An open letter about —s.

Do you know what it feels like to be an inadvertent public nuisance? How you are hated and loved for all the wrong reasons?

To be condemned by their god as a sinner or heathen or filthy animal, a beast, an unnatural being, a societal deviant, a piece of garbage destined to burn?

To be publicly humiliated by the people who are supposed to represent us? To be shamed and amended and treated as lesser than? Do you know what it feels like to have laws put in place that blatantly tell the rest of the world that you are not worth legislation?

To be looked as as a disappointment, to be tossed by your family because of a genetic mutation? To live as would any other and still, because of one difference, be an undiscussed member?

To be asked stupid questions and to hear ignorant comments? Do you know how it feels to hear the word FAGGOT as derogatory in everyday conversation?

Do you know what it feels like to be called a FAGGOT? I do.

Do you know how it feels to be marginalized and minstrulized? To be asked to go shopping or go to a Broadway show or dress up in women’s clothes or listen to show tunes and be asked “who is the woman in the relationship?” I don’t want to take you shopping, I don’t like Broadway or show tunes, I don’t have any desire to wear women’s clothing and impersonate dead divas, and I am not in a relationship with a woman, we are both men.

Don’t make assumptions. Do you know how it feels to have to constantly dissipate stereotypes? It’s very annoying.

Do you know what it’s like to have to fake a person you aren’t because you are afraid of what they will think of you or say?

Do you know how it feels to be treated as equal? To have children excited to go to your wedding? To have friends and some family see you as you? To have a job or a talent that showcases something other than that? I know these things too.

Do you ever realize that the land is changing? That people like us are coming out of the dark? Do you know that at some point in history the way you treat us is how you once treated your women? Blacks? Asians? One day it will be shameful for YOU to shame US and we will never have to have this conversation again.

Tags: fag, gay, human rights, rights

house hunters irrational.

My friend X and I are always complaining about our mutual obsession with shows about real estate (House Hunters & HH International, Property Virgins, Designed to Sell, etc. etc.).

We complain because the both of us (separately) live in modest abodes within our means, and watching all of these freakin’ bastards complaining about these huge houses having too little space drives us both absolutely insane!

Well we hate these shows yet continue to watch. Or maybe we love the shows, but hate the people.

These people who mostly seem to be our age, often much younger, buying their first home, dream homes, tossing money around like it’s nothing, hip young things with steady jobs, often handed a whole new living room set or a fancy budget from the show’s producers.

I get so annoyed when people on this show are my age or younger, but not so much when they are considerably older and just buying their first home. At least those people can unwittingly set a goal for their voyeur, and it seems to be a more realistic expectation.

The reason, I think, behind torturing ourselves with all of this jealousy and hatred is the fantasy of it all. We like to pretend that these people are us, we are in front of the cameras and not them, stressing out over whether the lowball offer we had just placed is going to be good enough for the seller. We like to think that these amazing houses are our own, and size up the space with our ophthalmological measuring tape, trying to figure out if our brand new furnishings will fit in the space, and which colors would look best below vaulted ceilings.

We like to see how other people live, peering into their lives as if we were visiting a friends house and silently judging their decor. The fun part is the judging, telling people off and saying out loud that their brown leather couch is just plain hideous against a pink wall (or any wall), and that hand-me-down lamp from Grandma should have been donated to Goodwill with the rest of her old stained clothing.

We can say these things out loud because these people, good or not, annoying of acceptable, are complete strangers presenting themselves to the public, showing off their brand spanking new possessions and rubbing in our faces the house that they now own, and we do not. Take that! I’ve got a key, and you’ve got a rental unit. Ha ha!

We still hang on to that ancient myth called the American Dream, a little thing introduced to us decades ago that has set the nearly impossible bar for 90-something percent of this country. It’s true that the dream is different for everyone, but who wouldn’t want a great family, a beautiful lawn or giant apartment in the city, a steady job that they absolutely love, a debt-free existence, and a dog that poops gold coins? I don’t think that’s a lot to ask for.

In the meantime, while waiting for the American dream fairy to come and plop a house key in my lap, I’m going to keep on bitching to X about that amazing view that was discarded because of a dinky little power line, or the in-ground pool that (heaven forbid) needed to be refinished, and then one day maybe we could bitch to each other about how our mortgage is too high, but the location is to die for.

Tags: abode, american dream, budget, goodwill, hgtv, home, house, house hunters, in-ground pool, jealousy, location, lowball, real estate, space

thirty.

In a few weeks I shall be thirty years old…

Thirty… thirty. Kind of rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? A nice round number. Three decades, to some a lifetime.

I dreaded the number for a spell between twenty-five and now, fearing… well… something.

Now that it’s right around a few weekend’s corners I am reconsidering the fear and coming to terms with the fact that a brand new chapter in my life’s saga is about to begin.

What was I afraid of in the first place? Gray hairs? (Already have some, and losing more year by year). Wrinkles? (Got a few of them already too). Fear of turning into my parents? (Pretty much have that down, to a certain extent).

Maybe it’s my persistent fear of change, although I realize that change can be good, and at this point it’s time to grow up a bit. Is it the fear of death, and the fact that more of my relatives and people I’ve met have left this earth in the past decade than in my entire life?

Is it the fear of failure, disappointment, regret that I’m most worried about? Afraid that all of my hard work and leading up-to will lead only to poverty, loneliness, despair? Is it because many of my friends and acquaintances have married and bore children when for me, at this time, the option is nonexistent? Will my lineage end with me, and will I completely disappoint my family?

What am I leaving behind? A name? A mark? A book or a print? Or will I be a nameless grave in a grassy sea of thousands, decomposing until I turn into another age’s fossil fuel?

But then turning around and looking at my former self, I tell him to shut his mouth, that thirty really isn’t that old, and I imagine anybody over the age rolling their eyes and telling me to keep quiet, that these are all things to consider on my death bed.

From twenty to now I’ve come to realize certain things, Becoming comfortable in my own skin, knowing that I am not invincible and that I’ve already dealt with a lot of the worst. I felt like I knew everything when I really knew nothing, and I know that it’s totally fine to change your mind when it comes to what you want to do next. I have no one to answer to but myself, but there is a difference between obedience and tact, a lesson hard learned.

(Hopefully) only a third of my life has completed, and the exit from that grand intermission is about to end.

The beginning is near, change is good, and thirty really isn’t (that) old.

 

Tags: age, balding, birthday, death, decomposing, fossil fuel, grave, gray hair, skin, thirty

playtime.

I went to the toy store to pick up a donation item for the Toys for Tots box, and being so close to Christmas of course the store was jam packed with people shopping for their little ones. I held my breath going in with full anticipation of madness, Cabbage Patch Kid style rampages, insane North Shore mothers ripping things out of other parent’s hands. Ruthless bargain hunters, Ebay addicts, last minute hunters, but to my surprise there was nothing like that whatsoever.

From past experiences, the dread of going to a toy store of all places a week before the holiday was warranted, almost always insanity, pure unbridled insanity, lines out the door, customers screaming at associates, a constant barrage of inquiries, impossibility of finding help, ravaged shelves and crap all over the floor.

The store was packed, but quiet. Every person was calm, smiling, picking up toys and playing with them themselves. I even found myself doing this, grinning at the thought of having all of these toys for myself to play with. It was like a casino in there, oxygen seemed to be pumped into the room to organize the mass of shoppers into happy complacent consumers. I picked up a bucket of dinosaurs for the bin and mentally flashed back to a time when a big bucket of dinosaurs would have made me the happiest kid in the world.

Times were easy then, no bills, no debt, no aging relatives and death, no mouths to feed, no worries other than a scraped knee from a bicycle joyride. It seemed that day that everyone was having the same moment, going back to the traditional toys and games that made them happy as children, and the thoughts of giving them to their own kids and imagining the joy on their faces that the parent or aunt or uncle or cousin had felt many years ago.

It seemed as if they were all shopping for themselves and not the kids, and I would not have been surprised if they had secretly bought these things for themselves instead.

In fact, I almost bought something for myself, and I wondered how many people there actually had.

Tags: bicycles, bucket, cabbage patch kids, christmas, dinosaurs, holiday, lines, play, toy store, toys, toys for tots

respect the bean.

Black, creamed, milked, sugared, sweetened or otherwise, coffee is a wonderful, wonderful thing.

It is an instant wake-up call on sleepy mornings, a warm blanket that coats the inside of ones mouth, throat, and stomach, comforting all frozen parts of the body and soul. It is liquid inspiration, allowing rational thought, and reminding us that the dreams from only minutes ago were only just a dream.

The mug is a clothless glove, warming hands that haven’t yet had circulated blood at the beginning of the day. The spoon is a small alarm clock, clinking away and stirring up thoughts and ideas and ponderous things that will eventually lead to great moments of the afternoon.

It is a re-energizer, a battery charger for AA’s that have worn themselves down since the morning, an afternoon delight, putting that skyrocket back in flight.

It’s on every corner and in every kitchen. It’s big business and it’s affordable, simple, easy to make and easy to order. It’s a simple pleasure and it makes a day, a small gift to yourself, and makes a great gift for others. It is a social excuse, hours of chatting and solid conversation coming out of two or more small mugs. A coffee house is a place to get away, to find creativity, to gain productivity, a sober alternative to a bar.

It creates endless jobs all over the world. It can be artistically manipulated, and it can be a part of certain religious ceremonies. It can reduce the risk of disease, and it can relieve a headache. It can be an excuse to get to know your neighbors, and it can console the broken hearted.

One little seed turns into one big tree. One big tree yields many small beans. Many small beans makes a world of difference, and for that we should all respect that little cup of coffee.

Tags: battery, bean, beans, black, broken heart, coffee, consolation, cream, grow, headache, inspiration, milk, sugar, tree, world

this is what you get.

If you’re nice to her, Karma can be something other than just a bitch.

She lies invisible, waiting for those deeds good or otherwise, and tallies them up. When the list gets to a point where one outweighs the other… that’s when she could dole out the punishment or reward.

Quid pro quo is her motto, this for that, tit for tat. Pay it forward if you will.

This time of year you see more of it, Lifetime Christmas movies and charities being shoved down your throat give many the inspiration to do something good for the betterment of humanity. There is nothing wrong with this, it’s actually a very good thing, but the problem is that these generous behaviors are seldom carried over after the rush of returns and psychotic reverse gift giving episodes at the mall come January.

It’s often about what the giver gets in return. “What do I get out of this generosity?” one might say. Sure I’ll give to a charity, but is there a consolation prize? A “gift” for your gift? Karma notices, but she doesn’t always comply.

There is nothing wrong with doing something nice, but it should never be forced. Recently to help someone close to my heart I gave this person sixty bucks with no expectation to get it back. I was happy to help, it was for something important, and I didn’t question it. Later that day at work was a party at the restaurant, drinking their faces off, one guy was overheard saying “faggot” over and over and it really bothered me. After they left, and I hope it was his, I found sixty dollars on the floor. I reported it, nobody claimed it, so my good deed was returned.

Coincidence? That’s a possibility. Karma? Maybe. My passed loved ones looking out for me? That’s another possibility too. Regardless of the reason, things like this happen more often than not after a good deed is done.

I’m not religious, but I have a firm belief that there is something much greater than this world that science will never be able to uncover and it is that belief that keeps me swimming upstream. There is enough negativity and bad news that happens by themselves without assistance from the pissed off and bored, and just saying hello to someone or holding a door or giving someone change they couldn’t find in their purse at the checkout line could make a big difference to someone’s day. They become less annoyed, you feel good about yourself, and the energy from that could spread to the next person and the next and so forth and without even blinking an eye a war (domestic or otherwise) is prevented… in theory.

The butterfly effect of kindness, so to speak, and it can be really effortless.

 

Tags: charity, christmas, generosity, giving, karma, kindness, pay it forward, quid pro quo, tit for tat

Fido, speak!

My little wiener dog Svedka loves to talk. She says, “Hey, gimme that!” when I hold her bone up in the air. She says, “Hey, get that vacuum cleaner away from my door!” when the superintendent rolls by with his Hoover. While sleeping she says, “Hrumph, stupid badger. I’m gonna get you!” She says, “Come on, take me out! I gotta go!” when she dances in circles in front of the door. When I come home she yells out, “Daddy! I’m so glad you’re home, I was so bored!” while shaking her toosh vigorously to keep up with her wagging pencil thin tail.

Like most of us, she talks to herself when nobody else is around. She gets bored, lonely, anxious, and when somebody walks by the door creaking the floor as they pass, Svedka only wants to say hello and have a brief bit of company.

One particular neighbor however has no interest in saying hello.

One day a note was slipped under the door when only Svedka was home. It said Your dog barks ALL DAY LONG in crudely scrawled letters. I said to her, “Do you bark all day long?” She looked at me with her sideways eyes and blinked while wagging her tail. This was news to me.

We asked the neighbors we knew if the barking was as irritating to them as it was to the one anonymous letter writer. “Not at all,” they said unanimously. “She barks on occasion, but nothing that annoying. If anything, the other neighbor’s dogs bark more often.”

We decided to ignore it, and let her talk all she wanted.

A week goes by and a letter from the realtors comes in the mail. We received neighbor complaints about excessive barking. You need to redeem the situation or get rid of the dog. Try leaving the television on at a low volume when you aren’t home. Getting rid of the dog was not an option, so we reluctantly agreed to take a bit of a controversial step to appease the not-so-dog-friendly neighbor.

The pet store was unusually packed due to the cartoonish Santa who sat in the center of the widest aisle waiting for the next dog or cat or ferret to come sit with him for a picture that the animal had no interest in taking. The dogs were talking loudly, over stimulated by the amounts of treats and toys and rawhides that sat low on the shelf like expensive sugary cereals at the supermarket, and it was nearly impossible to find a representative to point us in the right direction towards the locked up glass case that held the bark control devices.

“I don’t want to do this,” I said while looking through the options. There were remote controlled collars, ones that shocked (or static, as the package so sugar coatedly said), ones that sprayed a citronella mist into their faces, and ones that gave off a sonic noise that only the dog could hear. I had done my research and decided that the best option for my poor little pup was the one with the “static.” The girl opened the case and handed me that package as I proceeded to make a comment about the noise. I’m sure it was only my imagination, but I felt the salesgirls eyes boring into my cruel hands that held this device of torture.

I wanted to put it on myself to test it out first, but I was scared. She was at first excited to have a new collar, but that excitement quickly faded when a woof made her say, “What the hell? That kinda stung!”

I put it on the next day and when I came home she had pooped on the floor, the poop saying, “You’re a dick, and I am so not happy to see you right now.” She wagged her tail anyway, and I did not yell at her while I swiftly took care of the little log of spite.

The next day before work she ran away from me when I came at her with the collar in my hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I said as I hooked it on. I felt so guilty, her ears were back, her eyes wide and scared as she anticipated more awful feelings around her neck.

After that I kept “forgetting” to put it on, that awful look she gave me that said, “I’m not sure if you’re my favorite anymore,” was just too much to bear. “You can talk all you want,” I whispered into her folded back ear, and she nestled up next to me in her favorite spot on the couch.

She said, “I’m sorry for getting you in trouble,” to which I responded by rubbing her belly.

If Svedka were a human, I would be arrested for endangering a child. I would rather have put it on the neighbor’s neck to keep them from talking, and to shock their neck until they realized that a dog is a dog, and dogs like to speak.

Next time, perhaps, they would move into a building that doesn’t allow pets.

Tags: bark, bark collar, barking, citronella, collar, control, daschund, dog, neighbors, remote, shock collar, static, svedka, weiner dog