Fair Weather Faithful

This morning I was greeted by a girl in my class who I initially thought forgot to wash her face thoroughly. There was a noticeable black mark on her forehead that made it look like she got headbutted by the smoke monster that killed Mr. Eko. She then wished me a happy Ash Wednesday and asked me if I'd been to church yet. I told her that, "I don't do church," and she stood before me with her jaw open as if she'd heard me say that I drink puppy blood in my pagan rituals. She told me that I was Catholic and that it was imperative that I attend Ash Wednesday mass.

Her inquisition didn't end there. She asked me what I am giving up for Lent, and I didn't have an answer for her. She just shook her head and threw her nose up in the air as she declared: "I'm giving up sweets."

Later, she made a big deal about having to put her safety glasses on her face because it would mess up her ash cross.

Since when does going to one holy day of obligation give you the right to turn your nose up at people? If I remember correctly, you're supposed to fast and abstain from sex during Lent if you want proper Catholic bragging rights. The girl is giving up sweets, which can mean anything in her crazy mind. If I see her eating any food with sugar in it, I'm totally going to call her out on it.

And another thing… if you're fucking at least three of the men in your class, should you be lecturing others about how they should be going to church more often?

 

 

I Could Have Cha Cha Slid All Night

Ever since I could remember, I was always unsettled by change. I remember feeling like the world was going to end when Cloris Leachman replaced Charlotte Rae on The Facts of Life. I also hated when my mother changed soda brands without first discussing it with us. It was madness.

I still get nervous when I show up to yoga class and some other person is teaching it. My chakras just withhold all of my prana and my bandhas refuse to function.

I was especially leery about attending the Valparaiso Barrister’s Ball with my boyfriend this past weekend. I didn’t know what to expect this year because last year was so vivid and memorable that I never imagined that it could be duplicated. But my fears were put to rest. Things hardly changed from last year and it allowed me to have a truly spectacular evening.

I’m always afraid of dressing like everyone else, and it’s easy to get lost in a sea of similarity whenever you attend a black tie event. Don’t you hate when you show up to a party and someone has on the same outfit? This year was different because I was one of four men who actually wore a black bow tie. Whew!

I was nearly trampled by eager bar-goers last year when they constantly got up to freshen their drinks. This year I chose a seat at my table where I wouldn’t be surrounded by people at other tables. I sat near the wall, which is similar to how I always use a locker at the end of the row whenever I go to the gym because I never get trapped by unsavory people when I do that. It’s a good thing I did that because the same thing happened. This was compounded by the fact that open bar lasted for a limited time. Fortunately, I watched people scramble from the comfort of my wall chair.

Last year, a girl almost threw up on me because she clearly had too much to drink. This year I was able to avoid a similar situation because I heard her girlfriends shushing her and repeatedly saying her name in an attempt to calm her down. As soon as I saw this year’s drunk girl, I immediately dropped what I was doing, threw my hands up in the air, and backed away slowly.

No matter what anyone says, mixing food has the same effect as mixing alcohol. This year I had the opportunity to avoid that fate because the menu was exactly the same. I just said ‘no’ to the lethal baked ziti/mashed potato combination and I never had to ingest an antacid.

The Cha Cha Slide, a favorite at EVERY black tie event, was prominently featured this year. Last year I got stuck doing a similar instructional dance and I looked silly because I was not coordinated enough to follow the commands. It wouldn’t have been bad if I actually HAD done the Cha Cha Slide with everyone else. When you have someone telling you to clap your hands and to stomp your left foot, there is absolutely no way to mess up like there is when you try to do the foxtrot or the regular cha cha at other black tie events.

And of course, there’s nothing like seeing an old friend you haven’t seen in MONTHS. You wonder what other parties they’d been to or how things in their life have been flowing. This year I had the immense pleasure of being reunited with my old friend, the chocolate fountain.

Anyone who knows about Oprah knows that she hates surprises, and it’s safe to say that if Oprah had attended the Barrister’s Ball in 2008 and 2009, she would not be disappointed. I don’t care what people think. I definitely enjoyed attending this year’s Barrister’s Ball because it was so familiar and comfortable. Kudos!

Run!

Someone very close to me announced that he would not be running this year. It came as a bit of a shock to me because running was all he ever talked about. He ran last year and things didn't go as well as he'd hoped, but he was very excited to try to run this year.

He says that his choice to not run was all his own, but a lot of lazy and downright stupid people (and a few cunts) may have played a part in this seemingly hasty decision. Some people think that it's a big waste of time. Others would just rather root for someone else they know who was also planning on running.

Whatever politics that allegedly played a role in this most disparaging news, I fully support him and I hope to see him on the trail in the future. This entry is dedicated to my good friend, Doug, who will not be joining me this year in the 37^th annual Chicago Marathon. I love you, Douggie.

Pinoyphilia

Valentine’s Day stirs up a lot of emotions in everyone. Some people are swept away in a rapture of love, blind to the fact that they have been conditioned to act that way by greedy candy companies. On the opposite end of the spectrum are the militant, anti-Valentine’s Day people who stand outside of fancy restaurants and hiss at couples who walk in. But somewhere in the middle are people who can’t help but think of Valentine’s Day as a day or reflection. “Jerry,” one of my single Filipino friends who lives here in Chicago, is one such person. He called me yesterday and posed the question, “Why aren’t people into Filipinos?”

Knowing that “Jerry” wouldn’t be receptive to the usual bits of sage advice that people offer against questions like that (and because I like to hear the sound of my own voice), I decided to tell him a delightfully creepy story about non-Filipinos who love Filipinos…

A long time ago, when I was a young and naïve lad with supple skin and a 29 inch waist, I marched in an independent winterguard. For those of you who don’t know, winterguard is that thing where girls, gay boys, and gay boys who swear that they’re straight but end up getting caught having sex with other boys in utility closets at the University of Dayton Arena, spin flags in routines set to music.

To defray the costly expense of lodging during away trips, most out-of-town guard members stayed with in-town guard members and their families. It was a great way to meet new people, save money, and in my case… become slightly traumatized.

I stayed with a seemingly nice Christian family of white folks one year. “The Johnsons” were particularly interested in just about everything I had to say, which sat very nicely with me for obvious reasons. During the car ride, they asked me where I was from, what I did, how long I’d been marching in winterguard, if I was Filipino, if I speak Filipino, if I’d ever been to the Philippines, and if I like Filipino food. I wondered what the deal was with all the Pinoy-related questions until I set foot in their home.

The place was more ethnic than the whole of Iloilo. No matter where I turned, I saw something Filipino. There was a Weapons of Moroland plaque on the wall, a capiz shell lamp in the corner, a statue of the infant of Prague (Santo Niño) on an altar, a Last Supper tapestry beside the dinner table, and even a vinyl carpet runner beneath my feet. The family had collected these items during the many years of missionary work they did in the Philippines.

Dinner was especially uncomfortable due to the fact that not only was Mrs. Johnson’s chicken adobo better-tasting than my mother’s, but they all stared at me and waited for me to speak. When I did say something, they acted as if I’d told the greatest story ever. It was a little unsettling. I seriously thought that they were going to ask me to put the lotion on the skin so they could make a Filipino skin suit. The high point of the evening was when the oldest Johnson child turned to me and remarked that Caucasian/Filipino children are especially beautiful, then did the creepy repetitive double eyebrow raise.

I survived the weekend without being robbed of my skin or contributing to the impregnation of the oldest Johnson child to fulfill their dreams of cross-cultural hybridization. I hoped that Jerry would understand that sometimes it's not always a good thing when people are into Filipinos, but he really didn't see any value in my story. He just wondered out loud whether or not he should go to Sidetrack. Now I secretly wish that the next white man he dates corrects his Tagolog.