I consider myself to be an expert on a wide variety of subjects. None of the topics on which I claim to hold a credible opinion were taught to me by traditional means. For example, I consider myself to be an expert on folk music, not because I have read anything about (or even own any albums by) Bob Dylan or Nancy Griffin, but because I know all of the words to every song off of the Indigo Girls' "Rites of Passage" album. I am your go-to guy regarding the great city of New Orleans, not because I am from there or have even studied there, but because I've gotten very drunk there many, many times. I consider myself to be an expert on how Western civilization has corrupted and oppressed the nations of Africa over the past four hundred years, not because I know anyone from Africa (nor do I have even the slightest desire to ever go to Africa), but because I have read Barbara Kingsolver's African-staged epic "The Poisonwood Bible" more than once.
Most of my self-proclaimed knowledge comes from television though, but not sophisticated television like PBS of CSPAN. I know the effects that electro-magnetic energy can have on air travel thanks to "Lost." I know what it's like to run a late night comedy sketch show because of "30 Rock." And I also feel that I'm quite the historian when it comes to Hip Hop because I watched all three seasons of "Flavor of Love." And now, thanks to A&E's brilliant show "Intervention," I am now an expert on the subject of addiction.
"Intervention" is an hour-long documentary that each week follows around an addict who will soon be confronted by their friends and family about undergoing treatment. The show highlights every type of addiction, from gambling to drugs to booze. It sucks the viewer in by showing how the person got from Point A to Point B, how they went from studying medicine to huffing glue or from being a world champion cyclist to panhandling for crack money. It's a very heartwarming show. You find yourself rooting for the addict, wanting them to get better and to turn their lives around. And, if you have a sick sense of humor like I do, the show is often hilarious. Watching someone on crystal meth attempt to do algebra is always good for a chuckle. Or seeing the mother of the bride get so drunk that she starts making threats during the wedding toast is pure comedy gold.
We all have addictions, and sometimes the worst addictions are ones that move under the radar. Those are the things that we can't stop doing, things that might be damaging to us but are highly unlikely to completely destroy our lives. Chocolate, for example, might expand your wasteline and rot your teeth, but it's doubtful that you'll ever have to steal from your friends and family or prostitute yourself to pay for it. Outside of nicotine and the binge drinking (which I blame entirely on the influence of others), I only have one real addiction. And this only occurred to me recently when I was challenged by a friend of mine to stop doing it. It turns out that I couldn't stop. My name is Tony, and I'm addicted to dating.
"Intervention" has taught me many things about addiction, primarily about how it sneaks up on people and without them even realizing that it's happened, their lives have started to revolve around it. The guy who used to only do cocaine on the weekends doesn't know at exactly what moment he began needing it first thing in the morning, but he does. The girl hooked on heroine can't remember how smoking weed occasionally with her friends led to her living underneath an interstate overpass, but it has. The path to addiction is complicated and consists of many variables. It's not all about the physical need you develop for it. Your past plays a huge part, as do your fears. Addiction is like a cute baby tiger. Overnight, it can go from being something small and fun and controllable to something big and powerful and capable of killing you.
Simply put, when an addict gets their fix, they feel good. These feelings of bliss eventually pass, leading them desperate to return to that level of comfort. My history with dating addiction is the classic story of the small town boy gone wild in the big city. I grew up in the suburbs and went to college in the sticks. I lived in the very conservative mid-sized city of Memphis throughout most of my twenties, and dating for gay men was about as frequent as live vocals at a Britney Spears concert. Fast forward to my moving to the big gay city of Chicago (into the gayest neighborhood to boot!), and needless to say I lost control. I became obsessed with it. It was easy and accessible and an amazing deterrence from reality. I was hooked!
There were a few periods where I was able to stop dating, to stop scouring dating sites or hitting on strangers in bars, because I was in what I considered to be at the time a "relationship." But addiction latches on to people's insecurities, and you begin to tie that need into other shortcomings in your life. There was a string of disappoints in my dating life from the Fall of 2006 until the Summer of 2008 (six to be exact), and very soon into that cycle I began working from the angle that in order to stay ahead of the game (translated: in order to keep from feeling hurt again), I had to always have one or two guys "on deck." This way, when things inevitably failed with whomever I was officially seeing, I had someone available immediately to distract me from the most recent disaster. And just like with every type of addiction, this behavior was fun at first. I was young and wild. I could quit anytime I wanted to.
One key aspect of addiction is that at some point every addict realizes that what they crave is doing them more harm than good. But due to the mappings of basic human behavior, they don't know how to quit. At the encouragement of my friend Hector, I first tried to stop a few months ago when I began spending quite a bit of time with someone. Hector suggested that perhaps all of my relationships were doomed to fail because there was no way I could focus on developing any sort of intimacy with someone when I had too many burners going on the stove. So I quit, putting all my money into one pot. That particular pot ended up making an *ss out of me on the dance floor of a gay disco and for the first time in a long time I didn't have anyone else in queue to help with the damage. And I remembered that without that extra netting getting screwed over by someone you're dating really sucks.
This past weekend, I spent a lot of time with another friend of mine going through his first break-up. Despite his being my age, he is a relatively new gay, meaning that he has not been out all that long. Considering that I've got fifteen years of gay dating stacked up against his four, he's pretty much a baby. He laid out all the gory details to myself and another friend of ours over a bottle of wine. I felt so bad for him, then I felt guilty, for the only solid advice I had for him was to hurry up and start dating someone else. I was laying out a mound of cocaine on the coffee table, handing him a rolled up dollar bill. I was trying to push my addiction onto someone else.
I often consider what it would be like to be the target of an intervention. Would I be leaving a coffee house after a first date with someone, heading to a bar for a drink with another date, texting the guy I had plans with the night before, when my family and friends suddenly spring on me and plead that I get help? Would months of therapy and twelve-step programs teach me patience and faith and how to use the internet for purposes other than updating my various online profiles? What would I do with all the time and energy that I typically waste on dating? What would I do when the next relationship comes to a close and I have no one else to immediately turn to? And is it even possible for me, a dating addict, to ever be "normal?"
I'm enough of an expert on addiction now thanks to A&E to know exactly what circumstances led me here. I'm insecure. I have trust issues. I have absolutely no faith in my own gut instincts. I have fears of abandonment. These shortcomings certainly aren't unique to me, but the way they cultivate themselves into my daily life seem to be. I seem to have completely lost the ability to spend a few weeks buried under the covers feeling sorry for myself when a relationship ends. But there's still a large part of me that thinks if or when I meet the right guy, that I'll be able to quit dating cold turkey. And I guess I won't actually know if I indeed have that strength until that moment comes, if it ever does.
I wonder if there is a rehabilitation clinic somewhere where I could spend ninety days detoxing from dating. If so, I wonder if I could meet someone there...
Monday, March 9, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Break it down.
I am endlessly fascinated by the most random of things. Like a baby hypnotized by a set of dangling car keys, I seem to be mesmerized by odd and often overlooked occurrences. Last summer, when visiting the Berlin Wall, I spent most of my time watching a brown shaggy dog sit at the foot of his owner on a park bench. I am known to do such things. I have eaten at five star restaurants and my only opinion walking away is not one of the food or the service, but of the lighting in the restroom. Once, while at a party packed full of beautiful gay men, me and a friend of mine with a similar take on life were spotted in the corner under the spell of a particularly interesting aluminum garbage can.
Maybe it's the writer in me that draws me to the details. Maybe, as a therapist once told me, it's the self-conscious feeling that I belong on the side lines, so I can't help but notice the smaller things off in the distance. Maybe (and this is the more probable reason) I am simply not as smart as I think I am and as a simpleton I gravitate towards the miniscule things that no one else sees, like empty cardboard boxes, matches, or a particularly overweight cat.
A very recent fascination of mine is one that exists all around us, but only those with an eye for things happening under the radar will notice it. It's that of the breakdown, the mental collapse of a perfectly sane individual right out in the open. It's happening all around us, but unless you've got the eye to spot one, the odds are stacked against you that you won't even notice it. Like a skilled hunter who can spot a quail a hundred yards away, I see them all around me. They happen in the cars next to us in traffic, in airport bathrooms, and in elevators. People momentarily lose their sh*t in public all the time.
Recently I was talking to a friend of mine over instant messaging. We were both at work, unproductively chatting the morning away as we often do, when he confessed to me that he had cried that morning on the train. Dealing with a lot in his personal life, I wasn't surprised that everything had finally come to fruition. But I was fascinated that it happened when it did, in front of God and everybody, during rush hour on the Red Line heading downtown. And last week, another friend of mine and I were also instant messaging during work hours, when she broke down. We had been analyzing a very distant crush of hers, your atypical aloof twenty something single straight guy, when she compared him to her habit of cigarette smoking. "I know he's bad for me," she typed, "but I don't know how to stop." After I drew further comparisons from the analogy, that the guy was something she does out of boredom and that he was something she knew she did now but would not be doing her entire life, she let me know that she was now sitting at work in tears. And again, I was drawn to that moment when otherwise normal adults allow their emotions to collapse on top of them, leaving them a crumpled pathetic heap in the fetal position on the floor.
I am the master of the breakdown. Once in college, I had to get up and leave a class because, as the teacher rambled on about Literary Theory, my thoughts roamed far off towards something apparently upsetting, and the next thing I knew tears were running down my face. What felt like the end of the world to me went unnoticed. I returned to class with no one the wiser that I had just openly wept in front of a room full of strangers. Breakdowns were part of my daily routine when I first moved to Chicago. I didn't know a soul, was dirt poor, and I perpetually entertained the idea that the boy who had broken my heart back home in Memphis, the one I had moved to Chicago to get away from, would show up outside my door begging me to come back. Needless to say, that didn't happen, and the breakdowns were sneaky and quick, like a cobra, and I'd find myself in line at the grocery store, or in a bar, when the overpowering need to cry would wash over me.
When one sweeps down on top of you, it may feel as if the entire world is watching you. But the public breakdown is not often noticed in the shadow of bigger things going on around it. As one sweeps down on top of you, it may feel as if the entire world is judging you, but odds are that something else is going on around you that is holding everyone's attention, like the Berlin Wall. But someone like me will notice, partly because I pay unnecessary attention to even the slightest points of interest, but probably mostly because I am certifiably crazy. When I see people in public fighting back their tears (and believe me, they are everywhere), I find myself pulled into what I think might be their situation. Is it that their heart is broken? Are they scared? Or did they wake up that morning to the cold reality that life for them would never be more than it was that day, or the day before?
The devil's in the details. And the reasons why we are who we are lie in the fine print. Nothing is what it seems to be. There's always more underneath the surface. So don't feel ashamed or weak if the weight of your problems finally knocks you down and you just so happen to be in public. Trust me. You won't be the first person to do it, and you certainly won't be the last. And the odds are that no one will even notice. Except maybe me...
Maybe it's the writer in me that draws me to the details. Maybe, as a therapist once told me, it's the self-conscious feeling that I belong on the side lines, so I can't help but notice the smaller things off in the distance. Maybe (and this is the more probable reason) I am simply not as smart as I think I am and as a simpleton I gravitate towards the miniscule things that no one else sees, like empty cardboard boxes, matches, or a particularly overweight cat.
A very recent fascination of mine is one that exists all around us, but only those with an eye for things happening under the radar will notice it. It's that of the breakdown, the mental collapse of a perfectly sane individual right out in the open. It's happening all around us, but unless you've got the eye to spot one, the odds are stacked against you that you won't even notice it. Like a skilled hunter who can spot a quail a hundred yards away, I see them all around me. They happen in the cars next to us in traffic, in airport bathrooms, and in elevators. People momentarily lose their sh*t in public all the time.
Recently I was talking to a friend of mine over instant messaging. We were both at work, unproductively chatting the morning away as we often do, when he confessed to me that he had cried that morning on the train. Dealing with a lot in his personal life, I wasn't surprised that everything had finally come to fruition. But I was fascinated that it happened when it did, in front of God and everybody, during rush hour on the Red Line heading downtown. And last week, another friend of mine and I were also instant messaging during work hours, when she broke down. We had been analyzing a very distant crush of hers, your atypical aloof twenty something single straight guy, when she compared him to her habit of cigarette smoking. "I know he's bad for me," she typed, "but I don't know how to stop." After I drew further comparisons from the analogy, that the guy was something she does out of boredom and that he was something she knew she did now but would not be doing her entire life, she let me know that she was now sitting at work in tears. And again, I was drawn to that moment when otherwise normal adults allow their emotions to collapse on top of them, leaving them a crumpled pathetic heap in the fetal position on the floor.
I am the master of the breakdown. Once in college, I had to get up and leave a class because, as the teacher rambled on about Literary Theory, my thoughts roamed far off towards something apparently upsetting, and the next thing I knew tears were running down my face. What felt like the end of the world to me went unnoticed. I returned to class with no one the wiser that I had just openly wept in front of a room full of strangers. Breakdowns were part of my daily routine when I first moved to Chicago. I didn't know a soul, was dirt poor, and I perpetually entertained the idea that the boy who had broken my heart back home in Memphis, the one I had moved to Chicago to get away from, would show up outside my door begging me to come back. Needless to say, that didn't happen, and the breakdowns were sneaky and quick, like a cobra, and I'd find myself in line at the grocery store, or in a bar, when the overpowering need to cry would wash over me.
When one sweeps down on top of you, it may feel as if the entire world is watching you. But the public breakdown is not often noticed in the shadow of bigger things going on around it. As one sweeps down on top of you, it may feel as if the entire world is judging you, but odds are that something else is going on around you that is holding everyone's attention, like the Berlin Wall. But someone like me will notice, partly because I pay unnecessary attention to even the slightest points of interest, but probably mostly because I am certifiably crazy. When I see people in public fighting back their tears (and believe me, they are everywhere), I find myself pulled into what I think might be their situation. Is it that their heart is broken? Are they scared? Or did they wake up that morning to the cold reality that life for them would never be more than it was that day, or the day before?
The devil's in the details. And the reasons why we are who we are lie in the fine print. Nothing is what it seems to be. There's always more underneath the surface. So don't feel ashamed or weak if the weight of your problems finally knocks you down and you just so happen to be in public. Trust me. You won't be the first person to do it, and you certainly won't be the last. And the odds are that no one will even notice. Except maybe me...
Monday, January 5, 2009
Stipe, Soup, and Manolos
Michael Stipe, the ambiguously gay lead singer of REM, spent almost twenty years refusing to identify his sexuality to curious fans and reporters. In 1994, Stipe said in an interview that he didn't believe in labeling humans, that "labels are for soup cans." He eventually came out of the closet, and much like the news reports when Clay Aiken and Lance Bass came out, the revelation was about as shocking as learning that Christmas is in December.
It's ironic to me to consider that such an observation concerning human sexuality came from a gay guy. Gay guys love and adore labels and very rarely do we refuse to acknowledge them. Aside from our obvious affection towards designer fashion labels, gay men can label one another within millions of classifications and sub-categories. We can be twinks, bears, daddies, jocks, art house gays, retail queens, bar trash, bottoms, tops, self-hating, on the down low, activist gays, queeny, or butch. We can be a Garland Gay (aged 60+), a Streisand Gay (aged 40 - 59), a Madonna / Cher Gay (aged 25 - 39), or a Britney Gay (aged 25 and under). We can be the type of gay guy that likes to go camping (the lesbian gay) or we can be the type of gay guy that likes to vacation in urban cities with large gay populations (the normal gay). So, in my opinion, when Michael Stipe made his famous soup can label comment, he must've been in the throws of a full-on debilitating case of denial towards his own homosexuality. No gay man in his right mind would ever suggest that we as a group NOT label one another. Like being self-centered and witty, labeling things just comes naturally to us.
A particular labeling fondness of the gay guy is to relate themselves and their friends to the characters of very gay friendly shows like "The Golden Girls," "Will and Grace," or "Sex and the City." Both shows were mainstream successes, enjoyed by straight women everywhere and even a few ashamed heterosexual men. But given that all three shows were written primarily by gay men, the themes throughout each and the basic qualities of their main characters are things that gay guys often directly identify with. Not once since "The Golden Girls" began airing in 1985 has a group of gay guy friends NOT sat around and debated on which one among them was the Blanche (the self-centered slut), or the Dorothy (the cynical intellectual), or the Rose (the naive but kind idiot), or the Sophia (the caregiver). You can take quizzes online to determine if you're the Will or the Grace or the Jack or the Karen. And every group of gay friends on EARTH has had a conversation over Cosmopolitans as to who among them is the Samantha, the Charlotte, the Miranda, or the Carrie.
Two weeks ago I set out on the drive from Chicago to Memphis, heading home for the holidays. Thanks to a craptastic winter storm, what was supposed to be an eight hour drive turned into a two day journey, meaning that I had A LOT of time to think about my life and further dissect the typical thoughts and observations that we all experience around Christmas and the New Year. I have found myself recently in a romantic situation that is foreign to me. As anyone who spares the ten minutes to read this blog every few weeks clearly knows, I have been through just about every relationship quandary you can think of. I have dated people out of boredom. I have been pity f*cked. I've been dumped via a Facebook Relationship Status Change. I have dated more than one guy at a time. I've been mad, sad, elated, selfish, hopeful. You name it and I've been there, on either side of the coin. But lately I've been treading new territory. I am spending a great deal of time with someone who makes me feel like wearing a ballerina outfit as a bus drives by with my picture on it and splashes water all over me. I am starting to hear myself speak in a voiceover, saying things like, "Meanwhile, across town," and, "It suddenly occurred to me." Well, it suddenly occurred to me, sitting in my car somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis (after having crept slowly down an icy interstate for almost six hours), that I was Carrie Bradshaw, enamored and confused by my own Mr. Big. Da da da da. Da da. Da da da da da! Let's do brunch with the girls!
I could trump a room full of a million gay guys who would label themselves as a Carrie with my current situation. All of the key elements are present. I am hanging out with an older successful gentleman (after almost three months, we are not yet allowed to call it dating). I'm artistic, care-free, in my early thirties. He's established, handsome, driven, in his early forties, the target of many boys younger and cuter than me. He's comfortable moving at a snail's pace, in no hurry to jump into another relationship that will more likely than not end with someone getting very hurt. Although slightly jaded, I am still a relationship idealist. I believe that there's still a chance for me with someone. He doesn't care if I date anyone else. Our time together is generally spent with us alone, so my friends know very little about him. And what slight information I give them consists mostly of my confused ramblings about what he wants, what I want, and our inconsistency with how we treat one another leaves my friends with a less than favorable opinion of a man they barely know. When I try to explain to my friends what I'm doing with him (which is basically impossible because I don't know), they stare at me with concerned looks on their faces. All that is missing from this "Sex and the City" playbook is shopping for shoes, the New York skyline, and cute (although ridiculous) puns.
Like Carrie towards her Mr. Big, I find myself uber-emotional around my Mr. Big. I think I want him to want me, but when something happens that gets us closer to that point I start drifting away. Would it be easier with someone else? Is there a furniture designer or a writer out there that I should be dating instead? Will he dump me and marry someone prettier and younger than me? Will I meet an older Russian artist and move to Paris? Or, like what happens to Carrie in the movie, will he leave me at the alter? Will he come back? Could I ever be happy with him? Will asking myself all these f*cking questions eventually drive me crazy?
Before I moved to Chicago, I studied "Sex and the City" with intensity. Sure, those ladies never seemed to get it right until the very end of the series, but didn't they look great? And didn't it seem like they were having fun despite all of their relationship shortcomings? My friend John who lives in New York is working on a book about how the popularity of shows like "Sex and the City" were inspiring people, particularly gay guys and single women, to haul ass to large cities like New York and Chicago. I guess I was like that. I wanted so badly to walk amongst the crowds in a busy city street, to have party invitations coming out of my ass, to date constantly, to f*ck everything that walked, to meet up with my stylish, fun, smart friends once a week and wax philosophically on our sophisticated lives in the big city. And I guess that happened, that I got what I wanted in regards to that, but that life, that lack of something solid beyond your friendships to lean on, got old for Carrie and the girls after six seasons. 2009 marks my sixth year in Chicago.
I love Michael Stipe. He was, in all honesty, the first male celebrity I was ever attracted to. He was by no means nothing to look at, but when I was sixteen years old I was so impressed and moved by his brilliance with words and the way he flaunted being misunderstood by society as opposed to being ashamed of it. That really turned me on at a point in my life when I felt like everyone in the world could see right through me. I remember looking at the picture of him shirtless, in water, in the lyrics insert of REM's "Automatic for the People" CD. He moved me to the point that I had re-occurring dreams of him throughout college, dreams that generally consisted of he and I being married. I used to touch myself inappropriately if I was alone when the video for "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" came on MTV. My point is that I took his soup can observation to heart. I took all of his observations and actions to heart. Stipe made me proud to be a liberal Democrat in Mississippi. Stipe made me proud of my own opinions and proud to express them. It wasn't until my late twenties, well after REM had fallen out of fashion, that I realized that labels are not, as he'd proposed, meant solely for soup cans. Labels CAN be applied to people. And sometimes they should. Because once you're able to solidly identify someone as something, it helps you in maneuvering your behavior around them.
So what if I am a Carrie Bradshaw? I think that's a label I'm comfortable with. Carrie never once strayed from the idea of what she wanted out of a relationship. She wanted safety and comfort and humor and honesty and friendship and sexual compatability. Although it took Mr. Big six years to figure out that he wanted the same things, Carrie never stopped moving. She kept her eye on the prize, so to speak. And the prize was not a man. The prize was her being happy.
My apologies to Mr. Stipe. I still love him (although he's aged so horribly). But I'm fine with being tagged yet another label at 33 years old. I'm a Carrie. And that's quite the badge of honor. Carrie never waited on a Mr. Big to make her happy, and I won't either. It wasn't until Carrie fully believed in her own ability to fulfill herself that Mr. Big finally came around. When you come to terms with yourself, your own skin, your own shortcomings and your own talents, good things and good peole have a way of gravitating towards you.
Meanwhile, across town...
It's ironic to me to consider that such an observation concerning human sexuality came from a gay guy. Gay guys love and adore labels and very rarely do we refuse to acknowledge them. Aside from our obvious affection towards designer fashion labels, gay men can label one another within millions of classifications and sub-categories. We can be twinks, bears, daddies, jocks, art house gays, retail queens, bar trash, bottoms, tops, self-hating, on the down low, activist gays, queeny, or butch. We can be a Garland Gay (aged 60+), a Streisand Gay (aged 40 - 59), a Madonna / Cher Gay (aged 25 - 39), or a Britney Gay (aged 25 and under). We can be the type of gay guy that likes to go camping (the lesbian gay) or we can be the type of gay guy that likes to vacation in urban cities with large gay populations (the normal gay). So, in my opinion, when Michael Stipe made his famous soup can label comment, he must've been in the throws of a full-on debilitating case of denial towards his own homosexuality. No gay man in his right mind would ever suggest that we as a group NOT label one another. Like being self-centered and witty, labeling things just comes naturally to us.
A particular labeling fondness of the gay guy is to relate themselves and their friends to the characters of very gay friendly shows like "The Golden Girls," "Will and Grace," or "Sex and the City." Both shows were mainstream successes, enjoyed by straight women everywhere and even a few ashamed heterosexual men. But given that all three shows were written primarily by gay men, the themes throughout each and the basic qualities of their main characters are things that gay guys often directly identify with. Not once since "The Golden Girls" began airing in 1985 has a group of gay guy friends NOT sat around and debated on which one among them was the Blanche (the self-centered slut), or the Dorothy (the cynical intellectual), or the Rose (the naive but kind idiot), or the Sophia (the caregiver). You can take quizzes online to determine if you're the Will or the Grace or the Jack or the Karen. And every group of gay friends on EARTH has had a conversation over Cosmopolitans as to who among them is the Samantha, the Charlotte, the Miranda, or the Carrie.
Two weeks ago I set out on the drive from Chicago to Memphis, heading home for the holidays. Thanks to a craptastic winter storm, what was supposed to be an eight hour drive turned into a two day journey, meaning that I had A LOT of time to think about my life and further dissect the typical thoughts and observations that we all experience around Christmas and the New Year. I have found myself recently in a romantic situation that is foreign to me. As anyone who spares the ten minutes to read this blog every few weeks clearly knows, I have been through just about every relationship quandary you can think of. I have dated people out of boredom. I have been pity f*cked. I've been dumped via a Facebook Relationship Status Change. I have dated more than one guy at a time. I've been mad, sad, elated, selfish, hopeful. You name it and I've been there, on either side of the coin. But lately I've been treading new territory. I am spending a great deal of time with someone who makes me feel like wearing a ballerina outfit as a bus drives by with my picture on it and splashes water all over me. I am starting to hear myself speak in a voiceover, saying things like, "Meanwhile, across town," and, "It suddenly occurred to me." Well, it suddenly occurred to me, sitting in my car somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis (after having crept slowly down an icy interstate for almost six hours), that I was Carrie Bradshaw, enamored and confused by my own Mr. Big. Da da da da. Da da. Da da da da da! Let's do brunch with the girls!
I could trump a room full of a million gay guys who would label themselves as a Carrie with my current situation. All of the key elements are present. I am hanging out with an older successful gentleman (after almost three months, we are not yet allowed to call it dating). I'm artistic, care-free, in my early thirties. He's established, handsome, driven, in his early forties, the target of many boys younger and cuter than me. He's comfortable moving at a snail's pace, in no hurry to jump into another relationship that will more likely than not end with someone getting very hurt. Although slightly jaded, I am still a relationship idealist. I believe that there's still a chance for me with someone. He doesn't care if I date anyone else. Our time together is generally spent with us alone, so my friends know very little about him. And what slight information I give them consists mostly of my confused ramblings about what he wants, what I want, and our inconsistency with how we treat one another leaves my friends with a less than favorable opinion of a man they barely know. When I try to explain to my friends what I'm doing with him (which is basically impossible because I don't know), they stare at me with concerned looks on their faces. All that is missing from this "Sex and the City" playbook is shopping for shoes, the New York skyline, and cute (although ridiculous) puns.
Like Carrie towards her Mr. Big, I find myself uber-emotional around my Mr. Big. I think I want him to want me, but when something happens that gets us closer to that point I start drifting away. Would it be easier with someone else? Is there a furniture designer or a writer out there that I should be dating instead? Will he dump me and marry someone prettier and younger than me? Will I meet an older Russian artist and move to Paris? Or, like what happens to Carrie in the movie, will he leave me at the alter? Will he come back? Could I ever be happy with him? Will asking myself all these f*cking questions eventually drive me crazy?
Before I moved to Chicago, I studied "Sex and the City" with intensity. Sure, those ladies never seemed to get it right until the very end of the series, but didn't they look great? And didn't it seem like they were having fun despite all of their relationship shortcomings? My friend John who lives in New York is working on a book about how the popularity of shows like "Sex and the City" were inspiring people, particularly gay guys and single women, to haul ass to large cities like New York and Chicago. I guess I was like that. I wanted so badly to walk amongst the crowds in a busy city street, to have party invitations coming out of my ass, to date constantly, to f*ck everything that walked, to meet up with my stylish, fun, smart friends once a week and wax philosophically on our sophisticated lives in the big city. And I guess that happened, that I got what I wanted in regards to that, but that life, that lack of something solid beyond your friendships to lean on, got old for Carrie and the girls after six seasons. 2009 marks my sixth year in Chicago.
I love Michael Stipe. He was, in all honesty, the first male celebrity I was ever attracted to. He was by no means nothing to look at, but when I was sixteen years old I was so impressed and moved by his brilliance with words and the way he flaunted being misunderstood by society as opposed to being ashamed of it. That really turned me on at a point in my life when I felt like everyone in the world could see right through me. I remember looking at the picture of him shirtless, in water, in the lyrics insert of REM's "Automatic for the People" CD. He moved me to the point that I had re-occurring dreams of him throughout college, dreams that generally consisted of he and I being married. I used to touch myself inappropriately if I was alone when the video for "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" came on MTV. My point is that I took his soup can observation to heart. I took all of his observations and actions to heart. Stipe made me proud to be a liberal Democrat in Mississippi. Stipe made me proud of my own opinions and proud to express them. It wasn't until my late twenties, well after REM had fallen out of fashion, that I realized that labels are not, as he'd proposed, meant solely for soup cans. Labels CAN be applied to people. And sometimes they should. Because once you're able to solidly identify someone as something, it helps you in maneuvering your behavior around them.
So what if I am a Carrie Bradshaw? I think that's a label I'm comfortable with. Carrie never once strayed from the idea of what she wanted out of a relationship. She wanted safety and comfort and humor and honesty and friendship and sexual compatability. Although it took Mr. Big six years to figure out that he wanted the same things, Carrie never stopped moving. She kept her eye on the prize, so to speak. And the prize was not a man. The prize was her being happy.
My apologies to Mr. Stipe. I still love him (although he's aged so horribly). But I'm fine with being tagged yet another label at 33 years old. I'm a Carrie. And that's quite the badge of honor. Carrie never waited on a Mr. Big to make her happy, and I won't either. It wasn't until Carrie fully believed in her own ability to fulfill herself that Mr. Big finally came around. When you come to terms with yourself, your own skin, your own shortcomings and your own talents, good things and good peole have a way of gravitating towards you.
Meanwhile, across town...
Monday, December 1, 2008
Give and Take (the Universe is Still in Charge).
There's an undeniable ebb and flow to life. It's inevitable that for every morsel of good fortune that's bestowed upon you that the universe will sacrifice something else without your permission. You get a promotion at work but you gain twenty pounds. You and your parents are getting along swimmingly but your best friend isn't talking to you. Britney is making a comeback but Madonna's getting a divorce. It's the circle of life.
The holidays have a way of reminding us all of our blessings. But they also serve as a powerful kick in the teeth to everything in life that we've lost. Thanksgiving this year for me was a double-edged sword. I spent the day with my closest friends in Chicago and had warm and fuzzy conversations on the telephone with family and friends back home. Yet the mental stock I took regarding the wonderful people I am fortunate enough to have in my life got swept back when naturally I considered the flip side to keeping such great company. I couldn't stop wondering about one person in particular that was around for a few short months and now is as much of a presence in my life as a full head of hair or the ability to responsibly manage my money (read: not present whatsoever).
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I don't know what smart scientist guy said that or what exactly he was referencing. But I do know that in a cosmic sense nothing is more true than the fact that for everything in life that makes us feel great there is going to be something else that makes us feel like sh*t. The sh*t factor (as I like to call it) is the equal and opposite reaction of all things comforting and wonderful. Lately, my sh*t factor has been an overwhelming urge to dissect the circumstances behind this person's no longer being in my life and a nagging and irresolvable interest to know where the hell he is and what the hell he's doing.
Anyone who knows me well knows that I date. A lot. If you happen to be a friend of mine who I only speak to a few times a year, the safe assumption is that whomever I was dating the last time we spoke will not be around the next time we meet up for cocktails. It's a total issue of quantity over quality, a numbers game, a hope that if I continually keep myself out there that this exhausting effort called dating will finally pay off. I can generally pin point the breaking point as to why each brief relationship ends. Since January, I have the following causes:
- I didn't really like the guy and when he broke up with me via text I put forth absolutely no effort in pleading my case.
- I saddled up to someone who eventually confessed that he enjoys the chase more than the catch and that he was bored with me.
- I had to break up with a guy because he talked so much that he sucked the air out of every room he went into.
- I broke up with a guy in recovery for a meth addiction because I grew tired of playing second fiddle to his meetings schedule.
- One guy called our time short by announcing via his Facebook profile that he was now "in a relationship," obviously not with me.
- And most recently, a casual potential relationship ended when the guy took an overwhelming liking to an acquaintance of mine at 2AM in a bar. In front of me.
But with him, the push to my pull, I don't know when exactly things went to the zone of broken beyond repair. I'm sure all the fault was mine. My behavior towards him was sporadic and could've easily been translated into shady. I was scared as hell. I felt such a draw towards him and the comfort level I felt around him had me running at levels normally reserved for couples well into their twentieth year together. I cheated on him. I lied to him. I avoided the conversation he tried to have with me about dating exclusively. I know that there's no way he could've known what all I felt for him because, simply put, I didn't show him. One day he was texting me that he had made me some CDs. The very next day he was dodging my calls. He was gone. And the situation that is my current sh*t factor was born.
The tide rushes in and the tide rushes out. I have spent the better part of the last four months getting pulled down from various highs by the ever-present thought of him. I had such a heavy longing for him in July while standing on the deck of a cruise ship sailing across the Baltic Sea that the first thing I did when I got back to Chicago was to track him down. But he had moved on. So I wasn't able to tell him how hindsight had changed me and that he was now that one thing in my life that snatches me back to surface when anything elates me. Late last summer, on a random, wild, vodka-fueled limousine ride with friends and a shirtless transsexual (undoubtedly one of the most hilarious and fun nights of my life), my thoughts of him managed to bring me to tears. The sh*t factor strikes again.
Sh*t factors keep us in check. Their purpose is to remind us all how fleeting happiness can be. I don't think that's a pessimistic outlook to have on life. I think it's a tangible approach to the reality that life is one giant scale. On one side we have the sky high moments of belonging and pride and happiness, and on the other we have the situations we regret. And when that scale's perfectly balanced, that's when we have gratitude.
I don't know how many more moments or situations in my future are going to get beaten down by the thought of him. It's a miracle that I've carried his memory as long as I have given that I'm generally the type of guy that can eradicate most of life's problems with either a good nap or a stiff drink (or both!). But it's making me not only aware of but respectful towards the ebb and flow of it all. Sh*t factors keep us from getting ahead of ourselves. They keep us from ever forgetting the true value that accompanies our moments of happiness.
It's the circle of life (que Simba).
The holidays have a way of reminding us all of our blessings. But they also serve as a powerful kick in the teeth to everything in life that we've lost. Thanksgiving this year for me was a double-edged sword. I spent the day with my closest friends in Chicago and had warm and fuzzy conversations on the telephone with family and friends back home. Yet the mental stock I took regarding the wonderful people I am fortunate enough to have in my life got swept back when naturally I considered the flip side to keeping such great company. I couldn't stop wondering about one person in particular that was around for a few short months and now is as much of a presence in my life as a full head of hair or the ability to responsibly manage my money (read: not present whatsoever).
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I don't know what smart scientist guy said that or what exactly he was referencing. But I do know that in a cosmic sense nothing is more true than the fact that for everything in life that makes us feel great there is going to be something else that makes us feel like sh*t. The sh*t factor (as I like to call it) is the equal and opposite reaction of all things comforting and wonderful. Lately, my sh*t factor has been an overwhelming urge to dissect the circumstances behind this person's no longer being in my life and a nagging and irresolvable interest to know where the hell he is and what the hell he's doing.
Anyone who knows me well knows that I date. A lot. If you happen to be a friend of mine who I only speak to a few times a year, the safe assumption is that whomever I was dating the last time we spoke will not be around the next time we meet up for cocktails. It's a total issue of quantity over quality, a numbers game, a hope that if I continually keep myself out there that this exhausting effort called dating will finally pay off. I can generally pin point the breaking point as to why each brief relationship ends. Since January, I have the following causes:
- I didn't really like the guy and when he broke up with me via text I put forth absolutely no effort in pleading my case.
- I saddled up to someone who eventually confessed that he enjoys the chase more than the catch and that he was bored with me.
- I had to break up with a guy because he talked so much that he sucked the air out of every room he went into.
- I broke up with a guy in recovery for a meth addiction because I grew tired of playing second fiddle to his meetings schedule.
- One guy called our time short by announcing via his Facebook profile that he was now "in a relationship," obviously not with me.
- And most recently, a casual potential relationship ended when the guy took an overwhelming liking to an acquaintance of mine at 2AM in a bar. In front of me.
But with him, the push to my pull, I don't know when exactly things went to the zone of broken beyond repair. I'm sure all the fault was mine. My behavior towards him was sporadic and could've easily been translated into shady. I was scared as hell. I felt such a draw towards him and the comfort level I felt around him had me running at levels normally reserved for couples well into their twentieth year together. I cheated on him. I lied to him. I avoided the conversation he tried to have with me about dating exclusively. I know that there's no way he could've known what all I felt for him because, simply put, I didn't show him. One day he was texting me that he had made me some CDs. The very next day he was dodging my calls. He was gone. And the situation that is my current sh*t factor was born.
The tide rushes in and the tide rushes out. I have spent the better part of the last four months getting pulled down from various highs by the ever-present thought of him. I had such a heavy longing for him in July while standing on the deck of a cruise ship sailing across the Baltic Sea that the first thing I did when I got back to Chicago was to track him down. But he had moved on. So I wasn't able to tell him how hindsight had changed me and that he was now that one thing in my life that snatches me back to surface when anything elates me. Late last summer, on a random, wild, vodka-fueled limousine ride with friends and a shirtless transsexual (undoubtedly one of the most hilarious and fun nights of my life), my thoughts of him managed to bring me to tears. The sh*t factor strikes again.
Sh*t factors keep us in check. Their purpose is to remind us all how fleeting happiness can be. I don't think that's a pessimistic outlook to have on life. I think it's a tangible approach to the reality that life is one giant scale. On one side we have the sky high moments of belonging and pride and happiness, and on the other we have the situations we regret. And when that scale's perfectly balanced, that's when we have gratitude.
I don't know how many more moments or situations in my future are going to get beaten down by the thought of him. It's a miracle that I've carried his memory as long as I have given that I'm generally the type of guy that can eradicate most of life's problems with either a good nap or a stiff drink (or both!). But it's making me not only aware of but respectful towards the ebb and flow of it all. Sh*t factors keep us from getting ahead of ourselves. They keep us from ever forgetting the true value that accompanies our moments of happiness.
It's the circle of life (que Simba).
Thursday, November 6, 2008
For reasons unknown.
I've dated them all. And I'm famous for it. I've dated the emotionally unavailable guy with anger issues, the married man, the unemployed artistic type, the recovering alcoholic, and the guy fourteen years younger than me (as well as the guy twenty years older). I've dated the pothead, the shoplifter, the closet case, the guy obsessed with comic books, the Jesus freak, and the guy who stole my Xanax. I have spent the past fourteen years of my life playing Mad Libs with my relationships.
Pick a verb: kick.
Pick a noun: puppy.
Now, form the sentence "Tony has dated the guy who BLANKS BLANKS." And, as it turns out, I have dated a guy who kicks puppies.
No stone has been left unturned in my dating repertoire. I have seen, heard, and (let's be honest here) done it all. When you've been around the block as many times as I have, it takes a lot to rattle you up. And the more I keep going, the less and less shocked by people I am.
But occasionally I come across someone that manages to say or do something that is somewhat pioneering. Recently, that honor of actually stumping me was bestowed upon a guy that I met out a few weeks ago. We met in a bar, clearly hit it off, and had a few laughs. I gave him my number and never heard from him again. Well, I ran into him for a second time a few weeks later and again, we had a lot of fun. Except this time he actually called afterwards. The conversation was easy. We seemed to have an effortless connection. So as the phone call wrapped up after an hour, I naturally asked him to dinner.
"Oh," he said, "I'm not really in a dating place right now."
Somehow, coming from him, that kind of honesty was surprisingly refreshing. I knew enough about his most recent relationship to respect his pause on dating. But naturally, I had a question.
"Well, why did you call me then?"
I wasn't expecting the "three little words" from him right then and there, but I got them. He began to explain to me that although he wasn't ready to date immediately, he felt that it wouldn't be long before he turned that corner and he hoped that when he got there that I would still be interested. And that's when he said those three earth-stopping, life-altering words. "I think you're really cool and funny and I'm really attracted to you, FOR SOME REASON."
My immediate reaction was to throw a million questions his way in hopes of clarifying just what the hell that meant. But, rather uncharacteristically, I chose to play it cool. Instead, we left it with the good old "I'll see you around" and we hung up. I laid in bed that night with that conversation knocking around in my head. Just what was that supposed to mean? Was he claiming to see my inner beauty or some other type of bullsh*t? Well, I for one do not want to be known for my inner beauty. I am not the ugly girl who plays tuba in the marching band who somehow while tutoring the hot quarterback in Spanish makes him fall in love with her. I don't want to identify with the lead in a crappy Freddie Prinze Jr. movie from the 90's. I don't want my value as a person riding solely on my wit and intelligence. While people with inner beauty are best known for their understanding, their passion for things, and their goodness, they are mostly known for their being grotesque and unattractive.
I came into vanity very late in life. I hated the way I looked up until I was about 29 years old. So I spent the better part of three decades cringing when I looked in a mirror, despising having to take my shirt off in public, and having s*x in complete and absolute darkness. It wasn't until I took realistic stock of my body as I approached 30 that I began to slowly start appreciating it. Sure, I has losing hair where I needed it and growing hair where I shouldn't be, but the rest of me wasn't all that bad. I was tight in pretty much all the right places. I have decent skin. My genes have assured me that I'll absolutely never be overweight. Judging myself against most of the world, I could've been much worse off in the looks department. I am by no means Zac Efron or a 1950s era Liz Taylor, but I can still turn a head or two on occassion. People are fairly consistently attracted to me way before they catch a whiff of any inner beauty. Even recently I had to fake having a boyfriend to fend off the aggressive advances of a guy in a bar. That's not something someone with inner beauty would do!
Well, FOR SOME REASON, this guy has texted me fairly consistently since this conversation. And, as I sat last night having several martinis with my friends Hector and Elias, the texting continued. As my phone blew up in my pocket and the vodka lubricated my thoughts, I took a swig of my fourth cherry cola-tini and asked my friends for advice. Once the laughter subsided, we got down to business.
"It's the Je-ne-sais-quoi!" my friend Hector exclaimed. "There's just something about you that he can't put his finger on that is attracting him to you."
"Not good enough," I responded. "I'd rather him put his finger on my hot body and then figure out later that I'm smart and interesting."
"Well," Hector continued, "I've been talking to this guy online for awhile. I can kinda tell by his pictures that maybe he's not the cutest guy in the world, but I think I'm gonna meet him anway. Because he just seems so nice and smart!"
"We've all been attracted to someone for reasons that we can't explain," Elias added. "I once slept with this guy who was kinda fat. But I thought he had the je-ne-sais-quoi so I slept with him. But it turns out that I was just kinda drunk. And then he ended up losing all of that weight and looked really good!"
The waiter dropped off our fifth martinis. "You two are not helping," I said.
The je-ne-sais-quoi. That part of someone that you just can't describe, yet you can't walk away from. As the fog from last night's martini-thon clears, I've remembered that I too have been attracted to people that wouldn't necessarily fit my normal bill. In all of the chaos I'd forgotten that the only person I feel as if I've ever loved was a broke out-of-shape Republican. He had je-ne-sais-quoi for days! Or maybe it was the fact that he had really good weed that kept me around for three years...
But whatever. Instead of approaching this situation with the attitude that this guy basically thinks I'm hideous, I'm going to take the enlightened road. He thinks I'm generally a nice and interesting person. And there's nothing wrong with that! Beauty's only skin deep after all. And no matter how hot someone is that hotness gets old really fast if they're a jerk or a moron. I find a bit of solace in that. But mostly I find solace in knowing that he would've never started talking to me in the first place if he didn't think I was hot. Come on! We're gay guys! We're shallow as f*ck!
Pick a verb: kick.
Pick a noun: puppy.
Now, form the sentence "Tony has dated the guy who BLANKS BLANKS." And, as it turns out, I have dated a guy who kicks puppies.
No stone has been left unturned in my dating repertoire. I have seen, heard, and (let's be honest here) done it all. When you've been around the block as many times as I have, it takes a lot to rattle you up. And the more I keep going, the less and less shocked by people I am.
But occasionally I come across someone that manages to say or do something that is somewhat pioneering. Recently, that honor of actually stumping me was bestowed upon a guy that I met out a few weeks ago. We met in a bar, clearly hit it off, and had a few laughs. I gave him my number and never heard from him again. Well, I ran into him for a second time a few weeks later and again, we had a lot of fun. Except this time he actually called afterwards. The conversation was easy. We seemed to have an effortless connection. So as the phone call wrapped up after an hour, I naturally asked him to dinner.
"Oh," he said, "I'm not really in a dating place right now."
Somehow, coming from him, that kind of honesty was surprisingly refreshing. I knew enough about his most recent relationship to respect his pause on dating. But naturally, I had a question.
"Well, why did you call me then?"
I wasn't expecting the "three little words" from him right then and there, but I got them. He began to explain to me that although he wasn't ready to date immediately, he felt that it wouldn't be long before he turned that corner and he hoped that when he got there that I would still be interested. And that's when he said those three earth-stopping, life-altering words. "I think you're really cool and funny and I'm really attracted to you, FOR SOME REASON."
My immediate reaction was to throw a million questions his way in hopes of clarifying just what the hell that meant. But, rather uncharacteristically, I chose to play it cool. Instead, we left it with the good old "I'll see you around" and we hung up. I laid in bed that night with that conversation knocking around in my head. Just what was that supposed to mean? Was he claiming to see my inner beauty or some other type of bullsh*t? Well, I for one do not want to be known for my inner beauty. I am not the ugly girl who plays tuba in the marching band who somehow while tutoring the hot quarterback in Spanish makes him fall in love with her. I don't want to identify with the lead in a crappy Freddie Prinze Jr. movie from the 90's. I don't want my value as a person riding solely on my wit and intelligence. While people with inner beauty are best known for their understanding, their passion for things, and their goodness, they are mostly known for their being grotesque and unattractive.
I came into vanity very late in life. I hated the way I looked up until I was about 29 years old. So I spent the better part of three decades cringing when I looked in a mirror, despising having to take my shirt off in public, and having s*x in complete and absolute darkness. It wasn't until I took realistic stock of my body as I approached 30 that I began to slowly start appreciating it. Sure, I has losing hair where I needed it and growing hair where I shouldn't be, but the rest of me wasn't all that bad. I was tight in pretty much all the right places. I have decent skin. My genes have assured me that I'll absolutely never be overweight. Judging myself against most of the world, I could've been much worse off in the looks department. I am by no means Zac Efron or a 1950s era Liz Taylor, but I can still turn a head or two on occassion. People are fairly consistently attracted to me way before they catch a whiff of any inner beauty. Even recently I had to fake having a boyfriend to fend off the aggressive advances of a guy in a bar. That's not something someone with inner beauty would do!
Well, FOR SOME REASON, this guy has texted me fairly consistently since this conversation. And, as I sat last night having several martinis with my friends Hector and Elias, the texting continued. As my phone blew up in my pocket and the vodka lubricated my thoughts, I took a swig of my fourth cherry cola-tini and asked my friends for advice. Once the laughter subsided, we got down to business.
"It's the Je-ne-sais-quoi!" my friend Hector exclaimed. "There's just something about you that he can't put his finger on that is attracting him to you."
"Not good enough," I responded. "I'd rather him put his finger on my hot body and then figure out later that I'm smart and interesting."
"Well," Hector continued, "I've been talking to this guy online for awhile. I can kinda tell by his pictures that maybe he's not the cutest guy in the world, but I think I'm gonna meet him anway. Because he just seems so nice and smart!"
"We've all been attracted to someone for reasons that we can't explain," Elias added. "I once slept with this guy who was kinda fat. But I thought he had the je-ne-sais-quoi so I slept with him. But it turns out that I was just kinda drunk. And then he ended up losing all of that weight and looked really good!"
The waiter dropped off our fifth martinis. "You two are not helping," I said.
The je-ne-sais-quoi. That part of someone that you just can't describe, yet you can't walk away from. As the fog from last night's martini-thon clears, I've remembered that I too have been attracted to people that wouldn't necessarily fit my normal bill. In all of the chaos I'd forgotten that the only person I feel as if I've ever loved was a broke out-of-shape Republican. He had je-ne-sais-quoi for days! Or maybe it was the fact that he had really good weed that kept me around for three years...
But whatever. Instead of approaching this situation with the attitude that this guy basically thinks I'm hideous, I'm going to take the enlightened road. He thinks I'm generally a nice and interesting person. And there's nothing wrong with that! Beauty's only skin deep after all. And no matter how hot someone is that hotness gets old really fast if they're a jerk or a moron. I find a bit of solace in that. But mostly I find solace in knowing that he would've never started talking to me in the first place if he didn't think I was hot. Come on! We're gay guys! We're shallow as f*ck!
We are family!
(Originally published 6/23/2008)
I flew home a few weeks ago to attend what my family had dubbed my grandmother’s "Fake Wake." 2007 was a rough year for her. My freshly widowed grandma faced quite a few health scares last year, one which left her with an oxygen tank permanently in tow. She has always said that she wanted her funeral to consist of us throwing her ashes from a riverboat into the Mississippi River while a jazz band played. So, when she organized a family reunion where the main event involved a jazz band floating down the Mississippi, we all knew what she was doing.
Families have to be the most complex, yet somehow primitive, structures in society. How archaic, and borderline Neanderthal, is it that by the mere happenstance of sharing a gene pool that families are locked together for life? Family is your first lifeline. They feed you. They shelter and clothe you. They keep you from killing yourself as a toddler (or in my case, well into your early thirties). So it’s no wonder that you develop a need for them. It’s as basic as needing food and water. You simply need your family.
But it’s really not that simple. In a way families are an experiment doomed to failure. As people get older they change. And their values change. It’s inevitable that the people you started this journey of life with will not be the same people you remember them to be when you look at them through adult eyes. With each individual experience we all go through, from schools to jobs to marriages, wedges are placed between you and the ones you call family. Suddenly, you look up and twenty-five years have gone by, and the kid you remember playing GI Joe with wants to dog cuss you for voting Democrat.
I saw so many members of my family on this trip that I have not seen in a very long time. I saw some that I will sadly never lay eyes on again. People are getting older. Time’s marching on. And scattered about this big country we are each living our own lives and forming separate identities and experiencing different aspects of life that can push people further apart. Most of their Saturdays consist of shuttling children to various activities. Most of my Saturdays consist of violent hangovers and swearing off alcohol (again). But the one thing that not even the longest period of absence can shake is that sense of need I feel from those people.
I have 14 cousins total on both sides of my family. There are only 3 of us left without any kids. I’m the only one without kids in my thirties and I’m the only gay one. I think a lot of people feel the need to pity me because of that. I think because that parenthood path has defined them and molded them all in such a positive way that they don’t realize that there are many different paths to happiness. Happiness, in my opinion, is simply replicating the concept of family that you knew as a child. You can replicate it through procreation. But, as in my case, if that’s not an option, you can replicate it through the people you choose to associate yourself with outside of your bloodline.
I spent the remainder of that week with friends from back home, friends from grade school, high school, college and beyond. These are people I’ve known for as long as I can remember, people that have stood by me and without question will always stand by me. Then I flew back to Chicago and jumped right back into the circle of amazing friends that I have here. These are all people that I can fight with, people that I can cry with, people that will carry me when I need to be carried, and people that know that I’m always there to carry them. I remember while on the plane heading back thinking of having seen my family, particularly my sister and my cousins and the way they interact with their kids, that I saw that in their lives they had replicated that basic need of family. And I fully realized that even though I had not replicated that need in the same way, by having children and being married and living that type of life, there was still as much love and comfort in my life as theirs. I get all the laughter and tears, all the anger and worry, all the loyalty and acceptance, from what Bridget Jones would consider to be my "urban family," the family that you make outside of your original one.
As a single person living in a city like Chicago, a city that moves so fast that if you’re not strapped in you could fall to your death, I need family. There’s never been a question that I have an unnatural fondness for trouble, and like my cousins needing to know that their children are healthy and happy, I need my friends. And with that need comes the blessing of feeling needed in return. I have friends who have recently lost parents, friends who are going through wretched break-ups, friends who struggle daily with heartbreaking things that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But all the friends that I have are family. And just like my "real" family taking me in despite all the differences, I love all of these people unconditionally.
Everyone knows that old saying that you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family. Family is something so powerful that you can never walk away from it. It’s so much a part of you that you’ll never shake it and no matter how far you go or what kind of deals you make it’s there until the end. It didn’t take a cheesy Oprah-esque gratitude journal for me to realize that even though my path was definitively atypical, I have also replicated family in my own life.
So when the time comes to spread my ashes, I know that most of those in attendance will be of no blood relation to me. The children that I’ll never have obviously won’t be there, much less their children or my great-grandchildren. But hopefully whoever’s left can look around and feel the warmth and the history and the love, knowing that because my life started off with an amazing family, that I was able to replicate a family of my own.
I flew home a few weeks ago to attend what my family had dubbed my grandmother’s "Fake Wake." 2007 was a rough year for her. My freshly widowed grandma faced quite a few health scares last year, one which left her with an oxygen tank permanently in tow. She has always said that she wanted her funeral to consist of us throwing her ashes from a riverboat into the Mississippi River while a jazz band played. So, when she organized a family reunion where the main event involved a jazz band floating down the Mississippi, we all knew what she was doing.
Families have to be the most complex, yet somehow primitive, structures in society. How archaic, and borderline Neanderthal, is it that by the mere happenstance of sharing a gene pool that families are locked together for life? Family is your first lifeline. They feed you. They shelter and clothe you. They keep you from killing yourself as a toddler (or in my case, well into your early thirties). So it’s no wonder that you develop a need for them. It’s as basic as needing food and water. You simply need your family.
But it’s really not that simple. In a way families are an experiment doomed to failure. As people get older they change. And their values change. It’s inevitable that the people you started this journey of life with will not be the same people you remember them to be when you look at them through adult eyes. With each individual experience we all go through, from schools to jobs to marriages, wedges are placed between you and the ones you call family. Suddenly, you look up and twenty-five years have gone by, and the kid you remember playing GI Joe with wants to dog cuss you for voting Democrat.
I saw so many members of my family on this trip that I have not seen in a very long time. I saw some that I will sadly never lay eyes on again. People are getting older. Time’s marching on. And scattered about this big country we are each living our own lives and forming separate identities and experiencing different aspects of life that can push people further apart. Most of their Saturdays consist of shuttling children to various activities. Most of my Saturdays consist of violent hangovers and swearing off alcohol (again). But the one thing that not even the longest period of absence can shake is that sense of need I feel from those people.
I have 14 cousins total on both sides of my family. There are only 3 of us left without any kids. I’m the only one without kids in my thirties and I’m the only gay one. I think a lot of people feel the need to pity me because of that. I think because that parenthood path has defined them and molded them all in such a positive way that they don’t realize that there are many different paths to happiness. Happiness, in my opinion, is simply replicating the concept of family that you knew as a child. You can replicate it through procreation. But, as in my case, if that’s not an option, you can replicate it through the people you choose to associate yourself with outside of your bloodline.
I spent the remainder of that week with friends from back home, friends from grade school, high school, college and beyond. These are people I’ve known for as long as I can remember, people that have stood by me and without question will always stand by me. Then I flew back to Chicago and jumped right back into the circle of amazing friends that I have here. These are all people that I can fight with, people that I can cry with, people that will carry me when I need to be carried, and people that know that I’m always there to carry them. I remember while on the plane heading back thinking of having seen my family, particularly my sister and my cousins and the way they interact with their kids, that I saw that in their lives they had replicated that basic need of family. And I fully realized that even though I had not replicated that need in the same way, by having children and being married and living that type of life, there was still as much love and comfort in my life as theirs. I get all the laughter and tears, all the anger and worry, all the loyalty and acceptance, from what Bridget Jones would consider to be my "urban family," the family that you make outside of your original one.
As a single person living in a city like Chicago, a city that moves so fast that if you’re not strapped in you could fall to your death, I need family. There’s never been a question that I have an unnatural fondness for trouble, and like my cousins needing to know that their children are healthy and happy, I need my friends. And with that need comes the blessing of feeling needed in return. I have friends who have recently lost parents, friends who are going through wretched break-ups, friends who struggle daily with heartbreaking things that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But all the friends that I have are family. And just like my "real" family taking me in despite all the differences, I love all of these people unconditionally.
Everyone knows that old saying that you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family. Family is something so powerful that you can never walk away from it. It’s so much a part of you that you’ll never shake it and no matter how far you go or what kind of deals you make it’s there until the end. It didn’t take a cheesy Oprah-esque gratitude journal for me to realize that even though my path was definitively atypical, I have also replicated family in my own life.
So when the time comes to spread my ashes, I know that most of those in attendance will be of no blood relation to me. The children that I’ll never have obviously won’t be there, much less their children or my great-grandchildren. But hopefully whoever’s left can look around and feel the warmth and the history and the love, knowing that because my life started off with an amazing family, that I was able to replicate a family of my own.
Dead dreams today. Bigger dreams tomorrow.
(Originally published 6/4/2008)
When I was ten years old my sister snuck into my room while I was singing "On My Own" by Patti Labelle and Michael McDonald (of course I was singing the Patti parts). I had never seen my sister laugh that hard and, honestly, to this day, have not seen her laugh that hard since. The dream of my becoming a famous singer died right then and there. When I was in the 8th grade and passed out from nervousness while standing up at the front of the room of my Drafting class, I realized upon waking that I didn’t have the nerves to be a public speaker. So my dreams of being either a politician or an actor died on the spot.
Recently, I finally struck up the courage to speak with a guy whom I’ve had a severe crush on since moving to Chicago. After spending years asking around about him and building up in my mind everything from where we’d live upon getting married to the kind of parties we’d attend, I let several Vodka Tonics be my guide and walked right up to him at a bar. The conversation was awkward at best. How do you strike up a casual conversation with someone who in a parallel fantasy world is your soulmate? Our brief chat did not end with us exchanging phone numbers, much less taking the Red Eye to California for a hurried wedding. I walked away, my tail between my legs, and kicked the corpse of that dead dream under the closest bar stool.
It’s important to know when a dream has died, whether it’s one you’ve chased with blind ambition your entire life or one you’ve entertained privately while standing in front of the bathroom mirror. When those realizations occur, when you solidly know that you’ll never win the lottery, or play in the Super Bowl, or brush Cher’s hair, you have to step back and take a deep breath. A dream is a dream because a part of you believed in it. It’s important that you acknowledge when a dream comes and goes.
That being said, I am quietly closing the door on a dream I’ve harbored since January 2007, a dream that sent electricty through my bones, one that made me feel safe and secure and proud. It was a dream about hope and optimism and opportunity. It was my dream that someday Hillary Clinton would be my president. She told me via an internet video back on that cold winter day that she was "in it to win it." I danced around my apartment to the disgust of my roommate at the time, a devout Republican. Hillary was coming. Hillary would save us all!
In my short life as an American voter (I’ve only been eligable to vote since 1994), I’ve always gravitated towards candidates that I felt represented not only my views, but also myself. By that I mean candidates who, between the soundbites and opinions of pundits, were able to relay the message to me that they were like me, and in return would represent me and the ones that I love. Hillary Clinton’s biography seemed to better mirror mine and it spoke to me. She’s from a middle class family, raised in the suburbs, went to church most Sundays and played football and baseball with the neighbor kids. Like me, as she got older she began to question the world around her, asking the authority figures in her life why things like segregation and sexism existed. Hillary had the subtle sense of rebellion growing up that I had. Not to mention she spent the better part of her young adulthood in the state next door to the one I grew up in, that she was born in a hospital not far from where I currently reside, and she was rasied in the Chicago suburb just a few miles west of the one I work in now.
But unlike me, Hillary had a burning ambition that lit a fire underneath her, an ambition that led her far beyond the good fortune of simply marrying well. Hillary was the first student to ever give the graduation address at Wellsley college. She was twice named one of the Top 40 Lawyers Under the Age of 40 while First Lady of Arkansas. She was the first First Lady to hold a graduate degree. She was the first former First Lady to run for office. She was the first woman every elected statewide in New York. She has gotten closer to a major political party’s nomination for the presidency than any other woman in American history. More people have cast a vote for Hillary Clinton than for any other candidate in the history of American Presidential Primaries. More federal money and time were spent investigating Hillary Clinton over the years than was spent on investigating 9/11. Love her or hate her, the history books will never let you take those things away from her. A person that came from a background that I felt reflected mine and my values, someone who spent her whole life busting down doors that pulled people outside the status quo closer towards equality was within reach of the Presidency!
But alas, for lack of a better term (and I apologize, Senator Clinton), she was so close but no cigar.
And I don’t think all the Hillary-praising in the world can save her now. This dream is dead. It’s in my dead dream box wedged between being Courtney Love’s best friend and being able to sh*t money.
Symbolically, her candidacy made in itself an undeniable point. Because of her, my sister and my cousins and all of my friends can nudge their daughters and say, "See. Don’t let being a girl stop you from doing ANYTHING. See. You can be smart and strong and no matter how many people tell you that you’re not those things, that you’re only who you are because you saddled up to a good man, that you can keep walking proud and let that fire in your belly push you through ANYTHING. See. You can chose to speak your mind over giving in to your critics. You can face half the world calling you a hag, a shrew, a menopausal opportunistic talentless power-hungry b*tch, but, if you know that you’re not those things, you can stand tall and you can do ANYTHING."
Let’s face it. Little girls in this world have just about the roughest road. As soon as their eyes open every image in the world is telling them they’re not good enough. They’re fat. Their clothes aren’t as nice as everyone else’s. They’re worthless until the cutest boy in school or the more popular girls give them worth. There’s predators on every corner and on every website trying to kill them. Madonna said it best. "Strong inside, but you don’t know it. Good little girls, they never show it. When you’re trying hard to be your best, could you be a little less? Do you know what it feels like for a girl?"
Growing up gay in the south was no treat either, especially back in the days where the AIDS crisis made the evening news every night, way before "Will and Grace" or the LOGO channel, way before openly gay people could run for and win office. Feeling confused and lost and not knowing exactly what the hell you’re gravitating towards is a fate I wouldn’t wish on any kid. So remembering a bit about what that’s like, being a child and looking under every rock for a hero, I think about my niece. I think about her standing in the check-out line at the grocery store, Britney flashing her panties on one magazine, Lindsey doing drugs on another, Jessica Simpson showing off her new boobs on the next. I think about her listening to the radio or watching videos, where girls show them no other ways to get a boy’s attention than to be cheap and easy. And I pray to God that it’s not these messages her little forming heart latches on to.
I hope it’s the cover of Newsweek with Hillary Clinton on the cover that settles in her mind. I hope that it’s hearing the male pundits on television degrating someone that obviously scares the hell out of them, and that someone just so happens to be a woman. I want her to know that her mind and her courage, not just her body or her husband, can lift her to a similar place where men respect her enough to fear her. I hope that somewhere between Miley Cyrus posing with her shirt off and Jamie Lynn Spears giving birth at 16 that my niece noticed that for the first time (and hopefully not the last time) that a woman almost ruled the world.
So my dream of President Hillary is dead and gone. But the dreams I have for my niece are stronger and clearer now. And I proudly thank Hillary Clinton for that.
RIP Hillary Clinton for President 2008.
When I was ten years old my sister snuck into my room while I was singing "On My Own" by Patti Labelle and Michael McDonald (of course I was singing the Patti parts). I had never seen my sister laugh that hard and, honestly, to this day, have not seen her laugh that hard since. The dream of my becoming a famous singer died right then and there. When I was in the 8th grade and passed out from nervousness while standing up at the front of the room of my Drafting class, I realized upon waking that I didn’t have the nerves to be a public speaker. So my dreams of being either a politician or an actor died on the spot.
Recently, I finally struck up the courage to speak with a guy whom I’ve had a severe crush on since moving to Chicago. After spending years asking around about him and building up in my mind everything from where we’d live upon getting married to the kind of parties we’d attend, I let several Vodka Tonics be my guide and walked right up to him at a bar. The conversation was awkward at best. How do you strike up a casual conversation with someone who in a parallel fantasy world is your soulmate? Our brief chat did not end with us exchanging phone numbers, much less taking the Red Eye to California for a hurried wedding. I walked away, my tail between my legs, and kicked the corpse of that dead dream under the closest bar stool.
It’s important to know when a dream has died, whether it’s one you’ve chased with blind ambition your entire life or one you’ve entertained privately while standing in front of the bathroom mirror. When those realizations occur, when you solidly know that you’ll never win the lottery, or play in the Super Bowl, or brush Cher’s hair, you have to step back and take a deep breath. A dream is a dream because a part of you believed in it. It’s important that you acknowledge when a dream comes and goes.
That being said, I am quietly closing the door on a dream I’ve harbored since January 2007, a dream that sent electricty through my bones, one that made me feel safe and secure and proud. It was a dream about hope and optimism and opportunity. It was my dream that someday Hillary Clinton would be my president. She told me via an internet video back on that cold winter day that she was "in it to win it." I danced around my apartment to the disgust of my roommate at the time, a devout Republican. Hillary was coming. Hillary would save us all!
In my short life as an American voter (I’ve only been eligable to vote since 1994), I’ve always gravitated towards candidates that I felt represented not only my views, but also myself. By that I mean candidates who, between the soundbites and opinions of pundits, were able to relay the message to me that they were like me, and in return would represent me and the ones that I love. Hillary Clinton’s biography seemed to better mirror mine and it spoke to me. She’s from a middle class family, raised in the suburbs, went to church most Sundays and played football and baseball with the neighbor kids. Like me, as she got older she began to question the world around her, asking the authority figures in her life why things like segregation and sexism existed. Hillary had the subtle sense of rebellion growing up that I had. Not to mention she spent the better part of her young adulthood in the state next door to the one I grew up in, that she was born in a hospital not far from where I currently reside, and she was rasied in the Chicago suburb just a few miles west of the one I work in now.
But unlike me, Hillary had a burning ambition that lit a fire underneath her, an ambition that led her far beyond the good fortune of simply marrying well. Hillary was the first student to ever give the graduation address at Wellsley college. She was twice named one of the Top 40 Lawyers Under the Age of 40 while First Lady of Arkansas. She was the first First Lady to hold a graduate degree. She was the first former First Lady to run for office. She was the first woman every elected statewide in New York. She has gotten closer to a major political party’s nomination for the presidency than any other woman in American history. More people have cast a vote for Hillary Clinton than for any other candidate in the history of American Presidential Primaries. More federal money and time were spent investigating Hillary Clinton over the years than was spent on investigating 9/11. Love her or hate her, the history books will never let you take those things away from her. A person that came from a background that I felt reflected mine and my values, someone who spent her whole life busting down doors that pulled people outside the status quo closer towards equality was within reach of the Presidency!
But alas, for lack of a better term (and I apologize, Senator Clinton), she was so close but no cigar.
And I don’t think all the Hillary-praising in the world can save her now. This dream is dead. It’s in my dead dream box wedged between being Courtney Love’s best friend and being able to sh*t money.
Symbolically, her candidacy made in itself an undeniable point. Because of her, my sister and my cousins and all of my friends can nudge their daughters and say, "See. Don’t let being a girl stop you from doing ANYTHING. See. You can be smart and strong and no matter how many people tell you that you’re not those things, that you’re only who you are because you saddled up to a good man, that you can keep walking proud and let that fire in your belly push you through ANYTHING. See. You can chose to speak your mind over giving in to your critics. You can face half the world calling you a hag, a shrew, a menopausal opportunistic talentless power-hungry b*tch, but, if you know that you’re not those things, you can stand tall and you can do ANYTHING."
Let’s face it. Little girls in this world have just about the roughest road. As soon as their eyes open every image in the world is telling them they’re not good enough. They’re fat. Their clothes aren’t as nice as everyone else’s. They’re worthless until the cutest boy in school or the more popular girls give them worth. There’s predators on every corner and on every website trying to kill them. Madonna said it best. "Strong inside, but you don’t know it. Good little girls, they never show it. When you’re trying hard to be your best, could you be a little less? Do you know what it feels like for a girl?"
Growing up gay in the south was no treat either, especially back in the days where the AIDS crisis made the evening news every night, way before "Will and Grace" or the LOGO channel, way before openly gay people could run for and win office. Feeling confused and lost and not knowing exactly what the hell you’re gravitating towards is a fate I wouldn’t wish on any kid. So remembering a bit about what that’s like, being a child and looking under every rock for a hero, I think about my niece. I think about her standing in the check-out line at the grocery store, Britney flashing her panties on one magazine, Lindsey doing drugs on another, Jessica Simpson showing off her new boobs on the next. I think about her listening to the radio or watching videos, where girls show them no other ways to get a boy’s attention than to be cheap and easy. And I pray to God that it’s not these messages her little forming heart latches on to.
I hope it’s the cover of Newsweek with Hillary Clinton on the cover that settles in her mind. I hope that it’s hearing the male pundits on television degrating someone that obviously scares the hell out of them, and that someone just so happens to be a woman. I want her to know that her mind and her courage, not just her body or her husband, can lift her to a similar place where men respect her enough to fear her. I hope that somewhere between Miley Cyrus posing with her shirt off and Jamie Lynn Spears giving birth at 16 that my niece noticed that for the first time (and hopefully not the last time) that a woman almost ruled the world.
So my dream of President Hillary is dead and gone. But the dreams I have for my niece are stronger and clearer now. And I proudly thank Hillary Clinton for that.
RIP Hillary Clinton for President 2008.
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