I get angry because I care. I get mad because I believe in perfect harmony. Kalifornia may have finally squashed my inner fight for greatness. Oh well!
The cruise I went on was an awkward mix of frat dudes, old ladies, and Mormon families. While it was nice to spend time with a small percentage of my family, I felt claustrophobic surrounded by 34 blonde Mormons at the dinner table. Seriously, I counted every, single, disgusting one of them. One Mormon lady caught me looking at her and she shot me a look of judgement. She could tell I was a faggot just as easily as I could tell she was a religious nutjob.
My mom brought decorations for St. Patrick’s Day. She blew up beach balls and tossed them into the crowd during a very awkward dance contest. She really got the party started. Driving through Mexico and eating some real tacos were both highlights as well. Watching my niece play around was super duper fun.
After pulling into port in San Diego, it took me less than an hour to get hate-crimed. I had left the ship and gone to breakfast with my sister at an authentic Mexican food restaurant in Old Town. We were catching up on each other’s lives and gossip – the most juicy details of which I provided were, “… and he kept touching my arm and knee all night, so I felt a surge of bravery and initiated a kiss.”
I had just taken the last bite of the bestest chorizo and egg omlette when a man approached our table. He touched the top of the table in a hushed manner, much like a maitre d’.
“Pardon me, my family and I are trying to enjoy a quiet meal. Could you keep your voice down?” He cooed with stern professionalism. I thought he was the manager. I have a resonant “actor’s voice”, so perhaps I was a little loud, but I was also enjoying a meal with my family.
“You’re enjoying a meal with your family? Cool! Me too. This is my sister”, I was sarcastically friendly. Sorry, but if you’re going to take the time to tell me to shut up, you have to expect a tiny comeback. As he walked away from the table, it became apparent that it wasn’t my booming voice that was offensive.
“We don’t want to hear about your physical contact.” The words dripped out of the side of his mouth. Instantly, I knew I had been judged and convicted for being gay. Kalifornia passed Prop 8, so that means you get license to speak to me like a second class human.
I shouted, “Well sis, let’s change the subject and start talking about BASEBALL and PUSSIES!” I was on automatic pilot. My face became flushed, my heart sank. My rage made me sad and my sadness made me full of rage. I couldn’t see straight. (That was on purpose)
We paid the bill and left without further incident, but I couldn’t shake the hostility I felt. For many years, I have had a fully out and free life. I have always been secure in my gayness, even when I was surrounded by homophobia and in one sentence, this douche-bag dad had made me question myself. For a moment, he made me feel bad about my life. He made me feel like I was wrong for being myself. One of the worst things someone can do is make you second guess yourself. THAT is the crime that was committed. Fuck that guy.
Anyways…
I always enjoy seeing my old friends. I had some mini-reunions that were delightful, but how great can it truly be when you only have 30 minutes on someone’s lunch break to catch up. Time spent with my father figure is always tense, but I succeeded in helping him sign up for Facebook. My mom and I watched ‘Milk’ and ‘Sicko’. She loved them both. I ate a lot of Del Taco egg and cheese burritos, but they didn’t even feel the same to me. I feel like I’m in a vacuum whenever I’m in Kalifornia. Mental claustrophobia sets in and I don’t feel good about being back in town. New York is mos def my home.
I’m going to California the day after tomorrow. I’ll be there ten days. Here is a list of things that will happen while I am in my home state for the first time in almost a year and a half…
1. Prop 8 will be repealed and replaced with Proposition 69.
2. I will eat In & Out Burger and egg and cheese burritos from Del Taco everyday for every meal.
3. My two year old niece will get drunk and punch me in my mouth.
4. Arnold Schwarzenegger will adopt me and be my new dad.
5. The state’s motto will be changed from ‘The Golden State’ to ‘The Golden Child’ in honor of my return and the 23rd anniversary of Eddie Murphy’s hit film, ‘The Golden Child’.
Protesting Prop 8 is the new way to pick up guys. That’s what last night’s Prop 8 protest at the Mormon temple told me. Everyone made colorful signs and dressed in winter scarves with matching caps to meet outside in the cold air. As the group of an estimated 10,000 supporters of gay marriage marched down Broadway, passed Lincoln Center, and ended up in Columbus Circle we all huddled together tightly for warmth… and to touch butts on “accident”. We all chanted silly things that rhymed while everyone checked each other out. If you can’t flirt AND stand up for equal rights at the same time, then what kind of gay are you?
The organizers of the event told everyone online what type of signs to make. They warned to stay away from the polygamy argument, the warned to stay away from attacking religion, they warned to keep the message positive in order to unite and “take the higher road”. Originally, I was gonna make a sign that was very Latter Day Saints specific – “L.ITTLE D.UMB S.HITS” So, in an ironic twist on words in the Bible and the Book of Mormon, I made a double sided sign quietly mocking religious opponents of gay marriage.
For those religiously unaware, “Jesus wept” is the shortest verse in The Bible. I think Jesus would weep about the current state that this civil rights cause has reached. Plus, I always like using The Bible against Biblebeaters. Lord knows, I have a ton of knowledge on the subject since I went to Christian and Catholic Schools for most of my life. Clinging to stories from the past and not bothering to think for yourself certainly seems strange to me. Not nearly as strange as The Book of Mormon who was written by the “prophet” Joseph Smith. This guy took some shrooms and tripped out in a forest and wrote down everything that Jesus “told him”. The phrase “And it came to pass…” starts thousands of “verses” from the Book of Mormon (“And it came to pass this““And it came to pass that”), so naturally, I wanted to take a jab at them while trumpeting the message of gay marriage.
After we gathered at the entrance to Central Park, everyone sort of stood around and check out each other’s signs. I wish someone was there to give out prizes for best signs. I think I could have been a serious contender. My favorite was either the black lesbian that said “Should we sit on the back of the bus too?” or one young, hot gay that said “I didn’t ask him to “civil union” me!” We had brought noise makers to shake while we marched in the streets so we stood around and shook them.
My gaggle of gays and I got hungry, so we walked down 9th Avenue, the gayest street in Gayville, and ate at Vinyl, the gayest restaurant in Gayville. I didn’t want my sign anymore, so I discarded it on a pile of cardboard underneath an Ipod Nano ad. GAY! I would’ve felt bad for leaving it there, but the protest was a little underwhelming in energy. It’s great that there were 10,000 people there, and I LOVE IT, but I couldn’t help but think that there is much more passion in California over this right now.
On the way to the train, we stumbled on a liquor store that still had a Hillary for President sign in the window. Wow. How steadfast.
I’m going to go look at the Missed Connections on Craigslist now to see if anyone from the protest wants to hook up with me.
Oh and here’s one last shot that I love from the protest. It’s a keeper!
Today, I stumbled upon a website that lists the donors of both sides of the Prop 8 campaign. I hope these people google their name someday and find my blog.
BAD GUY LIST
Brett Stohlton of Newport Beach, CA donated $2,000 in support of Yes on Prop 8. Brett is a dork.
Steve Keithly of La Mirada, CA donated $3,000. He works at Whittier Mailing Products and fucks cows.
La Dorna Eichenberg of Newport Beach, CA donated $10,000. She works for Ellison Educational and she eats her own poop.
Alan Anderson of Laguna Beach, CA donated $30,000 to take gay’s rights away. He is employed by South Coast Healthcare Management and kills babies.
Robert Hurtt Jr. of Garden Grove, CA gave $250,000 to give to a campaign that singled out one type of person and took their rights away. Robert Hurrt Jr. cannot get an erection.
GOOD GUYS
Jeff Cook is a student at Cal State Fullerton. He was able to give $100 dollars to No on Prop 8.
Kevin Rowe is a student at UC Berkeley and he gave $100 in support of gay marriage.
Gordon Babst goes to Chapman University. He was able to spare $100 to support equal rights.
Something is seriously wrong with this picture. Why is it that people who have more money get to say what’s right. Why do they have a louder voice? For every stupidface like Robert Hurrt Jr., you have to find 2,500 poor students who are willing to donate for equality. It makes me very, very sad.
Rude Guerrilla Theater Company, my home base theater in California where I grew my artistic roots, has made an ad against Proposition 8, which is a measure on the 2008 ballot to end same-sex marriage. It’s a great ad, I suggest you pass it around, especially to anyone voting in California.
I saw this photo on a friend’s blog, who also found it on another blog. I am hoping, that by posting it on my blog, it’s message will continue to be spread. As Ellen, everyone’s favorite lesbian, said so simply to John McCain, “…blacks and women did not have the right to vote. I mean, women just got the right to vote in 1920. Blacks didn’t have the right to vote until 1870. And it just feels like there is this old way of thinking that we are not all the same. We are all the same people, all of us. You’re no different than I am. Our love is the same.”
Exactly.
I mean, as a gay man, I still don’t get what being a transexual is all about, but have I ever judged them or thought that they were less of a human than myself? Nope. Would I let a transexual get married to whoever they love? Yes. Would I let a transexual make fat jokes about me and talk about my momma? No. I would throw a stale apple fritter at her face and, in turn, they would pull out a ghetto shank and threaten to cut me, so I would call the cops and….*
I digress.
I just truly don’t understand what the big deal is about gay marriage! Let people marry people! I have yet to hear a good argument against gay marriage. I only hear… “because it’s between a man and a woman” or “it ruins the sanctity of marriage” or “because marriage is for pro-creation” or McCain’s response, “We just have a disagreement.” So unapologetically vague.
How is a ceremony that is a symbol of love only between a man and a woman? How is the sanctity of someone else’s marriage being ruined if two ‘mo’s want to celebrate their own idea of sanctity in their own relationship? How is marriage only designed to pop out some babies when there are millions of kids without parents? I think the only answer here is fear – fear to accept that gays are the same as straights in every capacity except for who they are attracted to.
Does it all come down to how gays fit in the religious backdrop of America? I’m not sure. Do we have to go through the old, tired song and dance of “Being gay is a choice!!!!” vs. “You’re just born gay!!!!” Maybe. Until everyone understands that being gay is just the same as being white, being black, being asian, having blue eyes, having freckles, etc. etc. et-mofo-cetera, then our country is at a moral stand still. I am hopeful that the youth of today will help spearhead reform in the direction of acceptance. I might not be a huge fan of religion, but I am a huge fan of love. A friend of mine’s Facebook profile says “Religious Views = Love“. Simple and beautiful.
Being gay is the last thing in America that the general public thinks it is OK to be prejudiced towards. Could America get away with denying these rights to blacks? No. Is it alright to make fun of developmentally disabled people? No. Can we get away with sexually harassing women in the work place? No. Would you point and laugh at a really fat girl? No, but you might think about it. Would you take your stupid, dirty, Hasidic landlord to court? Yes, and I would love every minute of it.
By the time I woke up the day after Christmas, I had decided that the next time I go to California will be because I have to go for some entertainment industry type of something or other. Lying coiled up in the pink blankets in The Princess Room, I realized that I only had about 26 hours left on the sun soaked West Coast, and that I wished I had a fast forward button on my life. Instead, I woke up, ate a tasty breakfast, packed my things, and headed out the door to see ‘Juno’ with my dad. It has become our tradition to see a movie every time I visit. It’s great to have a new tradition with pops, but I loathe that the tradition is sitting in a dark room, watching actors do the talking instead of ourselves.
I had planned on going to lunch with him, but we ran out of time since he was dealing with an ebay issue all morning. Looking for an opportune time to speak to him about my daddy issues proved difficult since there is never an opportune time. He puts on a good show with each visit these days. I wish I could base my opinion of him solely off of his behavior when I see him once or twice a year. He’s a blast when I am not thinking about…the past? Did I really just write that fucking sentence? Hop on Pop.
Anyway, while I was able to pull Sheree aside at one point early into my trip, before everything got too Jerry Springer, and apologize for punishing her ever since she was over-the-top rude to me on a certain occasion, I was unable to have a similar conversation toward amends with daddy dearest. I guess apologizing comes easier than forgiving.
After the sincerely enjoyable movie, we went to my great friend, Keith’s, fancy bistro. For the past several years, I have hosted a holiday party called Spectacular Spectacular. It has been a huge, fun get-together for my friends and even some of my family. This year, I didn’t really do the PR or the organization for it and no one really inquired. A good handful of my camp friends had dinner and after most of them left, Keith and I had some drinks. Daddy Dearest said goodbye with a hug and said, “Email me sometime, even if it’s to say bark at the moon and die.” The last time I did that, we didn’t speak for a year and a half. What’s the point? If he isn’t willing to talk and I am not willing to forget, then that’s a cat’s game – no one wins. My mommy drove me, Keith and my other besty, Eric, to our other friend’s house. 30 years old and my mommy is driving me to a party.
…. 30 years old and my mommy is driving me to a party to play Flip Cup. Living 3,000 miles away from people who used to be your closest friends really is sad. I miss them on a daily basis, but when I go “home”, it seems that everyone has moved in different directions, people who used to be friends with each other are now enemies, and my tummy starts hurting. I dressed up as Santa again for a grand entrance. Danielle said, “I love when you come home, you bring such a great energy to the house!” In my mind, I wanna pick up right where we all left off, but sadly, that is not reality. I feel disconnected and I can see the same disconnection in the eyes of others. I am sure we all have deep love for each other and our past friendships, but not even a marathon game of Flip Cup, or a rented Santa costume, can patch up the distance I feel growing in my friends. Not even just with me, with each other. They are all great people, I wish everything was perfect. I wish I had a time machine. I wish for three more wishes.
I was only able to hang out for a couple hours before I had to have my mommy pick me up so I could get enough rest to get up and pack in the morning. Before I left, I was able to re-connect with a friend who hadn’t been returning phone calls to me. We’re both insane, so I knew it would end up working out without much discussion. Justin made me a mix CD, Mark hugged me, I grabbed Coco’s boobs, Keith touched me in a naughty place, Danielle made me a fancy drink, and Amanda and I laughed at each other – a few moments of “how it used to be”.
The next morning consisted of a rushed shower, a rushed packing job, and a rush to the airport. I had overslept. My mom always cries when we pull up to the “This zone is for immediate loading and unloading of passengers only” area. This time was particularly tear drenched, because I had made it pretty clear I didn’t plan on returning to California for some time. This time, I think she understood why.
The flights back to NYC weren’t as awful as the trip out. An hour and a half delay in Cincinnati gave me some time to reflect. No matter how much I want everything to be perfect and harmonious, like my mom’s dream of a Norman Rockwell Christmas, it’s just not going to be perfect. The perfect part has to come from the inner acceptance that everything isn’t perfect, that I should expect the imperfections… and laugh at them, to ride through the turbulence, and then life would be closer to perfect. Perfect. I just said “perfect”, like, 100 times. Whatever. I don’t care. I’m not perfect. Neither is my dad, or my crazy grandmother, or my friends who hate each other now.
Perfection is overrated. Imperfection is more interesting.
No strip clubs. My brother passed out at a friends house and Sheree begrudgingly went to pick his hungover ass up and visit our granny since she had decided that she wasn’t going to go down to San Diego to my dad’s house for Christmas. Once my mom’s house was clear of people, my mom and I slept all day to catch up on the rest we lost out on from the shamble of the night before. Once my mom woke up in the afternoon, she was pissed. She was too tired before to have any emotion, and now she was angry and crying. Since it was clear to me another day had been ruined, I went to T.G.I.Friday’s with my friends Maggie, Corey, and Taffy. Nothing cures familial dysfunction like a nice plate of jalepeno poppers with your family of friends.
The next day, my mom, her friend Renee, and I packed up the Saturn Vue and headed down to San Diego. My mom and Renee dropped off their stuff at a motel next to a Hooters and we met my brother, Sheree, my dad, my stepmom, and of course my adorably perfect niece, Madyson at El Torito. We went to dinner there for Christmas Eve because “tonight is a big deal for Mexican families to go out to dinner. El Torito will be open late.” My brother and Sheree were on their best behavior – all smiles and laughter. My dad was an outgoing and likable personality. My mom and Renee promptly ordered margaritas. I followed suit and attached a rum and coke to my lips as to shield myself from the plastic vibe.
Dinner was full of the standard questions – “How is New York?”, “Are you still liking your job?”, “How’s the theatre stuff going?”, “Where are you living?”, “Do you like it?”, and the classic “When will you be moving back?” After our cheery dinner, the perfect couple packed up the toddler and went home to put her to bed. Thankfully, everyone had a nice coat of booze in them, so when the bitchfest immediately turned to the topic of my brother and Sheree, it was done in a lighter manner than the weight of the situation. At this point, I am so bored of the drama with the golden couple that I zoned out and started watching whatever football game was on the big screen TV in the bar…at a motherfucking El Torito… on Christmas Eve.
My stepmom went home to clean up the guest room, which has been dubbed ‘The Princess Room’ on account of the pink doilies, pink stuffed animals, and pictures of my niece with Disney princess picture frames. Naturally, I would be sleeping in this room. Now, there were only four people left at Christmas Eve dinner.
My dad loves to blame my mom’s side of the family, The Hurleys, for any sort of angry fight that emerges throughout the years. “That’s the Ol’ Hurley Temper showing through!” He likes to contrast The Hurley’s to The Marx’s by saying how the Marx’s are “peace, love, let it be… you don’t see us hitting each other!” I am quick to interject on this subject – “I wouldn’t say The Marx’s are peace and love. They may not be physically hitting each other, but at least The Hurley’s communicate in someway.” We all agree that both sides of the family have a alcohol problem running through it and that possibly both sides have landed on my brother’s face. I thank the gene pool for giving me the fun, gay genes and not the boring, straight, beer guzzling, bad relationship, Jerry Springer genes. Somehow, mention of my brother’s neighbor comes up.
DAD: Some girl wants to have a threesome with your brother and Sheree. ME: Yes. I heard all about it. MOM: What? DAD: Some neighbor girl keeps hitting on them. MOM: What? RENEE: Do you think Justin would do it? ME: Of course, it’s every straight guys fantasy to have two chicks. MOM: Wait. What? DAD: So, threesomes aren’t a gay guys fantasy? ME: Nope, that’s just a regular Friday night. MOM: I need another margarita.
Soon after, dad and I went to his house. Mom and Renee went to visit a local Marine bar to say ‘Merry Christmas’ and spread some holiday cheer before heading back to their motel. They asked me if I wanted to go to Hooters. Absolutely not. I want to go straight to my dad’s house and go to sleep in ‘The Princess Room’.
Waking up on Christmas morning at dad’s was a new experience. Usually, I am at my mom’s house, but since our entire family schedule had to be adjusted to Sheree’s work schedule, we all fluctuated plans. I didn’t care too much, but I know the change was an interesting difference for my mom. At least, she got out of having to drive my dad’s sister and mother (my boozy aunt and racist granny) up from Orange County. Instead, my dad and I made the trip up there, since they were not coming down there. Granny is probably my least favorite family member. She is always negative, quick to judge, and very vocal about all her opinions on black people, mexicans, and gays. During my last visit, she told me how she used to be such a fan of Clay Aiken. She isn’t anymore because “it’s such a shame about him being gay. He used to be so talented.” This is amazing to me, since, even though The Marx’s refuse to talk about it, everyone knows I am gay! Hellloooo! She greeted me with the following exchange…
GRANNY: Merry Christmas! Look at how handsome you are! ME: Thanks grandma. Merry Christmas! GRANNY: You have any girlfriends yet? ME: Now, why would I have a girlfriend? GRANNY: I’m sure you have to just beat them off of you! ME: Oh, I’m beating off, that’s true. GRANNY: You have so many girlfriends, I bet. ME: Yup. They come over and we do each other’s hair.
After that, I was particularly excited to give her my present. For her gift this Christmas, I framed this picture and told her it was my boyfriend. I also gave her a children’s book on Martin Luther King Jr.
Let me just take a minute and dissect this wonderful piece of film. First, I love that she says “Who ‘dis?” when she opens the box. Her blank stare directly at me after I reveal to her who ‘dis’ is more than I could have asked for. After a second and a half of stone silence in the room, my aunt puts something shiny in front of granny to shield her from the bomb I just dropped. Granny grasps immediately at the shiny distraction. The ho-hum conversation about the cute angel figurine provides the brilliant backdrop for my granny to grab another silent stare towards myself and dart a glance towards my father off camera before returning to the angel in her hand. Nothing else was ever said of the gift. My aunt pushed the book and the framed picture under the sofa.
Somehow, my aunt talked granny into coming down to San Diego for the rest of the day, even though granny complained that she didn’t want to go. Now, my mom and stepmom, who try to hide from granny as much as possible, were in for a real surprise! Granny is coming after all! My dad, his sister, and his mom and I all packed up the PT Cruiser, harnessed the reindeer, and readied the huge sack of gifts to bring back to the unexpected. My aunt asked me about my recent trip to New Orleans for Thanksgiving and where I might go for next Thanksgiving. I told her my friends and I were trying to decide between Amsterdam and Berlin. When she asked me what the “selling points” were to each one, I said that “Berlin has cheap ecstasy, but Amsterdam has amazing pot.” After that, the car ride got very long and very silent. As soon as we arrived to my dad’s house, where everyone was waiting, I quickly changed into the Santa Claus outfit my mom had provided. It was nice to slip into a character in the midst of a family trying to hobble together a community theatre production of ‘Christmas’.
I am not sure what my favorite part of this video is yet. It’s either my mom trying to film it sideways or the fact that I just realized my stepmom has framed and mounted giant starfish on the walls of the living room. My brother dressed in an elf costume. I tried to talk him into wearing the green and red tights that went with it, but he refused. “It won’t make you gay”, I told him, but he still wouldn’t do it. Instead, he wore red and green feather boas around his legs. Hmmm. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, I suppose. We tormented our granny again too.
Time for Crabfest 2007! We had giant crab legs for dinner along with a feast of different casseroles, tamales, and more rum. Every year we get to be subjected to a relentless diatribe about how much Sheree hates crab. “The smell makes me barf!”, “I can’t even look at it!”, “That is sooo disgusting!” Seriously, shut up. We get it! You hate crab! You hate something that you never even tried! Message received! Now be quiet, for once, and let everyone else enjoy it! God, it’s so hard to try to like her. Her mouth doesn’t give you the opportunity and honestly, if this is an element of the annual holiday visit that is going to be consistent, I am gonna have to start doing alot harder drugs than just the pot cookies I brought. Instead, I took pictures at the dinner table with my awesome stepsister.
Oh yeah, at one point, I had to help my mom’s friend Renee, who had passed out on the toilet. My mom and I were like a team of sorority sisters helping our pledge go lay down in The Princess Room. Renee’s shoe fell off on the stairway and she exclaimed, “Oooh I am Cinderella!” I told her not to eat a whole cookie. Oh well.
After dinner, I hit up the makeshift wet bar my dad had set up on the washer and dryer. Nothing but the classiest for The Marx’s! My mom had tapped out from Christmas two nights ago, so she took her thankless assignment of carting granny and my aunt back to The OC. My mom always wants to have a perfect, Norman Rockwell Christmas and I feel bad that it never happens. She was very sad all week over my brother being a temporary idiot and Sheree sinking her teeth into everything, everywhere. I think next year, my mom and her friends should come to NYC for Christmas! Rockefeller Center, The Rockettes, and gay bars on New Year’s Eve would be a welcome change.
Our assorted guests – a silent marine, a religious nympho, another gay dude, and a friend of my stepsister – had left awhile ago. My brother and Sheree took the cutest kid in the universe home, leaving my stepmom, stepsister, father and I alone to try to play that DVD game, Scene It. We couldn’t figure out how to work it and got bored. My dad got on the computer to look at some ebay crap while my stepsister fell asleep. I went to The Princess Room and watched the rest of season two of ‘Weeds’ on iTunes. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
“No blood. No police. No crying.” – Quote from my most recent blog entry.
Well, well, well…
Let me get all ‘Pulp Fiction’ on you for a moment and start at the end. We partied two days early because of my brother’s girlfriend’s work schedule. Here is the opening scene from my mom’s attempt at an early Christmas Eve celebration. Fade to black…
One of my best girlfriends, Maggie, and I were watching videos I took in New Orleans. She accidentally clicked on a video of me masturbating. We laughed. At the peak of our drunken laughter, Sheree, my brother’s girlfriend came running into the kitchen.
“He just punched me in the face! Someone has to go and get him! He’s leaving! They said if I didn’t want to party with them that they could find some other girls to party with! He hit me! My face!”
Maggie went to console Sheree. I walked outside just in time to see my brother and his friends speed away. I came back inside to Sheree crying and holding her bloody lip, saying “I should call the cops! He fucking hit me! He’s lucky the police aren’t on his ass right now!”
Fade to black… again.
The afternoon was spent playing with my niece, Madyson. She is a very pretty little girl and she knows it. She is 16 months old and plans on auditioning for ‘America’s Next Top Model’ next season. Seriously, check out how adorable she is when she hugs the baby doll in this next video.
That baby carriage looked like so much fun that I wanted to give it a try.
My mom’s best friends, Sandy and Renee, drank champagne and ate shrimp cocktail with me. We tried to sing the ‘Winnie the Pooh’ song, but couldn’t remember how it went. We opened some gifts, talked about movies, and watched my mom finish the other half of my cookie. Party on, mom! I got very emotional about some gift certificates to my favorite mexican fast food, Del Taco. It’s like Taco Bell without the rats and the burritos are made by real Mexicans, not bitchy black girls like they are in NYC. Sandy explained the benefits of gift certificates to my niece – “It’s just like money! You grab it and spend it!”
The maintenance guy from my mom’s apartment complex came over dressed in black slacks and a white turtleneck. He reeked of oddness, and not the funny kind, the annoying kind. I assumed that my mom invited him over, for whatever reason, but turns out he was just a weird party crasher. I get to travel 3000 miles to spend Fake Christmas Eve with this nutball? He was a tiny, nerdy man who told bad jokes – “What character from the Bible works in real estate now?” After a moment of silence from the crowded room, he answered, “Noah, because his investments always stay AFLOAT”. Another beat of silence. Then, my niece started doing something cute that everyone could look at instead of interact with The Maintenance Guy.
While I was in New Orleans last month, I bought a baby mammy doll for Madyson. I have unofficially, and without ceremony, dubbed myself Captain Cultural Expansion with regards to gifts for Madyson. She has many pretty, white princesses and visions of blonde Cinderellas everywhere. Her mammy doll was about 9 inches tall. I had bought an additional mammy doll for myself, just over a foot tall, so we can play with our dolls together. You know, little sister/big sister mammys, or mother/daughter mammys, or prison bitch/bull dyke mammys – whatever our imaginations would conjure up. Part of the reason I got the gift was so my Racist Granny would see it as it was revealed, however, Racist Granny pooped her pants, or something, so she didn’t make it to the festivities.
When Madyson opened the doll, her reaction was delightful. Watch her eyebrows!
After Madyson plowed through her gifts, the adults started opening some of our stuff too. My mom got me an awesome scarf, new pajamas, and the yearly tradition of new socks. I never buy socks throughout the year because I know Santa Mommy will always come through with socks. Yes, my mom signs all the gifts to me and my brother ‘From Santa Mommy’.
My brother and his girlfriend got me a bitchin’ black and white Harajuku Lovers manbag. I have been looking for some sweet-ass Harajuku Lovers shit on ebay, but hadn’t found anything perfect. Well, this manbag was perfect. My friend Maggie came over (who ended up giving me an amazing Harajuku Lovers wallet) and we gabbed and gabbed and gabbed. Mostly, I talked about how much I love Harajuku Lovers crap.
Notice how much I love my manbag? Also, notice how my mom has decorated her stuffed tiger and dressed him in a santa hat?
After the manbag, pretty much everything went downhill.
My mom had started to really enjoy my cookies and kept misplacing her champagne glass. Uncle Dirty started drunkenly wrestling invisible polar bears on the lawn. Sandy got a phone call from somebody, started crying and left. My brother tried to force everyone to take shots of tequila with him. My brother’s friend, ‘Swifty’, made the following comment to Sheree – “I’ve beat up girls way fatter than you.” That poor choice of wording was the beginning of the end.
Sheree, like a verbal Rottweiler, wouldn’t let this go. She was super drunk, as was everyone else except me and Maggie, and her bark was deafening. Her verbal daggers shot all around the apartment complex. Her anger expanded from ‘Swifty’ to include my brother since he wasn’t “sticking up for her”. So now she has her anger hooked into my brother, which of course flares up their unresolved issues (a list a mile long and I don’t have time right now to list it because I have a flight I need to catch this Thursday). My brother and his hammered friends all decided to tease Sheree and say they are going to a strip bar. She flipped and pushed my brother. He pushed her back. She scratched his neck. He punched her in the face.
One of my best girlfriends, Maggie, and I were watching videos I took in New Orleans. She accidentally clicked on a video of me masturbating. We laughed. At the peak of our drunken laughter, Sheree, my brother’s girlfriend came running into the kitchen.
“He just punched me in the face! Someone has to go and get him! He’s leaving! They said if I didn’t want to party with them that they could find some other girls to party with! He hit me! My face!”
Maggie went to console Sheree. I walked outside just in time to see my brother and his friends speed away. I came back inside to Sheree crying and holding her bloody lip, saying “I should call the cops! He fucking hit me! He’s lucky the police aren’t on his ass right now!” My mom asked her why he hit her and she said, “I don’t know! He hasn’t hit me since that time in Vegas!”
Serious. She said that. You can’t make this shit up.
My mom had fallen asleep in her bedroom and came running out to see what happened. Maggie and my mom tried to calm Sheree down while I attempted to call my brother. No answer, of course, and we were all left to wonder where they all went. Luckily, my niece had went to bed awhile ago and was sound asleep. Maggie left as soon as possible and I walked her out to her car, thanking her for a wonderful time and made less dramatic plans with her for the next day.
I slowly fell asleep on a lumpy pullout sofa while I heard my mom crying in one room and Sheree crying in another. I fell asleep with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head as I tried to focus on my Harajuku Lovers gear.
I can’t wait for Real Christmas Eve! I haven’t even seen my father yet! Where did my brother go? Will there be a Christmas miracle? Will my mom stop crying? Do we need to go to the store to buy more boxes of wine?
50 bucks says we don’t even talk about the issues at hand and instead we all will focus on how adorable Madyson is…. thank goodness we have a baby to divert our problems! Maybe I should get a baby!
There’s nothing worse that I hate than flying during the holidays.
I was out the door at 4:30am. The first flight, NYC to Washington D.C., was delayed, but I didn’t notice too much since I was zombified. The second flight, Wahington D.C. to motherfucking ATLANTA, had two of the sauciest little sky queens I have ever seen. The two Mary’s took turns servicing me with headphones and keeping me stocked up with bloody mary’s. I decided against the pot cookies because I didn’t want to be tired upon arrival. I wanted to be drunk.
The Atlanta airport was a brand new experience for me. What a pit-hole – crowded trams, switched gates, broken escalators, duty free kiosks, and an overwhelming amount of nicely dressed Mexicans drinking Starbucks. My flight had a “change of equipment” and had to have their “seating charts re-arranged”. I knew this meant there could be a danger of having to fight for my aisle seat. Sure enough, when I presented my boarding pass, which said I had an aisle seat, the computer re-issued me a ticket for a middle seat.
In times like these, I have to rely on my powers of improvisation.
ME: I need to mention that I have severe claustrophobia and I cannot sit in the middle seat on a plane. How can we fix my seating assignment? THEM: There are no more seats. ME: I had booked an aisle seat five months ago due to my condition. THEM: Ask someone to switch with you. ME: And if that doesn’t work? THEM: Talk to the flight attendant on duty.
The first flight attendant I saw on the plane was a 46 year old-ish, chemically treated blonde. By sight, I could tell that her favorite hobbies included voting Republican and applying eyeliner. I went through the whole routine with her. She sighed and, in a well polished, fake caring tone, she said, “I’m surprised you fly at all!” Bitch! Kudos for sounding like your being professional and interested in my well being, but actually cutting me down. I hate you, but congratulations. She recommended that I speak to Marny, “the large woman with a big personality” who is “taking care of the guests who are seated where you will be sitting.” Wow, a casual mention of how I will be sitting there – a decent attempt at a Jedi mind trick. Bitch was gooood!
I met Marny and put on another consistently brilliant performance, making sure it seemed I was trying to be discreet about my “medically diagnosed claustrophobia” while I was just loud enough so everyone could hear me. The only only seat open was a window next to a 6 year-old boy and his rigid looking mother. Marny asked her to slide over. Miss Rigid had the nerve to say SHE had claustrophobia! She said if she sat by the window, the ceiling “would be too close” and make her feel “closed in”.
ME: I am a foot taller than you and weigh 300 pounds. You think it’s going to be less severely claustrophobic for me? HER: I just can’t physically do it. ME: I just can’t physically or emotionally do it. HER: I can have my son move over to the window seat. You can have the middle. ME: The middle seat definitely won’t work. HER: Well, I don’t know what to tell you. ME: I know what to tell YOU! MARNY: Do you think you can handle the window seat? ME: I can try. I just took my paxil, so maybe it will be OK. I hope this compromise works…. it didn’t last time I tried.
I then made a big deal about squeezing by the mother and son. I expanded my body to seem fatter and purposely bumped my elbows and forehead all over the place. Once seated, I made a big show of unzipping my jacket and taking it off. After struggling with the seatbelt and breathing irregularly, I felt satisfied that I made a valiant effort to reclaim my aisle seat. I hadn’t sat next to the window in forever, and with the small size of the kid, I actually had plenty of room.
A young hippie couple seated in front of me smiled and offered me a Valium. They were my new best friends! The had a little hippie baby whose name was Parker and we chatted about out favorite flavor of cocktails (they are whiskey fans, I am a rum guy). They were delightful and cared about my unfair predicament… not enough to give me their aisle seat of course. But hey, free prescription meds!
Ms. Rigid was eagerly looking out the window as we prepared for take off. I closed the shutter on the window, blocking her view, and started watching season two of ‘Weeds’ on my ipod. If she was in charge of the aisle in the aisle seat, I am in charge of the windows in the window seat. She was bugged and didn’t speak to me the rest of the flight. Marny made a big tah-do on checking on me and gave me free booze the rest of the flight. She was a stern but gentle-hearted southerner. We chatted by the restroom while I took a stretch break. We talked about reality TV, airplane technology and the cunt with the sparkly attitude I encountered when I first started my plea for an aisle seat.
ME: She wasn’t too helpful. MARNY: I bet. She’s new with this crew. ME: She told me to speak to Marny, the large lady with a big personality. MARNY: Oh did she? ME: Yeah, I mean, you’re tall, but I wouldn’t use the word ‘large’. MARNY: Very interesting. ME: And your personality is aces to me. Thanks for helping me. MARNY: You’re welcome. Another rum and coke?
I hope I laid the foundation for a bitch fight on board the next flight between the two of them. That red state, aging beauty queen needs to have her teeth knocked in a little bit and I think Marny was just the lady to do it.
Anyway, I made it to The OC and went to my friend’s restaurant and drank a bunch. I spent the evening with some buddies from my old theatre company and two fo my best friends in The OC, Keith and Justin. So far, not too bad of a trip. No blood. No police. No crying.
Southern California is the setting for popular shows like ‘The OC‘, ‘Laguna Beach‘, ‘Newport Beach‘, and my favorite, ‘The Real Housewives of Orange County‘. My hometown is full of televised glitz and glamor. Tans, blondes, energy drinks, surfing, surfers, big houses, fast cars, and white smiles are partial ingredients to my big holiday vacation. They are really just the backdrop to what really can happen.
1.) Each visit home, I end up sitting in a sports bar with my dad wondering if the hot bartender knows how to make a proper apple martini. I usually just order a Guinness in an effort to ‘man up’ and listen to dad talk about the TV show ‘House’.
2.) A yearly trip to the Goat Hill Tavern, where the trendy decorator decided sawdust on the floor would perfectly accent the warm, pickled eggs they sell out of a 5 gallon glass jar. My friends will play pool while I devilishly play “Oops, I Did It Again” on the jukebox. I will watch jocks make out with bimbos all night while I keep a mental tally on which dudes would let me go down on them if I had access to a dark room and a six pack of Corona.
3.) My uncle, whose nickname is ‘Dirty’, might lick a cat butt again with the excuse “that pussy was standing under the mistletoe!” Uncle Dirty is funnier now that he is not on smack, but he still won’t say anything but ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’ to me in a cordial fashion. I love that his AA/NA whatever has allowed him to make amends to everyone but me. Better than yelling “Merry Christmas, you fat faggot!”
4.) On my dad’s side of the family, my racist grandmother and boozy aunt will need to be picked up and escorted to the family Christmas activities by my saintly mother who divorced my dad, their son and brother, ages ago. Since they both can’t drive, they each have an unlimited drinking license to inflict on the world around us. My grandmother will forget what her name is due to the dementia and ask me if I have “found a nice girlfriend in New York yet?” and if I am “still doing that acting thing?”
5.) Perhaps this year my brother’s girlfriend will show me her boobs for grocery money. She did it last year to my mom’s semi-creepy neighbor for 20 bucks. She seems to be slowly easing out of her major bitchiness, as am I towards her. I asked her to lunch this year to apologize for punishing her ever since she said “You don’t have to live with THAT” and thrust a bratty finger in my direction four years ago.
6.) My friends will have all broken up with their boyfriends or girlfriends. Since I am friends with all of them, this will be awkward for me to figure out who is allowed to hang out with whom, who is not talking to who, and how many who’s Horton actually heard. Eventually, there will be a party at someone’s house were everyone plays beer pong and listens to Sublime.
7.) I might try to explore the gay scene via internet in The OC, but last time I did that, I hooked up with an 18 year old version of myself and felt icky. I didn’t feel too bad until he asked me for a ride home and I had to explain to him that I don’t have a license and was planning on taking the bus home. We ate at Taco Bell and talked about the TV show ‘House’.
I wasn’t originally going to go home for Christmas, but then I figured why not. Everyone in NYC leaves. It’s a ghost town! So, this trip I plan on behaving like I would any other day, say what I normally would any other day, and get a few things off my chest….for better or for worse. That means I’m gonna get stoned, talk about how I want Jake Gyllenhaal to fuck the shit out of me, and finally tell some people exactly where I am in life and what I think of the world around me.
Bitter? Healthy? Freeing? Doom? Love? We’ll see. I leave the day after tomorrow. Let’s just hurry up and get it over with…
My flight left at 6am so I thought it would be a good idea to just stay up all night since I would have to leave my Harlem apartment at around 3:30am. Instead of resting and catching up on my DVR, I thought it would be a brilliant idea to go to 2-4-1 happy hour with a fuck buddy friend of mine. Twenty-two rounds later, we were back at his place, watching bad porn, and doing poppers. After dumping two more “rounds”, I had to stumble my way back up to Harlem, pack, and shower.
I have never traveled in an airplane while I was hungover. I wasn’t even sure if I was technically hungover, since I had never technically went to sleep. Flying is one of the most uncomfortable, exhausting hassles I ever go through anymore. I can never fall asleep. Even when I am hungover apparently. The movie on the flight was something with Mandy Moore and I thought I was gonna kill myself. Instead, I made a mini-barf in the restroom.
I got into town on my mommy’s birthday. I surprised her at work and took her out to In & Out Burger for lunch. Real fancy, right? Her idea. The perfect blend of melty cheese and fresh hamburger was exactly what my rum soaked insides needed. I took a three hour nap while mommy went back to work.
The next day, my friends had a pre-camp party in my honor. As we all know, I am unable to attend camp in a traditional sense this year because of a large douchebag situation going on there. So I got to see most of my friends the night before they all gallop off to camp where they will be making memories and have new, funny inside jokes with each other when they return. I bet they will be sad when I tell them my hilarious story of when I went to go see the new ‘Die Hard’ movie.
I passed out early at the party, but woke up at 5:19am to complete drunken chaos. Two dudes were trying to hook up with one of my hags. Someone else dry humped me and I felt their junk on my shoulder. There was another girl puking in the bathroom. I am pretty sure someone was fucking in the garage. Once everyone “slept” a little bit, we all went to The Shore House for a sea-side breakfast and bloody mary. Everyone went home to pack and head off to camp except me and my lover, Danielle (who can’t go to camp because she fell off a horse and had a blood transfusion in Arkansas – now her work won’t let her off). I went to dinner with Danielle while all our friends vanished up the hill to camp.
Now, I am passing time until my mommy’s birthday BBQ. Potato salad, drunk rednecks, country music, babies in the swimming pool, and a neighborhood handyman that mommy has instructed me to use my ‘gaydar’ on and find out if he is gay or not. I will probably be thinking of why Terrie, The Main Catholic Lady, hasn’t returned my calls or emails this week for the rest of the morning until I smell some homecooked hamburgers on the grill….and by ‘homecooked’, I mean, Uncle ‘Dirty’ went out and killed a cow.
Yes, I have an uncle…whose nickname is Dirty. Uncle Dirty.
This year’s Spectacular Spectacular was a complete delight. I wish there were more hours in the evening so that I could enjoy the greatness a little while longer. A ton of people from Re-Creation camp and a few from my old theatre company showed up. Tiffany’s, Eric’s, and Jill’s families were there too. My mom and her friends, my Aunt Tana, and even my father made a surpise appearance! Now that was truly spectacular.
I ate dinner early into the evening with Jill. She is one of my friends from summer camp. We were able to catch up on all the goings on with me in New York and also what her plans are for this years talent show at camp. We like to chat about “the biz” and our hopes and dreams for success. I want to write a movie. She wants to direct a movie. Sometimes I forget that she has down syndrome.
As the guests trickled in, Keith ‘Nice Guy’ Bennett kept me in good spirits by pouring good spirits into my glass from behind the bar. He had to bartend that night, but he always found time to chat with me in between his mixology. At one point, it seemed like everyone I had ever met in my life was at the party. I thought that would be a good time to change into my Christmas Tree costume. I think that was the turning point into debauchery.
Having a bottomless martini in my hands and wearing a Christmas Tree costume really is a sure sign that things are going spectacularly. We somehow found our way over to the Doty’s house for some post-party partying. About 30 of us were playing “Flippy Cup” on the ping pong table in the garage. I was surprisingly adept at this frat-like game. Each team took pictures of themselves when they would win. At one point, I grabbed my friend Colleen’s boob and fell backwards. Her deadpan response was, “This night has gone from happy to slappy”.
I remember some people getting into the Doty’s hot tub as it started to rain in the ealry morning hours. Magically, I ended up at Keith’s apartment where I promptly laid down to pass out. Then, just as magically as I had arrived there, I threw up everything inside me onto his new white carpet. Merry Christmas!
Nights like that remind me why I come home to visit. The group of friends I have here are amazing. Even though we may only be at the same place at the same time two or three times a year, it makes it worth the wait.
A taxi. A train. Another train. An escalator. An elevator. A shuttle bus. Almost a plane. The same shuttle bus again. The same elevator again. A plane. A Saturn VUE. Feet. These were the modes of transportation that I used in a 10 hour period yesterday while trying very hard to leave NYC and go to San Diego, CA.
Having arrived in the JFK airport with plenty of time and plenty of holiday cheer, I was quickly put at odds with the traveling plans of 17 million other travelers in Terminal 5. I saw that my flight to Washington D.C., which was where my connecting flight to San Diego waited, was delayed. Then it was delayed again. I was certain to miss the flight in D.C. The no-nonsense manager, Dasheeka, advised everyone that they MAY miss the connecting flight and to try to make alternate plans. The choices were 1.) Wait. Go tomorrow. 2.) Take the gamble. Maybe get stuck in D.C. or 3.) Switch to a different flight. If there are any available. This is where there should be reality TV cameras following me around wherever I go. Without a teammate, I departed on my own Amazing Race.
At the sight of being delayed a second time, I had broken down. I ate a holiday pot cookie and turned up my ipod. Thank god I did. The line was 2 million people long where Dasheeka stood helping people. She had explained to a small group of us in the back of the line the situation and we had all bonded since. No one was sure what to do. The decision was ours. It seemed that most people were looking for other flights. I forged ahead to the next customer service booth about 50 yards away. No line. Three people behind the counter. Score! My little group had followed me. We were now a unit. Two dumb blondes that were NOT pretty, two smart hippie boys that WERE pretty, a black gay guy, a stoner kid, and a loud Vietnamese lady who was clearly last behind all of us. We all wanted the same thing. But we were not going to all get it.
The Vietnamese lady pushed her way to the front. I laughed about her cutting to the two blondes. As we were laughing, I bumped her out of the way. A small asian lady is no match for my girth. I bounced her out of the line like a pinball. I was first. Ta-Dah! After much computer research, my customer service representative was able to find me a non-stop ticket to Long Beach. I said yes. He had to wait for managers approval to override the system. He got on the radio to call the manager over. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? Dasheeka, and eight tiny reindeer. I bid farewell to my “team”. I saw the stoner kid on my flight too, but I am not sure what happened to the others.
Once they had closed the flight, they launched into their demonstrations of how to use the seatbelts and what to do in an emergency. This is always amusing to me, and now that I was totes stoned, it was genius. As soon as it finished, they opened the doors again. In came a tirade of emotions. A crying lady, who had a baby attatched at her chest, and an angry husband. She was talking into her cell phone saying “Well, I don’t know, but when you pick us up in fucking Long Beach, you need to come yell at somebody because I’m tired”. She hung up the phone and they got settled into the last two remaining seats.
“Due to FAA regualtions, we will have to redo the safety demonstration for newcomers. Please bear with us.” The flight attendants and announcer then went through the exact same speech and actions. Only they were going ten times as fast. I almost peed my pants.
I landed in Long Beach, CA at 9:46pm. My bags landed in San Diego, CA at 10:21pm. I guess I should have just stayed on the original flight. But, if it had actually been The Amazing Race, I totally made the right decision.
This past July I found myself walking voluntarily into two of my own personal hells: A sports bar and a Babies R’ Us. Both of these occurances happened back home in The OC. Both of these occurances were documented through photos. Both of these occurances have been covered up by the gay government.
What does any family do on the Fourth of July? Go to “Sliders Sports Bar Home of 1,000 Games” of course. I was punched in the face by two million giant flatscreen TVs visually assaulting me with soccer, football, baseball, basketball, car racing, and even running. Just plain running! Why are people watching people run? It was like the Couch Potato Olymics. Greasy fat ex-frat dudes were throwing down ginormous mugs of Bud Light. The bar was dimmly lit and smelled a bit like cheesy nachos made with old leather shoes instead of chips. Everyone was dressed in their favorite team T-shirts, including dumpy wives with meatballs stuck in their mouths.
I immediately made a straight line to the bathroom. I was having an allergic reaction to this establishment and I needed to quickly inject myself with an antidote. Two shots of Captain Morgans Spiced Rum later, I was ready to acclimate. I took a pee pee and dove back into Straight Fest 2006.
After a meal of chicken wings and onion rings, we decided that we would take a family trip to the movies. First, we had to make a family trip to the liquor store. We made my brother’s pregnant girlfriend smuggle the goods into her oversized purse before we settled down to mix cocktails and watch “Superman”. She was bummed she had to stick to Diet Coke….A family that prays together stays together.
A few days later I went baby shopping with my mommy and my racist grandmother. They were shopping for baby clothes and highchairs. I was literally shopping for babies. We were at Babies R’ Us afterall. I can’t remember the last time I saw so many effing babies! They were everywhere! The store was a parade of young couples, grinning grandparents and confused single uncles from New York City.
I fashion approved the pink checkered high chair that granny bought for the upcoming baby shower. It really was the best high chair in the world. Even to my untrained baby eye, I could tell that hours of messy, burpy, food eating enjoyment would be birthed out of this chair.
Hours of food eating enjoyment for me include a steak dinner at Tavern on the Green.
I had just taken the last bite of the bestest chorizo and egg omlette when a man approached our table. He touched the top of the table in a hushed manner, much like a maitre d’.
