I've grown immune to the reproachful glares and comments of my friends over this topic...a fact I am grateful for as it allows me to finally articulate the meaning behind my frequent complaint that "Seattle men suck".
The most common defense to this-once it is determined that I won't be silenced with a stare-is either "All men suck" or some version of "Men are the same everywhere". I particularly love it when people who have lived in the same place their entire lives use something like that last chestnut.
Now, let me explain the basis of my complaint: I have lived in many cities, both in and near major metropolitan areas: Portland (forever my hometown), LA, Tampa, Long Beach, Houston, KC and Seattle. I have never failed to secure a relationship in anyone of them, until Seattle. It is my relationship Elba. To save you the trouble of googling Elba, it is the exile of Napoleon. Famous for the palindrome, "Able was I, ere I saw Elba" that defined Napoleon's impotency as a ruler. Likewise, Seattle defines my impotency-in a shituational, not sexual manner-as a lover. I'll work on a palindrome to capture the full tragedy of my shituation.
While I declare the men sub-par, from a dating and relationship stand point, simply leaving the city is not the easiest means of correcting my displeasure. I love the lifestyle of the city. I live and work, essentially, downtown. I walk everywhere. My carbon footprint is smaller than a foot-bound Chinese woman's footprint. I have made many great friends who accept me for me, what's not to love about that? And the guys I meet casually out on the town are pretty nice, too. Very nice, actually-and usually pretty damned hot. For many reasons, Seattle is the town I have lived in that I feel the most connected to despite the pull from home.
Many times, I will be out and be perfectly ignored by men. Which is fine, I am one who definitely appreciates looking and not touching, sometimes. But on those occasions that someone comes and talks to me, I suspect they are simply killing time while waiting for their friends to arrive or punishing their friends by ignoring them for a while. I know, how jaded can I be, right? Seattle men simply do not venture out unaccompanied. Too insecure to stand alone in a bar is my guess, and I will explain my theory there later.
Seattle is a sometimes brutal town, perfect for someone as judgmental as me to blend into and disappear. LOL.
On those occasions where my friends are feeling "encouraging", they will be my perfect wing-man. Spotting guys who are "into me" or gently nudging me toward the current object of my erection-er, affection. To what avail, I cannot say. I usually decline because the typical Seattle gay has proven to be a formidable adversary I dare not face when overloaded with drink and when underloaded, seen simply by yours truly as a fruitless endeavor.
I will say this. Seattle men love their sex. Getting my rocks off has certainly been easier in some cities from an opportunity standpoint, but generally never easier to do without fear of entanglement. It seems anyone in Seattle who wants a boyfriend already has one, and I have slept with many of them-in one week I managed to hook up with both men in a relationship...unbeknownst to either of them, which is it's own tragedy in my opinion. But the vast majority of Seattle men claim to not want a relationship, many in this category have a very close group of friends that meets the emotionally intimate needs they may have that are normally channeled into a relationship. This leaves only-in most cases-their sexual needs unmet.
This is where guys like me come in. No pun intended.
When I arrived in Seattle from Portland three years ago, I was amazed to find myself in the middle of a "fresh meat phenomenon" at the advanced stage of life I had achieved. Yet there I was, Ball of the Belles, so to speak. Getting chatted up in bars, people throwing undies at me as I walked down the street-figuratively. Yet when I would try to wrest this phenomenon from the bar and to a restaurant or show, it was no dice.
When you could wrangle an encouraging response from someone, it lacked the enthusiasm and spontaneaity of sincerity. "Let's get together for dinner next week" was met with "I'm busy next week". It always seemed people were two to three weeks out. Then you had to deal with re-scheduling as the date approached. I've forgotten why I liked you or what you looked like by then. I began to recognize this as part of the phenomenon that people referred to as "The Seattle Fade". That's basically the live and impersonal version or "It's not you, it's me". Trust me, I know it's you, buddy.
Confuzzled, I banged my head against this wall for a couple of years, slowly both building my own insular group of friends and giving into the free, one-off sexual environment that Seattle appeared to be. Neither of these situations was a full fledged shituation, but neither was fully satisfying to me. My life was and is in imbalance.
While vacationing at home, it hit me over dinner one night.
Last night, to be specific.
Friday the 13th.
The day before Valentine's Day.
Apropos, no?
I met my friends in the bar at Starky's while we waited for our full party to arrive for dinner. The waiter approached, flashed me a 100-watt smile that hit his eyes and expressed his interest perfectly, took my order and wandered off.
"And out of my life forever" is the way I have come to describe those scenarios. You all know my penchant for waiters, baristas and bartenders...I have learned to take those attractions as life's simple pleasures without expecting anything other than the enjoyment I get from a little eye-hockey and smiling during whatever transaction is at hand.
While we waited, Big Word Ben pointed out a guy who would be right up my alley. Short, cute, even had some ginger hair going. Eagerly I spin around in a not-too-obvious way to look, locking onto the proposed object of my affections just as BWB chuckles and says, "Oh wait, you already had him!"
How droll.
He was a guy who picked me up in a bar. Not literally, but he had game. He chatted me up. Asked for my number. Made a date. And then we did something prior to having sex.
The way the god of the godless intended.
Giving up on a seating quorum, lesbians running on their own timetable as they are want to do, we are seated in the dining room where our waiter comes over and proves to be more than attentive to every man at the table. Ending, and lingering on your humble scribe. I write this off as his schtick initially, but he keeps coming back to me. When the ladies in our party finally arrive, they know him and he introduces me as his Valentine.
Cute.
The thing is, he actually did ask me out. He wanted me to come back when he finished work and when I couldn't he actually asked me out for Valentine's Day. All apologies and no guarantees, I thanked him for the invite but told him I was probably not going to have the time.
On the sidewalk, it hit me.
I had just witnessed the difference, specifically, between Portland and Seattle men. Perhaps to some degree between Seattle men and men most anywhere else.
Action.
Not the kind that takes place between the sheets, figuratively or literally. The kind of action that happens before that.
The kind of action that requires balls. A fearlessness and willingness to pursue what you want because you are worth it. The perfect compliment to this is tact, of course. Manners. An ability to say, "Thanks, but no thanks" without judgment, ridicule or scorn.
Seattle lacks both of these traits, by and large-in my experience. I say that in a completely non-judgmental way, not that it will be believed. My epiphany last night was full spectrum. I saw the entire evolution of this social phenomenon-I almost said "problem" but that would be judgmental.
The men I have encountered lack the willingness to expose themselves enough to rejection to express a valid interest in getting to know someone, giving it instead lip service in their on line "dating" profiles by saying something along the lines of "Open to LTR, with the right guy". But they also lack the tact to politely decline the advances of another man without using the opportunity to elevate their own worth at this would be suitor's expense. Most often, you see someone walk away to a disdainful lear or the subtle "heads in, voices down so he doesn't hear us talking about him" recap. What happened to the days when you could be hit on by someone and tell your friends about it after he left and they would say "Well, that was nice" versus "What was he thinking"?
I think I know.
Seinfeld is the answer.
Seriously.
And he owes me an apology, specifically, but the town itself, as well. Now, his forgiveness is assured, because I do adore him, but still...
I'm going to unofficially pinpoint the date of this emotional deterioration to George Costanza declaring Seattle as "the pesto of cities". I imagine that this began a snowball's journey that has ended with hearts both retarded and frozen inside the chests of many a Seattle-ite. Who wouldn't want to be in the trendy, new city in the Wild West?
Partner that endorsement with Microsoft, et al's creation of new wealth in such a small city area and you probably have a higher than average concentration of people who aren't quite sure how to behave, being caught between the social "caste" they were raised in and the one they now percieve themselves to exist in. As a stranger in a strange town, they have no one to hold them accountable to their behavior. No one knows where they belong, so they self-direct and recreate their social status according to their new geography and wealth, by wallpapering themselves with ego-inflating paycheck after ego-inflating paycheck, losing the person they were along the way.
Didn't these people watch the Brady Bunch growing up or any of the ABC After School Specials?
So, while I enjoy living in the urban setting that Seattle offers and love my friends there as intimately as my personality affords me; I am reminded of an old adage that has been replaying in my head since last night's encounter: "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home". Perhaps it refers not just to the surroundings in this instance.
Anyway, I'm sure this type of observation is better left to the Diane Fossey's of the world, but there's my $.02 based on my experience. Do I give up? Most certainly not. Am I enjoying the adventure? A little less over time. That's on you, Seattle.
I'm sure this will rain down the ire of many people in my adopted town, so be it-if I am not allowed my opinion, my point is likely made for me. For those who can't accept that, build a Chris-shaped effigy to symbolize your insecurities and I will put the match to it.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Need
I think I was born to rail against the typical American lifestyle. Or at least it is a byproduct of my residency in the USA.
And I find myself a member of that lifestyle I so often complain about. That's part of what makes me special.
Mmm-hmm.
It crystallized in a thought I had this morning at Noah's Bagels on 23rd in Portland while I waited for a friend to finish a doctor's appointment.
(A couple of side-bars here: Twenty-third is referred to as trendy-third in Portland, which dovetails nicely on my thoughts for this blog. Secondly, while at Noah's I took a little inventory of what I have consumed on my vacation-the sheer amount of food I have eaten. Crazy. I think it really went off the charts when my friend, The Silver Fox, started his fasting three days prior to his colonoscopy today. I think I ate all his food rations, too. This thought also folded into my thoughts for this blog.)
I was there enjoying a salt bagel (the best!) and a couple cups of coffee while I waited for The Silver Fox to finish his anal probe when a lady walked in and ordered a dozen bagels. The shop manager addresses her from across the counter and offered to put together an assortment for her. Here's what happened:
"I'll pick them myself" No "no thanks"?
"Ok"
"I need two pumpernickel" Yes, I sent myself a text with her order so I would remember what she asked for. Me and my stellar memory.
"Ok"
"I need two plain"
"Ok"
"I need two salt" (the best!)
"Ok" This guy is way more patient than I am.
"I need two asiago"
"Ok"
"I need two pepper, how many is that?"
"That's 10"
"And I need two sun dried tomato"
"Ok. You get one more when you order a dozen. What kind would you like?"
Flustered, "You pick"
Really? Now, now...this is when you release your control issues and let someone else pick? She left the shop without as much as a "Thank you" for the guy who helped her. I think she confused the nature of the "order" she was giving. She obviously needed better service before she felt the need to grace a lowly service person with her good manners. I wondered where her and her clunky shoes worked. I wanted (it wasn't a need) to tell her that if she was gonna put on airs like that, she should put on better shoes. And probably use a better handbag while she's at it. But I didn't-see, there's my generous nature.
I was killing time there for an hour and a half at Noah's. It gave me time to notice how many people tell you what they need when they are really just expressing what they would like. Three people ordered dozens. One accepted the manager's offer to assemble and assort on their behalf. The other two needed specific bagels, apparently.
I wonder what would have happened if they would have reported to the office without the bagels they needed. Would there have been a termination? A corrective action? Hard to say, and honestly, I do not have a need to know. My brief observation of these two customers led me to the conclusion that neither of them was patient enough to take the order of one or two people, let alone a dozen. So where did this need for specific bagel flavors come from?
I think it was a need to be in control. But it did get me thinking about how we phrase things. We don't talk about things that we really do need like food, shelter, oxygen. The basics. We gloss over those things as part of our life experience. Things that are given to us because we, as Americans, are entitled to them and god help the poor bastard that tries to deny us those basics, our birth rights. It made me think hard about the last times I've casually overheard people discussing their needs.
What I recollected was a woman on the street telling her phone, "I need to get a massage". A woman at breakfast (post anal probe) saying to her boyfriend that she needed to go to Nordstrom". Funny, at breakfast at Fuller's (the best steak and egg breakfast in Portland) I fought back a need to ask the waitress if I could buy breakfast for the guy across from me. He had the specific look of homelessness without the addition of "crazy". I wanted to ask after I heard him ask the waitress how much an order of french toast was. After a pause, she offered that they had half-orders, which he requested with a cup of coffee. You may have noticed that I said, "I wanted" earlier, I didn't have a need to buy this guy's breakfast, but he looked like he needed the money he was spending on food. What I needed in this scenario was a way to ask the waitress if he needed help without damaging his dignity regardless of the answer.
Back to the point.
There was a guy at the gym telling his buddy that he needed to get a protein shake.
Sadly, that was the closest to a genuine need I could recall.
Well, there was a memory of someone saying, "I need to use the restroom" but other than that, I was drawing a blank. To be honest, I could have been remembering myself saying that and forgetting it was me, I tend to drink a lot of fluids and forget lots of details.
The conclusion-which I will no doubt hear from someone that this is more of an indictment than a conclusion-that I came to is that we have managed as a culture to elevate our wants to the level and urgency of needs. Frankly-and this is where I reclaim my perceived generosity of spirit-I don't blame the individuals. I blame the culture. Specifically, our media-centric culture.
For decades now we have been programmed, in an escalatingly aggressive fashion, to forget about the basics and focus on the brass ring type items that we see on tv or in movies. The designer shoes and clothes, the trendy eateries, the vacation hot spots, the cosmetic procedures. Over the course of time, this has eroded our sense of appreciation for what we have and shifted the focus to what it is that we don't have. What the Joneses have that we don't. What the next conquest or acquisition is. What we need.
Or, more appropriately, what we need to validate and/or distract ourselves.
I think that I will place a large portion of the blame for our increasing divorce rate and decreasing ability to maintain solid relationships on this same phenomenon.
I felt kind of crummy after all this. Slightly sickened for the realization. Maybe it was the second cup of coffee.
Not reaching out for any shred of humanity to hold onto for the sake of my precious ego, but still grateful for the unbidden memory, I thought of my aunt's way of expressing her gratitude for her good fortunes or simple pleasures. I was riding in the car with her once and she made a traffic light as it turned from red to green without having to stop or slow down. She exhaled, "Thank you, Jesus".
When I questioned her about it, she simply explained that there are so many things to be grateful for, small miracles, that go unacknowledged everyday that she feels selfish if she doesn't say "thank you" when she notices one. And my aunt has been known, as a rule, to put the "conspicuous" in "conspicuous consumer".
I thought about that practice, and decided I loved it. Putting my own spiritual rather than religious twist on it, I adopted it as my own and try to throw a "thank you" out there myself now and then. I actually said, "Thank you, Paula" to express my gratitude to her for sharing this with me and, therefore, allowing me to recall the moment when I needed to be reminded of the fact that there's plenty of good to witness out there in the world.
I just need to be open to seeing it.
And I find myself a member of that lifestyle I so often complain about. That's part of what makes me special.
Mmm-hmm.
It crystallized in a thought I had this morning at Noah's Bagels on 23rd in Portland while I waited for a friend to finish a doctor's appointment.
(A couple of side-bars here: Twenty-third is referred to as trendy-third in Portland, which dovetails nicely on my thoughts for this blog. Secondly, while at Noah's I took a little inventory of what I have consumed on my vacation-the sheer amount of food I have eaten. Crazy. I think it really went off the charts when my friend, The Silver Fox, started his fasting three days prior to his colonoscopy today. I think I ate all his food rations, too. This thought also folded into my thoughts for this blog.)
I was there enjoying a salt bagel (the best!) and a couple cups of coffee while I waited for The Silver Fox to finish his anal probe when a lady walked in and ordered a dozen bagels. The shop manager addresses her from across the counter and offered to put together an assortment for her. Here's what happened:
"I'll pick them myself" No "no thanks"?
"Ok"
"I need two pumpernickel" Yes, I sent myself a text with her order so I would remember what she asked for. Me and my stellar memory.
"Ok"
"I need two plain"
"Ok"
"I need two salt" (the best!)
"Ok" This guy is way more patient than I am.
"I need two asiago"
"Ok"
"I need two pepper, how many is that?"
"That's 10"
"And I need two sun dried tomato"
"Ok. You get one more when you order a dozen. What kind would you like?"
Flustered, "You pick"
Really? Now, now...this is when you release your control issues and let someone else pick? She left the shop without as much as a "Thank you" for the guy who helped her. I think she confused the nature of the "order" she was giving. She obviously needed better service before she felt the need to grace a lowly service person with her good manners. I wondered where her and her clunky shoes worked. I wanted (it wasn't a need) to tell her that if she was gonna put on airs like that, she should put on better shoes. And probably use a better handbag while she's at it. But I didn't-see, there's my generous nature.
I was killing time there for an hour and a half at Noah's. It gave me time to notice how many people tell you what they need when they are really just expressing what they would like. Three people ordered dozens. One accepted the manager's offer to assemble and assort on their behalf. The other two needed specific bagels, apparently.
I wonder what would have happened if they would have reported to the office without the bagels they needed. Would there have been a termination? A corrective action? Hard to say, and honestly, I do not have a need to know. My brief observation of these two customers led me to the conclusion that neither of them was patient enough to take the order of one or two people, let alone a dozen. So where did this need for specific bagel flavors come from?
I think it was a need to be in control. But it did get me thinking about how we phrase things. We don't talk about things that we really do need like food, shelter, oxygen. The basics. We gloss over those things as part of our life experience. Things that are given to us because we, as Americans, are entitled to them and god help the poor bastard that tries to deny us those basics, our birth rights. It made me think hard about the last times I've casually overheard people discussing their needs.
What I recollected was a woman on the street telling her phone, "I need to get a massage". A woman at breakfast (post anal probe) saying to her boyfriend that she needed to go to Nordstrom". Funny, at breakfast at Fuller's (the best steak and egg breakfast in Portland) I fought back a need to ask the waitress if I could buy breakfast for the guy across from me. He had the specific look of homelessness without the addition of "crazy". I wanted to ask after I heard him ask the waitress how much an order of french toast was. After a pause, she offered that they had half-orders, which he requested with a cup of coffee. You may have noticed that I said, "I wanted" earlier, I didn't have a need to buy this guy's breakfast, but he looked like he needed the money he was spending on food. What I needed in this scenario was a way to ask the waitress if he needed help without damaging his dignity regardless of the answer.
Back to the point.
There was a guy at the gym telling his buddy that he needed to get a protein shake.
Sadly, that was the closest to a genuine need I could recall.
Well, there was a memory of someone saying, "I need to use the restroom" but other than that, I was drawing a blank. To be honest, I could have been remembering myself saying that and forgetting it was me, I tend to drink a lot of fluids and forget lots of details.
The conclusion-which I will no doubt hear from someone that this is more of an indictment than a conclusion-that I came to is that we have managed as a culture to elevate our wants to the level and urgency of needs. Frankly-and this is where I reclaim my perceived generosity of spirit-I don't blame the individuals. I blame the culture. Specifically, our media-centric culture.
For decades now we have been programmed, in an escalatingly aggressive fashion, to forget about the basics and focus on the brass ring type items that we see on tv or in movies. The designer shoes and clothes, the trendy eateries, the vacation hot spots, the cosmetic procedures. Over the course of time, this has eroded our sense of appreciation for what we have and shifted the focus to what it is that we don't have. What the Joneses have that we don't. What the next conquest or acquisition is. What we need.
Or, more appropriately, what we need to validate and/or distract ourselves.
I think that I will place a large portion of the blame for our increasing divorce rate and decreasing ability to maintain solid relationships on this same phenomenon.
I felt kind of crummy after all this. Slightly sickened for the realization. Maybe it was the second cup of coffee.
Not reaching out for any shred of humanity to hold onto for the sake of my precious ego, but still grateful for the unbidden memory, I thought of my aunt's way of expressing her gratitude for her good fortunes or simple pleasures. I was riding in the car with her once and she made a traffic light as it turned from red to green without having to stop or slow down. She exhaled, "Thank you, Jesus".
When I questioned her about it, she simply explained that there are so many things to be grateful for, small miracles, that go unacknowledged everyday that she feels selfish if she doesn't say "thank you" when she notices one. And my aunt has been known, as a rule, to put the "conspicuous" in "conspicuous consumer".
I thought about that practice, and decided I loved it. Putting my own spiritual rather than religious twist on it, I adopted it as my own and try to throw a "thank you" out there myself now and then. I actually said, "Thank you, Paula" to express my gratitude to her for sharing this with me and, therefore, allowing me to recall the moment when I needed to be reminded of the fact that there's plenty of good to witness out there in the world.
I just need to be open to seeing it.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Fagabond
Another new word from yours truly. A new entry in the Chris-lexicon: Fagabond.
It came about spontaneously in a conversation with a friend of mine, Kris, about a guy I've been "seeing" for a couple of months. Let's call him JR. It's a triple-entendre. I might have sprained something.
JR told me last week that his job was ending this week. Mind you, it is a temp job, so I asked whether his agency had anything else in the pipeline for him. Sadly, it looks like there is no immediate placement looming. On the plus side, he doesn't have a lot of overhead.
I joked to Kris that while it was sad, this would likely be the catalyst that moved JR from wanting to "see" me once a week to actually dating. The evolution is unlikely in my mind-he's 21, barely more datable than an animal, really-but still a nice guy (and sexy as all hell, great kisser, fairly articulate...but the 21 still shows through). I hate to see him struggle, especially since my jaded mind pretty fluidly goes to scenarios like, "I don't have rent money, Chris". Which to a 21 year old can be easily solved two ways. Older "boyfriend" gives him the money or lets him move in.
No biggie, right? Problem solved.
Right.
Well, let's presume-correctly-that I don't have the extra flash to pay someone else's rent. That leaves us with scenario number two. Number two...funny, since that option would create a scenario described by another entry in the Chris-lexicon: shituation.
I told Kris that to a young person moving in is no big deal, the home they have created isn't a nest so much as a den. They can likely pick up and change the location of their living quarters with nothing more traumatic than how to put down the deposit for the new cable service. While I think I am pretty generous and would love to share my home with someone when the time is right, I know at the same time (despite my frequent dating mis-actions) that that someone has to be a significant person, not someone who kept me at, um...let's say arms length until there was a need to close that gap. That younger person hasn't yet learned to balance the two facets of life that created that gap in the first place, having friends and a lover in your life.
To the younger individual, not just JR but any-or most any-young person, if a month or two passes and the "honeymoon" ends and there is actually relating that needs to be done in this living situation that they are unprepared for, simply pick up and move again.
Problem solved.
I told my friend that vagabond lifestyle is typical for younger folks, in my experience. Having moved up to six times in a 12 month period in my late teens and early 20's, I figure I can make that statement fairly.
A moment clicked by and I thought of all the jokes about gays and lesbians rushing into relationship situations to validate their emotions for someone, in the absence of a government sanctioned, legally valid manner of expressing their relationship. The one that stands out most in my memory goes something like, "What's the setting of a lesbian second date? A U-Haul."
It really reinforced the term vagabond I had used in our conversation. Putting it into a homosexual context, I corrected myself and used the term "fagabond" to describe the situation in shorthand.
I'm not an overly political person, but as a gay man, I feel that this fagabond quality to the gay and lesbian life experience is unique to us. While heterosexual youths may infrequently bounce from living situation to living situation the reason for the bounce is-from my observation-usually less a factor of a bum relationship. I know many straight men and women who are in dating relationships that span weeks to months to years and less often see them result in co-habitation prematurely than their homo counterparts. Sometimes I even find myself projecting my desire to see these couples move in together, using my tainted timeline to evaluate the success and validity of their relationship.
So, back to the politics of Chris. It seems the major obstacle for legalizing same sex marriage is really the word "marriage". It is a religious term that was co-opted by the government in an act of short-sightedness that is crippling our country's ability to ensure civil rights for all citizens two hundred plus years later. For all the foundations of our country, two stand out. The first, a country founded on a separation of church and state; the second, our right to pursue happiness. Out of the gate, our founding fathers' failure to create a legal entity for marriage using a secular term has rippled forward in time to today where many religious entities-most notable, the Mormons-are blocking the civil rights of homosexuals to defend an institution that they have a valid claim to.
I'll wait while the minions pick up their computers off the floor.
I say let the churches of our country have a friggin copyright to the damn word.
The failure here is to correct the original error. I think we are beginning to round that corner with marriage equality. Perhaps the final step in the evolution will be to take the word marriage out of the legal vernacular altogether, for homos and heteros, and revisit something like civil unions. If we do convert the legal meaning of marriage to civil unions, it destigmatizes the process, it is no longer villainy to see fags and lesbos engaging in something that the pious do when they meet their mate. It is, indeed, separate but equal. Separate from the Church, which is where this should have began.
As a matter of fact, we should look at a civil union for religious folk no differently than we do for marriages between a Catholic and a Jew, where you can usually find a blending of the two culture's ceremonies. For a hetero couple getting married that wishes to have a religious stamp placed on their relationship, there could be a Justice of the Peace and a Religious Officiant. Or a church's leader could play a dual role. Either way, the religious aspect of the union becomes secondary, not primary.
To further finger fuck the church, we could insist that legal rights of civil unions not be granted to marriages performed outside of a state or federally recognized Justice of the Peace. See how they like that. Sure, let hospitals decide whether or not to recognize visitation rights for married individuals, but the financial benefits of civil unions would not be extended to these religious based marriages unless they were certified by a legal representative of the government as well. See how they like that.
Hey, I just sit here and quietly solve the world's problems. I figure if I tell enough people the right answer will bubble up in some form or another. Look at me and the democratic split over Obama and Hillary's campaigns for the presidential nomination...I simply suggested a Hillary/Obama ticket. While we got close to my solution eventually, with Obama as Prez and Hill as Sec State-a solution I am totally on board with, I think Obama is gonna rock-my solution paved the way for sixteen years of these political forces working in the White House. This solution, really, I only see eight...but you can't knock them all out of the park, right?
Anyway, once the religious connotations are removed from our government's sanctioning of relationships I think that gays and lesbians will make a significant step-one that many homo couples have already made in the shadows of an impotent government's approved religious oppression-forward in making more mature relationship and life choices. Until then, I think we will either scramble as a sub-but-not-subversive culture to find meaningful, if not premature, ways to validate our relationships or use the lack of government equality as a shield for sexual deviancy that would make our mothers wonder where they went wrong.
Either way...we're fagabonds-ie: relationship retards-until the government corrects it's problem for us.
It came about spontaneously in a conversation with a friend of mine, Kris, about a guy I've been "seeing" for a couple of months. Let's call him JR. It's a triple-entendre. I might have sprained something.
JR told me last week that his job was ending this week. Mind you, it is a temp job, so I asked whether his agency had anything else in the pipeline for him. Sadly, it looks like there is no immediate placement looming. On the plus side, he doesn't have a lot of overhead.
I joked to Kris that while it was sad, this would likely be the catalyst that moved JR from wanting to "see" me once a week to actually dating. The evolution is unlikely in my mind-he's 21, barely more datable than an animal, really-but still a nice guy (and sexy as all hell, great kisser, fairly articulate...but the 21 still shows through). I hate to see him struggle, especially since my jaded mind pretty fluidly goes to scenarios like, "I don't have rent money, Chris". Which to a 21 year old can be easily solved two ways. Older "boyfriend" gives him the money or lets him move in.
No biggie, right? Problem solved.
Right.
Well, let's presume-correctly-that I don't have the extra flash to pay someone else's rent. That leaves us with scenario number two. Number two...funny, since that option would create a scenario described by another entry in the Chris-lexicon: shituation.
I told Kris that to a young person moving in is no big deal, the home they have created isn't a nest so much as a den. They can likely pick up and change the location of their living quarters with nothing more traumatic than how to put down the deposit for the new cable service. While I think I am pretty generous and would love to share my home with someone when the time is right, I know at the same time (despite my frequent dating mis-actions) that that someone has to be a significant person, not someone who kept me at, um...let's say arms length until there was a need to close that gap. That younger person hasn't yet learned to balance the two facets of life that created that gap in the first place, having friends and a lover in your life.
To the younger individual, not just JR but any-or most any-young person, if a month or two passes and the "honeymoon" ends and there is actually relating that needs to be done in this living situation that they are unprepared for, simply pick up and move again.
Problem solved.
I told my friend that vagabond lifestyle is typical for younger folks, in my experience. Having moved up to six times in a 12 month period in my late teens and early 20's, I figure I can make that statement fairly.
A moment clicked by and I thought of all the jokes about gays and lesbians rushing into relationship situations to validate their emotions for someone, in the absence of a government sanctioned, legally valid manner of expressing their relationship. The one that stands out most in my memory goes something like, "What's the setting of a lesbian second date? A U-Haul."
It really reinforced the term vagabond I had used in our conversation. Putting it into a homosexual context, I corrected myself and used the term "fagabond" to describe the situation in shorthand.
I'm not an overly political person, but as a gay man, I feel that this fagabond quality to the gay and lesbian life experience is unique to us. While heterosexual youths may infrequently bounce from living situation to living situation the reason for the bounce is-from my observation-usually less a factor of a bum relationship. I know many straight men and women who are in dating relationships that span weeks to months to years and less often see them result in co-habitation prematurely than their homo counterparts. Sometimes I even find myself projecting my desire to see these couples move in together, using my tainted timeline to evaluate the success and validity of their relationship.
So, back to the politics of Chris. It seems the major obstacle for legalizing same sex marriage is really the word "marriage". It is a religious term that was co-opted by the government in an act of short-sightedness that is crippling our country's ability to ensure civil rights for all citizens two hundred plus years later. For all the foundations of our country, two stand out. The first, a country founded on a separation of church and state; the second, our right to pursue happiness. Out of the gate, our founding fathers' failure to create a legal entity for marriage using a secular term has rippled forward in time to today where many religious entities-most notable, the Mormons-are blocking the civil rights of homosexuals to defend an institution that they have a valid claim to.
I'll wait while the minions pick up their computers off the floor.
I say let the churches of our country have a friggin copyright to the damn word.
The failure here is to correct the original error. I think we are beginning to round that corner with marriage equality. Perhaps the final step in the evolution will be to take the word marriage out of the legal vernacular altogether, for homos and heteros, and revisit something like civil unions. If we do convert the legal meaning of marriage to civil unions, it destigmatizes the process, it is no longer villainy to see fags and lesbos engaging in something that the pious do when they meet their mate. It is, indeed, separate but equal. Separate from the Church, which is where this should have began.
As a matter of fact, we should look at a civil union for religious folk no differently than we do for marriages between a Catholic and a Jew, where you can usually find a blending of the two culture's ceremonies. For a hetero couple getting married that wishes to have a religious stamp placed on their relationship, there could be a Justice of the Peace and a Religious Officiant. Or a church's leader could play a dual role. Either way, the religious aspect of the union becomes secondary, not primary.
To further finger fuck the church, we could insist that legal rights of civil unions not be granted to marriages performed outside of a state or federally recognized Justice of the Peace. See how they like that. Sure, let hospitals decide whether or not to recognize visitation rights for married individuals, but the financial benefits of civil unions would not be extended to these religious based marriages unless they were certified by a legal representative of the government as well. See how they like that.
Hey, I just sit here and quietly solve the world's problems. I figure if I tell enough people the right answer will bubble up in some form or another. Look at me and the democratic split over Obama and Hillary's campaigns for the presidential nomination...I simply suggested a Hillary/Obama ticket. While we got close to my solution eventually, with Obama as Prez and Hill as Sec State-a solution I am totally on board with, I think Obama is gonna rock-my solution paved the way for sixteen years of these political forces working in the White House. This solution, really, I only see eight...but you can't knock them all out of the park, right?
Anyway, once the religious connotations are removed from our government's sanctioning of relationships I think that gays and lesbians will make a significant step-one that many homo couples have already made in the shadows of an impotent government's approved religious oppression-forward in making more mature relationship and life choices. Until then, I think we will either scramble as a sub-but-not-subversive culture to find meaningful, if not premature, ways to validate our relationships or use the lack of government equality as a shield for sexual deviancy that would make our mothers wonder where they went wrong.
Either way...we're fagabonds-ie: relationship retards-until the government corrects it's problem for us.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Beautiful Day
Today was a strange day. Started strange and just kept on rolling like one of those off-center-weighted balls that won't roll in a straight line.
I woke up at 5:15 this morning, after a four hour nap, and could not return to sleep. My mind was alert, so I figured I would get up and head to the gym, see if I couldn't get my body in sync with my mind. After all, I didn't have to be at work til 8:00.
Then my erratic and dysfunctional OCD kicks in.
Before I know it, I'm unloading the dishwasher, loading it back up, hand washing my pots and pans (hey, there were only two), changing my sheets, dusting and I don't even know what else. All this while also having the time to notice a fantabulous sunrise in the East. And it is now 7:10 so now I'm really gonna need to hustle to get to work on time. Must have been that lo-carb Monster I drank.
So I make it out the door with barely enough time to swing into Sugar for my 16 oz Americano with room, two ice cubes and two splendas. Yes, that really is how I order it. They have a thing about having splenda out in a place called Sugar, ok?
I hit the elevator in my sassy little Nike jacket that everyone loves and says looks like a piece of scuba (self contained underwater breathing apparatus) gear and remember that I have forgotten my phone.
Back into the condo. Back to the elevator. Onto the street and then I realize I will likely want my shades when I come home so back to the unit.
I figure the shades will mandate a beautiful day. Luckily the elevators have a respectable pace, nonetheless, my coffee window is shutting for the morning with every trip back to the condo to appease my flighty memory. But the glasses seem integral to bending the weather to my will.
I'm tired of 50 degree days.
I brazenly jaywalk across Boren to save time, setting off a petty crime spree all across the city as I do so. It begins with me enabling a sweet old lady to do the same. God only knows where it went from there-and I gave it little care as I focused on my Americano. That is until late in the afternoon I hear about Pike St being closed down due to a robbery...I feel guilt. Before it passes moments later, I have time to compare myself to the butterfly in Japan that causes a tsunami across the Pacific. Then it's gone.
But I skipped ahead.
Grab the coffee and I run out of the bakery, just as Beautiful Day by U2 comes on my nano. I replay it several times as I walk to work, revelling in the gorgeousness Mother Nature is providing around me in lieu of the actual video for the song. People are looking at me as I bop along the streets of Seattle, a little lighter on my feet for the mood the day and good music and a not insignificant caffeine buzz has created. Not to mention the sun is not fully up and I have sunglasses on. That's bound to generate a look or ten for a variety of reasons...most notably, they are friggin hot glasses. Yes, someone with better taste in these things than I selected them for me.
I'm enjoying one of these glances in the heart of downtown from across an intersection. A very nattily dressed gent. I imagine he would like to think I am staring right at him from behind the security of my shades, when in fact I noticed him several beats after he saw me. I know this because as I am having this thought, he steps off the curb to cross and ends up on the hood of a-fortunately slow moving-vehicle. I know how ya feel buddy, I think I am pretty cool sometimes, too, only to end up having the universe snatch that feeling right away from me!
He seems ok, and frankly, I am a little too late to stick around and nurse his bruises-the most substantial I suspect is his ego.
So, be-bop-a-loo-bop-off-to-work-I-go. It's a beautiful day, he survived.
On my final block to the entrance of my store, I pass the side of my store's building and notice that one of our overly generous street artists has tagged the building. How kind. It's all part of living in an urban environment I remind myself as my irritation threatens to take the edge off of my beautiful day. Instead of irritation, I try for understanding the message. That doesn't do much for my mood, but does manage to preserve my beautiful day vibe.
Until...
I realize that the point of the song is kind of a "Hey, we're stripping our Earth of it's natural resources...but it's a beautiful day, so maybe you won't notice" type of thing. So, the things that have occurred during my impeccably set dressed walk to work were perhaps the perfect illustrations for the song after all.
Who knows? I'm surprised you read this far...LOL.
Then again, on the way home I hear the Indigo Girls' Let It Be Me. Which basically sets out to demonstrate that even through the most heinous situations, one person's attitude can be a beacon of light in the darkest of nights.
And, here we are, back at me being a butterfly that causes a tsunami-only one of goodness-just by holding fast to my desire to be in a good mood!
I woke up at 5:15 this morning, after a four hour nap, and could not return to sleep. My mind was alert, so I figured I would get up and head to the gym, see if I couldn't get my body in sync with my mind. After all, I didn't have to be at work til 8:00.
Then my erratic and dysfunctional OCD kicks in.
Before I know it, I'm unloading the dishwasher, loading it back up, hand washing my pots and pans (hey, there were only two), changing my sheets, dusting and I don't even know what else. All this while also having the time to notice a fantabulous sunrise in the East. And it is now 7:10 so now I'm really gonna need to hustle to get to work on time. Must have been that lo-carb Monster I drank.
So I make it out the door with barely enough time to swing into Sugar for my 16 oz Americano with room, two ice cubes and two splendas. Yes, that really is how I order it. They have a thing about having splenda out in a place called Sugar, ok?
I hit the elevator in my sassy little Nike jacket that everyone loves and says looks like a piece of scuba (self contained underwater breathing apparatus) gear and remember that I have forgotten my phone.
Back into the condo. Back to the elevator. Onto the street and then I realize I will likely want my shades when I come home so back to the unit.
I figure the shades will mandate a beautiful day. Luckily the elevators have a respectable pace, nonetheless, my coffee window is shutting for the morning with every trip back to the condo to appease my flighty memory. But the glasses seem integral to bending the weather to my will.
I'm tired of 50 degree days.
I brazenly jaywalk across Boren to save time, setting off a petty crime spree all across the city as I do so. It begins with me enabling a sweet old lady to do the same. God only knows where it went from there-and I gave it little care as I focused on my Americano. That is until late in the afternoon I hear about Pike St being closed down due to a robbery...I feel guilt. Before it passes moments later, I have time to compare myself to the butterfly in Japan that causes a tsunami across the Pacific. Then it's gone.
But I skipped ahead.
Grab the coffee and I run out of the bakery, just as Beautiful Day by U2 comes on my nano. I replay it several times as I walk to work, revelling in the gorgeousness Mother Nature is providing around me in lieu of the actual video for the song. People are looking at me as I bop along the streets of Seattle, a little lighter on my feet for the mood the day and good music and a not insignificant caffeine buzz has created. Not to mention the sun is not fully up and I have sunglasses on. That's bound to generate a look or ten for a variety of reasons...most notably, they are friggin hot glasses. Yes, someone with better taste in these things than I selected them for me.
I'm enjoying one of these glances in the heart of downtown from across an intersection. A very nattily dressed gent. I imagine he would like to think I am staring right at him from behind the security of my shades, when in fact I noticed him several beats after he saw me. I know this because as I am having this thought, he steps off the curb to cross and ends up on the hood of a-fortunately slow moving-vehicle. I know how ya feel buddy, I think I am pretty cool sometimes, too, only to end up having the universe snatch that feeling right away from me!
He seems ok, and frankly, I am a little too late to stick around and nurse his bruises-the most substantial I suspect is his ego.
So, be-bop-a-loo-bop-off-to-work-I-go. It's a beautiful day, he survived.
On my final block to the entrance of my store, I pass the side of my store's building and notice that one of our overly generous street artists has tagged the building. How kind. It's all part of living in an urban environment I remind myself as my irritation threatens to take the edge off of my beautiful day. Instead of irritation, I try for understanding the message. That doesn't do much for my mood, but does manage to preserve my beautiful day vibe.
Until...
I realize that the point of the song is kind of a "Hey, we're stripping our Earth of it's natural resources...but it's a beautiful day, so maybe you won't notice" type of thing. So, the things that have occurred during my impeccably set dressed walk to work were perhaps the perfect illustrations for the song after all.
Who knows? I'm surprised you read this far...LOL.
Then again, on the way home I hear the Indigo Girls' Let It Be Me. Which basically sets out to demonstrate that even through the most heinous situations, one person's attitude can be a beacon of light in the darkest of nights.
And, here we are, back at me being a butterfly that causes a tsunami-only one of goodness-just by holding fast to my desire to be in a good mood!
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