balding angrily

What can I say? I’m happy.

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.

Yesterday I saw a bumper sticker:

Elect Hillary so that Bill has to be the First lady.

The Republican elephant stood beside it. I re-read it wondering why first was capitalized while lady wasn’t. I wondered if that had something to do with why I was missing the attempted snap.

I started looking for the truth that underlies most jokes. I thought, “How could this statement possibly be true from a Republican perspective? On some level is it more important to the Republican to imagine Bill in a dress than to win the election? Is a man in a dress really that degrading in the Republican mind?”

Then I thought, “Maybe it’s a call back to the Monica thing. Maybe the sticker is implying that Hillary will fool around with an intern while in office. That could be almost funny, in an Earlian karma kind of way.” But then I came back to, “So this sticker would prefer to see cosmic justice served than win the election? I’m still not getting it.”

I finally came to the conclusion that Republicans are born without mirth. Their attempts are precious but slightly depressing.

Or maybe I expect too much from a bumper sticker.

Yesterday’s post got me thinking about multi-culturalism, and I remembered a story. Jerry will like this story because it makes him look like something other than stinky. He taught me something rather profound. It started with sushi.

Before I met Jerry I considered myself adventurous with food. I had tried and liked both Indian and Ethiopian food. But I never learned to like sushi. So Jerry talked me into sushi one night.

I didn’t dislike it on my first experience, but it was a distinctly different way of experiencing tastes. I grew up with a Cassarole Mama; I’m used to blended, saucy foods. I shared this with Jerry. I said, “This is just strange. Not bad. Just different. It’s like there’s all these distinct tastes in my mouth, and they’re not mixing like I’m used to. They’re staying next to each other, but not informing one another. Well, not informing one another in the way I’m used to.” I’m sure I wasn’t that articulate, but that was the jist.

Jerry said, “That’s the neat part of sushi. It’s kind of an Eastern philosophy of food.”

He continued. “I went to a presentation on multi-culturalism one time. The speaker had this broad, accented voice. And he said, ‘The problem with you Americans is your concept of multi-culturalism. Look at your metaphor. The Melting Pot. You think multi-culturalism is this pot where all these races get thrown in and mixed around until you’re this…this marmalade.’ And with ‘marmalade’ he dragged it out like marmil-laaahd. ‘Everything is the same, and the tastes are diluted until it tastes like I don’t know what.’”

Here I imagine this speaker to have the voice of Robert Guillaume from The Lion King and with “marmil-laaahd” he waved his hands with their jointed fingers in front of Jerry’s face like two Kabuki fans.

Still quoting the speaker, Jerry said, “‘Look at the Eastern philosophy of multi-culturalism. Look at the Yin-Yang. The white and the black, they stay distinct. They exist next to each other, but they do not mix. But they also do not exist apart.’”

“‘Don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying separate but equal or that the races should be segregated. I’m saying, look at it like a mosaic. You have all these distinct colors, each brilliant on their own, and when they come together they make a sparkling thing.’”

I think about this whenever I think about issues of race. I also think about it whenever I eat sushi, which I now love. See, Jerry is very smart. And he’s a good teacher.

Now here’s a picture of him being a spastic dork in a hammock.

The Dallas Independent School District is in dire need of teachers. Any teachers. All teachers. Do you have a pulse? We want you to teach.

If you haven’t gleaned by now, I’m one of the guys that wag my finger at the suburbanites. They drive minivans! Or worse! Hummers! Their kids are on coke! Their football players are rapists! They’re eating up precious land with their shitty houses! They’re diverting resources away from the needy! They’re short-sighted! They’re giving their children hair extensions and boob-jobs!

Yet, as soon as I saw the amount of positions needing to be filled, I started looking at the job boards of the suburban cities. It was barely a conscious decision. It went thusly.

1. I looked at the huge list of positions available, including a position to teach English AP, the position I most want to hold.
2. I said, “Whoa.”
3. I started looking elsewhere.

You’re saying, “But Alex. Wouldn’t a lot of positions available make the DISD a desirable place to work?” Yes, in theory. Being a curmudgeon, many job openings mean fewer interviews in which I lie about liking people.

However, add in the “If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is” factor, the mark of a true curmudgeon. And then add in a latent, ne’er-to-be-admitted racism - the kind of reverse-backwards-flipped-and-griddled ironic racism of well-meaning but caustic white liberals - the kind of racism that makes one think about locking the car doors when driving through a rough part of town, not do it, then do it, then undo it, then turn to the spouse and say with an irony turned back on itself so many times that one can’t decide if one’s being purposefully ironic or accidentally sincere, “Look at all the people different from us. They make me nervous.” - add all that in, and then you’ll understand where step 3 (above) came from.

Now you’re asking, “At what point did you start looking for a teaching job?” I’m looking - in theory. I’ve created a construct of me as an English teacher, Mr. Sloan, my 12th grade English teacher, to be exact. And I’m trying to find my job. It doesn’t matter to me that I have no teacher’s training or college-level English education. I thought it would be best, more prudent, to find the job I want and then educate myself to that level. I’m assuming that they’ll keep the jobs open for me if I ask real nice.

But back to my self-flagellation. I’m shitty. I’m scared. I’m a scared, white liberal who knows exactly where his next meal is coming from. At the expense of children who are in need of a good teacher.*

*In my construct, I’m John Keating. John Keating teaching a multicultural soup. I’m teaching to the waiting room for a casting call for an 80s Benetton ad.** And they’re calling me “Captain, My Captain,” each in a different language.

**For some reason I imagine my multicultural students with shaved heads, wearing Buddhist robes.

The teaser: Have you heard about the fire? No, not that one.

Monday, Jerry and I left our apartment together on our way to the underground garage. There are a pair of doors on our end of the hall that stay open with magnetic hold open devices. These magnets disengage in case of fire, allowing the doors to automatically close. This isolates our part of the building giving us a smoke-free escape. The doors do not lock closed, so they do not cut off our or anyone else’s hypothetical escape.

Balding Angrily: providing your fire and life safety lessons since 2006.

Our building is built in a very old part of town; some iteration of the building has been around since 1910. In the last 5 years they remodeled it for lofts. They did a spot-on job, but our electricity still has to travel through the ancient infrastructure that plagues this part of town. Consequently, we frequently have outages and surges and other creepy goings-on that cause our elevators to mysteriously stop working and our alarms to sound.

The first time we heard our fire alarm, we were sound asleep and we made our way sluggishly in the direction of the fire exit. After the fifth time, we just looked at the red box on the wall, asking each other, “Do you think we should do anything?” I held my shoes in my lazy-wristed hands and assumed a sneer until it went off.

I got way down the daisy-covered path on that one. Back to Monday. We came out of our apartment, and the double doors were closed. We hadn’t heard a fire alarm, so we assumed it was another one of those creepy instances of our building assuming a personality. As I reached to push open the door, Jerry jokingly said, “Wait! You’re supposed to feel the door first! Only after you know it’s safe are you supposed to open it!” I ignored him and went through; it was fine.

In the late afternoon, Owen called me at work and said, “Don’t worry. You’re place isn’t burnt down.” He tends to start off phone conversations with these kind of non-sequiters. If someone isn’t looking at me quizzically when the four of us are out, they’re looking at him quizzically; we share that tangerine-trees-and-marmalade-skies thought process of free association.

He explained that he was driving around our apartment and saw what the news termed a “column of smoke” near downtown. He checked to see it wasn’t our building and called me. Nice guy, right? Yeah, he is. Jen-An lucked out because she’s not half as nice.

After many hours I came home, and from our window you could see the warehouse that was on fire. It was still burning this morning, and I’m not convinced it’s out right now. In a sick way, I’m kind of sad that I can’t see the flames anymore. It was kind of fun to look out and shake my head at the thought of the smoke adding to Gore’s Gasses^TM.

Given that our electrical infrastructure is shoddy - given that Jerry and I are now immune to the alarm after so many false ones - given that the warehouses in our area are lighting up like Roman candles - given that our building is likely haunted - given that both Jerry and I have left the iron plugged in and on - given that we both get distracted by burly firemen - given all these things we are doomed to die of something fire related. And we don’t even have any kiddos to fight over our vast fortune when we do.

Here’s stuff I done got for mah birfday.

Red-Haired Mom is a wonderful woman if a bit loopy. She sent a big box of stuff to Jen-An and Owen to deliver to me instead of just sending it to me. She wanted me to be presented with stuff, instead of getting a brown box in the mail. Here’s the bag that they shouldered into the restaurant. You can see I started unwrapping stuff before I thought to take the picture:

Here’s all the stuff in the bag. It’s hard to see in this picture, but the Garfield on the far left is wearing a baby hat. I presume that Red-Haired Mom included it in the package assuming that it’s mine. It is just as likely that it belonged to my brother or sister, and she stuffed it into the package with an attitude of, “Meh. He’ll never know the differnence.” She also included in the package a large file of pictures from when I was living with her. I haven’t opened the package yet because I haven’t had much time:

You might recognize the stuff from this picture as I’m getting ready for my senior prom. Though it pains me to admit it, here is photographic proof that a senior in high school had Garfield stuffed animals displayed prominantly in his bedroom. My mom never sat me down and said, “Alex, you’re weird. Please stop being so weird.” I blame her for the way I am now:

My dear sweetness gave me a ring. I lost my wedding ring maybe six months after our wedding. I took it off at the gym while working out, and I left it in the locker when I left. I immediately realized my mistake, but by the time I called the gym and got back there, it was gone. Jerry was diligent and found the exact same ring and got me a replacement. His ring also has a knot motif but is a bit more traditional. We liked the idea of having rings tied in theme if not in aesthetic.

Yargh!!! I’m going to get you with my stubby fingers and hairy knuckles:

Crump done give me a book I asked for. She said she liked the title because her name comes up as “cannoli” when she uses spell-check. Someone please go buy some art from her. She’s the nicest person I’ve never met. Jerry’s sister and brother-in-law gave me this kick-ass DC Comics book. I’m not sure what the 365 pages signify. Am I supposed to read it in a year like one of those bibles? That’s too much pressure, and I’m not going to take life-lessons from this book. Probably:

Finally, Jen-An and Owen gave me “Blackbird” sheet music, a small jewelry jar with the lyrics to “Blackbird” on it, and a small hand-colored piece of art with a web link on it. All of Jen-An’s family are artists. She did this. I haven’t gone to the link yet. I’ll let you. “Blackbird” was one of the songs that was at Jerry and my wedding. It was really the only thing we knew we wanted before we decided on anything else. Funnily we hadn’t really paid attention to the lyrics and were scared that it wouldn’t work. After sitting down one night and listening, we were relieved. What’s not pictured is some more art that Jen-An did to personalize the sheet music. She made the cover a kind of birthday card. Because she and Owen signed it with their real names, I didn’t photograph it even though I really want to show you her awesometude.

Ma and Pa Jerry and Dad and Blonde Mom also got me wonderful things that I will put to nefarious uses, but unfortunately they’re not very photogenic.

Finally, just because I’m not above pandering to get an “Awwww,” here’s a kitty with some kitties (”im on ur cowchez, maken beeleev”):

Overheard:

Person 1: Ya gotta admit; Al Gore’s a kook.
Person 2: You’re a Republican; you’d have that opinion.

And this past weekend:

Darling child: (about An Inconvenient Truth) That was a stupid movie.
Older-type person: Why would you say that? It was important. You don’t care about our environment?
Darling child: (from behind disaffected bangs) It was a documentary; it was boring.

Last weekend I saw An Inconvenient Truth; it did its part to make me feel guilty for being a U.S. consuming, reckless-with-the-environment slob. It happens that I’m also thinking of getting a new car. Gore’s little movie rings through my head when I do this.

Fuel efficiency has always been important to me, and I’m a Honda loyalist. (You’ll see in few sentences why I’m thinking of jumping from the Honda ship.) I would love to buy another Civic, but the biggest problem with both of my Civics is the road noise; I have to turn up my stereo to teenager volumes in order to hear the music. Or I have to make a choice between listening to my music or listening to a passenger. I often choose the music.

So, an Accord. They look beautiful and they’re comfy. While their fuel efficiency isn’t horrendous, they’re not stellar either. Al Gore said I should aim for stellar. The Accord hybrids are retarded when it comes to fuel efficiency. They get maybe 2 miles per gallon more efficient than the regular 4-cylinder for $4,000 -$5,000 more.

Let me break down the compare/contrast thusly:

• Civic: Headaches from a low, constant groan coming from under my butt when driving down the freeway but receiving warm fuzzies from polar bears.
• Accord: Riding in blissful comfort but feeling like I’m clubbing baby seals.

How about a Nissan? I think they’re swell. The Nissan Altima hybrid, my next favorite sedan gets great gas mileage, justifying the hybrid up-charge. A person can’t buy it in Texas. I called a dealer; they just plain ol’ don’t sell them here. You have to live in a blue state apparently.

So fuck you Nissan, and fuck you Honda. You both win today’s Shitty Company Award.

My favorite big-headed straighty went and got all political again, and that’s why I loves ‘im.

Don’t you love when your heroes seem to be talking directly to you? If I could be half as clever as Matt, I’d totally give up my day job. Speaking of, when does he find the time to put these together?

Usually this isn’t the place for me to get too political, but the Matt Sanchez controversy [link shows torso action on a page with questionable advertising, but otherwise safe for work] caught my attention. Granted, it was a picture of shaved bulging pectorals that did the actual catching, but still. Matt Sanchez, according to Queerty, is a conservative darling that recently got found out as a gay porn star and escort. Sounds like another Jeff Gannon situation, eh? This was his response, in part, to that very comparison put to him by Joe of Joe. My. God. (The rest of the interview is worth it, if you’re inclined.)

There’s something about the beleaguered gay psyche that wants to prove to the world that everyone is just as messed up as they are. So, they start off with the term hypocrite and work their way backwards looking for signs of deviant behavior in hopes of discovering some type of bastard kinship. That’s why I’ve had the term self-loathing thrown at me so often. The gay community eats its own in a frenzied hope of self-serving fulfillment.

I can’t get mad at this quote because I see evidence of gays treating other gays badly all the time. I’m guilty of having negative reactions toward other gays. I also see a lot of love in the gay community, and I tend to think that the hateful actions gays perpetrate against other gays are like the squabbles otherwise loving brothers have.

Jerry just asked me about my reaction to the latest Ann Coulter thing. She, in a failed joke, called John Edwards a faggot. The Human Rights Campaign (HRC) immediately issued a call to the GLBT community to write the Universal Press Syndicate to have her removed, preventing her column from running in your local paper. I ignored the call from the HRC, and Jerry asked why. I told him I’ve always known Ann Coulter was a stupid person; this stupid thing she said is like any other stupid thing she says. If I were to get angry every single time a stupid person said a stupid thing, I wouldn’t be able to get any work done.

But I did get angry at the HRC when they had M&M/Mars take down the infamous Superbowl Snickers commercial that showed two otherwise straight guys recover from an accidental gay kiss by ripping out their hair, slamming each other under a car hood, and hitting themselves with a wrench. I felt that the HRC had taken something trivial and blown it out of proportion. I felt that they used my money foolishly, and they associated this silly commercial with real violence against gays, thereby trivializing an important subject.

What I’m getting to is this analogy I used earlier: I’m apt to get angry at my own kind like the HRC before I get angry at someone so off-her-rocker like Ann Coulter because the HRC is my family along with bears, clones, muscle-queens, twinks, Aberzombies, lipstick lesbians, bisexuals, transsexuals, transvestites, trannies, dykes on bikes, queers, questioning-ses, bi-curious-es, and any other sub-group that I may talk about scurrilously. (Don’t get me wrong; I love a good “Ann Coulter is an anorexic harpy” joke as much as the next America-hating liberal, but in general she amuses me more than angers me.) We are, by nature, looking at our family closer because they are our family. That’s what families do. We question our family. And we nag our family. And we get in fights with our family. And we hurt our family. And we throw knives. And we throw microwaves. (Ask me again some other time.) And we make up with our family. And we love our family more than we did before the fight. And we are closer because of it. And that’s what you call stretching a metaphor too far.

So, no. We do not eat our own. We struggle and fight and hurt and make up, but we do not eat.