Something's got a hold on me...and I don't know what.

So you've noticed - you straggling few followers of this screed - that my orts of writing have dwindled in frequency over the past year or so. It's due to a number of reasons, but I think the main thing underlying this is that - gasp! - I'm growing up. For some reason (and actually, I'm pretty sure I know why), I've been feeling more like an adult. Not just in that sense, but also in the sense of starting to look at things I've done in the past that seem a bit adolescent. This blog has been an opportunity for me to indulge my inner teenager...the one who likes to be snarky and subversive. I'm changing. It's weird to go through a second adolescence at this stage in my life, but that's exactly what it feels like...well, minus the social awkwardness, random hard-ons, and cracking voice. On the other hand, my facial hair has been filling out more...to the point where I've felt comfortable growing a beard for the first time in my life. Go fig. And my voice does seem to be deepening a bit more. Seriously...I'm not making this up.

I've also noticed somewhat of an aversion to outright hedonism. For example, I went to Provincetown last week for Bear Week. Here's my (admittedly judgmental) mindset. What happens when you take a bunch of gay men with plenty of disposable income, no children or wives to hold them down, and unleash them on a town where they can party to their heart's content? They turn into man-children. No sense of responsibility, just party all the time. Maybe it's them, but at this point, it's definitely not me. I feel like I've outgrown that stage of my life. Oh, and when I tried to indulge in the party scene all week last week, my body rebelled. Vertigo for the first time in my life, and when I got home, a flu for my penance. Just no fun. I'm all for fun, but I think my personal definition of fun is changing...and it doesn't involve these huge party weeks or weekends anymore. At least where consuming large quantities of alcohol are concerned. (Yes, yes, I know...I've said this before...but I feel more solid in saying so nowadays.)

It almost seems weird to continue writing in this blog when my mindset doesn't seem to fit it anymore. I'd rather start a new blog than stick with this one. I mean, the blog's title is a wry nod to the fact that I wanted to start a band in college called the Misplaced Apostrophe's. The tagline is one of those random messages you would see on IRC back in college (remember that chat engine, kids?) if you typed in a certain code. A lot of posts look back at my past, most specifically at high school. I thought about doing a series of posts like these - but for college - but I just can't muster up the enthusiasm for it anymore.

Interestingly enough, I'm in the midst of a huge transition in life - witness the past few posts I've made - and perhaps letting this blog be, while starting a new one, is in my near future. Not to worry...if this is the path I take, I won't be erasing this blog. Too much that's awesome here. But I'll be starting a new one - one where I feel more comfortable writing more adult things and not offending my inner adolescent. I'll keep you all posted.

Bitter as kale and goldenseal.

"Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine."
                              --Ralph Waldo Emerson

I'm done with my career. My current one. And I'm moving on to a new one...one that is more in line with my values, my strengths, and my passion. And fortunately, it is in a field for which there is a need, one that will contribute to the betterment of society.

Over the past eight years, I have gone from being the only person in my practice (read: no admin help, no assistants of ANY sort...I was everything and everyone rolled up in one), to being quasikindasortabutnotreally part of another chiropractic practice (and oh boy was THAT not fun), to being business-wise on my own but with administrative support in a building with practitioners of a similar bent (the best situation). Each iteration has resulted in less-than-stellar results to the bottom line, and much personal and professional struggle. It's hard to be in this field when you're surrounded by people (including the spouse you are around more than anyone) who are at least dubious, if not outright skeptical and dismissive of your field and the good you can do/have done in it. Such a lack of support tears at you like daily paper cuts made with a razor-sharp sheet of copper.

I'm leaving this line of work with not a little bit of bitterness. In retrospect, so many of the signs were there all along. I was never that much into the medical field originally. In school, anatomy and physiology never really grabbed me. Nutrition bored me. My fellow students' foul stench of entitlement and political correctness grated on my nerves to no end. The woo-woo component irked the solid, grounded side of me tremendously. Heck, even one of the most prominent members of the naturopathic community, Dr. Michael Cronin, once told me, point-blank, "Don't do it" when I asked him advice about going into naturopathic medicine back in 1997. Maybe he saw something incongruent in me I didn't...or maybe he was just similarly bitter about the profession at the time.

Having said that, botanical medicine and homeopathy were fascinating. (And no, the irony of being enamored by homeopathy while cringing at the woo does not escape me.) I cannot overstate the joy I had upon drinking licorice tea for a week and, as a result, obliterating a cold which otherwise would have given me bronchitis for months on end. Nor can I deny how one particular homeopathic remedy helped me mature tremendously over the span of six months, helping me emotionally feel no longer like a boy trapped in a man's body, but as a full-grown man. And I've seen homeopathy successfully treat - and sometimes end - depression, anxiety, alcoholism, food cravings, allergies, asthma, food poisoning, minor hemorrhages, PMS...the list goes on and on.

Conventional medicine is very well established, with plenty of infrastructure and plenty of opportunity for students, residents, fellows, and doctors to observe, learn, teach, and otherwise apply their knowledge for (hopefully) the betterment of their patients. Unfortunately, my experience - and that of many of my patients - has only borne this conclusion through significantly less often than is ideal. Hence the need for the medicine I have been practicing for eight years. But the support in conventional medicine is profound compared with the brittle infrastructure of much of what I consider traditional medicine. Few residencies exist after school, be it naturopathic, acupuncture, chiropractic, or some similar practice. Hospital privileges are virtually unheard of. Students are graduated and given diplomas and licenses, and are shoved out into the business world to start their practices with naught but the most menial of business education, frequently placed on a quicksand foundation of little interest or acumen in business in the first place.

Bitterness also rears its ugly head when I watch the nightly news and see minute-long pharmaceutical commercials, with lists of side effects that take up half the ad. Pharm companies spend millions to get these commercials out there. And the medicine I practice gets swept under the rug, or at most gets tolerated by the media outlets. So I shake my fist impotently at the universe.

More bitterness? I am sick of playing Cassandra. She was a woman in Greek mythology who had the gift of prophecy, but the curse of having no one believe her. I'm sick of people complaining online about their illnesses while knowing that knowledge I have could help them tremendously, even more than the conventional medicine they rely on. For example, hearing people complain about having the flu for weeks on end grated on my nerves, knowing that a tasty syrup made from black elderberries could cure them of the flu within 3 days, and powerfully alleviate symptoms within 24 hours. And my advice - from a doctor! - to take said syrup went unheeded I can't tell you how often. Lesson learned: I shouldn't dole out free advice on the internet.

I resent the sentiment that caring about the food you eat is elitist. Sure, people can have a legitimate beef with Whole Foods/Whole Paycheck, which has an undeniable elitist bent. When you bring that sentiment to the realm of farmers markets, though, it's just invalid. Besides, why would you not want to feed yourself with the best food possible, when tremendous evidence exists that pesticides (stored in containers marked with skulls and crossbones) are the basis for a wide swath of diseases? The same claims exist for genetically modified organisms. Or how about the current obesity epidemic? Among a multitude of other factors, it seems pretty plausible that the growth hormones that we give cattle and swine to help them grow to insane and unhealthy sizes for our dinner plates might also be helping us humans to grow to insane and unhealthy sizes, too. Why is wanting to avoid these things elitist?

Tangentially, I had a brother-in-law who was the epitome of the salt of the earth. Great guy, but our politics diverged diametrically, and while I was trying to build a career on optimizing one's diet (among other things), he scorned the idea of eating for your health, and despite a dangerous lifestyle that shot his cardiac risk factors through the roof, he wouldn't budge his habits for the sake of his health - nor for the sake of those around him who loved him. (Whole Foods, I'm certain, represented an unpatriotic way of life, anathema to him.) And six months ago, he stopped having to worry about health forevermore thanks to a massive heart attack, leaving behind a fiancee with a debilitating chronic neurologic condition, bills to pay, and a full house to take care of. Not caring about what you eat can, in some cases, be tremendously selfish and hurtful to those around you.

One more thing that gets to me: had I listened to myself and heeded myself years ago and followed my love of words to its conclusion, I might not be in this situation. Or maybe I might. But I harbor even more resentment about taking to heart the advice of disinterested adults at dinner parties who smiled indulgently at my passion for language, then derided my choice of linguistics as a major as being too boring. Or what about journalism? Oh, but that's stupid, see, because then you'll only write about what other people do, instead of doing those things yourself. (Not a word said about how journalism ends up requiring you in some cases to go out and explore said things, instead of merely reading about them in the newspaper or seeing them on TV.) God forfend I should consider music...total dead end. Only but so I graduated from one of the top music schools in the nation, and while many of my music major friends were being placed into jobs directly out of school, I graduated with a degree that never earned me one penny.

So I give up. I'm leaving the tribe. This profession is made for those with steelier spines than mine, for people who can walk their talk more firmly and passionately than I, for people who refuse to let their world view be tainted with bitterness, for people who are damn near superhuman. These doctors deserve a world of respect and acknowledgement. And more practically, they deserve a world of patients...and patients deserve them. And I will be a lifetime patient of naturopathic doctors.

I have few illusions about the field I'm going into. It is not the most lucrative. It is highly specialized. Heck, I can count the number of professionals in this field on one hand. But there is undeniably a demand, and I'm not sure I will be idle for long. And I can honestly say it is where my heart lies right now. Is it as prestigious as being a doctor? Not really, but what is? I can get used to shaking my fist at the universe - the one I've already used - for the injustice that being a professional educator is a fraction as prestigious as being a doctor. Oh well. I guess the lesson here is that you'll find injustice everywhere you look.

Having said that, I'm adhering to the Tammy Wynette school of philosophy. Despite being so successful in music, she maintained her beautician's license all her life, because...well, you never know what life may deal you, and she always wanted that safety net. I admire that kind of pragmatism. Similarly, maybe I'll come back around to this field in some capacity in the future, so I'll keep my licenses active, quite possibly for life.

But for now, I'm leaving, with a big fat gluten-filled chip on my shoulder and a lot of self-learning to do.

Okay. You know bad is bad when...

• This is the first night in over 10 years that I've had two mai tais in one night. (Peruse the New York Bartender's Guide for the liver-crushing recipe. Or just look here.) Somehow (and fifty pounds later), I can handle them. But just barely.
• I had to improvise with blue curacao with one of them. So the drink turned out to be the color of fungified cement. Yum.
• I tell Quinn that she is SO hopelessly a fashion don't while she's wearing a kerchief with her matchy-match two-piece bikini while she's poolside with her friends. The only members of the Fashion Club.
• Yep. It's a olive drab and kelly green PLAID. Even I wouldn't be caught dead wearing such clashing patterns in the local man's man gay bar, even under low lights, even with drunk guys who wouldn't know better. Did I say gay men? Yeah. Not all of them are fashion mavens, but some of them wear fabulous scarves with their impeccable leather coats.
• Oh, and yeah...Quinn is a fucking CARTOON.
• I'm spewing advice to said cartoon.
• This cartoon, despite catering to college-age kids, stopped being relevant around, oh, 1997.
• Not a mathematician, but let's do the math here. SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO? Oh God...
• God, I'm old.
• I'm trying to persuade myself that my predecessors of decades and decades past regressed into their younger years to...well, for one night, to numb themselves into forgetting an annoying day. Despite the lack of said cartoons.
• La la LA la la...

I should stop now. Before I embarrass myself beyond the hope of recovery.

It's apparently the year of 25 year anniversaries. Three days and twenty-five years ago began one of the most difficult days of my life. In just over a month and a half will commence the 25th anniversary of the most amazing day of my life.

Okay. I really should stop right now. Mark the time. And note the beverages consumed. Also note that it has been over ten years.

God, I'm pathetic right about now. Don't expect this post to last more than a week.

Okay. One more thing. GOD, right now I wish I knew who my birth parents were. Maybe one day.

No, I should never, ever write erotica or porn. But that won't stop me.

The DJ told me he was turned on to industrial by a Swiss guy who recommended Skinny Puppy, Ministry, NIN, and KMFDM. He turned to leave as he told me he was spinning in ten. We'd met years ago, and he was wild, big, with an unhinged look to his eyes. I told him to spin something hot, hard, loud, and above all, sinister. He slammed his thick lips onto mine and I reached around to grab his ass. A shower of needles went off everywhere. Goddamn.

Then I said, "Make my ears bleed. Make them feel like they've been violated."

But what in the world is a pantaloon, anyway?

My grandfather was one of my heroes. We did not see eye to eye politically (most of the time), but he was indisputably a great man. Brigadier general in the army when he retired in the early 1970s. But retirement slowed him down but nuthin'. He stayed busy, involving himself in Afghanistan and Pakistan from that point through the late 1980s...literally, sometimes. I think he spent more time abroad than he did stateside in the '80s. His military expertise was boundless. He co-penned a book back in the day called Nuclear Tactics, which amusingly enough, is actually available still. He became a political consultant, spending more time in DC than in his home in Southern Pines, NC. I found it amusing that he chose to live right next door to Pinehurst, a big golf (read: retirement sport) resort town in the nation, until I realized it was also right next door to Fort Bragg, a big army base. Grandpa never wanted to "retire." He stayed as busy as he could, and his energy seemed limitless.

But he and his wife decided to move back to Denver years ago, so she could be near her favorite daughter (my mom). He went into it, knowing that he would no longer be around what sustained him so powerfully. But he figured that Grandma had suffered his travels, being the equivalent of a single mom, then a solitary wife for so long, that he should do what she wanted now.

And cut off from his military links, he began to wither. For such a great man, having lived through three wars and being so successful, his death was sadly unworthy of his life; he slowly wasted away, turning despondent and suicidal before our eyes, until he finally died of natural causes one morning in a nursing home in his wife's arms. He had a proper military funeral back at Fort Bragg, but one of the saddest things I ever saw was his casket being driven away in a small open-framed pickup truck, bouncing around and not tied down. It was so undignified, so unworthy of him.

One of the most profound things he taught me was his view of being a man, based on Shakespeare's famous soliloquy, "All the world's a stage." There were seven stages, Shakespeare wrote, to being a full man: the infant, the schoolboy, the lover, the soldier, the justice, the pantaloon, and finally, the old, doddering man. So drawn into this view, my grandfather was, that he took a picture of a stained glass representation of this, had it framed, and gave it to me as a present. I thought it was nice at the time, and it's packed away in our voluminous basement full of crap right now, but the more I think of it, the more I believe it's true.

What makes me think this? The soldier. I have fulfilled every role up to this point just fine (currently acting as the justice, so to speak), and I have no question of what lies ahead of me. Every role except for the soldier: "jealous in honor, sudden, and quick in quarrel/Seeking the bubble reputation/Even in the cannon's mouth." I never was a soldier, literal or figurative. I recently wrote about the symbolic solider (or as I put it at the time, warrior) I left abandoned on the side of the road in the wilderness, in his armor and brandishing his sword, waiting for his time to come. I picture him kicking the gravel, walking around, waiting as if for Godot. And I feel a great sense of guilt, of abdicating responsibility to myself. I feel like I should somehow make it up to him. I feel very much an incomplete man without him.

It makes me wonder if it's not too late to rectify this, to somehow turn back and channel that soldier energy somehow. I've done some of it, getting into weightlifting and such over the past few years, and people have noticed that I've gotten beefier, but to what end? Vanity? I think my newfound strength should be put to good use somehow...but how?

"I don't know what it is, but you gotta do it."

Ten and a half years ago, I graduated naturopathic school. Great job, congratulations, here's your diploma, now get back to work and study your ass off for boards. Five weeks later, I had successfully filled in approximately 900 little circles on papers that would determine whether or not I would be eligible to get a license to practice or not. A few weeks after that, I found out that, yes, I had passed my board exams. Thrilled, to say the least.

But now what? You have your diploma, you now have your license, you have the title...what are you gonna do with it? And suddenly I became fearful for the future. I could complete medical school...but what of it? My bluff was called, and I blinked. Big time.

As it happened, Mr. Man and I had moved from Puddletown to the Chicago area after I completed my board exams. I'd unwittingly landed in the backyard of a chiropractic school that offered an accelerated program for health care pros like myself. It looked interesting. I visited the school on one of their "be a student for a day" programs. The day of the program was gray, rainy, cold, and dismal. The closer I got to the school, the drearier it seemed to get...used car lots, potholed roads, and nothing inviting. The entire day felt wrong. I felt magnetically repelled from the school, as if some huge force were trying to push me away. I came home and told Mr. Man that I couldn't see myself making that drive and going to school there at all.

But apparently I couldn't see myself using my degree right off, either. Despite what so much of my body, mind, and psyche was telling me (and there was no mistaking how wrong I felt about it), I decided to avoid the future, and retreated back into school.

And ten years ago today, on the first day of school, began the worst and most painful year of my life. I drove to school, singing a song that echoed my uncertainty but hope that this was perhaps the best path forward. Then I felt that hope collapse like the industrial dissonance and clamor at the end of the song, just as I pulled into the school parking lot for this first day of school. 2004 was a year that drove me to drink (but only on weekends), that contributed to some major adrenal fatigue (that I overcame years later, though not without effort), and that I would gladly erase from my life if given the option. I learned how cruel some instructors and fellow students can be. I learned how awful it feels to be devoting all your time and energy to a program you don't really believe in, yet one that will be significantly determining your identity, income, reputation, and mindset for the rest of your life. I learned how painful it can be to push forward when it seems that everyone has you in their crosshairs, to eliminate, to ridicule, or to shun. I learned the constant static that you feel when you had a vision for your life, but you chose a path that runs counter to it in many ways. And ever since, I've been trying to push the negative aspects of 2004 out of my brain and take what good I could from it. I've been mostly successful at winnowing the bad from the good, and I am definitely excellent at what I do, but my expertise came at a tremendous psychic and physical cost.

And 2005 wasn't much better.

 



 

 

So here's to having no year worse than 2004, and having every year being exponentially better and more fulfilling somehow. Because I've put in my time in hell...and it's time to turn my back on it. (Despite the fact that, yes, I did just commemorate it very unsubtly.)

"And we liked it! We LOVED IT!"

A FB friend I met in Provincetown this summer just griped about how, for the millionth time, he and his husband were accused of being twins, let alone brothers. And it was all I could do to bite my tongue and not say something snarky in reply.

Gay men are narcissists. And I mean that in more than the obvious way. For many guys, it comes through in who they are attracted to. These guys both have a heavyset, almost fireplug build, with narrow eyes and dark, short hair. They both wear the same type of eyeglasses - narrow and rectangular. They both are slightly above average height. Other facial characteristics are similar, including a slightly forced smile. IMO, both are quite handsome. It's not a leap to suggest they are both attracted to themselves. (From what I know of them, they are not emotionally narcissistic.) But it is a potentially friendship-killing leap. So I keep my mouth shut. Oh well.

I'm seriously considering starting a FB profile so I can masquerade as a grumpy old man who just can't keep his mouth shut about stupid shit he sees on the world wide webiverse and the world around him. Just to have an outlet for my opinion...until FB shuts it down for some reason or other. I'm not quite ready to be such an asshat from my own profile. Give me a few years and a few more gray hairs.

I would cuddle you so hard.

So says a shirt frequenting the local gay watering holes nowadays. So much for the hankies in the back pocket advertising what wild (or not-so-wild but still sexual) things you were into. Of course, those largely died out as guys became more open and willing to say what they wanted. Props to the interwebs and such for that.

But really? CUDDLE? That's all you would do? I'd hope for something more. Something more animal, something more feral, something more bestial than just a warm fuzzy cuddle.

Unfortunately, it seems like that's what guys are resorting to more and more. Or at least advertising. Maybe I'm wrong, and maybe guys are using that as a ruse to actually bed other guys. I hope I'm wrong. But it's almost like we men are becoming emasculated. (BTW...there is a significant and really depressing amount of scientific evidence to support this hypothesis, too...just search around.)

One of my good friends wrote last night about this very topic. He started out as a kid much like me (and much like millions of other gay men out there), having that dream, then waking in fright and dread about what it meant, and how it went against everything that he heard and was taught. For him, it was even worse, growing up a devout member of the Catholic church, right alongside the rest of his Italian family.

So he learned to hide it, to be one of the guys, to be a hard-partying womanizing frat boy by college. Only in his last year of college (again, much like me), did he finally come out, much to his family's consternation and his friends' confusion. Stereotypes die hard, and a brutally masculine, non-swishy man just cannot be gay, right?

As the years passed and he became more comfortable with himself, he realized at some point that he was not just this butch gay guy, but a full-out leatherman, with all the serious role-playing and heavy sex that culture entails. And it hit him hard, in the best way possible. So not only was there a place for the non-swishy gay men, but the hypermasculine ones who were as far from that stereotype as possible.

Now, years later, he's seeing evidence of...well, at least for himself, some dying down of the testosterone-laden past he's had. It happens as you grow older. But he's beginning to rage against that dying of the light. Getting a full-sleeve tattoo, hitting the gym again in earnest, and doing what he can to ensure that he remains as queer and true to himself as possible. He exults in living the life that few dare to, in being that wild man. He laughs a bit too loud. He rides his motorcycle a bit too fast. He wears his pants a size too small to show off his impressive package (accentuated with a PA). He occasionally wears his full Tom of Finland leather gear to choir rehearsals, and even to church, where he works as the music director and organist. And he loves every last bit of it.

And I love him for it. Guys like him, with so much passion, pushing at the bounds of propriety and acceptability, are too few and far between in this world of beige and cubicles and suburbs and long commutes.

My life has taken me in a decidedly less wild trajectory than his. No leather in my past, I was nowhere near as butch as this guy was. My personal revolution was largely internal; aside from temporarily dyeing part of my hair green, you wouldn't have guessed I was subversive in any way. I wasn't swishy, but you could have justifiably called me effete back in the day. You could have blown me over with a breeze. And I was terribly shy.

Some things don't change. I'm still pretty shy when it comes to meeting guys I'm attracted to. Not the butchest guy to come down the pike, either (though I'm also not FAAAAbulous). But at least I look and feel more substantial. Every day, I live a bit closer into what is truly who I feel I was meant to be.

And I think this may be why I have such admiration for my queer brothers and sisters. We were dealt a hand that forced us to suppress ourselves for a long time - especially during the time that would ordinarily be the most transformative. The act of being true to ourselves in the face of a society that disapproves of such a thing becomes exponentially more meaningful and urgent than it otherwise would.

In particular, I have tremendous admiration for those whose need to be completely true to themselves takes them on the most extreme journeys. Drag queens are among them. It takes some real courage to engage in the transformation into some of the most fabulously dressed and made-up creatures on the planet. This is not in small part because we live in a society in which women are, unfortunately, construed in many ways as inferior to men. But among me and my friends, drag queens are deserving of the highest adulation possible. In fact, for many of us, RuPaul's Drag Race is a ritual during the first third of each year. Many straight guys have their football or basketball or baseball. We have our Drag Race.

Recently, I've also begun to admire - much more than in the past - the trans folk of our culture. One of my best friends from college came out to me in a very low-key manner at a bar in Minneapolis, simply saying that she really was jealous of Chaz Bono. (I assume it was because Chaz was able to afford and undergo breast removal surgery.) The bit of exposure I had for the trans community suddenly was directly in front of me and a significant part of my life. Although she - to my knowledge - hasn't acted on anything since that time, she was the only trans man I'd known -- until about a month ago.

Just a few weeks ago, another college friend posted on FB that she was trans, and that from here on forward, she requested that we call him by his new chosen man's name, that he was taking testosterone, and that he was about to get his breasts removed. Wow. What balls. (Check out his blog "So that others may follow", which I have a link to on the right.) His partner, who is a lesbian, is staying with him and supporting him throughout his journey, too. (Update: Just found out right now that they just got engaged! Cue the tears of joy to my eyes.)

Then another college friend said that she was about ready to come out to her new workplace, and asked us all for support and prayers. This confused me, since she was a lesbian, and well, if you can't come out in Minneapolis, where can you come out? Then it hit me...this was why she had turned her FB name into two men's names. So he was trans, too! Pretty wild, this: three trans FTM guys within the span of two years of college. Whoda thunk? (Update: He was fully accepted, no issues whatsoever. What a huge blessing.)

These are the people who are true to themselves, who lend vivid, unignorable color to an increasingly beige world of people who would cuddle you so hard, who may seem weird and off-putting. But they're inevitably the most interesting, wild, and passionate people I know. They will be among the ones who help transform this world into a better, more tolerant, loving, and celebratory place. I'm glad to call them my sisters and brothers, and to count myself among them.

Notes from light rail, pt. 1

Damn, wish I had headphones.

Stranger making funny faces on the bus at a baby while the mom looks on, amused, contented and happy. Takes a village?

Shit-ass luck. Takes just one errant bus to thrown my whole schedule off and make a 90-minute commute twice as long. RRRGH...

Burgeoning business... Will it take the place of my other one?

NDs are not my people. Don't feel part of the tribe. I'm bad. How bad? Not GMO-free, not gluten free, eat like crap (including fast food more often than I'm willing to admit), sleep with electric appliances near my head and with a bedroom so light you can see across the room easily, read a backlit tablet before bed ensuring my sleep will be awful...Just happens.

Having said that, I looked at the mirror this morning, and possibly for the first time ever, was fully content with what I saw. Finally saw myself as a grown man, full, filled out and...well, not muscle-bound. Not yet, at least. About damn time, though. You'd think this would happen before the age of 38. And this, after a night of packing for Bear Week, and yes, being vain and trying on all manner of shirts (still fit) and shorts (just barely). Liked the way I looked then, too.

FB messages bad when you're trying to eke out your identity in a positive manner. Many messages bring you down or distract you from carving out your identity.

Why am I carsick while reading on the light rail, but not while typing?

Seizures SUCK.

Two days ago, I woke up, tired, after only six hours of sleep. Not awful, but I had been abnormally tired over the past week. The previous afternoon, I had a 3 hour long nap, and felt I could have slept another three hours.

I also had a muffin for breakfast, a few slices of pizza for lunch, plus a bit of water, then some gelato afterward. Probably what some people would consider not bad for meals, but it wasn't enough for me.

Finally, I went to a choral concert, invited by a friend of mine. It was fine, but I was just exhausted throughout the entire thing. I was invited for canapés and drinks with said friend's family, but politely demurred, partially because of my fatigue.

I came home, saw Mr. Man in the bedroom watching Mad Men, and joined him, just laying down on the bed.

...

Next I knew, I found myself in a wheelchair at the nearest hospital, utterly exhausted and unable to comprehend much of what was going on around me. Mr. Man finally told me (as he probably had numerous times over the previous half hour) that I had had a grand mal seizure. First one in eight years, almost to the day. I'd like to say that the news frustrated me at the time, but I was so wiped out, I could barely feel anything, and was only just capable of performing simple tasks like going to the bathroom. Mr. Man took excellent care of me, getting me situated, and making sure I was okay until the nurse or PA or whomever took me back to rest about 10 minutes later. I got an IV in the back of my hand and a bit of Ativan (my least favorite drug EVER), just to take the edge off, and tried my best to answer basic questions given to me by the nurse, missing only one ("What month is it? What's your name? Do you know what happened?"). My parents showed up a bit later, certainly concerned, but in my stupor, I couldn't really read their expressions. Still, at least I was secure and being watched over. And atypically, I didn't have a pounding headache, nor was I really all that tired after a bit. But my tongue was chewed up pretty badly (still is, in fact), and I was more or less a lump of clay, just sitting there, trying to engage everyone in conversation, and (I'm sure) failing badly. Finally, after a few hours, when it was evident that I had stabilized, I was released, and Mr. Man took me home for some dinner and some rest.

Only the next day did I realize how much I had scared him. He had asked me a question in the bedroom, and noticed that I wasn't answering him. Then he looked over and saw a weird grimace on my face and my arms starting to spasm, and he freaked out. I'll spare you the details, but he thought I looked possessed. I can't imagine what it must feel like to see someone you love suddenly going through something so frightening, suddenly unconscious, yet jerking uncontrollably for minutes on end, then seeing them collapse and not breathe for up to a minute, sometimes more...then seeing them gasping for breath while barely coming to. You can't do anything to help them in the meantime, other than just keeping them safe from themselves and anything around them that might harm them. And you never, NEVER put anything in a seizing person's mouth! Want said thing to break off and puncture their palate? Want to lose a finger? Didn't think so. Tongues and sides of the mouth heal. Scary at the time, but really, they heal uneventfully.

Also on the next day, I felt fine. Perhaps a bit tired, and I had a hard time talking because my ragged tongue was swollen, but otherwise, no issues...almost as if nothing had happened the day before. Mr. Man and I went shopping around town, but nothing too taxing. And I slept well and ate well.

...

Two days ago marked the eighth seizure I've had in my lifetime. And let me tell you...they SUCK. So miserable. Only six of them have been actually witnessed and diagnosed; the first two were never discovered. Only years later, after putting symptoms together, did I realize that some unexplained symptoms I'd had (pounding headache, confusion, extreme exhaustion) made sense. I've been on medication for much of my life...coming on fully half, actually, to be accurate. The times I've had seizures since, I believe, could be chalked up to suboptimal levels of meds in my blood for one reason or another (not taking meds, taking supplements that speed up the metabolism of meds, being overweight), and it's frustrating and frightening.

For me, perhaps the worst part of having a seizure is the legal inability to drive for six months afterward. I love to drive. I love my car. And I will miss it sorely until December 24th. But also, poor Mr. Man is justifiably concerned also because the last time I had a seizure, I began to feel trapped and purely under his control. And it wasn't long after I got my freedom/car back, that I began to exult in my freedom and...uh...look around. I found myself in what then seemed an innocent affair, but it honestly came thisclose to breaking us apart over the next year and a half. I'm ashamed of it, and really, really don't want to open myself up to that again. I know what a great thing I have in Mr. Man, and I'm not willing to shatter it.

So there's what will probably amount to the excitement of 2013. I will do what I can to get by, but it's going to be tough for the next six months. Wish us luck. (I say us, because it will inevitably be a team effort.)

Shit just got real.

(To be submitted for consideration for the most groan-worthy blog title of 2013.)

(Also: NOT for the faint of heart or queasy of stomach, this one.)

I have a relative who has been dealing with an on-again, off-again case of C. diff., a form of chronic diarrhea, the likes of which (when you get past the ickiness of that concept) is truly a public health issue, and a scourge for many people, particularly the elderly and immunocompromised. (C. diff. is an abbreviation for Clostridium difficile...a bacteria that is so-named partially because it is so difficult to eradicate.) Dehydration, inability to be more than a few steps away from a bathroom because you have to go NOW goddammit, low energy, imbalanced electrolytes -- the likes of which cause you to fall and smack your head on the ground, then send you to the hospital to get checked out by a cardiac team and placed under quarantine -- these are just a few of the annoyances that C. diff can cause. And -- knock wood -- these will remain the only annoyances said relative must deal with. But I'm dubious.

A year or two ago, I read about an experimental therapy that on paper, sounded so disgusting, so repulsive, that I had a hard time wondering how anyone in their right mind would even consider it. (And believe me, I immerse myself in the realm of the strange and unusual medical practices. The validity of things like maggots for safe wound debridement and topical honey for diabetic ulcers fascinated me, and -- beyond that -- has been proven in repeated studies.) But then I stepped back, put on my I'm-in-anatomy-lab face -- the one that you have to put on when faced with the reality of being a medical student and being freaked out by a preserved specimen of the human body is simply not an option anymore -- and considered the therapy. Hmm...maybe it could work. Theoretically, it might make sense.

Then I read the studies done with said therapy. And all I can say is that if any drug company could promise a 90%+ success rate with eradicating a disease that is a public health scourge with a single treatment, without any side effects whatsoever, that company could sell off all its other piddly little drug offerings, mark up that one treatment, and exist comfortably till kingdom come. Because people? There is no such thing in the drug world.

But apparently there is such a thing that...ahem...exists within us all.

One study done with this therapy was discontinued prematurely because the study designers deemed it unethical to deny any of the study subjects this therapy, when it had proven so effective so quickly and uneventfully. Everyone got the therapy, everyone went home happy.

So at the hospital today, while I was visiting said relative (who, it must be said, looked exhausted and in rather bad shape), the supervising gastroenterologist walked in. So I got to ask him about the possibility of...yep...all together now...fecal transplantation.

He had to tell me that if I had asked him 2 weeks ago, he would have heartily agreed. As it is now, the FDA has put a stop on all fecal transplants unless a doctor really wants to go through a mind-numbing set of bureaucratic hoops, tons of paperwork, and waiting a minimum of 30 days to be approved. In which time a patient for whom antibiotics aren't working, could possibly suffer an infection to the colon and instead need to get a colectomy. (Sorry...told ya this could get tough in here.)

I'm still not sure why the FDA is preventing this sort of treatment right now. Legal stuff? Trying to establish a standardized protocol? I understand the need for that. But in a case like this, you don't stand on the cliff and wait to get your wings right before you fly. You jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down. Because in the latter case, you're saving lives and helping others to become dramatically better with a single treatment. And in the former, you're basically being unethical, to put it rather euphemistically.

So now we sit and wait and hope and pray that yet another round of antibiotics -- probably months' worth -- could somehow get this flare-up under control. (Me myself, I doubt it. If a month-plus of vancomycin and Flagyl didn't eradicate it entirely last time, when this poor woman was a bit younger and a bit healthier, why would it work this time?)

Blog Posts I Have (Almost) Known

I have grand ambitions to make blog posts as fulfilling as I can, both for myself and for the reader. Sometimes they just don't reach muster, but at the same time, they also don't reach the waste bin. So they sit in purgatory, waiting for...I dunno...I guess a blog post like this. So, a small compendium of what you could have been reading instead of this, and why it never came to fruition. So damned meta it hurts.

1. A reflection on Copper Mountain, one of my favorite ski areas of all time.
Why not? Seemed too facile at the time, no real point to it. Yet for some reason, this post seemed much more important to me. Now I feel like I really should post it. Oh, and it included a mildly time-sensitive component to it. Probably innocuous now.

2. Why music from the '90s sucked.
Why not? I really couldn't get inspired. Basic point: Nirvana was awesome, but laid the groundwork for some truly hoarktastic music. Also, do we really need to reconfirm how awful Hootie & the Blowfish or the Dave Matthews Band were back in the day?

3. An album review of Rufus Wainwright's Release the Stars.
Why not? Because it sucked. The album, I mean. Key passage: "At his worst (especially on his first album), he's incredibly nasal and effete. (Of course, that last is unavoidable if you're singing songs about matinee idols, operatic tragediennes and snobbish boarding schools.)"

4. Cool-ass men.
Why not? Maybe a work in progress more than anything. Maybe I just don't think there are that many out there. Either way, I'll keep ya updated.

5. Notes from a gay bar, 4/14/12.
Why not? Must have just fallen by the wayside.  It's short enough that...well, here ya go.
(Evidently meant to inspire some blog post, but now they're here in skeletal form, and there they'll stay.)
- Duck you I'm awesome.
- $5 tip to hot stripper
- Gladiator costumes
- I'm texting Pandora Boxx?
- Getting too old for this kind of shit.
- Sauna + 70 degree pool = HEAVEN.

6. A huge rant about how a friend of mine was unfairly shut out of the process of interviewing to become director of the Denver Gay Men's Chorus.
Why not? Because it warn't purty. Oh, and looking over it, because I never even got to that point. Shot my wad while bitching about how much I already hated the organization, and couldn't stay hard to continue. Key passage: "Much grumbling and annoyance ensued, and the rehearsals were really uninspiring. I was so disgusted, I ended up leaving a month before the concert. (A song about a kid who saved Christmas in a snow-bound town by urinating all over it so Santa would see it was the proverbial cherry. No, I'm not kidding.)"

7. A post in defense of Lance Armstrong.
Why not? Began to ramble too much. Also seemed to pass its expiration date. Lance is already so last year. But so many people jumped on the bandwagon to vilify him. Maybe it was my contrarian coming out, but I did not see all that much that justified everyone thinking he had such a huge fall from grace. Also - and this may really be where I got into trouble - I started looking at the definition of a sociopath, and tried to show that sociopathy really isn't all that awful. I got bogged down in the detritus.

RAPE CULTURE MUST DIE.

There. I said it. And I fully believe it, too.

I haven't been camping out at the Steubenville courthouse, so anything I hear has been second-hand, but the media aren't looking too good for making the boys out to appear victims. As well they shouldn't. As far as rape goes, that looked awfully premeditated and...well, isn't that the definition of "first-degree"? And yet again, the young woman was blamed for being...what? Overly seductive? Too much of a tease? REALLY? Have some respect - for yourself and DEFINTELY for her. Think about her family. Her friends. Her future. Think beyond your crotch and the next 15 minutes.

So. How not to annihilate rape culture: Exhibit A.

A good friend posted this tonight, and again, I agree with the sentiment. But GOD. As a man (and yes, I place myself in the company of all my brothers, straight and otherwise), this reeeeeallly rubs me the wrong way. Allow me to retort to certain of these 10 tips to end rape.

1. Don't put drugs in women's drinks? Fine. (Already biting my tongue to hold back the snark here.)
2. Got it. The next time I see a woman walking alone, I will leave her the HELL alone.
3. I will do my damndest to hold back my animal urges when I pull over to help a woman whose car has broken down. Actually, tellya what. I won't even bother pulling over. My animal urges might get the best of me.
4. I will make sure not to rape a woman if I happen to get in a lift/elevator and she's the only one there. In fact, I will just stay the hell away from her. Won't even get in the goddamned elevator. Who knows what awful impulse could come over me?
5. I will stay the HELL away from the window of a woman's house. I will stay the HELL away from a woman if she is anywhere near two parked cars. And I SURE AS HELL will not rape her.
6. I am so fucking stupid and violent that I can't keep from assaulting myself, let alone assaulting other people. I am the very embodiment of why the buddy system is so badly needed to protect the citizenry of our good society. Ya know, why don't you just arrest me on account of I may do something rash anyway. Probably better for all involved. Consider it a preemptive strike in the war against rape.

Okay. I can't go on. You see how twisted and perverse I get? This graphic is so incredibly demeaning and condescending and disrespectful and sexist that it just makes my skin curdle. Makes me want to have absolutely NOTHING to do with women. And it definitely makes me want to have absolutely NOTHING to do with anything rape-related. Including helping those who have been raped.

I know that my sentiments come across as infantile when compared to the very legitimate anguish that a rape survivor has to deal with for the rest of his (yes, I said "his"...it's not a crime exclusive to women) or her life. And I admit that I have my emotional funny bones - hit me in just the right spot, and you'll cause a deep, irrational, lingering response. This graphic does exactly that. This is NOT the way to address the issue of rape. It may be a way for women to get their anger and frustration out, but it's perilously close to counterproductive.

Reminds me once of seeing a woman on the college lecture circuit. She was incredibly brave to come forward and talk about her experience of being raped repeatedly one night in college. It was brutal to hear. It was also tremendously unnerving to hear how she had to muster up the courage to report to her RA about it. His response? Silence, at first. Then getting up from the chair, and punching a hole in the wall. Because that's what she really needed to experience after such a violent attack: another indirect form of violence.

Annihilating rape culture. As if that's something that could just be permanently and quickly erased. But here's a start. Once again, our man Hank here to save the day. Key quote: "To me, the problem that needs to be addressed is where in the information chain were the two offenders made to understand that what they did was not wrong on every possible level?" Another key, kickass quote: "...let young people understand that women have been kicking ass in high threat conditions for ages and they are worthy of respect." THAT'S what I'm talking about.

(No. Seriously. If you didn't click on Hank's link above, fucking click on it and read it in its entirety.)

He says the sun came out last night. He says it sang to him.

Whenever you talk about something that transcends the limits of our five most well-known senses, people tend to get creeped out unless you are given the proper context or enough advance warning. Or, if you're lucky, they are already on board, and willing to hear you out. Which, my legions of followers, you may consider my "enough advance warning."

In high school, during my speech and debate years, I would dread meets. Waking up at gawdawful hours on Saturday mornings to take a bus ride sometimes a town or two down the road, sometimes nearly two hours away. I'd then either give three speeches or debate three times (topic: Established: that the United States should significantly expand space exploration beyond the earth's mesosphere) over the course of the next eight hours, then take said bus back. And in the process, stress would be running high, and health would be running down.

So on Friday nights, while tucked into bed with the lights turned out, I began kind of "reaching out" to the next day, to see how it would go. And almost always, I would get a really good idea of how the next day would go. If I felt smoothness, like a canoe gliding over a glass-calm lake, then I knew the next day would be a success, in whatever way. It always meant I'd do well in my meet, but would usually mean I was in good spirits during the day, too. If it felt turbulent, then things would not go well.

For some reason, I tried it a few nights ago, and it was pretty dead-on. The next day felt somewhat turbulent, and true to form, yesterday was a fairly jagged day. The afternoon got better, but the morning was definitely not fun at all. Inspired by this, I decided to do the same last night. What I felt was utter chaos and madness, the likes of which I've never felt before, and I almost doubted myself. Felt again a few minutes later, and it was still the same. And...yup. Unfortunately, today has been AWFUL. Type of day that gives you Facebook remorse. You know how you just want to yell your troubles out to the world, and FB seems like such a perfect place to do it? Yeah, I've made that mistake before a few times, and made an utter fool out of myself. But where do you yell it out? On a semi-public blog, where people could find out who you are if they really tried? That skirts the line, too. Let's just say that a fight is a really crappy way to start a day, particularly if the one you're yelling at really didn't deserve it, but you needed to get out some massive frustration somehow. Add on a frightening phone call from work and a broken commitment from a friend (trivial though it was), and I've been playing "How to Disappear Completely" over and over in my head today.

So yeah, this quasi-ESP thing, sensing the near-future in the vaguest of ways is a bit creepy but pretty cool. But it does beg the question: if I can sense it, can I change it somehow if a bad day is coming on?

Apple lungs

So, dream this morning, right? Random stuff here. On stage, at a spelling bee (you'd be nauseated to know how often this dream recurs, even after all these years). Round after round, I'm fine. One round, I decide to nod off. I wake up a few words before I get up. But my stomach tightens up, and suddenly I think "oh no, this could be it." Apparently this is the national competition, since all eyes are on me, and in this dream, I'm the first two-time national winner in history, cracking my knuckles and ready to make it three. So I walk up, and they give me the word.

"Apfelungen."

See, German words are common, so I felt...ennh...okay about it. Definition (in my dream): a sudden windfall or pleasant surprise. I figured it was like an apple falling fortuitously and unexpectedly from the sky. After some thought and pleasant banter with the judges, I give it a go. I double the "l," and the bell dings me out. No three-time national winner this time.

So I woke up and immediately had to figure out what this word was. Looked the German translation up. Nothing. Then, just to see, I looked up "apfellungen." And came up with "apple lungs." Go figure.

Funny thing is, there's actually a blog out there by that name. Google to your heart's content, kids.

Thus ends perhaps the most random and useless blog post you'll read all year. Now go and stuff yourself silly with kale chips and kumquats.

The Wrong Child?

Yeah, yeah, poor poor pitiful Pearl. Put a sock into it. Don't read if you don't want. I'ma spew pity party chunks all over this here screed.

Still convinced that as a youngster, I was dealing with a mild form of autism...perhaps Asperger's or even a bit milder. Reading The Autism Revolution kinda clued me into that. I was reading it on the recommendation of a patient of mine. But it makes me wonder why in the world I was not taken in for evaluation. Strange mood swings that seemingly came out of nowhere, self-absorption, some rather significant aversion to social situations, occasional absence spells (mild seizures?) that drove my parents nuts, a few fainting spells, evidence of "stimming" (repetitive actions that serve to release neural excitement), and some idiot savant-ish qualities (absent-mindedness right alongside academic excellence). Lots of these have persisted to the present day: the stimming (on a daily basis, no less, whenever I get happy or overexcited), absence/mind drifting, some moderate antisocial tendencies, more self-absorption, and perhaps worst of all, those mild seizures eventually developed into full-blown grand mal seizures. First one was probably around 10, the next about 5 years later (while snowboarding! Thank GOD I was on terra firm and not on the chairlift!), and another five scattered between then and 2005...including two in one day. So yeah, I'm not all neurologically sound. In one rare instance of acknowledgment of conventional medicine, I have to say I'm grateful for my antiseizure meds...even if it means that my liver is very unhappy with me all the time. (Chronically elevated liver enzymes = slow destruction of the liver. Perhaps I should be on some milk thistle or other liver regenerative therapy.)

Of course, getting into a fight with Mr. Man didn't help matters last night. Compound the two, and you've got yourself one seriously insecure kid inside a grown man's body. You get to wondering...if I have this much of an issue with being social, and am this screwed up, am I really the right kind of person to be in a relationship? Don't get me wrong: Mr. Man is all kinds of awesome. He's just so social, and I come in on the opposite end of the spectrum. Can't help but feel insignificant in such a situation. And I have dreams and ambitions, but I feel like they've been lost in the shuffle of being in a relationship with someone else. I look back on the only 6 months of my adult life where I was living on my own, and I really, really flourished. It's occasionally tempting to chuck it all, especially when I look at my interests vs. his, and there is very little overlap.

God. Just want to crawl back into bed. Particularly since I slept like shit last night...tossed and turned, finally fell asleep around 2, and woke up at 7. (I'm not one of these people who can thrive on 5 or fewer hours of sleep a night.) Hmm...maybe I will. After a good full lunch.

Every day, a grape licks a friendly cow.

Note to self: when the office has a 3-day weekend, don't bother keeping your Saturday mornings open! Lucky me, I'm the only person in the office today, and that was basically to drive down here (45 minute commute) for a 15 minute visit. Ugh. So now I get in my workout, and wonder what the fuck to do for the rest of the day. Mr. Man is in New Orleans for the weekend (I KNOW...but apparently Isaac didn't do a tremendous amount of damage to the French Quarter, where he is, so.) and I'm here, apparently bereft and adrift in a sea of what-the-fuck-do-I-do-nowitude. So here ya go...your solipsism for the day. Oh, and happy September.

- Unfriended about 125 people in one fell swoop about a month ago. Including some erstwhile choir girls with whom I have gotten along in the past. The vast majority of these were not due to anger or illwill. Just an acknowledgement that they aren't really a huge part of my life, or they post really annoying political shit all the time (from any part of the spectrum), or their posts, despite merely intending to be thought-provoking, resemble interview questions from hell (imagine if Stephen Covey and Dolores Umbridge were to have demon spawn). Yes, I have standards that are perhaps too high relative to the average FB user. But seriously, what sense does it make to have FB "friends" that are good for nothing but a cyberpoke once every few months?

- Love the bee commentary? Miss the bee commentary? It's gone from this here screed forevermore. You'll find it here, along with some more cerebral stuff. It may help lay the foundation for a secondary career for me, and if there's something I don't need to sully a reputation, it's intentional misspellings for effect, immediate references to "what-the-fuck-do-I-do-nowitude" and the like.

- Young coconut. To be specific, the stuff by Philippine. I picked some up at Costco recently, intrigued. Good GOD, people...if you like coconut, you HAVE to get summa this crack. May have a bit too much sugar in it to be healthy, but then again...14 grams of fiber per 1/3 cup serving? AWESOME! (I have heard, however, the sodium metabisulfite-preserved stuff is awful, and one should seek out the sulfur dioxide-laced goods at all costs. Yeah...we're not talking health food here.)

- "You have to have a look!" So sez one semi-fictional Maria Callas in a fabulous play, "Master Class." "And if you don't have one...get one!" Kinda makes sense to me. I hate to say it, but I may have drunk the "branding" Kool-Aid a bit. Lots of successful people have a "look," whether or not they realize it and whether or not it works for them. Suze Orman's earrings and swooped bangs, Donald Trump's unfortunate toupee and boxy suits, Paul Ryan's overgrown-Munster appearance, Michelle Obama's KICKASS style across the board (Jackie who?)...you get the picture. So I've been trying to cultivate said "look."

- Must write. No...must go to Starbucks to get my coffee before my workout. No...must eat, I'm starving. No...must read. Wait...what am I doing here at work, anyhow? Wasn't I done with my appointment an hour ago? GAWD. Procrastination 1, me 0.

Inspiration from Henry Rollins.

I'ma sit back and let my man Hank tell his story. Take it away, Hank.

And bad mistakes...I've made a few...

At 25, I was watching the Grammys, and saw Lauryn Hill, who is as old as me, win five Grammy awards. And at 25, I was in the middle of naturopathic school. But for the first time, I felt like I was squandering my life. I literally sat up and asked out loud, much to the befuddlement of my friends, "God...what have I done with my life?"

Boy, I'm glad that my 25 year-old self can't see me now, let alone my 16 year-old self. I mean, here is a list of that young man's ambitions back in February of 1992:

1. Keep up a high morality code with integrity.
2. Ignore what the TV says.
3. Single-handedly redefine the genre and ideals of American literature by the use of short essays. In short, start a new era.
4. Make a couple of classic albums.
5. Be a teacher.
6. Be a researcher or doctor.
7. Become a new Socrates - as great a thinker as he was.
8. Live life deeply and lovingly.
9. Love.
10. Be religious.
11. Be me!

Yeah, I was one ambitious motherfucker, wasn't I? Needless to say, I've not made a single album, let alone a single song. I get drawn into TV far more than I would like. And bringing American literature (VERY loosely defined) into a new era was apparently not up to me, but the tech-savvy inventors of blogs. And Socrates? In college, I derided one of my friends for being down on herself because she wasn't as great a thinker as Dostoevsky was. Um...oops. So much for that. (At least I won't die from hemlock poisoning.)

But life happens. Laundry needs to be done. Someone needs to bring home the bacon. Mundaneness settles in. And also, goals change. But having said that, a strong, stoic core part of me maintains that there's still a LOT of living to do, and a LOT of ambitions yet to realize. Gotta keep moving.

Darling, being gay is the best excuse you'll ever have not to be boring!

So says Eddy from Absolutely Fabulous: one of my favorite shows of all time. BUT.

(whining alert)

Man, I'm so not into being gay lately. At least my recent experience of it. Where do I start?

Shows like the deceased and not-at-all-mourned The A-List (both New York and Dallas versions) and the still-afflicting-us 1 girl 5 gays just annoy the everloving crap outta me. The A-List had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The producers, I assume, thought it would be such a great idea to put the bitchiest, supposedly A-list gays in close proximity to each other, force them to flirt shamelessly and do all they could to wreck relationships, friendships, and reputations. Including their own. I've seldom felt so good about being a non A-lister. But I also felt sick to my stomach watching this...is this the image we're putting out to society? Help us all. At least 1 girl 5 gays has the excuse of catering to teens and the twentysomething crowd. And if I were that age, I would be really gaga over the show. Still, it's kinda creepy, looking in on 5 gaybies (recycled at random from probably around 40 or so) and their resident hag (far too pretty for such a derogatory-sounding term). These guys pass judgment on each other, laugh with each other, share some deep secrets (and many, many more not-so-deep secrets), and talk about their sex lives outside of the show. Said sex lives include fellow cast members, so it feels incestuous. To be sure, they all look and act friendly enough, but really, what I can't abide is yet ANOTHER discussion of how people don't care enough about Madonna or Gaga, what actor you would do, what you were thinking when you were finishing your last hookup, and (I wish I were making this up) drawing what your parents look like naked. I think I'm just getting too old for this.

Also? Alcohol. It has its place, and right now, with a few exceptions, that place is not near me. Not because of any run-ins with the law, mind you. I just don't like the way I feel when I imbibe, and do whatever I can to make sure that any after-effects are mitigated as much as possible. It's become especially noticeable since I've begun working out, seeing results, and doing what I can to make sure I see more results.

Along the lines of alcohol comes the social scene. Okay, alcohol's good for that. I tend to come out of my shell once I get a few drinks down. Only problem is, I'm sometimes likely to spiral into sadness, or more likely, anger and resentment. And let me tell you, I am one evil, evil bitch when that happens. Friends often are surprised to find out that I have this mean streak in me, but it is true: I can be more bitter, scathing, and cruel - without any irony or dark humor to leaven it - than just about anyone I know. I don't get fiery. I become icy and numb. Don't cross me.

Oh yeah...back to the social scene. I joke to people nowadays that Mr. Man goes out and kicks up his pink sequined platforms with the fabulous crowd, while I stay at home, sip my chamomile tea and knit. Of course, this is relative to Mr. Man, who is far and away one of the most social people I've ever known. I tell people that I can be a lightbulb and light up a dark room, but I'm often next to the sun. And I HAAATE playing second fiddle to a guy who makes you feel as socially awkward as an autistic kid (though it is never intentional). (By the way, I just took an autism spectrum quotient quiz. My score: 30 out of 50. Above 32 indicates a likelihood of something along the autism spectrum. Apparently, I read people too well and am too sensitive to their expressions to qualify.)

The worst part? Let's combine all of the above and intensify it ten times. Travelling for gay parties that are all about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll - or in this case, sex, poppers, and techno - just drains me in all ways possible. If I need a week or two to recover from the lack of sleep and wild times, it just isn't worth it. Yes, you can make tons of friends at said parties, which is cool. But I've been to enough of 'em - Dallas, Chicago, and God help me, New Orleans - to last me for a few years. I have no desire to do a bear run or circuit party anytime in the near future. (Meanwhile, Mr. Man recently expressed a desire to go on a vacation somewhere. All he listed were said gatherings.)

Can we keep going? Please? TECHNO MUST DIE. I'm sick of it.

Incidentally, I realized today that on the occasion of Denver's Pridefest, I will find myself cruising at 35,000 feet, returning from a glorious vacation in Europe, and landing too late to participate. And I celebrated inside.

Ugh. Years ago, I came to the conclusion that the only requirement to declare myself gay was to admit that I was sexually attracted to men, and that was it. I didn't need to live any kind of lifestyle to prove how gay I was. It's good to be reminded of this. If this whole scene is what it means to be gay, then I resign. I have a different, better gay life to live.