Gladly Missed Connection

A lot of people are familiar with the "Missed Connections" section on Craigslist. I was at the Pink Party this past weekend and I decided to post a sort of anti-missed connection to someone I had the displeasure of meeting.

You were at the Pink Party on Saturday night at the MCA Warehouse. You wore sunglasses even though the sun had gone down four hours earlier that day. You criticized the Cher impersonator's wig and makeup even though you looked like you'd gone to a mortician to get your own hair and makeup done. You modeled your shoes to everyone and expected them to tell you how fabulous they were, probably because you couldn't see them on your own with that belly of yours protruding out like you were expecting twins.

I found it rude when you approached everyone, including my friends, and pulled the backs of their shirts open to see what designer they were wearing. I wasn't lying when I told you that I didn't recognize the name of the person who designed your hideous tie. Frankly, my four year old nephew's finger paintings look more attractive than that awful thing you had around your neck.

Nobody cares that this was the hundredth charity event that you simply HAD to attend for fear of being labeled "missing in action among Chicago's well-to-do gay elite." Nobody cares that you're attending the Chicago House World Tour Gala and can't decide between wearing the Christian Dior tuxedo or the Versace tuxedo. I honestly didn't think that either of those designers made tuxedo coats that big. I may be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that Gianni or Donatella didn't have your midsection overhang in mind when they decided to put out men's evening wear.

If you are such an important member in gay Chicago's wealthy society of charitable do-gooders, then why did I not see you at the silent auction table? Oh, that's right... you were at the bar, not tipping the bartenders and devouring handfuls of hors d'oeuvres all evening.

I don't remember your name and it wasn't because I had six vodka tonics that night. I just didn't think you were all that important. I realize now that I've just devoted a whole blog entry to you and it's only because I hope that someday, someone you know will read this and know that I am talking about you. He or she will get a chuckle out of it and tell two friends about it. Then they'll tell two friends. Then they'll tell two friends, and so on. Maybe not this month, maybe not this year, but someday you'll be at one of your black tie affairs in a tuxedo that you had to squeeze into and everyone in the room will know that on one chilly Yom Kippur evening at the Pink Party in Chicago... one gay man was not impressed by you.

1 in 45,000

When I was in the seventh grade, I raised my hand to answer a question during my sixth period "Skills for Adolescents" class. My teacher, Mr. Cirelli, was eager to call on me because I was a seething ball of anger at the time and rarely raised my hand to answer questions he asked. "Yes, Ronald..." he called to me. I then reminded him that my name was Richard.

I told him: "That's okay. All us Filipinos look alike." I felt pretty cool for putting down a teacher, and he took it pretty well. He seemed to shrug it off like it was nothing.

Afterward, Mr. Cirelli apologized for calling me by the wrong name and assured me that it wasn't because he thought all Filipinos looked alike. He went on to tell me that I was unique and that I was special and that there wouldn't be another person like me for a million years. To an angst-filled pre-teen, all of that sounded like a bunch of hooey. Don't forget the fact that I was one of hundreds of students who he taught that year.

Over the years, Mr. Cirelli proved me wrong. I'd run into him from time to time and he always remembered me. Imagine my shock when he appeared at my graduation and shook my hand as he told me how proud he was of me.

A couple of weeks ago, I checked with the Chicago Marathon office and found out that I was the only "Richie" registered for the race next month. The woman who verified asked me: "How does it feel to be the only Richie running the Chicago Marathon? You're one in 45,000."

That made me think of Mr. Cirelli and what he told me that day. In all fairness, there is a possibility that there are a lot of "Richards" running the marathon and they could go by the nickname "Richie." But it's also fun to imagine that things magically work out the way that one of your favorite teachers say that they'd work out.

Bless THIS!

Just when you think that the human race has achieved a higher level of social evolution, something happens that forces you to wonder if we're still living in the dark ages. It's the feeling where you know that the earth is a sphere but everyone else thinks that it's flat. Today I was scolded for not saying "bless you" to someone who sneezed.

To be honest, I was more grossed out by the sight of the sneeze than worried about the social repercussions of not giving someone a "bless you." He didn't even sneeze on his sleeve, which anyone with half a brain knows is the safest way to go when you're trying not to spread germs everywhere. He reared his head back, took a big inhale, and cupped both hands over his face. It's a lot like seeing someone pull a pin out of a grenade. You see it happening in slow motion and you know you have to get the fuck out of there as fast as you can. He immediately scoffs at me for "not having the human decency" to say 'bless you' after I stood there for a moment with a look of disgust on my face.

Human decency? Is it decent to sneeze on your hands and then go around touching everything? That's a great way of spreading germs, by the way. Let's just cut out the middle man and open our mouths for people to sneeze in. Then we wouldn't have to go around wiping everything with sanitizing solution, wondering what's coated with germs and what's safe to touch. With cold and flu season just around the corner, how can you be so worried about whether or not someone blessed you?

Do people even know when or how that stupid custom came about? There are a lot of theories, most of them revolving around the idea that our soul or life was in danger when we sneezed. People would say "bless you" to either ward off a demon trying to steal your soul, protect your life force from escaping your body during the sneeze, or to protect the sneezee from the plague. No matter how you look at it, it seems to have started in a time before the invention of the talking picture or indoor plumbing... which makes it archaic.

And another thing: why would anyone want a blessing from someone who isn't a religious leader? I'm a sex maniac who plays video games and walks around his apartment completely naked. Why are you going to ask me to bless you? That's like Mary Magdalene saying to John the baptist: "I'll take it from here, Johnny boy!"

If people are so intent on saying "bless you" when someone sneezes, then why aren't we using leeches or ancient herbs to restore the balance of humours in the body? Hmm? So the next time someone sneezes and stares at you, waiting for those two magic words, just hand them a bottle of hand sanitizer and tell them to rub hard.

Defending the Oldest Profession

I was sad to see that the website hookonline.org had been taken down. It was an online resource for men who work in the sex industry, complete with articles, how-to guides (how to tell whether or not your John is an undercover cop), tips on successful prostituting, and the locations of various shelters and law offices that specialize in helping people in the sex industry. I'd never be a successful prostitute, but the website was a lot of fun to read and it also had cute little graphics.

Whenever people think of prostitutes, they always think: dirty, diseased, low-self esteem, sexually-depraved, and money hungry. Those are negative stereotypes, propagated by narrow minded people who don't see the big picture. Not all prostitutes are like that, the same way that not all Catholic priests enjoy molesting young altar boys.

If you could pick a prostitute and have sex with him without fear of how you'd look if people found out that you were paying for sex, would you want someone who is dirty, diseased, and mentally unbalanced? Of course not. Nobody wants to do a skanky coke whore who looks like he may never wake up if he fall asleep next to you. People want hot, clean, polite prostitutes who don't overcharge, and I think that the sex industry has responded to that.

If you take a look at the website, rentboy.com, or visit the street corner of Halsted and Waveland in Chicago, you'll find that a majority of male sex workers don't look like the brothel boys you see depicted in low-budget gay films. They're cute, they'll make you feel like a king, and they give the best massages this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. I happen to know a few rent boys and I must say that they are a pleasure to be around. I also enjoy looking at the bulges in their pants.

Perhaps the BEST argument that defends prostitutes comes from Laurie Kilmartin in one of her stand-up routines. She says that they perform a great public service "by having sex with creepy guys so that we don't have to. Better you for fifty than me for free."

So the next time you go to a party and you find out that one of the other guests is a prostitute, don't shun him. Give him a pat on the back and thank him for making our world a better place.

Operation: Teatime

My sister told me that she is planning a 'traditional' baby shower. I don't know what a 'traditional' baby shower is, but boy am I worried! It sounds like it has to be planned and that everything has to go according to plan or else it'll be a disaster. I immediately thought of my friend Kurt and the English Tea Party debacle.

My friend Kurt fancies himself as an Anglophile. He'll read Hello! Magazine. He'll call things by their British counterparts like fags (cigarettes), rashers (bacon slices), and queues (lines). He even once tried to fake a British accent like Madonna, claiming that he hangs around so many British people that it rubs off on him.

One day Kurt and I were watching a Merchant Ivory film... or some period film like that. I don't know, but I think it had something to do with Jane Austen. Anyway, there was a scene that showed the members of high society having tea with splendid little cakes and bite-sized sandwiches with the crusts cut off, served on fabulous platters and Kurt just went hog wild with excitement.

He went out of his way to plan a fancy schmancy tea party for a bunch of his friends, complete with cucumber sandwiches (which I made), scones, and some other things that I'd never seen before. We all sat down and waited for Kurt to finish doing whatever he was doing in the kitchen, when one of us (Jason) decides that the tea smelled so good that he simply must pour himself a cup. I was eyeballing the cakes with the strawberries on it, so I grabbed one from the center tier of the three-tiered platter in the center of the table.

In walks Kurt with more goodies, but he was shocked to see that we'd already helped ourselves to the gorgeous spread. Furious, Kurt yelled at Jason for serving himself because it's the host's job to pour the tea. They proceeded to argue and I let out a little laugh because I thought it was so ridiculous. Then Kurt tears into me for taking food from the center tier before everyone has had a chance to eat off of the top tier. I told him that it was stupid and he became livid.

After we all calmed down, the tea party continued. It was extremely tense and a bit uncomfortable, especially since none of us knew the proper etiquette for Low Tea. We all exchanged nervous glances, worried that Kurt would scold us for doing something wrong.

I think that there are only two things that need extensive planning: wars and orgies. Everything else should just be played by ear, whether it's a wedding, a funeral, a baby shower, or a tea party. There is a high probability that things won't go exactly the way you plan them, and that leads to tremendous stress and ultimate disaster in the end. I really want to tell my sister the Kurt Tea Party story, but if she found out that I knew how to make cute little cucumber sandwiches, I'd be up all night in her kitchen making them for all her pregnant friends! No thank you.