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Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.
Lunes 05/19/2003
5 or 6 years later
Had things gone to plan, I would be able to write that I saw a couple of movies this past weekend and went to Long Beach pride Saturday night to watch Pat Benatar once again. Had thing gone to plan, I would not have spent most of last week not dealing with this stupid cold that my body is refusing to get over.
I'm mostly better now, all though every once in a while, I still suffer the need to try to hack up a lung. A most pleasant experience.
If I went through the archives of the journal and researched it, I would probably end up shattering my self-image as someone who doesn't get sick that often. I fear that over the past couple of years I have become a weak, sickly thing, catching every bug that flies through the window. Poor me.
OK, enough of that poor me crap.
John and I saw one of the nephew's little league games Sunday afternoon. Watching kids running around like little maniacs was an interesting time. They are young enough that no one is bothering to keep score yet. The folks in charge have just started to introduce pesky things like 'outs,' a notion that had a couple of the parents more upset than the kids.
Even with the two frowning parents, it wasn't anything like the stereotype of fathers ducking it out in the stands. That's still a ways off in the future yet. This game was all about positive reinforcement, and cheering over everything, good or bad. It was about statements like "Good Job Kristy! Really good! Next time just remember to keep an eye out for the ball."
The kids had a fun time, and they were all hams. There were lots and lots of aggressive and well practiced sliding into bases where the ball was nowhere in sight.
The other nephews were there at the game as well, sitting in the stands with their grandparents, playing with their game boys and ignoring most everything else.
It was odd, because when the eldest of the boys (10 years old) finally realized that John and I were there and greeted us, I didn't recognize him for a moment. He had been drinking a blue colored icee which had dyed his lips, and his highlighted hair was flopped oddly on top his head, so instead of a �tween boy, for a second I saw a moody teenager with a blond Mohawk, wearing dark blue/purple lipstick and a bored expression.
I think I may have just accidentally looked five or six years into the future.
More later,
Nico
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