Twittering

Designs For Chunks

Very Funny!

Tick-Tock

Lying in bed wondering when the sleep will come. But I'm not tired. My mind races as I ask for strength and guidance. So much to do, so little time.

The Truth About Men

When I was in third grade, my neighbor, Becky, explained to me that our teenage neighbor, Rod, would walk around the house naked, stroking his penis when his parents were not around. I found the thought intriguing and exhilarating. She found it disgusting, being subjected to this while hanging out with Rod’s sister. In fact, she said that he would often be as bold to throw his naked body up against her, when she was there.

This was too good to be true. “Really?” I said. “Maybe I should go hang out with you and Rod some time.”

Apparently Becky’s Mother never told her, like my Mother did, if she were to make a face, it would get stuck on her, because Becky’s face was now stuck. My statement resonated through her expression in a way that has stuck with me to this day. In all her buck-toothed beauty, Becky revealed to me at that moment a new truth. A truth where it was not okay for a boy to admire the masculine beauty of an older man.

I had said something terribly wrong, and there was nothing I could do to undo it.

I'm Not A Fag

One day my Mother wanted to illustrate to me how much my brother cared for me. I must have been in sixth or seventh grade. It was probably seventh grade, because I remember a certain distance from my brother which provided a certain sense of relief. It was relief that I didn’t hear about him and his problems, which was so much the routine.

She said that all the kids in his class said I was a fag. And, because he cared for me, he told them I wasn’t a fag. A sissy-boy. A queer. He stood up for me, and that should mean a lot to me.

I knew I was a fag. And I so wanted to tell her at that moment that I was a fag. And I wanted to explain that I had thought you grow up, find a person you love and love them. And that, simply, was the purpose in life. I remember wondering if he would still stick up for me if he knew I was a fag. Would he say, “Yeah, that’s right, and he can do track lighting better than any of you.” Or would he slink away in shame.

Smear The Queer

I always thought it sort of odd growing up in elementary school when the guys would want to play Smear The Queer. Why would they want to Smear The Queer? The boys would chase each other around the field, and then tackle the person with the ball. The irony of the Queer with the ball usually being the most athletic, beautiful boy was perplexing.

By society’s standards, he was the straightest of them all. And by the rules of the game, he was the Queerest of them all. Competition and sport was an exhibition of masculine heterosexuality. The girls would watch and faun over the aggressive. The boys were exuberant at the thought of taking down the most athletic of all; a rather Queer gesture by the very nature.

Not for me. I might dirty my corduroys. Instead, I sat by, making daisy chains in the field, as I watched wondering if John would ever play Smear The Queer with just me.

Hairflips and Disco as a Social Movement

Immediately after college was not a pretty time. It was the summer of 1993, and the economy was at the lowest point in the history of my lifetime. It was the lowest point for a recent college graduate, too. There was no money for me. I was working as a shopping mall mascot for $5.25 an hour, and that was all I could get. There were no jobs. I was getting interviews - even final interviews. Every time, though, it came down to me and two internal candidates: one with a masters degree and two years experience; the other an internal cadidate. There were no friends. Going to a small liberal arts college pulling people from all over the country, I had never anticipated they would scatter back across the country.

I struggled for survival. While I constantly wondered when I'd eat next, my struggles were far more rewarding than packing up my boxes and heading home. To get by, I made false deposits into ATM Machines so I'd have enough money for food until pay day. And even then, I was living off popcorn and ramen noodles. I would connect with middle-aged gay men, who had a thing for cute boys, and I would captivate their attention, getting invited to dinner parties of elite circles. I'd find myself sitting amongst amazing, successful men - a gossip columnist for the Sun-Times, doctors, professors, independent businessmen - and I would captivate them with my hair flips and conversation. One evening in particular, a gentleman who was responsible for all of Norte Dame's fortunes leaned over the table, and said while I gnawed on my Filet Mignon, "So now what would you like to talk about?"

"Disco as a social movement," I said. The table errupted. It never occured to me proclaiming their coming of age as a social movement would date them in a fashion no one individual wanted to take ownership of. I continued, which fascinated them more. As I elaborated, the side convesations stopped. Soon, all eyes were on me as I explained the death of disco was its outing to mainstream America by John Travolta and the 1977 hit movie Saturday Night Fever. Prior to that, it had only existed in the gay underground clubs, where it had its birth in the late 1960s. The men were astounded as I articulated the social sentiments which existed during their coming of age. They clearly had never looked back with this perspective.

That night, I was a success, despite all odds against me. These men argued over who was going to pick up the tab for my dinner. There was a bit of a dispute as to who's date I was, if I was a date at all. "Boys, boys, boys," I said, hushing them into flattery. "We all enjoyed each other's company. Why don't you take the total and divide by ten minus me. This way, you all can contribute towards this fine meal I just shared with you." I went home with a full tummy, everyone's leftovers, and they even gave me enough for cab fare home.

Robbed Pleasures

One of my favorite moments in life is pure ecstasy at that moment when you climb into bed after the Cleaning Bear has come to your house, and magically expoused your domain of dirt and stagnant odors, and in its place is a fresh, clean scent. And you pull back the sheets of your exquisitely made bed, climb under the sheets, and envelope yourself in freshness. It happens every other Wednesday. Except for today.

Today, I pulled back the comforter. Wait a minute. It was wet. It was heavy, like a wet Pamper and not smelling so fresh. Oh. My. God! Someone thinks my bed is a flower garden made for her marking. And marking the size of an extra-large Papa John’s Pizza. And it’s soaked through all the way – stopped, just short of the mattress by the mattress pad. Oh. My. God!

The wrath of the Devil unleashed in me. Yes, Junk Yard Dog is back, and the pissing match has begun. Junk Yard Dog and Long John ran for cover. They couldn’t get away fast enough. They knew exactly what they had done, and the consequences about to unfold. Sure it was fun and vindictive for Dakota to piss in the bed while Long John was walked. Long John’s not about to stand down as Man-of-the-House, so he’s got to sprinkle everywhere.

There are some tails tucked away pretty tightly right now.

Queer Hockey

Went to an Atlanta Thrashers Hockey Game with a bunch of queers tonight. It was grand. Within two minutes after puck-off in the first third, the Thrashers scored a point, and there was a little brawl. So we knew it was going to be good. The second third was all about the violence as the other team caught up with the Thrashers. And the last third was lame because they had pulled out all the audience entertainment tricks by that point.

While the Emergency Queer Reserve had done my up all straight hockey jock like, (it felt natural to slap ass, belch and fart), it was, unfortunately, not the Who's Who of the Gay Community event we were hoping for. Seems the Thrashers took on a stance of divide and concur - dilution is the solution - the fags were fanned out across the stadium. Without critical mass, it was hard to transform Phillips Arena into the latest Stand & Model (S&M) Bar.

Then, immediately following the game, they consolidated all us queers for a queer hockey league game. Apparently, there is at least one (maybe two) gay teams that play at the Icebox. They were the L.Kings (Lesbian Kings?) and the Cyclones. It was hard to tell - both looked co-ed, and most of the players were of a bi-gendrical sort. So maybe they both were gay teams. Anyway, it was quite the family affair. All the lesbians brought their test tube babies, and gay men brought their cocktails.

March Madness

Somehow, I’m finding myself coordinating and promoting the first-ever, Sarrett Creative March Madness Office Pool. I don’t know a thing about it. In fact, until Lee explained it to me a week or two ago, I thought it was a really lame party theme. But come to find out, it’s one of the greatest office pool opportunities ever. There are all kinds of software, and all kinds of tools to help you manage your office pool.

It is a bit of a challenge, me not following sports, or understanding the theories behind a pool. This whole March Madness thing has got me thinking, though. Is there software out there t hat will help you coordinate a pool for a beauty pageant? A pool for who will show up last for a dinner party? A pool for whom will show up in the worst possible outfit at the next public event? Madness, I say.

March Madness

Somehow, I’m finding myself coordinating and promoting the first-ever, Sarrett Creative March Madness Office Pool. I don’t know a thing about it. In fact, until Lee explained it to me a week or two ago, I thought it was a really lame party theme. But come to find out, it’s one of the greatest office pool opportunities ever. There are all kinds of software, and all kinds of tools to help you manage your office pool.

It’s a bit of a challenge, not knowing much about sports like basketball, or understanding the theories behind a pool. This whole March Madness thing has got me thinking, though. Is there software out there t hat will help you coordinate a pool for a beauty pageant? A pool for who will show up last for a dinner party? A pool for whom will show up in the worst possible outfit at the next public event? Madness, I say.

A Spectacular Birthday

The day ended with our best friends at Fogo de Chao, a Brazilian-inspired restaurant modified for the upscale American diner. An Old Country Buffet, only tastier. The unique steakhouse-style food is indigenous to Southern Brazil. Fabulous meat dishes seasoned to perfection and slow roasted over an open flame are presented and carved right at your table to Brazilian Cowboys (Gaucho).

Of course, in Southern Brazil, the Cowboys would gather while the meal cooked, and discuss their adventures on the plains. We, in a similar spirit, gathered around a table, tossed work aside, and discussed our adventures of the day. It couldn’t have been a more perfect birthday.

And Then He Blew

Laughing from our "Happy Birthday" Tape, I failed to blow out the one candle on my cake. Does that mean the next year is bad luck?

Where Are My Men?

It's the middle of the day on my birthday and my men--with the exception of Tony--have yet to wish me a happy birthday. I can hardly work, I'm wrecked with such anticipation. Next year, I might just have to take my birthday off.

I'm 31 Years Old

And I have the most amazing zit on my upper lip, not to mention my back breaking out like a group on convicts.

It's My Birthday

And I'm up at six o'clock for a binge drinking meeting.

Scrumpin'

He picked up the boy from the bar, returned home, and they were scrumpin' 'till the sun rose over the horizon.