Knowing When to Fold'em

Taking a much-needed respite from the grind of early afternoon classes, I decided to meet my friend David to drink and fill up on some empty calories.

Admittedly, there is something overtly decadent about indulging in a few libations when you have obligations elsewhere.

Thinking about it now as I attempt to win a few new “Dating 101” devotees and Facebook friends, I understand why my mom was in such high spirits on those days we trudged home from school with half the kids from the bus stop.

She always smiled with an understanding look while microwaving a few snacks.

Now I believe it had less to do with the fact she was happy that her offspring were popular and had more to do with the bottle of merlot she polished off an hour before we walked through the door.

Before you misconstrue my mother as an alcoholic, I should assure you she was not. These were times before folks jumped onto the “politically correct” train and started throwing around words like “postpartum depression” and ambiguous phrases like “you shouldn’t drink before four in the afternoon.”

After all, my mother and her friends believed it was a great big world, so it was bound to be 4 o’clock somewhere.

On lazy afternoons, once the bills were paid, errands run and laundry done, my mother and her friends would wile away the remainder of cocktail hour with card games.

They would play gin rummy and poker, and although they would never confess to playing for actual money, I distinctly remember several new dresses hanging in my mother’s closet after an afternoon with the girls.

Forgive my moment of nostalgia, but I do have a point.

David, sitting across from me at lunch, tells about his friend who has been dating a girl for five years. I met her once at a wedding reception and she seemed to be a lovely girl. In that brief encounter, I couldn’t have imagined she was having an affair for three of the five years with someone a few hours south of the home she shared with her boyfriend.

You may ask me why I didn’t pick up on the subtleties of sheer sluttiness oozing from her like a penicillin-resistant infection, but despite my letter-writing campaign urging Congress to bring back branding a big red “A” on whores, I don’t feel sorry for the guy, and here’s why:

I am tired of everyone blaming their partners for the problems that persist in their relationships. The national statistic for divorce is more than 50 percent and according to some statistics, closer to 63 percent. Obviously, there is an issue and it has little to do with hindsight and more with foresight.

“Well, I wouldn’t have gotten together with her if I knew she was crazy,” or “I wouldn’t have moved in with him if I knew he would beat me.” And my favorite, “I wouldn’t have gotten married if I had known blah, blah, blah…”

You did know.

In any poker game, the best player pays attention to the tells. These are the little, sometimes unconscious, signs everyone has that allow the gambler to know if you’re holding a royal flush or if your hand might as well be flushed down the toilet.

Everyone’s character is defined in those moments when they think no one is paying close attention. There are always signs and your job is to look a little closer to see what they are.

The big oaf you’re married to now and complain about was a big oaf when you dated.

Dating is as good as it gets, so don’t expect anyone to change just because they financed a piece of jewelry for your finger.

Take one lesson from my mother’s afternoon poker game: You can’t always get the cards you want. However, once they’ve been dealt and you happen to spot a sign that signals disaster, for god’s sake, fold your cards and walk away.

Sit-Coms instead of Sermons?

     There is a lot of crap on TV these days.  I suppose that there has always been an audience for crappy television shows, but like most kids that grow up in the south however, I spent a lot of time in church which severely limited my crappy television viewing time.  

I would even go so far as to say, that I spent too much time in church.    

There was of course, Sunday school, where, as a child you learn to cut, paste and craft your way through biblical stories like Adam and Eve or Noah and his ark chocked full of animals.  Learning morals and gleaming wisdom with every pinto bean you glued to a paper plate.   

Then through your teens, you graduate from the fun scissor work to more serious scriptural studies, which included the sins of premarital sex and the dangers of spilling your seed…I still don’t quite understand how spilling seeds equates to masturbation and how that path leads to an eternity in hell, but at 14, I just didn’t question the logic.   Eventually, you graduate to sitting in the big sanctuary with the grown-ups enduring an entire Sunday morning moralism without the benefits of paste and a few handfuls of beans to stave off boredom.

After the last prayer had been prayed and the congregation dismissed, later that same Sunday at six, I would again be sitting in front of my parents, just in arm’s length of my mother so she could ensure that I did not nod off at any point during the evening sermon.  However bored I became, I always enjoyed the very beginning of the service because of the music and singing.  Sometimes it was fast and lively enough to get folks out of their seats and clapping.  Other times it was mournful and bluesy.  Because I always enjoyed belting out a song, it didn’t matter to me if the song was pop or praise, I was alert and ready to hit the high notes.  You can imagine that after a few spirited performances of me and my back up choir, that I would, of course, be tired and in need of a quick cat nap during the pastoral portion of the event.  More often than not, I would receive a quick rap to the back of the head because my mother caught me swaying or nodding off before the last “amen” of the evening.

Now on Monday night, while most of America watched football, my family had part one of bible study with part two concluding on Wednesday, which coincidentally, always made me miss the first part of my favorite television show.  I could care less about not watching football, but I despised missing my TV program and honestly, contribute this as the beginning of a deeply rooted disdain for religion in general. 

Periodically, though out the year, there were also week-long revivals, where we’d spend seven nights of prime-time in the confines of a church building listening to a sermon instead of watching sit-coms.   I am sure you are getting the point, which is that I spent a lot of time in church sitting in a pew, when I’d really have preferred to have been watching television on my bed. 

For me, after spending years of memorizing biblical scripture and then in college studying philosophy and world religion, I would argue that my youth would have been better served in front of a television screen instead of a pastor…unless that pastor was Pat Robertson and the program was The 700 Club.  ...I suppose there still is a lot of crap on television.

A Buck & Baldness

    Every week, I promise myself that I am going to start being more active in my blog, after all, I consider myself above all else, a writer.  Truthfully, I have many talents; for instance, I can stir a filthy martini that would make a nun salivate and after drinking a couple, I can belt out a high note at any local karaoke bar until all the drunks hand me a dollar while strumming a guitar effectively.  (I don't really play the guitar while singing...I need one hand for the mike and the other to take the money.  The guitar is intermittently strummed in between those other tasks.)

     Alas, at the end of an exhausting list of possessed talents and, dare I say, universally bestowed gifts, I am, above all else, a humble writer…well, writer at least.  To which, I am resolved to perch upon my pedestal of public domain and pen down more of my thoughts.

Honestly though, I have had my plate pretty full recently with the move to Philadelphia.  I graduated in May with a master’s degree and for the life of me, I cannot seem to understand why my door hasn’t been beaten down with job offers.  Statistics be damned, but only 10% of the world has a post-secondary degree and I am one of them.   

This makes me wonder, are there others too who are out of work wondering if there are others in the same jobless state.  To them I say, “Brothers, you are not worthless and alone while you meander aimlessly though scams and crooked shams looking for opportunities to present themselves on Career Builder.  I am here and sit with you in solidarity in front of my computer screen, and I too, am searching for the next lead, phone interview and someone who believes that I am the right one for the job!"

Looking for a job, especially when you spent so much time and money on a degree in which seems sometimes is completely useless can be maddening.  On my way to the gym last night to work off the bag of Butterfinger candy bars that I consumed while perusing the webpage want ads, I drove past a Paul Mitchell Hair School and had to pullover because I was sobbing so loudly that I couldn’t control the car.  

 I thought at the time, that learning to bang out some hair would, at the very least, be a job that would never be at the whim of an academic recession and would be a helluva lot cheaper than grad school.  After all, most people grow hair and those folks always need their hair cut…and just to have job security, I figured that I could also learn to style wigs and hair pieces.  That way, hair or no hair, I’d have all my bases (or scalps in this case) covered.

After a good long cry, I gained some composure and made my way to the gym and hopped on the nearest treadmill where I drowned out my troubles with Cher’s latest album.  She really has a way of putting things in perspective when I trudge along, getting nowhere on a moving platform going 4.5 mph.  It may seem a bit ego-centric, but I change all the lyrics in her songs to reflect me and my state of being and it somehow, makes everything all right, at least for a little while.   

I will now address anyone within ear shot of “The Christian Sing-Along While Running on a Treadmill Show at Planet Fitness:” Although your individual playlist may differ from the one that I belt out during the show, hold up a buck next time.  I take requests.

All Things Change...Except Pop Music

I heard recently that everything changes.  I cannot remember exactly where I heard those little pearls of wisdom, and to be perfectly honest, I was most likely on the treadmill trying to burn off the half dozen cookies that I consumed for lunch earlier in the day while listening to my iPod.   

Perhaps, the mantra of perpetual transition was embedded in the timeless lyrics of a Miley Cyrus song and I am just now grasping the subtle complexities of the songstress’ teenage angst.  Judge if you must, but teenage pop music is in constant rotation not only on my gym playlist, but also on my truck radio, bathroom shower, bedroom alarm clock and I often hear synthesized auto-tuned  fusion-of- frivolity echoing in my head, no ear buds required.  Yes, I am that person singing loudly in the car as you drive past him on the expressway in the morning…and many times, the stereo is not necessarily turned on.

Keeping with this spirit of honesty, I must confess, that there was a time that even I thought that having a soundtrack playing in my head while I walked down a street was somewhat atypical.  Ok, ok, I admit having Justin Bieber serenade my synapses when there are no speakers in sight (or a throng of twelve year old school girls for that matter) is fairly odd behavior for someone who is…well, is not a twelve year old school girl.  

I, however, refuse to apologize or even make concessions for having this particular quirk.  I like that I hear music in my head even when it is not audible to others who happen to be around me.  I like to think of this as being the soundtrack of my life.  The titles of the songs may change from time to time, but just like teen pop, the artists never do.  They are all bubbly, sweet and keep my lips moving along to a sugary-infused confection.  For example, when my boss reminds me that having a job at that particular place of employment requires that I must adhere to a schedule, “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” plays on repeat while she lectures me on punctuality.  When I am on my way to a club and my abs are looking particularly thin and gorgeous I am all about trying to “Get This Party Started.” And when I am on the treadmill when there are so many changes happening in my life...Damn, what is the name of that song?  Something about being in the middle of a ride and that everything, everything will be alright, alright.   

Yes, that’s a great song that’s playing in my head right now, because there are a lot of changes happening in my life right now.  I can hardly wait to tell you about them, but until then, I urge you to keep singing...even if it’s just in your head.

Scared Straight

          I do not usually allow myself to get dragged into the middle of political debates.  Having more degrees than a thermometer, this is my brother’s arena and best left to him.  However, in today’s politically charged climate, I feel it necessary to climb atop my soapbox and weigh in.  I have to warn readers that my comments may be offensive, but I will not apologize for the truths that I hold closest and will spout them on occasion if compelled…and after certain comments made by recent presidential contenders, I am convicted to write.

                This country affords many opportunities and I feel very fortunate to have been blessed to have been born in a southern home with traditional Christian values that were tested and then disregarded by my parents who chose to love me, their gay son, unconditionally.  My parents were bible-toting, foot- stomping, revival-loving Christians and after they found out that I was not going to be what they had imagined me to be, they prayed for answers and most often the ones that they found were from a society that holds homosexuals in poor regard or in downright contempt. 

Not only does the bible say that it is immorally and sinfully wrong to be gay, but most people think it is wrong, or not right, or just unnatural to be gay.  While I do not agree with those that spout biblical rhetoric as justification to their prejudices, I can understand their convictions.  Let me explain, why this point is so relevant to the mass population as well.

You have most likely heard that America is a puritanical society.  This is undisputed.  America was founded within the limited constraints of religion.  This “religiosity” or fundamental approach to our lives as a whole is still very much pervasive today.  Whether or not you are Christian, Baptist, Jewish, Muslim, or any number or combination of faiths, you are influenced by them and their doctrines.  Sorry to inform you, but yes, even you, the Agnostics, Wiccans, Mystics and Atheists are shaped by the same “godly” principles.  This is called social conditioning and it is inescapable.  We are all brought up believing in dogma whether it is from our parents, our friends and relatives, our churches or through advertising. 

Today, advertising is most arguably the biggest and direct influence in any of our lives.  We are bombarded from birth images that portray heterosexuality as the ideal.  Love is for heterosexuals.  Sex is for heterosexuals.  Marriage and family are also only relevant and natural for heterosexuals.  Anything in contrast is morally reprehensible and detrimental to our societal fabric.  “Being gay is wrong.  If you choose to be a fag, you will live a life of pain and lonely bitterness.”  Pay attention, WE ARE ALL TAUGHT THIS MESSAGE!  IT IS NOT SUBTLE.  IT IS OVERT AND VERY BLATENT. 

There have been few great advancements in the rights of gay people in this country or even globally, because no matter your sexual orientation, you are socially conditioned to hate gay people.  I will not argue the semantics of that statement with Christians that say “We love the sinner, but hate the sin.”  We are all taught that we hate gay.  This is especially tragic for gay people, because they grow up hating themselves. 

Because most of my faithful readers know that I can never seem to make a point without circumnavigating around and through and then back again, I will try now to do so.  To my gay family, my brothers and sisters who have known more struggle and oppression than is imaginable to most, we must become a viable force in this country to effect long term change.  We have to stop hating ourselves and stop tearing each other down in bars, gyms and cafes due to labels that society defines appropriate.

“He’s too fem.”  “He’s a gym bunny.”  “He’s a nelly bottom.”  “He’s a slut.”  Just stop and insist on better, because let me tell you now that the straight girls that you may be dancing with, or your straight fraternity brothers that you share beer with, will NEVER know you like that queer that you might be making fun of.   It is impossible for a single straight person to empathize with who you are in the core way that all gay people can relate. 

Listening to Michele Bachmann, I am reminded of the significance of solidarity.  I believe that the issues that should matter in the next election will take a backseat to issues in the bedroom.  All the heterosexually oriented people, despite race or gender, which cast their vote, will undoubtedly and far outnumber the homosexual.  There are more people that will choose to express their distaste for homosexuals while in the safe and anonymous confines of the ballot booth than not. Those same people that laugh at Will & Grace and party with us at clubs are the same ones that will vote against our rights in the next election and I am frightened…and I for one will be scared straight to the polls, if nothing more than with a single message.  “I refuse to allow your blatant or subconscious views to define the individual view of myself any longer.  I will love myself in the way that I love others and will be an example for a generation.”