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Out and Proud

        You might have spotted me earlier this week on WTTW, Channel 11, during their pledge drive and the airing of Out and Proud. I was answering the telephone.
        I did feel a little bit used, though. They told us we could take our time, and that we only needed to answer the phone during the breaks; all other times and overflow calls would go to their call center in Utah. Call center? Why then even bother with people on the phone? It just felt sort of old school fundraising--this is the way we’ve always done it, so let’s just keep doing it over and over and over.
        Regardless, it was a pretty good time. Even with the bomb threats and the occasional threatening call.
        The most exciting call I received was when I looked right into the camera. The masculine voice on the phone says to me, “I think that’s you on my screen right now.”
        “Oh really?”
        “Yes, it is you. In the blue and white shirt.”
        “That would be me. I should have shaved this morning.”
        “I think it looks nice on you.”
        “Well thank you, sweetie. Can I get your phone number and your credit card?”

        If you saw me, how did I look? Is television thinning on me? I practiced for a week in front of the mirror making my best telephone face.
        Out and Proud airs again on Monday, June 9 at 8:00 pm and Sunday, June 15 at 6:00 pm.

Dog Gone Good Time

Jesse on the Brink has been blogging his experience at IML. He’s got a great sense of humor, and this story about a run-in with security is a hoot. Or I should say, a woof.

Leno Apologizes

        Following up on an earlier post with my gayest look, it seems that Jay Leno has apologized for his failed attempt at humor when he asked guest Ryan Phillippe to give the camera his “gayest look.”
        There is a great article posted on Edge that summarizes the drama that unfolded, and points to the site that Melissa McEwan and Jeff Whitty created to give gays, lesbians, and straights everywhere to give Jay Leno their gayest look.
        GLAAD (Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation) is taking credit for the apology, but they waited a week before speaking out -- long after the blogosphere hopped on the story. Whitty calls out GLAAD as well.

Jesus and Gay Orgies

        An etching that depicts Jesus Christ and his disciples having a gay orgy during the biblical Last Supper?
        Well, of course. Get 12 hot guys in a room together, feed them only bread and wine, offer it up with statements like, “This is my body, eat it,” and what do you think’s going to happen.
        Wow. Why didn’t we see anything like that at the Vatican Museum?

Whitty Interview on the Advocate

        Earlier this week, there was a great interview in the Advocate, featuring Jeff Whitty, famous Cat Club Member. He’s adapting Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City in to a musical.

Shelter Solid Cover for Gay Romance

        Shelter is the next gay movie hit. We went to go see it last night at the Music Box Theatre. The movie follows the struggles of a young man, coming to terms with his sexual identity as he balances the responsibilities in his life -- caring for his nephew in the absence of his looser sister -- with his dreams of art school. The predictable nature of the romance plot is cancelled out by smart dialogue, great acting, and beautiful boys. There is a lot of skin in this movie, but its far from gratuitous, surfing being a major theme throughout the movie.
        Shelter is in movies theaters now, as well as on the here! television network.

My Gayest Look, Ever

        My childhood friend Jeff Whitty is after Jay Leno again. Two years ago, he called Mr. Leno on his inappropriate and homophobic jokes. He wrote an open letter to Mr. Leno. CNN caught wind of it, and produced a story about it. Mr. Leno called Jeff to chat about it. Jeff gave him the benefit of the doubt.
        Until last week when Mr. Leno was at it again, asking Ryan Phillippe to look into the camera and give viewers his gayest look. Jeff is on the rampage now, and is co-creator in this new site, which features the gayest look of several gay men and lesbian women. Jeff, thanks for staying mad. Here’s my gayest look, ever.

Is This For Real?

Chicken Stipe

        Michael Stipe came out last week. Lead singer of R.E.M. Michael stipe. Says he wants to be a role model and inspiration to young children.
        Where were you, Michael Stipe, in the ‘80s, when all we had was Boy George? Why weren’t you a role model and an inspiration then, when it would have really mattered. When you could have shown that being gay doesn’t mean you have to wear makeup and color your hair? When it was important to show the world that being gay doesn’t mean you have AIDS.
        Why bother coming out now, Michael Stipe. Does your music no longer hold its own? Are you looking for a media bump? Cover stories in all the gay press to help sell a new album?
        I hope the gay media sees right through this, as this is not news. You and your sexuality are not news, Michael Stipe. There are many gay performers who have been true to themselves for years. People who have already forged the path you are now telling everyone you’re going to travel down. You’re not a leader, but a follower.
        So thank you, Michael Stipe, for doing us all a favor. Come out now, eleven years after Ellen. A decade after Will and Grace. Come out now so that you can be an inspiration and a role model? I wanted to shred ever R.E.M. cassette tape I have.

Oklahoma Sally, One Last Time

        Oklahoma Representative Sally Kern has been flamed on a number of blogs for her hateful words against the GLBT community, saying that we’re worse than terrorist. She, herself, is a terrorist with the hateful rhetoric she so willingly will spout out from her mouth.
        It’s hard to move beyond her vicious attacks to arrive at a place of pity for Sally and the pathetic life she must live in order for her to spout off in as casual a manner as smoking a cigarette after a really good f**k. But a high school student who lost his mother in the bombing of the Oklahoma Federal Building was able to find a place of pity and compassionately put Sally in her place. Check it out.

Oklahoma Sally Update

        Seems like Hateful Oklahoma Sally has raised a gay son. An allegedly bathroom-cruising gay son. Right now, reading this just makes me angry. But hopefully, I’ll soon reach a place of pity. How soulless she must be to allow the bigotry of religion override motherly love.
        It is people like Sally Kern who should not be allowed to raise children. How can we protect society from people like Sally?

People Can Be So Hateful

Drop Sally an e-mail at sallykern@okhouse.gov and let her know what you think.

Gays Reason for Lack of World Peace

        Happy New Year, people. Nothing like starting the year by blaming us gays for the lack of world peace, as the Pope did in his first public address for 2008. And I thought inarticulate beauty queens were responsible for the glut of peace.
        As usual, it came in the name of faith and support of traditional family values. The irony is that gay families are filled with just as much love as straight families, and it could be argued in some cases more inclusive love exists than in the straight family.
        It’s exhausting, year after year, to have religious leaders dividing humanity by attacking gays and lesbians. To call out our perceived faults before acknowledging their own. How is it that denigrating segments of people lead to world peace? When someone explains that to me, then maybe I’ll have a little faith in religion.

Know Your Hate

        A recent article in The Stentor, the College’s student newspaper, highlighted the story of a PRIDE poster hanging in the cafeteria that was defaced with Bible verses. The verses tagged on the poster were Luke 13:3 and Romans 6:23.
        So the PRIDE kids got together and talked about it. They looked up the Bible verses to see what they said, and then determined the tagging represented such blatant ignorance, they decided to just leave the poster hanging as is.
        The story ends with the quote from one of the gay kids, “The Bible verses that the vandals referenced aren’t even the traditional gay-bashing Bible verses. Those are in Leviticus.”

Roman Romance

        When I read this story about a gay couple being arrested for kissing at Rome’s Coliseum, I have to call into question what sort of gays find the Coliseum romantic enough to inspire a kiss? It’s not like the structure is a monument to love, or romance. True, it’s awesome, but in the way a stealth bomber flying overhead at an air show inspires gaping jaws, not in the way the sun slowly slips below the horizon, painting the sky the color of romance.
        The Italian Gay and Lesbian Civil Rights group, Archigay, has, rightfully, cried Homophobia. While the police deny the accusation, brought on by removing the two gay men and holding them for several hours before presenting them in court, they can’t point to an incident where a man and a women have been treated in an equal manner for a similar offense.
        It has me wondering -- what is it about those Roman monuments, a millennium or two old, which inspire a swapping of spit? Earlier this month, we were in Rome -- along with every other tourist on the planet. It was so crowded, it was impossible to snap a photo of any historic site without a couple rolling around into the frame. Just take a look:


The Pantheon--



Fontara di Trevi--



And my personal favorite, Piazza di Spanga, the Spanish Steps.

        Yes, that's tongue. They are bumping tongue in a plain daylight. [Stomach turn.] Where are the Polizia when you need them?

A Different Type of Dirty Bomb

        The Pentagon confirmed last week that in the mid-90s, they had considered developing a “gay bomb.” The Air Force’s Wright Laboratory in Dayton, Ohio (of course, Ohio), had proposed developing an aphrodisiac so strong, it would incapacitate the enemy troops by making them more interested in making love with each other, not war.
        The implication that an army of men could turn gay under the power of a pheromone or some other chemical alteration was enough to set off gay community leaders, who called the idea offensive and ridiculous. Offensive because the idea suggests gay men and lesbian women are incapable of serving the military to help it meet its objectives. Ridiculous because there is so much research that shows orientation is genetic and something that cannot be changed.
        The irony of it all -- the Pentagon, of all organizations, working to promote homosexuality. And in Ohio! We, ourselves, find the prospect, well, exciting. To think of a hyper-hetero organization, dressed up in their military fatigues -- what if the bomb accidentally misfired and infected our own troops? Just imagine the primal carnage. Our nation's disputes would suddenly be fought around the table at dinner parties. The weapons of mass destruction would be sharp wit. Oh, the travesty. Sign us up.

Sinking Ship of Hope

        During a recent dining out for life event, I met a volunteer who convinced me to make a donation on top of the contribution made through the cost of dinner. He floated a picture of his boat in front of me, saying that one person from the restaurant would be winning the raffle prize of a trip on his sailboat.
        You may recall that my mid-life crisis is going to manifest itself in a boat. So when he presented this opportunity, it occurred to me that I’d never been so close to being a first mate. I battened down that hatch and turned up the heat. By the end of the evening, Captain John was batting his eyelashes at me, indicating that he was pretty sure I could find a way to get about his boat. I was dining with my friend Mark, who knew Captain John and could vouch he was not offering a three hour one-way tour.
        “Get my number from Mark,” Captain John, “and we’ll set a time when you can go out on the boat.”
        “I might look good here, in this light, but you should see me in natural light on the water.”
        “I’d love that,” he said. I gave him my card, and suggested he use it. The card has a unique shape and is pretty. He adored it.
        “I don’t have a card, but Mark has my number. We can all go out on the boat together.”
        Weeks have passed and Mark informs me he has torn apart his house looking for Captain John’s number. His e-mail. An article of clothing left behind. Something that would provide a lead on a trail that is quickly growing cold. Mark said he did find a number, but it rings and never goes to voicemail. No voicemail?
        The only thing that I can make of a phone number that rings into an abyss is that it’s his ship-to-shore phone, and he's not there to answer.  Oh dear, I do hope he hasn't fallen overboard.  That happened in Australia recently.  I’m now wondering if I should contact the organization I spent $5,000 with and suggest I misunderstood -- I thought I was buying a first-class ticket on a certain volunteer Captain John's yacht, and ask that they either provide me with his contact information or refund the money?  I will maintain faith that he will pick up that phone, or send me an e-mail, for to think that access to a boat was so close within my grasp, but now appears to be a sinking hope is simply too much to bear.  To taste the lips of love, and long for another bite.
        Now I wonder, what sort of social skills does Captain John have to not take my calling card and immediately correspond the next day, indicating what a sheer joy it was to enjoy the pleasure of my company, albeit for a brief, fluttering moment?  Could the U.S. Postal Service misplaced his correspondence?  Or was I so awestruck by his beauty, or the size of his boat, that my capacity to charm completely shut down?  Maybe his only interest was the access to my debit card he hoped to gain in the name of charity?  Oh, now I'm beginning to feel like a cheep hussy, if this is what a cheep hussy feels like.
        Oh well, if he doesn't come sailing back into my life, the universe should inform him I'm not auditioning new friends, anyway.  Word.

Provincetown International Film Festival

OMG! The Provincetown International Film Festival is having a sing-along with XANADU during their film festival one week in June. And, it looks like the following week, all the boys are going to be at the Gay Blogger Summit II in San Francisco.
Sadly, I won’t be making any of the above.

Man Test

I just took the Experitron Guarantee, the measure of my experience as a man. Below is my score. Click the icon to take the test yourself.

"I Can't Even Shoot Straight" Published

        The Lake Forest Public Library cancelled their literary competition shortly after I sent them my story, "I Can't Even Shoot Straight." Contest judges claim they didn't receive enough entries. Coincidence? You decide.
        Thankfully, the good (looking) people at Swell decided this story was just swell, and they have published it for all the world to see. So you can read my story of shooting a handgun at the Lake Forest Citizen's Police Academy in the latest issue of Swell, the e-zine of Chicago-based New Town Writers. I represent the single male voice in an issue dominated by female writers.
        "Our lone male voice proudly and humorously claims the territory that comes attached to his sexual identity," said editor Kevin Standifer.

Blue Tea Comes Green or Black

        “By the way,” the man in his early-twenties said from behind the counter of the tea shop, “our tea of the day is blueberry tea. You can have that black or green.”
        “But wouldn’t blueberry tea be blue?” I asked.
        His hair was jelled up into a point like a cockatoo. He cocked his head and looked at me, an awkward expression across his face as if he were a bird who had just heard a word he doesn’t understand. There was only one other customer at the Urban Tea Lounge, and she had fallen asleep, one hand still gripping a tea cup, her head resting in the open pages of the text book which she was studying. What little activity had been buzzing in the joint came to a stop.
        “That’s a joke, right?” a second server asked.
        I giggled.
        “Oh, okay,” the second server said as Cockatoo boy resumed skipping around the dining area. “That went so far over his head, I thought I might be wrong, too.”
        “It’s hard being pretty,” I suggested.
        “Oh, I know. And smart, too,” Cockatoo boy said. He circled his face with his hand. “Like I got the whole package going on here.”

Whistle While You Clean

        I think I was hit on by a Streets and Sanitation worker when I walked the dogs yesterday. He was a big, muscley man in a safety orange vest, and construction dungarees. He had a dark, cropped haircut, and a smile that said he was glad to be scrubbing graffiti. He sprayed chemical from a bottle onto a newspaper vending rack and wiped in a circular motion with a rag.
        “Hey there,” he said with a seductive voice as he wiped graffiti. He didn’t watch what he was doing, rather he made eye contact with me.
        I turned around, thinking maybe he knew someone behind me.
        “Beautiful morning isn’t it?” he said.
        It was obvious he was speaking to me.
        “Yes, it is,” I said.
        “That’s a beautiful wiener dog you have there.” He looked at me, not the dogs.
        “Oh, thanks.” The dogs’ noses lead them around the sidewalk.
        I walked along the sidewalk. He didn’t look at the dogs, rather, he looked at me. He looked me up and down. And smiled.
        “Umm, the street,” I said. “It’s looking good.”
        His smile grew wider, as if he’d just won the jackpot. He didn’t say a word. Just smiled and stared as he scrubbed.

Progressive Boys

        The boys down the hall invited us to their St. Patrick’s Day party. I am not sure what they were more impressed with – that we, two neighbors, showed up after receiving the invitation, or that we, two gay guys, showed up after receiving the invitation. One of the boys and a cousin of his came to our Loftwarmen event a few weeks ago. We felt they were nice enough to show up at our party, so it was the least we could do.
        Most of the people there were somehow cousins to other guests or the hosts.
        “Oh, I’m a cousin,” someone would clarify.
        “I’m marrying a cousin.” It was necessary to chart the lineage just to keep up with the conversation.
        They had an impressive display of alcohol, which quickly disappeared. And as the alcohol dried up, and blood alcohol levels rose, it became a competition in progressivity.
        “Whoa! I’m progressive,” one of the cousins would say as the camera flashed and my lips unexpectedly graced the side of his cheek, “but not that progressive.”

You Look Damn Hot

        “I have to say, you look damn hot,” said Jackie, my friend. “We never get to see you like this because you’re always coming from work.
        No one’s ever said I look damn hot before, and the first time I hear this, it comes from the mouth of a black lesbian.
        Dip me in honey.
        We had our first party in the new pad this past weekend, and you know it's a party when someone eats the cat food. Although, I must say it really is our fault. More specifically, my fault. I should have known that our guests at this first event would not know all the ins-and-outs of our household. People eat from pottery, ceramic, porcelain, and glass. Occasionally crystal. Animals eat from polished stainless steel.
        Years ago we discovered that if we fed the cat like we feed the dogs, just once a day, then he would binge eat, which led to obesity. He's already fairly big-boned with our house weighing in with more pounds in cat than in dog. So we started leaving the cat food out all the time for him to just graze whenever. It is like the Old Country Buffet, only with just one Nutro OceanFish flavor.
        Of course, leaving the food out, we had to set it up so that Long John wouldn't help himself to the grazing. Once while balancing the checkbook, I realized we were spending an exponentially extraordinary amount on pet food. Upon closer examination, in one month's time, our pet food expense tripled. They were already eating the top-self feed, so it's not like Tony decided they needed something better all of a sudden -- they couldn't get anything better.
        When I almost pulled out my back picking up Long John I put two and two together and got fifteen pounds, figuring out that it was he who was grazing so continuously, after learning how to jump onto an end table, and then up on the table where Sheleata's food was. Quite the acrobatics for a dog with just 4-inch legs.
        There are not many places where food is totally inaccessible to a dog, save for the kitchen counter. So we have placed the cat's food on the kitchen counter in his polished stainless steel bowl. He drinks directly from the fountain, and not from a bowl, so there is no water dish sitting next to the food that might serve as a sign.
        With no sign, the gentleman grazed through the cat food before making a funny face, and well before Tony could scoop up the bowl to place it in a more secure location. Nothing a stiff drink couldn't fix.
        Lesson learned: "OceanFish-flavored Sheleata Kanatuna Appetizer" is how we will now label the Sheleata Kanatuna's dish.        Even with cat food appetizers, turn out was great, with over 70 people coming to help break in the loft. After having had so many parties in Atlanta, there were some differences between North and South I can note.
• More wine came in the door here in Chicago, with people bringing very little beer. While we do have some beer left over in the fridge, we think we can invite the hot straight boys who live down the hall to come and help finish off the supply in one evening. Unless they’re lightweights. But that’s fine, too.
• Greater awareness of drinking and driving. In Atlanta, we would hear, “You’re fine to drive, aren’t you?” A passive-aggressive encouragement. “He said he was fine,” one could say, resolving any guilt should something happen. Here, people just drink less and leave when they’ve had their limit.
• People RSVP. Not that they didn’t RSVP, but we had more unannounced arrivals and more no-shows without cancellation in Atlanta. The two always balanced each other out. We had over seventy people RSVP, the most we’ve ever had RSVP for any party, and we also had fewer no-shows, with people calling, even if at the last minute, to express regret if something had come up.
• Resistance to the nametags. But once people had them on, they came to understand their functionality and were glad to have them. “Was it Harry or Henry?” – Not so much a problem.
        And people say our country’s regional differences are beginning to fade away. I tell you, it’s in the flavor of a cocktail.

Stomach in my Throat

        “That’s Dan Savage right there,” I said to Tony.
        “Where?”
        “Right there. Talking to the guy with the long hair.” I nodded toward the edge of the crowd standing in the street gutter in front of the Chicago Theatre. A small crowd of This American Life groupies was forming, waiting for the house to open for a live recording.
        “Isn’t he in the show?” Tony asked.
        “Yes.”
        “What’s he doing standing in front of the theatre talking to people waiting to get in?”
        “I don’t know. Why don’t you go talk to him?” My partner, Tony, has a bit of a crush on Dan Savage.
        “That’s not him,” he insisted.
        “Yes, it is.”
        “Well then why don’t you go talk to him.”
        “Because the minute I saw him, my stomach moved to my throat and I can barely breath.” See, the thing I told you about the crush. It’s really me. I have the crush. Not only is he beautiful, he’s brilliant. He can work a crowd with words like a big-breasted blonde in a sports bar.
        While Tony went over to say hello, I had to mingle in the crowd. A woman held a sign, “I need tickets to This American Life – It’s my birthday.” I had overheard she was being choosy. The thought that she could have to gall to refuse the offer of a ticket because the seat wasn’t good enough thrilled me, that she might be holding out for a front row seat.
        “Where do you want tickets?” I asked.
        “I just need two tickets. Where are your seats?”
        “I don’t actually have any tickets.”
        “Well I’m looking for seats,” she said with a tone that implied I couldn’t interpret the sign she was holding.
        “Where do you want to sit?”
        “Anywhere. I just need two seats together. I’m here with my husband and I’d like to sit with him. It’s not really my birthday, but I thought that might help.”
        “Oh, well I just heard in the crowd that you were being choosy over your seats, and thought that you were holding out for a front row seat.”
        She moved away like I was the crazy one.
        Tony tugged on my coat.
        “He’s leaving town tomorrow for Toronto,” Tony said.
        “Who?”
        “Dan Savage. I asked him if he got my e-mail inviting him to our housewarming.”
        “You invited him?” The thought of having Dan Savage in my home made my knees shake.
        “Yeah. I figured he’d be in town. Maybe he’d stay through the weekend. I figured it couldn’t hurt. He met a group of Chicago podcasters that night, so he wasn’t sure of the context of the e-mail. He said he thought we might be a couple who’d want to tie him up and have their way with him. I told him no, that we were having a bunch of people over for a housewarming, and thought if he was in town, he might like to come.”
        “You should speak for yourself.”

Could of. Would of. Should of.

        Recently, I set up a MySpace account. Just to see what the hype is all about. A friend of mine suggested it’s where all the kids are these days, and he’s surprised by all the people from his past who are finding him. I just got a message from a fellow high school swimmer. She was asking if I'm in touch with any other fellow swimmers from my high school days. She pointed out that one, a Marco Voglino, is now wanted by the U.S. Marshalls.
        Good stuff, I say. We all should have seen this coming, since I’m pretty certain he trafficked almost anything illicit. And he wore eye makeup. He looked significantly older than 17, which meant he was able to buy cigarettes and porn without question.
        My mother, would have preferred that I have nothing to do with him, but it was hard since he did swim on the team and he showed up at practice with an impressive regularity, although his heart was never really into swimming.
        One night before a December swim meet, which was more social than real competition, he invited all the guys on the team over for a sleep-over. Kathy wanted to say no, but couldn't really allow me to be the only one on the team not there.
        "His parents are going to be there, right?" she said it with a tone that indicated this was an expectation that would have consequences if not met.
        "Yes, Mom," I said, knowing that no one had actually ever met his parents, and if anyone was to con a person out of their suburban home, it would be Marco.
        If only the internet had existed back then, or the Kinsey Report gone into greater detail, I might have been more savvy as a dozen teenagers watched a porno flicker on the TV. It was my first porno, and I sat there, my heart beating so hard, I could feel it pulsate between my legs. I could have picked up on the subtle difference between, "Damn, her tits are bouncing everywhere," and "Jesus, that's a huge dick."
        While I made sure I ended up one of six guys in a double bed that night, I could have been more strategic in who I landed next to. Although, now that I think about it, maybe I landed in the correct spot, but again misinterpreted.
        Sigh.
        Could of. Would of. Should of.

Sitting on the Fence

        I am sitting on the fence, hooked on a most compelling read right now. “Sitting on the Fence” is a new blog I’ve stumbled upon, written by a twenty-something boy living in small-town New Brunswick, Canada. After reading just one recent post, I was so compelled to know the back-story, I clicked pages back to July 2005 when “Clark Kent” opens the blog just as he’s purchased his first home and laments on the joys and frustrations of being a homeowner. As he vents about the time it takes to complete household projects, he touches on his underlying fear: that his relationship with his best friend, Brad, has not been the same since they had a night of drunken, rough sex.
        He finds himself renovating his new home to accommodate roommates – a couple with a young child, and he’s a bit frustrated Brad has not decided to room with him. It’s a move that allows for ongoing sexual tension, and a secret code to develop between the two, allowing them to signal each other for an overnight escape to Brad’s cabin just twenty minutes away from town.
        Brad’s girlfriend is viciously jealous of Clark Kent, who is certain Brad’s girlfriend knows what’s going on between them. At times, Clark Kent is just a pawn as Brad goes about his self-pleasing ways. When Brad’s girlfriend goes to her parents’ for Christmas, Brad is able to spend the holiday with Clark Kent, even attending church with his family. Brad’s actions, as reported by Clark, exhibit a nonchalant, deep affection and bold intimacy towards Brad (although generally after a few beers), kissing him deeply after commingling their cum-stained clothes in Brad’s hamper, with a wish to sleep tight.<