Be Happy and Gay

Along with the swearing off of stagnant full time working-for-some-asshole corporate jobs, comes certain ups and downs. The ups would be: not working for some other asshole all day every day, added variety in life, an absence of oppressive, fluorescent lights beating down on you and boring into your soul as you pretend to care about what you're doing, and--one of my favorites--constantly being on a new adventure. 

Of course, some would view the latter of this list as one of the downs, and would word that concept as no adventure, but something closer to 'having an unstable income, never knowing where your next paycheck will will be,' or 'being forced to do manual work.' But I don't mind manual labor, I've come to find. I didn't know it was true, but it turns out it is.

In fact, I was thinking about this very concept as I was walking to the bank yesterday, a most blustery of days. I considered a book I recently finished reading: 'Dry,' by Augusten Burroughs. This book chronicles the author's travails through alcoholism, and then rehab, and then reentering the world upon completion of rehab. In the meantime, he is a well-paid advertising copywriter in Manhattan. At one point in the book, when mused by his coworker that advertising is far from glamorous or fulfilling, Burroughs says something to the effect of, 'it beats manual labor.' And the coworker replies that this is true if you're willing to hand over your dignity. And the author says that he doesn't have dignity, and he never did. And that made me think.

Because dignity, or integrity as I say, is the most important thing of all things. And so months ago I quit my part time job as a bartender where, even working part time, I was bringing in more money than I needed. I quit because I was required to wear a provocative uniform which made strange alcoholic businessmen eye me in weird ways and stare and ask me to get them a cognac, knowing full well that I would have to get on a step ladder--wearing a very short skirt--to retrieve the bottle (the cognacs in this particular bar were kept on the fourth shelf, some ten feet from the ground). I quit because I was tired of dealing with alcoholics, and I was tired of being hit on arbitrarily as an object, like I was trading my body and integrity for money.

And of course I'm more blessed than many. I have pursued a master's degree, and as a result I teach writing courses to college students, which I love. But I also have to pay my bills, and teaching part time doesn't cut it. So to replace my bar money in an economy where options are closer to nil, I took a job for a cleaning service; I clean the condos of yuppy people around the city who still have options perhaps because they are working these I-work-for-some-other-asshole-under-the-fluorescent-lights jobs. Who knows if they have integrity. Who even knows if they could say themselves.

Well anyway, as a perk for working this adventurous maid job, I meet people (coworkers) who belong in a lower socioeconomic bracket than I do. They are uneducated and living on food stamps and involving in work so that they can get 'Section 8' funds from the government to pay for their dilapidated apartments (I'm assuming, at least more dilapidated than my nice enough Lakeview apartment) to shelter the children they could not afford to have (shit, I am not really judging, I promise). 

In so doing, you know, working with these people of a lower socioeconomic caliber, I have conversations with them while we are driving to the next condo. The other day, I was talking to Maureen, who is sweet as pie, has a southern twang, though I am not sure if she is from the south, and says things like 'the dog-gone thing,' and does things like put a sign on a horrible dent to the front right quarter-panel of her beat up '93 Oldsmobile that reads: OUCH. I mean the lady is a card, and I'm glad to know her, if for no other reason than she makes me feel real, more real than I already feel. 

But Maureen is uneducated. And so she thinks that to be gay is a choice. Augusten Burroughs, author of the aforementioned book, might disagree, as he himself is gay. A gay ad man who claims to not have dignity. (I'm sure that was sarcasm in part.) But while I was reading his book, I couldn't help but think: I don't relate to how gays must feel. After all, I am not gay. I am the type of person that goes to bed dreaming up the most exciting fantasy I can conjure of how a hot man can lift up my skirt and give it to me passionately in some dark club or something. My whole life has been about the obsession and reflection over heterosexual romance. Gay romance perplexes the hell out of me, and frankly, doesn't seem natural. 

But I am absolutely not like Maureen. The other day, we are heading north on Sheridan and she squeals, about these gay men whose condos we clean: "Hell, I don't know if they're together or not. I'm so sick and tired of everyone saying you're gay because you're born that way. Gimme a break! It's a choice and that's that. Gays say 'I can't help it, I'm gay,' but no! You make a choice! You know? Don't you think?" she turns her head to me. 

But I don't want to have this conversation with Maureen. While reading the memoir of Burroughs had me feeling detached and uninterested much of the time, I still respect what he must have gone through, what all gay people must go through, just as a result of being gay, of discrimination and looks and hatred and--in the worst of cases--violence. It makes me cringe, the lack of compassion of it all, and not least of all on Maureen's part. So quietly, I say: 'I don't think it's a choice. Many gay people probably deal with a lot of suffering, and feel alienated; I don't think if a lot of them had the choice, they would choose to be gay.' And then I'm grateful for Doreen's ADHD because she says, 'Well there it is!' indicating the building inside which we are to find the next cleaning project. 

But later that day, I feel sad. Not only sad for Maureen or for Burroughs (who's autobiographical account is about his struggle as an alcoholic as opposed to as a homosexual), but for the world. Why do we have to harbor such hatred for others? Can't we just accept others as they are, and not judge them? Oh I don't know. I don't have the answers. I guess this is why I teach: because I want to try to enlighten people like Doreen who just are not aware. And I want to help other people believe that we can all be happy, whether we are gay or straight or working at a job that falls far below the perfection line. 

I never told you the downs of swearing off these fluorescent-light jobs: come to think of it, there aren't any downs. Without them, I'm much happier...and much gayer. 

What's Wrong with Getting Personal?

These days, it seems that trends only last a few hours. What, with the advent of each new technological 'gem': ipods that get smaller and more colorful by the week, cellular phones injected with so many whistles they can now microwave food, houseplants that take photographs, and the list goes on. And as a society, in part due to these plush, techie pillows, we have become fickle. Our attention diverts to the next hot thing quickly. We care less and less about an object in front of us. We don't have time for long-winded anything. This, sadly, includes conversations with people. 

Less than a couple years ago, I discovered text messaging. I was late for that fad, as I typically am with trended fare. But once I came to and saw the light of the the text message's beauty, I was hooked. I texted all my friends. I lavished in opportunities to meet people and put their numbers in my phone, if only I could text them. I took more time than I would ever admit to construct my messages just so, particularly if sent to men I was attracted to. I called my provider and opted for the unlimited package. I played games that people ridiculously play, whereby they 'pretend' they are busier than they are, and sit on messages for hours or days, just to appear to be 'aloof' or 'unavailable'. Why anyone would do this, I have no idea; I'm certainly not sure why I did.

But to be sure, I did. I became part of the text culture. And eventually, texting became an obsession, until it led to utter frustration. What did this text mean from he or she (usually he, as men tend to get under my skin more than women; I'm heterosexual and sexual, go figure). Why would he take so long to write back? Why didn't he write back? Why did he say that and nothing else? Why can't we sit here for hours and text each other back and forth? Why why why? 

Certain nights, I distinctly recall sitting on my favorite red, plaid chair in my apartment, staring back and forth between my laptop screen, and my cellular. Why doesn't anyone write? Why didn't he (whoever he happened to be at the time) write back? It was a sickness, I finally realized. And furthermore, despite the fact that I'm a writer, with a passion for expression through written words (probably what drew me into texting in the first place), such a sickness well, sickened me. 

Through text messaging (first it was emails, and now in ways, it's still emails), we have been overtaken by a preoccupation with brevity. We don't explore what's in our souls. We think: 'I don't feel like calling him/her back, why not shoot a text?' But even worse, we think: 'Why even bother to text, it's just a text?' It's sad, very sad. 

Because at times, the older I get and the more I realize how precious life is, the more I crave a good vis-a-vis talk. The more I miss times when, as in college or high school, I would talk on the phone for hours of the night. I would laugh and squeal and delight in the inflections of the voice on the other line. I felt connected. But though text messages are forms of communication, we have gone to the extreme (as we often do), and have replaced such ability to be short and to the point for a good phone chat, or a drink maybe, or dinner. 

We're not like Anna Karenin in Tolstoy's 'Anna Karenina'. If she longed to see her lover, Vronsky, she would send him a letter (long hand, imagine!) and plea for him to come to her (in person). What happened to such intimacy? The text message is so informal and its contents so ambiguous and slippery and lifeless. I prefer something I can sink my teeth into. A hug, a smile over two coffees, my family at the dinner table, or cooing on an L-shaped couch over the newest baby in our clan. These are things that matter. Text messages, for me, I'm happy to say, have become 'passe'. Yes, it's true. I'm on to the next big thing. 

Next time I meet someone interesting, I won't ask him for his cell number, and in a giddy way, add it into my phone right in front of his eyes, telling him I'll call the number so that he will have me in his phone too. No no no. Instead, I think I might say: 'Can I have your street address?' Maybe I'll send him a letter by the ink of my favorite pen, and invite him out to a Sunday brunch. 

May the text get sick and die. 

A Salute to Years on this New Year's

Tonight, New Years Eve 2008, I will bartend at Whiskey Blue in the W hotel on W Adams St. That bar is closing its doors after at least (I'm unsure of the exact open date) seven years of thrills, booze-filled laughter, chaos, quiet moments, and then clanging of registers. For over five of those years, I worked as a bartender there (full time during periods), and rather enjoyed each of the aforementioned realities contained within its (once dark brown, now turned blue) walls. 

And on this last day of the year, it makes me think of the significance of change; of eras left behind, sounds and sights fading into air to be transformed to dusty memories. Some months ago, I left Whiskey Blue as a regular employee in pursuit of careers closer to my heart (teaching and writing). Since then, I have occasionally filled in for the occasional help with holes in schedules, not to mention lifting of spirits to my pocketbook; but make no mistake: the change brought about by such a move, was initially not easy. 

When I say the change was not easy, I don't mean just financially; for if you have heard that bartending can be a lucrative career, you have heard right, but emotionally as well. Yes it's true: change, while inevitable, is difficult. And the patrons, who after years of frequenting Whiskey Blue, searching for friendly, attractive bartenders clad in scant yet classy fare wear, no doubt feel this difficulty in facing these days gone, in the pressing need to find a new, pardon my casual term, 'watering hole' to lift their spirits (particularly in such an ugly economy as this). 

But press on we must. Change need not be sad and sad only. Change, in fact, is quite beautiful. As far as I say, it's the eye of art. It's only through change that we can measure ourselves, that we can choose to trust others. And so, as we bring in the New Year, I choose to feel sad for saying farewell to a friendly period of my life--my years at Whiskey Blue--but beyond that, I opt to feel happy. Happy that it was a part of me; that it will always be a part of me. My years as an intense, and also gracious (mostly, don't get me wrong: working in Service can really ride on your soul) bartender, shaped who I am today. Such variety in conversations, such seeing through gazing at countless pairs of eyes, such listening to tales originating from all walks of the world; all ages, all experiences, all temperatures on the thermometer of love for life. An exquisite encounter, no doubt: the life of a bartender in a reputable, respectable lounge nestled in a reputable, respectable boutique hotel.

But alas, change sets in and we move on. People move on. Bars become different titles. Eras become other eras. There's no day that we feel this reality more intensely, perhaps, than on the last day of the year: the eve of the new year--New Year's Eve. To this year, and to those that preceded it at Whiskey Blue, on my behalf, and on behalf of the evolving staff, and ever-changing patrons, I say farewell; with warm feelings in my heart, and maybe, at the stroke of midnight, a tear in my eye...

The All American Novel

Be forewarned, for those of you who have thought about doing it, or are trying to gear yourself up to do it, or think you might like to try it--at least once--before you die: writing The All American Novel is not that easy. 

I think if a cute little Jeanie in a bottle appeared to me in my dreams and said, "Masteresse, what wish can I grant you?" I'd say, "for starters, you can morph yourself into a strapping man and make sweet sweet love to me; and then, after we've done that and smoked a cigarette (this is a world where smoking is healthy, and so not forbidden), you can 'presto-chango' a seven inches-by-nine inches plot of erstwhile empty matter into a great American Novel; one that's replete with funny, loving, flawed characters, adventure, brilliant plot threads, love, history, intensity enough for crying, and a satisfying, cherry-on-top ending. 

Though I have to admit: I'm not sure what I'd say if she looked downcast, and sighed, and replied, "Oh," as she climbed back into her bottle. Then with only her head poking out, her little Jeannie hands gripping bottle's edge, "I said wish, masteresse. I don't perform miracles." 

So fuck me, it's all good. Guess I'll just have to keep writing. Sigh. 

There's a Time to Move On...

No doubt this title brings about several intended meanings. But when considering my most recent post, entitled 'Pesky Little Smokes,' I'll say this: smoking is a filthy habit, and I'm pleased to say that I've since moved on from the partaking in such rubbish. As a result, I feel more aware of my surroundings, am more positive, hopeful for the future, and healthy (I no longer struggle through my workouts at the gym, and engage in exercise even more often than before). 

Of course, this reality comes as no surprise to me, seeing as how I've quit smoking several times in my life. But this time, the situation, for some reason that even as a writer I cannot circumvent by words, is different. I like to believe that as we mature, we become more aware of our futures, and our ever-so-slowly weakening bodies, causing us to take more active roles in controlling our health; thus creating better habits, etc.

But yes I'm still an idealist. I realize that some of us are drawn to darker realities. Some of us don't care that we are killing ourselves little by little. I get it. I mean we are all dying, after all. Even my adorable two-year-old  niece is dying. Every day we get closer to death. So fine, whatever you want. All I'm saying is, that man in the corner store was right: smoking is just no good. And like my most recent short lived 'romantic,' or what really should be called 'sexual,' relationship: I'm not sad it's over. 

Pesky Little Smokes

This afternoon, I go to a corner store in my neighborhood. I often go there for small provisions-gum, bananas, the occasional bag of chips, and, more than I'd like to admit lately, packs of cigarettes. I've been trying to steer away from buying those damn things the last few weeks, and have gone long periods of time without smoking, but inevitably I am always sucked back into the nasty habit. My latest excuse: I'm going through a transition period. I'll quit when I need to.

And it's true, I can quit when I want to. My will power is that good. But usually it takes an internal argument, or several hundred of them, to convince myself that, like a boyfriend who is not good for me but who I refuse to let go of, I just don't need this shit in my life.

On this particular sunny Tuesday when I visit the "pantry," the nice Indian man who I see from time to time, asks me, what do you do? You're not a nurse are you? Puzzled why he would infer that, I ask him to justify this question. He smiles as he surveys me harmlessly behind his fluorescent tortoise-shelled glasses and replies, lots of nurses smoke. And maybe it's true, one of my dearest friends is a midwife, and she smokes. 

He goes on to tell me that for a time when he lived in London and was young-in his twenties or thirties I suppose, he smoked for several years, but one day just gave it up. He says that he was reading a magazine, ready to have a relaxing day and smoke some cigarettes, when it dawned on him: he has nobody, and who will take care of him when he is old and sick from lung cancer? Secretly, I shutter, but I smile back and casually ask, so it was just like that? You never looked back? Never, he says. 

We talk of his wife, and how she smokes and he hates it, but he loves her, what can he do? I tell him I am a college teacher and a writer. What do I write, he asks me. I write about...let's see, well I write about fitness (I've recently taken a gig for an activities website, whereby I account on my extensive background in high endurance activities, dancing, triathlons, etc.). But then, suddenly I feel like a fool. Who writes about fitness, and smokes? But then, who goes to nursing school and smokes, apparently lots of people.

Eventually, I thank him for this chat, tell him to have a nice day, and walk home. Then I light up a cigarette on my landing. It's refreshing, as I haven't smoked in a while (meaning since last night), but it also comes with a price: guilt. And I think of the old pantry man. Do I have anyone who will take care of me if I get sick from tarred lungs? Who knows, my family loves me, but maybe they will be gone by the time I'm suffering. 

Times like this in life, when we come up against pleasure versus health, perplex me. I have no answers. I know that I like smoking. For whatever reason that I began as a teenager years ago, I've always been drawn to it. Does it make me edgy? Does it genuinely relax me? Maybe I do it because I'm bored. I work in the bar industry. I'm a writer. That makes it okay. As long as I have other people around me who are killing themselves too, it's okay. Right? 

I guess the problem is that life presents us with no guarantees. We just have to make the best decisions that we can as we bump along. Smoking does help me relax if I am stressed at times, but it does come with a price. I guess everything that feels good comes with a price. I'd love to be that person who lives by an affirmation I once read on my desktop calendar: why put off until tomorrow what could be accomplished today? It's true, why. But I'm not god. Today, I like smoking. 

I'll quit...maybe tomorrow I'll put that on my list of things to do. 

A Book Review, Supposed Big-Tittied Fans, and Moral Codes

The truth is, no matter how many times a writer comes up to the 'it's go time' line, moral crossroads, decision alarm, whatever the fuck you want to call it, he or she is always faced with the same question: Do I stay true to my ethical best (I like to call this good, old-fashioned Integrity, which yes does deserve to be capitalized, seeing as how it's the most important concept on the planet), or do I toss my dignity in with the dirty linens because I sense a future of mass-acknowledgment and mountains of shimmery, glimmery, may-it-make-me-a-god cash?

If you're me, you choose the former. If you're Tucker Max, author of 2006 published NY Times best-selling book, genre: humor, I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, you might recognize, without apology, that you'll take an amalgam of big-tittied fans in your face, loads of pub money and royalty checks, and a fat helping of the latter (be reminded: the latter just means the sell-out road) any day of the week, and twice on Masturbation Day (for me, most days are Masturbation Day, but you get the picture). 

Side note: I'm making assumptions here, let it be stated. Who knows how many big-tittied fans Max had or has, or how many of those big-tittied fans actually thrust them (the titties) into his face. I mean for fuck sake, the dude is a writer. Dumb girls don't read enough to recognize his wit. And in all honesty, I haven't a damn clue what his signing check looked like, or the caliber of his negotiated royalties for that matter. I'm assuming people, yes it's what us generalizing idiots do. Why the titty references? Read the book. 

But back to the case at hand. To bring you up to speed: This book is comprised of vignettes whereby Max accounts several years of his youth (early twenties), primarily during his stint as a law student at Duke, which were replete with (I'm in denial that it might be typical) outrageous young-man fare: casual sexathons involving degradation of women, drinking in excess until vomiting out the stomach lining that no longer exists, staying out all hours of evenings, heckling policemen, shouting out hurtful obscenities to innocent strangers, and the list goes on, but perhaps by now you feel me. 

So who cares right? This guy is just a writer (jesus, as a writer, writing 'just a writer' makes my stomach churn, but I'm trying to think in the eyes of the world) right? Whatever works to sell a book, hey? Sure. Who cares about integrity and dignity and all that horse shit? We want to sell a book! 

The answer is: I care. Don't get me wrong, I thought his book was fantastic. So much so that I sent him an email to tell him such; that I appreciated his willingness to put himself on the line. That I identified with his voice, that he reminded me that there were writers who were writing shit as crass and sexual as my mind tends to take me, and doing it well. Bravo, was the essential thrust. And then I signed off, telling him that because I have small breasts and I am intelligent, I'm probably not his type. Presumption Capital, that's where I live, baby. 

What did Max reply with? Send me your pic, I'll tell you if you're my type. Turns out I did, in one of which I was with a greasy, French ex-boyfriend. Max apparently finds everything within a thousand-mile radius of anything French horrifying and useless to say the least, and so his reply: You were right--not my type (though I'm sure my girl-next-door, every day 'look' didn't appeal to his 'where's the dumbest, most saline-breasted, sluttiest, commonly clueless-looking chick to fuck?' sensibilities). And there I go judging him again. Shit I don't even know the guy, he's probably a changed man. If it's true, good for you, Max. I hope you find intimate bliss with a woman whose sense of humor is as sharp as yours. 

I guess in actuality, I have no point. You read all of my bullshit for me to tell you that I have no point. I don't mean it. The point is, while reading Max's book, it was the voice that I identified with. The truth of history veritably dripping all over his words. The candid, witty dialogue. The honest telling of sheer cruelty, both to women and to people in general, and let's face it everyone: we love to see people being cruel as much as we love looking at car wrecks--that we're not involved in. 

I only say that Max is a sell-out because he has gained public recognition for exposing himself as a heartless individual; one who tells outrageous stories to be recognized by the media, one who lacks compassion, a strong sense of remorse or spiritual awareness. 

But on the other hand, I'm not too naive to think I even know what I'm talking about, enough to call his shit out. The truth is, it takes all types to make this world go 'round. When we come up to the decision line as artists, we don't think 'shit I am ratting out on my integrity by putting myself out there,' what we are thinking, even someone as wounded as Max, is, 'I have a story to tell, I'm willing to tell the unabashed truth...and the world deserves to hear it.' 

At least, that's what I'd like to think. I have about a sliver of idealism left in my jaded spirit; and I'll fight tooth and nail to hold onto it.

Check out this book. The voice is good...and it will make you laugh.