Travel Woes

I had to take a shuttle to the airport in Atlanta yesterday and I was afraid of having to interact with the other people during the 1.5 hour long ride. I am a very social person in social situations, and I don't really count car rides as social situations. I really hate traveling and I only want to be left alone while on a plane or in a car. If I'm ever approached by someone who wants to have a conversation, I have three things that usually get me out of it:

1. I play the "fresh off the boat Asian" card and pretend that I don't speak English very well.
2. I do some kind of accent like British or Scottish because people think they're hard to talk to.
3. I pretend to be from Texas.

During the extremely difficult ride to Atlanta, I was distressed to learn that the man sitting to my right was from Scotland. He tried to talk to me, so I wanted to pretend that I was hardcore Asian. At that moment, an Asian couple got into the shuttle van and sat in front of me. DAMN! I decided to use the Texas accent because if I get annoyed by hearing a Texas accent, then I would hope that others would also. Just then, the man on my left asked where in Texas I was from because he was from Houston. DAMN! I spent the entire ride listening to the Scot and the Houstonian talking back and forth and asking my opinion about the gas crisis. At that moment, I wished that my tongue was a sac filled with cyanide so I could bite into it and the nightmare would be over. What are the odds that my three safety nets would be unusable? If you want to talk about odds, then let me tell you about how my plane eventually got struck by lightning. Yeah, God knows when homos fly. But that's a story for another day.

While I was wating for my plane, I told my friend about my experience and he said that I was just a natural bitch and that I should have indulged them in idle conversation. He went on to say that a little chit chat wouldn't kill me and that I was being a grump. Why should I be the one to make THEIR trip comfortable? I don't think it makes me a bitch to keep to myself. In fact, I can be a very social person in certain situations. I just don't see travel as a social situation. It's more of a glimpse into the Eye of Hell for me with all the trashy people who fly these days. Hmph... I'm not a bitch.

On the second plane home (after the first one was hit by God's wrath), I had the pleasure of sitting next to the biggest complainer on earth... or in this case, the sky. Nothing was to her liking. The soda tasted flat. The seats didn't recline far enough. The lavatory was too small. Then she complained about how shaky the plane ride was. I had a rough week, so I decided to say something to her. I don't know exactly what I said because I was so upset and tired of her whining. I do remember telling her something about walking to Chicago or getting her pilot's license so she could fly the plane. Then she said I was a jerk and she changed her seat. Well now, apparently I AM a bitch.

Ba dee ah! Say, do you remember?

I don't usually go shopping for clothes because I have trouble finding clothes that fit me. With all the free time I have this week, I decided to venture out into the scary world of retail fashion to look for new things to wear. I went into Express and expected to pay through my nose for a shirt, but I actually found a shirt on clearance that I really liked.

When I went to try it on, I realized that it looked exactly like my old AMC uniform. I saw myself in the mirror, wearing long sleeve burgundy, and my mind instantly flashed to all the traumatic experiences I had in the five years I worked there. I remembered working long shifts and coming home stinking of popcorn and sweat, only to go to sleep for a few hours and wake up so I can do the same thing again. I remembered herding hundreds of moviegoers into huge theaters and cleaning up after their mess... ugh, I could just see the sunflower seed husks on the floor.

I find it fascinating how certain memories can be triggered by different forms of stimulus. The burgundy short that looked so much like my uniform opened the floodgates of my AMC days, and I wonder what would trigger other experiences I've had in my life. There are a lot of things in my past that I truly enjoyed, like eating breakfast with my family on Sunday mornings, going to the library with my friends to smoke weed, and my first sexual experience.

Without divulging the fun details of my deflowering on this blog, I'll just make fun little references to it by talking about how I went about triggering that hot experience so long ago. I went to a sporting goods store and found one of those whistles that they use in various sports. I brought the cold metal whistle to my lips and blew as hard as I could and was instantly taken to one of the most important experiences of my sexuality. I closed my eyes and smiled as I remembered how one blow could affect a person in ways that no one could ever imagine.

Enfeebling Our Youth

I read an excerpt from a book to my nieces yesterday. The book is titled "Junie B. Jones is Not a Crook," by Barbara Park. I don't read aloud often, and I had an extremely difficult time reading this book to them. It wasn't because of my lack of narration experience or my level of education. It wasn't because I was utterly exhausted after a day of running around, chasing three young children and trying to get them to eat their vegetables and take their baths. The problem was the way the book was written. Here is an example:

I runned all around the tree. "911! 911! 911! I hollered. "SOMEBODY STOLED THEM! SOMEBODY STOLED MY MITTENS!" Mrs. Came very quick. Mrs. bended down next to me. "Who, Junie B.? Who stole them?" she asked. "A stealer, that's who! A stealer stoled them! And so what kind of school is this? 'Cause I didn't even know there was crooks at this place!" Mrs. said calm down my voice. I looked at the ground real sad. "Now all I have left is my dumb attractive jacket."

I immediately stopped reading this abomination of a children's book and proceeded to read "James and the Giant Peach" by Roald Dahl. I couldn't, in good conscience, subject my nieces to such flotsam. This Junie B. book was horrible!

I love how somebody 'stoled' her shit. That author is certainly setting a great standard for children and parents who read to them. There had to be some explanation as to why she chose to write the entire book with bad grammar and spelling. I did some research and found that the method behind her lunacy was telling the story from the point of view of a kindergartener so that other kids can relate and understand.

Just when I thought that the world couldn't get any more ignorant, something like this happens to me. I'm not an expert on education, but if you want children to become smarter, shouldn't you speak to them in proper English? Barbara Park is one of the reasons why America's literacy rate is less than spectacular. Parents have to work extra hard to counteract the damage that kids are being exposed to when they're reading books featuring Junie B. Jones. I bet that the children's books in Finland are much better, considering their literacy rate is higher than America's literacy rate. I'd feel at ease knowing that my children would read stories about Magnus and Tanja finding the person who STOLE their mittens. They'd even go a step further by rehabilitating the thief and making him or her a productive member of Finnish society before the end of the story.

What makes me cringe is that parents are recommending this book to other parents. I read reviews of this book on Amazon.com and twenty one out of twenty one reviews had this piece of crap at five stars. Nikki Evans, from Piqua (Ohio), writes:

"My daughter started reading these at 4 and loves them. She just laughs and laughs. They are written just like little kids talk and they are really cute. We have almost all of the Junie B. books and this is one of my favorites."

Two things about her review scared the shit out of me. She first talks about how it's written like little kids talk. Maybe it's just me, but I wouldn't go around bragging about how my kids don't know proper English. The second thing is that there is more than one book written by Barbara Park. GAAH! I submitted a negative review about this book and Amazon.com has yet to post it. Barbara Park's family must work in the quality control and feedback department.

I feel like I'm in an episode the Twilight Zone where everyone is stupid and nobody knows that they're stupid and they think that I'm the stupid one because I'm not reading the same books as they are. In the same episode, all the people are wearing coulottes because they think it's cool and the men like to have sex with women.

Leggo My Ego!

I really hate surprises, so I screen all of my calls whenever I don’t recognize the phone number. Since I got my new phone number six months ago, I’ve received about ten or twelve calls from people I don’t know. Here are a few samples of what I have to go through:

Crying woman: Hi Gina, it’s Debbie. Listen, I know we haven’t talked in over a year but I really want you to be one of my bridesmaids. I know we said a lot of things to each other that we didn’t mean, but I hope we can get past all that. Please call me back. If I don’t hear from you in a week, I’ll assume that you don’t want to talk to me ever again…

Loud man: HEY TANESHA! WHERE YOU AT? CALL ME!

Jamaican man: Da package has been sent. I am calling you now to tell you that I sent it tree days ago man. Don’t call my house phone again!

Old woman: George, it’s mama. Are you ok? I’m calling because we haven’t heard from you in such a long time. Dad and I have been wondering if you’ve been doing well. We’re really worried about you. We’re at home. Call us as soon as you get this ok? Bye.

I kind of feel like Nell Carter on “Gimme a Break” whenever she answered the phone and the person always asked for Julio. I don’t know how these people got my number. It can’t be a coincidence that I get so many wrong numbers, so there are three possible explanations:

1. Sprint has recycled my phone number and it used to belong to someone else.
2. People actually dialed the wrong number.
3. I am suffering from Dissociative Identity disorder and all of the people really ARE calling the correct number – they’re just asking for my alter egos.

Wouldn’t it be a hoot if number 3 was the right explanation? Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID, is the new term for Multiple Personality Disorder. I’d have to account for some missing time because these people would have to have known me for a while to leave such intimate messages. Well… except for the Jamaican guy with the package. I could have been his drug dealer or something. Hmm… there HAVE been reports of people who are able to astral project. Astral projection is the ability to leave your body and go places while your corporeal self remains in place. If my mind was fractured into all these different personalities and if I was able to project each of these personalities to different parts of the country and give people my cell phone number, this totally would explain why I get so many calls from people I don’t know.

Boy Blunder

I was at the supermarket last night picking up some beef for dinner, when I saw one of the cutest butchers ever. It was a remarkable experience because I've always imagined butchers to be cynical, gray-haired men who wore white clothes and brandished meat cleavers like Vic Tayback (Mel) from the hit tv show "Alice." You just don't see extremely hot butchers. The same goes for cab drivers and morticians. Have you ever seen a fuckable mortician? Eeew, but would you want to fuck a guy who messes with dead bodies? Blech. Anyway, this butcher boi was extremely gorgeous and I wanted to say hi to him.

What I wanted to say to him was: "Hey how's it going?"

What I really said to him was: "Boy, you sure have a lot of meat to handle!"

He looked at me like I was stupid and I got so embarrassed that I bumped into a shopping cart and dropped my beef into it. I was fumbling around in some stranger's cart trying to get my meat and the cart owner came up to me and was like: "UM, EXCUSE ME!" Then I saw the butcher boy wheel his meat cart away and out of my life forever.

In moments of extreme pressure and anxiety, I tend to become an enormous fumbling klutz who says stupid things. I think it happens to everyone, but I don't know why I always end up looking like a complete nutjob. Does this mean that I am not in control of my emotions? I've always thought that I was cool with my feelings and that I had everything in balance. My experience at the supermarket quickly deflated my faith in my 'coolness.' The problem is that whenever I see someone cute, my spastic anima emerges and disastrous hilarity ensues.

Instead of trying to remedy the situation, I've decided to cultivate it. I'm willing to bet that I'm not the only queen with this problem. The way I see it, I'm bound to run into someone who thinks that my embarrassment is cute. Some may even be flattered by it. I will make it my goal to turn my 'charming bungler' personality into a cute and refreshing thing for all the world to see.

My Sexual Evolution

I've always heard about peoples' sexual habits evolving from the standard one-on-one missionary position/roll over and go to sleep routine, but I never thought it would happen for me. I started out with the secret encounters with nice boys and a few girls (hey it was high school) one on one, with someone on top of the other. Occasionally, we'd spoon or go doggy style if we were feeling bold. As I got older, I discovered the wonders of orgies. Oh, they were fantastic! So many lithe bodies undulating in a sensual motion, using our bodily moisture to slide in and out of each other... ah, I loved college!

When I turned twenty one, I went for a lot of one night stands (ONSs) to fill the void in my life and the empty space in my mouth. It was fun for a while, but I soon suffered from burnout just like postal workers do - except I didn't wig out and shoot people. Now I'm into something that at first I thought was silly: I'm now into role playing.

On those lonely nights when I'm in bed touching myself, my mind wanders to certain sexy situations that wouldn't happen in real life. Once I was a boy scout selling light bulbs door to door. I knock on the door and a man in a bath robe answers. Then I give my spiel about how I'm trying to raise money for our camping trips so us young and nubile young men wouldn't have to share sleeping bags and cuddle with each other for warmth at night. The man invites me in so I can give him a private demonstration. Then I tell him that I'm famous in my troop for selling the light bulbs because I'm the best at screwing. As I step up onto a stool to change the bulb in his ceiling, he looks at my quick, rippling, and soft body bulging out of my tiny boy scout shorts. I lose my balance and he catches me. To show my gratitude, I offer him anything he wants... ANYTHING! You know what happens next.

Wasn't that hot? I love imagining situations like that. My friends tell me that it can be dangerous to get swept up in fantasies because I'd end up jaded in the real world. But there's no innuendo in the real world anymore! There aren't any precarious situations that can ultimately end up in red hot wild greasy monkey sex. There are no boy scout uniforms that fit me the way they do in my fantasies!

I really am considering writing a book that chronicles my sexual escapades. I don't see a lot of gay sex point of view books anymore. Xaviera Hollander had wild success when she wrote her books in the 70s. I want to be the next Xaviera, but instead of the Happy Hooker, I'd be the Boisterous Blowjob Boy.

Ladies in Waiting

If you're familiar with the Buffy universe, then you'd know about the whole "slayer" lore. Basically, all the young girls in the world have the potential to be chosen as a slayer. In the mean time, they're conditioned and trained by 'watchers' who prepare them for the time when they are chosen to be endowed with superhuman strength and agility. This concept can be applied to the gay world. Girls who would become slayers are referred to as 'potentials.' Boys who will eventually come out of the closet are called "Sisters in Training" or SITs.

I was at Linens n Things the other day, looking for a kitchen knife. Going to LNT is like a treasure hunt because they love to hide shit in the places where you normally wouldn't think to look for them. I found the knives on an endcap between the jars and the olive oil, because where else would the damned knives be? Near the cutting boards? NOPE! During my knife hunt, I noticed a lot of young boys shopping with their mothers. There are usually about one or two of them every time I go out, but it was like the whole store was full of SITs. You have to love the mothers who take their sons shopping with them because they're sowing the seeds that we'll eventually reap later at the bars when they turn legal. The problem is that too much motherly doting can turn the SIT into a mama's boy. They need proper guidance in this crazy world.

Some SITs do need a lot of guidance, especially when they're constantly surrounded by what the media loves to put out there in the gay culture. What do the young boys have as examples, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy? Is that still on the air? All I had growing up was figure skating and Waylon Smithers from the Simpsons.

I'm developing a gay mentor program that I am testing on my nephew. He's a nice mix of Filipino/Indian/Polish/Portuguese, so he's set when it comes to looks. I will surreptitiously train him to become a fantastic boy who will hopefully become gay. If not, then he'll be a cute metrosexual boy. Either way, he'll knock 'em dead. I plan to use a lot of jazz hands in the training exercises, as well as flash cards that feature famous gay icons like Rock Hudson and Errol Flynn.

NS GM seeks same ASAP... WTF, MF?

I was browsing through some of the gay personals ads online and I really enjoy reading what people put on these things, but I sometimes find things that piss me off. There's a profile of a 22 year old boy in Chicago and he listed one of his turnoffs: People who act "gay." What the fuck? Isn't it a GAY personals ad? I've heard straight people use the word 'gay' in the derogatory sense, and it always upsets me. Knowing that gay people are using the word 'gay' as a negative is one of those things is pretty fucking scary. Can you imagine what it would be like if he was able to find his perfect match? It's like two self-loathing ticking time bombs waiting to explode on the first feminine boy to cross their path.

I have personals on some sites and I think it's hilarious that in the "my ideal match" section, all of the responses I put were 'any.' So it looks kind of like this:

My ideal match...
hair: any
eyes: any
height: any
weight: any
religion: any
income: any
ice cream flavor: any
favorite spice girl: any

If you were to quickly look at one of my profiles, you'd probably think that I'm a big slut who goes for just about anyone with two legs and a dick. The truth is that a majority of the personals online cater to the superficial aspects of a person's ideal match. There isn't a lot of room for people to be creative and to stand out, so a lot of us miss out on potential catches.

My advice is to put three different types of pictures, a picture with a smile, a picture with a mean scowl, and a risque underwear picture. Happiness and anger are two emotions at opposite ends of the spectrum, and they are are part of the fundamentals of the human spirit. The happy and angry pictures will help you judge whether or not you're a good lay. After having sex, just glance at his face and compare it to what you saw on the profile. The underwear pic is only important to me because I have an underwear fetish.

Walk Like a Man

Someone told me yesterday that I have a funny walk. They didn't say I had a swish or a limp, just that I walked "funny." What the fuck is that supposed to mean? "YOU WALK FUNNY!" That's one of the few statements that is able to render me speechless. It was like they pulled the keystone out of my archway of self esteem, because everything started crashing in on me. I've always had issues with my gait and I am very sensitive about it.

My walking trauma began in grade school, when a mean girl named Jenny thought it would be funny to tell the whole class a funny thing about me. It was the segment of class where each kid would tell everyone something interesting about the person next to us. To this day, I think my teacher was smoking crack. When Jenny's turn came up, she told the class that she thought it was funny how I walked like a duck. That was stupid because she was insulting me rather than complimenting me. The kids just loved the drama and I never heard the end of it! My name was synonymous with 'duck' like the game "Richard, Richard, Goose."

My friends proceeded to give me walking lessons, where I'd have to walk from one end of the playground to the other while a group of kids judged me on poise and natural glide. It was like America's Next Top Schoolboy. Eventually, the kids forgot about the duck walk and found another way to torment me. They started calling me "Bitchard Fagallano." Those bastards.

My uncle was no better than the schoolkids. When I got older, he told me that I walked like a girl and he would mimic the way a woman walked. He decided to gay it up and make me feel worse by adding the limp wrist and Betty Grable hip motion. I was so embarrassed that I would never move whenever I was around him. When walking was inevitable, I'd walk behind him so he wouldn't get a chance to make fun of me. He still got his barbs in every now and then, and every jab he took at me made me feel less and less of a person. I couldn't help the way I walked. Update: My uncle doesn't bother me anymore because I am taller than him and can crush him like a can of diet coke. I've reminded him of this on several occasions.

I thought I cleaned house when it came to finding and dealing with the aspects of myself that I was overly sensitive about. Then I realized that there's always going to be a part of me that will be different from the norm, and that I can't do anything about it. The small-minded jerkoff who said that I walked funny was just projecting his own insecurities on to me, and I fell right into it. I may walk funny, but at least I don't look funny. ZING!

Whatever happened to class?

There's a deleted scene on the Chicago DVD where Velma Kelley and Matron Morton sing a lament about the lack of class in society. They sing about men not opening doors, about ladies who don't respect themselves, and about children being little monsters. After going to the ballet on Saturday, I felt as if I was going to pose the question "What became of class?"

First of all, I don't see how any parent could take their children to any theater. People pay to enjoy the show, not to listen to parents trying to control their bad ass kids. We sat in an area where we were surrounded by little bey bey kids who wouldn't shut the fuck up. Blah blah blah blah blah! That's all I heard. It was insane! I just loved how the stupid mother behind me kept explaining every fucking detail to the kid on her lap, who kept asking her "WHERE'S SLEEPING BEAUTY? WHERE'S THE DRAGON? WHERE'S BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH!" There ain't no fuckin dragon, this is Tchaikovski and not Disney... BITCH!

During intermission, we got to see the wonderful fashions that the parents are letting their kids wear. Apparently, it's now acceptable to wear sequins and to show your exposed midsection at the ballet. Well hot damn! Where's my bedazzler?

As I tried to ignore all of the flash photography, I wondered when the theatre turned into an indoor trailer park. In the past, going to the theatre was an event. Everyone dressed nicely, people respected each other, and they all followed a certain set of social graces that don't exist now. What do we have now? We have people munching on snacks and coming in late, making a big raucous while they talk to each other and ignore all of the hard work that the perfomers are doing. We have children who would much rather be at home playing video games than being forced to wear uncomfortable clothes and dragged to a theatre having to sit in one direction for three hours by their stupid parents who think that they can be classy just by telling people that they went to the ballet.

Newsflash: You don't become classy just by going to the show. You get it by having a respect for the artists and for the other people who paid to see them.