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.

<prior or next>

The holidays are over. A new year is well under way. It�s been raining near nonstop for near forever now, and I am in a funk. It also doesn�t help that I�ve been hovering near illness for the past week or so. Undefined moodiness plus undefined health always makes for a chipper and plucky me.

So um, anyway, stuff and events have been happening, what with forced social occasions and all. I�ve started and stalled on writing about it all several times now, but I seem to end up hating everything I�ve written. I even hated the stuff I haven�t written.

I ended up with a long rambly thing of parties and gifts, but I�ve chucked most of it to the trash leaving behind only the following random sentences. Consider it...a puzzle:

Traditional solstice songs such as �Have a Merry Christmas or go to hell!��� and �Hark the herald Solstice bells are coming to town� were sung with much gusto and little talent.

The youngest of the new kids, four, was quite bold, interrupting santa a couple of times to ask him questions.

Initially I was in the mood to cook, but by the day of the party, I changed my mind and was now of the opinion that traditional Mexican foods were all designed to oppress women by keeping them trapped preparing food for days.

During the getting smudged with sage portion of the evening, a teenaged girl laughed and said the sage smelled just like pot, which made her dad frown and ask just exactly how it was that she knew what pot smelled like, and she answered back that he was to blame.

Not that it was, since the bakery I intended to buy it at turned out to be on the route of a parade and I ended up getting trapped in parade traffic.

After all, he had taken her to her first rock concert the previous week.

There was another party on another prechristmas night, this time hosted by some college friends of ours who live up in the wilds of Thousand Oaks suburbia.

Even talking about the Catholic church co-opting local religions, gods, spirits, and traditions didn�t turn any heads.

Not that I believe.

John brought store bought cookies (there was a very heart warming story behind the cookies that I am disinclined to share).

Unlike other times when we�ve had �overly gay,� or oddball conversations like this one, I didn�t notice any one staring at us.

When I saw the graffiti, a praise of �gangsta culture� in the hood, I shook my head and thought �What the hell is wrong with these fucking idiot rich white boys.�

She explained to John that she felt increasingly uncomfortable living in a country where so many people had no remorse over the destruction they were causing in other nations.

I am tired of WET!

Even they aren�t sure exactly how it happened that they ended up living in the middle of upper middle class white suburbdom.

Was it because it was a German restaurant?

One of the best being the Tarot of Oz.

I don�t know why I bothered, I don�t even like Pastel de Tres Leches.

More later,
nico

<prior or next>

� 2000-2007