Go on... cry.

I realize that this is my second post on the subject of crying, but I have noticed lately that I have been crying alot at things I read, watch on TV, or find on the web.  I am not depressed by any means, I'm just moved to tears a lot. I'm a crier. I embrace it.  So, here are a few examples of things that made me cry that I could find on YouTube:

The TV Wedding:




Flash Mobs:
(I don't know what it is about Flash Mobs that makes me cry... I think I am enveloped by the joy of dance and song)




Gay Rights:






Empowerment:





and of course... Judy Garland Singing "Old Man River"



go ahead... make fun. I don't give a shit.

Nelson's Two Week Notice

Tonight I helped my friend Nelson quit his job. He is a server at a chain sea food restaurant and this is something that he has been thinking about doing for years now and would never pull the trigger on it.  For moral support, I had him write his two week notice email at my house so I could see that he would follow through with it.  Here are some of the drafts:

Dear Management Team, 

I’ve decided to get a work-study job at school and leave my weekends open to get work done. This will work better for me than the current arrangement, and I won’t hate my life and want to kill myself nearly so much.

Thanks,

Nelson

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Dear Management Team,

I think our customers are some of the dumbest people I have ever met in my life. They are spoiled, cheap, and insufferably rude. I would rather dive into pit of snakes, scorpions, rusty nails, and broken glass than serve another prune-faced old bag with blue hair. Therefore, I think I shall need to quit.

Sincerely,

Nelson

-------------- 

Dear Management Team,

Every week I hope that this fucking restaurant will burn to the ground -- with everyone escaping safely, of course, or at least most people. There are a few … Anyway, since for some reason (maybe because there is no justice in the world and God is dead) that has not happened, I’ve decided to finally put in my resignation.

Thanks,

Nelson

-------------- 

Dear Management Team,

There are two roads before me: either I quit, or somebody’s gonna get cut… so I choose the former.

Nelson

-------------- 

Dear Management Team,

I think you should hire more people. Also, I think Jill and Veronica are awful bitches. I hate them. Brian is kind of a diva sometimes, but not all bad. Amanda is sweet. Anyway, I quit.

Thanks,

Nelson

-------------- 

Dear Management Team,

I think I need to leave this place before it completely sucks all the joy out of my life and I turn into fat old bitches like you.

Nelson

-------------- 

Dear Management Team,

I’ve decided to take a work-study position at my school and leave my weekends free. This will make things a lot easier for me. I’d appreciate if you would take me off the schedule in two weeks. I’m sorry for any inconvenience, although after two weeks there really shouldn’t be any… but I’m sure you will feel like there is, cause you’re all pretty selfish and only think about your own jobs and lives and this bullshit restaurant, and you don’t give a damn about any of us servers or employees really….

Anyway,  I’d like to say thanks for giving me a job and overlooking my faults for the past couple of years. It has been fun and I will miss everyone and wish you all well. 

All my best,

Nelson

---------------

And finally we got to it.

Dear Management Team,

I’m writing this message to give my two weeks notice. I’ve decided to take a work-study position at my school and I want to leave my weekends open. Please do not put me on the schedule after April 3^rd.

I’ve worked for here for nearly five years and I have had a wonderful time. This has been a really hard decision, but I finally had to choose what I think will be best. I would like to thank you for giving me a job when I first moved, and for letting me work with you for almost three years. 

Sincerely,

Nelson

Congratulations on your freedom, Nelson!

Gluten-free foods that don't make me want to kill myself.

So, long story short, I have had a gluten allergy for a while now (like years) and have just ignored it.  "I eat what I want," I'd say to my stomach, "and I don't want to hear a word from you."-- cut to two hours of diarrhea, horrible gas and bloating, and the horrific panic of locating public bathrooms (who's turned on right now?).  Rather than keep this up, I have decided to go gluten-free.

A little back-story on my relationship with food; I love things breaded and fried... and pizza.  I eat like an 8 year old fat kid.  I also love breads, rolls, donuts, croissants, etc.  I like to order pizza and cheese stix and hamburgers on a fresh white-bread bun.  So thinking of going gluten free is like thinking about an old woman getting punched in the face. 

Rather than act like an adult and eat vegetables and other naturally gluten-free food, I search out the health food stores to find the gluten-free equivalent of my standard diet.  Well, surprise surprise, 99.5% of it tastes like dog shit. The first kind of gluten-free bread that I tried was the regular Whole Foods brand.  Not only did it have the texture of a dish sponge, when you toast it, your kitchen smells like dirty socks.  Then I tried the gluten-free cookies, cupcakes, and bagels all of them are heavy, flavorless and leave an oily film in your mouth that you have to scrape off with your tongue like a dog with peanut butter.  All of the gluten-free pizza I have tried is revolting... of course it would be, why should I enjoy anything? 

While I have given up on most things and learned to like others (see: scrambled eggs for every meal), I have found a few gluten-free substitutes that are not bad. Here are my top 5:

5. Glutino Gluten Free Pretzel Twists:

These are pretty good.  They taste like pretzels for the most part but have the same texture as Cheez-Its. Also they don't skimp too much on the salt, which helps things along.

4. Smart Puffs:

If you are a Cheetos lover like myself, these aren't near as good and because of the cheese, kinda smell like a foot, but once you get them in your mouth... not bad.

3. Food for Life's Brown Rice Bread:

Of the 7 brands of gluten-free bread I have tried, this one sucks the least.  Note: Try to get this bread unfrozen (Trader Joe's usually has it on the shelf.)  When it thaws it breaks and since you need to toast it and cover it in peanut butter to make it mildly good, avoid the freezer. Also, putting bread pieces in the toaster is a bad idea as anyone who has had a Pop Tart break on them knows.

2. EnviroKidz Organic Peanut Butter Panda Puffs:

These are actually really good... for real.  They taste like Reese's Peanut Butter Puffs if you were to take out the chocolate and make them out of Granny's Homemade Peanut Butter that you bought in Amish Country. 

1. Ian's Gluten Free French Toast Sticks:


These kick ass (though they could stand for a bit more cinnamon and sugar).  They taste just as good as Burger King's french toast sticks and as far as gluten-free foods are concerned, it's a Thanksgiving Dinner. The down side is that you can't microwave them; they have to go on a cookie sheet, but again, that's not a big deal.

It's not that I don't appreciate the effort to make foods for gluten intolerant folks like myself, but somethings are just meant to have gluten in them and trying to recreate them so others like me won't feel left out is not always the way to go.  Eating this stuff, I feel like the poor child with the homemade Cabbage Patch Kid... not so cool. 

Just a tip... #2: Your car is fine!

I live on a busy street. There is no getting around this fact. The constant sound of cars passing 24 hours a day is something that you tell yourself you can live with when apartment hunting; You think to yourself, “a one-bedroom for under $800 a month in an OK neighborhood? Where do I sign?” The truth is that I have learned to live with it; I’ve actually grown to like it. The white noise provides a comfort; almost a false sense of security that puts my mind at ease when those creepy images pop into my head. Maybe it is a news story of a family getting murdered in a random apartment a particularly intense episode of Law & Order: SVU, or a home security system commercial where an abusive ex-boyfriend busts in a door, whatever it is, it makes me feel vulnerable; a lone defenseless man waiting in his apartment, just ripe for a home invasion. But then, I hear the cars and I think, “No one will rob me with all these cars going by, that’s just crazy.”

The other thing about this busy street I live on is the street parking. Both sides of this street are lined with parked cars. Because I live in a mixed income neighborhood, the cars can range from a nice Lexus SVU to a rusted out Dodge Neon. Since I have lived here, there hasn’t been any vandalism or busted out windows that I have seen; again, who would risk it, it a busy street.

Here’s your tip: If you own a light blue 1993 Geo Metro, you don’t need to install the most sensitive car alarm in the world... your car is fine.

This car seemed to be parked right outside my window every night. I will be just about ready to fall asleep and BAM, a semi will drive by and “HONK, HONK, HONK!” Here is the other thing about car alarms; never in my life have I seen anybody do anything when a car alarm goes off. There is no man with a baseball bat running out his front door, looking side to side, as if to catch the person that would dare touch his car. The alarm just goes off for 3 minutes, loud as can be, and then shuts off. If I thought for one second that a car alarm would actually be a deterrent for someone willing to break into a car on a busy street, that would be one thing, but even if someone was breaking into a car, no one would probably do anything about it. We, as people, ignore alarms all the time. Whenever an alarm goes off we, as a culture, just assume that it is broken. The door alarm at a clothing store goes off and an employee 9 times out of 10 will just wave you on and say, “Oh, go ahead, this thing is always acting up.” or they won’t say anything at all as if they didn’t even hear it. The smoke detector may go off and your first impulse is to take the battery out. This is who we are; you don’t need a car alarm! I wish you could get fined for having a sensitive car alarm, but until that day, just know that your neighbors hate your guts. Your car is fine!

Timothy-John

I wrote this story in 2004, but in honor of MLK Day, I thought I would re-post it.

________________

So, I’m sitting on my couch, laptop in my lap.  I have a tall glass of instant iced tea to my left and on the TV, Pimp My Ride. It’s a Saturday afternoon. As I look back on my life, I wonder if this is what I thought it would be when I was 5. I wonder if that little boy sitting on the blue carpet at River City Preschool would ever think about sitting in an apartment in Chicago, with a Master’s Degree and a bitchy cat. I wonder if he would even imagine that one day he would be writing stories and thoughts that could be read by someone in France seconds after he was done writing them. It’s crazy to think about really… how fast this world develops; how fast the trends change.  One minute Luke Perry is all the rage, the hot teenage dreamboat from 90210; blink an eye and he’s walking naked through a prison in a bit guest appearance on Oz that barely anyone watched.  The point is that this nation is as fickle as my grandma looking for a ripe cantaloupe, it’s always looking for something better, riper, the next hot thing.

The first trend that I could remember is having a Cabbagepatch Kid. It was the coolest thing back in the day and I insisted to my mother that I needed to have one. I pined for a child to call my own, not unlike a hopeful woman at a fertility clinic. These garden-grown children were popping up all over at preschool and I was starting to be excluded from the Cabbagepatch parties– only parents and kids allowed. Try entering the party with a homemade, poor-man’s Cabbagepatch Kid and you would be cast aside. Through this trend, even at an early age, we were brainwashed with the ideals of elitism and we were hooked. It had to be the Cabbagepatch brand with the signature of the creator tattooed on it’s ass.  These were the real deal and everything else was trash and the people that carried those ugly homemade things were also trash.

One day I came home from school and my child, my baby was sitting on my bed, still in its box. It wasn’t my birthday or anything, so I was confused why I had received this gift. I opened the box of my child and lifted him out. He was beautiful, bald, and black. He came with the name Julian, but I quickly renamed to Timothy-John. He wore a pair of green corduroy overalls with a striped shirt. His eyes were printed brown and his plastic mouth was molded with a grin. I thought nothing of his race.  I didn’t think of him as anything but mine. I quickly wrote my name on the adoption papers that came in the box and ran them up to my mom to have her send them in to the CPK Adoption Agency. I made sure that I spelled everything correctly, including his name change and his new last name. I thanked my mom for giving me such a wonderful child and then I spent the rest of the day fussing over his every need–I mean, I knew the he didn’t require much fuss– but I did have to introduce him to all the other bears and stuffed animals that took residency in my room.  I wanted him to be popular after all.
The next day, I brought my child to school with me. I was a proud as any parent could be. I spent the morning, before school, removing the hair from his overalls that our golden retriever, Sniffer, had left on him after giving him his own tour of the house in his mouth. I entered the preschool with Timothy-John wrapped in my arms. I know I got a new doll and all, but I was getting a lot of stares–everyone must have been very impressed with my baby.  At the Cabbagepatch party that day, Timothy-John and I sat with all the rest of the other kids and I looked around.  Ever since my friend Justin moved away, there were no African-American children in our class, in fact the only one now was Timothy-John.

“You… your baby’s black.” this ugly girl Ashley said, “You can’t have a black baby, you’re white. White people don’t have black babies… they have white ones… because they’re white…”

Not only was this girl ugly, she was very redundant…

“Look, I didn’t have him myself.” I said, “I adopted him from the Cabbagepatch just like all of you. He was grown and I love him. He’s a different color and if you ask me he’s a lot better than yours… yours is ugly.” I said flatly. It was true though, Ashley’s kid was the kind that had a pacifier that you basically had to screw into its mouth. It had long, nappy, orange yarn hair that was all dirty… just like her mom… the little bitch.  I was so pissed off. How dare she? I wrote her off immediately. The rest of the children agreed with me and we had a good time at the party. But this was only the first time that this very subject came up.

Timothy-John and I were not to be separated, he was my baby and I took him everywhere. People would actually stop my mom to inquire why she bought me a black one. One old bag actually asked if my mom got him on sale. I just couldn’t understand. He was GROWN in the CABBAGEPATCH and I adopted him and I love him.  Why didn’t people get this? Why was he of less worth because he was black? Why would they say such hurtful things about my baby?

“Why do people care so much about Timothy-John? Why do they care if he is black?” I asked my mom.

“Because they are stupid,” my mom said, “you don’t pay them any attention.” She left it at that. Later that year I overheard a conversation between my mom and my great-grandfather. We had gone to my grandparent’s house for Christmas and of course Timothy-John came with.

“…it’s bad enough that he is carrying around a doll, but did you have to buy him a colored?  What will all the other parents think? Don’t you think that the other kids will make fun of him?” my great-grandpa said.

“Well, I don’t think that teaching my children how to care for things and love them is ever a bad idea. Teaching my child that people are all people and that they all should be loved equally is something that I wish everyone would teach their children. So frankly Grandpa, I don’t care what other people think.” my mom said. As I look back on this day I realized the controversy; my child and I living in an ignorant world.

As we celebrate the birth of the great civil rights leader, I am reminded how far we have come as a nation and a world. True, there will always be ignorant people, there always be people that hate for no other reason than the color of someone’s skin, their gender, their religion, or who they  love. I still see hope for the future; I won’t give up. One day a little kid will bring his baby to preschool.  This Cabbagepatch Kid might be impeccably dressed in clothes from the day’s top designers… or he might have on ass-less chaps and a Thomas of Finland leather hat… His dad will sit in a circle and say with pride, “I adopted him from the Cabbagepatch just like all of you. He was grown and I love him. He’s gay and if you ask me he’s a lot better than yours… yours is ugly.”

As I sit here watching TV, my instant iced tea all gone.  The dorky boy now has his pimped-out ride and the sun has set on another lazy Saturday. I’m here living in Chicago with a bitchy cat and my Cabbagepatch Kid… my child… Timothy-John is in my room. He’s sitting on a shelf in my closet with all my other childhood memories. His overalls now faded and his beautiful brown head, smudged with paint from when we played a little too close to the walls.  He sits there with his head held high… and so is mine.

Just a tip… #1: Tears on the Train

Let me preface this tip by saying that I don’t ride the train that often.  I have a car and I commute via the painfully slow and laborious streets of the weekday mornings.  However, if the weather is going to be bad, as it was in Chicago this past week, I will leave my car in the garage at work, knowing full well the snow-caked streets will be impossible to drive on (not to mention the crazy drivers), and hop on the Merta.

There is something about the Metra that fills me with purpose; just standing on a platform makes me think, “I’ve got some place to be.” Even if that some place is back at my apartment to watch The View that is sitting on my TiVo, I still feel like a real commuter.  When the train pulls into my stop, I get off and walk with purpose, the way I would assume the real commuters do. “Get me away from this train. I’ve got so much going on with my life,” the subtext reads.

The morning commute is a different bird all together.  I’m not a morning person at all and the thought of having to be somewhere at exactly 8:06, or risk missing a train that won’t come again until 8:47, makes me a nervous wreck.  The truth is that I get rather emotional in the mornings, or more accurately, when I’m tired.  The way one might look at a crying baby and say, “Aw, somebody needs a nap.” that’s me in the morning.  Ready to shut out the world, I put in my ear-buds, set my iPod to shuffle and head out the door. While walking to the train I hurry my step, through the drifts of snow and dirty slush, trying desperately to reach my goal.  The air is ice cold and the panting from the power walking burns my lungs and freezes my nose hairs. With the frustration and ache, by the time I climb the stairs to the Merta platform, I am on the edge of tears, just like someone who just stubbed their toe on an unused hand weight or whose cat has just bitten them on the head. I pant some more and then the train arrives.

The lump in my throat subsides as I pay for my ticket and take a seat next to a kind old woman.  Then, as luck would have it, one of the most beautiful songs in the world starts playing in my ears and tears start to roll.

Here’s your tip: If someone near you on the train is crying, leave them alone.

In some of us there is a maternal instinct to ask, when seeing a person crying, “Are you OK?” or “Is something wrong?” This is the exactly wrong thing to say as it rips the scab and turns what could be just a tired young man with a few tears running down his face into that crazy guy bawling on the Metra. And really, what are you hoping the crier to say? “Well, my dog died.” or “I just found out I have cancer.”  Do you really want to know? More importantly, what can you say to console them in the few minutes you have their company on the train. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that…”  won’t help them a bit. In fact, by saying that general statement, it creates an even more awkward moment because then the crier now has to respond through the coughing and snot. You certainly can’t hug them because that’s crazy. Leave well enough alone and let them have their cry because they probably need it.

If you are the one crying and you have it controlled to simple, solitary tears, just pretend to yawn.  A lot of people tear up when they yawn and it will give solace to the nice old lady sitting next to you and she can just go on thinking to herself, “Aw, somebody need a nap.”

Maybe This Year

So here we are, time for a fresh start. My mom said that 2010 is the year of abundance.  I don’t know if she just made that up or heard it on the Christian channel that she watches all day long, but whatever, I say good for it. So if this is the year of abundance than I am going to be abundant, damnit. I have already got a good start. I think I gained about 15 pounds over the break just by sitting on my ass and watching TV show marathons.  Never in my wildest imagination would I believe that one day American Choppers would be my new favorite show, but after watching 15 hours of it, it wooed me like Joey Lawrence circa 1992.

Every year at this time, I, like many people, make New Year’s resolutions; vowing every year to maintain a gym routine, lose weight, quit sleeping in on Sunday mornings when you know damn well you should be in church.  We try to better ourselves, to set goals, to dream of a brighter future… then Sunday rolls around, the weather gets too bad to go to the gym, and there is 2 for the price of 1 Christmas frosting at the store that you just need to eat with your finger… on the couch… watching Steel Magnolias… again… and all your resolutions are shot. But not this year, this year I’m going to stick to them.

So here they are: My 2010 New Year’s Resolutions.

1. Save Money
I know it is easier said then done but still, I need to save some money. I’m sick of living paycheck to paycheck, it’s bullshit. Actually what I really need to do is stop spending money. No, I’ll take that a step further; I need to stop watching Infomercials. I am Ronco’s wet dream. There is not one infomercial that I have seen all the way through that I wasn’t 100% convinced that I needed that product. I even saw one for an alternative to tampons and thought to myself, “Gee, that sounds nice, that cup just sits right in there and collects the blood, how cool.” Not only is it pathetic that I sit and watch the things, but I am up to my ears in car wax and all-natural male enhancers. The worst is ab related products; I just have to see a gleaming six-pack on the screen and I’m sold. The Ab Cruncher, 3 second abs, 1-2-3 Abs, a device that I forget the name of but all it basically does is electrocute your abs into spasm which is supposed to work off that fat, whatever, none of them work… the fuckers. I remember my very first infomercial that I ever saw was for the Ronco Food Dehydrator. I remember that I was all geared up to make my own potpourri and beef jerky.  I didn’t get it though, probably for the better, I don’t really like beef jerky anyway. However, when old Ron was making it he dipped the beef in an ingredient called Liquid Smoke… I thought that was cool. Anyway, the point is that I can justify these purchases, and that leads me to my next resolution.

2. Stop justifying that which I know is the wrong choice.
I do this all the time. I can justify anything. I justify my justification. Worst of all I justify laziness. I might not shave for days… “Hey, look at me, I’m all rugged and shit.” I would say, but in the back of my mind I would know that I can’t grow even facial hair and I look like a 12 year old trying to be manly. I might sit on the couch and eat and entire bag of chips, “Well shit, this bag is like 50% air anyway, there can’t be much more than a serving in here.” I’d say. I might not be able to find the remote to my TV and end up watching a Spanish channel for an hour. “It’s not going to kill me to experience this culture.” Which was bullshit because it was a Spanish-dubbed version of “Sgt. Bilko” with Steve Martin. So no more of that… I’m going to be active, but even active I can justify shit, so I’ll have to be careful.

3. In conversation, I will use the other person’s name more.
I know this sounds weird, but it was something that I discovered last year and have always meant to work it into my speech pattern. I feel that when talking to someone, a friend, a client, an infomercial operator, that it is so nice to hear your name inserted in the conversation.
“Hello, may I speak to John?”
“Yes, this is he.”
“Hi John, I’m just calling to confirm your order of the Jack LaLanne’s Power Juicer. You know John, you can save an extra 15% by signing up for the monthly magazine ‘Juices by Jack.’”
There is something about inserting your name that makes it more persona, I like it. There was a girl I knew from school that would do that even in casual conversation, “Well, thanks for asking John, I’m doing much better after my laser hair removal.” She had a bit of a beard, poor thing. So, from now on talking to me will be a lot more engaging; you will really feel apart of the conversation and you’ll know that I care.

4. Drink more water.
I know that we humans need to drink water to live and all, but I just hate it. It doesn’t taste like anything and it doesn’t give me the refreshing zing that I get with a Diet Pepsi. The worst is drinking water with a meal because it tastes like whatever you are eating. There is nothing quite as awful as having a big plate of spaghetti and washing it down with liquid spaghetti. The only thing worth drinking water with is hard candy because it creates a kind of Koolaid in your mouth. The only time I want water is at the gym or after I have just got done doing something really physical because really it is the only liquid that you can drink while panting. Some would argue that sport drinks are better but I don’t think so. The truth is that I can’t drink many of those because I’ve thrown most of them up… you see, Frank, that I used to use them as mixers in high school before I could hold my liquor. But I guess I’m going to try to force myself to drink my daily 10 gallons of water or whatever the fuck they say is needed… seems kinda shady though, I’m still alive and I never drink water.

5. Write another book.
I’m getting published this year, so help me GOD!

So that’s it… there they are… in writing and posted on the World Wide Web for all to see. Maybe this year… just maybe, I won’t disappoint myself and I will be a better person for it.

The best of luck to all of you as well on your New Year’s resolutions and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

I Have the Following Ailments, Love Me.

 I have always found it interesting how people draw attention to themselves.  Some people just wear oddly colored outfits and people dye their hair blue. Some people spend their life in the gym to get a beautiful body and then pierce their nose for good measure.  But most people however, don’t do anything radical but simply find interesting things about themselves to bring up when they need attention or want to stand out in a social situation. It could be as simple as stating an opinion on a hot-topic issue, “Call me crazy, but I think that Bozo the Clown should run for office… really, I mean look at all he has to offer: big shoes, red nose, frilly collar.  I mean think of how great this country would be if we had a Grand March out of the capital building everyday… maybe a little pie in the face?  I mean really… who’s with me on this?”  When this fails, most people go for the ailments.

It’s down-right shocking to hear all of the different abnormalities that come out of a simple group dinner conversation.  It starts out simple; Jenny might casually mention that she has a mild allergy to bananas.  From there the tricky game of one-upmanship begins.  Rachel will chime in with her lactose intolerance, Billy might throw in that he swells up when he eats kiwi.  I always add that Salmon is the one food in the world that will actually kill me.  I could mention my irritable bowel, but for the sake of the food about to be delivered, I leave that out.  This goes on for sometime and then the conversation rapidly moves forward to surgeries and sports injuries, mental defects and near pregnancy.  Before you know it, everyone is pissed and there is an artificial leg on the table.  We all eat in silence and keep one eye on James who claimed to have Apotemnophobia which is the fear of persons with amputations.

Learning disabilities seem to flourish in the arts.  Singers, actors, and mimes just seem to have all kinds of issues; of course 9 out of 10 times they are just full of shit and want attention.  Personally, when I hear actors say they are dyslexic, I immediately think they just didn’t spend the time memorizing their lines.  They were too busy talking about other actor’s inabilities and how one of their friends is not eating.  Dramatic people, I find, like to be perceived as one who struggles through adversity, as if they were in the process of producing their own E! True Hollywood Story.  “I had some terrible things happen to me,” they’d say, “but I faced them with my head held high, and here I am… a star.”

When you are stuck with no ailments, or it’s been found out that you are full of it, you gravitate toward someone else’s and live vicariously through them.  Whether it be your best friend with Bell’s Palsy or your fag-hag with Genuphobia (fear of knees) we discuss them like they were our own.  One day, when I was working at Starbucks, a very nice looking woman came in with her daughter.  She was in her 30’s, very nicely dressed. Her daughter was short and blond with bright blue eyes; she looked like a little angel.  The daughter’s eyes barely reached the counter, but she stared at me and smiled.  Her mother then said, “This little girl has diabetes, and I’m looking for a drink that doesn’t have sugar in it.”  I looked over at the little girl and her smile faded and she nodded as if to say, “It’s true, I do have diabetes.”  I explained to the mother that we have many options of sugar free drinks, but I couldn’t help but think how embarrassing this was for the little girl to have her disease broadcast to every vendor.  I pictured the mother going to a clothing store and saying to the salesperson, “This little girl has diabetes, and we need sweatpants that don’t cut off her circulation, you see diabetes slows down the circulation process and if things get too tight around her ankles, there is a high-risk of amputation.”  In the end, I gave the girl a tall sugar-free vanilla steamer and my heart broke a little when I told her that we added sugar to the whipped cream so she couldn’t have it.

It is very interesting to learn about actual ailments that plague my friends.  These are the ailments that they do not talk about, they are real.  For example, when I was in high school, I got scabies.  Many people only recognize scabies as a sexually transmitted disease when in actuality it is transmitted through sweat, so you can really get it anywhere.  From what I have deduced, I got it in gym class.  For the first week I did nothing but itch.  My arms, my thighs, my armpits, my feet were all in agony.  It was by far the worst pain I have ever been in.  Finally after two weeks of itching, I told my mom that something was wrong.  She took me to see a dermatologist and he was fast to diagnose me.  But this was something that I decided not to tell my friends, I could picture them backing away from me and calling me a dirty tramp.  My reputation would be ruined, and I would be that guy who had scabies, not unlike the boy that crapped his pants in the cafeteria… I believe his name was Sam, but I’m not sure, I only know him as the boy that crapped his pants in the cafeteria.

When I think about all the different ailments that plague the human race, I wonder why in God’s great wisdom, they exist at all.  Are they the work of the devil?  Are they a test? Or are they a cruel joke?  I can picture God coming up with these things to serve a double purpose; first and most important, to teach us humility. Second, to observe the people with Tourette’s syndrome say the phrase, “suck my dick you monkey balls smelling bitch” when trying to ask for a glass of milk.  Though tragic as it is, even God would find that funny.

I think it is sad to define yourself by your ailment.  Go out and do good work!  Go hug a tree, give away your clothes, donate your time and money, do some good!  I would join you, but my IBS has been very bad lately and I’ve been getting bad headaches because I’m addicted to caffeine, which causes my eyesight to go blurry and my toes to go numb.  It’s cool though, I’ve learned to live with it… I struggle on and I keep my head held high.

New Eye Balls

 My glasses are magic, but kind of that bad magic that ends up fucking you in the end. I look awesome in them and people put undeserved fashion authority on me.  I soak it up like any person trying to cling to their youth. But over the years, the glasses have taken hold of me like (to dork out on you) the Ring of Power.  For example, I can’t hear without my glasses. I have to have them on to understand what’s being said to me.  While they make me look cool and with it,  they have started a feud with my contact lenses.  I used to wear contacts all the time, but now I can wear them for about 4 hours without my glasses calling to me from their folded state on the bathroom sink, “Put me on, I’m so much more comfortable, your eyes won’t dry out and itch with me, I’m better for you. You look fat without me on.”  As if resigning outright, my contacts will then lose all moisture and I will get a sharp headache and have to take them off.

That all being said, wearing glasses is something that I have always loved, is that weird?  There is a certain character about glasses that make me feel hip and with it.  Like any fashion accessory, choosing the right pair of glasses is a daunting process.  Do they make my face look fat?  Is my head too big for these? Are the lenses big enough? Are they too big?  Should I get wire frames or plastic ones? Am I really ready to change my eye wear?  I mean, I guess that’s the biggest question of all really.  Your glasses will define you, if you wear them everyday, and as expensive as they are, it’s not like you can go out willy-nilly and pick a new pair up.  My glasses have to last at least 2 years.

For the past two years, I’ve been rockin’ the D&G 1112’s:

I think they are the right amount of hip/classic.  They have been awesome glasses, but it’s time to move on.  There is no doubt that my prescprition needs to be bumped up. I’m near sided and my far is becoming quite blury.  So, the great search began for some new eye balls (as my momma used to call them)  I knew first off that I definately wanted to stick with a plastic frame and I also wanted to keep the “classic” look. So, at long last I think I found my new eye balls:

Oliver Peoples “Sheldrake” Prescription Glasses:

Inspired by Andy Warhol, this optical frame is hand-sculpted in generous acetate (plastic) and also plays well as a sunglass. The bridge is crafted with a unique keyhole shape and the frame front is detailed with small silver plaques. The visible core-wire within the temple is embossed with Oliver Peoples logo detailing and the Oliver Peoples plaque is embossed at the temple end. Colors available include sophisticated shades, such as Black, Crystal and Storm, as well as Limited Edition shades: Matte Goldwood and RBR.

Hopefully, they won’t be as evil. Finger’s crossed.

Game of Life

Jay and I played the game of LIFE.  You all know the classic game of taking your plastic car, your tiny little blue or pink peg and spinning the wheel and setting off to become a success.  Truth be told, we had a good time playing it, I won all 5 times we played. (Bless his heart, Jay hates losing so much that we normally have to play until he wins, he gave up around 2:00 am)  This game is telling in the fact that to win, you have to have the most money.  That got me a little sad, as yes, money is ideal and I would certainly like more of it, if for no other reason than to get my damn Kindle, but that is not where all happiness lives.  To win this game, I would bypass my real life morals and convictions, often landing on a square saying, “donate $125,000 to an orphanage” and instantly reacting with, “fuck that.”  I land on the space, “bail your uncle out of jail pay $2,000.” and I say, “let him rot.”  I was in it to win in and all of these hand-out were draining my money.  This brought me to the one logical conclusion.  Greed makes you an asshole. Take note CEOs…  One of the rounds I won with 3 million dollars and 6 kids, I can’t foresee a time in my life where that will be the case, certainly not the 6 kids.  I turn 30 this year and I couldn’t help but feel that I am behind in the game of life.  On the plus side, I’m happy… and I beat Jay at something 5 times in a row… I rule!

So... Hope.

Some of you may have thought that I had jumped ship on this blog, well, I kinda did.  However, I’m fueled now with the gumption to make this one work.  I think the real key is not to over think these blog posts.  Not to make everything I write into this well thought out piece of literature which can be hard for me to do.  Anyway, I’m going to try my best and not give up on this one….

There are a few things that I want to reflect on:

First, the Oscars.  While there are many things to say one way or another about this year’s ceremony, (like that bullshit Baz Luhrman “tribute to musicals” number in the middle) there was a moment that I think really will be talked about for years to come, and that is the acceptance speech of Dustin Lance Black for Best Original Screenplay.

“But most of all, if Harvey had not been taken from us 30 years ago, I think he’d want me to say to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told that they are less than by their churches or by the government or by their families that you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value and that no matter what anyone tells you, God does love you and that very soon, I promise you, you will have equal rights, federally, across this great nation of ours.”

Wow.  To have those words said at the Oscars was so huge to me.  I sat and cried through the whole thing.  I haven’t bee so moved by an Oscar speech since Tom Hanks’ “The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels…” speech.  It is so important that gay kids hear these things and it just gives me so much damn hope for the future that my cup runneth over.

Then tonight, during President Obama’s speech to the nation, I was also filled with that same feeling.  All day I have been reading the news and listening to people say things like, “Well the president is going to have a problem filling all of these campaign promises” and “He’s going to have to really cut back his agenda” and all this other nay-saying bullshit.  But tonight, he got up there and said basically, “This is America, Jack.”  He didn’t cower, he didn’t skirt the issues.  He was unwavering in his promises and not giving one damn inch on any of it.  Which brings us all back to the big question of how he is going to get this done.  I don’t know the answer, but I trust him… I have hope that he will come through.

“But while our economy may be weakened and our confidence shaken; though we are living through difficult and uncertain times, tonight I want every American to know this:We will rebuild, we will recover, and the United States of America will emerge stronger than before.”

I think it’s easy to get pessimistic about the world, but I’m trying my hardest to shake it off.  Have hope… hope for the gays, hope for the county, and hope for this whole damn world.