It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt

I Swear I Was Sixteen Yesterday...

Excuse me...but when the hell did I grow up? I'm sitting in my office...a picture of a larger, rounder sixteen year old me staring down from a shelf above my nifty flat screen computer, a stack of budget forms on my desk, waiting four minutes until I have to hop on a conference call with my board's executive committee, and my staff busily working to change the world just down the hallway...and I have no idea when I stopped being the fat kid in the picture, grew up, got a job, and was cursed with putting together a budget.

As I was perusing my email today, I read a thread of emails from some friends that I've known since high school (though they went to a different high school back home)...and they are all planning their ten year reunion (mine was last year)...and I found myself getting indignant because no one sent me a letter, email, or anything letting me know that my friends had grown up as well. It's downright scandalous. Since the fat kid I was roamed the earth some ten plus years ago...scaring small children and consuming small...unsuspecting mammals, I have gone to college, lived in two countries, been to three countries, criss-crossed this country exactly 8.24 million times, lived in six different cities, three different states, attended one college and two universities all for one degree, held eight different positions at as many agencies with one three week stint as a corporate biyatch, ran a national political organization, went to rehab, inhabited three time zones including one temperate rain forest and the desert, and had my weight fluctuate between 155 and 210 pounds (now at a svelt 170).  That's a whole lot for a decade.

The funny thing is that I don't really feel grown up. I don't even know what feeling grown up means. I still live paycheck to paycheck (working to change the world is fullfilling but it doesn't pay so well). I have a stack of bills on my desk that I pray over every day hoping that some unknown money God will take them away. I still randomly burst into the running man on occasion. And there's nothing better in the world than going home to eat a whole plate full of my Mom's fried chicken wings. Now...I'll admit...I'm a little concerned since four of my closest friends own homes, two have been recently married in the last year, and another two are set to get married in 2006. My best friend and his wife are expecting a child in January, and my younger cousin and his wife just popped out their first spawn (a ten pound baby....and Beth tried to have it au natural...until finally the doctor realized that her uterus just wouldn't stretch any farther...her poor poor vagina). But I'm not convinced that this isn't all some sort of Truman Show conspiracy. Like...maybe really I am still the fat kid in the picture with the Star Trek Reflector Shield size glasses...still on stage at the 1995 Minnesota State Student Council Convention under the power of that crazy mass hypnotist...and any minute he is going to snap his fingers...I am going to wake up...only to find that everyone in the audience has aged ten years...and I still have been brainwashed to believe that I lost my buttocks somewhere on stage.  Is there such a thing as a Rip Van Winkle Nuerotic Break? Someone call my therapist...KATHY VADER!!!!

I wonder if I will feel this way at 40 looking back at a picture of me now...wondering when I stopped being the upper 20s idealistic activist and donned a suit and tie and sold my soul to Target Corporation for a conrner office and a condo loft overlooking the Mississippi River in downtown Minneapolis? I wonder if I'll press my perfectly manicured fingers to the picture frame...try and remember when the face in the frame and the face and the mirror started looking more like Father and Son than twins? Will I activate my home botox kit and the liposuction vacuum attachment on my Dust Devil and attempt to reclaim the figure of my youth...or will I be one of those stylish middle aged men, with a hint of grey at the temples, a Burberry suit, a Harrison Ford physique, and Shaun Connery's luck with getting laid by individuals 1/3 his age?  These are the questions that occupy my mind this morning...my frontal lobes paltry attempt to make sense out of the nonsensical.  And all the while...out of the corner of my eye...those budget forms are waiting...their pristine white pages covered in geometrically exact laser printed black lines waiting for my pen...waiting for some external force to give the white space meaning.

The Ways of White Folks...

Last Monday RJ and I were on a desperate quest for Thai food in Oakland's Chinatown. The one Thai restaurant near the conference hotel was closed...to my Asian brothers and sisters out there in the world...why is it that just about every Thai and Vietnamese restaurant is closed on Monday? Is this something cultural that I am missing out on...or was there a National Association of Asian Restaurant Owners Thai/Vietnamese Sub-Caucus Meeting where ya'll got together and decided that there would be no Vietnamese or Thai available on Mondays? This is one of the great mysteries of life that I would like to have answered.

Anyway...RJ was extremely put out that we were denied Thai food access...so we began an on foot quest through Chinatown (imagine...no Thai food...in Chinatown...duh!). Also, I had just pumped about 32 dollars in quarters into the parking meter for an hour and 12 minutes of parking time...so I was going to be damned before we moved the car in a long-range search for Thai craving fullfillment. As we walked through C-Town...peering through glass store fronts...hoping to catch some sign of Pad Prig or Pad Woon Sen, Pad Thai or some savory curry or another, RJ decided that we should just stop some random Asian folks on the corner and ask them to point us in the direction of the nearest Thai restaurant. As if they all were walking around with some built in Thai Food GPS system. After I refused to get chopped in the neck by an angry Chinese elder for asking for directions to a Thai restaurant, RJ opted to enter into one of the open, quite delictable Chinese restaurants and ask what may be the dumbest question ever asked in Chinatown...to which the owner responded...unsurprisingly...that there were no Thai restaurants in the vicinity. Then she chopped him in the neck, and I had to carry him back out into the street. Wait...sorry...that was only my fantasy.

So, I mentioned to RJ that I'd seen a Cambodian restaurant nearby...never having had Cambodian cuisine...I was hoping that the lure of the unknown would seduce RJ into giving up his crazed quest. It worked. As we walked into Battambag Cambodian Restaurant on Broadway in Oakland (shameless plug here)....I remarked how Cambodian written in the Roman alphabet reminded me of Tagalog...and RJ remarked how the Cambodians knew that white folks like to see nice paintingss of Asian folks dancing and frolicking on the walls...and that the Cambodians knew how to make some money right there on Broadway by putting up the paintings for white folks walking by. I laughed, called him a racist, and asked for a table for two.

Well...in the middle of our delicious Kampuchean delight...two scarey software designer looking geeks...one bearded with long ratty hair and the other bald...with no personality...sat down next to us. It wasn't five minutes into their meal and conversation that one of the very white ubergeeks said..."I really like the paintings on the wall." At which point I had to have a robust Cambodian server apply the Heimlick maneuver as I attempted to laugh, swallow, and throw up all at the same time. I quick dialed Hell on my cell phone to see if it had frozen over...but after a moment I was forced to admit the impossible...RJ had been right. The white folks were somehow entranced by Thomas Kinkaide-esque paintings of the Cambodian countryside. Perhaps it was all a ploy of the Khmer Rouge to exact revenge on the U.S. for their secret Cambodian war...but whatever the source of the hypnotic power of bad art work...it was effective.

There are times when I simply amazed at the desperate need of individuals (and entire communities) to need to find something familiar in whatever surroundings in which they find themselves. For the software developers it was bad artwork (which totally makes sense...some graphics these days make me want to retch)...for RJ it was that this particular restaurant had smells that he could assimilate in some way...and for me...it was the opportunity to make fun of RJ after an afternoon of hijinks and capers.

In the end...every day...there is something that reminds me that we live in a country that is comprised of incalculable diversity...and ruled by people that want nothing more than to package culture into TV dinners...thaw them out in the comfort of their own living rooms...devour what they like...and toss the rest. That, my friends, is America.

P.S. RJ ain't as bad as all that. He's generally a pretty good white boy...unless he is on the search from some Thai food...then it's One Asian All Asian hell for all those involved. He would also like me to point out that there were a couple of Vietnamese restaurants in the vicinity...I explained to RJ that there is a sizable ethnic Chinese population in Vietnam...which would explain the Vietnamese presence in Chinatown...but he wasn't having that either.  But I love me some RJ...REG!

Let's Talk About Sex Baby...

So...basically...I'm a slut. Please note that I do not find the term to be pejorative…but instead I use it as an accurate descriptor of my personal love for personal sexual pleasure…preferably with another human of the male persuasion (with or without a penis).  I tried sex with a woman ten years ago…Molly…my high school girlfriend. After a decade I can remember very little except that I had no idea what to do with breasts (which is highly hilarious considering the level of sensitivity I enjoy from my nipplage)…I knew biologically the function of the clitoris…but I spent most of our sexual interludes wondering if it was just the clit that was sensitive or if the whole vagina was like some sort of inverted penis…like you could just touch it anywhere and BANG BOOM it was all good (I have since been firmly corrected by the many wonderful women in my life…thanks friends)…and the only time I even got near to having an orgasm during our six months of sexual activity…was the one time that…well…I hit it from the back…so to speak.  Every now and again I find myself attracted to a woman enough that I think I could perhaps foray down the path towards bisexualdom…but unfortunately for me the women that I have found myself the most attracted to tend to be hot butch dykes that look kinda faggy and really have no interest in what I have to offer…and really…I think I’d just want them to strap one on and do me like they do on the Discovery Channel.

So it looks like until Nichole (NOT Noodle who I mentioned in an early blog…but a queer Nichole that I see once a year at Creating Change)…decides that she wants a little Puerto Rican bootie…well…I guess its men folks for me. Or man folk. Which is the subject of today’s blog. Now…I’d like to preface this blog by saying that I have yet to have a person to person conversation with PJ about this topic…and I know he reads my blog…so anything read here is to be taken as externalized processing…so please don’t show up in my office in a ball of flame…but I am not faced with negotiating some of the particulars of this new and exciting relationship. Now…after doing a thorough survey of some of my closest friends…I have found that 100% of them think that non-monogamy is the way to go (basically ethical slutdom). I personally believe in polyamory (the ability to have more than one primary partner)…but I also know that I do not believe that I would be able to effectively be in a polyamorous relationship…I’m one of those gays that is just fine if you sleep with someone else (if that is the nature of our relationship and all the pre-set rules have been followed…I’m a Virgo…rules are my life)…but if I find out you are getting emotional support and sharing your hopes and dreams with another man…well…that’s grounds for immediate cutting. BOBBITT UP!

Now…most of my relationships have been monogamous. One time I cheated on a partner, and I felt so guilty afterwards that I ended our relationship and didn’t date anyone for almost a year. But the reality is that I have yet to see one single long term (talking 5+ years) relationship between two men that has not been non-monogamous to some extent (either explicitly…or based on the fact that they cheat at will). And really…when it comes down to it…I am not willing to lose someone special over some base biological craving. Really…men are designed from the gate to be sluts. It’s true…once we start making sperm we never stop making the stuff…we could be on our death beds and impregnate as many women as we can as long as we can still get it up and shoot it out. Our hormones drive us to mate from the minute they kick in…and in most cultures outside of the West (excluding France) a hole is a hole is a hole…and it don’t matter if the sex is for procreation or for the celebration of a cute ayass that you tagged walking down the streets of Ulaanbaatar. Hey glory.

What I’ve found though, in the past, is that (and this goes for me too) when someone has wanted a relationship with any form of non-monogamy…I have taken it…or I’ve had it taken…as a commentary on the person that I am with or that is with me. Which is really hard…because anyone in the world that tries to tell me that once they fall in love they stop having lustful feelings for Chayanne or Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie in Mr. and Mrs. Smith…is straight up sellin’ the

Brooklyn

Bridge

…and I ain’t buying.  But then again…we have been programmed by tv, media, playing house in pre-school, church, Mom and Dad, and the Human Rights Campaign to believe that monogamy is the only way and that anything else is deviant and should be exorcised…preferably on prime time television (although if Anderson Cooper is hosting the news spot…I’d do just about anything he wanted…grrrrrrrowlll…he’s my new celebrity crush).

I fully believe that PJ and I will come to an agreement of something that will work for us in the context of our relationship. But ya’ll know me…I use this blog as therapy…and if I take a moment now to start thinking outloud…maybe I’ll learn something new and useful about myself…and ya’ll have a chance to see a little bit more of me. And, I believe if you address Christmas cards to

Brandon

the Ho,

Albuqueruque

,

NM

…they will arrive at my door...no problem. Santa always knows where to find me.

Technically I Am Blind in One Eye...

How's da House? (I watched a very informative show on CNN which shared that the phrase "How's da House?" means "How are you doing?" in New Orleans post-Hurricane Katrina....it should be "Do You Still Have a House Or Did Halliburton Lay Claim to the Deed and Now You Live In a Fed Ex Box on Bourbon Street?").

So I must start off by saying that I am writing this blog with one eye closed because one of my contacts caused me offense...so I snatched it from my head...and exiled it to the contact case. The downside is that I can only see half the screen as I type this. It happens.

I am sitting in Minneapolis...fresh from a week in Oakland at Creating Change...and chock full of blog fodder. So many wonderful things happened during this Creating Change...perhaps chief of which was meeting my future husband (ya'll think I am joking...think perhaps I am being funny...as if I would ever attempt to be humorous...come now...you've read my blogs...but really...husband...Brandon..certified slut that I am...I'm getting married). I met and fell head over heels with one Pedro Julio Serrano (and...in an unusual turn of events...the sentiments are returned en force). And what would a passionate meeting of two radical activists be without some drama...at least one of the parties to the drama has apologized...so I won't go into details...but really...come on now...we're grown ups...let's act like it at least some of the time...this movement is about love...and if you must be a hater...the Republicans are always looking for fresh recruits. That's all I'll say about that...for now.

I am sure there will be much bloggage about Pedro Julio in the future...but know that he is beautiful, brilliant, passionate, caring, and a kick ass activist (founder of Puerto Rico Para Tod@s and first openly queer candidate for public office in Puerto Rican history...and that's just the beginning of his accomplishments)...but most precious to me is his ability to see and appreciate everyone around him....those that are invisible to most (meaning the people that do most of the work in our world...servers...cleaners...waiters...etc.) are brilliantly visible to him in a way that has made me seriously look at how I have failed to truly appreciate...at more than a surface level...the people around me that do the thankless jobs that should be celebrated the most. He humbles me. And ya'll know that is a tall order for any one person. I could try Jesus' patience on that score.

So much took place in the last week...but I am truly grateful for the presence of RJ, Jeremy, Coya, Sara, and Russell at the conference this weekend. It was like a family reunion. Let me rephrase that...it was a family reunion. My family of choice is as important to me as my blood family...and to be with them...all together...laughing...talking shit...learning...crying...and celebrating...was a sorely needed revival of spirit for me. As I mentioned previously...the day I left New Mexico...my spirit was tired. But the Universe...which I call God...always gives us what we need when we need to get it...even if we don't recognize it...that's why he's the big G...and I'm the little me...what a relief to know that I don't have to take care of all my needs or even have to know what I need in order to have that need met, filled, and be filled to overflowing with love and grace.  This last week I really and truly was....I know this is starting to sound a little sermony...hey glory...but sometimes the spirit moves the fingers...and the words that come out have a little bit of truth that comes from another source...can I get an amen? Hallelujah!

Speaking of which...there will be another entry about the Reverend Doctor Bishop Evette Flanders....the pastor of the United Church of Christ of San Fran. She was the closing plenary speaker at Creating Change this year...and if Osama Bin Laden had walked in the door...he would have walked out a Christian...praise Jesus! The Bishop had some thangs to say...and I took notes...so be you agnostic...atheist...Buddhist...Christian...Fundamentalist...Branch Davidian...Muppet...or if you worship the White Sale at Macy's....ya'll need to stop back by and read the Gospel acccording to Evette...a black dyke preacher whose voice was so sexy that if the Pope heard it he would probably name it a sin. Hey glory.

I also heard from many of my faithful readers that you had been being basically chased down like a black man in Beverly Hills by the Friendster Blog Update Police. I had no idea that any time I even said the word blog that Friendster would send ya'll a message...so I will limit my blog updating/editing to once or twice a day. I apologize...asalaam aleikum. Allright. I am going to close up shop tonight. I am staying with Kandace, Andrea, and Homely Dog tonight...it's so late that even Homely Dog has passed out on the couch...after an evening of chewing on Auntie Brandon's fingers. So I bid ya'll adieu (can I say ya'll and adieu in the same sentence?).