My It Gets Better project video. After losing 100 pounds and coming out, I promise you--It Gets Better. Don't kill yourself for being gay in high school. It SOOOO gets better. http://tinyurl.com/25c2xyb
www.trevorproject.org
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Free hydration!
Free Bottled Water to any of my students who mention this posting tonight at TRAIN! Spin Class is at 5:30PM and 6:30PM!
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pages/Train-West-Hollywood/109636452406291?ref=mfFriday, September 24, 2010
Moviezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
This is how lazy I am. I can't stay awake during movies. An activity that requires nothing more than to sit and watch a lite-up rectangle that talks, is something that I can't remain concious for. Movie Theaters are the worst, because unless the movie is about a superhero or uses the word CUNT as a punchline, I will focus on a single piece of sky in the background and pass out which is embarrassing and is also a health hazard, because I will drool and possibly die of choking if I'm holding the popcorn.
It's worse if I'm at home on the couch. Wanna know if I'm really into you? I will be dead asleep in your lap before you see the phrase "An M. Night Shymalanananananananan film." There is something about a movie, a mans thighs, and air conditioning that makes my lucidity evaporate.
There are amazing movies I've seen and not fallen asleep in. I loved Up! and The Dark Knight and other movies the masses enjoyed...but those are dating me now. Hmm, recently I enjoyed Precious last year until I thought about it after and hated it. I liked Up In The Air and this weird movie called The Private Lives of Pippa Lee. And at the Outfest I watched a movie called Spork that I loved and a documentary called Bear Nation that was pretty sweet. I have all of these Arclight giftcards because I pre-buy them just in case something great comes out, and then I never go. Panicked that I'll give two hours away to the newest movie about a Chihuhua that looks "real funny in the preview!"
I just love TV. Thats the problem. I love the "out" with TV. I know it's 22 minutes or 44 minutes or 52 minutes. I love it. I salivate all week for new Dexter. It's my identity.
But in my effort to be honest even about my uncoolness, I want to divulge that the last major picture I saw was Leonardo DiCaprio's Shutter Island, which I kinda fell asleep in three times and then didn't understand the end but kinda did.
And in my effort to be cooler, I want to put it out there that I'm going to start training for film, watching like people do marathons, watching 10 minutes at a time and adding 3 minutes a week, bringing goo to my couch and a utility belt. I'll watch in the morning during Coffee and really try to fucking stay focused. I feel I have nothing to talk about with anyone in LA anymore and no cool date ideas because I haven't been able to remain awake in seat A32 since probably 2007.
I decided to make a list of movies I've always wanted to see but never have, and maybe I'll set a goal of watching 2 or 3 of them this year? Or maybe I'll just nap. Stay tuned.
The Shawshank Redemption
The Usual Suspects
Cabaret
Easy A
Waiting to Exhale
Oceans 11
Freddy vs. Jason
Paranormal Activity
(500) Days of Summer
Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps
Revenge of the Sith
Blade Runner
Pirates of The Carribean
It's worse if I'm at home on the couch. Wanna know if I'm really into you? I will be dead asleep in your lap before you see the phrase "An M. Night Shymalanananananananan film." There is something about a movie, a mans thighs, and air conditioning that makes my lucidity evaporate.
There are amazing movies I've seen and not fallen asleep in. I loved Up! and The Dark Knight and other movies the masses enjoyed...but those are dating me now. Hmm, recently I enjoyed Precious last year until I thought about it after and hated it. I liked Up In The Air and this weird movie called The Private Lives of Pippa Lee. And at the Outfest I watched a movie called Spork that I loved and a documentary called Bear Nation that was pretty sweet. I have all of these Arclight giftcards because I pre-buy them just in case something great comes out, and then I never go. Panicked that I'll give two hours away to the newest movie about a Chihuhua that looks "real funny in the preview!"
I just love TV. Thats the problem. I love the "out" with TV. I know it's 22 minutes or 44 minutes or 52 minutes. I love it. I salivate all week for new Dexter. It's my identity.
But in my effort to be honest even about my uncoolness, I want to divulge that the last major picture I saw was Leonardo DiCaprio's Shutter Island, which I kinda fell asleep in three times and then didn't understand the end but kinda did.
And in my effort to be cooler, I want to put it out there that I'm going to start training for film, watching like people do marathons, watching 10 minutes at a time and adding 3 minutes a week, bringing goo to my couch and a utility belt. I'll watch in the morning during Coffee and really try to fucking stay focused. I feel I have nothing to talk about with anyone in LA anymore and no cool date ideas because I haven't been able to remain awake in seat A32 since probably 2007.
I decided to make a list of movies I've always wanted to see but never have, and maybe I'll set a goal of watching 2 or 3 of them this year? Or maybe I'll just nap. Stay tuned.
The Shawshank Redemption
The Usual Suspects
Cabaret
Easy A
Waiting to Exhale
Oceans 11
Freddy vs. Jason
Paranormal Activity
(500) Days of Summer
Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps
Revenge of the Sith
Blade Runner
Pirates of The Carribean
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Phoenix Statue
I used to sit here against this brick and eat lunch and read.
-Belmont University, Nashville, TN 1997.
-Belmont University, Nashville, TN 1997.
Theeeeen-errrrrrr
I discovered on Saturday morning a very disgusting scene inside my body. The back of my throat, which had been painfully clattering about since 4AM, like two kids banging on a tile bathroom floor, was covered in bruises. My tonsils were raised to full attention, like the nipples of bears. And when I looked at my mouth in the mirror, the back of my mouth was an icy white. I remembered the time I had eaten a box of powdered donuts, denied it, then was forced to open my mouth to prove it. Denied.
I went to the doctor and was immediately diagnosed with Disgusting. I mean Strep Throat. I haven't had Strep Throat in a very long time, and so I only know it recently as the thing everyone is afraid of. I got a steroid shot and a prescription for anti-biotics and started feeling better within three hours. The doctor told me I might see some slight weight gain from the medication, which is a usual cause for panic in my disco, but I brushed it off, grateful that I'd be able to take a nap at some point.
I almost never go to the doctor, partly because it's expensive, but partly because I feel like the answer is always, "Yes, you look sick. Would you like a candy cane?" after a four hour wait in an office with people who actually need to be there. But as part of my Race to Adulthood, I'm trying to make things easier on myself. If I hurt, I'll ask a specialist so I stop hurting and can get back to having fun reading about disease prevention on Wikipedia.
Also, I hate pills. Especially steroids that make you retain water around your cheeks and your waist.
These pills I have been on this week made me gain 6 pounds. 6. Fucking. Pounds. I looked like a chipmunk.
And this morning, 24 hours after I stopped the pills, I peed for 72 seconds. Then, an hour later I peed again, for over 60 seconds. I looked at my face, and I went from Mahalia Jackson to La Toya Jackson between 6:30 and 8:30 AM. I feel like the guy in that movie Thinner because every time I walk by a mirror, my face is a little more scrubbed out. There are wrinkle lines rebuilding in my forehead that I was so happy to see go, even though by Monday my pants weren't even buckling. Hold on, I have to pee again.
Ok, I'm back. I love the idea of blaming weight gain or medically prescribed steroids. I think I'm going to start telling people that around Christmastime. "No, I'm not nervous about a week with the family...no, that's not why I'm eating at ALL. I'm on Prednisone, yes, JUST like Andrea Boceli, and it makes me puffy. What do you mean the powdered donuts are missing?"
I went to the doctor and was immediately diagnosed with Disgusting. I mean Strep Throat. I haven't had Strep Throat in a very long time, and so I only know it recently as the thing everyone is afraid of. I got a steroid shot and a prescription for anti-biotics and started feeling better within three hours. The doctor told me I might see some slight weight gain from the medication, which is a usual cause for panic in my disco, but I brushed it off, grateful that I'd be able to take a nap at some point.
I almost never go to the doctor, partly because it's expensive, but partly because I feel like the answer is always, "Yes, you look sick. Would you like a candy cane?" after a four hour wait in an office with people who actually need to be there. But as part of my Race to Adulthood, I'm trying to make things easier on myself. If I hurt, I'll ask a specialist so I stop hurting and can get back to having fun reading about disease prevention on Wikipedia.
Also, I hate pills. Especially steroids that make you retain water around your cheeks and your waist.
These pills I have been on this week made me gain 6 pounds. 6. Fucking. Pounds. I looked like a chipmunk.
And this morning, 24 hours after I stopped the pills, I peed for 72 seconds. Then, an hour later I peed again, for over 60 seconds. I looked at my face, and I went from Mahalia Jackson to La Toya Jackson between 6:30 and 8:30 AM. I feel like the guy in that movie Thinner because every time I walk by a mirror, my face is a little more scrubbed out. There are wrinkle lines rebuilding in my forehead that I was so happy to see go, even though by Monday my pants weren't even buckling. Hold on, I have to pee again.
Ok, I'm back. I love the idea of blaming weight gain or medically prescribed steroids. I think I'm going to start telling people that around Christmastime. "No, I'm not nervous about a week with the family...no, that's not why I'm eating at ALL. I'm on Prednisone, yes, JUST like Andrea Boceli, and it makes me puffy. What do you mean the powdered donuts are missing?"
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Maroon 5 sings Al Green on Howard
I heard this on the way to work today and got giddy. I love Al Green. I love this song. And now I love Maroon 5.
Gaga
Wow. Do not go up against Lady Gaga. Don't even speak her name without a whisper. It's anti-woman, anti-gay, anti-New York, anti-Dairy, anti-freaks-as-art to say anything bad about our beloved Gaga.
So I posted this on my Facebook today and was immediately chastized:
But now these gays kinda hate me, momentarily.
But mostly, I'm funny and my point of view stems from pointing out the flaws of the masses. That no one has a problem with 24 year old, upper-middle classed, basically heterosexual, private music school educated "Lady Gaga" leading the campaign to overturn a ban on gays in the military is funny to me. I find it funny. A week ago, this not-so-far-from-tweendom princess was wearing Beef Carpaccio with a straight face while sitting on crushed velvet chairs, and now shes in Washington dressed like a hairdryer talking about an important issue facing "her community." Am I "negative" for thinking this is weird? Am I the only one who thinks she might just be slightly less effective than say...ANYONE ELSE ALIVE? I think Melissa Etheridges Labia would be a less distracting spokesperson for Don't Ask Don't Tell than this Gaga.
But wait, here's my dirty little secret: I think Gaga is kinda cool. I like her stuff, especially the Beyonce duets, obviously. Her videos are fun to watch in a way I havent had fun watching videos since Michael Jackson. But cmon, you fags, we need not "support our Gaga" in that way Republicans told us we were terrorists if we didnt agree with George Bush.
And for those who say we shouldn't criticize the gay establishment, I ask why? Why should we just trust that all of our best interests are being considered and implemented with the best ideas?
I look at previews for the new big Gay TV Show, The A-List, and I have problems. Who are these guys and how do they represent me? I'm smart and self-made, which they aren't. I don't have a perfect body and they do, so am I missing out on what I'm "supposed to be having?" Should I not criticize it because I need to support the cause of more gays on TV?
If we keep treating this movement as, "Well look at what the gay monkeys are doing, isn't that sweet?" We will lose. But we won't just lose on gaining rights. We will lose on finding our own identity, because we will be settling for whatever crap gets thrown at the wall. I feel like I'm on that show where the sister is retarded but if I make a joke I'm bad. "Johnny, quit making fun of your retarded sister. It's the only time she's ever going to be in a play (Defending us against the evil military rules)!" And that scares me.
So I posted this on my Facebook today and was immediately chastized:
Lady Gaga as spokesperson for DADT is as dumb and weird as Ellen was on Idol.
Now, here's the problem. Several years ago, I was a do-gooder. I was the first openly gay contender on American Gladiators, and then post-prop 8, I got this idea to change a really stupid boycott being planned by the gay establishment and turn it into a volunteer effort called Day Without a Gay. I didn't like the former gay idea. I thought it made us look bad and so I helped change it. My idea got press, and so a bunch of gays added my facebook thinking I was some sort of gay superhero. I am not said hero. I find the current state of gay rights leadership to be silly and disjointed, but I also recognize that the world is bigger than just the gay cause. I want my mom to have better Medicare. I want to own a home one day and be able to trust the paperwork I'm signing. I'd like to eat an Egg McMuffin one day before I croak and live to feel guilty about it.But now these gays kinda hate me, momentarily.
But mostly, I'm funny and my point of view stems from pointing out the flaws of the masses. That no one has a problem with 24 year old, upper-middle classed, basically heterosexual, private music school educated "Lady Gaga" leading the campaign to overturn a ban on gays in the military is funny to me. I find it funny. A week ago, this not-so-far-from-tweendom princess was wearing Beef Carpaccio with a straight face while sitting on crushed velvet chairs, and now shes in Washington dressed like a hairdryer talking about an important issue facing "her community." Am I "negative" for thinking this is weird? Am I the only one who thinks she might just be slightly less effective than say...ANYONE ELSE ALIVE? I think Melissa Etheridges Labia would be a less distracting spokesperson for Don't Ask Don't Tell than this Gaga.
But wait, here's my dirty little secret: I think Gaga is kinda cool. I like her stuff, especially the Beyonce duets, obviously. Her videos are fun to watch in a way I havent had fun watching videos since Michael Jackson. But cmon, you fags, we need not "support our Gaga" in that way Republicans told us we were terrorists if we didnt agree with George Bush.
And for those who say we shouldn't criticize the gay establishment, I ask why? Why should we just trust that all of our best interests are being considered and implemented with the best ideas?
I look at previews for the new big Gay TV Show, The A-List, and I have problems. Who are these guys and how do they represent me? I'm smart and self-made, which they aren't. I don't have a perfect body and they do, so am I missing out on what I'm "supposed to be having?" Should I not criticize it because I need to support the cause of more gays on TV?
If we keep treating this movement as, "Well look at what the gay monkeys are doing, isn't that sweet?" We will lose. But we won't just lose on gaining rights. We will lose on finding our own identity, because we will be settling for whatever crap gets thrown at the wall. I feel like I'm on that show where the sister is retarded but if I make a joke I'm bad. "Johnny, quit making fun of your retarded sister. It's the only time she's ever going to be in a play (Defending us against the evil military rules)!" And that scares me.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Ask and Tell
How are we ever going to grow up and be men if you don't let us get married and go off to war?
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/22/us/politics/22cong.htmlIt's the weirdest issue. It's the least "bad for the children" issue I can think of involving gays. I'd be less surprised by Republican opposition to gays serving hot lunches at montessori's than serving in the military.
And by the way, is a little sexual release all that terrible if you're stuck away from the Missus in fucking Pakistan? Have you seen Pakistan on Dateline? It's hot, then it's cold. There's no grass. The women have no clits anymore. What's so terrible about a consenual blow job from the same guy who would lay across a land mine for you?
I think Anderson Cooper is getting a little too tired of blowing our troops while covering wars, anyway. His mouth looks dry and fatigued, and a Neil Patrick Harris USO tour seems unlikely, unless he can direct a star-studded, outdoor version of South Pacific.
This is silly. We need Propaganda posters.
DWTS
I've never watched this program Dancing With The Stars. It looks silly. It seems like the kind of show my grandparents would have really hated, but watched anyway, because they'd already seen the rerun of Mash on the opposing channel 100 times.
But I had to watch last night, because I root for Margaret Cho at everything she does. She is me in so many ways, having grown up fat in Northern California and funny and coming into her own even though at times it seems subversive. But this show Dancing With The Stars is awful. It makes Circus of the Stars look contemporary. What follows are my play-by-play Facebook updates from my first viewing of the show, and last night's 11th season (good God!) premiere. Thank Jesu for TiVo.
--
--
--
But I had to watch last night, because I root for Margaret Cho at everything she does. She is me in so many ways, having grown up fat in Northern California and funny and coming into her own even though at times it seems subversive. But this show Dancing With The Stars is awful. It makes Circus of the Stars look contemporary. What follows are my play-by-play Facebook updates from my first viewing of the show, and last night's 11th season (good God!) premiere. Thank Jesu for TiVo.
--
The acting in porn is more compelling and believable than the interviews and judging on dancing with the stars.
--I guarantee you Kurt Warner beats his kids with a brass bible, and this is the worst dancing I've ever seen.
--How horrified is Lacey Schwimmer by her fat nobody dance partner? This is brilliant.
--I would do Rick Fox...
--I think I saw the band on dancing with the stars play at the embassy suites in south lake tahoe back in 1982, when they were just getting good.
--Someone needs to dab the sweat off rick fox before people confuse him with Whitney Houston.
--I love Margaret Cho.
--How is it fair that Brandy can be on this show? She's a pop star who dances for a living (or did for 10 minutes in 1998 at least).
--I hope this French guy judge on Dancing With The Stars dies during auto erotic choking.
--Bristol, honey, there is no way you could embarrass your mom as much as she has my country.
--Is anyone going to explain to me why Jamie Lee Curtis is sitting in the front row at dancing with the stars? And can she please cross her legs? I don't want to know if the rumors are true.
--I haven't seen Florence Henderson look so uncomfortable dancing with a gay guy since she was married to Mike Brady.
--How many times during those twirls do you think Florence Henderson pottied herself?
(My friend Josh replied, "Depends." Haha.)--
When Michael Bolton washes the make-up off his face he shall be Susan Boyle.
--My dog cricket, who is a chihuhua, has a bigger penis than The Situation.
(My friend Andrea noted, "does cricket have the herpes too?")--
How long before Jennifer gray makes a "Patrick swayze, I miss you" reference...oh there it is. (By the way, they hated each other during the making of the film. i saw it on an old episode of Donahue)
--I'd say hasselhoff has a boner but I think he's too drunk.
--Text VOTE to 3405 for Margaret. She's the real deal. Goodnight, Nerds!
Sunday, September 19, 2010
2 Hours of GLEE!
Tomorrow's 5:30 and 6:30 spin classes at Train are GLEE themed! Come listen to your favorite songs from the hit show, Glee--then tune in to FOX on Tuesday at 8PM for "Audition" the first episode from Glee's season 2!
Ring Finger
I used to spend hours upon hours in horror. Worried. In constant terror about things that never happen. I think one of the downsides to being funny is that it's all a defense mechanism to being built of pure irrational fear.
I blame the majority of this on the time, when in seventh grade, I put on my late grandfathers wedding ring. My mom gave it to me and told me not to wear it until she'd had it re-sized. I put it on about three minutes later while eating a Hostess cupcake. I put it on my middle finger instead of my ring finger, and thought nothing of it other than that it looked classy. I looked like a man. All I needed was some Tuscany cologne and a double breasted suit, and I could start making decisions about my own bedtime. When I realized my hands were covered in that leftover cupcake felt, I decided to wash my hands. I turned on the warm water and put liquid soap in my hands. Then I realized the ring was on and I didn't know if soap would harm jewelry, mostly because I was an idiot and didnt realize that gold (when real) is pretty indestructable.
I started to pull the ring off, and it didn't move. In fact, my finger had kind of started to throb. My mom came home and I ran upstairs in to the bathroom. "What's wrong?" She asked. Finally I opened the door and showed her a hand covered in scrapes, chocolate and blood. I started to cry a little. Mom said, "What did I tell you? Now we have to go to the Emergency Room."
Fearing the worst, I asked, "What are they going to do?"
"They're going to have to cut it off." she said, matter-of-factly.
I saw my life flash forward in front of me. They're going to cut off my finger because I didn't follow the rules. And this bitch, who had created my finger and harvested it over nine months and 19 hours of labor was speaking as though she was throwing out old bananas.
The next two hours were excruciating. We sat in the waiting room while I replayed all the wonderful moments my middle finger and I had had. The times in the shower when I secretly flipped off no one, just to show how bad I could be, the many egg sandwiches my grandmother had made me that I'd used this finger on to clutch the bread tightly. The only consolation was that I'd finally never have to play a sport again, and since I'd probably not be able to build a fire from sticks, I could probably quit the Cub Scouts at the respectable but still forgiveable Webelos level.
As we walked into the room where I would be amputated, I shook and finally screamed, like Carrie hoping to kinetically light the hospital on fire while pigs blood poured on my hand and lubed it off. My mom pushed me into the room and drew the curtain and asked the nurse for a minute. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!"
"They're going to cut off my finger!"
"Are you retarded?" Mom asked. "They're going to cut off the ring."
Cut ahead to just under 25 years later, a year ago this month. My life had come crashing down personally. Professionally, I was a personal trainer living on nothing in the worst economy of the last 20 years. I had become my greatest fear: Broke, un-loved (maybe forever un-loveable), and without any means to move forward at 30 years old, what was supposed to be my prime. And I had never been more scared. For the first time, I was not funny. I was not able to eat. I was embarrassed and afraid to ask for help, but I was sitting on the floor cleaning up dog puke when I remembered the ring finger. Nothing is as bad as it seems. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. The scariest part of the roller coaster is not the ride. It's the line to get into the cart.
I had been in this line for over twenty years.
I called my Mom and Dad who I hadn't spoken to in two years, afraid they wouldn't talk to me but they did. I told my friends I needed a job and help with the dogs and a shoulder to cry on. And in a flash, I moved to the front of the line. Within 48 hours of the hardest jab to my stomach ever, I had a new job back in the real world--the kind of job I had been afraid to ask for. I had reconnected with friends I hadn't spoken to since college, and I started to become an adult.
I have learned in the last year, thanks to a very special person who guided me along, that life is all about becoming better at being an adult, and I have learned that the best way to become an adult is to be fearless. It is to live without shame, without second-guessing choices made, that if you just take the ring to the God Damn jeweler to be re-sized like your momma told you in the first place, you won't have to go to the ER. And for the next year and beyond my goal is to remain fearless, guileless, and forgiving of myself and others so that I can enjoy a life out of the hospital.
I blame the majority of this on the time, when in seventh grade, I put on my late grandfathers wedding ring. My mom gave it to me and told me not to wear it until she'd had it re-sized. I put it on about three minutes later while eating a Hostess cupcake. I put it on my middle finger instead of my ring finger, and thought nothing of it other than that it looked classy. I looked like a man. All I needed was some Tuscany cologne and a double breasted suit, and I could start making decisions about my own bedtime. When I realized my hands were covered in that leftover cupcake felt, I decided to wash my hands. I turned on the warm water and put liquid soap in my hands. Then I realized the ring was on and I didn't know if soap would harm jewelry, mostly because I was an idiot and didnt realize that gold (when real) is pretty indestructable.
I started to pull the ring off, and it didn't move. In fact, my finger had kind of started to throb. My mom came home and I ran upstairs in to the bathroom. "What's wrong?" She asked. Finally I opened the door and showed her a hand covered in scrapes, chocolate and blood. I started to cry a little. Mom said, "What did I tell you? Now we have to go to the Emergency Room."
Fearing the worst, I asked, "What are they going to do?"
"They're going to have to cut it off." she said, matter-of-factly.
I saw my life flash forward in front of me. They're going to cut off my finger because I didn't follow the rules. And this bitch, who had created my finger and harvested it over nine months and 19 hours of labor was speaking as though she was throwing out old bananas.
The next two hours were excruciating. We sat in the waiting room while I replayed all the wonderful moments my middle finger and I had had. The times in the shower when I secretly flipped off no one, just to show how bad I could be, the many egg sandwiches my grandmother had made me that I'd used this finger on to clutch the bread tightly. The only consolation was that I'd finally never have to play a sport again, and since I'd probably not be able to build a fire from sticks, I could probably quit the Cub Scouts at the respectable but still forgiveable Webelos level.
As we walked into the room where I would be amputated, I shook and finally screamed, like Carrie hoping to kinetically light the hospital on fire while pigs blood poured on my hand and lubed it off. My mom pushed me into the room and drew the curtain and asked the nurse for a minute. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!"
"They're going to cut off my finger!"
"Are you retarded?" Mom asked. "They're going to cut off the ring."
Cut ahead to just under 25 years later, a year ago this month. My life had come crashing down personally. Professionally, I was a personal trainer living on nothing in the worst economy of the last 20 years. I had become my greatest fear: Broke, un-loved (maybe forever un-loveable), and without any means to move forward at 30 years old, what was supposed to be my prime. And I had never been more scared. For the first time, I was not funny. I was not able to eat. I was embarrassed and afraid to ask for help, but I was sitting on the floor cleaning up dog puke when I remembered the ring finger. Nothing is as bad as it seems. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. The scariest part of the roller coaster is not the ride. It's the line to get into the cart.
I had been in this line for over twenty years.
I called my Mom and Dad who I hadn't spoken to in two years, afraid they wouldn't talk to me but they did. I told my friends I needed a job and help with the dogs and a shoulder to cry on. And in a flash, I moved to the front of the line. Within 48 hours of the hardest jab to my stomach ever, I had a new job back in the real world--the kind of job I had been afraid to ask for. I had reconnected with friends I hadn't spoken to since college, and I started to become an adult.
I have learned in the last year, thanks to a very special person who guided me along, that life is all about becoming better at being an adult, and I have learned that the best way to become an adult is to be fearless. It is to live without shame, without second-guessing choices made, that if you just take the ring to the God Damn jeweler to be re-sized like your momma told you in the first place, you won't have to go to the ER. And for the next year and beyond my goal is to remain fearless, guileless, and forgiving of myself and others so that I can enjoy a life out of the hospital.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Somebody/Fate
What I miss most about the second half of my weight loss is how exciting it was to be out alone, finally making eye contact with people. Everyday, in my mind, I wrote stories about the guy on the treadmill, or the guy at the Aveda store, or my waiter at that diner downtown, about how they were looking for that special someone, just like me.
This song came out that same year, and it seriously fucked me up. I thought that was how you met someone, by just stumbling upon them randomly, eyes and ring fingers locking eternally. I was newly 171 pounds when I visited the duck pond at McKinley park that December. I was 25, and it was 2003. I saw a really good-looking guy, handsome smile, maybe 10 pounds overweight there with his two neices. We smiled at each other nervously. He said hi. I was too nervous to say anything back, so I nodded and kinda bowed, too. It was weird. He looked back again as he was leaving and gave me a giddy smile.
And for the first time, I felt like a summer-camper--a teenager, who sees someone else that's going to be nice, go to dinners with me, maybe go all the way with me--but patiently realizing I don't have a lot of experience. I thought that this would be the case with this man. I named him Casey, and I resolved that if it were meant to be, he'd be there the following Sunday at 2:45, too. It would be fate.
I met another guy like him, but latino, an hour later at Starbucks on Alhambra and the 80 freeway. I resolved again that if he'd be scheduled to be barista-ing the same time next Sunday, at 3:45--it would be fate, also. I named him Frank and his peppermint mochas were warm, and I know I got extra sprinkles not just because I asked.
My dental hygenist the following week was cute, and he was so gentle with my gums. He told me how hard it was to meet funny people, funny people like me. I offered him my friendster ID. I checked it every day for a month, but never ran into Khalid again.
My heart hardened slowly. I came out. I accepted the realities of what it means to be single in your twenties, but I remained optimistic, even when I moved to San Francisco, that if I grinded the right guy at the right time inside of Badlands (maybe I should just go midweek when its less crowded and can really connect?) I might find my Prince Charming.
And then it happened. The moment I will never forget.
In 2005 I was dating a guy who was awful. I mean, just terrible. Think Fidel Castro meets John Cusack. I met him at Mickeys on a Sunday. We were wasted. And again, this was a Sunday night. All he talked about was his film career and his pecs from the moment I met him through Easter Dinner, months later. It had been on and off for about 6 months. He had a boyfriend who knew about me, and they were back and forth. There were days he accused my sense of humor of being too niche for normal people, the kind of people who hung out at Hollywood parties, to understand--and I finally said, "You know what? I don't think we're right for each other." Hollywood parties do not house normal people. I go to a lot of them. Most of them are freaks from Idaho who left for LA because of a plea bargain.
When he said this we were at the Chipotle at the Beverly Center. I was living in Studio City at the time, in my friends mom's herbalife wherehouse (I'll wait to finish this story until you've composed yourself). He walked fast up to his car, I followed behind him and asked if we could talk about it. He said, "No. Fuck you. Get a ride home to your vitamin store from someone else." As he drove away, he rolled down his window and screamed," You're never going to find fucking Prince Charming, Sean Hetherington! He doesn't EXIST!"
---Side note, he and I recently reconnected and had sex, and I made him come to my house this time. I'm no idiot.
But between all the Romantic Comedies and Reba songs and stories from my straight friends who met in the most wholesome, old fashioned way and moved off to Somewhere That's Green, I finally started to let it go there on P3 of the Beverly Center. And it killed me a little. That my Mom and Dad met at a Black Angus, went to planned parenthood the next day, and married a year later--but I was left on the side of La Cienega with not so much as a bus schedule kind of splintered the grains of hope I had about the Blockbuster Video life I'd always hoped for.
But somedays, I find myself walking through CVS looking for earplugs, and I see someone else looking for a bag of them, too.
"I like the orange ones." he says.
"Me, too." I say. "Cause they have the little lips on the end so..."
"They don't fall out in the middle of the night, and get eaten by my dog." he says.
And then I know there's hope.
This song came out that same year, and it seriously fucked me up. I thought that was how you met someone, by just stumbling upon them randomly, eyes and ring fingers locking eternally. I was newly 171 pounds when I visited the duck pond at McKinley park that December. I was 25, and it was 2003. I saw a really good-looking guy, handsome smile, maybe 10 pounds overweight there with his two neices. We smiled at each other nervously. He said hi. I was too nervous to say anything back, so I nodded and kinda bowed, too. It was weird. He looked back again as he was leaving and gave me a giddy smile.
And for the first time, I felt like a summer-camper--a teenager, who sees someone else that's going to be nice, go to dinners with me, maybe go all the way with me--but patiently realizing I don't have a lot of experience. I thought that this would be the case with this man. I named him Casey, and I resolved that if it were meant to be, he'd be there the following Sunday at 2:45, too. It would be fate.
I met another guy like him, but latino, an hour later at Starbucks on Alhambra and the 80 freeway. I resolved again that if he'd be scheduled to be barista-ing the same time next Sunday, at 3:45--it would be fate, also. I named him Frank and his peppermint mochas were warm, and I know I got extra sprinkles not just because I asked.
My dental hygenist the following week was cute, and he was so gentle with my gums. He told me how hard it was to meet funny people, funny people like me. I offered him my friendster ID. I checked it every day for a month, but never ran into Khalid again.
My heart hardened slowly. I came out. I accepted the realities of what it means to be single in your twenties, but I remained optimistic, even when I moved to San Francisco, that if I grinded the right guy at the right time inside of Badlands (maybe I should just go midweek when its less crowded and can really connect?) I might find my Prince Charming.
And then it happened. The moment I will never forget.
In 2005 I was dating a guy who was awful. I mean, just terrible. Think Fidel Castro meets John Cusack. I met him at Mickeys on a Sunday. We were wasted. And again, this was a Sunday night. All he talked about was his film career and his pecs from the moment I met him through Easter Dinner, months later. It had been on and off for about 6 months. He had a boyfriend who knew about me, and they were back and forth. There were days he accused my sense of humor of being too niche for normal people, the kind of people who hung out at Hollywood parties, to understand--and I finally said, "You know what? I don't think we're right for each other." Hollywood parties do not house normal people. I go to a lot of them. Most of them are freaks from Idaho who left for LA because of a plea bargain.
When he said this we were at the Chipotle at the Beverly Center. I was living in Studio City at the time, in my friends mom's herbalife wherehouse (I'll wait to finish this story until you've composed yourself). He walked fast up to his car, I followed behind him and asked if we could talk about it. He said, "No. Fuck you. Get a ride home to your vitamin store from someone else." As he drove away, he rolled down his window and screamed," You're never going to find fucking Prince Charming, Sean Hetherington! He doesn't EXIST!"
---Side note, he and I recently reconnected and had sex, and I made him come to my house this time. I'm no idiot.
But between all the Romantic Comedies and Reba songs and stories from my straight friends who met in the most wholesome, old fashioned way and moved off to Somewhere That's Green, I finally started to let it go there on P3 of the Beverly Center. And it killed me a little. That my Mom and Dad met at a Black Angus, went to planned parenthood the next day, and married a year later--but I was left on the side of La Cienega with not so much as a bus schedule kind of splintered the grains of hope I had about the Blockbuster Video life I'd always hoped for.
But somedays, I find myself walking through CVS looking for earplugs, and I see someone else looking for a bag of them, too.
"I like the orange ones." he says.
"Me, too." I say. "Cause they have the little lips on the end so..."
"They don't fall out in the middle of the night, and get eaten by my dog." he says.
And then I know there's hope.
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