- Why people in Palo Alto will stand in line for hours to eat at a trendy but mediocre restaurant
- Our love affair with quinoa
- The fan base for Flourless Chocolate Cake
- The continued appeal of Keanu Reeves
- Why Viola Davis doesn’t have an Oscar
- Why, when I have 800 friends on Facebook, do I see less than 20 people’s posts in my feed
- Why Robbie Williams has never been a big star in America
- Why people overuse the word genius
- Why is took so long for me to discover salted caramel
- Why designers make shirts in extra slim fit XXL. Who buys these shirts?
- How reality stars who fistfight on camera, avoid jail
- Why some people find it odd that I always buy a color-coordinated trash can for the back seat of my car. Where do you put your trash for pity's sake?
- Why Belinda Carlisle still can’t dance after fronting the Go-Gos for 30 yearsAnd I’ve realized in my 44 short years on this planet, that it’s okay for me to not necessarily get everything. Life is a process and I plan on sharing all my growth and allow you to watch me mature right before your very eyes; all 54 of you. So go on being yourselves, B and T. You, too, Q, whoever you are. If you see me out and about please identify yourself so I can at least see what you’re wearing. That should help in my assessment of “getting” you.And that is all I’m saying for now.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Earlier this month we had National Coming Out Day, that I did not celebrate in any specific fashion. I don’t know why I didn’t, I just didn’t. And yes, Shontyl Thomas, this is another missive about “the gay stuff”. I will say, that this is only due to my inclusion in the LGBTQ community is one that has been placed on me by society and a perceived orientation. I say perceived in that I am gay but I am celibate, almost asexual, but that would add another letter to our already long list so it’s not included because I am sometimes a lazy chronicler of life, y'all.
There has been a lot of discussion on the sheer quantity of gender assignments one can choose for your Facebook account. There are reportedly many, many choices. I haven’t gone to check as my gender hasn’t changed since I joined The Facebook in 2008. But this is one of the things about which I have confusions and questions.
For those who are Amish, LGBTQ stands for Lesbian, Gay, Bi-Sexual, Transgender and either Queer or Questioning (I’ve been unable to verify) and is supposed to include all other of the “All Others”. And for what I’m about to say, I know I will get 46 kinds of anger and shade thrown at me, but this blog is about transparency and I’m just being as transparent as one can be considering I am only nude while showering and even then only out of societal pressure and habit.
Acronyms are abbreviations that spell other words, like SCUBA (Self-contained under water breathing apparatus) or POSH (Port Out, Starboard Home). Abbreviations that don’t spell other words are simply abbreviations. LGBTQ is an abbreviation as far as I know; it may mean something in Russian but what, I am unsure. Turnip, maybe? Tractor?
Of the groups identified in this abbreviation, the L and the G, I get. I am among the G, if you are adamant that I be assigned a group and seeing as most of you are Americans, you will categorize me whether I want to be or not. The L is there; I’ve seen them; I’ve known them; I’ve gone to school with them; I’ve befriended them. I even fought one in a bar in Austin but that was during my heathenistic days and that sordid story shall remain untold until my memoirs, coming in 2015, I hope. These two, while sometimes exasperating, are understandable to me. However, the B and the T, I do not get. And we’ve already discussed I don’t even know what the Q is.
But there are lots of things that I don’t get. For example, I just don’t get:
Saturday, October 18, 2014
In the past year I’ve been introduced to all things Scottish. I found out via my best friend Christopher’s wedding research that if you have a clan, you also have plaids. Yes, plural. There is an everyday plaid, a formal plaid and a hunting plaid. So many plaids, I wonder if I might be Scottish. Considering paisley was invented there, as was modern economics, I just might be.
When we attended the English wedding in Scotland in July, we were made privy to further Scottish trivia such as family crests and mottos and all manner of interesting things. The castle where we stayed during the wedding weekend was, oddly enough, his family’s castle (Clan Ramsay), which was appropriate as I was acting as if I was minor royalty already. How else does one roll whilst in the Kingdom United (since Scotland voted to stay within)? I feel that my plug for solidarity during my wedding toast may have turned the tides. The fact that my girl, QE II, moved into Holyrood Castle during the run-up to the vote was coincidental at best.
Just this morning I went to brunch with two very close friends who have been engaged for about 14 minutes. We were discussing their wedding plans and I was, quite naturally, filling them in on my opinions (also plural) about themes and color schemes. The bride-to-be is part-Scottish by background and we looked at the formal plaid which is green and red. While beautiful, it fell a shade too far into the Christmas holiday spectrum for a proper wedding.
While looking at the hunting plaid, her fiancé found some history of her family including crest, motto and enemies. Yes, dear readers, if you are Scottish, your clan has longstanding nemeses. Those who share her surname (being withheld because it’s more interesting that way) apparently have Clans Kerr and Douglas as their long-standing enemies. She couldn’t think of anyone off-hand that she knew with those last names so we didn’t have to plan an attack or anything. Instead we talked about her impending trip to Tiffany’s to get her engagement ring sized since her knuckles aren’t actually as large as she thinks they are. She is a member of Clan Crazy Females with Weird Body Issues That Don’t Actually Exist otherwise known as Clan Women. Almost all women belong to it as do some dudes, especially here in the Bay Area. I am not of that particular Clan. I think I’m skinnier than I actually am. I call me Clan Awesome (And Don’t Burst My Bubble, Please). I love a good parenthetical encased in a title, don’t you?
My personal enemies (plural to an absurd degree) are people in bad outfits and people who are rude, stupid or both; I call these Clan Tacky Masses and Clan Big Donkeys respectively. There is also Clan Look Here Pawpaw (drivers who are too slow and can’t turn or park quickly or correctly) as well as the Clan Are You Seriously Writing a Check at Safeway (Making Me Wait) and Clan Get Off Your Cell Phone and Get Your Ridiculously Involved Caffeinated Beverage and Get Out of My Way (So I Can Get My Warmed Chocolate Chip Cookie That I’m Lying to My Nutritionist About to Go With My Black Iced Tea With Splenda and Yes I know How Bad Fake Sugar is For My Liver) At Starbucks. I can't forget the sports-related Clan Stop Singing the National Anthem Like You're a Back-up Singer for Ray Charles. This Song was Written by a Poet in 1800something and He Wasn't Expecting You to Start Scatting in the Middle (or Just Shut Up Already and Have Someone Play it on the Trumpet) and the work-related Clan Stop Reading Your Slide Presentation to Me (I Have the Gift of Literacy).
I don’t know if a Clan Thompson exists but based on a lifetime of knowing and living with and near them, I feel pretty sure their enemies would be the Clans No Biscuits, Live in Town, Cute Clothes/No Overalls and Febreze.
All these parentheticals have wore me down so that I almost forgot my favorite Clan, The Highlander Social Club at the Mississippi University for Women. It goes without saying that they are firmly ensconced in Clan Awesome, but definitely in the no need for bubble-bursting instructions section.
And that is all I'm saying.
And that is all I'm saying.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
I recently mentioned how much I like Chik-Fil-A to a friend. As a gay man, he was appalled that I still support them. As a theoretical gay man, I don’t understand why I am expected to boycott Chik-Fil-A. Why do my gastronomic peccadilloes have to link-up with my sexual orientation, which at this point might as well be “Disinterested former Southern Baptist, looking for clearance-priced Brooks Brothers”? I am not interested in dating anyone of any gender right now.
What I am interested in is enjoying some of those chicken minis for breakfast. Have you eaten one? Now I wasn’t around to taste the manna that God provided the children of Israel back in the day, but it has been described as something akin to a honey flavored wafer. I know chicken minis are probably horrifyingly processed and reek of calories and butter but they are delicious! Chicken minis will be served in heaven, y’all. Seriously. I feel pretty sure Mr. Cathey is setting up a franchise right now. And I hope he is. In heaven, that is; his financial dealings with Jesus are between him and Him. On that note, I recently found out that one of my friends attended church with Robin Williams in San Francisco and his pastor stated at his funeral that he was a Christian, so that makes me happier. I’m glad I’ll see Mork in heaven. Somebody is going to have to balance out all those Republican sour-pusses who assure us they are God’s chosen few.
Plus I like anyone with the last name of Cathey ever since I saw a photo of a Miss Judy Ann Cathey who was some sort of Queen of Queens at some Fiesta of Five Flags or whatever from my mother’s yearbook for the semester she went to Northeast Louisiana State University in 1964. Anything that combines beauty queens and fried chicken is alright by me. This is where an Amen would be appropriate, in case you needed prompting.
Believe what you want to believe and boycott what you want to boycott but keep your opinions out of my mouth; I’ve got enough of my own in there. And I need to leave room for some sweet tea alongside that honey-kissed chicken goodness from the folks that introduced America to poultry-phobic, illiterate cows.
And that is all I’m saying because my food is getting cold.