LGBT for Obama

I'm supporting Obama because I'm tired of living in a world of fear that transcends my sexuality. If we can't have basic respect for each other in our community, how can we build a world of loving respect around the world? I have hope that Obama will bring about the change I can believe in.

Twittering

Suburban Oxymoron

Was in the suburbs tonight and came across a "townhome"? Here we are in a vast land, a void caught somewhere in between country and city. Developers have worked to created the illusion of country, with strip malls set far away from the street, hidden by dense landscape. Neighborhoods constructed and designed in a way so that neighbors hardly ever have to interact, each one confined to their own private oasis.

How does the suburban dweller navigate the terrain, when terrain is disguised as a forest? How do they connect to the services they need in order to survive?

Yet, amongst all this faux country, there are "townhomes." The illusion of a community defined by a building design. Can you have a townhome when there really is no town? Can you have a townhome when the developer is trying to mimic country? Oh, the contradictions of suburban life.

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Thoughts on Amusement

Not a Fun Time

• Waiting in while waiting in hot, humid weather while they un-wedge a man from the cars in front of us.
  
• The dirty feeling you get when standing in a crowded hallway, surrounded by hot, smelly people and what must be thousands wads of gum stuck to the walls, poles and rails around you.

Fun Time

• Flirting with a country boy dressed in his best red plaid, ready to come bursting out of the closet.
  
• Getting wet with your three favorite men at the end of a long, tiring day on the Deer Water Plunge.
  
• The tickle that overcomes you're twisted around in all sorts of ways.
  
• The people, from ladies of the evening eating breakfast to smokin' daddies wearing "Real Daddies Don't Need Instructions" t-shirts.

Just a Minor Flesh Wound

I sustained a minor flesh wound while helping Cathy Woolard and Carla Smith with their Grant Park Clean Up. I wasn’t paying much mind when I dropped that oak tree branch on my shapely calf, scuffing it with the bark of the tree.

Actually, I was paying mind, two those two hunky, shirtless recent Georgia Tech grads who were spreading mulch with a pitch fork. They were sweating, sinewy and could have easily been the stars of a newly released porno. Of course, the situation was not helped by the woman who had a fascination with dicks, and fantasized about having sex in the park – in the very spot we were working -- with her husband, who is the general manager for a Harley-Davidson retailer.

Despite the foolish injury, I was able to continue working, while subduing the obviousness of my pain. I think the hunky Georgia Tech boys found this appealing.

Eddie Bauer Convention?

You know when the men's restroom at the Woodruff Arts Center is overrun by women, or womyn rather, and you feel like you're walking through a Supercuts ad, then Ellen DeGeneres must be in town. There was more testosterone flowing around us than in the men's locker room at the gym -- well, at least my gym. But it was nothing the me and my men couldn't handle.

Roach Motel

Okay, so like there is this roach motel under the sidewalk next door, which is no big deal except when you're walking the dog after dark. They're hangin' out, smoking cigars and such, enjoying the warm summer nights. Usually eight or nine of them. And then they hear Long John coming and they scamper everywhere. Everywhere. Freaks me out.

It's A Mall World After All

It's Maxi season again. No, not that time of the month, but that time of the year when all shopping center professionals work to see if their marketing programs have enough Maxi moxie they can win the covited gold buffalo statue known as MAXI at the International Council of Shopping Centers Annual Marketing and Management Convention. It's the Academy Awards of Shopping Centers, with enough sequins to send Joan Rivers into a fashion fit. This year, it will be held in Minneapolis in late September. It is a show that makes you weep.

And so, with the final countdown to the entry deadline, we are working in a frenzied fever to help get these entries in tip-top shape. While the details are arduios and excrutiating, this is my favorite time of year. It's the time when you learn about the jazz trio dressed as Uncle Sam performing, or the Bethleham Market Place where a church recreates every December a Bethlaham market with costumed volunteers selling crafts next to a petting zoo in the JCPenney Court. This is, when you realize, it's a mall world after all...

Here's what I've been working on today: Kitsap Mall about 70 minutes north of Seattle hosted a series to provide a voice and forum to the community's arts programs. For several weeks, they had performances, crafts, art shows, and art auctions. Here are a few outtakes...


Blaine, Missouri, this is not. But Waiting For Guffman, this is. The costumes have the flair of a T.G.I. Fridays, and my favorite is the construction tape holding the crowd back from these superstars. Take note of the red hat - we see it from a different angle in the next shot.


Break a leg! Finish big! Check out the red hat now. Wow. And the row of guys in the back. You know they're popular with the girls.


You go, Gypsy girls. The rouge gives new meaning to Dusty Rose.


Some frustrated mama who had babies before she could get to Broadway is coaching this troupe where Cats meets The Jungle Book. Look at the boys on the bottom. Is it art, or is it child abuse?


Taking a break from bingo, these sassy seniors are doin' a number. No, those aren't bed pans in the background, they're prop boxes.

But seriously, let's be thankful for a moment. These people live in a community where the mall is probably the only place they could perform in public. And the mall is doing their part to bring a level of culture, style, sophistication and The GAP to towns that previously did not have the ability or resources to do so. We just won't talk about downtown main street.

Dan In 8 Months

When we first met Dan, he was virtually hairless. Then it's sprouted. At this pace, this is what I anticipate he'll look like in 8 months.

Overheard at the Red Chair Lounge

"I accidently taped Martha Stewart over my husband's new porno. Ooops. Gay man's nightmare."

The Breakup

Sexpot gazed out the window in his high-rise office suite, overlooking his kingdom. Or at least he thought it was his kingdom. Until that letter came, and he realized he wasn't in control as he had thought. He wasn't in control as he had led others to believe. He took a drag on his Marlboro Red and held it. His mind raced.

There was a knock at the door. He heard it open. "What's this crap?" Boss says, tossing the letter at Sexpot.

Sexpot turns his gaze from the view to Boss, taking a drag. "I have no idea," He blows smoke in Boss's face. "He just turned psycho on me."

Boss: "I thought you were sleeping with him."

Sexpot takes another drag on his cigarette: "You know how bitchy fags can be. Maybe I should have sent him flowers."

"Gimme that," Boss says, reaching to take a drag from Sexpot's cigarette. "Screw the flowers." He exhails. "We got our zoning. Not another dime on him or his friends."

Boss hands the cigarette back to Sexpot, and walks to the door. Sexpot looks to the horizon. Lost. Hurt. Wounded. Filled with self-doubt.

"Hey, kid," Boss says, turning back just before he walks through the door. Sexpot looks at him. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Sexpot hangs his head. "I'm sorry, too."

"Well," says Boss, gazing down, not willing to make eye contact, "I just hope it-- was good. While it lasted."

"It was," he mumbles breathlessly, fighting back a swell of emotion. "It was."

From The Boy With the Thorn in His Side

by Keith Fleming, on living with his Uncle, Edmund White.

He taught me little things about the English language that I've never forgotten. In general, he said, one should speak of this and not of that, of this book, this man, "because it's almost as thought the world is more real and closer to hand for rich or educated people. It's the poor and powerless who are always saying that book, that man, because they see these things as farther away, beyond their control." I learned about the "distinction that's often forgotten now" between eager and anxious (we're eager to see our lovers, anxious about seeing the dentist) as well as the one between jealous and envious (we're jealous of what we have but fear losing, envious of what we don't have but covet). And I learned that one should write okay, not OK; all right, not alright; normality, not normalcy.

Perspectives From G-Boy

I Got A Job

“I got a job,” he said. It was as if it was no big deal. After sleeping on the floor of our friend’s apartment for almost four months, having to borrow money, and depend on the kindness of sympathetic others to get by, the words “I got a job” rolled off his tongue with such simplicity, it was as if he’d dropped a huge turd in the toilet and I was supposed to shower him with praise. The two-year-old in him was looking for praise, although, the adult knew it wasn’t going to come from me.

That’s why he sprung it on me while I was driving down Piedmont Avenue. That’s how he always broke news he knew I wouldn’t like, in the car on a busy street. This way, we’d never have to make eye contact. He’d never have to look me in the eye, and his conscience would be off the hook, knowing he shared the dreaded news with me.

“Oh?” I said, knowing this job wasn’t good news. Good news came over the telephone, instantly. Good news interrupts meetings at work. Good news stops the world as we all revel in a moment of celebration. The world was not stopping on Piedmont Avenue as we were going to get our hair cut, something we did every other Friday afternoon.

“Yes, I’m going to start working at The Warehouse,” he said. “I’ll be working the door on weekend nights, and then, I get in free.”

My heart sank, and for me, my world came to a screeching halt. The cars moved around me, and the sounds of the city became ambient, like a radio filling the air with sounds you aren’t really mindful of; it was all just there. I’d just lost my greatest friend in the whole world. I’m not sure that he knew it yet, but I did. I didn’t loose him, the person. He’d always be around, and would be there from time-to-time in the months to come. But what I lost at that moment was his soul. His potential, his purpose, his sense of connection—it all vanished in a second.

He continued on about how excited he was to be working with the most creative people he’s ever know, next to me of course, and how I’d really like these people because they’re so sweet and caring, and they have all the qualities I appreciate in a person. Only, what he wasn’t recognizing is that those qualities only come out in a drug-induced haze. The Warehouse was trying to pass for a legitimate nightclub. It was legitimate, to those whose experience of emotions came in a pill or a powder or a liquid. To the rest of the world, however, it was the hottest spot in the underground circuit party scene, and one of the greatest public safety issues in the city.

While I had known he was flirting with this scene, now it was a permanent fixture in his life. My heart knew I could not compete with a world that was perpetually up, continuously happy, and filled with an everlasting love. Although, the happiness and love was not for another soul, it was for what came out of the body of another person, or even yourself, while under the influence of these supposedly harmless substances. And now, it was engrained in his work ethic. Work and play now one, artificially pushing out the sadness and pain.

That was the day I lost my best friend. On a sunny afternoon, in a Chevy Corsica, driving down Piedmont Avenue, on my way to get my hair cut.

"Guy, Move"

So I'm at the gym, and this guy on the verticle bench press starts waving at me. He's looking like he needed a spotter, so I went over to help spot him. "No, I don't need you to spot, I wanted you to get out of the way," he says.

17 People Killed On a Bus

I subscribe to CNN's Headline News E-Mail Update. I've stopped reading them, really. Seems of late, 17 people are killed on a bus bombing in Isreal. If it happens daily, is it really a headline?

The Story

Here is a list of stories I've had published in The Story.

My Latest Column

Published in The Story:Capturing Crime in an Album

Welcome, Welcome!

Welcome to the four new members of my web log. I got away from poster here in the past couple of months, but I'm going to get back into it. Hope you'll keep reading. XO...

Ahhh

It's hump day, and it's a rough day. Finding out the vacationing co-worker completed about 40% of her job only to discover of that 40%, more than 50% will need to be redone was not the most pleasant part of my day. But then, the co-worker is gone, and we're looking forward to a pleasant two weeks of quite.

Miracles For the Day

Figuring out core issues around respecting others and trust and honesty. That's a good thing.