I am testing my mobile phone to see if posting from my crackberry really works?

Circling around…

There was this time when I was probably 16 or 17, wait, maybe I was 17. Yes, I was 17 years old going on 18. (do you wanna sing the song after that sentence?) I was in NYC for a summer theatre program. Everyone back home was "scared for me." But, it wasn't overwhelming. Everyone expected it to be. Even everyone today, 15 years later, 32 going on 33, asks me if I was scared or if it was a wild and crazy new experience being 17 years old and in the Big Apple. It wasn't. It just WAS. I was in NYC. It was just supposed to be. Anyway, I was there in the big apple studying, dancing, singing, laughing, living. Everyday---ALL DAY! This on 6 hours of sleep. In fact, things haven't changed much. I may not move as fast, or be as eager to get it going as I was at 17, but I sure as hell haven't caught up on sleep or stopped feeling like every hour counts. In fact, I am writing this at 1:28am after a fitful 6 hours of sleep the night before. In fact, I am memorizing lines for an audition. 16 years ago, about this time of the year, I was memorizing lines for a class. 16 years later I am memorizing for an audition. Nothing big, just a gig in a show somewhere. Anyway, I digress. There was this moment in the summer of 1995 when I had a few hours off from classes and such. I was exploring the upper theatre district of Times Square. It was very rare that you were ever separated from the other company members. It was even more rare that you would find yourself alone. I wished I could remember how or why I found this time alone, but I don't remember the specifics. I feel like it had something to do with waiting in line at a bank or western union or something. However, that could be a figment of my imagination. Anyway, at some point, I stopped at a payphone on the southwest corner of 50th and Broadway to call my parents. I remember it so clearly. Even as I write this it's becoming more clear than when it came to me moments ago. It was hot but not hot enough for me to care. Which means it very well could have been 85-90 degrees, but I didn't care because I was in NYC. I shuffled through my fanny pack (yes fanny pack) for my calling card (yes calling card). After locating the SAM's CLUB prepaid card, I took a deep breath. There was a moment where I looked over both of my shoulders and across the street. Then I looked in every direction to make sure it was safe. But that was fleeting. The next moment I took all of what was around me in while I waited for the card prompts and then finally the ringing of my IOWA family phone. In fact, I stood across the street from Caroline's Comedy Club and could still see the LETTERMAN marquee from my pay phone. I remember that some tall funny lady who was on the series COACH was performing at Caroline's, at least according to the marquee, I made a mental note to bring that up to the father since he loved that TV show. Blah, blah, blah...I talked to my parents and told them how excited I was. I talked about standing on the corner of 50th and Broadway. I mentioned the actress/comedienne from COACH performing across the street. I told them I was safe and happy and excited. They mentioned how loud it was. They asked if I was eating enough on my budget. They asked if I felt safe. Blah, blah, blah...and the conversation ended. I kept myself huddled tightly to the payphone as I unzipped my fanny pack to place my phone card back inside. I dropped the phone card. I bent to pick it up and saw a man's shoe. I slowly traced that to the man's calf then to his knee, all of which was exposed in his GAP-type khaki shorts, and then I realized how close he was to me. Or at least how close it felt he was to me. Apparently he grabbed the phone card and picked it up before I even looked back down at the ground. I couldn't take my eyes off of his face. He looked so familiar. SO, so familiar that I looked around thinking he might be with a handful of people I knew. When I turned back I realized that the phone card was in my hand even though I dont' remember retrieving it from his. I looked directly at this man. This man that wasn't much taller than me. This man that wasn't much thicker than me. This man that didn't appear to be terribly older than me. And, although it was only a few seconds, maybe 10 or 15, I studied him. 'Why did he look familiar to me,' I thought? He was olive skinned, he was lean and thin but not skinny like me. He had brown eyes and lines across his forehead. This and his height being the only thing that proved he was older than my 17 year old self. I trembled for a second and looked away. I looked south toward 42nd Street, though not out of fear, just because I couldn't look him in the eye. As I placed the phone card back in to my fanny pack I heard him say....

"Everything will be okay. You will survive this. You have survived that. Trust me. Trust me. This is what you were meant to do. Meant to be. Get away, be away, find a way. Life is not just the here and now. It is not just what is back there. It is what is about to be. You will be fine. You will be better than fine. You will thrive. You will be divine."

I turned around and immediately knew he wouldn't be there. It wasn't some ghost moment. I just knew he was gone. I knew half way through the message I was being delivered. It only took me a breath or two to realize as I stood at 50th and Broadway that I met... myself. I was introduced to me. The me I would be. It would take years for me to realize this was probably just a figment of my adolescent imagination. My young adult version of myself getting caught up the moment of being alone on Broadway and 50th Street in Manhattan, NY. Looking about, dropping my phone card and picking it up, placing it in my fanny pack, looking around and feeling safe. Suddenly, I felt comfortable and confident. I was probably overcome with the reality that I was meant to get away. I would be safe making bold choices. I could be divine.

It would take another moment of meeting myself entering Montrose Beach in Chicago, IL on the 4th of July 2010 for me to put the pieces of this puzzle together. I went to tie my shoe and someone placed their hand on my back just below the neck (or at least it felt like that) and without turning around I heard them say...

"Look up. See that. That sky, that purple sky? That purple sky is home. Everything will be okay. You will survive this. You have survived that. Get away, be away, find a way. Life is not just what is back there. It is what is about to be."

I think we meet ourselves many times in life. There are moments that are so crucial, so evolved, developed, and filled with sensory that we have an almost outer body experience. Except, maybe that is inaccurate. Maybe it is an inner body experience. So inner, so inside of me that I actually believe I have met two different people in my life. Except I am not sure they really, physically happened. They weren't people. They were me. They are me. This is me.

I think we meet ourselves many times in life. It always when we least expect it or when we are most elated and open to it.

I believe it to be a Circle Mirror Transformation.*

*(a title of a play I never saw but loved the title)

Vision Board or Vision Bored???

I can't believe I have actually heard this come up in recent conversations,



"VISION Board!"



A sentence overheard like this..."so, while I was cooped up last weekend I started adding to my vision board."



Or this one..."she is really talented. I told her she needs some focus, maybe a vision board"



I mean, I know I heard Oprah mention it. I think she occasionally refers to it. But, I didn't think anyone actually did one. But, in the past several weeks I have heard at least 3 people talk about their vision boards. Part of me wants to puke. Part of me wants to laugh. Part of me wants to pry. And, honestly, a large part of me wants to know if I should do a vision board.



I have my own beliefs in what motivates people. I believe that most of our motivation for anything we do originates out of two primal emotions: LOVE and FEAR.



We either LOVE to eat and let ourselves get Fat. Or we FEAR that we are getting too fat and we diet. Or we come and go from both sides of the spectrum.



When we LOVE someone so much, it motivates us to keep the relationship alive. We are motivated to talk to that person, to help that person, to hold that person. When we are AFRAID of losing someone or afraid it isn't going well any longer, we are motivated to lie, cheat, harbor our feelings inside, hypothesize etc.



But, I also believe we "go toward what we focus on." When I focus on the negative in my life, things never seem to look up. When I focus on money problems there is never a solution. When I look in the mirror at a blemish or a scar my perspective of my self changes. The same is said when I look in the mirror with a good hair day and nice suit. I feel sexy. I walk out the door differently. When I focus on leaving 20 dollars at home every time I walk out the door, I find myself with extra money at the end of every pay period. And, I definitely believe that if you hear something enough, over and over and over again, it can start to become your personal truth.





So, does a vision board put those feelings into better perspective? Or, are we just bored with our daily life, daily outcomes, etc, and decided to vision our life in a make believe way? Does the board function and motivate? Or, does the board just remind us? Which can either measure our success or constant reminder of where we are NOT. Maybe the bigger question is what are my visions? Before I can make a board for them or get bored of them, I should probably start to figure out what they are?



I should also stop judging those who do have faith in the power of a vision board. Who am I to criticize or patronize or condescend. What ever works for you! I certainly don't seem to have it right, or at least any better...



Let's see...I envision...umm...ummm...well, right now...I envision wine and maybe some froyo!

Another attempt

Here I go.





With no readership but myself.





I have to start all over and get it going again. I made a promise to myself that after my trip to Chicago over the weekend of March 6th, I would jump back on to this "writing" idea that I have. I am not sure if a blog is exactly the way to go anymore, but for now it seems like the best way for me to do it. Using my ballpoint and a sheet of lined paper inside a leather bound book seems so archaic at this point. And, truthfully, the thought that even one person (even somebody I actually know) could read this is just the amount of pressure/validation I need to keep me writing...ANYTHING!





Right now that ANYTHING is a haunting sadness and an overall lethargy. These two emotions seem to be the most powerful over the rest of my flurries that bluster through me on any given day. Sure, the sadness can be linked to my departure from NYC after nearly 14 years of braving the "concrete jungle where dreams are made of." The lethargy is part complacency, part normalcy, part growing older in a city that always makes you feel 10 years older than you are. I am tired all the time but don't sleep well. I am lazy with my days but still get everything done that needs to be done, for work, for home, for me. I am lacking motivation but have a tendency to keep knitting, keep reading that one book that has taken me 4 months to finish, that one vocal CD I have been working on since December, and the organization of my belongings that seems to be 3 years in the making. I am bloated and feeling fat for my frame, yet I am cutting out carbs, drinking less, and trying desperately to not indulge in the late night binges. I am not an idiot. I realize this all points to me just not being happy with myself, or where I am in my life. I keep trying to understand that "unhappiness." I don't necessarily feel unhappy. But, I think my actions, feelings, and demeanor all point to something unhappy within me, around me, about me. I know that I wished I were doing more in life. More meaning what, I don't know? I guess when I say 'more' I mean something bigger than myself, or something truly myself. I feel pulled in too many different directions hence never giving anything 100 percent of my devotion. I always spend my days wishing for more time, looking back at what I didn't get done instead of what I did. I also tend to wake up with a feeling of anxiety. I always feel like there is some impending doom awaiting me when I turn off my alarm and turn on my phone, when I open my mailbox, when I open my front door, when I take my first step into the jungle. I know that I need some inspiration, some motivation. I hope I am not putting too much pressure on my huge life change to suddenly spark the inner artist in me, or to transform me into an overnight healthy, successful version of myself. But, they say that huge life changes like "moving" can either be the most difficult thing to go through or the most rewarding. It forces you to face the harsh realities of starting over, getting to know new people, new places, and new life. I can't sit on my couch anymore in a pile of safety blankets, hugging a pint of complacency and sipping a cup of soothing liquid of my choice. I hope this is the case for me. I hope I can face the new chapters in my life with more zest. I hope I can zoom through those chapters in half the time it has taken me to read the last book I read.



Here is to another attempt.

Driving thru memories

I am not sure if Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" was as much a part of his youth as it was mine, but that song was so heavy with hurt. I remember not really knowing what it was about for the first few years after it was released. I remember later in college thinking it was such a weird song to have become so successful. Now, years later her self-titled album found it's way back into my life and I've discovered how many other songs on her album I love. The song "Baby Can I Hold You Tonight," which was later a shitty boy band cover. The song "For You," that only people who really gave the full album a listen will remember and love. As I sit down to try and recap the past week of my wild and crazy ride through my state of mind and California state, I can't help but think of that song. Although, the song's lyrics when you listen to the whole thing don't truly reflect my week in sunshine and bliss, a few of them will have to do for this post. "We'll take this fast car and keep on drivin'" she would sing. Rosas was a fast car. Rosas was the name he assigned her. Not for reasons you might expect. The car is not red or pink, it doesn't have a name similar to a flower or a petal, and Rosas owner was not of the latin or Mexican persuasion. In fact, the fast car is a sleek Mazda3. Black with a sunroof, and soft black leather interior. Four doors. Because he hates the idea of himself or anyone for that matter crawling in the back seat. Besides, the doors on two door cars are so much heavier and large. Rosas name was assigned shortly after he arrived in WeHo and met the numerous flower sellers that stroll the Santa Monica Boulevard strip at night approaching bar hoppers and restaurant goers offering "rosas." Except it must be typed phonetically so that you may see how it sounds when the short and stout Mexican mama offers them to you or when Carlisle, Rosas' corn-fed, white, southern boy owner speaks her name in an over pronounced Spanish accent. "Rothath?" "4 dollath." This is how he spoke to his car whenever referring to her. "Oh, look how pretty Rosas (rothath) is after her wash." Some would say it's childish. I called it charming. Because he said it with such earnesty. He wasn't joking. Mazda3's name was Rosas. Besides, I have aunts and uncles who still name their cars. We all have, at one point in our life, named our cars. I just haven't had one in ten years, so I forgot how much people really get into referring to their car by their new given name. By day 4 of 8, I was ridin' the Rothath (rosas) Band Wagon with the best of 'em.I never could have imagined the view from Rosas while on the Pacific Coast Highway. I mean I knew it would be pretty and unique, but I had no idea it would be breathtaking and fantastical.Every twist and turn revealed a different view of the sky, ocean, mountain. Just around the bend would be a scene from some movie about uncharted land or undiscovered country. I never tired of the next turn or bend in the road.With the sunroof open and the music on just loud enough to be filler during silences and soft enough to allow conversation to be effortless, we drove the 8-9 hours. We stopped nearly two dozen times for yet another perfect photo opportunity. I remember Carlisle laughing at my fear of heights and brushing it off with the utmost confidence. Like a parent who let's go of their kid's bicycle seat when you first take the training wheels off. With a nonchalance that should be studied, he laughed at my dramatic display of fear and told me to brave it or stay in the car. So, there now exists a photo of me clutching a bridge that must have been 200-300 feet above a thin river of water branching out to meet the ocean. The look on my face after braving my fear (slightly) is that of genuine fear and dramatic interpretation of fear. It's priceless to say the least.Rosas has a Bose sound system. She has been blessed with good, strong senses. The 80s collection CD I purchased in LA specifically for only one song comes up on Rosas' disc changer. I ask Carlisle if he minds if we skip to track 18 and then start the CD from the beginning. He is an easy type of guy, so, of course, gives me the okay. I know how crucial it is for the driver to like the music. Especially if that driver has driven the entire stretch so far. So, needless to say, Carlisle's best interest was at hand-not my need to hear "Hands To Heaven" by BREATHE. So, there its--the sun, the clouds, the breeze, the winding road, the edge of the country, the ocean and the song of all 80s love songs playing at perfect volume. Carlisle let's me sing along and doesn't say a word when I don't hit the high notes and turn to silent lip synch. His hand reaches across the gear shift and gently falls onto my thigh. Nothing else. No eye contact. No squeeze. Just a delicate hand draped ever so gently across my trembling thigh."Tonight I need your sweet caress..." the song belts.His hands are beautiful to me in this moment. How have I never noticed the strength and beauty in his youthful hands? How have I never noticed his knuckles and the soft light hair on his wrist creeping slightly onto the back of his hand? The color of his string tied bracelet suddenly complements his skin tone on his hand and arm. His shirt is rolled to just below the elbow exposing the perfect amount of a forearm with soft veins appearing across the top and several more barely visible along the bottom of his arm. Like roads, they eventually intersect at the bend in his elbow. I feel this intersection with my first two fingers softly gliding over his skin then slowly back down to his hand and all the way out to his middle fingertip. I continue to sing the song. Again, I miss the high note and mouth the words instead."Tonight you calm my restlessness, you relieve my sadness..." the songs moves into the saxophone instrumental break.The song. His hand. Bring me back to Henry's Skateland in Smalltown, USA. I asked Stephanie if she would meet me by the fir tree and kiss me on the lips. We did too. I relay a bit of my 80s past to my younger travel companion. He doesn't recognize the song. I don't mind. I don't bite back with a bitter banter about the good ol' days, or how old I never intended to be. I just give him more details about why I loved this song and why I still do. He nods his head a subtle yes and agrees it's a pretty song. He doesn't need to recognize it. He recognizes what it means to me. He doesn't need to think it's pretty. He thinks it is and because I do.His hand makes it's way back to the wheel during sharp turns, but it eventually finds it's way back to my thigh. Never caressing. Never squeezing. Never sexual. Only intimate. Only soft. Only a reminder. Only a gesture. If I left a finger he meets my finger listening to the debate of whether they should intertwine or not. So available. So easy. So comfortable.For months, I have been starving for affection. Taking it in brushed elbows and arms of strangers around the waist. Taking hugs from friends for a moment too long. For months I was convinced it was something I needed. Taking pats on the ass as compliments. Taking drunken thrusts as attraction. Taking drunken kisses as meaningful.I begin to think of Tracy Chapman's song..."You've gotta fast car...is it fast to enough so that we can fly away...I gotta feeling that I belong....Aye, I gotta feeling I could be someone, be someone,...be someone."All I needed was in that fast car, Ms. Rosas (rothath)! The surge of positive energy that came from Carlisle's gentle hand hit me like the waves that were crashing into the cliffs 300 feet below our winding road. I wasn't starving for affection. I was yearning for meaning, simplicity, and truth. Thank you Rosas for being that fast car. Carlisle, "just remember when we were driving, driving in your car speed so fast I'd feel like I was drunk, and city lights lay out before us and your arm...."No words to say. No words to explain. This feeling inside. I have....

The Fast Track...Day 1

There's probably not many of you left out there still reading me. I can't believe I dropped the ball just at a time when I was getting readership. Anywhoo, here goes...



I have embarked on what I believe to be my very first official diet. Sure, over the years I have given up this or cut back on that. I have had my exercises fanatical days and my low carb seasons. But, this is the first time I am with in very strict perimeters of a diet that is specifically aimed at cleaning and detox the colon and the liver. It is called The Fast Track One-Day Detox Diet. (Link above...i hope)



Here's a little back story.

-Met a boy and he made me smile.

-Three months later it's a deal.

-His influence is powerful because I love him.

-Now I follow a strict summer detox that he has done in the past, loves and is far more diligent and excited about than me that lasts for a total of 11 days.



But, it is something we can do together (I keep telling myself). It's something that we can share the benefits of together. It means we can cook together. Share ideas for snacks together. Encourage and motivate each other. Even keep tabs on each other to ensure that neither is falling off the detox wagon.



So it begins with 7 days of stocking up and chowing down liver loving foods. (i.e. Greens nobody likes, fruits and veggies that make you gaseous, and protein the size of the palm of your hand in the form of lean chicken, beef or fish. Not to mention things like Flax - what the F is Flax? - a few berries here and there, olive oil, and half your body weight in water a day.) But it also means staying away from the things that clog our liver, toxi-fy our body, and cling to our colon. (i.e. Coffee, alcohol even WINE!, breads, gluten, pastas, fried foods, soy products, sugars and anything that ends in "uctose" as well as any and all dairy.) On the eighth day you fast for 24 hours with only water intake and juice they call "Miracle Juice." It consists of Cranberry Juice (natural of course) and some spices of nutmeg, lemon, etc. Then after most likely "gettin' rid of the rottens" you spend the next 3 days replenishing your fluids and your good bacteria with some supplements and lots of good healthy yogurts and greens.



Now, I must admit, I consider myself a person with a strong sense of conviction and dedication. When I set my mind to something I feel that 9 out of 10 times I accomplish or fulfill to a satisfactory outcome. And, so far this is how it went...



DAY #1 MONDAY

I woke up with a whisper of a hang over. It could have actually been a hang over from Saturday masked by margaritas and wine on Sunday only to rear it's soft subtle head on Monday. A hangover nonetheless was present. So was the boyfriend. (For the sake of this blog and any future one's he will be known as Zondry.) There we were, Zondry and I, scrambling eggs with broccoli and mustard greens in olive oil. The night before we had done some mild one or two day shopping of must have items: A couple of pears and oranges.; a big clove of garlic and a large onion; some odd greens like cilantro, mustard greens, and chard; carrots and lean chicken breast.

I did very well. I jokingly wined about craving coffee. I gave total poker face when Zondry asked if I had a headache. I mustered up a smile (could have been a wince) and said..."No not really..." While thinking..."Nothing a little cup o' java couldn't cure!" He gave his signature "ha!" Which is this adorable nervous laugh he has after he knows more than someone else has actually revealed, when he doesn't know what to do with the dead air, when he feels like being polite and when he hasn't really been listening. It's actually quite cute. Adorable in fact. This toothy, airy, comforting, "Ha" that has just a linger of a sustained awww sound. He preps me on what to expect for the day with my hunger pains, headaches, and possible withdrawal symptoms. (What am I, a junkie?) He promises to cook my first dinner that night and have it waiting in the fridge when I come home from the night shift. (He really is that devoted to the diet)

I suffered that day. No matter how many pears or carrots I ate, my hangover stomach and caffeine headache just would NOT let up. But, I made it. I drank copious amounts of water. I didn't cheat. I didn't have a glass of wine from the three beautiful bottles staring me in the face from my kitchen. I made it home to grilled chicken over more mustard greens and asparagus sauteed with olive oil and garlic. It tasted like heaven and I loved it more because just the thought of Zondry brought his scent into my memory and the dish was peppered with Bond St. #9 cologne.

Day #1.
Mood Swings - 0.
Tired Level (0-10) - 8
Hunger Level (0-10) - 9
Cheats - 0
Cravings - 2 (Peanut Butter and Coffee)

Rainy Nights flood with Random Thoughts

The following is a small handful of random thoughts that came and went through my mind while on the clock Saturday night. It was raining and dismal and I longed for sleep and someone to hold me. I was also doped up on cold meds and a little foggy in the head. After several trips to and from my office the following is just some random things that I laid out into this post.

• When I was a very young boy I used to strum my toy guitar and sing Eddie Rabbit's "I Love The Rainy Nights." It used to be a party favor for my parents at adult gatherings. Like there was a string attached to my back and they would pull it and I would strum and sing..."I love to feel the rain on my face and the rain on my lips. You know it makes me feel good..."


• I know it sounds ridiculous and maybe even a little cra-cra. But, I am starting to believe that love is it's most real, raw, and true when it eats away at you causing small fits of rage, panic, arousement, anxiety, lust, jealousy. These coming and going by the hour or sometimes by the minute.


• Only a few short hours ago, one of my fellow male employees (a 22 year old immigrant who is heterosexual) asked me if I am scared that being gay may mean I will not have a family and will end up alone. Instead of questioning the origin of his curiosity, I answered the question as clearly, honestly and succinctly as possible. I said, "Absolutely! I am terrified. It is something I believe most people gay and straight are afraid of. However, I believe that gay people have to face everyday of their lives learning how to deal with the possibility of no family and living alone as well as cultivate their own idea and definition of family and loneliness."


• I find myself missing some of the most odd and specific things about my friends and loved ones. For instance, with Joely I miss watching her put on her lip gloss and the smell that seems to lightly lift from her handbag when she combs through it. I miss the Nurse's clean scent after he would take a very long and thorough shower. All freshly scrubbed and humid linen smell. I miss the smell of new car sometimes. Pretty much everyday when I wake up, I miss the smell of cleaner air and the smell of a large house rather than a tiny apartment. And right now, in this moment, I miss my new man's quick little "Ha!" laugh that he has after almost everything.


• Have you ever really sat down and praised yourself for your own personal growth? I hardly do it. I am sure we all should do it more often.

I Bow to The Queens

A few months back, I had an incredible "overheard" moment. I had arrived early (SHOCKER!) to a bar where my friends who are always late were planning to hang for the night. I knew no one, but it did not stop me from sliding my ’fatter-than-normal-lately’ ass on to a bar stool that stood at a cocktail table and quickly summon my server to bring me a Maker’s Mark on the rocks. Maker’s is something I have been drinking during these colder months. It’s nice, but too many can reek havoc the next morning. So, I generally switch to Stella as soon as I feel the bourbon buzz.
Next to my three-top cocktail table stood three boys. Although, they were all clearly over the age of 21, they were still boys. And not because of their ages, but because of what I overheard. Just to give you some visual perspective, they were all above average height, above average looks, and they all were plain and boring. Simple faces with simple haircuts (all with no variation from the other) on top of what clearly were simple minds.

In no particular order I heard things like this. (Embellishments and liberties have been taken...so roll with it.)
one boy: "I mean, I just don’t get it. Sure, I want to get married or have the right to. But the type of people that are standing up for it in the media are, like, fat lesbians, and bear daddies."
another boy: "I mean, let’s face it, it’s sort of the ugly, retarded types who want to get married. Or at least that is what it looks like. Is it mean that I just said that? I mean, you guys know what I mean, right?"
the third boy: "I totes know what you mean. (okay, so he probably didn’t say totes...but it makes the story sound oh so much better.)I just feel like there are, like, certain types of gay people. There’s, like, us. And other’s like us. And then there’s like, drag queens, and trannies, and lesbians. I just don’t get the drag queens?"
one boy: "I kinda don’t get it. I mean why can’t all gay people be more normal."

At this point, it is taking every muscle in my body to tame my tongue and lock my loud mouth. So, needless to say , I ordered another Maker’s Mark since I sucked the first one down in an attempt to bite my tongue. Chewing the straw made me drink it faster I guess. There were more things tossed around the conversation round cocktail table. Things about lesbians being "just different." There were more comments about how they love some drag queens but don’t get the others. Lots of talk of "normal." What the fuck IS Normal?

So, this is my shout out to the queens, the trannies, the ho’s, the movers and the shakers, and the button pushers, the ones who are out, the ones who are loud, the ones with bellys and hair on their chests. I fucking love you. I worship you. I idolize you. I sometimes dress up like you. I sing along to your songs. I learned how to lip synch because of you. My runway skills have gone from "Wha’ the F*K?" to "WOOOORRRRKKK!" I have scored some major free drinks because of you. I have met some crazy tranny chasers because of you. I have made friends with you. I have serenaded you. I have toasted to you and with you. I have given you jobs. I have fired you. I have dragged my ass out on my only night off to air kiss your beat face and watch you make dozens of happy homos that much happier and drunker (is that a word?). I bought your single. I celebrated your birthday. I walk proudly down the street arm and arm with you. You teach me to be unafraid. You teach me to hold my head up even higher than my arrogant ass thought I could. You make me realize what it takes to be yourself. You make it look so natural and you always look gorgeous to me! Fat, thin, goth, old school, dirty, sexy, cool, soft, sweet, singer, lipsyncher, performance artist, musician. Anyone with bravery and balls. (Literally and Figuratively)
You know who you are and you are BEAUTIFUL dammit! Despite what a table of 20-something, flat ironed, flat faced, thin browed, drab, grey, plain white T-wearin’, above average "Normal" gay BOY says!
You paved the way and still continue to do so.
I love you. I thank you.
You better work!!!

Pieces of Me

For instance, I want nothing more than a million little things with you in this very moment. I want to cry on your lap. I want to hear you sing. I want to throw popcorn in your face. I want my hair stroked by your hands. I want to slowly undress you. I want to swirl the hair on your forearms. I want to run really fast through Washington Square Park in a race. I want to take you to my favorite lil romantic wine bar. I want sleep for 12 and 1/2 hours waking up periodically to your elbow in my chin. I want you to complain about my hogging the covers. I want to push you to be more; to be better. I want you to challenge my intellect and my vocabulary. I want to know what Florida looks like with you. I want you to see beauty in the ugly of Iowa. I want to go shopping for you, with you, because of you. I want to fight at the jukebox. I want to hate Bjork...but I don't. You want to hate Kelly...but you won't. I want to gossip with you and judge all the boys that pass us by. I want your hand to fall effortlessly onto my thigh. I want my body to quiver when it does. I want to laugh, I want to kiss, I want to cry, I want to hold...even just your hand.

I will not be here waiting.
I will just be here.

I will not take these things for granted. I will only cherish and learn from all this that is bad and that is good.

Someday maybe...Someday maybe not.

Either way, in time it will bloom and grow and close up and start over again.
I will be here...if you will be. I will be here....Please be careful with me.

Breathe out the old...in the new...

At first I was afraid. I was petrified.

I ran to the nearest mirror. I inspected my nose hairs for any extra long strays. I tugged at a few of the bed head strands of my styled-to-look-messy hair. I made sure my shirt was tucked in to reveal my "new" ass. I gargled with my organic mouthwash. I shined my boots. I may have even dropped down and squeezed out twenty push-ups (like when we used to date) to give myself a freshly pumped look.

I came up the stairs to find that I was not afraid. My heart was not aching with every heartbeat as it had so many times before. My hear wasn't even racing. I was angry but confident. You were somewhere you shouldn't be. You were doing all the things you shouldn't do. But, poor you, you just can't stop. I was confident but angry. One could say I was maybe confidently angry. I may have been angrily confident. I am not sure how the combination of the two end up rationing themselves over my emotions. But, I was both. I was grace and power. I was tranquil and in motion. I danced around you with reckless abandon but with total control over my surroundings. I looked you in the eye and saw right through you. You are hallow. I wanted your heart to beat. I wanted your pulse to rise. You were in MY house...UNWELCOME.

But I remained a gracious host. A professional manager. My normal, flirty, happy-go-lucky, playful self.

I believe I breathed my very last high strung breath with regards to you. It was a tight breath but after I let it out, the amount of new, clean, fresh air that I let in carried me to new heights. Higher than you. Bigger than you. And yes, I will say it, BETTER than you.

I am so strong...right now!