T&A Matinee

Bored out of my wits on a lazy Sunday, I went to the movie rental store and browsed the titles. I decided to test the old saying "you can't judge a book by its cover" by looking at the box art and judging whether or not it will be a good movie. I picked 'Into the Blue' and 'The Dukes of Hazzard.' Both movies had beautiful looking people on the covers, and I surmised that both of the movies would be just a bunch of stupid humor and T&A shots strung together in the editing room.

Boy, was I right! You CAN judge a book by its cover! I had to give 'Into the Blue' some snaps because they actually tried to tell a story with action and suspense. The dialogue was choppy and I got a little tired of the constant body shots that made me feel inadequate. It was just titties and abs, then wet titties and abs, then flexed muscles with bad dialogue, then more wet titties. NEXT!

I didn't even watch 'The Dukes of Hazzard' all the way through because I just didn't understand what was going on. It was like they started with a bunch of one-liners and wrote the rest of the movie around that, then added Jessica Simpson's Texas booty. If you look at the DVD box cover, you'll notice how the General Lee has been reduced to a simple background afterthought. Where's the justice in that? The only bright spots of the movie are the scenes where the General Lee is in the air in slow motion as the horn plays the Dixie Land theme. "YEEEEEEEE HAAAAW!"

I don't know how I got to be so judgemental. I think I'm just jealous that I can't walk around with juicy legs and buck teeth and struggle to say my lines. I'm SO jealous! I blame the marketing deparments for the bad choice in DVD box art. It's just not clever anymore. I lobbied for symbols next to the ratings to warn people of how bad a movie will be, but then I just realized that Jessica Simpson's name on the cover was warning enough.

Fantastic Fisticuff Fetish

Every time I go into the pro shop at the gym, I see the ultimate fighting matches being played on the monitor there. I am mesmerized as two scantily clad and muscular men deliver head-crushing blows and painful kicks to each other's faces. It was really erotic to see the sweaty men knocking each other senseless, and it was then that I realized that I get off on people fighting.

The signs were all there as I was growing up. I would always race to watch kids fight in the school yard, and I'd almost cream in my pants if I saw blood. It excited me even after it was over. In the evening, I'd park myself in front of the television to watch Dynasty. Watching Alexis lay the smack down was the highlight of my week! It was also nice to see that Krystle's hair always seemed to retain its feathery fabulousness even after the roughest catfights. Television provided even more sinful pleasures with the introduction of the Jerry Springer Show, or as we called it: The Fights.

There's a website that I love, called youtube.com, where users post a wide variety of videos. Now my guilty pleasure is typing "GIRLFIGHTS" in the search box and watching all of the results come up. There's a ton of amateur video of girls beating the tar out of each other over something stupid like one girl kissing the other girl's boyfriend or one girl borrowing the other girl's makeup without asking. I just get so pumped when I see them fighting and I don't know why.

I've heard a lot of reasons why I'm into fighting. My grandmother says that I'm full of Satan. My mother says that I'm a natural savage. She thinks it's in my blood because my father was a professional boxer, but I really can't imagine daddy cheering Dominique on as she slaps Alexis in the board room. I just think that fighting is barbaric and unaccepted in society, so that's why I find it so sexy. Americans tend to go for things that are taboo just because it's taboo. How many times have you judged a movie based on its rating? If someone asked you if you wanted to see movie #1 that was rated G or movie #2 that was rated NC-17, which one would you be more curious about?

Ten and two... TEN AND TWO!!!

Are there any situations that freak you out so much that you sweat bullets and lose all composure? For me, one such situation is being in the passenger seat of someone's car while they're driving. The person is usually afraid of silence, so he or she will talk incessantly to fill the empty air rather than concentrate on the road. This makes me even more nervous. They're talking, waving their hands about, LOOKING OVER AT ME INSTEAD OF AT THE ROAD... omfg, KEEP YOUR EYES FORWARD!! Whew, I'm getting nervous just typing about it. ::fanning myself::

I try not to get into those situations, but the fear is a little silly sometimes and I tell myself that not all people drive like maniacs. A few days ago, I was in a car with my friend and she started off fine. But then she looked at her watch and realized that she'd be late for her hair appointment so she immediately went into 'crazy lady who has to get there now now now' mode. She unbuckled her seatbelt because she felt that it was holding her down. YEAH I THINK THAT'S THE POINT. Then she starts driving with her knees so she can dial a number on her cell phone, all the while tailgating the slow driver in front of us because she thinks it'll make him go faster. I began to channel the spirits of driving instructors and I make note of every mistake she makes. Once that was done, I proceeded to leave my body...

Where did such a blatant disregard for safety come from? Do they not remember Red Asphalt!?!? Every year, over 10,000 passengers are injured or killed in motor vehicle accidents in the United States. You'd think that people would wake the fuck up and become more sensible drivers, but that will never happen. I think people should leave the crazy fast driving to Danica Patrick... but they shouldn't pose for FHM unless they've got the body.

Forgiveness, Please!

A few days ago, I told my boss that I may have to take some time off from work because my grandmother's cancer has returned and it's terminal. Maybe she forgot about it. Maybe she didn't understand what I told her. Maybe she's just plain mean. Whatever she is, she thought it was okay to send me an e-mail joke about St. Patrick's day:

Subject: St. Pat's Joke

An Irishman named O'Malley went to his doctor. The doctor, after an examination, sighed and said, "I've some bad news. You have cancer, and you'd best put your affairs in order."

O'Malley was shocked, but managed to compose himself and walk into the waiting room, where his son had been waiting. "Well son, we Irish celebrate when things are good, and we celebrate when things don't go well. In this case, things are not well. I have cancer. Let's head to the pub and have a few pints. "After three or four pints, the two were feeling a little less somber. There were some laughs and more beers. Some of O'Malley's old friends, who were curious as to what the two were celebrating, eventually approached them.

O'Malley told his friends they were drinking to his impending end. "I have been diagnosed with AIDS." The friends gave O'Malley their condolences, and they had a couple of more beers. After the friends left, O'Malley's son leaned over and whispered, "Dad, I thought you said you were dying of cancer, and you just told your friends you were dying of AIDS."

O'Malley said, "I know. I don't want any of them sleeping with your mother after I'm gone."

First of all, I don't see how anyone would think that a joke about cancer or AIDS would be tasteful. I don't recall ever seeing a stand up routine with jokes about either subject. Comedians just fucking know better than that. Second, the joke wasn't even about St. Patrick's day! It was about an Irish man named O'Malley. Not only was the joke distasteful, it was also misleading and slightly racist.

I am going to take the high road and I will just let her know that the joke offended me without going ape shit on her. My grandmother was always afraid that I had Satan in me, and she'd be a little upset to know that I read someone for something as insignificant as sending an offensive joke to me. She always used to get on my case when I was a teenager because I wasted so much time, and I shouldn't waste any more dealing with stupid shit. She also used to tell me to forgive and forget. That was when I rolled my eyes and turned the volume up on my walkman.

Forgiving someone, like my science teacher when I bent over to pick up a piece of paper on the floor, is very hard (Thanks, Foxxy!). It really is difficult to forgive someone who has wronged you, but I hear that the rewards are super fantastic. You get to move on with your life, free from the burden of grudges. I just don't do it that often because I start to feel like one of those Christian missionaries who goes to the Philippines to tame the savage Taliban cels in the jungles. It'll take me a few days to get over the phony St. Patrick's day joke, but I'll move on... and I'll be great.

Would you like fries with your wig?

My friend told me that they're opening up a Hamburger Mary's over on Clark street in Andersonville. I've never heard of it before, but people tell me that there are locations all across the country. I really love hamburger joints because of the simplicity of the menu. It's meat, it's charred, and it's greasy. The interesting thing about Hamburger Mary's is that the servers are drag queens. I find that a little odd - not because I think drag queens are odd, but because they're rarely found in a serving position. All the drag queens I know like to GIVE orders, not take them.

I don't think you need to be an actual drag queen to work there. You'd just have to look like one. I can't imagine myself doing drag because I don't have the cheek bones. I do know a lot of drag queens who, if they combined their talents, could possibly turn me into one. Imagine them working on me with welding torches and sequins in a dark laboratory/workshop on the south side one stormy night. When they're through, I'll sit up from the slab like a drag queen terminator as I lift my arm and it morphs into a stick of glittery lip shine. My name would be Freida DeSoto and my signature move would be the "DeSoto So' Toe," which would be me stepping on someone's foot and asking them which one of their toes hurt the most. I'd tell them: DA SO' TOE!

They've got spirit!

Last night I watched one of the movies that I consider part of my "all time favorites that I don't want anyone to know about" collection: Bring it On! Don't look at me like that, you know you liked it too. It's campy, it's funny, and it had the fabulous Gabrielle Union in it. BRR! IT'S COLD IN HERE! Ha ha ha. I started thinking about a guy I dated when I was in Houston...

I'll call him "Simon" to protect his identity. "Simon" was a gay male cheerleader and he was very strong and athletic. All the guys had a thing for him, but he never dated. We called him 'Knox' because he was so inaccesible. I was as surprised as everyone else when we started dating, but then he told me that he had a thing for Filipino boys. I should have ended it right there because:

1) I shouldn't be with someone who is into me because of something that I have no control over.
2) I hate cheerleaders.

Needless to say, the relationship ended quickly. Our dates consisted of going to his house to watch cheerleading videos or going to cheerleading competitions. He'd also turn everything into a cheer. We'd be at Jack in the Box ordering lunch and he'd spell out S-O-U-R-D-O-U-G-H C-L-U-B with his body. Yeah that's sexy.

In high school, we in the marching band hated cheerleaders so much that we'd start playing our fight song as soon as we saw them setting up for a cheer. High school cheerleading at my old high school was such a crock because none of them were talented. Only three of them could do the splits and all of them were too heavy to toss so they never did any lifting. And what the fuck is spirit? SPIRIT? The uniform was more of a symbol of popularity, and that's why we resented them. I'm crossing my fingers that when I go to my ten year reunion next year, that they'll all be out of shape and full of cellulite.

If that's not enough to convince you that I don't like cheerleaders, take a look at this video.

It's footage on the internet that featured a cheerleader who fell off of the pyramid and had to be taken away on a gurney. But that didn't stop HER spirit! Oh no. She kept cheering as they wheeled her away, her head immobilized and strapped in. Um, I'm pretty sure that you shouldn't fucking MOVE when there's a possibility that you've got some serious injury... dumbass!

My Electrifying Personality

Wherever I go, I always keep a tissue or a handkerchief with me. I use it when I press the elevator button at the gym, I use it when I turn door handles, and I use it when I open the filing cabinet at work. I also try not to touch peoples' skin when I'm close to them. What do you think about that? Do you think I'm a neurotic germaphobe like Monk? I can tell you now that I am not. The truth is that I get shocked whenever I touch a metal surface or come into contact with another person. When I feel that sudden jolt of electricity, I spaz out and scream like a girlie girl. It's quite embarrassing, trust me. I'd rather have people believing that I'm afraid of germs than have them see that I can be Janet Leigh's scream double.

I've talked to a lot of people about my problem with the zaps and no one really had an explanation as to why it happens to me so much. I've even asked Jeeves and I wasn't able to get a clear answer. Someone told me that it's because I wear so much wool, cotton, polyester, rayon, and nylon. Um, ok that would mean that I'd have to walk around naked because there aren't many other fabrics that I could wear if I stopped wearing those. What a loser. People tell me to stomp my feet when I walk to shake off the static charge, but that just made me look weird. I'd always look like I'm in a bad mood or an interpretive dance class.

When I got home last night, the cute boy in one of the garden apartments in my building saw me use the hankie to open the door. He waited for me to come in and told me that he totally understood where I was coming from because he thinks that our building is full of germs also. Before I could explain to him why I had the hankie, he went on to talk about how he only drinks bottled water and how he uses toilet seat sanitizers for his home toilet. The boy was obviously afraid of germs. It's always the cute ones! That sucks because now I know now that I'll never get a rim job from the boy in G-2.

Beyond Words

There are some people out there who just love to talk. They talk about the weather. They talk about themselves. They talk in order to fill the empty air when they're next to someone. My boss is notorious for his constant gab gab gabbing and I don't think I can survive another gab fest. We'll be in the car going to a client's house and he'll see something and start talking about it. Last week, we saw a car speeding and he went on to tell me about how he saw something on the news about speeding...

My brain has a built-in failsafe for situations like that. It's something I like to call "The Ennui Filter." When I catch one of the warning signs, like my boss saying "There was this thing on the news...," I instantly go into banality combat mode. My body is still there in the moment, but my mind is transferred to a safe place to avoid being turned into mush by senseless drivel. The safe place that I chose for this situation was a musical number set in a roller rink with me singing with a glittery microphone and people rollerskating around me. I'd heard "Xanadu" earlier that morning, so it was still fresh in my mind. Once I imagined myself as Stan Laurel, trying to get a piano up a flight of stairs with my friend Ollie.

After the music ends, I tune back in and I still find my boss talking about speeding. He'd gone into an anecdote about people getting pulled over for speeding and how he wasn't speeding so he didn't get pulled over. At this point, I mentally chastise myself for not thinking of a longer song. I couldn't tell him to shut the fuck up, so I just stared out the window. Then he asked me why I wasn't talking, so I explained to him that I am not a talker.

There was nothing that I could say that would explain it correctly. Sometimes people just don't like to talk a lot. I don't feel the need to fill the quiet space with pedantic chatter that the other person doesn't care about. I'm not afraid of silence. So now my boss thinks I'm a super asshole because I don't talk a lot. He said that I have problems communicating. I had to practice a lot of self control to keep from reading him right there in the car. Even a first year psychology student could see that he has issues about the whole talking thing.

I feel that there's a point where too many words can ruin communication. There's so much more to communicating than talking. There's body language, facial expressions, and even choice in clothes that we wear. I once had a conversation with a good friend of mine where I said one word and he knew what I was talking about. He said a word and I knew what he was talking about. THAT'S communication. The irony is that he's now a radio announcer in San Diego. Go fig!

Daytime Hate Crime, Coming Out is So Sublime!

One of the story lines currently running on General Hospital is Lucas Jones coming out of the closet. He meets a guy at a bar and leaves with him, only to be beaten and left bleeding in the park. Lucas doesn't report it because he doesn't want people to know he's gay, so Frank the gay basher is free to roam the streets of Port Charles. Before I could roll my eyes at ABC's obligatory gay hate crime storyline, Frank strikes again. This time he targets Guy, an out and proud gay boi who waits tables at the Metro Court Hotel. Guy gets gets fucked up as well, but he doesn't hesitate to report it to the police. Guy then rips into Lucas for not speaking up when Lucas got ruffed up because his statement could have put Frank away and Guy would never have gotten beat up in the first place. He shuns Lucas for not being man enough to accept and embrace his gay mantle and that every minute he spends in the closet is one more minute he denies himself.

It always comes as a surprise to me when gay people don't want others to know that they're gay. I'm not unsympathetic to their plight because I was there once. I was actually beat up when I was in high school when word got around that I was a big nellie gay boy (yes I reported it), so I know how frightening it can be when you're trying to figure out who you are and where you fit in this crazy world. Fortunately, I had friends who supported me and bolstered my faith in the world - and more importantly, myself.

The question remains: Should openly gay people help closeted gay people come out, or should they leave them to find their own way out? Some will argue that a solo journey is vital for the person to find their own identity and that the newbie would only mimic others, losing all hope for individuality. Others think that they should force people out. I believe that it would have taken longer for me to come out if I didn't have help from friends. Also, I would have developed some terrible anti-social behavior if I were in the closet any longer. It's not unlikely that Frank the gay basher is a closeted gay boi himself. Aha!

I don't feel that I should force anyone to come out. I've had more success with showing my closeted friends that it's cool to be out and that it's fun to hold hands with a boy in public. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, and my honey is as sweet as ambrosia and nectar. Now if I could only get it to stop attracting the crazies...

Great Expectorations

Waiting for the train going home on Sunday, I saw a very attractive man on the platform across from me. He was tall and had very chiseled features, not unlike an Yves Saint Laurent model. In typicial Richie hoplessness, I began to imagine what our children would look like once the scientific and moral barriers surrounding genetic engineering collapsed like the Berlin wall. His name in my fantasy would be Mikos and he would speak with a sexy accent as his wavy hair swayed in the breeze. I was playing out an entire dream sequence and singing "Somewhere That's Green" (from Little Shop of Horrors) in my mind, when suddenly the dream sequence was interrupted by a horrible sound.

From the opposite train platform, I heard my Mikos snort his phlegm in an uncharacteristic and sonorous motion as he reared his head back and let loose with one of the most disgusting actions in my opinion. He spit. Yes, he spit. Good heavens, who in this world thinks that spitting is sexy? I think it's just gross and it's a huge turnoff for me. When I see people who spit, I superimpose an image of a Llama's head on their bodies because Llamas are known to spit. Blech.

The Brits have this thing called Operation: Gobstopper. Test kits are given to public workers to collect DNA samples in case someone spits on them. They pop the swabs into a machine and match the results against the national DNA database. Yeah I know, I also think it's scary to have everyone's DNA on record. Anyway, they arrested a punk ass 17 year old kid who spit on a bus driver in London last year and now the kits are being used all over the place. They do it because they know that spitting on someone is unsanitary and can lead to all sorts of nasty diseases. They also use the metric system. Ah, I love the Brits!

I'd like to mention one last thing and it involves gay sex, so stop reading if you get easily grossed out. Hmm, why are you reading my blog if you get easily grossed out anyway? I talk about a lot of crazy stuff. Ahem. Spitting during sex is just wrong. There's nothing more disheartening than seeing someone spit after they agreed to take your load in their mouth.

There's no place like it!

My trip to Houston last month left a bad taste in my mouth, and not in a good way! I must admit that it was nice to get away to warmer weather and to see my BFsF, but things were just so different. It was nothing like I imagined it to be. I had a picture in my mind of what was going to happen and what things were going to look like, but reality hit me like a ton of jagged bricks that were coated in dog poop. The thing I learned from my trip was that you can never go home again.

I first experienced that horrible feeling after high school. I left California to go to school in Texas and I was away for quite a while. Then my friend invited me to be in her cotillion there, and I was so excited to see my friends and hang out at the places we used to hang out. Much to my dismay, I discovered that they built a huge strip mall next to my favorite pizza joint - which closed down as a result of the loss in business. A lot of my friends weren't friends with each other. The people who moved into my old house painted it yellow. They even replaced my favorite San Francisco anchor man, Dan Ashley. I felt as if I'd become a relic... one of those nineteen year old relics.

I went back to Houston with the intent of making that place my home. Fast forward to me moving to Chicago and visiting Houston. Bah! The same thing happened. What I refused to acknowledge was the fact that the world is in a constant state of change. It's something that just keeps happening and I just have to live with it even though it's one of the most terrible things ever. It's kind of like when the president makes a speech. This doesn't just happen to me, either. My friend Shawn moved to Dallas and he came back to Chicago to see Wicked, only to find that Ana Gasteyer was no longer playing Elphaba.

Either it's some cosmic coincidence or someone up there hates hearing me whine. Just this week, I was walking down the street and someone actually asked me for directions. I proudly helped them and went along, waving to people I recognized like Tony the mail man and all of the people at the bank. Sometimes I feel like Fonzie when I walk into some restaurants. One of my friends at the gym who knew I was in Houston said to me when I got back: "Welcome home." Then I thought to myself that I really AM home. Home is wherever I make it. Home is also the palce where you're loved by people who matter, like when you have to spend Christmas on a military base with your military family who still give you a hard time about not remembering birthdays or anniversaries. GEEZ! GET OFF MY BACK ALREADY!

Richie Agonistes

From my humble beginnings in Ms. Duncan's keyboarding class in junior high school to my late night cybersex chats with college boys at the University of Houston, I've developed quite a pair of dexterous fingers when it comes to typing with proficiency. I was able to type really fast with 99% accuracy, and this achievement led me to turn off the automatic spell check function on my e-mail.

Last night I received an e-mail from a friend of mine, stating that I spelled the word 'separate' incorrectly. I forgot to put the 'e' at the end of the word, so it looked like 'separat.' Normally I wouldn't have let it get to me, but I remembered that this is the word that cost me the county spelling bee title in the fifth grade.

I was one of those smart (smartass) kids who never applied themselves and who just wanted to play video games all day. We got a list of all the words that would be used in the spelling bee, but I didn't study it in depth because I already knew all of the words. I laughed at the kids who made flash cards and I made fun of how they practiced every day. The day of the bee arrived and I blazed through all of the words. It came down to me and this other Filipino kid and the word was 'separate.' I spelled it this way: S-E-P-E-R-A-T-E

I got it wrong and I was completely taken aback. The boy had to spell it after I got it wrong and he totally dogged me as he was spelling it! When he said the A, he looked right at me, then turned to look at the audience as he spelled the rest of the word. If my eyes were pistols, I would have shot my eyeballs at him.

This massive amount of pride is what the Greeks call 'hubris.' It's the downfall of many tragic heroes in literature, including Oedipus and Samson. Now, years later, I am reminded of my hubris by that fateful word I failed to spell correctly because I was so sure that I knew it all. Is my subconscious mind telling me that I should turn my spellcheck back on? It was too late for Oedipus and Samson to save themselves from their fates, but it's not too late for me. And yes, I am being quite dramatic about this - even though there is a possibility that I was just tired and forgot to put the 'e' at the end of a word, but where's the fun in accepting that as an explanation?

I don't swim in your toilet...

My dance training came in handy this week as I tried to walk up Clark street in the lakeview neighborhood. I was going about my business, wearing brand new Pumas on my enormous feet and rocking out to a Gwen Stefani song on my mp3 player, when I spotted a pile of dog shit on the sidewalk. I didn't notice it at first because it blended in with the sidewalk and I really wasn't paying much attention to what was on the ground. My shoes sent a psychic message to me out of fear of being caked with the hideous fecal matter, so I quickly did a pas jete to avoid it. It's an easy little jump that looks really queer and I did it quite well, considering I had my gym bag slung over my shoulder. The fun didn't stop there! I kept walking and I noticed dog poo by the dumpsters, dog poo by the telephone poles, dog poo near the parking meters, dog poo next to dog poo in front of stores, and dog poo coming out of a dog on a leash being held by its owner who didn't have a dog poo bag with her.

As the woman walked away, I called out to her: "you're forgetting something!" but she kept walking away like she didn't hear me. If I wasn't concerned about germs or ruining my manicure, I would have picked up that dog crap and thrown it at her. Cunts like her are the reason that certain streets in Chicago look like literal shit holes.

I talked to a guy who owns a store on Clark street and suggested that he watch for dog owners who let their dog's poop go unscooped. My idea was to stake out the area sometime with a bullhorn and a camera to catch the cunts who don't scoop the poop. We should humiliate the poop perps and post their pictures on a website that chronicles all of the reasons why Chicago isn't as beautiful as it should be. Their pictures will be featured with pictures of my ex. Oh! Cheap shot, I know.

One of the things that I would do if I lost touch with reality is that I would spy on people who leave dog shit on the street and follow them home so I could take a dump right there in front of where they live and piss on the side of their building. I'd do it every day until they haul me away. Then they'd know what it's like to walk up and down Clark street in their ugly sherpa boots that they bought just because Oprah had it on her "favorite things" show.

Dude, Where's My Couture?

Seeing all of the hubbub with the Oscar fashions got me thinking about how much people rely on the clothes that they wear. The first question that people ask on the red carpet is "who are you wearing?" I guess the scrutiny is more intense when you're in Hollywood, but gay communities are just as critical of people in normal life.

I once attended a little party full of gay people and the only requirement was that everyone had to wear a white t-shirt and blue jeans. No belts, no watches, and no fancy jewelry. The idea was to see how different people interacted with each other when they all looked alike. It was amazing to see so many of the social barriers collapse when you don't have to worry if someone liked your outfit. Everyone had fun talking and laughing with each other. Doctors talked to the unemployed, and younger boys weren't hung up on mingling with people who weren't in their age range. If the same people were to meet in a bar, they wouldn't give each other the time of day.

The only dark spot in the evening was a young man named 'Ben.' If 'Ben' had to choose between a pair of Prada loafers and two months worth of groceries, the Prada would win out every time. If it wasn't couture, then it wasn't worth it. That was his motto. 'Ben' had a sour look on his face the whole time and we asked him why he was so down. He was upset at the fact that no one commented on how good his shirt looked. We were all wondering what he meant because we were all dressed the same. It turns out that 'Ben's' shirt was Dolce & Gabbana and retailed for about $175. That was my friend's cue to spill champagne on it. Oops, now it's crap. Ha ha!

'Ben' missed the whole point of the party. People tend to hide behind their fashion to shield their insecurities. They should realize that a lot of us don't have the money to spend on the latest flippy collar shirt or leopard print Yves Saint Laurent shoes. Frankly, we don't care. Sometimes you can't even tell what designer made the clothes unless their name is splatterd all across it. When I see a man in a shirt, I don't wonder who made the shirt. I wonder how long it'll take to get that shirt off of him and onto his bedroom floor. SNAP!

Some people argue that their clothes are an extension of their personality and that is a valid point. We need ways to assert our individuality and there is nothing wrong with wearing fun clothes. It's when you make other people feel shitty because you think you're better than them because you're wearing a $175 white t-shirt that looks exactly like mine that I take issue!

History Repeating

Whenever I see my nieces and my nephew, I can't help but be the crazy uncle who pits them against each other in a cut-throat game of candyland or hide and seek. The winner often gets something like a trip to the movies or the toy store, while the loser is awarded with oodles of shame and dishonor. I never let them forget it!

Recently, I hosted a game of "whoever launches their sky dancers the farthest, wins a prize" with me as the goader and my nieces as the contestants. The younger of the two lost horribly and we looked at her and gave her a simultaneous "BOOOOOOOO!" She walked away trying to hold back the tears. Of course I apologized and took both of them to the toy store! Contrary to what my mother constantly tells me, I'm not Satan. Seeing my niece suffer like that made me think back to what my own uncle used to do when I was a kid.

My uncle was the human equivalent of eating cereal with spoiled milk. Thinking of it makes you sick to your stomach and it's got this weird smell that makes you want to puke. He used to be in the Navy so he was really big on discipline. Disgusted by my latchkey ways, he took it upon himself to make me a soldier. I had to hold encyclopedias until my arms fell off. One time he even pushed me into a pool, knowing that I couldn't swim, just so that his kids (who were younger than me) could save me and look like heroes. I grew up with a lot of animosity toward him, and it took horrifying form at my sister's wedding when I publicly humiliated him and he had to leave because he was so upset and embarrassed.

I'd be really pissed if I were the one being driven out of a wedding by the niece I tormented as a child. So to avoid this possible fate, I've decided to be a different kind of uncle. I'm going to be the uncle who makes fun of their friends. Oh lord, don't get me started on that neighbor girl who comes around during dinner time and asks if she can spend the night. Jesus Christ, and that boy who kissed my niece on the cheek on the playground? Don't they know that boys have cooties?!?

Imported Palm Leaves, No More Dry Heaves

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. Growing up Catholic, our family was heavily into the religious traditions. Mother ensured fasting by hiding ALL the food in the cabinets and locking the refrigerator with a chain. Being the natural cat burglar that I am, I was able to bypass the lock and retrieve various sinful goodies on this holy day. We weren't allowed to eat or swear and I never really got the hang of that.

The catholic mania didn't stop at home, though. I went to school with about 700 other Filipinos and they were all as competitive as my brothers and sisters were. "I prayed the rosary seven times before I went to school!" or "We're going to the church in Sunnyvale tonight where they use ashes from palm leaves imported from Jerusalem." I rolled my eyes at all of them because I knew it was just a fad. It was no different than seeing whose shoes costed more - this was just a more socially acceptable form of one-upsmanship.

Knowing that no one knew why they did the things they did during the season of Lent, I asked a girl what all of it meant. She recited the dictionary definition, then drew upon her personal experiences to try to fancy it up. But I knew she was just a tool - a lemming. She didn't know. The 699 other people didn't know. I still don't know. But I never claimed to be better than anyone else because I was giving up something interesting for Lent.

What's a gay boy to do during this season of reflection? I could give up drinking and the possibility of throwing up in a public place. Someone even suggested that I give up porn. HA! Never. I don't go to church and I'm still reeling from the scandalous affairs of the priests and the questionable dealings in the Vatican. My only solace lies in knowing that I've got a good heart and I know I'm not using religion to make other people feel like shit the way other people did when I was younger. So this season I will draw upon the basics. Jesus went into the desert and was tempted by Satan. I'm living in Chicago, which is almost as dry as a desert and I am tempted by satin. Nah, too corny. I'll think of something!