“Thanks for Stonewall — But I Got This…”

Took me a bit of an ego bruise to get there, but I’m back on the courts playing volleyball with the Gotham league. You may remember I LIVED for volleyball before I left NYC for Minneapolis. League play, beach play, tournament play, any chance to be playing, and I was there. Six years later, the league has grown, the players have changed (getting younger all the time), and I’m a little rusty (getting older all the time). I took a hit and am playing down a few levels from where I used to be, but still loving be on the court, have a great team, and am having a great time re-engaging with the gay sporting community.

Following our games this week, we headed to the local watering hole to socialize and hang out — and that’s where I heard the line I used as the title of my post: “Thanks for Stonewall — but I got this.” It was delivered with the humor and effect that only a gay man could infuse, and was completely apropos for the moment and topic at hand: gay aging. Yeah, it happens. Whether I acknowledge it or not. And I don’t. I refuse. But gays age. And then they disappear. Where? No one really knows (…unless, of course, you visit the Townhouse on the upper east side, where you’ll find respectable, professional gay men in their prime business years being trailed and doted on by young gay men of various ethnic demographics looking for sugar daddies). But typically, gay men past their “bar years” tend to socialize via travel destinations, dinner parties, and vacation home getaways. Hit any hot club, trendy bar, or local gay hang out in the city and find me a gay man over 60 years old. Won’t happen. Over 50? May happen. But only if he’s there with a reason other than trolling (blog post topic for another day). Over 40? He better be fierce. Or, he better be playing volleyball with team of younger guys that will circle him like buffalo and elephants protecting their young from predators seeking out the weak and infirm (read: my team and me).

Harvey Fierstein Courtesy: blog.rifftrax.com

But let’s get back to that well-delivered line: “Thanks for Stonewall — but I got this.” It was used to describe an interaction between a 20-something and a 60-something. Each secure in his homosexuality, his place in society, and his self-image — but both lacking anything in common, any connection, other than that homosexuality. The elder dismissed the younger with a bitchy sneer and a muttered comment, to which the younger fired back with an historical retort that packed a punch. It reminded me of a forum I attended some 10 years ago lead by Harvey Fierstein, specifically to address that lack of commonality, of education about HIV/AIDS, of community, of family, and of generational connectedness among the generations of men that make up our gay community. “Look at these kids,” Harvey said, “Who’s going to take care of them? Who’s going to teach them? Who’s going to nurture them?”

Well, all Harvey’s good intentions aside, it looks like they’re doing fairly well on their own. However, his concerns still carry weight. Looking back, how many men did we lose to the AIDS epidemic in the 80’s and early 90’s? A full generation? Those of us who survived and played care-givers to our friends and family don’t really talk about it any more. We’ve made our peace, still practice safe-sex, and smile with amazement at today’s 18 year-olds graduating high school with PRIDE. It’s almost like the GLBT world jumped from the Stonewall riots of the late 60’s  right into the Gay Marriage/Prop 8 issues of the early 21st century. The decades in between fell off the radar, with conversations and memories of that very real AIDS epidemic among younger gays almost too taboo, if not too morbid for discussion. Our free love became free death, and we survivors been working hard to prove to ourselves — and our straight counterparts — that we’re worthy of the lives and happiness those we lost wanted us to have. (Insert gay drama.) But that’s our story, and perhaps its time to realize that this new generation of well-adjusted, well-connected, well-heeled gay men is busy writing their own stories.

Straight/Gay Sampling

Yes, gay activists and evangelists have laid the groundwork for A LOT of our progress when it comes to GLBT  rights. And yes, HIV meds have made an AIDS epidemic among gay men on US soil all but obsolete. And yes, hate crime legislation continues to help protect us from ridicule and abuse from the less educated and more fearful. But let’s not discount basic human evolution. It seems to be playing a larger role and doing fairly well on its own — no matter how much of the progress we Gen X and Boomer gays try to take credit for. Sure, one step forward, three steps back, but it’s still evolution. It’s still progress. But this generation of 20-somethings? Well, they’ve got this. They are strong-willed, passionate, intelligent, well adjusted, and fully expect the world to treat them with the respect they deserve. They’re Millennials for gods’ sake, and Millennials don’t take shit whether they are straight OR gay. They’re entitled! It’s in their DNA! They’ve got this. Let them take it. Let them run with it. Let them mainstream themselves into the hearts and souls of families, work forces, and gay generations until that next generation of gays stops and gives one of them what-for at a sports bar. It’s bound to happen. And it’ll be beautiful.

My Kobe Beef

(Photo: Lucy Nicholson/Landov)

Yeah. I’m going there. The Kobe Bryant gaff. The slur. The fated epithet. The sharp, collective intake of American breath and clutch of pearls at the realization that calling someone a f–got — or in this case, a f—king f–got — happens all the time, or more absurdly, could actually be committed by a celebrated professional athlete. Really? Come on! Who are we kidding? It happens on the court. On the street. Under a breath. Through a car window. In the mall. It just so happens that in this case, it happened in front of a crowd so large that the powers that be thought something ought to be done about it. Now, am I turning my nose up at a $100,000 fine slapped on a straight man for calling another straight man a f—king f–got? Hell no! Thank you! Let’s do it again! And then again! And I’m proud of GLAAD for seizing this opportunity to forge a partnership with the Lakers to make something good come of it! But seriously, when it comes to the actual slur, why the feigned surprise? Was it really all that shocking that Kobe might let it slip? Or that he should get caught using it?  Perhaps the real shock should come from the fact that a straight man calling another straight man “gay” — no matter how derogatorily — is still considered fair game as the lowest of the low verbal slurs. That’s worth a thought. No worries. I’m not going that deep right now. I’ll leave that for another post. But think about it when you have a moment.

Back on the court with Kobe and friends? Slurs happen. And this one, in particular with some regularity. Check out all the quotes by gay ex-NBA ball player John Amaechi. It’s really no surprise.  But let’s take it off the court. As an adult gay man, I’ve heard it behind my back, to my face, and to those standing right next to me. As a gay teen, and even younger, I heard those words — and multiple derivatives  — behind my back, to my face, and those standing right next to me. Those words are the reason I support the “It Gets Better Project.” Those words are the reason I support the “Matthew Shephard Foundation” and love The Laramie Project based on his story. Those words are the reason I marched down Broadway in NYC when Prop 8 passed in California. Those words are the reason I take the time to give a co-worker a hard time for calling the copy machine “gay” when it gets a paper jam. It’s why I take the time to post on a nephew’s Facebook page that if he uses the word “homo” derogatorily on his page again, I’ll fly home and take him to task. Those words — as ugly as they are — are the reason I am who I am today.

And that’s my beef. My Kobe Beef. Just when you think we’ve evolved a little. Just when you think that maybe Prop 8 may actually be seen as embarrassment. Just when you think your former religion may actually come around just like it did for African Americans and the priesthood. Just when you feel like the work of so many for so long is finally paying off — that Millennials are so completely mainstreamed that Gay Pride is an oxymoron and Glee is the norm — Kobe Bryant opens his mouth, unleashes a world of hurt, and you realize there’s still a boat-load of work to do on the gay front. Actually, just on the “being human” front. Oh well, I’m in. Are you?

Menagerie Life Moment #412

Geronimo

Morning. 6:47 AM. Getting ready for work. Chris in the doorway. Alan in the mirror. Geronimo on Chris’ shoulder.

Chris: “I don’t like that belt with that shirt.”

Alan: “I’m going to throw on my other shoes and see if it ties all together.”

Chris: “It won’t.”

Geronimo: “Heh, heh, heh, heh.”

Seriously?

Painfully Adolescent

Photo courtesy Michael Brosilow, Star Tribune

“Billy Elliott.” Loved the movie, and had the opportunity to enjoy the musical at the Orpheum Theatre this weekend with my dear friend Dan LoBuono, in town from NYC. It’s a beautiful story that translates well to the stage, although the mega-mix that is supposed to serve as the curtain call destroys the evening. You’ve suspended your disbelief for just shy of three hours and invested in the characters, only to have those precious moments of reflection stolen from you immediately following the final scene by a rambunctious production number that completely takes you out of the moment. Poorly executed, and such a shame. The actors — and the audience — are working far too hard to have that moment ripped away.

But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about adolescent angst and dreams. And this show is just the vehicle to inspire such discussion. During the show, I was transported back to that adolescent moment of my own life when I knew I wanted — no, HAD — to perform. I was 14 years old, watching my brother Bruce perform in a Robert Redford Sundance Summer Theater production of “Starting Here, Starting Now.” I was beside myself. I was near tears. My entire body was screaming to be on that stage, doing what he was doing. I absolutely felt the music, the rhythm, the audience — all of it — flowing through my veins. I ran down that mountain knowing exactly what the rest of my life was going to be about. And watching the teen actor playing Billy on the stage brought all of those wonderfully vital feelings back into my body like it was yesterday.

Flashback to my life in NYC, performing and taking acting classes… One of my teachers would force me to “dance my scenes.” She knew me, and knew I wouldn’t connect with the script until I had improvised and danced my way through every line. She was right. And it freed me. Completely freed me up from any inhibitions and discovery throughout the creative process. And this was an acting class. God love her intuition and commitment to each individual student. She got me. And she let me breathe.

Photo courtesy Ordway.org

Fast forward to sitting in the St. Paul Ordway theater earlier this week watching “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.” It’s been around for years, and finding a fresh approach to this show is a tough call, especially when it requires the use of children in the ensemble so that they are integral but not over the top. This production found a way to make it work, and is definitely entertaining, though not extraordinary. But what was extraordinary was one of the boys in the ensemble. Yes, painfully adolescent, he was a little on the chunky side (you knew he’d grow into it) and a bit awkward when just standing or sitting (my gaydar and Dan’s gaydar were both pinging off the charts). But that kid came to LIFE during the curtain call production number. I watched him absolutely living that choreography, just right of center behind the narrator. The choreographer clearly understood, too. This boy’s entire body was full of light! He hit every accent and nailed every count with crispness. His face was alive, animated and angelic. He even added a few little touches of his own to the number that he simply could not hold back. Dan and I simultaneously found each other’s arms and squeezed. We were both right there with him. It was one of the most adorable and telling moments of the performance for me. That kid was having his own Sundance Summer Theater moment. He was exactly where he should be — in the moment and in complete synchronicity with his body, his mind and his dreams. It was beautiful, painfully adolescent, and, well… just perfect.

So… How ’bout them.. er… um… Badgerines?

I can typically hold my own in most sports situations. I know enough of the professional football, baseball and basketball teams and players to be dangerous, if not hold my own. Hockey? Not so much. And at the college level? Forget about it. I mean, I assume that the Pack 10 is just someone with really great abs. You see where this is going…

So, the other day I’m in a business meeting with a group of men who live and breathe college football like I know my way around a kitchen. I mean, these guys were listing names and stats and point spreads like I run through a shopping list for wine and cheese. And when they started throwing in the college rivalries, coaching decisions, and draft missteps? I knew I was dead in the water.  Um… sparkling water, anyone?

Watching these guys throw barbs back and forth was like sitting court-side at the US Open. One ace after another. Starved to earn some participation points, I started wracking my brain for any minuscule details that I might add to the conversation. Um… BYU won the national  championship in 1981 under Lamar Edwards? Crap, was it LaVell Edwards? They had a perfect record that year… I think… Was it 11-1? 11-0? Does it matter that it was 30 years ago? OMG, was it really 30 years ago I was a freshman in college? Where has the time gone? Wait! Focus, Alan, focus… You may have to participate! And so it went.

At one point, observing a particular passionate moment about a re-alignment of the college conferences to better accommodate talent and redistribute competition, I thought about blurting out, “So, how about that new musical by Susan Stroman? I hear it’s getting rave reviews on Broadway.” Can you imagine? I knew it would get a laugh, but I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to play the gay card that blatantly, even for humor. So, don’t worry. I didn’t. But couldn’t that have been fodder for an even better blog post? Maybe next time. Right now I have to go memorize the weekend sports pages. Those Badgers, Gophers and Wolverines got nothin’ on me.

It Gets Better

It does get better. I can promise you that. I’ll get into my own teen years — fraught with all the usual angst and misery with a secret undercoating of homosexuality — on another day. Tonight? It’s about my best friend of 26 years, Dan LoBuono, and the Broadway cast of Chicago. Watch this, and share it with any teen in need. It really does get better:

It’s All in the Delivery…

There are certain lines drawn fiercely in a straight relationship that are dotted, blurred or completely erased in a gay relationship. For example, here’s a scenario…

Woman: “Honey, do I look fat in these jeans?” (The world’s most unfair question. The poor schmuck can only rely on his gut instinct for survival to get through it.)

Man:  “No. Babe, I love you in those jeans! (He’s treading thin ice, but used a pet term, while reinforcing that he loved her, and also loved her in those jeans.)

Moving to the same conversation in a gay relationship…

Man 1: “Hey, are these jeans okay? Too tight?” (And then he winces, waiting for the response, but prepared for the worst.)

Man 2: “Um, yeah. Don’t even try to pull that look off until you lose another 10 lbs. When was the last time you were at the gym, any way? And by the way, you’re not 20 any more, stay away from the G-Star and start dressing your age. I’m not meeting our friends for dinner with you dressing like a twink.”

And there you have it. No unanswered questions, a salted ego, and a sharp dose of reality from the gays. But in our home? There’s a little more humor involved. In fact, Chris had me laughing so hard yesterday, it inspired this post.

Alan: “Have you noticed I’ve been dropping pounds? I can wear pants now I haven’t been able to wear in a while.”

Chris: “Yes.”

Alan: “Really?” (Yes, a brave question, stupidly inviting the harsh reality of a weight discussion among aging gay men.)

Chris: “Yes. And it’s a good thing, too. You were actually as big as a whale for a while there.”

Alan: Shocked laughter.

Chris: “When you walked, your gut lead the way.” (Dead pan delivery.)

Alan: “Shut up, %!@#$!!”

Chris: “It’s true. (Enter gleam in eye.) I was worried someone was going to walk up with a bottle of champagne and break it over your head, thinking you were a boat heading out to sea that needed christening.”

Alan: Laughter and choking on iced latte.

Even now when I post about it, I crack up. God love him. I don’t know where I found him, but as full of piss and vinegar as he can be, I’ll keep him. He makes me laugh. And that counts big time, right? Hmmm… maybe there are more similarities to straight/gay relationships than I thought.

Tipping the 4-Legged Scales

I love my dogs. I do. I feed them. Bathe them. Walk them. Discipline them. So what does that leave for Chris? Spoiling them, of course. And it shows. Literally. Samson topped the scales at 13.1 lbs. this week at the vet. Chloe came in a curvacious second, at 12.8 lbs. It’s true. It’s not just American kids heading toward obesity. Apparently, American Dachshunds are on their way, too. And I’m an enabler. Miserable. It’s not bad enough that they have bathroom issues, now they have food issues. Mine.

Ironically, there is nothing worse a vet can say to a gay man than “your dog is fat.” Nothing worse. Just put a gun to my head or snag my Theory shirt. Either way, I’m dead. And angry. And defensive. But still an enabler. I mean, look at those faces! Who can say no? Me, that’s who! But Chris? Are you kidding? No. He’s like Santa on crack. “Treats, puppies, treats!” “No rules today, don’t sit, don’t stay, just come get treats!” “Oops, I dropped part of my muffin, Chloe!” “Wow, how’d that get on the floor, Samson? Better not waste it!” You get the picture. And the picture is plump.

So… the diet is on. And it is killing me. Right now, every time they hear a fork scrape a plate, they get that crazed look in their eye. They watch me cook dinner like every move might mean life or death. The run back and forth between Chris and me every time we make a motion that resembles taking a plate to the sink. It’s brutal. Have you seen a Dachshund on a begging mission? The focused eye contact. The deep sighs and whines. The pacing and prancing and pawing. And then, of course, that dance of abandon when they think you’ve given in, only to see you rinse even the smallest of crumbs, that they thought for sure were theirs, down the drain. With their hopes. Their dreams. And then they give you the sulk — that head down, tail dragging, half-limp that only a Dachshund can give — as they mope back to their bed to give you the evil eye until they decide that ignoring you will be the better choice.

I keep promising them both that they’ll thank me for it. That when they hit the dog park looking svelte and healthy and happy, they won’t mind the starvation it took to get them both down to 10.8 lbs. “Nothing tastes like skinny feels,” and all that. Now… if I could just apply the same discipline to my own waistline, things might really start looking up. But until then… I’ll focus on man’s best friend — and diet vicariously.

Hypocrisy Central

If you thought I could let this entire debacle pass without a word, you were sorely mistaken. Hello Dr. George Rekers. 1,920,000 Google search results in .16 seconds tells us something, doesn’t it? Just shy of 2 million! How many more “protectors of family values” do we have to see “de-frocked” before we acknowledge the hypocrisy of their claims? The idiocy of their arguments? The frailness of their points of view? The list of “anti-gay” males caught in the act of being “oh so pro-gay” is now so long, and their antics so ridiculous, that those of us who actually ARE gay, and have worked hard our entire lives at being as human and real as possible in spite of idiots and, yes, painfully frustrated guys like these, are now working just as hard and fast as the right wing, Christian, family value-loving organizations to distance ourselves from these types! (yes it was the longest run-on sentence I’ve written in a long time, but worth it)

A little background on the professor. George Alan Rekers, is a prominent anti-gay activist who co-founded the conservative Family Research Council. He is also a member of NARTH, The National Association for Research and Therapy of Homosexuality, which describes itself as “a professional scientific organization dedicated to assisting individuals dealing with unwanted homosexual attractions.” While neither organizations will receive donations from me, at least both are distancing themselves from the good doctor. For an example on some of his best work, read this little snippet on the $60,000 worth of expert testimony he was paid by the state of Florida to in defense of their statewide ban on gays and lesbians adopting kids. And that doesn’t even touch his opinions about gay and lesbian identity and origins. But it’s enough. And enough is enough.

This is one of those situations where humor is truly the only method of defusing a bomb as dangerous as this topic. It’s a topic so polarizingly (yes, it’s now an adverb) charged that laughter is the ONLY way we can truly relieve the stress and anxiety endured trying to process exactly what is going on with these guys! So, I’m going to let humor do the talking here… Check out these links, and don’t be afraid to laugh, cry, or just let your jaw hit the ground at the ludicrousness of this situation.

• George Rekers Has Company — completely irreverent, completely relevant
• Stephen Colbert: Alpha Dog of the Week — raucous and real… be ready
• A Heaven-sent Rent Boy — my favorite NY Times op ed columnist, Frank Rich

And just to keep the humor moving along… check out the side-by-side photos of the good doctor and actor Robin Williams as the flamboyant “Armond” in the movie “The Bird Cage” — see any similarities? I only wish I could have found one of Robin without the hat!

Batter Up: Son No. 6… “You’re OUT!” (No Duh)

If you really want to enjoy some baseball magic, join Big Apple Softball — the gay and lesbian league in NYC. It’s the wonderful collision of stereotypes, norms, social identities, and just pure fun. First of all, just getting called “out”is an oxymoron. But there’s more. I mean, think about it…

You have the guys who were closeted, hard core jocks their whole growing up years — possibly well into adulthood — slapping each other on the ass, talking smack about the cheerleading squad, all the while wishing they could just make out with the team  captain (unless they WERE the team captain). Then you have the other extreme — my experience (save those golden moments created by Mike and Russ) — where you simply suck at it, are constantly self-conscious, but seriously crave the comraderie supplied by the locker room bonding, team victories, and feeling comfortable in your own skin. Oh, and yes, also wishing you could make out with the team captain. And then you have those lucky ducks smack in the middle of the spectrum who were simply well-adjusted, oblivious to the term “self-loathing,” and never really cared about a pecking order or social strata through their formative years. And these guys DID make out with the team captain, and somehow lived to tell about it.

Personify these experiences and histories, put them on the field together to play in one of the most competitive rec leagues I’ve ever experienced, and you’re in for a wild ride. A glorious, wild ride! Every player on the field is finally getting his due: the chance to play ball without any of the emotional baggage and peer pressure that cut him off at the knees before he came out. Now the real love of the game shines through.

I played in Big Apple’s DIMA division, for the elite level players. I know, I know. Based on my previous posts and personal history with the sport, how could that possibly have possibly? Baseball magic, baby. Baseball magic. I had a great try-out (yes, I had to try-out) and nailed my hitting, infielding and outfielding. The rest was Big Apple Softball history. I made the team. I was playing catcher on The Warriors! Talk about coming full circle, right? Catcher. The boys on Gerdes Turd Farms would be proud!

These guys — and girl (Roberta would be proud) — on The Warriors were great. I lived for the weekends, the games, the tournaments, all of it. I played two seasons, and then my work schedule and heavy volleyball schedule started getting to be too much to juggle. Since I could play volleyball 3 – 4 times a week, and softball only once a week, I opted for the former, but really missed playing with the team. I don’t think we were necessarily as rag tag as the kids from Greenberg Junction in The Baseball Box Prophecy (our team consisted of an opera singer, a psychiatrist, an accountant, a salesman, a PR account lead, and a graphic designer, to name a few) but we definitely shared the love of the game those kids did. And still do.

When Opera Divas Get Stonewalled…

It’s not every night you get to spend an evening celebrating 40 of the most influential lesbians in the New York, but when you also get to share it with two of the critically acclaimed opera divas, as well? THAT’S a night to remember.

Stonewall Inn, 1969; Credit: Diana Davies

Here’s the scoop… The Stonewall Foundation recently honored 40 women for their contribution to community as part of the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. Being honored among those women was Kelli O’Donnell, one of the founders of R Family Vacations — a great company do great work for gay and lesbian families, just check out the 3 minute video on their home page — for whom my best friend of more than 25 years, Dan LoBuono, works. A very gracious Kelli extended an additional invite, so Dan grabbed me and we went.

Beth Clayton

The first portion of the evening was where I met Beth Clayton and Patricia Racette. Opera novice that I am, I had no idea I was in the presence of such amazing talents — I merely thought they were fabulous women who shared a love of good friends, a good laugh, and, of course, a good margarita! But, there was so much more to their stories as the night wore on, and I enjoyed every minute of it. And I enjoyed reviewing there Web sites, bios and careers the next morning, very much cognizant of the fact that I was SO glad I didn’t know who they were before the night began, or I would have been so tongue-tied and sheepish that I didn’t know their world better than I do. But none of that mattered because they both put me at ease, were wonderfully funny, and most importantly, were just so very real.

Patricia Racette

The latter portion of the evening took place at the Highline Ballroom in Chelsea, and was less intimate, but great for people watching — and learning. Whenever I see people honored for their contributions to a cause as potentially volatile as gay rights, I always feel a little less than adequate. What have I done? What else can I do? One of the speakers — Ann Northrop — put it best when she spoke briefly: “All it takes is not letting a bigoted or racist comment go unnoticed or unanswered, no matter where you or are who you are with.” Thank you, Ann, for understanding just what I needed to hear at that given moment. And thank you Kelli, Beth and Patricia for being such powerful examples to all of us that simply being ourselves can be more potent than anything else we might dream of.

Taking Gay Advantage of Male Steretypes

You know you need some work/life balance when you realize that yesterday was your 5-year anniversary and you missed it. And your other half missed it. Maybe that makes it okay? Maybe that’s why gay male relationships work, because if you both commit a relationship faux paus that blantantly reinforces a male stereotype in general, it cancels itself out? Let’s hope so! Score one for being a guy and getting away with it!

Chris and I have both been working at such a fast and furious pace that we simply missed it. In fact, I’m not even sure it’s crossed his mind, yet. He’s in London on business. So random. Even last week, in a moment of subdued panic, I looked at Chris and said, “What day is it, I think we forgot our anniversary.” Then, of course, that lead us into our standard mock-argument that he really has no idea what day our anniversary is, anyway, so he really can’t be much help to me in remembering it. He just knows it falls somewhere between his birthday and mine with Thanksgiving thrown in the mix. But even so, we checked calendars in that moment, and noted that we still had a week, so we were okay. That week came and went in a flash on into the next…

So, here’s to celebrating 5 years… with a memory of our first Thanksgiving going up in flames to celebrate!

Goo Goo for Ga Ga

No, I’m revisiting my post about a few days in Denver with my great neice and nepew Graham and Georgia… Okay, that sentence just took me on an “aging” tangent that brought on an involuntary shutter. But back to the topic…

Lady Ga Ga. Love me some Lady Ga Ga. Every once in a while I’d hear something on the radio that I would Shazam, and think “Oh, Lady Ga Ga. Random name, nice beat. I’ll check it out later.” Then I’d check it out, and finally download a song or two and enjoy them. All of this completely unbeknownst to the firerstorm in the pop culture world that she is creating.

Chris was surprised that I even had her in any of my play lists — clearly he still thinks all I listen to is angry lesbian music or Native American chants or Celtic instrumentals. Guilty. But, hey, to each his own. But I can handle a little club mix when the moment is right. Chris is actually obsessed with Lady Ga Ga, having viewed — and forced me to view them, as well — nearly every You Tube video of her European tour, interviews with Ellen, and accoustic renditions of her music. He’s fairly particular about what he listens to, and he quickly deduced that there was more to Lady Ga Ga than packaged goods. There was real talent. I secretly rolled my eyes (she does have a tendency to flat when she’s singing live, but it’s only at a the bottom part of her vocal range), was amused at his convictions at first, but now that her song lyrics are burning through my brain 24/7, not so much. There is definitely something about her.

Her onstage and off-stage personalities are refreshingly distant. She is genuine and humble and strikingly centered in interviews for one so young: 23 years old. She can take an extremely produced piece of work and turn it around on a keyboard, creating something entirely different. She’s a musician first, and a pop culture icon second. If it’s true that she is choreographing her shows, as well as artistically directing them, then I bow down even further. She’s quirky. She’s lovely. And anyone who can stir up the political conservatives with her look and lyrics to the point of angry diatribe — when their front line is busy with soul-mate searching love affairs in South America and paying off mistresses with gifts from family money in SouthWestern America — is okay with me. Keep them busy, Lady Ga Ga, keep them busy. And keep the hits and hot videos coming. You deserve them.

Happy Fat, Frazzled Easter!

Journal excerpt dated 03/23/08:

Okay — I’m not one to lament much of anything, but the way this Easter Morning came together, I just had to take a moment to breathe it in and laugh about it… First thing? Been snowing all weekend. A good six inches on the ground. An no end in sight. Happy Spring!

So, I tried to make Easter a little more special — seeing as how it snuck up on us and was here before we knew it — by arranging brunch our our favorite restaurant, Cafe Lurcat. Great food, great staff, great view. And this was the first time they had ever offered a brunch of any type, let alone an Easter brunch.  It’s always just a nice place to have a meal. 10:15 AM sounded great. Absolutely…

Well, if any of you have been following along with my work life, you know that Tara, my supervisor in the LA office, is in her 8 1/2 month of pregancy, and that I have pretty much channeled her pregancy along the way, complete with back pains, weird dreams, and yes, the baby weight. Yeah, I’m looking at 15 pounds in the last 8 months. I’m also blaming that on two cross-country moves, a little work pressure here and there, mid-40’s metabolism, and yes, Tara’s pregnancy. So, I’m sitting at 184 lbs. However, all of my nice work/dress clothes are sitting at around 165 lbs, which I I discovered roughly 45 minutes before brunch time… Yeah, the joys of working from home. Those jeans just seem to ride a little fashionably lower on the hips, rather than scream “Hey Alan — You’re fat!”

So, I’m rummaging through the closet to find something to wear, only to realize that all I have is a suit that I had let out during a previous fat season! I’m griping and moaning to Chris that I have to wear a suit, and was told to just wear the suit pants without the jacket… Yeah, a gay man told me that. Hard to believe, I know. And especially coming from Chris. But I think he was secretly realizing that this could prove to be a more traumatic moment than he had the energy to deal with, so opted with a sly, psychologically sound approach to control the damage. It worked, but I was secretly feeling like some of my uncles who became a little rotund their later years (okay, specifically Hal, and that is not derogatory, you all know how much I loved him… and pretty much looked identical to him in his younger years…. thus the fear of my own weight gain and jolly tendencies as I age…). Needless to say, the high-waisted suit pants that were belted around the heftiest portion of my mid-section were not helping matters, at all.

So, we’re dressed and ready to go… me, feeling slightly self-conscious, but having a good hair day, so feeling better… and it’s time to put the puppies in their kennel. Chloe obediently runs inside, while Samson runs and hides under the bed. We’re on a time schedule here, and hide-and-seek is not on the docket. I look under the bed to find him in his favorite position — on his back, tail thumping against the carpet. The ultimate in passivity. So, I reach under the bed and swing his little back side around so I can slide him out from under, when he takes passivity one step further and “happy piddles” in an athletic arch that directly targets the sleeve of my freshly pressed dress shirt! Oh yeah. Bullseye! In a moment as close to parenting as I’ll ever know, I told Chris “You deal with him,” while I marched into the bathroom — not to change clothes, but to take out the blow dryer and blow dry the dog piddle on my shirt until it disappeared. No time for ironing another shirt. That was probably the moment second-closest to parenting I’ll ever know. And Chris? Devilishly quiet – -much to his credit — knowing the amount of verbal ammunition he had accumulated by that time, but chose to use none of it….

Brunch was great, and all the little kids were out with their families, scrubbed and shined within an inch of their lives. Loved it. So cute. Our server was not used to a) day light serving hours and b) serving kids in this restaurant, so we got a huge kick out of watching her adjust!

Our favorite line of the morning was when she was calling out that the restaurant had a live, costumed Easter Bunny up front to the little girl next to us. She said: “Hi! You look so beautiful! Did you see the Easter Bunny at the bar?”  Chris and I about died! Visions of a crotchety, costumed Easter Bunny sitting on a bar stool all alone, throwing back Vodka tonics as little kids walked by. That was such a good moment. Chris and I burst out laughing, and she stopped by to acknowledge that the whole family affair in the restaurant had her a little off her game. It was priceless.

The rest of the day? Back in my comfortable sweats, basking in the knowledge that the revitalized diet and gym program start Monday — as they’ve started every Monday for the past 8 months — and that I’ll be back to my fighting weight in no time… I’m thinking 2011? Now where did I hide those marshmallow chicks? Love you all. Happy Easter!

The Dog Whisperer

Journal excerpt dated 11/11/2007:

If you thought you were going to get out of hearing about our first home-school adventure with the dogs, you were sorely mistaken. Session One with Kathy the Dog Trainer (her last name is Polish and too difficult to pronounce, so I believe she had it legally changed to the former) occurred last night. Her arrival was met with a myriad of emotions and mixed feelings ranging from “will this angry lesbian kill our puppies?” to “will this angry lesbian kill us?” But the evening was a huge success, and she is great with the animals. There is definitely an art to training and understanding how animals — dogs — think and behave. You just can’t project your human rationale on them.

The highlight of the evening was when Kathy pronounced the pack heirarchy, as a means to help us understand how we all needed to alter our behaviors and status. The pecking order — according to Kathy the Dog Trainer — was Geronimo, Chris, Chloe, Alan, Samson. Yes, you read that correctly. I am one step above the runt of the litter, our famed Samson — aka “Dumb Dumb.” How do you even react to that? I’m next in line to the dog that is so submissive he rolls over and pees into the air whenever he sees you??? Chris, of course, gloated with glee and laughed his head off! The fact that Geronimo was top dog didn’t surprise any of us, but I thought for sure I was ahead of Chloe. Not so much. You should have seen her in the “dominance exercises” we put her through. She was NOT going to give in to me if she had anything to do with it. I had no idea she considered herself above me in the pack. What fantasy dog world was I living in? Go figure.

So, we have our work cut out for us. We’ve committed to at least attempting to alter the pecking order, if not some minor behavior problems — at least the DOGS’ behavior problems, anyway…  The rest of the household will just press on! But Samson and Chloe, oh, excuse me, Chloe and Samson (all about reinforcement, you see) did very well in their first session. We’ll keep our fingers crossed for improvement and keep you in the loop moving forward. Oh, and sorry, there is no way to unsubscribe from these updates!! LOL!!

Take care all. Chloe and Samson (presently sulking in their bed because I’m forcing them to wear their collars) send their best.