Randomless meanblings ram. Seattle version.

Ah, Seattle. So stately, calming, grounding, pretty. And potentially so depressing. Kindasorta remember why I hightailed it outta the Pacific Northwest after school 7 years ago, but for a weekend visit, it's hard to beat. Rained yesterday, but today, the sky actually had pretty layers of all shades of periwinkle, steel gray, deep blue, and white. And the simple, minimalist architecture just accentuated its beauty. Not your typical fall/winter day up here. I'm so used to the monochromatic, monolithic pea soup fog that permeates the sky, the soul, and the brain - and utterly etherizes you. But today was just gorge.

I was grateful to see that the typical naturopathic chic fashion was not in display at this conference - not like February. Green and purple Columbia sportswear fleece and scarves (at 50 degrees!?) ruled the place last time, and the place was filled with the stench of entitlement...the kind that gives liberalism and environmentalism a bad name. I could, if I put my mind to it and had nothing but time, write a satire about naturopathic culture...but the appeal would be WAAAY too narrow.

But I do feel more ready to attack autoimmune disease of all sorts and heal/cure it more effectively than my medical compadres. For my sake and for the sake of future patients, this is an unequivocally good thing. Do MDs really want to squash us out of existence? Fine. Let's see how well they handle autoimmune disease with their arsenal of steroids and...uh...yeah, that's about all they have, isn't it?

Now, how to get word out...

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Don't bug me. Like the rest of America (or the part that actually cared), I was LIVID on Thursday night. But life goes on. As one charitable woman put it to Sir Tim of Gunn, Mondo's got his career. Gretchen needed the money to get out of debt. In a way, it worked out. Somewhat.

But Meana Garzilla and Duchess L'Orange got a LOT of 'splainin' to do otherwise. It's not just the title they're bestowing. They're fucking fashion experts. They're naming The Next Best Thing, and their peers are gonna hold 'em to it. (Or, to really vulgarize it, they've named America's Next Top Fashion Designer.) Heidi, you're acquitted. (Tangentially, Jessica Simpson has officially joined the ranks of those who look gorgeous with voluptuous curves. I say: Let her quaff milkshakes! See also: Carey, Mariah; Hendricks, Christina.)

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Confidential to CDOT: It's nice that you've been cleaning up the I-70 Viaduct for these past few years. At a pace slightly faster than a snail on bennies would be nice, though. And does completed construction mean that there shouldn't be ANY sudden gravity-defying foot-deep dips in the asphalt, or am I wrong? Can I get a confirmation on this?

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Sometimes shyness sucks. See a guy on the dance floor, mentally grope him for a half hour (combined time...I dance, wander and get drinks, see...), and finally see him in the men's room as we're washing hands. We stand next to each other...the sinks are a comfortable elbow-rubbing distance apart. He says hi, I say hi, we smile at each other, and...that's it. He soon leaves with his friends, none of whom are particularly hard on the eyes, by the way. But this one...rowr. (And yes, I do have free license to, *ahem*, window shop. And a bit more. We have our version of "the rules" written down. But as aforementioned, my shyness keeps me from moving any further, not "the rules.")*

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*This last message brought to you by the Cuff Complex in Seattle, about 5 Cape Cods, Kylie's "Can't Get You Out Of My Head," "Blue Monday," (as if I need to say who's responsible for this slice of heaven), Daft Punk's "One More Time," and because it's 2010 and it's unavoidable, goddammit, "Bad Romance." (Again...do I need to state the source?) Oh, and about half a pint (so far) of Ben & Jerry's Magic Brownies. Which, actually, aren't as magic as they purport to be. Just raspberry and chocolate. Tasty, but not so "magic."

Long live 2003. The longer, the better...so 2004 can be squished out as much as possible.

Bloodletting (20th Anniversary Edition) - Concrete Blonde

I've already referred to Concrete Blonde twice here, so it only makes sense that I should pay homage in full to their kick-ass 1990 album, Bloodletting. This has to be one of the best albums for this chilly, sinister, skittish time of year. Though only two songs show direct inspiration from Anne Rice's vampire books, Bloodletting is dark throughout. Still, as an invitation to don your broomstick dresses and black eyeliner and lipstick, it's the most accessible goth album ever made. (That honor might otherwise go to the Cure's dolorous Disintegration, but sometimes those 9-minute dirges are a bit tough to plow through.)

Lead singer Johnette Napolitano is one of the coolest women in all of post-punk rock. Her blood-stained voice cracks and trembles throughout; indeed, she seems incapable of not expressing emotion. Even on the Dead Can Dance-worthy "I Don't Need A Hero," she nearly whispers naked vulnerability, then shows occasional flashes of rebellion on the chorus.

Aside from the wild, punky "The Sky Is A Poisonous Garden" and "The Beast," it's evident that Concrete Blonde's strengths lie in midtempo rockers. The title song sashays through New Orleans with a singalong chorus that's as fun as it is sinister. And the two singles ("Joey," "Caroline") take their time, with guitars fading and notes being held out for effect and increased tension. Despite their obvious status as singles, neither is light and fun. "Caroline" mourns the broken dreams of a vagabond who has suddenly skipped town. "Joey" chronicles the pain of a woman in love with a self-destructive alcoholic (with the memorable line, "I know you've heard it all before, so I don't say it anymore/I just stand by and let you fight your secret war").

Bloodletting's emotional nadir is its last song, "Tomorrow, Wendy." An autobiographical account of a friend who was dying from AIDS, this one bleeds anguish, bitterness, and irreverent rage against the powers that be. ("I told the priest, 'Don't count on any second coming. God got His ass kicked the first time he came 'round here slumming.'") But the most devastating words cut any hope for a happy ending off at the knees with the force of a blunt axe. ("Underneath the chilly gray November sky/We can make believe that Kennedy is still alive and/We're shooting for the moon and smiling Jackie's driving by and/They say, "Good try. Tomorrow, Wendy, you're going to die.") Ouch.

So why the need for a remastered 20th anniversary edition? Well, this is Concrete Blonde's best album, and some cobwebs really needed to be swept away. The sound is noticeably crisper and louder. And more songs were added, mostly to the album's benefit. A few worthy B-sides appear at the end, including a gorgeous rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Little Wing" that would have fit perfectly in the Singles soundtrack. From a live show, "The Sky Is A Poisonous Garden" blasts past even the original's meteoric tempo, while Napolitano does a nifty call-and-response rap in "Roses Grow." The only unlistenable bummer is an unfortunate bilingual version of "Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)," wherein Napolitano sings the last chorus over and over in French while her bandmates sing it in English, producing incomprehensible cacophony. But really, in an album that now stretches over 16 songs, having only one clunker is pretty damned good. If you liked the original Bloodletting and are looking for a reason to pull it out, or if you just want to feel some sinister glee you haven't felt before, treat yourself for Halloween and get the new version. Very worthy.

Yes, it truly does get better.

Nowadays, it's the best of times and the worst of times for gay men in America. DADT was just deemed unconstitutional, and a federal judge barred the Pentagon from pursuing any action under the policy. Of course, with such a volatile issue, we can expect a lot of wrangling before the dust settles. (UPDATE: Yep, the "stay" was just stayed itself. No surprise, but still a major bummer.) In the meantime: the result? Utter pandemonium and dissent in the ranks? Decreased morale and resignations by those disgusted by their fellow gay and lesbian soldiers? It's still early, but you can be the judge.

In addition, although the run seems to have slowed down, 5 states and Washington D.C. now allow gay marriage, and 3 more legally recognize it. And on a lighter note, Denver reprazents on Project Runway...at Fashion Week, and my money's on Mondo to take it all.

But on the other side of the coin, Logo is shilling the worst gay minstrel show on TV that should be avoided at all costs ("The A-List: New York"). Seriously, I never felt so good about being a suburban quasi-guppie in middle America after seeing this show. If that's the A-List, I want nothing to do with it. And if straight America wants to get their worst suspicions confirmed about gay men, then that's their show. Me, I cringe, and thank God that it's not being shown on a (slightly) more mainstream network like Bravo or Lifetime. Those guys certainly don't represent how I live on a daily basis...or how the vast majority of gay men in America live.

And most seriously, the biggest news item lately: the teen suicides that are occurring as a result of homophobic bullying. Five of them within the past month, right? Although I don't want to minimize the suffering of these five teenagers and their devastated families and friends, it has to be said: Those are only five that have been publicized. There's plenty more casualties. I won't go deeply into statistics, but thousands of teenagers yearly take their lives, and queer youth are nearly 4 times more likely to commit suicide than their straight counterparts. You can do the math.

These suicides have spurred a lot of overdue action and publicity. First bit I saw was the Give a Damn organization, showing videos by all sorts of celebrities discussing the fears and agonies so commonplace to queer kids of all sorts. Pretty poignant, these. And they're a wonderful contribution.

Dan Savage - the outspoken sex advice columnist of Savage Love fame - started the It Gets Better channel on YouTube. Being a teenager really sucks, and it really, really fucking sucks if you're a gay teenager. And if you're gay, you can't easily look up to teachers who are out and proud and happy to be mentors and role models...because they're pretty few and far between. And schools won't bring in gay men and lesbians from the outside, lest parents accuse us of something absurd like recruiting or trying to inculcate moral depravity. So Dan did what he felt was the next best thing: He opened up a place for any LGBTers and straight allies who survived their adolescence and subsequently saw their lives get exponentially better to post videos about their experience, so gay teens could see gobs of living proof that people lived through that hell, and are now living wonderful lives. What an amazing idea. Hundreds and hundreds of videos have appeared, filled with fascinating and often heartbreaking stories.

God, have I been there. It started when I was 13. I woke up from a rather vivid dream and suddenly put two and two together...did this mean I was gay? Scared me to death, as you might imagine. And indeed, within the year, after moving schools, becoming a complete outcast and nerd, and being accused of being gay numerous times, I nearly took my life. I had my head in a noose a classmate had jokingly made and hung from a rafter. I had one foot off the chair, and felt the other one begin to lift off, but then decided not to follow through, for whatever reason.

Then came high school. While many of the popular kids were totally getting it on and following their instincts, I was struggling to simply plant a first kiss on my girlfriend - just one, after she had asked me, after months of being together! - and feeling deep down in my core that this was wrong, so wrong, no matter how cool and sweet and pretty and intelligent and understanding and just plain fucking awesome she was. While some friends were going to parties and making out (I'd imagine), I was staying home and taking a knife to my arms and legs because I felt so different and wrong and misunderstood and because...well, if there's something wrong with me, there's only one person to blame and punish, right? And while lots of classmates were excited about their futures and wondering what they would bring, I was morbidly predicting that I would not live past the age of 17...that in fact, it would be wrong for me to live longer than that.

That was over half a lifetime ago. Now, every day that I live is in large part in gratitude to my 13 and 16 year-old selves for not taking my life. Every day, I also try to prove to that boy and that young man how amazing my life has now become, and how much better it keeps getting every day. I keep coming closer to becoming who I was fully meant to be every day. I'm in a wonderful, tremendously loving relationship with a really amazing guy; we just celebrated our 9-year anniversary a few months ago. I have a multitude of friends who love, accept, and celebrate me just as I am...and the sentiment is definitely returned. My work is very fulfilling...I see people grapple with health issues every day, and I do my best to help them overcome these issues and become as healthy as they want to be. At the end of the day, I'm thrilled to just plain be alive.

Normally, I don't go in for being so forward...particularly when there's a lot in just this blog post that could defame my character, let alone the rest of my blog. (I long ago wrote off running for public office.) But maybe I could reach a kid who has lost all hope and is about to take a horribly drastic action, and prevent him or her from taking that action. Or even just help someone who needs some reassurance after a tough day. For that, I will step out from behind this blog.

And if you're that kid reading this, I'm glad you're here. Stop. Take a deep breath. You're not alone. And trust me, and the thousands of people beside me who have already posted videos: Yes, it truly does get better. Hang in there.

"I am bored, so I figured I'd write you a letter."

Random sentences (or two) from letters from friends, acquaintances, and loved ones, circa 1988-1993. (Man, in this day of quick, disposable e-mails, actual handwritten letters are like gold leaf to me. SO glad I saved so many of 'em.)

"It's such a pleasure to ask myself in the summer: What should I do now?"

"I love you."

"Well, chemistry (aka the deepest, darkest, foulest-smelling pit in hell) beckons, and as always, I heed its call." (Written on the back of recycled old chemistry papers, no less.)

"Have fun writing advice letters, luv. (I can just hear you laughing at those letters!)"

"I feel the need for speed - rollerblade style, that is."

"I think I'll go to Spain. Beautiful country, they speak Spanish, FABULOUS food, and a beautiful way of life - no hurry, no worry, no timekeeping, no problems."

"The kids are a blast to be with. Want to hear about them? You don't have much of a choice, do you?"

"I love the Scorpions (did you know they sold out 10 shows in Leningrad, Russia??!!)."

"I don't care though, because I like it, and it's my ear!"

"So after being significantly incoherent this evening, we are leaving at 12:00 noon tomorrow to go to a keg party with the social group that I want to pledge - the Sponges."

"AEROBICS FROM HELL calls me - my muscles already hurt, but Holy Moses, I'm gonna be able to wear a size seven COMFORTABLY."

"What I'd really like to know is how you're going to kill me when I live 2000 miles away!"

"My birthday is Wednesday - the big one-nine. God, I'm old."

"Sorry I can't share this one with you. But what will be will be. Smile."

"The reason I go along with the great Santa Claus 'lie' to my kids is because I truly believe and it is because of this article and what it says. Sometimes we all need to believe in 'lies.'"

"I'm sorry you hate your YTC school." (YTC = "yuppie training camp")

"To make a long story short, the fuckers arrested all twelve of us."

"Mom just came in and handed me a feeler from Northwestern! Awesome! Let's see what it says...college here is hell, write if you're interested. Am I ever!"

"Hey, right back soon. (Boy, it's nice to not have to worry about spelling things correctly anymore!)"

Fat Boys w/ Beach Boys - Wipeout

Ah, memories of the summer of 1987...the best of times, the worst of times. The worst being the 5 weeks I spent at a military summer camp just outside Phila...Look. You can stop laughing. It really did happen. I think. Yep, it happened. You can't manufacture memories that for kids could be so traumatic.

Tragically, the same thing happened precisely four years prior. I remember that first night at camp in 1983 so well: my brother and I getting our stuff packed in the barracks, other kids much rowdier and wilder than us going apeshit all over the place, and the two of us kinda cowering in our bunks, immediately regretting signing on to this military camp thing because...why? Because our grandfather was the head honcho of the entire place, and he could get us in for free (and my brother in despite the fact that he was two years younger than the minimum accepted age). Not a good reason, folks, if you're looking to make friends. The morning after, we both wandered around the front of the barracks, all bleary-eyed, like it was some really fucked-up dream, all washed out like The Day After.

And military camp ain't a whole buncha fun. Counselors are hired for their sadistic tendencies. They love to make miscreants chew and swallow cigarettes while putting them through lots of physical training. And they're really pissed - probably because they didn't make the cut to become drill sergeants, so they have to deal with kids instead. The cool kids are the really gung-ho militaristic kids...the ones who can't wait to get into the army or whatnot. Then you have the kids who are so fucked in the head, the parents don't know what else to do with them, so they send them to military camp, hoping that'll teach them some discipline. (Note: This runs the gamut from spineless bedwetters to deranged psychotics whose parents dropped them on their head as a kid. And believe me...these two together do not make good bunkmates, as I witnessed across the hall from me: Faust and Nemkov.) Anyhoo, my brother and I survived those five looong weeks, swearing never to return. Oops.

Anyhoo, 1987 was a bit more tolerable. You get older, you get more laid back, things are cooler. The counselors seem to tolerate a lot more attitude. And the tunes get more fun and wacky. They didn't get any more stoopid than this, though. Enjoy.

TEAM MONDO!

Good Lord, have you ever cried so much at a ProjRun episode?

So tonight, some of my friends and I traipsed down to Beauty Bar, a hipster dive where the schtick is a manicure and martini happy hour most evenings. Pretty enticing, this; I may have to take them up on it some evening. Anyhoo, they show Project Runway every week on a few projector screens, and during the commercials, they have raffle drawings and DJ Craig C spins until the show comes back on. Sweet and frilly cupcakes and cosmos are the order of the hour, and everyone just has a great time.

The reason for this scene is Denver's own Mondo Guerra. As I've said before, that boy is bound for Fashion Week. Ain't no stopping him now. Three wins in a row. He's got pretty much everything you'd want in a designer: strong point of view, he's not afraid of color, and has damn-near impeccable tailoring. Oh, and Nina j'adores him. If you can clinch that, you're golden.

Mondo rules the roost at Beauty Bar during PR showings. Tonight, he also brought along the much-maligned but still adorable and talented Michael Costello and his boyfriend. (One of my friends claims to have, uh, participated in a threesome with them last night, but that's a story for later.) As we found out later, it was because Michael wanted to provide support for Mondo tonight.

Once again, Mondo blew everyone away; no one was even close to him. And, of course, the room went berserk once he was declared the winner. But here's the big deal, in case you don't watch PR. The designers got to reunite with either their mothers, or in one case, the guy's hot-as-fuck boyfriend. Tears flowed like boas in a drag queen's dressing room - myself included. But then it came out that Mondo was HIV-positive, and had been for 10 years. He wisely decided not to tell his mom as they were enjoying an afternoon together in the big city. But it rode on him. And his poz status inspired the gorgeous black, yellow, and purple print he made of repeated plus signs. After hesitating on the runway to reveal his inspiration to Nina, he decided to divulge his status, much to everyone's deep respect. Tears, cheers, and hugs everywhere again, both on the show and at Beauty Bar.

Now, for the killer: Did I mention that his parents were at Beauty Bar, too, watching the whole thing? (Uh, Mom? Dad? I have something deeply personal I need to tell you, and nationally syndicated TV seemed the most appropriate way to do it.) I'm sure they were frightened and probably more than a bit upset, being (most likely) conservative Catholic Hispanic parents. But seriously, I'd like to think that was buffered by the obvious Mondo love flowing through the place...as well as the obvious Mom love that surfaced when the moms reunited with their kids. At least, that's the hope.

I'm firmly on Team Mondo. At the beginning, Gretchen was the one to beat, and she's still pretty solid, but her latest designs haven't been all that. Still, her spot in Fashion Week is hers to lose. I know I've called out Andy to complete the Fashion Week trifecta, but after the past two weeks of random designs, he's lost focus, and I don't know if he can get it back again. He does have that strong POV, though. April is also a big contender, and I see her possibly beating Andy out. Everyone else can pack it up and go home. (With apologies to Michael C.)

Why it's not easy being green

Once upon elysian days in halcyon fields, I loved the color green. It vied with blue for my favorite color, until I came out and fell in love with orange as well. (Blame Very.) But for the past year or two, my love for green has steadily dwindled, and uggh...if I open up the pages of the local alterna-screed and see one more shade of green, I'm gonna puke. Green puke, of course, just to purge it from my system once and for all.

Why is this? Well, as a leftie health care professional who does not prescribe drugs (can't even do it legally if I wanted to, which I don't), I can say the color green has been linked with our profession, at least to some extent. You know...it's the color of that beaten-to-death sacred cow, The Environment. And my colleagues and I are nothing if not tied with the environment. Pretty much all our healing techniques are dependent on the health of our planet: herbs, homeopathy, clean water, fresh air, high-quality food, and other such stuff. If it goes down, we start to struggle. Digression over.

So I can sum up my aggravation in two words: Medical marijuana.

The only real objection I have against marijuana in general is that I really don't care for the smell. (That, and the "we fear what we don't know" argument...I've never ingested marijuana in any form other than second-hand smoke.) I'm not against medical marijuana...I've heard numerous stories about how it has dramatically helped people seemingly after all other (allopathic, traditional) methods have failed. And medical marijuana has been available in Colorado for a few years legally...as long as you have a, uh, doctor's "prescription." It's been about as easy to procure said ganja as limping (truthfully or not) into a dispensary, claiming joint or low back pain or some other such thing, and getting someone to write a prescription for it. Again, there's a legitimate use for it, but when 18-25 year old males are the demographic that uses medical marijuana most, it kinda makes you wonder about that legitimacy.

I suspect there's been a lot of abuse of the legal right to use medical marijuana here in the (ahem) highest state in the nation (average elevation just shy of 7,000 feet). And it gives medical marijuana a bad name. There was a law passed this past year making it significantly more difficult to run a medical dope shop (read: you gotta have all your licensing creds together), which, knock wood, will raise this profession's standards. But until that law gets enforced, there's plenty of evidence of an economic marijuana bubble about to burst all over the place. And the most readily visible evidence of that is in the back pages of the local rag, where every ad for a place that dispenses marijuana is, of course, green.

For that matter, I seethe when I see the word "wellness" or "holistic" used in such context. Marijuana, on its own, does not constitute "wellness." It is not a "holistic" treatment. And for health care professionals such as me, using these words in the wrong context a) gets at my craw, b) usurps a word that really, should be about the medicine that my colleagues and I practice, and c) could potentially damage what little reputation our profession has.

Overthinking things, mayhaps? Guilty. But fergawdsakes, I can't WAIT to see the green ads for medical marijuana be reduced from 6+ obnoxious pages of poorly-regulated, low-quality shoppes down to maybe a page of ads for a handful of reputable companies.

And while I'm at it, I'd like to have a pony and peace in the Middle East.

"Your fucking stupidity has killed me. Now my goddamn cat is homeless."

By now you undoubtedly have seen this hilarious beauty. The debate between the old warhorse iPhone and the new upstart Evo/Android rages nowadays, and many people think the iPhone is going down.

I'm no tech expert, but as someone who has had both an iPhone and an Evo (my current phone), I have to say that the iPhone wins out in my book. I may change my tune soon, but I've got some reasons why (much to my better half's chagrin) I still prefer the iPhone.

• Music. First and foremost in my list, of course. iPhone backs up seamlessly with (duh!) iTunes. Plug it in, and iTunes opens automatically and does its job. The Evo has a crappy music platform that's hard to back up. Worse, it doesn't link easily with any music software like Media Player. Big fail in my book.
• Sound: Voices sound awfully tinny on the Evo. And for that matter, the little music it makes when it starts up is pretty craptacular. Sounds like some tone-deaf audio intern came up with this half-assed music that was thrown on at the last minute because...well, you do have to have something on there, right? Paging Thomas Dolby, please.
• Backing up in general. Effortless with the iPhone. Plug it in. Done. But the Evo? Wake up your phone. Plug it in. Open the top menu. Select the item that says "Select to change USB connection type." Then select "Sync contacts and calendar." Then "Done." It finds HTC Sync on the PC. Hang out for a bit...it takes some time. Then on the phone, select "Sync now." If you're lucky, it syncs up immediately...but that's not a guarantee. Then you get to close the window with a report of what just synced (which actually is a pretty good feature.)
• Battery life. Far and away, the #1 complaint of everyone with an Evo. I agree...the battery life SUCKS. But you have so much going on in the background that of course the battery life is gonna suck. And suck and suck. How do I adapt? A charger at home, at work, and in the car. Pretty high-maintenance for me.
• Too many options. This, in my mind, is one of the big differences between Apple and Microsoft...at least from a user point of view. Apple is streamlined, with very few ways to do things...but they are effective. Microsoft is more varied, with many ways to do things. This accommodates more, uh, interaction and learning styles, I guess. (Oh...it's called "customization," apparently.) But for me, it's a bit too chaotic. I appreciate the relative simplicity of the iPhone and its easy learning curve.
• Size. I just plain think the Evo is too big. Many will disagree with me, especially those with thicker fingers that need a bigger touch screen, and they have a legitimate argument. For me, though, the iPhone was just about the perfect size.
• Predictive text. It's great if you accidentally type "reapect" and your phone automatically shows "respect." But do you really need predictive text if you're typing "dog"? Especially if there's five different words it offers as possibilities? (Or you could hit the arrow that offers up even more...20 words in all, including "significant" and "division." Please.)

"...a cross between MC Hammer and The Beverly Hillbillies Grandma..."

Michael Kors is a treasure. Even when you take away his contributions to fashion. His witticisms are simply brilliant. This blog title just happened to be his best one yet this season of Project Runway. I also have a soft spot for "barefoot Appalachian Li'l Abner Barbie."

There's being catty for the sake of fun, you guys. But yeesh! Who pissed in the judges' bowls of Bitchy Bits this time? Duchess L'Orange (aka Kors) looked like he'd just had his teeth scraped with a rusty metal hasp, and Nina Garcia (aka Meana Garzilla) looked next in line for the torture. And it didn't help that this TV season's ice queen extraordinaire, January Jones (aka Mrs. Betty Francis) was on line to help with the executions. Nope...no wacky Milla Jovovich here. Not even Frau Seal was friendly. Interrrupting a designer trying to discuss his dress just to say you're about to lose it laughing because he was so way off the mark (even though he was so way off the mark) is just plain rude. (Thus saith the king of run-on sentences.) There must have been some gawdawful disaster backstage before taping began, and I cannot wait to hear what it was all about during the reunion show.

And on the flip side: let's hear it for the hometown boy! Team Mondo! He's bound for Fashion Week, kids. Mark my words. He and Gretchen and...well, I would have said Valerie before tonight, and I do adore her, but she's slipped a few too many times now for me to be so confident in her. That third spot's up for grabs by this point.

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And now for some completely depressing things: this was the front page of MSN.com tonight. This stupid-ass self-pity party. And directly underneath it, this latest attack on the sacred institution that is marriage. Seriously, you guys, if gay men were to try and bring marriage down, I don't think they could come close to what this monstrosity is proposing. We just want some simple legal rights and some tax benefits awarded to our straight brothers and sisters that we don't have. Meanwhile, brides-to-be are using this show not for finding the man of their dreams and pledging eternal love, but as a means for getting the lipo they've always wanted. Seriously. Another nail in the coffin of meaningful marriage, y'all.

And the worst of it all: total, endemic lack of confidence. Well, at least small business is doing among the, uh, least bad of them all. Huzzah for the small business owner. (Yes, that's me patting myself on the back.)

Hairstyles I Have Known...

The good, the bad, the ridonculous, and the downright tragic.

The straight comb (through age 12): Pretty much the most boring of 'em all. Not so good for a fine-haired towhead like I was. Showed off every little mistake a stylist made. But I didn't really care too much about hair...for a while.

The spike (one-time shot at age 10): So I wanted to try something new and edgy. My stylist offered up this beauty, which made me look like I had a blond koosh ball sitting on my forehead. Never again.

The part (through age 15): Pretty innocuous, except for when my mom first bought me Dep to help with the part when I started 6th grade. I didn't know how to use it. Combed my hair to the side, then applied the Dep only to the bangs so they would stay. End result: a lock of hair across my forehead as stiff and attractive as a plank of wood.

The flattop (again, one-time shot at age 13): This was too good. Asked my mom if I could get a flattop. She assented, but I totally didn't hear her say "wait until after your sister's debutante ball tonight." I came home with this beauty, suntan lines and all, and you shoulda seen her jaw drop and her eyes bug out as she turned the corner from the garage hall. Comical now, but she shot flames of fury my way that afternoon. (Sister's ball went off without a hitch, natch.) But as a hairdo, it was way too long. Picture Bart Simpson.

The skater bangs (through age 18): Partially inspired by my skater betty girlfriend, I decided to grow my bangs long. They eventually reached down past my chin, and provided a great quasi-refuge when I was feeling antisocial (which, every damned day, people).

The #3 buzz (summer of '94): Look. When you're working at a Boy Scout camp, and no one really cares how you look, and the last thing you need to do is pay attention to your hair on your way to the morning's flag ceremony, why bother? Make it easy on yourself and hack it all off. That was my philosophy. Worked fine by me, and again, none of my fellow counselors paid any attention, but at least one of my high school friends threatened to disown me if I ever did that again.

The green stripe (fall of '94): And when you hate the college you go to and read the Anarchist Cookbook and listen to the Dead Kennedys and the Descendents for inspiration, your hair has to change accordingly, right? So once my hair grew out from the #3 phase, I took Manic Panic Alpine Green to my hair in much the same way my unfortunate experiments with Dep went. It actually looked quite cool, but washed out way too quickly. Two applications over two months, at which point I decided it was too much trouble to be worth it. (One picture taken of it, btw...by an ex who probably shredded the picture when we broke up. Squish squish.)

The long hair (summer of '95 through summer of '96): Almost the most unfortunate of 'em all, especially once it got long enough for me to tie back in a ponytail. Yes, you heard right. In its shaggy, Eddie Vedder era, when it was just getting started, it was actually quite cool. But I had to go further, and one year in? Dear Lord. Yes, there are pictures out there, about which the less seen, the better. Worst of all, I decided to keep the hair - tied back, of course - when I sang for my sister's wedding. And, oh, God, I hate to admit it, but Ma, you were right...it was a phase, and a bad one. Mea culpa. But not the worst. That honor goes to...

The Dutch Boy (fall of '96): Take your long hair. Tie it back. Chop it off. And when it gets longer and annoys the hell out of you, push it behind your ears. And pray to God there's no one with a camera within miles.

The butt cut (winter of '96): Now, go to a Russian hairstylist, tell her you have no idea what to do with this craptacular style, and ask her to just make it go away. Terrible name for it, but a part down the center made for one of the more successful styles I've ever rocked. Extra, extra points to her for using only scissors.

The spiked part (various and sundry times throughout): A little less conservative than a regular part, and way easier to maintain. My old standby.

The bedhead (current): Who knew I could wear this to work and get away with it? Maybe not terribly doctorly or professional, but it's fun and looks pretty good.

The death row inmate (fall of '05): I had just finished chiro school - the worst two years of my life. I needed some form of catharsis and release. So once graduation was done, I went to a friend who had clippers, and asked him to take 'em to my head. No guard. Just straight-on clippers. I saved the hair, and burnt it along with written memories of the worst times, people, places, and experiences I'd been through. Threw the remains into the lake in the center of the campus, and yelled a few defiant "FUCK YOU!"s at the place that had damned near flattened me. And I looked every bit the angry asshole for a few weeks afterward. Upside: I did get quite a few approving looks from guys in gay bars who went for the uber-masculine. But since I've grown my hair back out, I've fallen out of favor with them. Oh well. When you really don't have all that much of a receding hairline, and you're not going bald, why cut off what you have?