace; I've run amuck in the lion preserve at MGM and barely escaped with my life; I've played franchise-specific slot machines based on Star Wars, Back to the Future, Hee Haw, Green Acres, and Dick Clark's Rockin' New Years Eve; and several scantily clad young ladies dressed only in clamshell cellophane bikinis now know me by name.

The city is truly amazing but I'm way out of my league here. I can't even fathom the level of money exchanging hands. Yet, somehow, none of it ever seems to reach me. And I'm not asking for much ... just a few hundred would suffice. I have to say that it's rather frustrating when you walk away from a slot machine after playing it for half an hour only to have some old woman on a respirator wheel up behind you and win $10,000 on a nickel bet. (No worries; I waited for her later on in the parking lot and jacked her wheelchair. The bitch.)

Only a few more days to hit it big. I'm keep my appendages crossed.

Viva Las Broke Ass!

2006-12-22T09:00:00.000-06:00

Things I've learned during my Vegas adventure (thus far):

1. My father has all the patience of a runaway bulldozer.
2. Drunk straight girls still find me attractive.
3. I never know when to quit while I'm ahead.
4. Gambling doesn't pay.

Viva Las Vegas!

2006-12-21T09:00:00.000-06:00

Hello, friends! I'm writing to you today from sizzling Sin City, aka Las Vegas, America's number one destination spot for topless entertainment and out-of-control gambling addictions (I should fit right in). It also happens to be where my parents now live, and I am here to spend Christmas with them. This is the first time I've been here since the city went legit; it's strange not to be greeted at the airport by a bunch of toothless hookers and Joan Rivers. As such, my mom and dad have planned all sorts of wholesome, family things to do while I'm here, such as visit the new Hooters resort and gamble.

Eek. I better find my Elvis wig and get a shake on it. The nickel slots are a-calling ... wish me luck!

Birthday Wishes

2006-12-20T09:00:00.001-06:00

Things I Don't Hate about Louisiana

2006-12-19T09:00:00.000-06:00

To appease all you naysayers and Little Mary Sunshines who think that I'm just a negative one-note nelly with an Napoleon complex who's incapable of doing anything but complain (I get your hate mail … I know who you are), I've decided to call your bluff by posting a list affectionately titled "Things I Don't Hate about Louisiana."

Here it goes:

-You can buy booze on Sunday.

-My neighbors actually smile and say hello.

-One pound bags of Community Coffee, the most delicious coffee in the world (and based right here in Baton Rouge), can be purchased for about $4.50 a bag, as opposed to $8.00 a bag back in Atlanta.

-The hunky mailman in the tight shorts walks right up to my door and puts the mail in that little metal box.

-Alan gets to see his family on a regular basis.

-Unlike in Atlanta, where I felt constantly judged and looked down upon for my utter lack of fashion sense and desire, I can wear my tattered and torn old hand-me-downs without feeling self-conscious about it and know that I'm still among the state's best-dressed.

-New Orleans is only an hour away from Baton Rouge.

That's all I could come up with.

My Betters

2006-12-18T09:00:00.000-06:00

While revisiting some old pictures (the ones not lost to the ages, that is), swept up in a tidal wave of memories, I recalled recently reading the most wonderful quote about the nature of friendship. It was in a comic book, of all places, written by award-winning novelist Brad Meltzer. The passage gives the reader a unique insight into the deep friendship between Superman and Batman, two very different men with very different outlooks on life yet somehow forever bonded through their common cause.

In his thoughts expressed to the reader, Superman comments, "People misunderstand our friendship. It's not simply mutual respect or loyalty over time. As in any social setting, your friends are the ones you consider your equals. But your best friends — your closest friends — are the ones you consider your betters."

If you're reading this then chances are that you're among my betters, so I thank you for all that you continue to bring to my world.

And I also thank all of my betters yet to come.

Quote of the Day

2006-12-17T09:00:00.000-06:00

"Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you too can become great."
_____-Mark Twain

Mister Mutley says...

2006-12-16T09:00:00.000-06:00

"You are evil, and you must be destroyed."

Happy Hanukkah

2006-12-15T09:00:00.000-06:00

Me of Little Faith

2006-12-14T09:00:00.000-06:00

I've always struggled with maintaining faith. While I do have faith in a great many things, I increasingly find myself questioning my ability to continue to believe in that which cannot be proven.

I'm not referring to religion, per se, because with religion I know exactly where I stand. As a sociologist, I see religion as a quantifiable social construction, a functional template of culture and philosophy and ideology molded together to serve a common societal cause. Sometimes that cause is to oppress (as Marx suggested), other times it is to unite (as postulated by Durkheim), but always it is to guide.

Faith, on the other hand, transcends mass religious doctrine and becomes quite personal. I've known many educated people in my lifetime, from devout Christians to absolute atheists, and each of them have imparted something powerful and provocative to me in terms of how they understand and comprehend faith. And always, no matter where they stand on the subject of religion, their idea of faith rests within themselves, within the individual.

But today I see my faith waning. I'm having difficulty believing in the goodness of my fellow man as the hate-spewing fundamentalists that compose the Religious Right continue to find new and repugnant ways to spread their corrupt message of fear and ignorance to the masses. Take, for example, the new video game based on the popular Left Behind series of books about the Rapture. As I discovered earlier this week in an eloquently-written post by thephoenixnyc, the game lifts religious intolerance to staggering new heights by creating a playable scenario in which gamers must either convert people to Christianity or else kill them.

(By the way, if y'all haven't checked out thephoenixnyc's blog yet, Skinny Legs and All, I urge you to do so. Dedicated "to the spirit of change, self-examination and of learning on a micro and macro level," it's a sociologist's dream come true.)

And now it's being reported that the same evangelical Christian software corporation responsible for the game has launched a new social-networking website, a la MySpace, designed to appeal to "a religious audience" (so long as you're a fundamentalist Christian, that is), offering a highly regulated cyberworld for true believers to congregate online and share ideas. Which would be fine, if only the ideas being shared weren't about how to subjugate your neighbors and gun down infidels.

It would be tempting to write this disturbance off as the nonsensical babblings of a lunatic fringe, but prominent groups like Focus on the Family and the Christian Coalition, groups that boast memberships in the hundreds of thousands, have a strong voice that rings out loud and clear. Terrified of progress and evolution, they reinforce their backwards conservative agenda in more than just the church, reaching government, education, community, and the media. These people are powerful, and they're everywhere.

And quite frankly that scares me. Because when it comes to issues of diversity, freedom, and human rights, we all know where these groups stand. Rather than truly embracing the teachings of Jesus — teachings of togetherness and brotherhood and acceptance — as they falsely purport to do, they redefine the concept of "people of faith" to exclude people like me and use video games to teach children that it's okay — no, necessary — to murder those who are different.

I've said many times before that I am no theologian, nor do I claim to be; my knowledge remains limited in this area (which is by design, for I'm not sure I'm ready to open myself up to the intensity of scholarship that the study of religion entails). But I know enough about the world around me to realize that religiosity seems to be at an all time high in this country, and if we continue to tolerate mainstream ideologies that teach our children to "convert or die," we're going to end up losing more than our faith.

Final Jeopardy

2006-12-13T09:00:00.000-06:00

Answer: The jackass who thought he was a genius because he was getting every question right while playing Jeopardy, not realizing that he was playing the children's edition.

Question: Who is Chris, Alex?

Alex: You're right!

Swish Swish, Girlfriend!

2006-12-12T09:00:00.000-06:00

So I was traversing the barren Louisiana highways yesterday, searching for something or another, when I heard a commercial come on the radio advertising some new movie that was set to premiere on A&E later that evening. According to the ad, the movie, called Wedding Wars, poses the question of what would happen if all of the country's "gays" (read: gay men) went on strike (because you know we all belong to the same mailing list, so organizing such a thing would be a piece of cake).

The premise alone sounded revolting, but then they added a sound byte of some effeminate-sounding man saying something along the lines of, "We'll see how you all get along without any hairdressers and florists!" Since I was driving — and completely appalled — I'm sure I got the exact quote wrong, but you get the gist.

Hairdressers and florists?! That's what they use to sell this film?! I guess that works, because it's common knowledge that all hairdressers and florists are gay and all gays are hairdressers and florists. Thank you so much, A&E, for your unfailing ability to take a complex social issue and turn it into a joke. And thank you too, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, for reinforcing a set of ill-conceived ideas in the minds of middle America that we are nothing but a bunch of superficial image-obsessed two-dimensional caricatures who live to decorate and talk only in innuendo.

Idiots.

Naturally, I did not see the film, so forgive me if it turned out to be some sparkling sociopolitical commentary on the state of sexual diversity in our country today. Although, as a made-for-basic-cable movie with a cast headlined by John Stamos playing a gay party planner, I tend to doubt it.

Big Brother Really Is Watching You (and Me)

2006-12-11T09:00:00.000-06:00

I have to admit that I'm more than a little out of touch with the ways of the world lately. I don't know the proper way to style my hair, I've never seen inexplicably popular shows like Survivor or Project Runway (and quite frankly don't plan to), and the last video game system I owned — and could play competently — was a ColecoVision (circa 1983).

I'm not saying that I'm so old-fashioned that I can't adapt with those incandescent waves of modernity that occasionally sweep across the land like some massive tsunami pouring from the abyss to wipe out a cluster of cavemen clinging helplessly to their antiquated ways (like the Republican Party), but I'm usually quite happy living out my days with the way things are, blissfully unaware of what's considered "cool" and "hip" by those in the know.

(Do people still say "cool" and "hip" anymore? I have no clue.)

Anyway, I'm a little concerned with yet another modern trend that seems to pose a threat to my simple existence. According to a recent report published by the National Association of Colleges and Employers (NACE), 50 percent of employers who participated in job fairs and on-campus recruiting with the Center for Career Opportunities at Purdue University in West Lafayette, Indiana, reported using some sort of online technology to screen potential employment candidates (i.e., search engines like Google and social networking websites like Facebook, Friendster, MySpace, and LiveJournal). An additional 7 percent surveyed said they do not currently use this screening method but plan to start.

I guess it makes sense. I mean, why wouldn't you perform a Google search on someone you planned to have work for you or on a guy with whom you had a tequila-fueled tryst on the mensroom floor at Señor Sombrero's Mexican Restaurante and Cantina off Highway 51 but haven't heard from since, even though he promised to call the next day and told you that you were the spiciest chimichanga this side of the Yucatán Peninsula and wanted to spend the rest of his days with you before being shipped off to fight in the Ivorian Civil War? For example.

But this poses a rather dicey dilemma for me (not losing contact with Rafael, but having my name Googled by potential employers). What if the reason that I can't even so much as land an interview here in Falwellville has less to do with my poorly-constructed resume and embarrassingly inadequate credentials and more to do with the fact that I'm a flaming pro-equality, anti-hunting, diversity-loving Democrat with disturbing delusions of grandeur (vote Bea Arthur for President in 2008!)?

In a different time and place, perhaps my alternative angry liberal nonconformist subversive point-of-view would have had me rounded up with all other propaganda-spewing agitators and dissidents and thrown into an internment camp full of starving artists and "dangerous minorities." But nowadays I just blend in along the dewy roadside marsh running beside the information superhighway, lost among millions of other online anarchists, discarded cigarette butts, and the occasional odd body part. I mean, with my five daily readers and harmless political bluster (vote Bea Arthur for President in 2008!), surely I needn't have to worry about censoring myself lest I become a victim of conservative prejudicial hiring practices.

Or do I?

Seriously, despite using a faceless picture (because you can only been told that you look like an old shoe so many times before it begins to hurt), I've always openly and proudly posted my incoherent babble to my blog using my real name because I truly believe in what I have to say. That, and also because I had this silly misguided idea that I could be a famous writer someday and had no intentions of ever editing myself or betraying my values by hiding behind a fictitious online identity (not that there's anything wrong with that; it's just not my M.O.).

But now I'm not so sure. I'm having a hell of a time finding a job here and can't help but wonder if some small part of that has to do with my blog or the fact that I have a book out featuring a gay male prostitute as the main protagonist.

Is this just another unfortunate side effect of life in the cyberage, like ubiquitously ringing cell phones in the movie theater and Rachael Ray, or am I just giving myself way too much credit and buying into the usual paranoia? I must ponder this some more, but not right now. First I have to get to work on Bea Arthur's political platform. She's supposed to call later this evening and I still have much work to do if I want to impress her enough to be made Secretary of Muppets and Fraggles in her 2008 Presidential Cabinet.

And they say I have delusions of grandeur! Ha! I'll show 'em! I'll show 'em all!

Vote Bea Arthur for President in 2008!

Cartoon Villains

2006-12-10T09:00:00.001-06:00

As both a flaming liberal and a huge fan of the 1966 Batman series, this picture tickles me:

Let's Say Thanks™

2006-12-09T09:00:00.000-06:00

My friend Melissa informed me about this free service provided by Xerox and I thought it was a really nice idea:

The mission of Let's Say Thanks is to provide a way for individuals across the country to recognize U.S. troops stationed overseas. By submitting a message through this site you have the opportunity to send a free personalized postcard greeting to deployed servicemen and women.

The postcards, depicting patriotic scenes and hometown images, were selected from a pool of entries from children across the country.

All you have to do is click on your favorite design and either select the message that best expresses your sentiment or draft a personal note. The postcards are then printed on the Xerox iGen3® Digital Production Press and mailed in care packages by military support organization Give2TheTroops®.

Xerox is committed to helping people across the nation express their gratitude to our troops overseas. The launch of this program is aimed at reminding them how much Americans appreciate their service.

To participate, click HERE.

Buffy Redux

2006-12-08T09:00:00.000-06:00

Since it's becoming more and more likely that I won't have the financial resources to embark on next year's SlayerCruise to Alaska, I've been revisiting the wild world of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in a more affordable fashion: by way of DVDs, comic books, and creepy Internet chat rooms full of sad loner fanboys and sexual predators (yes, I'm talking about myself on both counts). And I've quickly discovered that, despite being off the air now for more than three-and-a-half years, Buffy is still sorely missed by her legions of loyal fans.

And why wouldn't it be? Hip, smart, and edgy, with a mythology as vast as J. R. R. Tolkien's and a bestiary as frightening as a Republican-controlled Congress, it's the show that redefined television, blending genres as different as horror and musical comedy with beautiful finesse. Even Entertainment Weekly, a publication I don't usually side with, recently called Buffy the Vampire Slayer "epic, mythic, character-driven serialized storytelling, told with humor and heart." It was "the show never failed to deliver the goods" and "today's serialized glamour shows now struggling to remain creatively vital could learn a thing or two from [it]."

I couldn't agree more. Capable of evoking laughter, tears, fear, and joy in one fell swoop, it left a cultural impact in its wake that has since transcended mere televised fiction and found its way into novels, comics, collectibles, video games, and even academia. Respected scholars have written hundreds of articles and books examining the various themes of the show in the fields of philosophy, theology, sociology, psychology, and pop culture and women's studies, with some universities going so far as to offer entire courses centered around the Buffyverse. (How f-in cool would it be to get my Master's degree in Buffyology?!)

I remember when I found it myself, after years of turning a blind eye because I couldn't afford yet another addiction. But it was all over for me when I finally succumbed to the peer pressure and took that first intense puff from the pipe that is Buffy, drawn into its fantastic world of beasts and banter like a drunk finding his way to All-You-Can-Drink Day at the Pabst Blue Ribbon Brewery.

But then, as quickly as I had found it, it was gone. Canceled. Yanked from the air to make room for shows like The O.C. and One Tree Hill. After seven amazing seasons, we were forced to say farewell to a story that could conceivably go on forever, if handled right.

Until now.

Launching in four short months will be an officially licensed, in-continuity Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic book series described by Buffy creator Joss Whedon himself as "a virtual season 8 ... picking up almost right after season seven left off." Thank The Powers That Be!

This might not mean a whole lot to most of you, but to comic book/Buffy geeks like me it's like the Holy Grail. Sure, it's not as great as a 7-day convention at sea, cruising past mighty glaciers through the Inside Passage alongside former Buffy cast members while sipping refreshing mojitos and flirting with cute cabin boys, but I'll take whatever I can get.

For all of my Buffy friends who might be reading this (don't deny it; I know you're out there!), the series is scheduled to hit the shelves on March 7, 2007. Read all the juicy details and check out an exclusive first look at entertainmentweekly.com.

(Thanks, Caleb, for sending me the link and giving me a new reason to live.)

Because Denial Isn't Just a Gay Club Outside Denham Springs

2006-12-07T09:00:00.000-06:00

"I'll do it tomorrow!"

My, my … how those words have become a regular addition to my daily lexicon lately. Whether it's changing out of my pajamas or shaving off that awkward patch of wiry grey body hair that continuously pops up around the small of my back, I've become a master of procrastination. Although not spoken aloud, I somehow believe that, by not getting a Louisiana driver's license or refusing to reset the stations on my radio dial, I'll somehow wake up from this dreadful dream and be back in my comfy, comfy bed in Atlanta, happily watching Wendie Jo Sperber movies until it's time to leave for the theater.

But alas, this is no dream. (I can tell because Alli's not here serenading me from atop a Corallian Limestone balcony and there are no naked go-go boys swooning about and chanting my name.) No, this is real life, and I've became damn well determined to tie real life in a sack, weigh it down with rusty chains, and drop it deep within Lake Pontchartrain for only the fishes to ever find.

I'm an infamous avoider, known to circumvent reality like a skilled figure skater circumvents the mangled remains of her partner after a botched loop jump. If they gave awards for the best avoidance strategies, I think I would take home the top prize for sure (although I'd probably find a way to avoid attending the ceremony). I've been known to hide away from my problems until they become festering boils requiring the most advanced medical technology in order to be effectively lanced (there's an image you'll take with you to the grave). I dread confrontation and would just assume hole-up in my house for weeks at a time with a bottle of gin, eating baskets of fried cheese and writing disturbing fan mail to the cast of Days of our Lives rather than face my quizibucks head on.

I suppose it all fits well with my classic passive-aggressive tendencies, like using e-mail instead of the phone and fostering chaos where there once was none. By denying my growing list of obligations (such as tackling the Louisiana DMV or bathing), I'm absolved from having to deal with them. Frankly, I have better things to do, like stay in bed and complain.

However, despite my chronic sullenness and ornery refusal to face my fears, money is quickly running out and I need to get a job ASAP. And since supporting oneself is one of those pesky societal expectations not to be questioned — kind of like heterosexuality and Bush's ability to run the country — I better shake off my depression and put on my "I'm-ready-to-have-my-dreams-crushed-by-becoming-your-soulless-corporate-bitch" face and get to work.

Nah. I'll do it tomorrow.

For Shelby

2006-12-06T09:00:00.001-06:00

Campus Ladies

2006-12-05T09:00:00.000-06:00

I am absolutely in love with the Oxygen channel original series Campus Ladies! In the vein of irreverent comedies like Reno 911! and Lovespring International, the series follows middle-aged best friends Joan Beamin and Barri Martin after they decide it's better to be forty-year-old freshmen than a couple of bored, unhappy housewives. Ditching life in suburbia, they move into a co-ed dorm at the fictitious UMW (University of the Midwest) and make quick friends (and quite a few enemies) with their new classmates as they experience all of the excitement and stress of college life with wild naiveté and optimism, complete with one-night stands, sexual experimentation, keggers and parties, and hard-assed professors.

Witty and twisted, much of the show's dialogue is improvised, which fits well with the frantic pacing and style of the program. Apparently, this is because Campus Ladies is based on characters created by comediennes Carrie Aizley ("Joan") and Christen Sussin ("Barri") while performing with The Groundlings, the famous improvisational comedy troupe that has had its hand in shows like Saturday Night Live and Mad TV. It's an extremely refreshing change from the kind of canned humor that dominates most of today's sitcoms, and each episode leaves me gasping for air and wanting more.

With season two scheduled to kick off tonight at 11:00 p.m. (EST), not to mention their own blog, online videos, and fan-run MySpace page, now's a great time to check out the riotous world of Campus Ladies for yourself!

All Alone with the Memory

2006-12-04T09:00:00.000-06:00

Sorting through old photo albums is a lot like reading a book about your own life. It's an invaluable experience, and one in which you only have one chance to get right. That's why, ever since I was sixteen years old, I carried a camera with me everywhere I went, annoying my friends and family with the constant snapping of the shutter and flashing of the flash. I always knew that, even as they were happening, we would all cherish those memories someday, especially me.

It was the days before digital cameras and backup files when everything was done by hand. I can still remember the mighty exhilaration of bringing my many rolls of film to the photo developer each week and counting the hours until I could come back and collect the final product, the visuals of my life — and the lives of so many others — captured in spectacular perpetuity.

For nearly seventeen years I carried those physical reminders of my long and winding journey with me in immense scrapbooks personally decorated with photographs, drawings, clippings, and sayings that somehow managed to preserve my memories like a rare old movie forever locked away in some grand vault. It was a true labor of love, an arduous and costly task but I never once minded, considering it a calling, an extension of my ability to tell a story.

And the pages bound between each book's cover indeed told a story, a fantastic tale of life and love that words alone could never convey. And as the world kept changing around me, I always had my priceless photo albums in which to turn, able to wrap myself in the bright memorabilia like a tattered and torn old quilt that brought eternal comfort in times of grief and strife.

And now they're gone. Forty albums, my life's work and memoirs, vanished in a single instant. The person who had been saving them away for me while I've been in this difficult period of transition claims that he left them outside his garage door one rainy morning for me to come and collect, carefully packaged away in five hefty boxes, but when I arrived they were not there. Thousands of pictures and dollars, years of time and energy, a lifetime of irreplaceable memories nowhere to be found. Just gone.

I've been sitting on such tremendous sadness and guilt these past weeks about what I could have done differently to prevent this turn of events, but I keep returning to a single thought: I will never see my precious photos again. And I'm heart sick over it.

I could speculate as to what really happened to them, but what good will it do, really? The fact of the matter is they're gone forever, and no amount of speculation will ever bring them back.

Writing this has helped me to process a lot of what I've been feeling lately, and I suppose that's what is important. As difficult as it is, I need to come to a place where I can let go. And I will. Eventually. Getting there is the hard part.

But if I'm able to impart anything to you through this post, it's to always cherish your memories. I know it sounds trite but it's true. Because despite the physical loss of my photographs, the memories — the legacy — will live on in my heart forever.

And no one can ever take that away from me.