Antigeist

Even my dog doesn't bury the lead.

You've heard me rant about Dr. David Hager before, so I need not go into the dangers of mixing religious agendas and science. But I will point out that Bush (the #1 fan of religious agendas) has reappointed Hager as chair of the FDA (after extreme pressure from nearly every thinking human being on both the Right and Left NOT to do so), and then ask your opinion as to whether or not it's a coincidence the FDA (under Hager's guidance) has approved the medical use of leeches. As in, the slug.

57 Channels and nothing's on; my ass.

As a graduation present to himself and reward for a job well done*, G got us hooked up to the cable Tee-Vee. The digital ba-zillion channels caaaaaaaable TV. In the living room and the bedroom.

Screwed, are we.

To put it in perspective, our having cable is equivalent to a recovering alcoholic getting a job as a taster in a booze factory -- a trigger the susceptible should avoid. Which we have, for years, using the ungodly expense of cable as an excuse to abstain (while spending about eighty dollars a month renting movies and cable TV series). But it was never really about the money. It was always about the succumbing. The booty all sunk down in the couch still in your pajamas at dusk who wants to go to some shitty art show with your friends when there's a Slayer VH-1 Behind The Music re-run atrophy into nothingness. We knew the second the cable-guy handed over the remote it would sound the death knell for the last remaining hobbies we enjoy and our already laughable excuse for a social life.

Which it has already. But man, is it worth it. Have you seen the cable TV? I know the novelty will wear off and we'll socialize again, go back to sleeping at night, but until then it's all eye-bags, ordering in, and clicker-hand carpel tunnel around here. Seriously, have you seen the cable TV? There's like a million channels. I'll throw dinner parties when I'm old and sleep when I'm dead.

*a lie, a transparent justification, we just wanted the damn cable. But the job well done part is true: top ten of his class, Magna Cum Laude, a heap of awards (including one cash prize) for excellence... the list goes on kids, my man has mad smarts to spare.

I can't stop thinking about Tony. Wondering where he could be, who he is with, what is he thinking, is he thinking of me, and whether he'll ever return someday.

I dreamt about Tony last night. Why Tony? Beats me. I haven't seen or spoke to him in five or six years. We didn't have a falling out or anything. We were neighbors and friends, and then I moved, then he moved too, so we got together less, which turned into "We should really hang out soon" whenever we ran into one another at the grocery store or The Little (and never following through), and then I moved to NYC and we lost touch completely. That kind of thing.

But I'm so fond of Tony, even though we hated each other when we met. After we had been friends for a few years we were able joke about how irritating we found each other to be, but initially? --he rubbed me fifty wrong ways, and vicey-versey. The guy was impossible, tightly-wound and arrogant, the kind of person who states his opinions as facts and is impervious to any other points of view. Furthermore, he didn't have an 'edit' button and didn't care. He'd casually point out that monster zit on your chin, or give unsolicited advice on how to lose those extra pounds you've put on, or ask if you were drunk, high, or both when you decided upon your outfit. And even though his roots were in a white-trash semi-rural suburb, he assumed a bold air of superiority --he wasn't just another starving twenty-something arty-type trying to figure out what the hell to do with his life (like the rest of us), oh no --Tony was fucking deposed royalty, a poet, statesman, just waiting for the day his rightful ownership of the universe would be returned to him. To the point: he was my doppelganger, a taller, gay, male, me. So of course we couldn't stand each other at first, what with all the self-loathing brought on by having a dark little truth-mirror living next door.

I don't remember how we overcame our similarities and became friends. Part of it was my friendship with Tony's boyfriend B, and being neighbors, and being forced to share company, and be pleasant about it. But we didn't become close until I caught him making-out with a Hooters waitress on the hood of a muscle car.

The scene was disturbing, obviously, for a number of reasons. Before I saw them I heard them --the glass-pack on the Firebird they were driving nearly removed my windows from their casings. When I peeked behind the curtain to catch a glimpse of the fuck-wad revving his 450 in front of my house, I never expected to find Tony behind the wheel. Tony. My neighbor who publishes a queer zine with his boyfriend and chairs six different AIDS awareness/gay rights organizations Tony. Screaming up like Night Rider in skin-tight Levi's and a Black Sabbath concert jersey, with an acrylic nailed, booth tanned, big titted, bottle blonde stripper in tow.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It wasn't possible. It had to be a gag. He and B were always throwing extravagant theme parties, it must be 'come as a metal-head straight couple' night. Or...it's his sister. He said earlier that day he was going out to (aforementioned trash-burg I know well, as my entire family hales from there) to help his mother with something. His sister gave him a ride home, let him drive her car. He went incognito to throw the homophobe locals off his scent.

I had settled on the sister/in costume angle as I watched the girlthe door and get out --as demurely as one can wearing a six inch swath of lycra-- I was most certain about it in fact. Right up to the point where he rammed his tongue down her throat and started dry-humping her on the hood of the car.

I didn't see Tony for a few days after that, which was excruciating. But it gave me time to decide whether I should tell B his man is stepping out. Or back in. Whatever. Luckily I caught up with Tony at the mailbox and was able to confront him in person, "So hey, ah, who was that girl you brought home Sunday? Friend of yours?" He looked puzzled, then his face took on an "Oh!" He let me sit with the idea I had caught him for a few seconds, looking all sheepish and guilty. He started to tell me how, although he prefers someone with chest hair and a cock, he can dig on a little girly action now and again; but spilled the beans about his identical twin mid-way.

Our friendship started then, partly because he found my nosiness endearing, part because he had a pass to mock my idiocy indefinitely, and part because the box of wine we emptied telling stories on the porch that night.

Anyway, my dream about Tony isn't worth describing. He was just there while a whole lot of nothing was going on. My dreams are generally linear and terribly boring (I blame it on my subconscious's need for a break from all the neurotic over-thinking that consumes my waking hours). But his cameo made me wonder where he is, who he is with...

Two things about me: Child lover. Natural teacher.

Walking the dog, we approach Little Girl who barks loudly at us from her stoop:

LG: (stops barking) Hey, i'zat your dog?
Me: Yep.
LG: That's a big dog. Is it a girl or a boy?
Me: She's a girl.
LG: Oh.
Me: (start to walk away) Okay, well...
LG: I bet that dog bites. Do your dog bite?
Me: It depends.
LG: Oh.
Me: How about you?
LG: Me what?
Me: Do you bite?
LG: (shocked) NO!
Me: Never?
LG: (thinking) Well...I bit my brother once cuz he wouldn't leave me alone.
Me: I see. What was he doing?
LG: Bugging me in my room. Screaming and yelling. I told him to get out and he wouldn't.
Me: So you bit him?
LG: Not hard.
Me: Hmm.
LG: He's always messing with me. I hate it.
Me: He sounds like a real pest.
LG: He is. Everyday, it's like... I'm just sitting there and he starts bugging me. For no reason.
Me: He deserves to get bit, right?
LG: (laughing) Yeah.
Me: Kinda like little girls who, out of nowhere, just start growling and barking at a dog that's walking by minding its own business. They deserve to get bit too, huh?
LG: (runs inside)

Only two days left.

Welcome to day 5 of "People Who Feel Entitled To Appropriate Public Spaces" week. If you didn't get the memo (like me), consider yourself warned and/or invited to participate in the festivities.

PWFETAPS got off to a great start Monday morning when Id the main door of my building and found an elderly woman occupying the stoop, which is nothing unusual in itself. The 1st floor of my building is an office, so I frequently encounter people waiting for their appointments in the hall or on my stoop. When I do, we usually say "Good morning," or "Hello." However when Id the (locked) door that day, this old dear stood, glared, moved to the middle of the steps, spread her little frail being out as far as she could, looked left, looked right, and then looked left again, took a sideways step, glared once more, and grunted a Skeletor-meets-crossing guard go-ahead, "Okay, alright. I suppose you can go by now." I could have pointed out that I don't need permission to leave my own building, but because old folks make me spineless I ended up thanking her, repeatedly. I may be misremembering but I think I bowed at her as well.

Not two minutes later I arrived at subway turnstiles blocked by two unattended strollers with babies in them. I looked around for the parent(s), as did the growing number of people around me also unable to get through the turnstiles to the platform --at rush hour, as the train was pulling in the station. Our eyes found who we assumed (hoped) the kids belonged to: the two woman arguing with the station manager. Neither seemed particularly interested or concerned with the whereabouts of their children, nor the logjam their abandonment of them had created. The train reached the platform and a man behind me said, "C'mon! Just push the strollers out of the way." I began, "ooooOOh no. I'm not gonna..." but he cut me off, grabbed one of the strollers and rolled it to the side freeing up a single lane. However before he could swipe his MetroCard, a scream (I had predicted, and was in the process of warning him about) came from behind us. "No you DIDN'T just touch MY BABY! Where THE FUCK do you GET OFF thinking you can just MOVE other people's children? Who THE FUCK are you?" Now the babies and the women and the dirty baby-mover were blocking the turnstiles. The rest of us, about twenty, gave up. We stepped back to get a good view of the train pulling away.

The teen boys who occupy our stoop every night haven taken full advantage of PWFETAPS week. They've tripled in number, making it so we've been unable to listen to music or watch a movie (or any TV at all) since our stereo and television's volume do not exceed the decibel level of their shouts and pager beeps and endless debates on the topic of the taking of shits and blow jobs and who could kick who's ass along with other sundry themes which --although they would strongly protest are in no way homoerotic-- invariably involve the anus.

But I encountered the PWFETAPS master at the grocery store Wednesday. We arrived at an empty check-out lane at the same time, she with a cart full of groceries, me with a single 89¢ drink in my left hand and exact change visible in my right. Overcome with PWFETAPS spirit, she forced her cart ahead of me, slowly unloaded her tens of grocery items onto the conveyer belt, and then pushed past me again, this time to disappear back into the aisles to finish the rest of her shopping. She returned several minutes later with a second basket-full for the check out girl (who refused to let me leave the 89¢ with her because such a thing is "against store policy") to take an eternity to ring up, which she did, finally. Just in time for the PWFETAPS master to invent the most time consuming method of payment known to mankind. Evidently leaving exact change for an item is against my local grocery's policy, but forcing the check out girl to divide your bill in three so that you may pay part check, part cash, and the balance with store bonus coupons and a credit card, is not. Genius.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the rest of PWFETAPS week. And be creative! Try walking six abreast on the sidewalk so no one can pass. Find a way to take up an entire bench on the subway while remaining seated (with pregnant women and elderly people strap-hanging nearby) using nothing other than your limbs and a "Don't even THINK about it" scowl. Make sure you choose the most inappropriate place (the entrance to a business, or hospital) to have a lengthy argument with your lover. Save up a year's worth of banking transactions and do them all at once at the only ATM in a large neighborhood. On Friday. At six thirty. Make sure the world knows of your love for Fifty Cent, preferably at three in the morning. Because you're the center of the universe, baby. It's all about you.

I'd be posting more

If I weren't spending all my time getting rid of comment spam. And with the MT for mac, there's no point and click IP banning shortcut. I have to manually type in each addy, and rebuild. Hey Vidiot, did you ever figure out a solution to yours?

My weekend kicks your weekend's ass.

Friday? Dinner and a movie with the delightful and very tall --and yet she somehow succeeds in not making you feel diminutive-- Zeebah, and the vertically normal and equally delightful Lauren. We chose a distinctly Southern (by that I mean white trash) theme. Girl Scout Tacos, kinda like this but in a bowl with regular tortilla chips, Ambrosia salad, exactly like this, and Nashville, the Altman epic, this reviewer calls a cinematic gem. Somehow Lauren and I worked a trip to a neighborhood church carnival in there as well under the guise of going out for "chili powder," and ended up being accomplice to and witness of a bric-a-brac theft.

Saturday? Gotham Girls Roller Derby underneath the BQE.


Cute girls in hot outfits doing bodily harm to one another on roller skates. No matter what you were doing Saturday, it does not, I repeat, does not trump cute girls in hot outfits doing bodily harm to one another on roller skates. Sorry.

Sunday? The kind of Sunday I used to want to move to NYC to experience. Now I know one can make a heart-clogging breakfast, lay around sipping coffee, smoking cigarettes, and reading the Times all day in Des Moines, but I'd be in Des Moines for christsakes, and I couldn't watch the Puerto Rican Day parade on TV. I spent the evening dishing and bitching and laughing with my dearest Maud, who I couldn't appreciate or love more, and who was sporting a snazzy new punk rock hair cut. So if you see her today try not to be all jealous on account of her totally undeniable fabulosity.

Touching excerpt from president Bush's eulogy for Reagan:

"And so today, with President Reagan's body still warm, I want all the people who worshipped him to take note of the many non-superficial ways in which I just coincidentally seem so mega-similar to him. From our mutual fondness for dressing up as cowboys to hang out on our camera-ready luxury "ranches," to our firm belief in 35-hour work weeks punctuated with plenty of energy-restoring naps, President Reagan and I are cut from the very same denim. Indeed, we both delegate all the complicated stuff, can't be bothered with boring old facts, and scared America into spending billions of dollars to fight an "Evil Empire." He choose Russia, I went with Iraq – both based on solid intelligence that they were already harmlessly crumbling from within. And that is why, taken as a whole, I'd much rather have voters associate me with Uncle Ronnie than with my own daddy, who is, I'm sorry to say, just a sissy one-termer who nobody liked enough to re-elect."

(via the White House)

Home invasion ends. Nudity for its own sake, peeing with the bathroom door and like-a-chimney smoking resumes.

The last of G's relatives boarded a plane Sunday morning, so after eleven days we are finally, blissfully alone. Not that it wasn't great to spend time with his family -- it was. Really. Cross my heart. Even if it meant spending WAY more money and time in parts of the city we who live in the city go to great lengths to avoid.

Like Times Square. God I fucking hate Times Square. Hatred I hide very poorly, I've discovered, through the lens of first-time visitors who believe those six blocks ARE New York. Our differences on the topic became apparent immediately; starting with one family member's announcement that their hotel was in the heart of TS, and me uttering a knee-jerk "Oh, how terrible. I'm sorry," never once realizing they were bragging, were delighted by their good fortune. I honestly thought I was being helpful with warnings like, "You don't want to go to that (restaurant, bookstore, movie theater) the concierge recommended...it's smack in the middle of Times Square." I was stymied by the deer-in-the-headlight gaze, the that's the point! reaction, the why would anyone want to shop or dine anywhere else? look I knew I couldn't counter without intimating that their taste was in their mouth.

But thankfully we didn't spend all our time there, we were able to catch some good movies (in the Village), good dinners (in Brooklyn). However I couldn't shake the feeling that whenever we dragged the fam away from The Great White Way, they spent each second wishing they could get back to the 'real' New York. I found myself wondering if all the couples who live and work in Orlando Florida have ever been successful in convincing their guests that there's actually a whole city of Orlando, that it's more than the place you have to land in and drive through to get to Disney World. I was doubtful.

The big perk of having my time monopolized for a week and a half was the vacation from world events. I was gleefully ignorant of all things political the entire time, didn't turn on the computer, the TV, didn't pick up a paper. Until Sunday, when the canonization of Reagan began. Wouldn't it be great if everybody's personal life history was revised when they die? What a nice last gesture that would be. The feeling of comfort you would have on your deathbed knowing that no matter how many people you made homeless, no matter how many people died of AIDS because you refused to spend a penny on research or prevention education for some "gay cancer" spreading like wildfire through the country, whether or not you refused Gorbachev's initial offers to willingly disarm all his nuclear warheads because without the Soviet threat you couldn't justify your (still inoperable) multi-billion dollar Star Wars plan. If you saw fit to be anti-abortion and slash funding for single moms and their children, got rid of subsidies for struggling family farms forcing thousands of them into foreclosure, created a line of bullshit designed to convince a country they should be happy with the dregs, a "trickle" of the US riches controlled by 2% of the country's most wealthy, all the while telling the working poor (a class you created) they are poor out of choice...shitty, economy destroying, racist, classist, homophobic policies all, would be artfully spun into a story of how you singlehandedly saved the entire world. Wow. Makes you choke up a bit, doesn't it?

On Air America Monday, Randi Rhodes suggested a fitting tribute to Reagan would be putting his likeness on currency. The million dollar bill. That way the only Americans he ever cared about could have one. Much more appropriate than this 'greatest President ever' crap, I thought.