It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt

Gender Fucked...

6 November 2005

I got a phone call from a friend of mine today that was worried about a mutual friend of ours. This friend was experiencing some major chest pains but was worried about having to deal with coming out as trans in the emergency room. Let me repeat that line...my friend almost did not seek medical treatment for chest pains because he was worried about having to come out as transgender to the medical staff at the hospital.  That is the bullshit world that we are living in. I wish I could say that I didn't understand his reluctance but I can...trans folks that have sought emegency medical treatment have been flat out refused treatment, been further harmed (mentally and/or physically), and gone through what any non-trans person would never contemplate having to endure during an emergency situation (or any situation....period).

This is going to be a short blog entry today because basically I'm pissed....so let me make this clear....GENDER IDENTITY IS NOT DETERMINED BY HAVING A D!CK or a PU$$Y...GENDER IDENTITY IS NOT DETERMINED BY CHROMOSOMES. YOUR IDEA OF GENDER MEANS NOTHING OUTSIDE OF YOUR GENDER IDENTITY. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO JUDGE MY GENDER EXPRESSION OR THE GENDER EXPRESSION OF ANYONE ELSE. GENDER IS AN INDIVIDUAL CONSTRUCTION THAT MUST BE RESPECTED AND CELEBRATED. CHICKS WITH DICKS, MEN WITH CLITS, and EVERY GENDER EXPRESSION IN BETWEEN IS PART OF THE BEAUTY OF THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE. 

No one else has to die because they have had the courage to live their gender truth. It is our responsibility to make sure that no one we love or care about ever has to worry again about the reprecussions of seeking medical attention because of their gender identity. Support the rights of transgender and genderqueer individuals. Period.

I'd Rather Be Sleeping...

I woke up this morning with my system in complete overload. It's been a long time since I've gotten to this point, but basically...and this is without an ounce of exaggeration...it has taken everything I've got to get myself out of bed this morning.  The thought that I had to wake up, pack, drop off the rental car, and go to the airport has me almost to the point of a mental break down.  Frankly...I just want to sleep.

This week has been a little bit too much for this Virgoan control freak. It started with emotions on high...and I've been running at top speed ever since. In the normal course of events...I would simply lock myself in my apartment and sleep all weekend to recover...this weekend I don't have that option. I have to put on some semblance of a smiley face, play nice with the TSA folks at the Albuqueruque Sun Port, and then manage to stay awake long enough not to insult my friends that are all coming over for a visit once I get back to Minneapolis. Basically...I have absolutely no energy reserves and the next ten days are going to require maximum energy out put at times. I'm not sure where I am going to find the gumption and get up and go to get it all done...but I don't have much of a choice about the whole thing at this point. Tickets have been purchased...reservations have been made...expectations have been set...chins up boobs out it's show time girls! I just hope I brought the right bra for the occassion.

So wish me luck my friends...I promise to blog when I can...until next time...this is Brandon saying if I could mainline caffeine...I'd move into Starbucks with an IV drip attachment ready to go.

Friendster Saved from Near Destruction...

Please note...I found my blogs saved in a folder deep within my blog account...Friendster has made a serious party foul...and if these blogs had vanished forever...Friendster's days would have been numbered....this I vow. If you are a regular reader of It Ain't Truth...please click on God Is In the Music...which is today's actual entry....thanks for reading...and maybe the fleas of 10,000 camels nest in the pubic hair of Friendsters' CEO .

LIVID....

Please note...several of my blog entries (all of them between 10/29 and today) have vanished from my account. I have rarely been as angry as I currently am. I have contacted Friendster to find out what is going on. If they are not able to retreive the blog entries...I will be changing blog servers.

God Is In The Music...

4 November 2005

I am a wee bit annoyed this morning. I had a blog written and all ready to go...a tyrade against an evil woman (Gigi's neighbor) that has caused me one too many headaches since I arrived here in ABQ...but alas...the gods spoke...and I logged into my blog account only to find that my saved blog...and a couple of others...have been lost. LOST! Do the good people at Friendster have any idea of the creativity and passion I put into my blogs...let alone the extra sauce I'd invested in bad-mouthing the Witch of Sante Fe Avenue? Do they even care? Probably not. Bastards!

This morning on the way to work...after being sorely disappointed that the Einstein Brothers on Central was closed for remodeling (I have breakfast there almost every day...black forest ham and swiss on green chile with a plain chocolate bagel and large iced chair....delicious). So I had to look for alternative sustenance venues this morning. In the short clip  between the Flying Star and my orifice...I mean...office...I had one of my Music Moments.

Growing up I went to a small black Southern Baptist church with a choir that was out of this world. Pretty early on I associated God with music...and have always and ever since found closeness to the universe through all kinds of music. Every now and again...like this morning...the sun will be shining just right...and a song will be playing that for just a moment seems to swell up and take over my senses...and in that moment...everything...no matter what is really going on in the world...is allright. It's one of those greater than I am reminders that in the end...everything is going to be ok. No matter how broke I get...no matter how happy/sad/heartbroken/angry I feel...no matter how much I think that I can't go on...or no matter how on top of the world I might think I am...that there is something greater than I am out there that will catch me if I fall...that loves me for who I am and not for what I have or haven't done...and for me that power speaks through music.

And when I say music...I mean music...not limited to one genre or type. For example...this morning I was listening to some vocal house music as I drove along...sometimes the spirit speaks through classical (seems particular to Bheetoven's 9th)...gospel...country...hip-hop...it doesn't matter...if the music is right...if it has the message that my spirit needs to hear...then on that day...if the universe wills it...the music will speak to me with the voice of God.

I am not a  particularly religious person...I was baptized and confirmed in two different Christian denominations (Southern Baptist and Swedish Lutheran)...I enjoy going to Catholic mass now and again because I'm fond of elaborate ceremonies. And I basically stopped going to church on any regular schedule the day I was confirmed...in the 10th grade. But it is rare that I find or experience God in churches (as a matter of fact, I fnd it the rare church that actually has any real connection to God...churches today have become havens for tearing down the spirit instead of building it up...dividing communities instead of bringing them together...if I were God...and planning on returning to earth in the near future...the first folks to feel my wrath would be those that have turned Churches into tabernacles of hate).  As a matter of fact, I have never experienced God in those places unless there has been music...and not the get out your hymnals and everyone turn to page 145 and try and sing the words all together kind of music...but only  when there has been a choir that opens up, starts singing and snatches your spirit straight up out of your body and throws it into the air types of choirs.

I remember in high school, the Metropolitan Community and Technical College Gospel Choir performed at our high school...it was about 49 black folks and one skinny white girl (which was completely amusing to our high school which was predominately black). That is until the white girl opened her mouth to sing...the entire auditorium was shocked into silence...and then...at least three or four kids my age straight up caught the spirit (and ya'll know that probably the least cool thing one can do in high school would be to have a public display of any sort of religious experience...period...that's pretty much a guarantee that you won't be asked to the Prom...Homecoming...or graduation). And I had to quick bang my leg on the chair in front of me, so I had a reason for the tears that were streaming down my face. I'm a sap. Shut up.

So music. Yeah. I doubt that there is anything more significant that I have come across that has influenced my spiritual experience.  Sermons don't do it for me. Neither do self-help books, reciting the rosary, sleeping naked in a bed of virgins, or self-flagellation.  But Aretha Franklin singing A Bridge Over Troubled Waters is enough to make this boy have an astral projection moment. I have no idea where today will end up...but I know that where it has begun is with one of those Music Moments...a moment where the spirit of being gave me a little poke...just to say...hey kid...everything really is allright...I'm still here...and I always will be.

Good Conversation and Good Lovin'...

3 November 2005

This morning...as I struggled to breathe while recalling dreams of grad school rescuing monkeys and Erik dressed in leather from head to toe teaching a college course on S/M with today's topic being light bondage (Erik and I rented Kinsey last night and then topped the evening off talking about bonobos and the Book of Revelations)...I realized that what started as a random hook up from Gay.com...at least for me...has turned into a full on crush situation.

I'm just tickled to death to be really crushing on someone (I know the term crush is way junior high school...but since I was a non-descript androgynous tranny in junior high...I didn't really get too much of a chance to experience the crush factor).  Last night...after several failed attempts to get together over the last week or so...my nanotechnologist/metals artist pal and I had some decent Thai food (unfortunately Angry Tranny...the ever present waitress at Thai Orchid...was not our server...but I think I saw her smile last night...she must have just poisoned someone's Pad Woon Sen)...and then retired to his little house (I like to imagine myself in a little Mayan village in the Yucatan mountains when I'm there) to watch Kinsey (side note...not only was Kinsey a total bisexual jungle lovin' sex freak...but...his penis was more than foot long...and...unfortunately...his wife had an undersized vaginal opening...but not for long...why oh why wasn't I around in the 50s). Anyway...as we were watching the movie...Erik and I snuggled together...giggled a little...laughed a lot...and it felt really dang nice. It's been a while since I've run into someone that is progressive with an excellent political analysis...has a drive to see real change happen in the world...isn't willing to do work that doesn't have some meaning and some potential to create change...is passionate...and is damn good between the sheets...plus...and this is a big one...he is one of those folks that when you fall asleep together...at nearly all times moves so that at least some part of his body is in contact with yours. Swoon swoon swoon.

Now...Erik is a Scorpio...and for those of you that have dealt with Scorpios...you know that they are sexy beyond belief (my friend Monie from her eyes to her laugh drips with sexual power)...almost NEVER express their personal feelings for just about anything or anyone verbally (you've go to watch 'em...they are the kind of people that will do the cutest things in the world...squeeze your hand while they are holding it...hold you just a little bit tighter so that you know they are there...find out what you like to eat and conviently have it there without you asking for it...but if you are looking to have them articulate how they are feeling about you...you best have some patience...and I'm a Virgo...we are the oppposite...we tell it like it is and tell 'em how we feel and sometimes that can make the Scorpio feel a little nervous)...and Scorpios are fiercly loyal...but tend to view emotional loyalty and sexual loyalty as two different things...emotional fidelity being sacrosanct...sexual fidelty being an anachronism (to many Scorpios sex and love are never ever the same thing...while to many Virgos there is much more cross over...for example...I can have a fuck buddy only as long as that is complete and whole extent of our relationship...once we start hanging out and developing a friendship...either the passion to date is there...or friendship it is). And Scorpios tend to be a bit on the blunt side and at times hold on a little bit too much to the literal and end up missing a joke now and again (ummm...I know an armillary sphere is not a compass...duh!).  And Virgos...well...if we can't control it...we don't like it. Not one bit. Just look at my hair.

Now I have no idea where Erik stands along the traditional Scorpio spectrum (surprise surprise)...but I can tell you that the only way he could be more attractive is if we were having sex, talking, and he was doing some of his metal work while culturing mice brain cells in the lab.  When he showed me the paper of which he was co-author and that was published this month...he could have mounted me right there like a Zebra on the Sarangeti. Nerds are the SEXIEST type of human beings that have ever evolved. It is rare that I come across a document or a subject that I just flat out have nearly no capacity to understand...as I read the opening paragraph of his paper last night...I thought to myself...I don't know what the hell this says...but my erection could drill a hole in diamonds right now.

When I got to the office this morning, I sent Mr. Leve an email (low on the fluff...so as not to arouse his Scorpiotic disdain for anything resembling a feeling)...and basically said...hey...I likes ya...you wanna see where this can head. We'll see what he says in response...until then...I'm going to sit in my office...think of him in his labratory goggles...and touch myself just a little.

Blogging is Good Medecine...

3 November 2005

So many of you may be asking yourselves...does this person do anything besides sit in front of his computer and spew his business out into cyberspace...and the answer to that question is...yes...I also eat on occassion...use the bathroom when necessary...and change my clothes and shower at least once a day. Sometimes I even put some product in my hair...but only if I am taking new pictures for my blog photo album.

I used to be very skeptical about the entire blog phenomenon. Now and again I would read my friend Lonnie's Blog (YouYams...where have you gone)...but I really thought blogging was the province of computer geeks that needed something to do in between video game tournaments and building sexbots. But I took the brave step of challenging my own personal biases and decided to give this blogging thing a whirl. It may have been one of the best decisions I've made in recent memory.

I love to write...words make complete sense to me...the ways in which they fit together are something I don't have to much think about...and I am able to express myself...particulary the things I am feeling...through writing in a way that I find hard to communicate verbally. Some folks that know me find this to be a little amusing. When I am dealing with external factors...politics...doing trainings...performances...lectures....whatever...my ability to write and my ability to speak are pretty much on par. When I have to communicate to someone about the state of my personal feelings...particularly during periods when I am struggling...I always end up minimzing what is really going on...and end up having made the other person feel better but without really being able to articulate my need and that I may need help getting to a better place.

When I write it is as if all the barriers/facades/masks/walls/force shields I have built up around myself to keep others out and to keep my feelings locked away evaporate.  There is a direct line between the pen and the page or the keyboard and the screen to my emotional core...and I am able to externalize the feelings that I would normally bottle up, stuff down, and put in hazmat containers...until the radioactive solution started to leak...which inevitably leads to the creation of flesh eating zombies. And really...who is gonna want to hang out with the guy that unleashed the living dead on the neighborhood.  Add to all that the fact that I pretty much...with some few exceptions...could give a shit about my business being out in the world...and you've got the perfect potential blogging addict.  This is the best venue I have yet found to let me share with you all what I am feeling...which lets me work through it without summoning the unholy...and you all get to sit and giggle and wonder when the men with the white jacket are going to come and bring me to a new home complete with rubber sheets and foam walls.  See...everyone get's something. This is about give and take really.

For example...the last three or four days have been pretty much suck ass (that's French for....suck ass).  I quite literally have never been in this particular situation...let me explain. In the past...when something has come up that has not fallen into the two acceptable emotion categories (happy/pissed)...I have either minimized the feelings...ignored the feelings...or beat 'em down. Then I took my little trip to the Pride Spa (28 days in-patient/75 half-way house...yeah theraepy)...and they went and told me that not only was I forbidden from calling for the hordes of the damned...but that I also had to actually deal with what I was feeling when I was feeling it. But wait...it gets worse...it always gets worse...they then proceeded to rip apart all of my barriers...through therapy and daily aerobics...they pushed...proded...chipped...hammered...and wrecking balled their way through the mechanisms I had developed to keep myself from feeling much beyond the surface. And believe me...when I walked in there...fresh from seven days in the looney bin...I had recovered enough that some folks didn't actually believe I was an addict...at most they thought maybe I drank too much on occassions...couldn't say no to that last martini at the corporate cocktail party. That is all except my friend Munkis (who I thought was totally fried and that he was only good for med school case studies...but it turned out that not only was he recovering from a three year daily meth binge...but that he also had one of the worst cases of adult ADHD every witnessed...so...I guess he still is a med student case study)...and Nurse Caroline.

Now...all the nurses at Pride were far out. Betty the Axe (old...wrinkled...and merciless)...Dawn (dressed to kill...sweet as pie...and completely ruthless)...Mary (I almost bitch slapped her one night...enough said)...Char (sometimes I thought maybe she was stealing the patients meds...but she was just quirky)...and Caroline aka Nurse Beauty.

Caroline was the only Nurse of Color on staff. She had about 48 different wigs and all of them matched a particular outfit. She is a big black woman that drives a big black truck and looked at me one day and said...honey...I'm worried about you...you are one of those ones that could walk right through here just a smiling and a saying the right things...and then go on out that door without ever having gotten near the reasons that really brought you here...she said...baby...addiction is a symptom and not the problem. The entire experience was very Yoda like...especially the part where she slowly vanished in a shower of gold gitter...leaving behind only the smell of cocoa butter and her wig from the night before.

And she was right...I could have gotten out of there with a smile and a wink and none but Caroline and God would have known any differently. But instead I let them tear me into little bitty pieces and then start putting me back together again (I still think they shouldn't have had any pieces left over...but the counseling staff said that happens all the time).  The upside is that I now experience pretty much the full range of human emotions...and I may have developed entirely new ones. The downside is that now I have to feel things. I don't like it.

I don't like having to actually sit feeling my body go slightly nuts trying to figure out what to do with what it is feeling...trying to practice those stupid exercises I learned from Kathy Vader (her booming practice in Edina will be the first to be destroyed by the zombies...just in case she ever reads this...I love you Kathy!)...exercises like...when you are feeling an emotion...sit and feel where it shows up in your body physiologically...I'd rather sit on a tack studded dildo dipped in battery acid...then at least I'd know exactly what was causing the particular feeling and I'd probably have a good clue as to how to go about stoppin g the pain.  Feelings suck. I am totally voting for assimilation by the Borg when they show up. I'm hoping that will happen by lunch.

But the point of all this is...one of the best ways I've discovered of how to manage what I am going through is to share it with ya'll...those sympathetic folks in the world that take that one special moment to read my blog...and make notes to share with your children on what not to do with their lives (really...I'm not that self-depricating...but the shit is funny isn't it). Basically blogging is completely selfish. I do this so that I can feel better...or if I can't make it all the way to better at least more able to do the work to figure out whatever it is that needs figuring out. I hope that the folks reading this are able to take something away from it...even if it is only an occasional chuckle (I love to make folks laugh...except when I can't figure out if they are laughing at me or with me...then I start lashing out randomly with my tack studded dildo).

I don't mind sharing what other folks may think is too personal to share. I grew up in Minnesota where it is basically illegal to have a bad day. There is a culture there...rooted in its Scandinavian heritage...of pretending that everything is all right. If something goes wrong...only those that must know about it should know about it.  (There is a special exception for people over 65...they are allowed to talk freely about the mostly recently failed/broken/replaced part of their anatomy). It must be dealt with swiftly and never spoken of again. And there is never any reason to be angry, sad, depressed, or most of the rest of the emotions that regular humans experience. In many families you are expected to know that you are loved without every actually hearing the words (I had to have a little talk with Grandma about this one...to which she responded by showing me pictures of her second hip replacement surgery). You may grow up never having seen your parents hold hands or kiss (anything more than a light peck on the cheek is indecent and should be left to Saturday nights conjugal duties). It may be that the six months of sub-zero weather has frozen our ability to emote appropriately. But whatever the case...I grew up with all the skills to keep myself from feeling pretty much anything and without the ability to let others know when I needed help. Today...I say with pride...fuck that. If by sharing my personal craziness I can keep someone else from retreating so deeply into themselves that it takes a 15,000 dollar trip to the hospital plus a three and a half month stay in a rehabilitation center to be able come out again, then I consider the revelation of my adventures in crazy to be well done.

To the Woman at 712 Santa Fe SE in Albuquerque...

So for the most part I am a pretty laid back guy. I don't lose my temper very often...and I rarely yell. Excluding siblings...I have perhaps been in three or four physical altercations in my life (add in sibling fights...and I'm a veteran)...and exactly two since I left for college in 1995. I was never suspended...I had detention exactly once in the 8th grade for allegedly calling my friend Thi a bitch (I never said it...I was thinking it...but I didn't say it). And I have yet to get even as much as a parking ticket (although I've had two accidents since moving to Albuquerque...my bad). So, I'm a relatively well composed sort of guy that gets along with most folks. So...when someone does something needlessly evil...I tend to get a little riled up...generally that person is either treated to a verbal breakdown in front of a large group of people that general causes them to hate me and plot my death (Sorry Nelly)...or I send a written communication that never says anything overtly insulting but leaves the target feeling a helpless rage that has no outlet as they have nothing specific to point to as its cause (that's because it's their own assinine nature...plus...I'm sneaky).

Well...the day after I arrived in Albuquerque...The Kaiser (my newly purchased 1991 VW Passat) decided that he was tired...and wouldn't move anymore. So...Gigi's beaux Larry helped me push the car the three blocks to Gigi's house. I parked The Kaiser across the street from her house in front of an empty lot. I had no idea at the time that I was committing a great sin. A few days after parking The Kaiser in front of the mentioned small patch of wild desert in the middle of the city...I found a note on my car from the woman that owned the house next to the empty lot. The note suggested that if I were staying at 709 Santa Fe that I should park my car in front of 709. The note...of course...was unsigned. But...according to Gigi...the occupant of 712 Santa Fe is a large, unhappy, Mexican (HIspanic) Republican that spends most of her time wishing she were someone else and hating all her neighbors for being content with who they are...and according to Gigi's Mom...she's been that way since she was a little girl. Now...being an adult with a grown child of her own...she has determined to rule her small patch of desert with an iron fist and to rail against any that would impinge on what she views as her right and proper domain. So...I kindly left her a note on the reverse side of the note which she left for me which kindly informed her that this was a public street, that would soon be moving from Gigi's house into my own apartment, and that if she had any questions or concerns she should feel free to call me at the number provided...she never called...and I thought the matter was over...how naive I was...and how little I knew of the depths of her small-minded evil ways.

About a week after moving out of Gigi's pad...I got a call from La Gigi telling me that an orange sticker was attached to the window of my car. I scooted over to her house to find that the car had been tagged as abandoned, and I was given seven days to move the car or have it impounded at my expense. At that moment...a great darkness was born in my soul. But...after Gigi convinced me that returning to the woman's house in the middle of the night and leaving a dog poop souflee on her front porch was probably counter-productive...I found it in my heart to forgive her (it was the Christian thing to do...). Larry and I pushed the car into Gigi's carport. And I had little thought of the incident between that day towards the end of September and today. Today...just as I was laying down to take a nap...I received a phone call from the previous owner of the vehicle stating that she'd received a letter from the Albuquerque Police Department saying that I had abandoned the car and failed to register it under my name (please note that the same day I received this call I recieved the new car title in the mail...thank you). I called Ms. Coffee back and filled her in on the history withe occupant of 712 Santa Fe...which calmed her nerves...I hung up the phone and began plotting my revenge.

In the past I would have written a letter to the woman and sent it without really thinking of the impact or implications (Gigi still has to live across the street from the Bionic B!tch). Today I decided that I needed to be a bigger person (believe me...a HARD feat)...than the occupant of 712 Santa Fe...so instead of sending her the letter...I thought I would express my feelings here...with the letter I would have sent to her if I weren't such a sweet person.

Large Unhappy Occupant

712 Santa Fe Avenue SE

Albuquerque, NM 87109

Dear MegaStankHo:

I received a phone call today from the previous owner of my car saying that she'd received a notice from the Albuquerque Police Department that her car had been abandoned outside of your house. Now, I completely understand that you struggle with extremely low self-esteem and gross obesity...but...I was not aware that you were also legally blind or suffered occassional schizoid delusions. As you are well aware my car was neither abandoned nor parked in front of your home.

I left you a note indicating that if you had any problems with my car being parked near your house that you should contact me directly. From what I understand from your neighbors  you do actually speak English fairly well and finally learned to read thanks to the people at Hooked-on-Phonics...adult illiteracy is a severe problem in the United States, and I am proud of you for taking control of your world and learning to read. I also understand that you may be carrying around a large amount of displaced anger in addition to your cellulite...due to the fact that your daughter is widely recognized as the Slut of the Barrio. I hear you even had her try and seduce the cable man to get free cable...but that he actually is discriminating in who and what he puts in his mouth.

Your nieghbors also mentioned that you are Republican (ummm...you are also people of color...here's a new word for you...sound it out...oxymoron)..and frankly...I'm surprised that you haven't been court ordered into a mental institution...permanently. Well...I'm very sad to hear that the way you pass your days is concoting new and more diabolical ways to prove that you did indeed puree your heart and eat it with some ritz crackers (when you are bored I recommend spending some time reflecting on how you've accomplished nothing with your life...there...there...don't you feel better?). In the end, your lack of judgement came shining through because  you chose the wrong faggot to fuck with. In the end...the car is safe...you are an ugly example of a human being...and I quite thoroughly enjoyed watching free cable during my stay across the street.

With the deepest affection,

Sincerely,

Brandon

Now...you see...if I were to mail this letter to her then I would be participating in a vicious cylce that could only ending up hurting someones feelings. Instead...I am practicing the art of creative expression...and sharing this letter with you. If you are ever in Albuquerque, you should stop 712 and see for yourself what happens when one person allows their unhappiness to rot their spirit. Perhaps she should start a blog...get all that evil out into the open air...and leave the innocent alone.

A Poem for the Scoobies...

2 November 2005

Well...actually...this isn't a poem...but I do write poetry...and some of it is even good! From time to time I've even managed to get it published...and I've even been invited to read it out loud...in front of people...incarcerated people...but people none the less! Just kidding...just kidding...well...not really...I am a poet...but...well...nevermind...this attempt at humor was killed in a manner that I thought only Sara Leedom could achieve. Sara baby...it happens to the best of us...just to you more often than the rest of us combined.

Actually...today's words are a tribute to my favorite cartoon (Scooby Doo) and some of my favorite people in the world...The Scooby Gang...aka...Team Superflick...aka the Nerds from the Northside...oh yes...I'm talking about those fondue eatin'...summer trip takin'...half-assed canoeing..."I've Never" playing...titans of low key entertainment...and bravers of brain damage causing amusement parks...drum roll please...PETER...DEBBIE (sometimes referred to as PETERDEBBIE since their offical merger a little over a year ago during an outdoor nuptial ceremony in which a hornet threatened to get this Scooby kicked right out of the Gang)...CATHY aka HNIC...DAVID...DAWN aka SNOW BEAST...KRISTINA aka X-TINA...BRANDON aka The Prettiest aka Sweet B (that's me!)....HAYLEY...JESUS aka CHEWY (tehehehe)...and with guest appearances by JESSIE...ERIC...ERIK...YOGI...and RICKY aka Dawn's Future Husband. There is actually absolutely no real relationship between Scooby Doo the cartoon and our Scooby Gang...but that's our name...and I loved Scooby Doo...so that's all the justification we need. So th ere.

Anyway...this group of individuals is pretty much down right amazing...each member of the Gang has some pretty remarkable talents...we've got a budding zoologist (with an unnatural obssession with manatees)...an artist/collections specialist (she's bad ass)...a cell phone company minor magnate...another cell phone company magnate but even more minor than the last one (even though she...the minor magnate...makes about 2.5 zillion dollars a year...and just debuted her new living quarters...the woman's kitchen would be a home for a family of 14 in Guatemala)...we've got a killer poet/playwright/fundraiser...a computer genius that also knows everything about cheese and hates it...our own compensation expert (she can tell us exactly how much we are underpaid  and our efforts undervalued...but she can do it with a smile!)...let's not forget the architect (I've seen some of the toilet stalls he's come up with...not shitty at all)...and a future doctor (pediatrist or cardiologist or coochieologist...I can never remember)...and amongst our associate members we've got folks that can brew beer...and another that can drive a nuclear sub....oh yeah and the guy at MIT that is working on some Star Trek shit (matter that exists in two places at one time)..basically...with our powers combined...we could rule the earth...but instead...we get together on a regular basis to watch movies...eat fondue...and inevitably do something to piss Dawn off...but that's all part of the fun and games...plus...I'm still mad that she brought the racist/homophobic redneck...who manged to call people that march in pride parades freaks and then actually said the words WET BACK outloud (he wasn't asking for a towel)... to our summer weekend getway to the Precipice in Summer 2004 (8 rooms and two hot tubs right on the North Shore of Lake Superior...if I weren't the only homo in the pack...I'd have been making sweet love by the moonlight reflected off the midnight waves...instead Cathy and I made out a little bit...just playing...just playing).

The way this crazy pack of kids all came together is somewhat of a mystery...for most of the folks in the quite clannish grouping went to the same junior high and the same high school...that basically covers everyone except me and the X-Tina...although I believe she did go to junior high with the rest of the pack...I am the truly odd ball out in the group as I went to a different junior high and high school from the rest (although in the same city)...I was lured into this cult by Dawn...who was my next door neighbor in high school...like...the front window of our apartment faced her big white house...and because we were lazy...instead of jumping over the fence and walking the 5 feet to talk to one another...we would scream to each other out the window...until our Mother's threatened to push our heads through the glass...tough as nails these Minnesota women.

But regardless of how the crew came together...without them I don't have any clue where I would be...there has been more than one night when I've called Cathy to say that I didn't want to be alone...and her door was always open...Peter was nearly shocked into the first case of male menopause when Superfag appeared at a poetry reading that I was part of...and we all saw his secret weapon as it dangled below his mini-skirt when he jumped around stage  (this was also the show where during a video clip preview of a jack-off porn available during the silent auction...several of the Scooby Gang...along with myself...were treated to the sight of my first boyfriend at the U of MN...Torry...jacking off on the back of a farm tractor. I totally own that video now)...and the entire gang was there for me when I went coo-coo-bananas last spring...as a matter of fact...each of us has been there for the other whenever we've needed for anything...usually before we've had to ask...that's what friendship is all about. People have come and gone from the group (our headquarters is in Minneapolis...but we have satelitte stations in Kansas City, Albuquerque, Richmond, Boston, and somewhere in the North Atlantic)...but folks always come back...and with Dawn...it's like she never actually moved to Kansas City...and with all the traveling she does back and forth on the weekends...I wonder when she studies (girl...have you figured out which end of the stethescope you put in your ears?).  When any one of us has life drama...the email circle is called into being...and it's powers are mighty...we look to each other for advice...support...and a kick in the behind when necessary (figuratively...or in Cathy's case...on occassion actually...Cathy ain't no joke ya'll...fierce...talented...perfect hair...and kung fu action manolo blahniks). I know that not everyone is blessed to have a Scooby Gang to call their own...so I am extra appreciative of mine...we are all so different...and that is what makes our friendships so wonderful...that...and we've all been implanted with coded microchips deep in our ceberal cortexes...should we fail to report in to the HNIC at our appointed times...well...if you've ever seen the movie Scanners...you know what we risk. To the Scoobies...I love ya'll...I'll see ya soon.

P.S. Check out my photo album for a picture of the Scooby Gang.

Can a Leopard Change It's Spots....

I just finished reading the letter that the Step-Father sent me...and I decided to start this entry today and finish it tomorow when I've had some space from the first reading...and the time to read it again. Reading through it the first time...in Gigi's office (she's allright and still has her eyeballs)...I started to tear up something fierce...and for those you know that know me... know that even those of you that have known me for most of my life have never seen me cry. That's because I don't do tears in front of other people. Then they might decide that I am human. When in fact...I am one of the aliens come back to Earth to warn my brethern to leave the Step-Father buried exactly where he is.

In all truth the letter was good. My Step-Father was very sincere in acknowledging how difficult it must have been for me to write the letter (the writing was easy...it was putting the four Paul Robeson stamps on it and dropping in the mail that almost caused me a seizure). He basically laid out his childhood history and pretty much said that which was done to him was done to me and that our childhoods until 18 were pretty much alike...and that he is sorry for that. He referred to me as son perhaps six or seven times in the letter...which hit me every single time with something really potent...and I have no idea what it is...it was like David Helfgott was playing some crazy Russian composers greatest works...except using my emotions for the keyboard.  The Step-Father (also knows as Clinton) also asked me to continue communicating with him. He talked about being an addict and being unwilling to give up control of his life to something greater than himself...and therefore his drug...and lately...I feel like I've been trying to snatch control back that I'd willingly given up earlier this year when my addiction started playing rugby with my life...and that is frightening too...I sure as hell don't want to go back to where I was last March and the years previous...and I'm grateful, at the very least, for this timely reminder that I couldn't fight my addiction on my own before...and that I can't now...so I need to stop trying to control all of life's variables to save myself from pain...and this situation has been candidate number one for crazy making in my life. 

I have two men in my life that I call/called Dad...my birth father...and my step-father...my birth father was never around...he was re-married and had another family...I saw him once every four years or so...and got occassional cards from him from wherever he was in the world...growing up with Step-Father my father became this idealized figure for me...this great never-failing all-loving presence in the world that would one day show up and take me away and show me the world and that he loved his son and that this other man was an impostor, but Dad never showed up, and Step-Father kept coming back. And when Dad did finally move back to the U.S....I realized that he was human as well...and while Step-Father and I had our issues through childhood...Dad and I have had some hard times as adults...and as a child I still wanted Step-Father to love me. I wanted to do everything absolutely right so that he would love me...I thought that I'd gotten over that a long time ago...but after reading this letter...I'm find myself still wanting his approval...my Dad's approval...and both of their love...you'd think that after 28 years with no stable father figure...one that couldn't be there..and one that was there and was a father in the mold of Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest...that I would have worked this all out in therapy. But in reality...in so many ways...I'm still a little kid that just wants his Dads to be present in his life...both of them...and that is some hard shit to admit. But I've also come to understand that I can't expect from them what they do not have the capacity to provide...all I can do is remain open to the possibility that they can be present in my life and will be as much as they are able...and that I can not and should not assume what their capacity actually is. I've asked my Dad to be present in my life..and he sends emails now and again...I hear from him often...and that is welcome.  Now that I've opened Pandora's Box (and...surprise...found Step-Father waiting for me)...I have to figure out if I am wiling to really...I mean REALLY...delve into the past and cauterize the hurt...or if I want to continue to acknoweldge it verbally in a way that makes people believe that I am actually dealing with it in some healthy way...but instead take the history repeats itself warning and give Step-Father wide berth. I've lived this long without him...but then again...for someone I haven't seen in 10 years...he sure as heck comes up often enough in conversation.

The deal is that right now I want to believe him. I want to believe that he actually loves me. But I've heard all the promises before that he won't use again, that he's treated us badly, that it'll be better than before...have faith....wait and see...go to church. Praise Jesus. Amen. Well...Step-Father is in jail not church...and Jesus hasn't been performing too many prison break out miracles yet. So I guess I'll have to wait the 1.5 years until he gets out prison to see if the leapord got a dye job or if he has been surgically altered...and now is sporting the latest in paisley spots. Actually, I really hope that Step-Father does not come out of prison in paisley spots...I just don't think that is something I can handle...God can't ask me to take on anytning else ;-).

I'm not sure how I am going feel when I wake up tomorrow and put the finishing touches on this...what promises to be my longest post...and perhaps can be registered with Guiness for some sort of formal recognition of its indulgent verbosity...but I am sure that if I don't deal with whatever it is that I feeling (which I am conveniently avoiding by typing this blog entry right now)...that I will end up dealing with it...somewhere down the line...in some way that will be much more deconstructive...and though it seems like a really clear choice...deal with it kid...I don't know that I have the capacity to do that...even though everyhing inside of me...all that I learned at Pride Institute...and since...is basically ringing old slave bells and fire sirens saying warning warning warning...come on negro get on up into the house and start cleaning...but I can't decide which personality is right on this occassion...Kunte Kinte (who says run nigga'...run...) or Toby (Kizze means stay put...and deal with yo' shit). We'll all know soon enough...and I totally apologize to Alex Hayley for the bastardization of his work.

As today has worn on I've just gotten more tired. I knew it was probably not the smartest idea to try and talk this over with my Mom...who once vowed to shoot the Step-Father on sight if she ever saw him again (she also threatened once to get a shot gun...drive to West Virginia...and take out my Dad...she's a bit protective of her kids). But...on the way to pick up some pizzas...driving down the busiest street in Albuquerque...I find myself doing exactly what will make me crazy... having a conversation with my Mom where about two seconds after I told her I got a letter from my Step-Father she decided that I'd spoken enough quite enough thank you and she was going to tell me what exactly to do...it didn't involve murder one...but it was pretty much open and shut don't ever contact him again...burn some sage...and take a bath in holy water.  And...that should probably be her answer...from her perspective he not only used her for kick boxing practice...but he also has caused her children massive trauma and the need for pysch meds in perpetuity (I'm naming my first born child Zoloft Celexa Paxil Lacy). She also iterated to me what I know better than she ever will...and that he has made promises to change before...and always failed to do so...and I was like...ummm...thanks I got that part...I was there remember?  I wasn't that snappy with her...because she doesn't deserve it...and...frankly she can probably still kick my butt. And... I almost went through the drive thru window at Wendy's at lunch and pushed the head of the cashier into the deep fryer...so I was aware of my short temper and homocidal tendencies when I called Mom.

At this point it's nearly 1am....it's taken me all day to get the right time down as the clocks in my life all conspired to play tricks on me by some self-adjusting and others waiting for my gentle touch to coax them back an hour. And the only conclusion I've come to is that I haven't come to any real conclusions...I want to believe that my Step-Dad has changed...as an addict I understand that we use drugs to self-medicate the horrific pain that we sometimes encounter...I know that what he did to me was done to him...I know that doesn't justify  it...and I know that regardless of what I decide about moving forward with a relationship with him...I have to find a way to forgive him fully...which I think I've started...but I also have to let go of the fear that was very much still present when I believed it had long ago gone the way of side pony tails and Zubas.

P.S. A completely unrelated comment...but does anyone think that maybe the Book of Revelations could be renamed the Book of 2005ish. Tsunami in December...Hurricanes that have exhausted the Roman alphabet...earthquakes...mudslides...and now Alito nominated to the Supreme Court...the seventh seal has just been broken...and we are headed towards a world of shit.

P.P.S. FYI...MEN SUCK ASS!

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf...

31 October 2005

Apparently...I am still afraid of the big bad wolf. I could have named this blog...Step-Father the Sequel...but that sounds too much like one of those horror film chains that is unending...just when you thought it was all over...when the psycho killer has been electrocuted...burned...chopped up...pureed....composted...hung...stabbed...voodooed...and decapitated...here he comes again...this time resurrected by unwitting aliens seeking to restablish the human race...only to discover too late their mistake...Step-Father...your Mom divorced him..but he just keeps coming back.

Last night I returned home to find a letter in the mail box that I had apparently missed the day before (unless Step-Father is so powerful that he can command the U.S. Postal Service to operate on Sundays...hmmm). I pulled out the letter...saw it was from him...and immediately...I mean with all the tremendous speed that a man with post-traumatic stress disorder can summon...I put the letter back in the mailbox...slammed the lid...said out loud hell no...and made the sign of the cross. Ok...so I didn't make the sign of the cross...but I did all the rest of that...and the emotion that I was feeling as I dropped the keys at least three times trying to open the lock was panic.

I still haven't read the damn letter. I woke up this morning (an hour earlier than necessary...daylight savings time ending gets me very time)...and looked around the room to see if maybe the letter had crawled out of the mail box, picked the lock, disarmed the alarm system, and crawled into my room during the night. I laid there for about five minutes before I could assure my disbelieving mind that the letter wasn't waiting to abush me when I stepped in the shower. Or worse...once I was in the shower...I thought maybe I would see the shadow of the approaching letter...cluch my heaving bosom...and scream just as it pulled back the shower curtain and as the scene faded to black. But...I made it safely through my daily ablutions...albeit perhaps a little jumpy throughout the entire process..and eventually stepped outside my apartment...into the bright morning sun...ready to brave the mailbox...only to remember it was Halloween. Then I had to convince myself that because of the nearness of the physical world to the spiritual world that somehow this wasn't all an elaborate plan by my step-father to escape prison by mailing his soul to New Mexico...awaiting only for me to open the mail box...break the seal on the envelope...and set him free to terrorize the dreams of children...again.

During this entire sketch comedy that is my childhood trauma come back to get me...I text messaged my friend/co-worker Gigi to tell her that the letter arrived...and that if I didn't show up to work on time....to call out the blood hounds and start searching for my mangled corpse...but I also asked her that if I made it the 16 blocks to the office...if she would sit with me while I opened the letter to read it. One reason is so that if I have any sort of emotional break with reality there will be someone there that I can trust. The other reason is that I am going to open the letter with the back of it facing Gigi...so if my Step-Father emerges whole from the letter and looking for his first victim...she'll be the first to go...and maybe I'll be able to get to the car before he snatches out her eyeballs and uses them to play yatzhee.  I'm all about chivalry...but there's a reason why the white folks always get killed in the movies...they don't run soon enough...and they don't realize that when Evil comes knocking you ain't got no friend but Jesus.

It worries me a bit that I had such a gut wrenching reaction to an envelope...but I also know that my emotions are what they are...and to expect them to be otherwise is counterproductive. I am aware that as humans with an extremely limited understanding of ourselves...and a whole lot of contstructed caca about who and how we should be at all times...we spend a lot of energy judging our feelings...saying things like...this shouldn't make me happy...or I shouldn't be sad but...or there's no reason to get angry...well...actually...if you (me) are feeling a feeling then it is always...exactly...at that moment the feeling that you are supposed to be feeling in that situation and under that circumstance. Always. Unless you are hallucinating or have been possessed by one of the past victims of the Step-Father that is trying to warn you of his impending ressurection from the Other Side.

So...I am going to pluck up my courage...and add some liquid courage to that (iced chai people!)....and go and read the letter. May God have mercy on Gigi's soul if she is disembowled in front of her four year old daughter...but we all have to make sacrifices...and some of us even get sacrificed. That's just how it goes. Happy Halloween.

P.S. A Happy Birthday shout out to Mr. Erik Leve of Albuquerque...it's neat that there is someone living in Albuquerque that remembers the first Halloween ever...that's living history folks...and you just can't beat that. Hehehehe.