Not Straight, But Very Narrow

I was riding in a car a couple of months ago with my boss, who is also gay, and we stopped at one of those four-way stop signs with the turning lanes. A car came up next to us in the turning lane in an attempt to overtake us at the intersection. My gay boss wasn't having any of that, and slammed his foot on the accelerator... but not before saying "Oh no you don't, you fucking nigger!"

The person in the other car was black and I realized that my gay boss is a huge racist.

That wasn't the first time he made rude racist comments. He once told me that he refused to live in a certain apartment building because all of the last names on the mail boxes were "Pollack and Mexican." He further added that he'd come home one day "and there would be a thousand Mexican kids chasing the live chickens in the corridors."

I can tolerate a 46 year old gay man sporting the faux-hawk, but I won't tolerate his racism, especially because he's gay. Isn't that the gay racist the biggest oxymoron in existence? Gay people have to deal with homophobia and persecution based on something that they had no control over, so why do some of them turn around and do that to others? It boggles the mind.

Yes, bitch! We're gay!

For my birthday yesterday I decided to get tickets to see a musical here in Chicago because I'm so gay. When I was deciding how I would be spending the day, my brain immediately flashed "MUSICAL" and I was buying tickets to Disney's "High School Musical" before I knew it.

Before the show began, I was chatting it up with my friend Scott. We talked about many things, including the hotness of the sound guy in the back and how some of the ushers were obviously 'family.' The woman in front of us turned and looked back at me. Then she whispered to her husband and I saw that she mouthed the word "gay," which prompted him to turn and get an eyeful of all our gayness. They looked at each other and laughed, possibly because they don't get to see a lot of fabulous gays in downtown Shaumburg.

During a part of the show where the basketball captain puts his hand on the gay boy's shoulder, and the audience just thinks that it's the funniest thing in they'd ever seen. I love how homosexuality is still an enormous joke to everyone in the world. During the thunderous laughter, the woman in front of us turns around to look at me and Scott, so I say "WHAT?" really loudly. She turned back around and I noticed that her eyeball was turned around to try to look at us even though her head was facing forward. What a loser.

Part of me wanted to mount Scott right there and stick my tongue down his throat, just to piss the suburbanites off. I could have also went ape shit right there, but there were some very cute kids around and I didn't want them to think that all gay men walk around with chips on their shoulders. There really wasn't any way to stick it to her AND come out smelling like roses, so the only thing I could do was to let it go.

Scratch that! There is one thing I could have done. As we were leaving, I could have pointed to her husband and said out loud: I saw that guy at the Lucky Horseshoe. The Lucky Horseshoe. The Lucky Horseshoe. I saw Marge Simpson do it once when she wanted her kids to understand that Springfield was "a part of us all." She would have remembered the Lucky Horseshoe from me repeating it twice, went home to google it, and figured out that it was a gay strip club. The seed of doubt would be planted, and their marriage would never be the same.

Wishful thinking, I know! But I was just upset at the fact that there are people out there who don't understand gay people and act rudely towards them. I've been living in a place for such a long time where I feel comfortable being who I am without fear of mockery or violence (mainly because I can kick ass if the situation called for it). Then I look at the rude woman's daughter and realize that she's going to grow up to be the next Ann Coulter and it makes me mad.

What we need to do is educate the younger children and let them know that it's okay if their uncles kiss boys or their aunts 'room mate' is actually her live-in girlfriend. We'd never make fun of others the way the woman at the show made fun of us... unless we saw her wearing culottes. Then we'd have some words!

Hallowed be thy Mane

There's only one person in the world who can tell you what's best for you and it isn't your mother. It's not your father or any of your teachers. It's not your boyfriend or girlfriend, or even the Surgeon General of the United States. The person who I trust the most is none other than my stylist.

When you think about it, this makes a lot of sense. I've seen enough episodes of Forensic Files to know that you can't always place your trust in your parents or your lovers because they may have taken out a bunch of life insurance policies that they'll eventually cash in after your 'mysterious' fall off a cliff in Big Sur. Stylists have their reputations to consider, and reputations are a lot like mirrors. Once it's broken, it can never be repaired. If a stylist is known to butcher hair, it will come back to haunt him or her when they find that their appointment books are empty.

Going to your stylist is also a lot cheaper than seeing a therapist. You sit in a chair and talk to someone about your day or whatever is bothering you at the moment, and you get some great advice. It's mostly because they hate hearing your whine about your problems and want you to shut up, but there are some stylists who actually care enough about what's going on in their clients' personal lives.

I once went against my stylist's advice and demanded that he cut my hair extremely short. It was the beginning of Summer, and I wanted a no-nonsense 'do that I wouldn't have to worry about when I'm laying on my back getting pleasured by one of my gentlemen callers in front of the video camera. I just hate playing back the video and noticing my messed up hair. It's so untidy!

Because of the thickness of my hair and the odd shape of my head, I ended up looking like a really bad Chia Pet ten days after the haircut. I have a bit of a receding hairline, so it looked like some kid forgot to evenly spread the seeds on my head. I also have a scar on the back of my head, and people kept stopping me and asking me if I got nicked by the razor. My stylist is very good at hiding the scar when he cuts it normally, but now it was exposed and ready for people to stare at.

Two weeks later, I walked into the salon with a head full of shaggy hair and my tail between my legs. Not once did my stylist do Grace's "told ya so" song from Will and Grace. He just shook his head and clipped away, proceeding to gossip about the hot men in the chairs next to me like nothing ever happened.

Lesson learned! Always trust the stylist, especially when he's got sharp objects so close to your jugular vein.

I also learned that you're not supposed to refer to them as barbers or hairdressers. That's like referring to a parking enforcement agent as a meter maid.

Someone you know is a Harry Potter fan

There’s nothing more disheartening than finding yet another way to be considered a minority. I had time to adjust to not being black, white, or Hispanic. It was also a little rough coming out at a young age because there weren’t a lot of openly gay people in the world ten years ago. But today, July 20, 2007, I found out that I’m right back in that small group of people who isn’t like everyone else. I’ve never read a Harry Potter book.

I was wondering why I kept seeing people wearing red and yellow scarves. Apparently, they’re releasing another Harry Potter book tonight at midnight. My friend just corrected me by telling me that this is the final installment of the series. Excuse me!

I wasn’t prepared to find out that a lot of people in my life are Harry Potter fans. They all just seem to come out of the woodwork. Co-workers, bar buddies, old friends, new friends, cousins, and even the people I work out with are die hard fans of the popular spectacled, magic-using British boy. Now I know how straight people feel when they find out that one of their old college buddies is gay. You're surprised and shocked at first, but you feel a little left out because you didn't know that they were a part of something so big that you can never understand.

With so many Harry Potter fans making themselves known, it’s a lot like that episode of Star Trek where everyone is addicted to that game from Risa and Wesley Crusher is the only one who knows that it’s an evil mind controlling device. I'm Wesley Crusher, but with a cuter ass.

You can’t start watching the movies and say that you’re a fan, as so many of the readers have mentioned. In order to be a true Harry Potter fan, you had to have read all of the hardcover books. This is partially true. You can’t watch the movies AND understand what’s going on unless you’ve read the books.

I had a problem with the movie about the Chamberpot of Secrets or whatever it’s called. At the end of the three-hour movie, Harry fights a giant snake and all seems lost until a phoenix appears out of nowhere, carrying a hat that has a sword in it. It was one of those ‘what the fuck?’ moments for me. I just didn’t understand how things worked out so conveniently.

I also have a problem with the game they play on the broomsticks, Quidditch, or ‘Quich’ as I thought it was called. It’s a game where they fly around on broomsticks and try to throw balls into hoops. You get like ten points for each successful goal, but if you catch the golden snitch (a golden flying thingie), you get a hundred fifty points and the game is over. What’s the point of assigning points to the golden thing if the game is over after it’s caught? And what’s the point of having the regular balls if you get a hundred fifty points for catching the little golden thing? Why doesn’t EVERYONE look for the golden thing?

You can’t argue these points with die hard fans because they’d beat the shit out of you with their movie prop replica wands. I once asked a girl in college about Quich after seeing the first Harry Potter movie and she practically yelled at me because I didn’t know the proper name of the game. “It’s QUIDDITCH!” Then she continued to pour on the anger as I attempted to understand why things happened the way they happen in the Harry Potter universe.

I guess it’s just safer to pretend that I’m a fan than to argue about the numerous plot twists and suspensions of disbelief that run rampant in the Harry Potter universe. I’m starting to think that J.K. Rowling has written the books in such a way that it triggers something in the brain which allows her to control everyone. Look how many people have pre-ordered the book! Scary.

If you like video games and condoms, you'll love...

I love browsing the items on Amazon.com and reading the user reviews because it always helps me make better decisions when making a purchase. Some of the things that I look at are video games, underwear, condoms, fitness equipment, and a Dolly Parton biography.

Then one day I logged in and noticed that they'd prepared a list of things they thought I would enjoy based on my browsing history. One of the items was this book:



You know me so well, Amazon.com! Cheers.

Stand your ground!

My friends dragged me to one of the neighborhood sports bars this past weekend, much to my chagrin. Some of the bartenders have a vision of what type of patrons belong in their precious sports bar, and are very cold to people who don't fit into that vision. It probably didn't help me to be dressed in form-fitting and brightly-colored clothing that night. Imagine someone zapping a 14 year old me with an aging beam and I grew into tiny, young clothes.

My charming smile had no effect on the bartender at that sports bar. I first asked if they served Shiner Bock, my absolute favorite beer, and he replied with a very rude look and a "um, no!" He was very short with me, he didn't tell me how much I owed for the drink I had to settle for, he snatched the money from my hand, he slammed the change back onto the counter, and didn't even open my beer for me. It's not like I pontificated into the bar like a heady medieval nobleman and demanded ale and juicy boy-wenches to suckle. I was very polite and was met with only discord.

The same thing happened to another young man, who I observed as he ordered his drink. This time, the bartender yelled at the boy because he couldn't understand what he was trying to say. He also chastised the boy for leaning against a bar stool that "belonged" to someone who had gotten up to use the restroom, even though there were four other empty bar stools next to that one. When the boy left, the bartender and the patron exchanged headshakes and nasty insults about the boy.

I later noticed that the boy needed another drink, but he admitted that he was afraid to order because the bartender was so mean. I think that is wrong.

That's exactly what the bartender wanted. He'd act very rudely to people who he thinks don't belong in the bar, hoping that they will never come again. And I'm not just being dramatic because this bar is known for its older and non-flaming/straight-acting clientèle. People should feel comfortable going anywhere, and not have to worry about whether they'd be treated differently because they're either too old, too young, not effeminate enough, too effeminate, male, female, transgendered, Ferengi, or not into sports.

Part of the reason why the gay community is so polarized is because people let it happen. The boy ended up leaving, probably because he was treated so badly. But it has to be handled like a schoolyard bully situation. When you back down, you let them win. I sat there at the bar and ordered beer after beer until the bartender interrupted MY conversations with others to ask me if I needed another drink. He even said "thank you" after I paid for my seventh and last beer of the evening.

As I stumbled to hail a taxi, I smiled to myself because the bartender didn't know that I coughed on the tip money that I gave him. Now he's got cooties. Nobody snatches money out of my hand at the start of the evening and gets away with it.

Manhunt: The Video Game

For those of you who haven't been keeping up on the latest video gaming news, Rockstar Games has been having trouble with the ESRB because of their upcoming release, Manhunt 2. Apparently, it's way too violent and was just given an AO (adults only) rating. Because of the AO rating, it won't be released on any console until Rockstar tones it down. By now, you're probably bored out of your wits with this blog entry if you're not an avid gamer like me and I apologize for that. It's just a lead-in, so don't worry.

I was telling this bit of info to one of my friends, who was really confused because he thought that I was talking about a game about the gay men's internet hookup site, Manhunt.net. He said "of course it would be adults only... you can show sex to little kids!"

But wouldn't it be fabulous if there actually WAS a game based on gay internet sex hookups?

You'd first decide if you want to be a top, bottom, or versatile. Then you pick your fetishes such as punch-fisting or watersports. It's kind of like World of Warcraft, where you can be a human ranger or a night elf shaman . Players then log on to their in-game computer and browse hundreds of personals ads in search of the perfect booty call.

Finding the person is only the beginning. As in real life, you have to actually get through the sex to determine whether or not you made a good choice. Players will control their characters in various sex acts and positions using button combinations. Watch for subtle changes in the person you're fucking and change things up or else the sex will get boring and you'll get a low rating on your booty call score card. This will eventually come back to haunt you when the trick tells all his friends what a lousy lay you were and it'll be even harder to score a new fuck buddy.

To keep it real, there will be some worst case scenarios thrown into the mix. Let's say you found a bondage daddy and the sex is going fine... until he locks you in handcuffs and starts stealing things from your apartment! That's where practiced skills such as contortionism and lock picking will come in handy. If you have high enough skills, you can wiggle your arms into a position where you can grab the nearest pin-sized object to unlock the cuffs and avoid being ransacked and not have to explain to the police why you're handcuffed naked and smothered with shaving cream.

My friend then pointed out that it's actually more fun to LIVE the experience rather than play it, and I'm inclined to agree. I'd rather play the version of Manhunt where you get to strangle dudes with plastic bags because you know they won't be inviting you to meet their families or calling you late at night to ask you what you're thinking about.

Prances With Wolves

If I could pick a holiday for which I had to be sick, I'd definitely pick the fourth of July. I can't imagine missing holidays such as Halloween or the First of Muharram! My wish was granted this week when I spent the past few days sick in bed, recovering from a nasty cold.

I secretly welcome being sick because I know that I'll eventually have one of those crazy hallucinations that seem so real but turn out to be something that'll make you sound completely wacked out when you describe it to your friends. One of my English teachers in high school described being extremely ill and imagining that a tiny man was convincing her to drink magic milk that would help her get better. It wasn't the story that made her crazy. It was the fact that she actually knelt down to simulate the little man's gestures that made us wonder about her sanity.

My own questionable sanity came to light when I imagined that the spherical light fixture above my bed was a giant eyeball that could see anything that moved and I had to sit completely motionless for fear of being discovered and eventually forced to work in the mines with other boys. The eye would rotate and shoot lasers, and you'd know exactly what I am describing if you are a fan of The Legend of Zelda. The little stuffed chihuahua on my window sill told me not to move.

Here's the part where things get crazy... I truly believe that Native American spirits are reaching out to me. Don't laugh. The signs are all there:

• I like corn.

• My hallucination was actually a vision quest. They're sacred rites of passage, where young men go into a state of higher consciousness and see wondrous visions that they can't explain.

• My apartment is always very warm when I come home from work, much like a Native American sweat lodge... or the steam room at a bath house.

• The little stuffed chihuahua that talked to me in my vision quest was really my totem animal. Native Americans believe that everyone has a totem animal, a spirit guide that helps them find their path in life. You're not supposed to tell anyone what your totem animal is, so I just basically screwed my spiritual journey. Now I'll never find the path to enlightenment!

• I have been known to smoke from a pipe that I often call my "piece." Get the connection? Piece pipe? (peace pipe)