balding angrily

Last weekend I was in Phoenix to visit family.  (Sorry, Marty, there was no time for non-family time.)  It turned out to be more stressful than I anticipated, and my stress-level has remained higher than normal this week.  Since family members read the blog, I can’t go into too much detail.  Let it be enough to say that alcohol and politics should never mix.  In fact, politics should never be discussed amongst family.  It would be so nice if family-time was happy and joyful and butterflies and lollipops and jewel-toned chocolate sprinkles, but alas.  It is a tightness that lodges itself in the shoulder muscles that support the neck.  It is a caffeine-induced headache.  It is throat host to a steady drip of sour phlegm.  It is the cat howling at three o’clock in the morning.

Here’s the problem. Mom likes to say things but her tongue gets in the way, and I like to point out people’s faults.

I was 22 - just old enough to pretend that I could handle my liquor - and it was my sister’s birthday. Mom told Sister to choose any restaurant for her special birthday dinner. She chose Red Lobster.

Don’t get me wrong. I loves me some Red Lobster; their cheese biscuits are things of magnificent glory, but remember I was just old enough to play at sophistication. When I told Mom that Sister wanted Red Lobster - that she wanted to hand pick her lethargic protein item from a murky tank, a seafood ghetto - Mom gave me a look. Sister saw the look and said, “What? I want lobster!”

Acting as the designated gentleman, I held the front door for my family, confirmed that there was a wait, and took the drink orders. Mom and I had mixed drinks with enough alcohol in them to close our throats. It was as if our throats were doormen holding back of rowdy teenagers. And we, as the owners of the bar, had to pull the doormen aside to say, “Look. What’s the harm? Their money’s good.” Then when the teenagers get insde, they set fire to the DJ booth and rip the stuffing from the couch cushions. We had to will our throats to swallow. Sister had iced tea.

We enjoyed our meal for two reasons. Our waitress was exceptional, and Mom and I continued to swallow liver disease goodness from our glasses. When the waitress delivered the check I wanted to compliment her on her service.

“I just wanted to say that you did a wonderful job. Honestly. We had a wonderful time,” I said.

“Oh. I totally agree. Great job. Thank you so much,” Sister said.

Then as the waitress was clearing the last of the dishes Mom, waking from a stupor, lifted her head and said, “I just too had a good time.”

The waitress left, and I turned to Mom, closed one eye and said slowly, “You just too had good time?”

“I knew you were going to say something,” Mom said, growing red.

“I don’t know. I just thought you might want to explain what that statement means. Like JUST THEN, you had so good time? Or you had just so good time, in general?”

Mom made a pouty face and put her head down on the table with her arms and around her like a fort had the Spanish-American war been fought by salt and pepper shakers. The visible part of her head, the back, shook, and it took me a moment to realize that she was attempting to hide her laughter. Which started me laughing.

We sank in our seats, gasping and sputtering, and Sister looked at us in horror. The waitress came back to check on us, and turned on her heel when she saw the table was in a state of revolt.

Mom and I have apologized many times to Sister for that night.

Not really; it’s just a good sentence to start with. The biggest news is that I came very close to shitting a brick when my iPhone temporarily froze this morning. I upgraded to the 2.0 software. Because Apple’s or AT&T’s servers are handling numerous service orders this morning - and because when upgrading iPhone software my computer has to talk to those servers (probably sending my bank account balances, account numbers, and names of porn sites I frequent directly to George W.) - my iPhone went, “Bwuh?”

I railed against the system for ten minutes, throwing cutlery and juice boxes, and proclaiming Apple and AT&T the worst entities since the devil. Then my iPhone went happy-face, and I rubbed it and said “Purrrrrrrr.”

My cat has a boo-boo. She has some kind of puncture wound really close to her anus. Because of the adjacency of the two holes, we’re thinking that the other cat literally tore her a new asshole. (Jerry’s joke, not mine.) The vet said she’d be fine, but we’re still unsure how exactly she got the wound. The two cats occasionally fight, but they’ve never drawn blood.

We’ve noticed that in her advanced years, the wounded kitty has been less than cat-like - failing to correctly judge the distance between a chair-back and a window sill, jumping, and dropping down the gap. It’s fun to watch; I point and laugh as she pokes her head from behind the chair, looking at me as if to say, “Tell anyone and I’ll poop on your beard trimmer.”

Jerry’s theory is that she did this once and hit herself on the sharp corner of a metal planter we have next to the window. Poor kitty. The grossest thing the vet said yesterday: “I opened up the wound to let it drain.”

Main Street, Eureka Springs is a very strange amalgamation of:

• Gays
• Rednecks
• Harley riders
• Hippies
• Christianity gone wild

Next to a jewelry shop with a rainbow flag, attended by a skinny, goatee’d gentleman, sits a coffee shop attended by a woman with dreads unafraid to let her underarm hair grow free, which sits next to a shop with t-shirts with slogans like, “If you think this THIS is hot, wait until you feel the fiery depths of hell,” which sits next to a parking lot with four or five leather-chapped-and-be-jacketed, beer-gutted, handkerchief-as-headwear-sporting gentlemen leaning on their bikes and a Ford F-150 with a Confederate Flag in its rear window. You can see all these things in a two-minute span.

I had a pretty good time, and I have to give credit to Jerry and his sister. I took photos; you can view them in my flickr photostream.

Jerry and I are in our late thirties, early forties, when a person begins to be the same person in every situation. In our teens, twenties, thirties, I think we are more malleable, shifting to meet the needs of each group we invade. For instance, I’m comfortable talking about Project Runway with my conservative step-family, making off-color jokes about the contestants. In my twenties I stayed buttoned, afraid to broach any subject that might remind them of my sexuality. Now, Jerry and I still dress differently for each group we mix with, but we aren’t afraid to be ourselves.

That’s not necessarily a good thing.

Two weeks ago we attended a formal birthday celebration for a ninety-five year old matriarch of the family. We wore suits and ties, and we drank - two or three glasses of wine - enough to exacerbate our new-found sense of familiarity.

Talking to a cousin I hadn’t seen in ten years:

Me: So, how are you? How’s life treating you?

Her: Well, you know I’m a proud mother of two. They take up a lot of my time. [Husband] is doing bridgework.

Me (thinking): But I really want to know what YOU’RE doing.

Me: So really, what are YOU doing? What’s making YOU tick?

Her: Well, you know. Kids are a full-time job. Between shuttling them between gymnastics and school and errands. There’s not a whole lot more time for me to do much else.

Me: No hobbies? Nothing?

Her: My kids. I love my kids.

Me: Huh.

Then later I let out a guffaw when another cousin flubbed a toast to the matriarch. According to Jerry it sounded like the beginnings of whale song.

Jerry and I have been watching Bravo’s Top Chef. At the end of each episode, three or four judges sit behind a long table and tell the remaining contestants what they did or didn’t do right. One of the contestants constantly had her head on the chopping block. She scowled. The judges judged and she scowled. She pinched her lips and folded her arms and scowled. She wore crocs, had a nose ring, a short hair cut, and she was surly. In other words, she screamed lesbian, though she did not, nor did anyone else on the show, say so. We shared our Top Chef love with the people at our dinner table.

Person to my right: Isn’t it great? Those meals they make look so good.

Jerry: I know! We love the judges table at the end.

Person to my right: That’s always great, but what is with that one that looks all mean?

Jerry: I know! Everyone else is being all calm, taking the heat, and that angry lesbian stands up there all mean.

Person to my right: Um, yeah. That angry one. I just don’t get her.

Jerry: Right? The camera pans across the contestants and there’s that angry lesbian.

Person to my right: That angry one.

Jerry: That angry lesbian.

Person to my right: …

Jerry: Lesbian!

Besides those three things, we generally stayed out of trouble, which was nice.

Finally! An opportunity to exploit the youth in my life. My sister-in-law recently granted her daughter (my niece) the ability to text. They have controls over her texting schedule and content, but my niece took full advantage of her new abilities over the weekend. I sat next her a little bit and looked over her shoulder.

It’s old hat to bemoan the illiteracy of youth; so, I won’t go there. I’m fascinated and a little excited at the prospect that they are creating a language. After reading some letters by Thomas Jefferson, I have to acknowledge that we have changed English over the past 250 years. I see texting shorthand as just a continuation of that. In other words, it is my burden to learn what “k y r u so drty” means; it’s not their burden to conform to my outdated concepts of grammar, spelling, and punctuation.

Anyway, she texted me this morning.

Spunky Youth: Am i ur fav
Me: Favorite what? Human? Female? Child under 14? Dark-haired wanderer? And under what criteria are you wanting to be judged? Textual? Hyper-textual? Contextual? Spiritual?
Spunky Youth: Huh
Me: You’re the one who asked if you were my favorite. I’m just trying to ascertain the parameters before I render my verdict.
Spunky Youth: Oh i mean ur favorite person sence im so lovly
Me: You are very lovely; I’ll give you that. However. Connecting your inherent loveliness to some judgment of your overall quality as a human? That’s an incredibly troublesome jump in logic.
Spunky Youth: Huh please dont use big words with me
Me: No big words? Hm. Can’t do that. But I do have to go to work. Ask your mom or dad or teacher what I said.
Spunky Youth: K byese bye
Me: Good day, young lady. Make sure it is a glorious day full of vim and verve.
Spunky Youth: um back 2 u

It was a nice way to start the week.

I never disclaimed any of my other stories because I think by reading a blog, you automatically accept that stuff is fictionalized for effect. This story is close enough to what I remember, however, that I feel like it would be manipulative if I didn’t say that I condensed the reality down to some key concepts. You should also know that you’re only getting my side of the story. My parents might see it differently, even though I endeavored to represent the truth, and paint them in a fair light. In the first part of the story, with two parents, it’s hard for me to remember who said what. I wish I had a recording of this time.

Me: I’ve been dating guys for the last 6 months. And I’m going to continue to date guys.

Lots of silence. Some leaning back in chairs. A couple of red faces.

Blonde Mom: What about that girl you went to see in Texarkana? You said you really liked her. It seemed like you did.
Me: I did really like her. I liked her a whole lot. She’s one of the few girls that I could say I wanted to continue dating, but…
Me: How can I say this? I like dating guys more. Even though I really liked her, and could even see one day marrying her, erm…
Dad: You’re bisexual?
Me: If you put two equally good-looking people in front of me, one male and one female, I would choose the male. I don’t think I understand bisexuals. I’m not sure I believe in it.*
Blonde Mom: So, that guy you were such good friends with last year? I mean, were you…?
Me: No. We weren’t like that. I kind of wished we had, but no. I mean I’ve liked a lot of guys that way. I think [my roommate in college] is very attractive.
Blonde Mom: So, you and he…?
Me: No. He’s definitely straight. I just really like him. We’re great friends. I find him very physically attractive…but no.
Blonde Mom: How could you say you could see yourself marrying a girl…but you’re sitting there telling us this? It sounds like you’re just using people for your own gratification.

Lots of silence.

Dad: I really can’t get over this weirdness you’re showing…for such an important part of your life. How could you be so…ambivalent?
Me: I’m trying to give you my perspective. I’m trying to be honest. I’m not like other guys I know that knew when they were 5. I’m trying to give you where I’m coming from.
Dad: Don’t give me that honesty bullshit. You’re doing this to make yourself feel better.
Me: Have you been happy with our relationship in the last months? I can tell you don’t buy the stories I’m telling you. And I feel weird lying.
Dad: Don’t give me this honesty thing with what you’re doing here. This is self-serving. You’re not doing us any favors.

The conversation ended on terms neither disastrous nor up. I went home. I called the next day, but Blonde Mom told me Dad would call back. I got a letter from Blonde Mom telling me how much I had hurt my dad through my selfishness, but she also affirmed their love for me. I waited. I called again, and Blonde Mom told me to wait. I waited. I imagined a lot during this time not getting a call from Dad. In that time, I got constipated and didn’t sleep, fearing I wasn’t strong enough to live without them. In this in-between time I called a suicide-prevention hotline. I cried a lot. I don’t know if I was capable of suicide or if I called because I needed to talk to someone.

My dad called me after a week of our first talk.

Dad: I just don’t understand. You’re going to continue to date guys. You’re calling yourself gay…
Me: But I never said I’m gay, and I gave a wishy-washy thing that wasn’t really a coming out…
Dad: I’m not convinced you are. I think you’re making a huge mistake. I see you heading for a life of hardship. You will more than likely die of AIDS. You realize that, don’t you?
Me: I don’t have statistics, but it’s not like that. And I’m very careful.
Me: I shouldn’t have given you that thing of ambivalence like you said.
Dad: I understand being attracted to men. I’ve been attracted to men myself…I’ve kind of liked another guy’s skin…that doesn’t make me gay.
Me: The fact is…and I never told you this in all the other times I talked to you about this gay thing…and I wasn’t going to bring it up in front of [Blonde Mom], but I’ve been masturbating to Playgirls since I knew how to masturbate.

There was silence after that, and he never said, “I get it now.” Writing this now, I don’t think it was necessary.

Me: Part of that ambivalent thing…was a kind of denial. Do you think it’s easy for me to look at my dad and have him picture me as a cocksucker? I mean, Dad, I admire you. I don’t want you to see me that way…something that I know you consider gross. It’s really hard for me to say that I’m gay.
Dad: This is a really shitty thing, Alex.
Me: The stories I’ve heard…it takes years…I just couldn’t see us tip-toeing around each other any more, me always lying to you about what I was doing on the weekends…you kind of going, ‘M-hm’ and giving me that kind of unbelieving face.
Dad: Deception never works in a relationship; You know, people just don’t have good relationships when there’s deception there. It comes out wrong.
Dad: I don’t want to see you…there are people out there…if they don’t want you dead, they’re not going to…You’re going to be hated. It’s going to be hard on you.
Me: Things have changed, I think. I don’t feel what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen it. I’ve heard about it, but I haven’t experienced it myself.
Me: I’m sorry you have to adjust. I’ve had about nine months to adjust to this. You just started.
Dad: I just want what’s best for you. And I don’t think…I think you can change your mind. I don’t think this is a done deal.
Me: I think it is. I mean, I hate to be absolutist, but I’m pretty sure this is a done-deal.

I didn’t change my mind, and they adjusted. It was tough for years. It’s only after I introduced them to Jerry that I think they breathed a whale-sized sigh of relief.

*Now, I believe in the Kinsey scale, but at the time I was ignorant. There remains a contingent of gay males that cheat on their wives with men and justify cheating with “But I’m bisexual.” However, I’ve met enough honest-to-goodness bisexuals and understand the stigma they endure from both gays and straights to know I was wrong.

I don’t remember doing this, but apparently in a moment of bad judgment I showed my nieces Pickle Surprise. All Easter Sunday they kept saying, “Plop the ham thusly please” in an affected accent. It’s not that there is anything overtly wrong with Pickle Surprise; it’s just incongruous to hear the coke-fueled words of a green-sequined phallic symbol come out of a middle-school-aged, giggly girl. It’s also strange to watch Jerry imitate a tranny by putting his fingers up to his eyes, Batdance-like, and say, “Hammmmmmm” while seated around the table set for a dinner to celebrate the risen Christ.

The Thing

1. Stand in front of a mirror or other reflective surface. If you have a really shitty computer monitor, that might do.
2. Put your hands together as if in prayer in front of your chest.
3. Cross your thumbs.
4. Bend your fingers at the first knuckles slightly, the ones closest to where your fingers separate from your hands, keeping your finger tips pressed together.
5. Open up the side of your hands closest to the mirror or shitty computer monitor, keeping your thumbs crossed and your index fingers close together.
6. Extend your pinkies out away from each other.
7. Look at your hands in the mirror, and remember that image.

And now, the story…

Red-haired Mom, White Beard, Jerry, Jen-An, Owen, and I went to have drinks after dinner. We started talking about Bodyworlds.

Me: I was looking at the case…the one with all the man and lady parts all laid out. And there was this group of girls across from me. And I was really trying to get a really good look at the woman parts-

Jen-An: Well, yeah. You don’t have a whole lot of experience there.

Me: Exactly. So I’m kinda really getting down close to the glass…you know, really searching, and I could kinda feel these girls’ eyes on my forehead, and I kinda never got a good enough look because I felt like I had to move on.

Everyone:…

Me: Well, that’s really the whole point; I was embarrassed.

Jerry: I did the same thing with the man and woman skater…he was holding her up…and they were like rotating on a platform? So, I looked up, and there it was, right in my face…and then it rotated and rotated and rotated, and I was just standing there looking up waiting for it to come around again, so I could get a good look. And I was with the people on my team. And someone on my team probably saw me standing there waiting for the lady parts to come back around.

Red-Haired Mom: I don’t remember that one.

Jerry: You don’t remember? It was like ‘Muaaahhhhh!’ (and here Jerry did The Thing in the direction of Red-Haired Mom)

Red-Haired Mom: Hm. Jerry, I don’t know what to say.

Me: Jeez mom, you should see him around his family. He makes it a point…Every. Single. Time…we are gathered around the dinner table…he rips one…like really loud.

Red-Haired Mom: (laughing) Why?

Me: Just to gross out his nieces.

Jerry: (embarrassed) Other people aren’t supposed to know that.

Me: You just went, ‘Muaaaahhhh!’ (doing The Thing) at my mom, and now something’s off-limits?

Jerry: It’s really not that big a-deal. It’s really not THAT loud.

Me: You lift one cheek off the chair, babe. You make a show of it.

Jen-An: (to Jerry) For as long as we’ve known each other…and for as long as we will know each other, you can cross as many boundaries as you want…just don’t ever. Ever. Rip one in front of me. Our relationship will be over.

So I guess Jerry and my relationship is stronger than Jen-An and Jerry’s relationship. I win!

Jerry and I went out with Jen-An and Owen last night, and we had a wonderful time. I mentioned in passing our trip to Vancouver and some of the hijinks, and in Dallas we’re getting to that kind of weather we had last year in Vancouver. The days are beautiful, but they’re not so hot that you have to be indoors when the sun is out. Last night was the perfect meal because the sun went down late, we ate on a patio, our waitress was increibly charming, and we laughed a lot. We also went to a wine bar after dinner. Let me bullet my way through some key events.

• Jen-An in her final act of drunketude thought it would be really funny to slap me on the back of the neck and on the top of my bald head repeatedly. I think she did damage to my pituitary gland which caused me to have a massive muscle cramp/spasm in the middle of the night. This happens to me every so often; my calf muscle will, with a mind of it’s own, contract painfully while I scream, wake up Jerry, and sometimes cry. I looked it up, but there are a lot of things and words I don’t understand. So, I’ll assume that my big manly calf muscle likes to show off.
• We spilled about our moms, and fantasized of the days we will have to put them down. I’m hoping that the SPCA will do it for free if I put her in some stage make-up that makes it look like she’s got mange or rabies. Red-Haired Mom is coming on Monday, so we made plans for Jen-An and Owen to meet her. In our talking about family, Jen-An and I recognized in each other a kindred due to our families being drunkards. Jerry and I are already thinking about the amount of vodka we’ll have to buy to sate Red-Haired Mom and White Beard’s martini appetite.
• I zoned out at one point and had to come clean about it when I saw that they were looking at me for a response to whatever they were yakking about during my time in the stars. I said, “Guys…honestly, I’m sorry. I’ve been in a different place for the last two minutes, nodding and smiling on auto-pilot. What were you talking about?” This brought up the subject of my ADD tendencies.
• I had chicken wrapped in ham. Chicken. Wrapped. In. Ham, I tell ya. You could almost taste the decadent excess. It was yummy-delicious. Sorry, Crump. I loves the flesh of the innocent animal, the more innocent and cruelly treated during life the better. I kid. I can’t eat veal, even though I loves it. And the one time I had fois gras, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Then I found out about how they kill the duck to make fois gras. Never again. But, damn, it was good. How come cruelty has to taste so delicious?
• We got off on a camera-phone picture-taking bonanza somehow. Jen-An wanted to show off her pretty red phone, but then spent the next half hour trying to figure out how the camera worked. This was right before she turned into Neck-Fat-Slapping Berserker, so she was well on her way to Happy Dream Time where yellow flowers bathe tumescent purple octopii with joy and love. I would share our pictures, but they’re with Jen-An and Owen. Plus it was in this grotto-like booth without enough light. I remember one picture of Jerry looked like a red demon reaching out for a fresh soul.
• Jen-An was in full Screaming Baby Hands Mode. That’ll never change, but I noticed last night that Owen has his own gesture. It’s a kind of I’m-going-to-shoot-you-in-the-foot-with-both-of-my-partially-closed-hands. And he does it aggressively, with an attacking body posture. It would be very frightening if he didn’t have such a generous smile on his face while he did it.
• Jen-An and Owen love being celebrities on my blog. Every single time we see them, Jen-An says, “I can see him writing his blog right now.” This is, of course, code for, “You are going to write about me, right? I’m too delightful not to, right?”

Happy St. Patty’s Day, friends. If I’m not as up on blogging next week, please forgive me as I’ll be entertaining Red-Haired Mom and White Beard. We’re planning on doing this. Jerry says you get to see testicles out of the scrotum, and they’re frozen in time flying apart from each other like a couple of clicker-clackers.