Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
--- Mary Oliver
* * * * *
A very special thank you to Paul Constant of The Stranger for posting this.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I have been known to and absolutely LOVE using the Honesty Box application on Facebook to confess things. If I get a reply to something I made, I usually reveal myself. I think it seems a little less creepy than sending someone a message that says something to the effect of, "Hey, guess what I did this weekend!" At least I hope so.
I tried to write it out four or five times before I finally got it the way I needed and wanted it to be done, and each time I tried to write it, I felt that much better about the whole thing. When I finally posted it and saw people reading it, I had the five second panic (the "OMG, someone knows") and then I felt a sense of release, knowing that my secret was out there, that someone knew. The more people I saw reading it, the more relief I felt that someone else knew and this was no longer inside of me. Seeing it there with the rest of the secrets, mine and others, made me feel much less alone than I’ve felt in a long time.
The actual act of posting them on the board was absolutely terrifying, trying to avoid the eyes of other people, waiting for someone to turn away so I could put it up and no one would know it was me. I must have written a good eight of them, all of which I had at one point told at least one other person. Except one.
See, a while back my hero Dan Savage extended his sex-advice column Savage Love into a weekly podcast. I don't typically listen to it (because even though he's one of my heroes and I adore him, I have enough things to do on the interwebs and I typically forget about it.) but one day last month I was listening to an episode he had aired back in February. Once in a while, I will see one of my own secrets on the blog or a secret resonates with me that I have to think about it for a minute. Listening to that podcast was one of the most terrifying moments of my life, because the caller was telling MY story. My secret. The secret that I shared last night. I was crying so hard, I had to pause it before Savage gave his advice. which was the exact same thing that everybody has been telling me since it started. And then I cried some more and I was okay.
I think that’s what touched me so deeply about the story I heard on Dan Savage’s podcast – It was that sense of recognition, another person sharing my story, and that sudden twin sensation of relief and heartbreak of knowing someone out there, someone in my city, was in the same kind of pain I’m in. Ever since I heard his call, I’ve found myself searching the eyes of strangers on the street, at the end of the bar, and when I’m riding the El, wondering if I had ever run into him without knowing it.
It was a secret I had apparently been keeping from myself, something that dawned on me right before I left to go to the event. Even though there were a lot of good candidates, I knew it had to be THAT one. Frank invited people to step up to the mic and share a secret. I was so moved by the other secrets I had read and other people had shared, I knew I couldn't stay silent on this thing that had been subconsciously tearing at me for almost two years. I sneaked into line right after he asked that no one else come up because they were running out of time. I had to tell. And I did.
I had never told a soul, not even the few people I truly confide in, and tonight, I told my secret to two thousand people. In his memoir 'How I Learned to Snap', Kirk Read summed up how I felt after I told my secret better than I ever could: "[Five minutes] of your own adrenaline beats the hell out of someone else's sympathy."
And he's right. I've been going through various stages of the grieving process for entirely too long. I was no longer in denial. I was no longer angry. And I'm pretty sure the people I cried to were the only people who were more sick of it than I was. When I finished speaking, I was shaking so hard when I sat down, the girl behind me held me for a good twenty minutes as she asked me to share it with her. I didn't stop shaking until I stopped talking. After I bought my book (something I wasn't planning on doing,but I was so moved, I had to) I asked her to write something inside. She did. Thanks, Amy.
For the curious, it was an object I held on to after George and I moved out of our place, which I have on my person at all times. I wanted so badly to be brave enough to walk up to the stage and give it to him. But I didn't, because I'm not ready. When he signed my book I promised when I was ready, I would send it to him.
And then I did something I didn't think I would do, but in that moment, I wanted to be rid of everything. I wanted to tell whoever wanted to hear every horrible, traumatic thing that has ever happened to me so I would be free from all of it. I've been known to do that, but I didn't. Instead, I asked Frank if I could tell him a secret. I leaned over the table and told him something exactly three people know (me, one of the people I cry to now and again, and Frank), the secret I had initially planned on telling, because it's my darkest secret.
The version I'm willing to tell on Facebook is, "When I was __, ______ thought that I was ______ __ ____ ______. She ___ __ ________. I'm going to be 26 next month, and I have never forgiven her."
One day I WILL send it in and people that I know will probably see it and tell her and she'll come up with some bullshit story about how it didn't happen the way I remember it did (even though it totally did). But after all this time, she would know how I felt. And maybe then I could forgive her.
And then something happened that had me bawling in a doorway next to the gym where the event took place.
Just before I left, I went back to the board to look at all the secrets and I seriously contemplated ripping mine off the board, taking them home, and burning them. But I didn’t. I left all of them there, including the one that had taken the longest to write down. I noticed there was a girl reading the secret and I tapped her on the shoulder, asking if I could tell her my secret. I pointed to the secret and said it was mine. She read it again before she hugged me. She then pulled out a card from her pocket and gave it to me. I read it. I hugged her. I tried to give it back to her, but she pushed it away. I put it in my pocket. After making sure it was the right one, she ripped down my secret and put it in her pocket.
I can't even begin to describe the connection I felt to this girl, this complete stranger when we embraced each other after she read my secret and I read hers. They were both deeply painful secrets - but as we embraced, I could feel a tiny piece of myself become whole again. I hope she felt the same. I will probably never see her again, we didn’t say more than ten words to each other, and we never exchanged names. I wish I could tell her that because of that, because she allowed me to connect with her for that brief moment, I think I might be able to start working on making peace with the whole ordeal, and for that, more than anything, I want to thank her. I will carry her secret with me, and I hope she does, too.
The secret was about the nightmares I had for about a month that thing that happened earlier this year, how it felt that night, and how I could hear his voice echoing, laughing with his buddies and listening to him call me what he did, over and over and over again. It's actually a lot more serious than that incredibly vague explanation (and it's STILL preventing me from doing certain things that I would do anything to do right now, like running away with Tyler.) I'm not going to post it here, but if you really want to know, message me and I will tell you.[Side Note to Jessica: Yes, it's that thing I've been promising to tell you.]
Ending on a lighter note...
1. I cannot step on cracks in the sidewalk.
2. When I eat a bag of Skittles, fruit snacks, and sometimes even M&Ms, I segregate them into flavors. I then eat one flavor at a time, but it has to be in the same order every time:
The only fruity snack I don't have to do this with is gummy bears. I do, however, always try to save all the red ones for last.
3. My roommate doesn't know that every time I say the word "Grinch" around her, I am actually calling her a Very Mean Word. Thanks, How I Met Your Mother!
Oh, okay, so I lied. One more:
You're the one I'm waiting for. And I swear upon all we consider holy that if it happens, it will not be like last time.
* * *
It takes a lot of balls to tell someone a heavy, serious secret like all of mine were. Well, ones that don't involve Skittles. I challenge you to post one for me. Tell me something silly. Tell me something serious. Tell me whatever you want, as long as it's true.
Trust me when I say I know exactly how dangerous it can be to post a request for anonymous secrets, but I can only hope that someone doesn't do to me what I did to someone on LJ. At least tell me after a few days. I did. ;)
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Remember when you and I went to see The Princess Bride at the outdoor theater in Winter Park? What a random memory, right? One of many innocuous nights you and I spent together. Every time I see it now, I cry at the same line:
"You truly love each other, and so you might have been truly happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the storybooks say. And so I think no man in a century will suffer as greatly as you will."
We did. We truly loved each other.
There is something I never told you, something I am ashamed that I have never told you.
I'm sorry it has taken me this long to realize how badly I fucked it up.
I'm sorry I slept with other men, even after we broke up.
I'm sorry I enjoyed it.
I'm sorry I couldn't talk to you.
I'm sorry I couldn't save it.
I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough for myself.
I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough for you.
I'm sorry I couldn't force myself off the couch.
I'm sorry I lied to you about the phone.
I'm sorry I left right when things seemed to be on the upswing.
I'm sorry for everything I've ever said to hurt you.
I'm sorry for everything I've ever done to hurt you.
"They say friends don't destroy one another. What do they know about friends?"
-The Mountain Goats
We destroyed one another, sweetheart.
You know we did, and so do I.
And I'm sorry.
I love you more than I could ever hope to articulate.
You are, after all this time, my best friend, my best lover, and the man with whom I would give anything to share my life.
I love you.
And I'm sorry.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
My father is the only person in my family who attends church on a regular basis. My mother raised my brother and I single parent style, and though she sent both of us to parochial school for several years, she never took us to church. Not even on Christmas Eve. I have never asked her if there was a God, or had an extensive conversation about religion with her. It just never really came up. We celebrated all the secular holidays, and prayed over meals with the extended family for Thanksgiving and Christmas. That’s religion in my family. We pray together twice a year, and what we do the other 363 days a year is our own business and not really discussed. And you know what? I don't feel like I really missed out on anything.
My little brother and I were never close growing up. We barely even spoke until he was well into high school. The only time we ever got along was when we played video games, or when I needed to borrow his Batman or
Though my mother and I have never had a religious discussion, I’m almost convinced she’s a Deist. She believes in God alright, but she let us figure it out for ourselves. She raised us to be smart, to ask questions. Although my brother spent more time in parochial school than I did (we got taken out when I was in middle school and he was in elementary school, but he was sent back to finish high school) and we barely talked growing up, when we grew up, we had the conversation neither of us really had with our parents. We talked about our thoughts on weather God existed and if so, why does a Loving God allow so much cruelty in the world. I was amazed to discover that in spite of the fact that we barely talked when we were growing up, we came to the exact same conclusion about Life and the Universe. We both go to church when we feel the need to (I go on Christmas Eve, he goes with his friends). We have both independently done extensive reading on comparative religion and are fascinated by why people believe what they do, but we’re both Agnostic.
I offer this history because the religious right has a habit of connecting Religion and Morality, that without Religion (and only the True Religion, I might add), it is impossible to be a moral person. I hardly know where to begin on this one.
As I’ve stated, my brother and I were not raised in a religious home, but we were raised with good morals, the likes of which even the religious right would approve. Things like being kind to others and helping others who need it. To work hard and share the wealth when we could. There are things in life that are much more important than money, like love and friendship. Torture is wrong. Racism is wrong. Abortion should be safe, rare, and legal. Treat your elders with respect. War should be the very last resort. To fight for what we believe in, and fight for people who can’t fight for themselves. To form arguments based on intelligence and facts. Most importantly, we should offer our opinions, but what other people believe is their own business.
If I ever have children, that is exactly the kind of moral education they will receive. It is my greatest wish for those imaginary children to grow up to be reasonable, responsible, intelligent adults who will arrive at their own conclusions about Life and the Universe the same way my brother and I did-by endless questions and extensive reading. I will add one more tenant to philosophy by which I was raised, one I think my mother would wholeheartedly approve: No set of morals is better than another, that we were given free will and thus the ability to make life decisions for ourselves.
Some of the most immoral people you read about these days are the religious, right-wing fucks like, oh I donno, pick one. Jim Bakker.
Mr. Bakker, how moral is it to steal money from your parishiners and put it into your pocket? According to Wikipedia, you and Tammy Faye divorced in 1992. Divorce isn't very moral, sir.
Marriage should be once and forever, till death do you part. Your church believes that, and I'll tell you a secret: So do I.
What was it Jesus said? "Let you who is without sin cast the first stone."
Religion and morals are not mutually exclusive. The moral majority is bullshit.
Jesus, who you claim as your savior, would tell you to love your fellow humans. To not lie. Or steal. Or cheat. Or divorce your spouse. Or murder. "Judge not, lest ye be judged." Remember that one? I do.
I like your Jesus, Christians. I do. I like him very much. But I don't like the way some of you twisted his words.
And I'm pretty sure he wouldn't, either.
Then again, what do I know?
I'm just another immoral non-believer that you would condemn to hell. But I'll bet you a batch of brownies I have more morals than some of those right-wing fucks who trot out the name of God every five minutes.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
If you haven't heard the original yet, I suggest you listen to that first, so you get the tune in your head.
* * *
I cried when Bush mangled Katrina
Tears ran down my spine
And I cried when OJ wasn't guilty
Where was justice for that crime?
But Michael Vick got what was coming
His fame couldn't save him this time
So love me, love me, love me
I'm a liberal
I go to pro-choice rallies
All the immigrants don't bother me
I love Stewart, Colbert, and Bill Clinton
And I want the environment clean
But don't talk to me about health care
I just think it all should be free
I couldn't wait till Obama took office
The end of eight miserable years
I'm glad that the Democrats took congress
There's finally a reason to cheer
But don't talk about catching bin Laden
They almost came close once I hear
All the people who voted Bush-Chaney
Should all hang their heads in shame
I can't understand how it happened twice
What's the matter don't they know they're to blame?
And though I still respect him,
I'm not gonna vote for McCain
Yes I read On the Road by Jack Kerouac
I wish they would legalize pot
I've memorized Ginsberg's "America"
His lesson I think we've forgot
If it's treason to speak truth to power
I can't wait till I get caught
I want all the gays to get married
I've always protested the war
I own Phil Ochs records on vinyl
I'm still pissed I couldn't vote for Gore
Yes, I'll sign your goddamn petition
If it gets you away from my door
Sure I might be young and impulsive
I wear every concievable pin
Even go to socialist meetings
I've learned all the old union hymns
But when I grow older and wiser
That's when I'll turn myself in
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Phil Ochs defined a protest song as, "A song you don't hear on the radio. And they'll say you don't hear it on the radio because the guy can't sing or because the words are no good."
The truth is, most of the protest songs that I've heard have had some damn good lyrics that denounce war, promote peace and environmentalist action, and talk about the dangers of conformity and group-think.
A great deal of the novel I'm writing takes place in Chicago of the late 1960s. This is the kind of music my characters would have listened to, so to get myself in that mindset, I've been listening to an awful lot of protest music. This means, of course, I've been listening to the Beatles, Billy Bragg, Bob Dylan, Woodie Guthrie, Phil Ochs, and Pete Seeger. The title of my novel is a line in a Phil Ochs song.
I knew that surely a list by a major label would have someone on their staff who knew enough about the history of protest songs to have at least a few I had heard before. Boy, was I wrong. Though I agree with one of their choices (Green Day-American Idiot), I was scratching my head at the other choices.
Rather than go through their list and tear it apart, I'm going to post my own list of the best protest songs (that I know of, right now). With the exception of the first entry, this list is in no way in any kind of order. It is also incomplete, as I have not heard every protest song ever written, though I would not be opposed to the idea.
Phil Ochs also said, "A protest song is a song that's so specific that you cannot mistake it for bullshit." Many of the protest songs I love the most are the stories of unsung heroes in the struggle for equal rights and an end to war. As I listen to songs like "Too Many Martyrs" or "The Ballad of Emmitt Till", I remember Black History Month in school, and wonder if I had heard these stories before.
These are stories of men who died because they believed everyone should have the right to vote regardless of the color of their skin (Medger Evers), and men who died because they were dared to flirt with a white woman (Emmitt Till). I have a pretty good memory for history, and I don't recall ever having heard of either of these men before I started investingating the topical songs of the time. It's good to talk about Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luthor King Jr., and Malcom X, but let's put a human name on these crimes. Let's tell stories of ordinary men and women like Evers and Till.
So without further ramblings by yours truly, here is my list of what should be the "Top Ten Protest Songs":
1. We Shall Overcome - Pete Seeger
If you have ever seen archival footage from virtually any protest march in the 1960s, you've heard this song. This became the hymn of the anti-war marches, the civil rights movement, the women's rights movement, and the gay rights movement. Same on you, Virgin Media, for not recognizing this anthem of the tumultuous 1960s.
2. I Ain't Marchin' Anymore - Phil Ochs
Phil Ochs called this a "turning away song". Turning away from unnecessary violence, turning away from war, and essentially saying, "dude, enough is enough already". Ochs gives us a brief history of wars that the United States has been involved in, by speaking though the experience of a soldier. He's telling us that we've been in too many wars, and, "look at all we've won with a saber and a gun, tell me, was it worth it all?" The answer, he says, is no.
3. Here's to the State of Mississippi - Phil Ochs
A lovely ballad commenting on the the deeply rooted racism in Mississippi. Phil Ochs re-wrote the lyrics to this song in the early 70s, titled "Here's to the State of Richard Nixon". The lyrics were about the Watergate scandal. A few years ago, Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam reworked the lyrics to rant about the Bush Administration.
4. Outside a Small Circle of Friends - Phil Ochs
This song has some of the most clever lyrics in a protest song I've heard. It talks of the apathy of the people of the time. The first verse is about the 1964 rape and murder of Kitty Genovese. Thirty-eight people witnessed the crime, thirty-eight people watched her die, and no one called the police until it was much too late. In psychology classes, her case is often used as the textbook example of the Bystander Effect: The more people who witness a crime, the less likely anyone is to report it, because "someone else will do it".
5. Too Many Martyrs - Phil Ochs
This is the story of Medger Evers, a black man who was murdered for registering other black men to vote. He was murdered by a member of the KKK in 1955. It wasn't until a new trial presenting new evidence was able to bring his murderer to justice, in 1994. He died in prison in 2001.
6. The Death of Emmitt Till - Bob Dylan
This is the story of Emmitt Till, a fourteen year old boy who was dared by his friends to flirt with a white woman. He was murdered in 1955. The men who killed him were never brought to justice.
7. American Idiot - Green Day
Okay, here it is. I spent a lot of Bush's first term in office pissed off because I would have voted for Gore in Florida, but I was seventeen years old in the year 2000. Then one day in 2004, a single came out. This single broke through the rage I had felt for four years, the rage I felt so strongly was articulated brilliantly, perfectly, in this one song, and later, I discovered it ran through the entire album. Sadness over the tragedy of September 11th. But American Idiot was different than Wake Me Up When September Ends. American Idiot showed people, people like me who felt helpless and alone in her views about the war, that we weren't alone. This was 2004. The people who were speaking up were the few and the brave. It wasn't until 2006 that the tide started turning against the Bush Administration's clusterfuck of horrors and people started paying attention. American Idiot made a lot of us say, "The world is fucked up, I'm not alone in knowing so, let's fucking do something about it." And four years later, we were finally able to put a man in office that actually speaks in full, coherent sentences.
8. Give Peace a Chance - John Lennon
This is another song that I was surprised to see absent from this list. Shame on you, Virgin Media.
9. Little Boxes - Pete Seeger
Chances are, you know this song because it's the theme song of the TV show Weeds. It talks about the dangers of conformity and group-think that happened in the United States between World War II and Korea.
10. Power and the Glory - Phil Ochs
Let's be honest-98% of patriotic music is cheesy crap. No one wants to listen to it on a regular basis because, well, 98% of it is cheesy crap. I could listen to this song every day. I do listen to it every day, when I write. I might be listening to it right now. I will devote a later post to why I think it should be the new national anthem, but I think that's a pretty good reason right there. It's listenable all year long, and not just while watching fireworks on the fourth of July.
But if I may...
I think it says a lot, that this man, this tortured songwriter who wanted to use his music to raise awareness and end the war, end violence against women, end racism, who saw so much hatred, violence, and war in this country during his brief life, could write THIS song. He's inviting the listener to take a look around and see that yes, we have a lot of problems in this country. War, violence against women and children, women who were murdered while thirty-eight people watched, racism, homophobia, corruption on all levels of government, and the lack of respect for your fellow humans. But he asks us to look around and see that the mountains in North Carolina are beautiful. The deserts out west are beautiful. The cities are beautiful. He begs us to see that there is enough good, there is enough beauty to want to preserve it, to fix it, to make it better for a new generation.
That, my friends, is what a protest song is.
I encourage you to take a look at some of these songs. All of these songs. Play them in your car, play them on your guitar, play them when you're getting high with your friends.
That's my soap box for today, kids. Support the Revolution and your local microwbrewery.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
I don't like to tell this story, because every time I do, I start crying. It's the story of one of the happiest nights of my life. The story of a love that remains these five years later. The memory of a night I will never forget, a night I encapsulated into a song that will forever transport me to that night, no matter where I am or what I'm doing or who I'm with, that song will never, could never, belong to anyone else.
Once upon a time, in the winter of 2003, I met a beautiful and brilliant English teacher. Over the course of about two weeks, we spoke every night, exchanged daily e-mails, and finally, one night, she came to visit me.
We went to karaoke with my friends that night, our first date shared with thirty people, almost none of whom knew what was going on. They didn't know I was bisexual, let alone the fact that the beautiful woman I had invited to join us that night was my girlfriend. Now, usually when I do karaoke, I sing the same five or six songs in heavy rotation. I sing a couple Billy Joel songs, maybe some Norah Jones, and some lady always asks me to sing something awful, usually by Celine Dion. I don't know what possessed me to choose THAT song that night. I'd never sung it karaoke before, but it had always been one of my all-time favorites. It was a big decision. After all, the girl of my dreams was going to hear me. Whatever I chose had to be a good one. It had to be hers. This would normally be something I'd think about weeks in advance, but I didn't have that kind of time. I didn't know she was going to be there until about two hours before she arrived.
Our friends were seated in the back of the bar, I was on stage, and there was just a dance floor between me and this beautiful woman. I had been singing all week and my voice was cracking in places it never should have. But I sang anyway. I sang for her. And as I sung, I looked into those eyes, those beautiful slate blue eyes, beaming at me, the world faded away. I didn't care who noticed that I was singing to a girl. All I cared about was that this woman, this beautiful woman I cared so much about, she was looking at me-me!-the way she was. As far as I was concerned, no one else existed and nothing else mattered.
We danced for a while, not caring we were two girls in a redneck bar, subtly affectionate with one another. Not caring most of my friends were completely in the dark about our relationship. I whispered that I wanted to kiss her, and so I took her hand and we walked to the beach.
We walked for a while, just holding hands and talking about nothing. To this day, if I hear that song, I can close my eyes and see the reflection of the moonlight shining in her eyes, in her hair, on her skin. I can feel her body, soft and lithe, beneath my hands as I encircled her waist, holding her, dancing in the moonlight. I can smell the ocean. I can smell her hair, her perfume, her breath as I smiled and I kissed her. She was my first real kiss. The first person I ever kissed that I genuinely cared about. The first person I ever kissed that I loved in some fashion. I still love her. I always will.
Several weeks later, I went to visit her. We popped in Moulin Rouge (which I had brought for the express purpose that the song, her song, was in it) and proceeded to make out for approximately seven hours. I stopped for about three minutes, so I could hold her in my arms, stroking her beautiful face, kissing her neck, looking into those eyes, and sang to her.
Okay, so I'm a giant cheeseball, but that's just how it was.
Our relationship ended shortly thereafter, due to distance and many other factors, but we remain good friends. We turn to each other for advice, we've even seen each other once in a while, and when I get married, she's going to be one of my bridesmaids.
I told you that story to tell you this story.
There have always been three artists for whom I would do anything to see in concert. Those three artists are Billy Joel, Elton John, and Paul McCartney. In the summer of 2005, my mother, her husband, my brother, and I went to Las Vegas. I spent four days and three nights sitting at the nickel slots, having three or four drinks, and wandering around the city in what I would later term my Happy Place. (The Happy Place has been defined as the stage between tipsy and drunk when you're just happy to be there.)
Unbeknown to me, my mother's husband had purchased tickets for she and I to see Elton John's show at Caesar's Palace, The Red Piano.
He was incredible.
He played Daniel, which had my mother beaming. He played The Bitch is Back, during which I tried to sing along and make sure she didn't hear me cursing, because I don't curse in front of my mother. He played I'm Still Standing, and I tried in vain to control myself as all kinds of phallic objects popping up around the stage.
Elton John announces that he's going to play his last song, and I'm disappointed, if only because he didn't play The Song. Her Song. He talks about how he's been coming to the states for thirty-five years, that his career really began here. He says how much the love and loyalty we the fans have shown through those thirty-five years has meant to him, and he's never forgotten it.
And then he said it. "The word LOVE is spelled out on stage and I want to wish all of you lots of love in all your lives, and this song is for you."
I tried to contain myself. I tried to sing. I couldn't even mouth the lyrics beyond the second line, I was rendered speechless as he played that song, her song, with such passion, I just wept tears of joy as I relived that night over and over again. There are countless layers to why this was so meaningful to me.
First of all, it's fucking Elton John. He could sing me the phonebook as long as the tune is pretty.
It's one of my all-time favorite songs, and now one of my most meaningful songs.
And it belongs to someone who had a lasting impact on me.
But Elton John, the musician, the man, the gay man, understood. He had had first, forbidden love he kept hidden from almost everyone he cared about until much later. He got it. And that's what I took from the song. And I think, on a subconscious level, that's why I knew it was the right song to give to her.
I often wonder if she remembers that night, if she thinks of me, when she hears it.
I hope so.
If she should read this, she has my profound apology for more than likely embarrassing her in front of the whole interwebs. She should know that she is so much of the woman I have always aspired to be. She should also know that I treasure her friendship, and she has the best taste in music of anyone I've ever met. She should always, always remember she's beautiful, and she's still the best kisser I've ever had. :)
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
We're taught by our parents, by our friends, by the media, in schools, and by the church, that boys like girls, girls like boys, and a few girls like girls, a few boys like boys. We see evidence of heterosexuality and homosexuality, but very little evidence of bisexuality. We are told, subliminally and overtly, that we can't have it both ways, we have to choose. I think that's bullshit. I think they're envious.
I love men. I love all the things about men that every straight woman and gay man on the planet does. I love that most of the ones I seem to surround myself with tend to be laid back, smart, and play video games. I love the sex. I love the sex. I was even engaged to one, once.
But I've been attracted to women all my life, too. I love the strength and resilience of women. It's admirable. It's well-earned. I find them just as beautiful, sexy, and alluring as every straight guy and lesbian on the planet.
So where does that leave me?
I'm not a "heterosexual with issues". I'm a fucking bisexual. Always have been, always will be.
And so are you, Mr. Haggard.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Please be as amazing a year as 2008 was.
Please let me keep my close friends closer, and collect a few new ones along the way.
Please let me find a way to co-exist with my Dark Passenger. I can't stress how vitally important this one is. I don't really like to talk about my Dark Passenger with anyone, but I need this. I really need this.
Please let me go on more amazing adventures and excursions.
Please let him be as good for me as I believe he could be, and please let me not be afraid of it. I know the fact that he already knows my Dark Passenger (though he hasn't truly met her) and doesn't seem to be afraid of her is a Very Good Sign, but I'm still scared. Please let me find a way not to be.
Please let me be more open about my Dark Passenger with others who have one as well.
Please let me find a way to be fearless and selective at the same time.
Please let me find a way to repair friendships that have been damaged because of my own fuck-ups, especially with Rachel.
Please let me find a way to be Calm, Centered, and Focused.
Please let him be happy. I want nothing more than for him to be happy, even if I'm going to be playing a less active roll in his life than I would like. He is the very definition of a True Friend.
Please let me find the strength and courage to do what I need to do and get done what needs to get done.
Please let the Giants continue to have a good season (and next season as well), and to NOT make stupid draft choices. SAY NO TO TIM TEBOW. I know he isn't entering the draft this year and I don't care how good a quarterback he is, I don't want a fucking Gator Graduate throwing to my receivers.
Last year was a good year. Let's do that again, except that one thing. Shall we?
With Cautious Optimism,