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| March 31, 2003
The Pentagon Paperdolls The House of Shocknawe has unveiled their Spring line! 
Which is your favorite? All three get a thumbs up in my book! March 30, 2003
It's Like Christmas if You're Jewish It is snowing. It's fucking April almost. It's not right. I went out last night to Cobalt with Gurl, who said of me, "That's the thing I like about you, you see the darkness in everything." I want that on my tombstone. I was surprised that it was so crowded last night. My package was grabbed four times. My take on that? If you must do it, at least acknowledge that you are doing it. It irritates me when guys look away, pretending to make their way through the crowd. As if I can't make the connection. It takes at least five drinks for me not to. Black Sheep of the Day: Tori! Can't we put her in a uniform so she doesn't wear happy colors while telling us how many people were killed today?  March 28, 2003
Original Poofter All this talk in the Supreme Court about boy-on-boy action must be rough on Justice Scalia. Can't say I feel bad. I'm reminded of a time in college when I scribbled some lines down about another court case. Bowers v. Hardwick says I can't suck dick just 'cause I got one too. Now, tell me what the fuck am I supposed to do? Should I cuddle with my boyfriend like a little bunny rabbit? Bite my tongue in half until silence is a habit? Or maybe I should make this clear, what you want is for me to disappear. This is what happens when you listen to Snoop Dogg while reading gay history books. Though, Jimbo seems to have been more successful in tackling the form. This could be a new genre. Gay-angsta rap. Black Sheep of the Day: Celine Dion and Chrysler. I thought the anger would fade, but it hasn't. Glenn has to restrain me so I don't throw things at the television when those awful commercials are on. And I'm sure there are tacky housewives across the bulging midsection of this country who think her version of "I Drove All Night" is wonderful, but they're dead wrong. It can't compare to the heart and soul that Cyndi Lauper gave to her version. March 27, 2003
Doing Lines When a poem lives inside your head long enough, it becomes the language you have for certain moments. This is also true of music and film (like Jimbo's urge to belt some Maddie in freight elevators). When I am in a waiting room, I think of little Elizabeth reading National Geographic. At urinals, I think of Amiri and shudder strangely after pissing. Sometimes lying in bed, I think of Wystan. Other times of Allen. Allen also comes to mind in grocery stores as does Randall. When I write notes to Glenn, I feel the urge to start with "This is just to say," like William. Black Sheep of the Day: CNN for taking so long to can the bland, underinformed Connie Chung. March 26, 2003
Spring Cleaning I've spent most of this week embedded in bed with my boyfriend as we both have off for a few days for spring break. All I can say is I truly love him. And sometimes it takes just a few days away from the rest of the world to make me understand why all over again. Before I met him, I had a list of things that I needed in the person I would share my life with. He met and surpassed them all (especially the parts about scratching my back when I want and laughing at all my jokes--especially the goofy ones). The other day, Gurl, the bf and I went to see The Guru. It was a wonderful escape from reality, especially for folks who love Grease and Bollywood. Black Sheep of the Day: Halliburton. Next time we have a war, could we at least try to make it look like we're not giving shit away to the administration's best friends and biggest contributors? March 23, 2003
Soy Americano Sometimes, I feel like the America of my mind is not the America of reality. Imaginary America has much more freedom. No reporter in imaginary America would dare ask, "By protesting against a war while troops are on the ground, aren't you being unpatriotic?" In imaginary America, I could walk down the street (any street, not just 17th) and hold my boyfriend's hand without fear of ridicule or violence. In imaginary America, no one would care the cost or time it would take to count each vote cast. In imaginary America, my religion or lack thereof would be never be an issue for the state. In imaginary America, I would have a representative in congress who speaks for me (despite the fact that I am a DC resident and am not a multinational corporation). Of course, this is all a dream. I do not for one second discount the freedoms I have. But I think the most important line in American history is "in order to form a more perfect Union." Notice they did not say "perfect." Built in to "more perfect" is room for improvement. I feel that we have gotten better in the last 200+ years. We have moved past the 3/5 compromise, the right of a person to own another person, the disenfranchisement of women. We have become a more perfect Union. My patriotism lies therein. Black Sheep of the Day: Pentagon Spokesperson Victoria Clarke. I need to find a picture of it, but I haven't been able to so far. Her outfit yesterday during the Pentagon briefing could best be described as "Neapolitan." Dark gray on the right, white down the middle, and pink on the left. Not only tacky, just a bit too festive for wartime briefings, Tory. Update: 
Picture found thanks to SueAndNotU. March 20, 2003
Gulf War Memories I was home alone. I ordered a pizza. We were not at war. The first bombs fell. The pizza came. I switched from CNN to MTV. They played, "Give Peace a Chance" and "What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love, and Understanding." **** The next day at school, they played the national anthem after the pledge of allegiance. My eyes started to well up. My homeroom/chemistry teacher caught this and I could tell from his stare that he was concerned but had no idea what to do. **** A few days into the war, I wore an Abercrombie & Fitch rugby. At the time, they had a series of shirts with flags of different nations, US, USSR, etc. The one I wore was Canadian--red sleeves, white middle, giant maple leaf covering my torso. A kid in one of my classes asked, Is that some sort of political statement? Like what? I asked. Don't you support our troops? Even after I explained that Canada was our ally, that they were with us there, he still thought I was some sort of commie rat bastard. March 19, 2003
Double-Plus Bad? So, according to this MSNBC piece, we're at "Orange-Plus." I had no idea there were plusses and minuses! Though, Orange Plus sounds like some sort of refreshing, artificially flavored beverage from the makers of Sierra Mist. Hey kids, looks like you've had a hard day beating the crap out of Muslim kids in the neighborhood. How about some ice-cold Orange Plus? March 18, 2003
Hills Like White Elephants I am skirting issues. I am dancing on eggshells. I am reticent. I have points, counterpoints, thoughts, feelings, and none of them matter. I settle for snarky, mutter it under my breath. I flip a gauntlet of birds at the television, and it don't mean a thing. My mother once said, Your father, you, your brother and sisters, all of you think that if you don't talk about it, it doesn't exist. And she's right. Though I'm not sure I'd trade that in for panic or martyrdom or dwelling on things that cannot change, because they have already happened. Just deal, I say. I am the ostrich king. I can't do anything. March 17, 2003
Justified 
Something Else for the Irish St. Patrick's Day, 1998 I’ve come to hate this holiday, Or what it has become: Another Hallmark moment, Another good luck charm. A day for bars to celebrate The wearing of the green, Another happy hour spent Another tab received. The men who stumble home from pubs— With clink of pints still rumbling In their ears—pause at the curb As though saluting something. Standing there with cocks in hand, All pissing in a row, The proudest sons of Ireland Hang on to what they know. The shamrock and the Celtic cross, The Guinness and the Harp, The dance, the song, linen and lace, Faint stain of famine’s mark, They laugh these off like limericks And settle for a pin That reads Kiss Me, I’m Irish To praise their heritage. March 14, 2003
Something for the Irish A few years ago, a group of my friends got together and took our boy Dan out for his birthday. Being poor college kids, we decided that we would take him to one of those fancy steakhouse chains where people eat peanuts and throw the shells on the floor. 'Cause we're classy like that. There were about eight of us at the table, and we all ordered the basic steak and potato dishes. It takes a long time, of course, to cook a piece of meat well. So we enjoyed some wine and each other's company. About forty-five minutes after we order, the waitress comes to the table and says, Sorry about the wait, apparently we're out of baked potatoes right now, so I'm going to bring out your steaks and then the potatoes will be out in about ten minutes. Our stomachs growling in the background, we all said that would be fine and waited to start our meal. She brought out the steaks and we tore into them like wild animals. I have to say, even though I have a peculiar distaste for foods touching on my plate, I missed the starchy goodness that a nice baked potato offers to balance out a juicy steak. Soon, our waitress reappears, I have some bad news. It seems that we don't have any baked potatoes and it will be another hour until more are ready. Would you like some sweet potatoes? Oh no she din't. Sweet potatoes? I explained to our server that, having waited tables, I understood this wasn't her fault at all, but could I please speak with a manager. I don't complain much, but when I do, I like to make sure that I show the utmost respect to the people to whom I'm speaking. And that I get my way. Manager Steve comes to the table. I share that it seems unbelievable that a "meat and potatoes" restaurant would run out of potatoes. Seems like poor planning to me, Steve. He apologizes and suggests that a new person in the kitchen is at fault. (Ain't it always that way?) He then offers to comp our meals, except for the alcohol. At this point, I felt a little embarrassed. I mean, I really just wanted to make sure that my voice was heard. I was upset because I really wanted a baked potato and needed to vent a wee bit for poor service. In fact, Manager Steve went a little overboard if you ask me, but oh well. After Manager Steve walks away, Dan leans over to me and says Wow, that whole famine thing really fucked your people up with potatoes. March 11, 2003
Anti-Gallic Dance Craze Sweeps the Nation SoBlo doesn't understand his neighbors to the south, it seems. Otherwise he'd get this story. We're eating Stouffer's™ Freedom bread pizzas. Don't forget the Freedom dressing on our salads, please. Or maybe a nice cup of Freedom onion soup. And perhaps some Freedom vanilla ice cream for desert. After dinner we walk our Freedom poodles. While not playing the Freedom horn in band, patriotic youth now partake in Freedom kissing. And the adventurous ones use Freedom ticklers. So, pardon my Freedom, but what the fuck is wrong with that? Also, we now know the real reason Frenchy was booted from American Idol. If only she'd changed her name to Freedomy, this all could have been avoided. Black Sheep of the Day: Psycho Teachers. Casting Easter approaches. When I was almost 16, the teen club at my church was asked to put on a passion play for Good Friday mass. Father Waverly asked us to meet one Saturday afternoon a few weeks before Lent began. At that first meeting, we were assigned our roles. An older boy with shaggy brown hair, blue eyes, and a constant peaceful expression on his face was tapped to play Jesus. The Virgin Mary was to be the girl who played lead in all our high school musicals, even when she was a freshman. One by one, Father Waverly named Simon Peter, Veronica, Pontius Pilate, Mary Magdalene, Roman soldiers. Then he looked at me. Chris, I want you to be Judas. I still wonder about that. Why had I been the one who came to mind? Maybe he thought my shyness would read as guilt. Or maybe it was just random. My name was on his list, Judas Iscariot needed to be cast: a simple connecting of the dots. We practiced each weekend. As we waited to be needed on stage, sitting in the pews in the back of the church, the other kids and I talked about school, the game the night before, parties that were happening that night. The chief Roman soldier, Tommy, was a popular senior. He played soccer, basketball, and baseball. He was in the National Honor Society and student government. Tall and broad-shouldered with a strong face, he was beautiful. He also was one of the nicest guys in the group and always spoke to me even though I was quiet. I guess you could say I had a crush on him, even if I would have denied it then. The weekend before Good Friday was our dress rehearsal. Costumes, props, everything would be just like the real thing. The other apostles wore white robes, but mine was a light gray. I guess Father Waverly wanted me to stand out among the twelve. In the back, behind the altar, we changed into our costumes. I tried not to look, but when Tommy pulled off his shirt and struggled to get the gold-painted plastic breastplate around his chest, my eyes were drawn to his torso. Muscular chest, strong shoulders, thick arms, more striking than I imagined. He asked me to help tie a red cape around his neck. There I was in the room where the priests went through the rituals of preparing for mass, blessing their garments as they put them on, and I was thinking of his arms. What would they feel like around me? How warm would his bare chest feel against my face? His lips were full and soft, and I wanted to kiss them. I wanted to be able to touch him. Ready, boys? Father Waverly asked, and with that, I was pulled from my fantasy. Back into church. Back into my role. We didn’t have lines--one of the girls from the group read from the gospel according to Mark as we acted out the scene--but I needed to remember my cues. I needed to focus. His betrayer had arranged a signal with them, saying, "The man I shall kiss is the one; arrest him and lead him away securely." He came and immediately went over to him and said, "Rabbi." And he kissed him. At this they laid hands on him and arrested him. At that moment, as they took Jesus away, I had to turn and run from the altar, bare feet hard against the cold stone of the floor. There, off stage, I caught my breath. My part was over. My character’s end implicit. Perhaps Father Waverly was right. In that moment, at that time, maybe there was no one better to betray with a kiss than someone betrayed by the thought of one. March 10, 2003
You Think You Know.... Sore-ey, Spike. Of course it should be "Whom Would You Kill," but that's beside the point. *sigh* Degrassi memories. Actually, I have fewer memories of the actual show than of making fun of it (and Canadian accents) years later with Jason. I miss Jason. I should go to New York sometime soon and see him. Or he should come to DC and see me. I feel bad for Jimbo who, while graciously driving the crew to Velvet, was hit by an suv full of faux urban hipsters from the suburbs. I think the word he used was "eurotrash." At least the damage wasn't extreme and none of us were hurt. Velvet always brings out my flirty side. And that's all I'll say about that. Hmmm. Any thoughts on that one? Black Sheep of the Day: The Mel Gibson clan. I've always gotten this homophobic asshole vibe from him. Apparently, bigotry runs in families. March 09, 2003
True Stories The other night I went to the KFC/Taco Bell combo on 14th Street before heading over to GURL's to watch Angel. While I'm there enjoying my value meal, a woman was thrown out for smoking crack in the bathroom. While we all know, thanks to Whitney, that crack is whack, I'm at a loss for something more ghetto than hitting the pipe in the ladies at the Colonel's. **** Another KFC true story from my buddy Paul--this one in NYC. A rather large woman was at the counter ordering food. Two buckets o' chicken, six sodas, and lots of sides. The cashier (on autopilot, no doubt) asks, "Is that for here or to go?" The woman gets indignant, "Do I look like I'm gonna eat all that here?" The cashier responds, "I don't know your business." **** From a grocery store in NYC: A woman (who apparently watched the Jane's Addiction video for "Been Caught Steeling" a little too much) was preparing to leave the store when a giant ham fell from her skirt. She looked down at it, then around at the people near her and blurted out, "Who threw that ham at me?" March 06, 2003
I'm Miss World 
Courtney Love's got nothin on me, damnit. Wow. Rookie of the Year? Does this mean I can call you Coach? March 05, 2003
Why don't we just childproof the whole fucking world then... This from the Melbourne Herald Sun gave me quite a chuckle. Especially this line, "A new Newspoll survey released by the institute showed 84 per cent of boys and 60 per cent of girls had been exposed to Internet pornography." "Been exposed to" or "sought out," I wonder. Black Sheep of the Day: Overzealous "security" guards. All in all you're just another dick in the mall. March 04, 2003
Those Crazy Co-Workers Someone I work with recently said the following to me, "Wow, I saw some pictures of you from the big event. You looked so grown-up in your suit." This means one or more of the following: a.) I need to stop wearing my beanie hat around the office...or at least remove the propeller during working hours. b.) The My Little Pony™ sleeping bag should be stored under my desk when it's not nap time. c.) In an attic somewhere, there's a picture of me growing more hideously deformed each day. d.) I work with too many women who like to talk about menopause in the lunchroom. Of course, this place is better than others where I have worked. For your enjoyment, I now present the craziest of my crazy co-worker (CCW) stories. A friend and I were leaving work one day. A CCW said to us, "Oh, I guess you like steps?" We responded with puzzled looks. "If you go that way there are seven more steps than if you take the side exit." This is the same woman who printed the email that was sent to the entire office asking us to save paper costs by not printing emails. And the same CCW who wrote notes to herself. Not just a quick jotting down of something not to forget it, mind you, but an actual formal note. With salutation, closing, and signature. One CCW was the big boss who moments after sending an email alerting us not to use office tools for personal use printed out an Excel spreadsheet of her daughter's Girl Scout Cookie orders. Good times, good times. Oh, and in case you missed it, vampires are very gay. Duh! Black Sheep of the Day: Religious Bigots. Personally, I don't think they should open with any kind of prayer. But if they insist, they shouldn't get too picky. Hospital Story Yesterday I got a call from my mother asking me to take her to the hospital. Always a great way to go into the afternoon. My mother has had a series of health problems over the last 65 years that could best be summed up as a mixture of not taking care of herself and bad luck. Her ankle had swollen three times its size and her primary care doc was worried that she may have had a blood clot. Meanwhile, her other foot recently had a blood blister that became infected and needed to be cleaned up just last week. Apparently she didn't understand that you can't stop taking antibiotics just because you feel like it. So, being the dutiful son that I am, I drove her to the hospital--the same one where she went for my birth close to thirty years ago. Modern medicine is a series of paperwork and waiting. My mother is not a patient woman. She also is on myriad medications and can't remember names to save her life. She actually insisted that Motrin was the medicine she took for her diabetes. The nurse tried to explain that this probably wasn't right, which just frustrated her even more. After they went over her vitals and got the details of why she was there, we went back to the waiting room. My mother kept looking at the clock. "Did we get here at 2:30? Unbelievable? It's almost 4:00. You should call your sister." After a few hours, a bed finally opened up in the ER. We waited there a little longer. Mom's impatience grew. While I understand the fear and anxiety she felt, I also know that the doctors and nurses are dealing with a lot. Mom's swollen foot needed attention, but was it more pressing than the gentleman with near kidney failure or the woman having a heart attack on either side of us? When the nurse wheeled my mother up for a doppler ultrasound (sort of a weather forecast for the circulatory system), I had nothing to do. No one to calm. No book or magazine to read. Only the sounds around me to fill my mind. Two doctors traded ER Viagra war stories. (One concerning a woman whose husband woke her complaining of chest pains. She was worried. Then, when he explained that he had taken Viagra, she was puzzled. They were home alone and she had been asleep for hours.) A plaid skirt-clad teenage volunteer fresh from Catholic school explained to a patient's wife that she didn't have the authority to give someone food but would check with the nurse. A resident droned on about her rotations to different hospitals in the area...how Holy Cross is more geriatrics and GW sees more HIV "since it's so close to Dupont Circle, I guess." The beeps of machines. The labored breathing. The pacing family members. My mind wanders fast. My empathy stretches. I didn't want to care about them, though I knew I couldn't help it unless I distracted myself. When my mother returned even more irritable, I was glad. At least if I was going to be there, I could do something. I could fulfill my role in our relationship--calming her down. And I didn't want to hear other people anymore. I didn't want to try and figure out their lives. Hours later they confirmed my mother was fine. Slightly elevated white blood cell count. Nothing to be too concerned about. Part of me felt guilty for getting out of there. That would be the Catholic part. March 03, 2003
Father Figure There is something about Martin Sheen that reminds me of my father. An interview with him on CNN this weekend cemented that, especially this exchange: GUTIERREZ: You know, you have been so public about your views on this war. Have you experienced any backlash as a result of that? SHEEN: Yes, tons of it. GUTIERREZ: Because people have equated being anti-war with being anti-American. SHEEN: Yeah, which is bullshit, frankly, you know. I love my country, enough to risk its wrath by bringing attention to the dark spots, the things that will really hurt us. When we don't have vision, we're blind. This could have spilled from my dad's lips verbatim. Like Sheen, he knows exactly when a word like bullshit is called for. Some people (like me) swear a little too easily, usurping the power of a well-placed curse word. My father uses them sparingly, and with intention. |
Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog: The Quirky History and Lost Art of Diagramming Sentences - Kitty Burns Florey  Sublimation Point - Jason Schneiderman 
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