...but You Can Still Kiss Your Girlfriend at the Hippie Bizarre!

If there is some intelligent entity governing my life, I imagine that she is quite pleased with the timeliness of this personal project wrap-up.  Two years to the same weekend that #3 officially consummated her affair with ‘Diapers,’ the house closed.  So, this is full circle in linear time. 

Back then, I had been in Austin for the week, seeing old friends and checking out bands at The Armadillo Bazaar.  The plan was to hang and get grounded after a whirlwind of multi-state moves.  So, I’m standing there, listening to a familiar singer and I think, “I’ve got to find a way to get home (but we just bought a new one).”  I don’t know how I'll do it; #3 won’t ever agree to it.  So, I follow Bestie to the line for a lunchtime pint and decide that I will adult-up before the trek home. 

In less than 48 hours, the break-up email would come. I would be in IKEA, reading a list of measurements for new blinds for the new office in our new home, when hemorrhoids that I didn’t even know I had would drop and begin to implode inside. “Something is terribly wrong,” I would tell myself. And there on a public toilet, I would try to avoid the pain, playing with my smart phone that would effortlessly relay a crafted email.

“Stay with friends. I won’t be here when you get back,” #3 promised.

So, you can see—for the sake of closing this personal perseverance project—I must go to The Armadillo this year. I must stand where I stood two years ago when I knew that I needed—but didn’t yet know why I needed—to come home so that my feet might be anchored when the thundering effects of Fate’s synchronicity comes around the bend and knocks me in the chest.  “NOW,” It will command.  Through this ritual, I can really, truly know that everything will begin in the land of soy and honey.

This performer, Terri Hendrix, was the last band I saw before #2 and I packed a U-haul for Tallahassee.  On a Sunday afternoon, 2 dozen girl-girl dance partners scooted across the floor—with about a hundred straight people—in the oldest dance hall in Texas.  We got there first and got to drinkin’ first, and so we set the tone.

“The lesbians will be having fun today.  We won’t be sitting on the wayside and watching other people with the good legs God gave ‘em scoot on by.  Everyone will just need to grow up,” we declared by feeling and doing what straight people take for granted while they aimlessly exhaust about the earth. It was one of the last impressions I had of Texas and I took it with me on my many moves, silently self-professing that my love could dance if gays (and exhausting breeders) could get over themselves and grow up.

This adorable and talented Ms. Hendrix is the performer I watched when I had my epiphany at The Armadillo two years ago.  http://www.terrihendrix.com/music/  Clearly, Fate is telling me that she should be gay.  I should tell her.  I think I will, and we can live happily ever after.

“Why don’t you write a blog?” Dim Sum had phoned during the Hendrix show. I got back to her after I caught Anchorman2, a pint and a gourmet pretzel at the Alamo Drafthouse.

“I’m just taking in all of the pictures—sensory data is colliding.  Nothing connects enough to build a rhythm, to make a story.”

“Write about that. It seems to help.”

“I know—but the blog is supposed to be about lesbian dating, and I’m not doing, or watching, any of it.”

“Why does it have to be about that?”

“I don’t want to be a bore!”  But, I’m thinking and not admitting out loud, “I’ve spent the past five days walking around with Dicken’s ghost of Christmas Past. He won’t shut up about how stupid I was with #2.  God, there’s so much material.”

I glance over at two grass baskets that I bought for my house host, Betts.  She wants to put roots in them—potatoes and onions.  They are identical to two baskets that I toss’d during the move a mere three weeks ago.  I glance over.  They’re just on my front seat, rolling about with a bunch of other stuff I’d picked up throughout the weekend—not in bags with the store names on them.

“Wow! Walmart is already out of bags,” I had said when Betts and I were buying Christmas. The clerk was stacking our purchases on the turnstile that had empty arms for bags.

“No. We’re in Austin.”

“Hh?”

“No plastic bags anywhere in the city limits.”

(I remember when I shopped at the very first Whole Foods.  It was an old inner city store. You could roll an orange down the length of it, and the employees weren’t required to bathe if they didn’t have a rental agreement or know anyone who had a shower.  I always said, ‘There must be a required amount of THC in the bloodstream to work here.’ But, one guy shared an adage that I pocketed and shared in Tallahassee, ATL, OC, Roll Tide Land, and Cajun Country.  He looked up from an induced haze, retracted the plastic bag and refused to give my granola and OJ a co-habitating home, ‘Save the earth [man].’  Clearly, he was a prophet. But, this dictating of blind authority and refusing bags for others to choose or not to choose to save the earth reeks of communism and conservative controls.) “This measure is extreme even for the hippies.”

It’s always weird to start over, beginning again in a new city.  But, this is my city. And, I get lost every time I try to find once-familiar entrances to parking lots and theaters… or highways because there is this super toll road that is in the way of everything, and it is always empty. 

“Wow! Did anyone ask the hippies if they would pay to use this monstrosity?  Wait, are there any more hippies in Austin? Who the hell is running this joint if they aren’t?”

On the phone with Bestie—who was apologizing that I drove 37 miles to see a show on a Sunday afternoon and couldn’t find parking—said, with exasperation, that she and hubby got there 45 minutes early.

“We barely got a seat.” 

“I know. I have to get used to this pace. I remember what it was like—always leave 30 minutes early and expect at least one wreck along the way.  It’s just that it’s ‘break.’  I thought with the kids being gone (UT/St. Ed/ACC students) things would be a bit slower.”

“Yeah, not really. Austin is different.  You don’t really notice if the students (70,000+ of them!) are here or not.”

I stop to think about those 110 degree summers that were bearable because (at least) there is room for the wind to blow and for a spirit to breathe, and then I wonder deep inside—where authentic wonder and hemorrhoid pain comes from—, “Did anyone ask the hippies if this is what they wanted?” 

No More Voo-doo Until I Find My Mojo

I do love Voo-Doo. I wish there was some where I work so I could dash in for a quick one at lunch break. But, I have to think of reasons to not eat here.

I've got this ritual, covering the tops of saltines with burnt orange love sauce and then counting drips that fall from holes before the whole ka-bang is in my mouth.

"I need extra sauce," a take-out patron demands with heroine-addiction impetus.
"Oh yeah--you do!" I applaud in my mind but not out loud (because my mouth is full with a poor-man's appetizer.)

Besides, we patrons need to stick together, keep it quiet. No one here wants management to know how bad we need their spicy cane juice. They'll start charging to leave the bottle at the table.

Voo-Doo definitely has the best BBQ in my neighborhood--probably in the whole city. I came here after I lost a court case that my ex left me to fight. I came here after the master bedroom flooded. I came here immediately after...

I'll definitely need me some Voo-doo at the next stop.

"Wherever that might be".

Oh, I know! I told you I was going to Austin, but:

• the kids gotta eat 
• the job that i hated became my life-jacket
• life is wherever I breathe
• even if i'm single for the rest of my life
• because i could still be alone in Austin
• and, i have to start over
• and, i have to find a job
• and, i have kids to feed

Tonight, I don't have to make sense of it. I just need to eat my yummy 'Mardi Gras with smoked turkey, dried berries, diced mango, and hold the stinky-sock-goat-cheese salad', please. Tonight, I play in the yummy blackberry vinaigrette, drizzling non-sensical circles.

"I don't know how these crazy Cajuns haven't figure out how to batter this shi-zizzle, deep fry it, and cover it with more sauce."
"This $4*t is serious!"

I can't ever decide which one is best. I pick blind and then get too committed to remember THERE ARE OTHER OPTIONS. By then, I'm half crazed in a way that I haven't felt since the last time I was in Voo-doo. I look at the spice rack that has holes for other choices and reach out. I don't care which one. I just need to feed this force.

"I could easily stay with this one for the rest of my meal."

I've already covered all of my saltines with one of the two when I realize I'm halfway through my pallet refreshing pint, but I haven't tasted the third sauce. I hold its label to the light, savoring the last act.

"'Mojo'! Why did I ever go for the 'Tangy' or 'Traditional' first?"

And then--after two years of involuntary celibacy-,-this entire conversation resembles a dating pattern.

"God--I soooooooo need a girlfriend!"

Tools (only) My Heart Has

          My heart has already

          gone to Austin, and I

          fear that my mind

          doesn’t’ have the tools

          to lure it east of the

          Lone Star state line.

I got notice yesterday that we’re—finally—closing on the house next month. So, I text'd these thoughts to DimSum after a night of not sleeping. 

Tonight, I’m on a business trip with Love Heroine and some others I rarely travel with. We’re playing darts in a pub. I’m up against New Guy. I aim for ‘20’ but hit ‘4’.

“I’m going home,” I think of the lights that shine on the state capitol at Congress Avenue. 

In rapid succession, I think of five friends who will be less than 10 miles away from wherever I live. I think of homemade tortillas and Town Lake. My whole body shivers with excitement, and I’m glad that I have this wonderful secret.

“It’s time.”

New guy makes up crazy ways to throw the darts, and I think of soon-to-be Saturday nights in Austin. For New Year’s, I’ll be dancing in a room that’s sticky and smelly with not-so-straight-people. My heart races at the thought that the girl in a blue dress could be in the same spot at Oil Can Harry’s. I aim for ‘19’ but it bounces and the point sticks in the floor.

“I’m going home!”

The text to DimSum caused me to think of unknowns that come with moving to this ridiculously popular city. Sure, I have friends there, but I don’t have a job or place to live with my 3 pets. I have savings; but, will it last? Then, tears release anx when I feel truth knot up in my throat.

“At least I finally know where I need to be.”

It won’t be Florida—not Georgia, not Alabama, not Louisiana, not California. I’ve been on an incredible adventure this past decade, but it’s not easy to be a stranger in the South when you’re gay. My heart hurts for familiar faces that calibrate my soul.

“I’ll be home for the Armadillo Bazaar, SxSW, and Pride. Ahhhh, Hippie Hollow!"

It’s been 11 years.  #2—who I don’t write about but was the best thing that ever happened to my relentless frame filled with too much wanderlust—taught me about unconditional love and about making a home feel inviting. But, the world was my oyster; I needed adventure. So, we moved to Florida and then Georgia.  Whatever I was looking for wasn’t in Atlanta—with her—, so I followed #3 to California, to Alabama, to Louisiana where she would leave me for a 27-year old. (Not that there’s anything wrong with marrying someone who was in diapers the summer you left for college).

It’s all good; I’m better for the toils and troubles that come with this many moves and mysteries. I finally appreciate simple breaths and beliefs from random beings. I never took the time for strangers until I was one. 

“I’m going home.”

Tossing darts with my eyes not looking toward the bull’s eye, I'm thinking about how good it will feel to play darts at Gingerman on a Sunday afternoon with a pint of St. Arnold Brown in my bellly. And, I’m thinking about outdoor concerts at Bestie’s and Bestie Jr’s. I can feel the summer Texas heat rise through my thighs, and it makes me shiver.

A few months ago, I interviewed for a job with a great company that could give me a good job title. I can stay ‘there’ for the rest of my adult career, my life.

“Maybe they’ll call back before I pack everything?”

This crazed-hope scares me. It would mean life in a small city-town. I think of that last weekend in Austin, having breakfast with Wingman the morning after Pride, and thinking of all of the people who were celebrating their life in public. There were thousands. And, I am remembering the feeling I had, hoping to touch the hips of the girl in the blue dress.

Last weekend, trying to stay positive—so that I can put food on the table for Sweet Georgia Brown, Cali Surfer Girl, and Puff the Magic Dragonslayer—, I got a voyeur’s license for Cupid.com. I searched within 100 miles of that city-town. Not one lesbian seeks companionship.

“Can a place like that ever be home?” 

I think about living with a lover there and know that I’ll be half living. We won’t be out; I’ll for forever be introduced as her friend. Yuck.  Even if I never find another lover in Austin, I’ll be 3-D. There, lovers hold hands in broad day light.

“Imagine.”

“Everyone should live this life wherever they are.”

Kumbaya & Cowabunga!

There’s a crazed muse in me.  She has erratic but invigorating energy that lifts when it flows.  She’s responsible for most of the 2girlsR> posts, but my day reality has been so heavy that she can’t get in and lift the muck or find room to dance. That’s why I haven’t been writing; it’s not fair to drag you through it.  Also, there are no lesbians in Baton Rouge.  

I’m in Austin for a much needed R&R and PRIDE.  Things, they are a changin’.  In the mile long parade, the majority of floats and participants come from local churches. The not-haters are carrying signs. 

“We welcome you.”  

“God has a rainbow covenant.” 

Ahhhhhhh, Christians are embracing Christ’s spirit, and the proportion of haters:lovers is upsetting the status quo.  All of this kumbaya is wonderful and great but I need to find a lovely in my size and temperament.  

So, I look toward the end of the parade to be sure I can beat these 1,000+ partiers into Oil Can Harry’s. I go to order a tall and refreshing beverage, and it’s already packed. Temperatures are high and bodies are reeking.  I push and press toward the back patio where my wingman is making friends. She points to a pack of youngin's.

“I asked that girl if I could buy her a drink.”

“What happened?”

“I turned around and she took off with her beer, and mine.”

“Crap!”

Next to them is a lovely in a blue dress.  She looks like some(gay)one I used to admire from afar.  With the doubIe-whammy of familiarity and interest, I can’t help but to stare.  But, in a place like this on a night like this, staring at someone screams, “Horny stalker.” 

I’m too shy for this nonsense. I grab Wingman and we head to the dance floor.  After a beat and a bounce, I know I’ve made a mistake. I need to go back and utter non-sequitors. I jump off the stage and bump into a straight girl who wants to mock grind, I bob and weave to race down the half stairs.

Blue is gone.  Her friends are gone. There’s no trace that they were ever there, and it’s only been the length of half a song.

“Is there a chance she was treading water in this sea for the past hour because she was waiting for me?”

“Crap!”

“She’s just what I want; she’s just what I need.”

After ~2 years without someone significant, I do need someone.  Plus, I’m getting old. If I’m ever going to be intimate with someone before I get wrinkled, it needs to happen soon.  I need for the last special someone to have a “when you were still attractive” memory before we get old and grey and too broken to get it up—our ‘love energy’ that is.

The woman in blue haunted me through the night. By the bewitching hour, I gave up and walked back to the hotel alone, crossing the bridge along Congress in the night sky’s light.  

“Alone.” 

I’d already dreamed of Blue a few times when Wingman rolled into the other bed.  This morning, I’m wondering if Blue will be at the breakfast buffet, reaching for her custom egg white veggie omelet.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” I could say. Sure—I can find the words, now.

I imagine us exchanging digits in a hurried craze because we only have an hour to seal our love and eat our complimentary meals before the coffee kicks in and carries us to our disparate realities. I would reach for the sugar, or the salsa, before I remember that I hate long distance relationships.  But, I would promise to try…for the sake of love.

Hell.  There’s too much going on in my life to insert someone now.  With all I’ve been through, the tsunami has merely reached its crest, and it will fall before 60 more days if we don’t sell this house.  For the sake of love, I couldn’t involve someone in that muck.

“I can be strong as long as someone doesn’t tell me it’s okay to be weak,” I tell Wingman during breakfast. 

This sentiment brings a tear to both of our eyes because we’ve been friends since we were teens. I know it hurts to think of all that I’ve been through and there’s nothing she can do; plus, we’re both really hung over and emotions are way too convenient after 12 straight hours of drinking and then a night of dream dancing with a girl in blue suede shoes.

I need to paddle toward the tsunami and hope that I can shoot through the tube. I’ll be a better lover when my feet hit the shore. 

“Peace out, the surf's up!"

Guest Blogger #4: Merit for Marit's Sake

This entry was connected to a comment. But, it is a story in and of itself, ") :

I have an issue. I don't like to write in black and white. I certainly don't see the world in that way at all. Not to say grey, but; "Live in living COLOR."

But as it took me as long to type in this whole longggg address, I may as well make the most of it;-)

I pondered as I was nursing looming tendonitis from keyboarding the previously mentioned address; Is this rather cute woman I've been sending often rambling, lacking any sense of order sending me on a wild goose chase, just to send me to the land of "yer weird & bugger off?" I'm glad that isn't the case... yet.

I smoke like a flipping chimney out of Mary Poppins. She was kind of a prudish nanny and supercalifagilisticxbalocous aside, Miss. Poppins would have a heck of a time getting me off the ceiling. Weeee, flight from laughing too much!

Ah, yes, my smoking. true it is smelly habit. I started only five years ago, in Baton Rouge to be exact. Somebody said 90% of models smoke for weight control. Boom! I found me the nearest7/11 and bought Malboro's because that was only cigarette I knew the name of. Better for the waist line than bags of Bit-o-Honey's.

I will quit, someday. I will just wake up one morning and be done with them. That day has yet to arrive. Smokers are now quite a sub culture. 

We are banished to the outside nearly everywhere & when it is -15 degrees outside ya tend to band together.

Normal. You mentioned normality as being individualized, so true Grasshopper. Getting older, 'tis good to embrace ones individuality. FFolks, either like me or more often tThan not, after the polite niceities (so no how to spell that) people either think i'm a hoot or a glaze comes over their eyes as they look for a quick exit. I happen to like being quirky and wow, what I wouldn't do to to meet a woman who also isn't afraid to jump in puddles and are willing to not only take a risk on occaision, but to stop dead in their tracks because there is a field of daisies. Slow down enough to appriciate the beauty that surrounds us.

My dinner is ready. Loaded potatoe sticks and warm cookies. Yeah, that's the way to stay healthy ;-O

Goodbye and good luck i'd now like to sign, from the cheerleading squad of Edison High!   - Marit

The Truly Revolutionary Promise of Our Founding Sinners

This book, Skipping Toward Gomorrah, has been on my night stand for about 2 weeks. It looks lonely.  Maybe I should sprinkle salt on it? I’m sure that would cause the raising of an eyebrow for conservatives who are fingering through my personal items while pretending to want to buy my home.  It would be the first whammy!, coupled with the Hindu-Buddhist-Muslim-Goddess-Christian altar that is in the bonus room immediately above the master.  Near it is a framed pastel of my guardian angel and a 4 foot oil of the prophet Isaiah. Otherwise, I’m sure my realtor would have instructed me to put the silliness away (so that I don't offend) for the sake of a sell.

I’ll need to return the book, so I thought I would skip church and read a few chapters.  Within the first, I’m uneasy and don’t know why.  I like that the author, Dan Savage, is pounding the social conservatives, and I kind of like the tongue-in-cheek angle that he’s taking.  (And, I liked him and the things he said in his NPR interview: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=186926890). But then, he summarizes with a sentence:

There are millions of ethical, fully moral sinners in America, and I’ve grown sick of listening to the right wing bitch and moan about them while the left wing refuses to defend them.

Again, I'm surrounded with my own agreements.  I like that he differentiates between ethics and morals.  Theses words are different but are often used interchangeably in debates. The slight-of-hand switch allows scold mongers to skew the conversation just enough that you're no longer talking about what you were talking about. Savage calls out this tactic:

        By successfully framing the debate as virtue versus sin, and not the laws versus your freedoms,
       the virtuecrats have succeeded in silencing their political foes...

And, I like that he calls out the left for not defending the American/God-given right to pursue peculiar happinesses. But, I know why I’m gradually letting my fingers loosen from the box car on his runaway train. It's the word ‘sinner.’ Up to this point, this author defends the right of (American) humans to pursue happiness, but then he acquiesces to the enemy’s position that homosexuals and other happiness-seekers are sinners.  What happened during the 8-10 pages of defending the right to follow one's own pleasure principle?

I look back to the opening sentences:

The truly revolutionary promise of our nation’s founding document is the freedom to pursue happiness-with-a-capital-H. Unfortunately, this promise is considered problematic by some Americans. The very pursuits that make some Americans happy (some very happy indeed) are considered downright sinful by social conservatives.

The opening position seems to contradict the concluding one. Did Mr. Savage convince himself that the “moral scolders” were right, or did he always secretly accept that homosexual interactions are sinful? If my guy is in flux, I don’t want to depend on the fire-spitting protestors who stood at the doors of the casino (where the Baton Rouge PRIDE event occurred yesterday).  Those people were certain in their beliefs even though they were unbelievable.

I might have found my answer at the thinking church.  I intended to go because all ages and models of Unitarians came out to support our gay rights march to and up the Capitol steps. But—, I checked the sermon topic—I can’t make it on Father’s Day.

I tried to remove this holiday from my “smart phone” calendar, but it kept coming back! I haven’t spoken to my paternal-DNA donor in about twenty years, and it’s been longer than that since I believed his unbelievable truth.

“You’re going to hell,” he had said with delusion.

He was (and possibly still is) an uber-conservative prison-preacher who has the audience that he always demanded—a captive one.  (That’s a slow-rising joke). 

In high school, I had wanted to be a missionary, but God did all he could to steer me away—save coming down, wrapping flesh around his holy spirit, and pointing a big fat waving finger, “NO!”   So, after funding couldn’t be allocated for my mission-field training, I opted for a student loan and landed on a college campus with 20,000 pagans. 

“She just needs to get to the ‘Psychology of Women’, and then all will fall in place,” God must have said. 

I can attribute my gay awakening to this undergraduate class, and my spiritual awakening to a ‘Bible As Literature’ class in graduate school.  The latter was conducted in the most conservative part of the south that I’ve ever perpetuated in.  (To give credence to this claim—I’ve lived in Texas, Florida, Georgia, Alabama, and Louisiana.) So, I found it surprising that an atheist who was also a lesbian would replace the local Southern Baptist preacher and be this university’s chosen professor.  

On the first day, she had us bring a Bible—the only required text.
“Which version,” many of us asked?

“Whatever you like,” she said.

So, we all show up with everything from KJV to The Living Bible versions. The class unanimously agreed that one guy’s bible was paraphrased by rappers. 

The prof would review a book (of the bible) and point to someone to read a verse.  Then, she would point to someone else to read the same verse.  And then, she would point to someone else to read it.  The most amazing revelations would occur when comparisons were made because within the English language the meaning proved to be inconsistent.

“’Man’ wrote this book,” I finally had to accept.

Biblical scriptures have been translated from Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic and/or Greek, and then carelessly documented into English, reflecting social prejudices of the 17^th Century.  I had learned from a Rabbi (when I was young) that the word ‘homosexual’ (as it is used today) didn’t occur in ancient scriptures.  Early communities accepted same-sex couplings except where older men had sex with young men. This act, rightfully, would have been viewed as pedophilia &/or rape.  This caused me to have an "ahh-ha" moment, realizing that the woman who turned around in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah was an example of the "salt of the earth" because she had so much compassion for the people who were burning that she couldn't not look back and save her own life. 

It was difficult for me to write the required papers for that class.  I offered topical treatments of the subjects that had little to do with the Bible and more to do with socio-political struggles that the allegorical figures, in their hypothetical communities, were presumed to have participated in.  Throughout the semester, I tried to process how all of my pre-college positions had foundations in something so unbelievable.

Knowing that the words can be so easily replaced with words that appear to be synonymous, I can’t place my spiritual faith in man and his static words.  When I hear the fire-spitters reference the Bible and claim that I am a sinner, I want to ask, “Do you believe in the Holy Spirit?” I imagine the conversation will go this way.

“Do you believe in the Holy Spirit?”

“Of course, I do!” the spitter would spit.

“Then, you believe in the spirit of the Law?”

“Of course, I do!” the spitter would spit and maybe stomp for emphasis.

“How do you believe in the spirit of the Law and the letter of the Law?  These contradict each other.”

At this point the spitter would spit, quoting Bible verses that defend hatred.  In response, I would not offer all of the verses that represent God’s (inspired) love.  With love and logic lost, I’d be wasting valuable energy on this hate monger. I’d rather channel it toward people who understand Christian charity. 

On my way past the fire-spitters, I’m in step with a girl who is walking toward the entrance. 

“Grab my hand,” she commands.

It takes me a minute to understand her words, but I follow her inviting smile.

“Good call,” I say when we release and reach for the doors of the PRIDE party. 

She smiles.

“It’s always surprising to me that prisoners get care and compassion, and we get that.”

She smiles and shrugs, heading toward a group of girlfriends who are reaching out for her sweet embrace. 

If the Gays Jump'd off a Bridge, Would You Jump Too?

I met Colt for dinner. We talk about anything. I'm a bit giddy with him like I was when I dated boys. I have to calm myself, but it takes some time because I just love this guy.  Weird, huh?

We talk about health and happiness. We talk about softball (girls) and baseball (RBIs).  And when I'm lucky, he explains—with judicial authority—why this country is at the brink of a radical change for gay rights.  Girl, I get giddy then.

I think he is a true believer which is odd since I'm the one who should be telling straight-man lawyer how things should be. It's me who should be pointing a wagging pointy finger. But, in fact, he's the one telling me.

"It is unconstitutional that the law does not extend the same rights to gays that it extends to straight couples," Colt is talking about surrogate parenting laws.

I did not know but a current case is hanging in the balance. I'm bad; I didn't take note of all of the specifics. I remember he said that the straights could lose their rights to use surrogates because the courts—or the conservative majority (which may be the same thing)—fear that this ruling will allow same sex couples as well as gays to use surrogates [sperm or egg] to perpetuate a lineage.

"If they allow the straights, this law will allow the gays.  So, here's where the fight is," Colt says.
"That's awesome!" I pound my fist on the table. "It's like when all the boys were dying from AIDS, Reagan turned his head and no one cared until the straights started dying. Then and only then did the nation care about what AIDS was doing to citizens."
Colt is visibly alerted.
"This is what gays have always needed," I'm amp'd and awake.  "We are a small minority. Until what they want is what we want, gays can't get empathy, grounds for commonality."
Colt shakes his head.

I'm not sure if he's disagreeing or searching through his '80s memories for some similarities between then and now.  He begins to talk about how great it would be [for any lawyer] to present a case to the Supreme Court.  I offer to help him have this opportunity.

"Let's go out and get me a girl to marry, right now." I pound my fist on the table, gently.  "Tomorrow, we'll demand that Louisiana marry us. You can defend us."
"Yes, that would be nice of you," Colt smiles because he knows that my motive has less to do with getting him to a higher court than it has to do with getting me to a higher state.
"If I can't find a girl, I'll get a rope and a goat! That will get you the case before the court," I am thinking of the Faux news statements about how the nation's acceptance of homosexuals will cause some percentage of humans to want to marry any old beast of choice.
"No—because the goat can't offer mutual consent," Colt offers a trump smile, again.

After a long conversation about who will pay the bill and what significant things might happen this week, we part ways with a hug and a promise that we'll buy tickets for the baseball game on Friday. I head home and pass the gay bar. MacTiger's car is there, so I pull in for 1 beer. He gives me a hug and a few of us enter into a conversation about the differences between male and female bonding.  MacTiger has a good friend who is straight.  She talks about need for personal space.

"I want to go for a vacation without feeling like he [the boyfriend] must come. Don't get me wrong; if he walked in right now, I would light up," she says.

I get her.
I get that we live, today, with fewer gender laws.
We live without grandparent's social laws.
We struggle to find norms.
I thank the good Lord.

I opted to spend the evening with my straight male friend while MacTiger sat in the gay bar with his straight girl friend. And to complete the circle, Colt has been in the bar a few times with his gay (male) friends. Life is changing whether (us) old farts are ready for it or not.  The questions for the next generation is, "Will you accept your right to be free-er? Expect it? Demand it?"

Colt's words reassure. The stand against gay rights has taken "a mortal blow." The proof is that a conservative Supreme Court Justice (Scalia) can't find justification for denying rights to homosexuals who seek marriage equality.

"Well... if the Supreme Court doesn't vote the way of the land, can you imagine the day they don't award us our rights?" I paint the picture of a drag queen ass-whooping. "We will riot like no other minority ever."

Colt sits back. He is alerted.

"They broke glass; our boys will break stilettos. And, there will be pink triangles spray painted across this land by every Zorro mask'd lesbian who drives a semi."

Colt imagined the worst that we could do; and, he smiled, knowing that we'd be righteous in our long-time-due rainbow rebellion. 

Warning: Watermelon Chips Induce Love's Labours

“Come on ref! Do something, already!"

“These Cajuns got something spicy in their snow cones,” I think while I slide sideways, knee-bumping fans who are watching the stats board add another run for the visiting team.  

It’s the bottom of the third. Home team is losing, it’s hot, and I didn’t bring a cap or SPF.  I’m sucking on watermelon ice chips as if the chill will off-set the coming sunburn.

“Why did I spend $22.16 ($15 for tickets; $2 processing fee; $3 on-line processing fee; $2.16 print out fee (because my home printer broke for no apparent reason, and so I had to go to the neighborhood Fedex Office just 15 minutes before the game. (But, I got to feel the copygirl’s energy one more time.  (I hadn’t yet decided if she’s on our team.  Now, I know she’s not because she wasn’t at all interested in the fact that I was in a huge hurry to print my SOFTBALL tickets or let me know that she ‘would love to be there’))) for these misery-inducing seats?”

I think this thought about the time my body-hot lotion is pushing from my pores and lubricating the plastic arm rests. Now, my fluids are mixing with all kinds of other people’s fluids that have pushed out and resided here for decades.  But then—, I spy a pretty girl and the aria begins, and I have an answer to my question. 

"That’s why!”  

Yep, she’s pretty (with or without a ball cap), and those shorts are just the right length to wrap, like Saran cling, around her muscular thighs.  I’m going to take the liberty to infer that her eyes compliment golden hues that emanate from her tanned body parts, but my attentions are returning to a different area.  

“How did you know she was the one?” my future mother-in-law might ask after the wedding.

“It was her neck,” I would say with unyielding assurity.

Sure; why not?  This God-sculptured art is the embodiment of her strength and grace.  Her golden-brown velvety corridor facilitates for truth—from her crown to root chakra—connecting the omniscient universe and mother earth.  With all in alignment , she is fair, kind, and just with any and all who might cross her path.  What an incredible person she is.  A blind (wo)man would readily agree.  

“Girl, you gotta go with what you know,” I think when I reach for the last of the melting watermelon chips.  

I’ve started relationships on less, and I’ll follow the same intuitive voice through the tunnel of love and death.  

And, you?  What’s the most intrirguing body part that you (or a friend) have ever stalked, involuntarily?  

Moms Against McCarthyism

At the local rally (in March) for equal rights, I met a heterosexual man who wandered onto the courthouse lawn.  We’ll call him Colt.  We’ve become fast friends with texts about random thoughts and abstract realities.  Like me, he doesn’t fear that permanent harm will come from stepping into the other guy’s position and seeing the world through an antagonist’s eyes.  Many people do, and so humans have this devolution of empathy that runs rampant, circling our planet.  (For that reason, I’ve just finished the 5-Act script for Planet Puster’s Purple Problem which will explain everything and illuminate erroneous ideologies so that we can get on with our specie's evolution.  If you want to participate in the grand production of this animation, I need help with everything except the script—and maybe a bit of help with the script—so, just let me know where you (and a friend?) want to jump in.)

This past Friday, Colt invited me to a party to celebrate a gay man’s 60th birthday. They've been friends since adolescents or some few years after.  There were a collection of impressive resumes and genuine wit at this dinner party.  Many of them have been friends for three or more decades.  Two of the straight couples invited their gay adult child, one brought a boy and one sent a girl with her girlfriend.

Colt and I met the boy on the night of the rally about the time I was handing him a 2girls card.  The young man had overheard enough of our conversation to follow the impetus in his legs and ask for more of Colt’s predictions.  I was on my way out when this red head—let’s call him Tré— interrupted us, so I excused myself and forgot to hand him a 2girls card. 

A few months later, at this party, Tré and I are blocking the aisle to the food and fridge because we are in a heated debate about gay rights.  His mom (who I think is an attorney) was listening to our socio-political volleys. 

“We should have the right to marry, even if we chose not to exercise it,” Tré says.

“But do we want this right simply because we can’t have it? It’s not working for so many, why do we want to enter into something that binds us to laws and costly regulations?”

Trevor continues his point and I continue to say things that appear to startle his mom.  I’m playing devil’s advocate, but my ramblings are beginning to convince me that this institution is a pit filled with quick sand.  

“With marriage, we save money,” Tré says.

“Until we give it to divorce lawyers.”

“We should be able to have insurance and other securities.”

I applaud this position, remembering a few speakers at the rally who shared their stories about medical needs and adopted children.  And then, I confessed that I’ve not known those conundrums, and am not sure that the prime reason (for gays to marry) should be for medical benefits. 

“We should have the right to marry, even if we chose not to exercise it,” Tré reminds.

“It wasn’t a marriage certificate that perpetuated any of my former relationships.  Every morning when I woke up, I was there because I chose to be there. More, I knew that my partner chose to be there. For me, that was worth more than a court’s decree,” I said with resounding idealism.

The truth is, I'm done with this subject.  I wish it was already recorded in the history books with a chapter title, “When Humans Were Still Selfish.”  One of the other party goers—an attorney who swings for our team—popped into the conversation and said, “It’s only a matter of time.”  She added, “In a few years, it will be like the McCarthy era—politicians who opposed gay marriage will be back peddling and explaining ‘what they said isn’t what they meant.’” I toasted, taking a gulp of celebratory spirits.  

Tré—a lawyer or advocate in the making—wasn’t finished with the devil’s advocate in me.  I was pushing down my second Amstel Light.  He must have felt that he’d have me pinned within a few more ounces.  He threw the subject of ‘parenting’ out where it hovered in the air above the communal butcher block. 

“Wouldn’t it be better for a child to have two loving fathers, than parents who fight and don’t care about the child?” 

Here, the pseudo-Freudian in me tried to not focus on the word “fathers,” as I would have thought the default stereotype would go to mothers.  It occurred to me that Tré was revealing his role in parenting with a male partner.  I wanted to stay focused, so I addressed the meat of what he was saying.

“Gays aren’t inherently better people.  Today, the ones who choose parenting are grateful.  In a few generations, gays will take parenting for granted.”

I felt a rock land in the pit of his mother’s stomach.  I’m not sure why my statement had so much gravity, but she thanked me for the conversation—while I was leaving the party—, and that caused a rock to land in the pit of my stomach.  Was she thanking me for my rational point-of-view or offering a mother’s sweet hope to a cynic?  

She’s been on my mind all weekend.  I keep hearing descriptions of her own ceremony, and what this particular formality means to family members.  I keep hearing "all things should be equal," and how gays need to participate in the matrimonial milestone.  More, I keep hearing the murmurings of her desire.  Who wouldn’t want to see Tré—this beautiful idealist—hold hands before God and his family?  I imagine that she waits to hear the other man say, “I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health.  I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”  I would want that for Tré. What mother wouldn’t want to add this moment to her life's experiences...with each and every one of their children?  She waited and listened, holding her fortitude until I came around— though, it took me a couple of days. 

On this day, I thank moms for the (random) sweet hope they instill in idealists…and cynics.  Without you, we couldn’t perpetuate this necessary evolution or remember what this earth experiment is all about.

Guest Blogger #3: Four Lessons Learned

Rather than write about how to date, I thought I'd submit some valuable lessons I recently learned after the painful end of my relationship with the person I thought was “the one.” Maybe fellow readers may learn from my lessons or take some comfort, maybe not?

Lesson 1 – Please have the courage to not tell a person you love them if you do not really love them. Do not send them emails saying you love them sooooo much. Do not tell them you love them randomly while sitting across the room, while having sex, in texts, before going to bed. Do not tell a person you love them as if to mean you are “in love with them” when 8 months later you plan to tell them “I love you, but I'm not in love with you.” It brings false hope. Tell them you care about them or explain how you love them. The phrase, “I love you, but I'm not in love with you” brings such heartache.

Lesson 2 – Please do not ever end a relationship by disappearing. Do not tell someone you love and care about them as a friend and then not speak to them for a month. I understand that you don't know what to say. I understand you are also in pain, but disappearing makes things harder. This person you “love and care for,” who once held your love and affections, is now without everything you provided them emotionally. Abandoned and rejected.  

                   Relationships are interdependent. While codependency is not a healthy relationship, it does supply affections and the belief in love. To abandon someone with no explanation for a month (or worse...longer) doesn’t mean you’re more mature.  The one you promised love is left asking, “please say something???” This person has processed every emotional ending of the relationship [alone]; this person had decided to love you unconditionally because she always did. Though she knows it is over, she is trying to salvage your friendship because above everything, she always valued this...your friendship.

                  Please do not, then, reply and negate the entire relationship, invalidate every word of love and affection spoken, using words like “attachment” and “inexperienced” because it is too hard for you to admit what occurred, and it is easier for you to cut-off every emotion. To not be able to love and care enough to be a friend (after everything) is sad.

Lesson 3 – For those of us who are hurting...know that you were and are true and unconditional in your love, because you can forgive these actions and pray for her well-being, leaving out bitterness. You can no longer weep over the rejection. You are a better person and you have loved. No one can take that away from you. Never regret falling in love.

Lesson 4 – When you are ready to date again, when you find a true adult who can love you, she will:

·         accept you as you are

·         allow life and love to be what they are (the highs and lows) without trying to control outcomes

·         show affection without penalty or withholding and always with respect

·         appreciate you for your gifts and your faults (they will know you are human and not expect perfection)

·         be able to give you attention by observing and listening and being present in the relationship you share

Until you meet the right one, read about the "Five As" in "How to Be an Adult in Relationships".  I wish you the best.

- Shrink'd by Tennyson 

A Bit of Einstein's Energy in All of Us Celebrities

     With E=mc², we know that energy equals ( mass  x  speed of light )².  If this applies to all things with mass and thoughts harbor energy, then I ask the question—how much does a thought weigh? Perhaps someone will fill-in the missing part of the equation:
                     a thought = ( ?   x 2.99792458 )²
     With consideration for energy, a thought has enough vigor to put my lips and limbs into motion.  With mass, a thought has enough gravity to anchor an erroneous belief that builds negative emotions with much fervor. 

          …our real fears are the sounds of footsteps walking in the corridors of our minds, and
         [anxieties are the floating phantoms] they create.                         –  Truman Capote

Together, mass and energy have enough influence to attract Rationalization and Justification—two of the most notorious fellows.

     According to ‘Laboratory for Neuro Imaging,’ the average human has 70,000 thoughts a day. This might make you think your mind is busy, busy, busy, but I’ve come to suspect that there are rest stops—marked by red push pins—throughout my mind’s map.  These are stations where it meets Rationalization and Justification for drinks (and they probably order pizza, bulking up for more anchoring around).  Worse, I’ve watched my mental energy get stuck and become static—circling in its cage.  With this many thoughts going in and some not coming out, something’s gonna give.

       We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.          –  Oscar Wilde

     These days, my thoughts aren’t near as heavy.  It’s lunch and I’m sitting in the park, eating a Lebanese salad.  I feel good, so it’s safe for me to think about this time last year. With ‘now’ running parallel to ‘then’, I realize I’ve lost weight.  My memories and hopes are floating and agile, seeking better couplings.  But, I had to let go—of heavy thoughts and advantageous people—in order to be this fit.

      After a period of time, living as if you were someone else is no fun.    – Richard Chamberlain

     Over the past 10 years, I’ve hypothesized the weight of various thoughts.  The question pops up when there are thought clouds over me or an other, looming with complications and computations to filter through.  I’ve come to a simple conclusion. Experiences cause energy to flow, and then leave thin film residue.  Like plaque in an artery, these layers of experiential mass weigh my thoughts and lessen my powers.  The trick to life—it seems—is experiencing the unsolicited stuff (from everyone and everywhere), filtering it through, and releasing what isn’t beneficial.

     Wisdom is the daughter of experience.                                          – Leonardo da Vinci

     Today, an NBA athlete shared the wonderful display of shedding meta-mass…for all the world to see:

     It takes an enormous amount of energy to guard such a big secret.      – Jason Collins

Mr. Collins wasn’t blackmailed by a self-righteous stalker, and he didn’t apologize.  He freely released his truth, adding the profession of ‘athlete’ to these artists who preceded him.

     What’s changed?   Everything.  The new generation isn’t cowering with the usual suspects—Rationalization and Justification.  We introduced DADT because it was progress and soon struck it down because even it held back our species.  And, the younger ones are working their way through the muck that has weighed our souls and drained our powers.  They aren’t waiting, or asking permission, to participate in the next greatest evolution. 

     Things can change in an instant, so why not live truthfully?            – Jason Collins

     Today's hero silenced the usual suspects of yore.  What was the apocalyptic result?  His significant financial providers—including Nike—voiced support and friends had his back.  Whatever lucky man—who wins Jason’s heart—will share life’s spectrum of experiences with the man he loves (from really good floor seats).

     And your very flesh shall be a great poem.                                       – Walt Whitman

    If you have a freedom story to tell, we’d love to read it—whether you know you're a celebrity or not, “).

Riding a Tricycle, Holding Daisy Dukes

Alice

“Chazz, get up. Let’s take the dogs out.”

“No, I’m tired.”

“You never want to do anything. Why do you drive all this way to lay on my couch?” Alice asked.

“I don’t have this many stations on the other end of my remote. Besides, it’s good for the girls to visit.  When we were together...”

Alice’s phone rang and she answered it, cutting off a reminder of the beginning of a memory that was going to address the elephant that was cross-legged and smoking on top of the coffee table.

“Yeah, I do.  What time?” Alice spoke to the caller.

Pause.

“You know how to get here?”

Pause.

“Ok. The gate code is 1-2-3-4.”

Alice put her phone on the bar and then threw a pack of cigarettes at Chazz’s head.

“Get up.”

“Who was that?”

“It was Micki.  She’s coming over later. We’re going for beers.”

Micki

“I’ve got a date tonight,” Micki said to her ex after she hung up.

“Who?” Melinda asked.

“I used to work with her ex.  When Chazz and I lived in Houston.”

“Christy?”

“No—aye, veigh!” Micki glared. “Why do you always bring her up?”

“I wonder. You tell me why I always think of Christy when you talk about Houston.” Melinda leaned forward and bugged out her eyes.  She pushed her face toward Micki.  “Maybe, because she broke us up?”

“That’s not why we broke up.”

“She was the first of a few reasons why we didn’t break up.”

“You want to go there?”  Micki bugged her eyes and pushed forward before she pulled back with emphasis.  “Besides, we’re better as friends.  We don’t fight near as much. Right?” Micki pulled the top from a Lite—Psssssttt.  “Right.”

“Whatever.  Toss me one.”  Pssssstttt. “Who’s the new girl?  What’s her name—Chazz?”

“Her name’s not Chazz.  I worked with Chazz.  I’m talking about her ex, Alice,” Micki took the last gulp.

“That’s right.  I remember Chazz.  So, what’s up with this Alice?”

“She reminds me of Christy,”  Micki grinned and crushed the can.

“Aye, veigh!  I’m going to kill you!”

Chazz

“Now, I’m really, really tired,” Chazz was the last one up the stairs and into the apartment.
“You were tired the day you were born,” Alice said.

“I remember. I did a lot of work that day.”  Chazz stretched out and reached for the remote. “I’m going to watch tv while you and Micki go for beers.”

“No. You’re going with. You can’t just come here and lay around like when we were together.” Alice pulled the pillow from under Chazz’s head and then popped her with it. “You’re going for beers with us.”

“I brought a twelve pack,” Chazz pointed toward the kitchen.  “Besides, you don’t even drink.”

“I’m going to eat, and y’all drink.”

“I’m not going on a date with you and Micki.  Uh-uh, no way.”
“I’m not dating her, I don’t even know her.  We’re going for burgers.”

“She’s going for beer and you’re going for burgers.  That’s a date, going the wrong way on a trike.”

The Not-Date

Buzzzzzz

“Hello?”
“Hey- uh, Alice. Can you let me in?”
“The gate?”

“I forgot the code.”

“Hold on.”

Buzzzz.

Knock, knock.

“Who’s there?” Chazz smiled when she opened the door.

“What the—?  Oh, ‘hi Chazz.’ What are you doing here?”

“Taking a nap,” She lunged toward the couched and plopped. “We just walked the dogs.”

Alice was dressed except for her shoes. She bent to lace them and then straightened her new walking sweats. “Did you have trouble finding it?”

“I like those. Did you get them at Academy?” Micki asked. 

“Macy’s.”

“Oh,” Micki straightened. She looked around the apartment but stopped to stare at Chazz’ elongated comfortable stretch. “Yeah, I’ve been here before. I knew this girl last summer.  Have you ever been to the pool?”

Chazz stood. “You want a beer?”

“I drink anything that’s free.” Micki tugged on her UofH cap.
“Aren't we going for food?” Alice asked.

Micki caught the beer.  “You still know how to play 3 gulps?”

“I’m playing 6 gulps these days,” Chazz replied.

“Well, down the hatch.” Micki crushed the can and looked up, “What are you going to do?”

“Huh?” Chazz asked.
“While we’re gone.” Micki looked at Chazz.  “Do you lock up?”

The Date

“Chazz. Can you send back my tacos? I asked for chicken,” Alice asked. “Just get them in a to-go.”

“Sure.”

“Hey Chazz, what’ve you been up to since Houston?” Micki asked.

“Don’t you mean since last month when I gave you her number?” Chazz nodded toward Alice.

“I mean. Did you ever get a job?”

“No. I go to dinner with people who will pay my bill in exchange for sending back their food.” Chazz nods toward Alice.  “It’s only a part-time job, but it keeps me out of the dumpsters.”

“You don’t have to be a shit.  We were friends,” Micki said.

“Yeah—until you and Christy started going to Sonic for afternoon slushes.”

“Wow!” Alice looked at Micki with a renewed interest, “You were the one who broke up Chazz and Christy?”

“That wasn’t the reason they broke up,” Micki snapped.

“I’ll get the check,” Chazz raised her arm.

After the waitress split the bill, Alice went one way while Chazz and Micki headed to the parking lot.  One lit a cigarette, and they shared it.   

“You remember when Melinda and I broke up?” Micki asked while exhaling.

“Yeah?  But then you always went dancing,” Chazz replied.

“Right.  That’s my point. On Sunday morning, we’d always say, ‘Why doesn’t anyone ask me out?’”

“Because everyone thought you were still together.”

“Right.  You ever wonder about stuff like that?”

“No. I don’t care what other people think. ”

“You seein’ anyone?”

After the Not-Date-Date

“Great idea.  Thanks for making me drink $4 beers instead of free ones,” Chazz said.

“What was up with her?” Alice asked.

“She was pissed because you brought your ex on a date.”

“If she wanted it to be a date, she could have asked me out.”
“She called you and asked you out.”

“She said, ‘Do you want to get something to eat?’”

“That’s what people do at the beginning of a date.” Chazz leaned in for a hug and whistled for one of the two sisters, “Come Daisy.”

“Stay, Dukes.”