Objection!

Ever since I was a kid, I've been notoriously impatient. I would always unwrap my Christmas gifts and re-wrap them before my mother got home from work. Riding home in the car with all of the groceries in the back seat, I'd climb over to the bag with the cereal and tear it open in search of the toy at the bottom of the box.

Nothing has really changed now that I'm an adult. I look at spoilers for my favorite television shows because I hate waiting for the actual show to premiere. Whenever I have a man over, I immediately begin undoing his pants (who wastes time with small talk anymore?). So when I found out that there would be another chapter in my favorite video game series, I simply had to have it.

Rather than waiting until the end of October for the U.S. release, I took it upon myself to get my hands on an advance copy of Phoenix Wright: Trials and Tribulations, or Gayakuten Saiban 3 as it's known in Japan, from a reputable dealer overseas.

For those of you who aren't familiar, Phoenix Wright is a popular "lawyer novella" series on the Nintendo DS. You review evidence, cross examine witnesses, and raise objections when you find contradictions in a witness' testimony. I love being able to shout "OBJECTION!" into the built-in microphone.

Technology has allowed us to quickly communicate worldwide and bypass months of waiting like the suckers who don't have Phoenix Wright 3 have to do. What now? I guess that the only way to take my impatience to a higher level is to find out when and how exactly I'm fated to die. If you can put me in touch with an awesome psychic, I'd be eternally grateful!

I'm on to you!

One of my favorite episodes of Star Trek: TNG revolved around the crew investigating their mysterious thirty second period of unconsciousness after going through a wormhole. Several clues are discovered, suggesting that their brief stint of unconsciousness wasn't so brief after all. They spend a good part of the episode engrossed in the mystery of what really happened to them.

Perhaps the most entertaining mysteries of my life was brought on by one of my ex boyfriends, "Rick." It was the typical story of young gay love, starting out hot and heavy and quickly turning frigid and forced. He eventually spent less time with me and always found ways to excuse himself from dates we'd made in order to catch up on work or help a friend move.

When he wasn't glued to his laptop, he was stepping outside to take phone calls. He'd tell me that he'd go to the Starbucks on North and Wells to get caught up on work and to watch live performances. He'd disappear for hours with that stupid old laptop that didn't have an integrated wireless network adapter and come home with wet hair.

It didn't require much to understand that he was sneaking around behind my back, having sex or dating other guys. It hurt because we started out as very good friends, and being betrayed by one of your friends is the ultimate burn. But all I had to go on was my overactive imagination and my insecurity... or did I?

Rick didn't know it at the time, but he left many clues for me to investigate. The first clue was his strange behavior, acting odd and canceling appointments and dates with me. I then decided to visit this fantastic Starbucks location on North and Wells and was shocked to learn that they hadn't had live performances in months. Before I knew it, I was finding contradiction in everything that he'd been telling me since the strange behavior started and decided to file them away for future use.

A lot of contradiction proves that he's a liar, but how could I catch him being unfaithful? I began by installing a program onto my computer that takes screen shots every time you left-click or press 'enter.' Then I conveniently misplaced the power cord for Rick's laptop so he'd have to use mine. After using my computer and disappearing into the night to head to his office to grab some paperwork, I quickly checked the logging program and discovered that he'd been typing e-mails to one of our mutual friends. Rick had left to meet him for a sexual tryst.

I confronted Rick with the info, eventually showing him the screen shots of his unfaithful e-mails and attempts to delete the internet browsing history on my computer to futilely cover his tracks. At that point, all I could do was pat Rick on the head like the dog he was and explain to him that the truth always comes to the surface. The smart people are the ones who find it faster.

In that Star Trek episode, Captain Picard explains that people enjoy a good mystery and that if clues are left behind, they'll follow them until the mystery is solved.

I think that a large part of the allure of a good mystery is that a mystery is, in essence, a secret waiting to be discovered. Humans are blessed (or cursed, depending on how you choose to believe) with insatiable curiosity, especially when it involves secrets. There's always a select group of people who just don't accept that things are always as they appear to be, and they'll spend a great deal of time figuring out the truth. Maybe people should think about that before they go behind other peoples' backs and betray sacred trusts that shouldn't be betrayed for the sheer fact that said trusts are extremely rare in the first place.

Nature's Wrath... again - or, "I'm praying for number three"

DISCLAIMER!

It may seem like it at first, but this is not one of those blog topics where I write about the mundane details of my day. I really hate those types of blogs and I would never subject you to it, but just bear with me. There is a point to the first few paragraphs, I swear!

Yesterday morning at the gym, I saw a news clip where a man was struggling to start his gas-powered lawn motor. He tried pulling the ripcord several times and I wondered why the heck they were reporting on something so dull.

I went to the CVS later that afternoon in search of artificial sweetener for my work coffee and I passed the canned goods. For some reason, Spam was prominently displayed on the shelf and I thought "I could really go for a Spamwich. That could be my sinful indulgence this week."

Around 3:30 yesterday afternoon (for those of you who don't live in Chicago and don't watch the news), we were hit with a pretty nasty storm, complete with heavy winds that knocked out trees. It didn't phase me at all because I'd seen this type of thing before, having lived in Guam some time ago. Wind? Rain? Psha.

Today I couldn't stop hearing about the bloody storm. Storm this, storm that. Trees were knocked down, wind speeds were in the upper 80 miles per hour bracket, someone lost their ass virginity in the storm, yada yada yada. I was pretty sick of listening to everyone try to top each other's stories about how bad they thought the storm affected their dreary lives when in fact it really didn't, especially because this type of storm was NOTHING compared to what I went through in the summer of 1992 in Guam.

I'd just turned thirteen and I was living in Guam with my grandparents and my sister. One day at the end of August, my grandfather made me help him take in some lawn furniture and various tools because of some storm that was coming our way. That storm turned out to be Typhoon Omar.

The typhoon ravaged the island for hours. Against my grandparents' warnings, I opened the door and went out into the garage area to catch a glimpse of the chaos. I saw the rain blowing sideways. I saw lots of pieces of tin roofing flying through the air and into cars and houses. I saw children's toys blowing down the street, and I even saw various small animals swept away in the 140 mph winds.

Because of Omar, we were without power and cable for weeks. Fortunately for us, we had a portable gas-powered electric generator so we had air conditioning and a usable refrigerator. But I remember having the worst luck getting our power generator to start up. It was pretty hard for a 90 lb shrimp of a thirteen year old to get that ripcord going. The internal startup workings of a power generator are similar to that of a ripcord on a lawn mower. Ripcord? Hmm...

We also had to boil all of our water before drinking it and we were forced to cook canned food over propane stoves. I remember having to eat Spam for an entire month because it was hard to find fresh food in stores that were without power. Spam? Hmm...

On a hunch, I wikipedia-ed Typhoon Omar and found that it formed on August 24, 1992. Guam is sixteen hours ahead of us, which means that Chicago's August 23 storm would have happened in Guam on August 24!!!

The lawnmower news byte, the spam I saw in the store, and a storm on the fifteen year anniversary of one of the biggest storms ever... what could this all mean?

I've narrowed it down to three possibilities:

1. This is all one big coincidence and I am reading too much into it. I need to get a life and I need to stop looking for things that aren't there.

2. A mad scientist with control over the weather and a strong dislike for me has found that I am now living in Chicago. He chose the fifteen year anniversary of his first attempt to off me to unleash another storm because he's one of those villains who loves nostalgia. An unknown ally with psychic powers sent me messages in the form of the lawnmower ripcord news byte and the spam on the store shelves in order to remind me of the first storm.

3. I'm going to get laid soon. Every time I'm hit with major full-circle type coincidences like three Dolly Parton songs playing on my iPod when I set it to shuffle on the day that Dolly Parton opened Dollywood, I end up having amazing sex with someone.

I don't know about you, but I'm praying for number three.

Stress Relief - UPDATE

In the few hours following my previous post, I was bombarded with messages decrying my topic choice. People thought it was creepy and they're entitled to their opinions, so I'm not worried. But one person went as far as to accuse me of idolizing the Zodiac killer.

Get a life, people! It was a funny topic and I never mentioned killing. Perhaps my descriptions were subconscious in the fact that one Jake Gyllenhaal, my super yummy future co-star in the yet-to-be-made movie about depression-era Filipino boxers and their hot coaches who force them to have sex in secret underground sex clubs in New York, was in a movie about the Zodiac killer.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Stress Relief

People deal with negative emotions in a myriad of ways. Some people scream into a pillow, some people hit a punching bag, some people eat everything in the refrigerator, and some people squeeze off a few rounds of live ammo at the shooting range. I watch Mary Poppins.

Whenever I feel stressed, lonely, rejected, or just plain sad, Mary Poppins always seems to cheer me up. There's something about a woman who is practically perfect in every way that just makes you want to get out of whatever funk you're in and do everything in your power to get as close to her level of self-awareness as possible.

I'd like to go a step further and combine various methods of stress relief. Can you imagine toting a .357 Magnum aimed at a punching bag with a picture of someone you hate taped to it while you sing Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious at the top of your lungs with a small pillow tied to your face?

Of course there would be eye holes cut into the pillow. It would look silly otherwise.

The Goodbye Guy

I'm going to visit my family next week and I decided that it would be nice to go bar hopping in San Francisco. It's always fun to be the 'out of towner' because telling the locals that their weather is a million times better than Chicago summer weather is a great way to start a conversation. I told my sister about it and she suggested that I take her around, along with my twenty two year old cousin. Thinking that it would be a fun idea, I quickly agreed. But then I remembered that things never go very smoothly when I take a straight girl to a gay bar.

Five years ago, my friend Rachel begged me to take her to a popular gay bar in Houston called South Beach. It was her first time at a gay bar and she was just itching to cut a rug with a bunch of gay boys who she'd never have a chance with. Five long island iced teas later, I'm in some dude's Ford F-150 and naked as Michaelangelo's David. I woke up the next morning missing my shirt, my underwear, and my left shoe. Rachel left forty two angry voicemails, wondering what happened.

She had to get a ride home from one of our acquaintances who happened to be out and about that evening. Needless to say, it took a long time for me to get back on Rachel's good side.

Three years later, the same thing happened to me. This time it was a girl named Jenny, a bar called Roscoes, six Jagerbombs, and a Toyota Echo as the getaway hookup vehicle. I still woke up with less clothing than I started out with, but Jenny doesn't talk to me anymore.

We all gain wisdom as we age, and I'd like to think that I can now go out with straight girls and not play into the stereotype of gay men leaving their hags whenever they meet a halfway decent man who promises him a night full of passionate monkey sex that he probably won't remember the next morning because he drank too much Jagermeister.

I'm much wiser now. I drink vodka.

Real Gay Sports

All the traumatic sports experiences from my childhood have really made it hard for me to join up with any sports team. From always being picked last because I threw like a girl to the horrific 'baseball to the head' injury and my coach's advice to just WALK IT OFF, I've never found it easy to get into anything like that.

I once saw a documentary on the Chicago Dragons, a rugby team made up of mostly gay men, but it didn't capture my interest. It just seemed pretty boring. It was just like any other sports team that you see on television and I was expecting some major fun and sexy stuff because it was a gay sports team. It was more of a sports team with gay people on it. They get up, they practice, they do the standard pre-game prayer huddle, and then they go home and drink beer. I don't know about you, but I like my sports sensationalized, dramatic, and chock full of showboating!

Playing the amazingly addictive Mario Strikers Charged got me thinking about how gay sports should really be. Nintendo really hit the nail on the head with this game. It has colorful characters, huge stadiums filled with screaming fans, an electrified play area that shocks anyone who goes out of bounds, and a princess who kicks a mechanical soccer ball around without messing up her hair or the crown on her head.

I'd also like to mention that after talking to someone at Sidetrack this past weekend, I think that Quidditch is not that bad of a thing. It consists of goggle-clad wizards on broomsticks, flying around and throwing balls into rings while dodging bigger balls. Goggles, balls, and bigger balls... that sounds like a Saturday evening in my bedroom.

Along that line, there's Sasuke which you can catch on the G4 network as Ninja Warrior. It's basically a crazy huge obstacle course, but it is so interesting to watch because the types of obstacles are nothing like you'd see on American Gladiators.

It's our duty as gay men to provide fun and excitement to the world, especially when it comes to sports. We could really build a solid fan base if we take cues from Mario Strikers, Quidditch, and Ninja Warrior. When you think about it, each competition involves outstanding feats of strength and skill with a little bit of flair and cool accoutrement. You also can't take your eyes off of it for a second or else you'll miss something, and that's exactly what one of my best non-gay friends said when she talked about how she loved being around gay people.

Replay Value

Someone asked me recently how I can keep track of all the men I "socialize" with in my life. First I had to scan the statement for sarcasm. When I detected that it was an innocent question and not a passive-aggressive dig at my numerous sexual escapades with many different men, I began to set him straight on the issue.

First of all, it only seems like I'm having sex with a ton of people because most of the people in my life are either married, with a boyfriend, or not able to use what God gave them in order to snag a good shag whenever the opportunity comes along. When you compare me to a monogamous person or someone who can't shake their ass like Shakira, of course I'll come off looking like a Jezebel! It's not my fault. I'm a victim of circumstance.

I'm like the top seller at a real estate office with his name on a leader board with fifty houses sold while other people only have one or two houses sold, so when customers come into the office they think he's a hot shot. That's me, but with notches on my bed post instead of houses on the board.

I also tend to keep the one night stands to a minimum. There's something about an impromptu sexual encounter that gives me the willies. Half the time, we're too drunk to know what the other person looks like. They'll also expect to stay over the whole night, which is really bad because I need my space. What's worse, they probably weren't expecting to get some that evening so you don't know if they've showered or trimmed down there! I hate having to hold my breath when I go downtown. The point is that most of my play dates are a result of careful consideration and proper interviewing.

I choose my fuck buddies the same way I choose video games to play. I shop around and I do my homework. In a world where consumers are forced to pay upwards of $59.95 for a new release, we must take the time to research the pros and cons. If you make impulsive decisions based on flashy packaging, you'll often find that the fun runs out quickly and you're left with a sixty dollar paperweight that you're embarrassed to tell people that you purchased because they'd just ask you why you didn't just rent it. Sound familiar?

The biggest deciding factor when it comes to men and video games is REPLAY VALUE. Is this a man/game that you're going to finish in just a few hours and never see/play again because you got bored with it so fast? Don't be lured by cute faces/cool box art because you'll just end up wasting your time/money. Look for men/games that you can have sex with/play with over and over again and you'll be a much happier gay man in Chicago/video game consumer.

I don't have a million men that I sleep with, I have a few men who I sleep with a million times.

If you're like me, then you can explain this to people whenever they come at you with the whore jokes after you tell them about your latest fling. Tell them that you're not a slut, you're a smart shopper!