New Year’s Eve
I came to your place
And laid in your bed
We talked about pictures in frames
Until 4 AM
The night was so young
It couldn’t even walk
So we stumbled around in your room
In the amber moonlight
The wires were warm
The TV was sizzling
The feel of the room was too much
It was really just amazing
We couldn’t understand it
We just looked at each other
And bathed ourselves in that moment
Forever.
He spends so much of his time watching, reading, and listening to the stories created for him that you would expect him to notice the stories unfolding around him each and every day. His life in recent years had been filled with people and habits that prevented him from taking action and moving the plot forward. He became content to brood on the cusp of a major development, never pivoting his frame to force the winds of time to alter their course as they brushed his calloused hide.
It’s funny how moments like these enter your life. Sometimes, things happen so subtly that we have no idea they were even influencing our destiny. Others arrive like a train station marquee tile, tumbling down so quickly you didn’t even notice the change. He resolved to siphon the stories out of life. He wanted to drain the mundane of its relentless truncation.
Sometimes I wish I were more naive.
My upstairs neighbor rings my doorbell bleary-eyed. She warns me that she has family with small children visiting this weekend. If it’s too loud, just let her know. I hear several voices from the upstairs patio around midnight – none of them children.
I hear firecrackers in the distance. At least 12 of them. A few minutes later police sirens wail from a similar distance. Later, I hear helicopters circle.
I made concrete plans to spend time with a friend. Throughout the day, I turned down several offers to hang out, because, “I’m going out with my friend Ryan tonight” Unreachable by phone that evening. No response to texts. I drink in my apartment.
Alone.
The road to Tucson was a long one, and I can’t say we both arrived at its terminus unscathed. My amateur attempt at lighting a joint in the car caused a nasty burn hole in my brand new polo shirt, and my odometer would never be quite the same again. We arrived at my parents’ timeshare in Tucson around dusk. We had driven from Southern California to attend the final installment of what I was calling Wedding Week 2009: two back-to-back weddings within a week of each other. The past 13 days had been chaotic to say the least.
The first wedding was that of my second cousin, Holly. I’m not what you’d call close to this segment of my family. My grandmother’s twin sister (Holly’s grandmother) had enjoyed a very comfortable life after she married into a family who owned a construction firm based in Riverside. Not only do the members of this branch of the family tree navigate society ensconced in a bubble of privilege, they also prescribe to a particularly rigorous brand of evangelical Christianity that further distorts (in my opinion) their worldview.
In the week leading up to the wedding, there was some debate amongst my immediate family as to whether or not there this was going to be a dry wedding. That drinking is frowned upon within my family would be an understatement, so I felt slightly awkward sipping my chardonnay after the wait staff began pouring glasses of free wine immediately after the ceremony. The wedding reception would turn out to be something of a milestone.
After several glasses raised in toast to the newly wedded couple, I was running on pure liquid courage. The uneasiness and self-consciousness I had felt earlier had dissipated. I was having engaging conversations with my cousins that I hadn’t spoken to in about a decade, guffawing with my homophobic, ultra-conservative uncles, and generally not giving a fuck who was watching me on the dance-floor. As I executed a poorly-timed spin to “Boom Boom Pow”, I glanced over to see both of my parents polishing off their glasses of wine. I was raised in the Baptist church, but the values of celibacy until marriage (being homosexual, this is both impossible and impractical for me), abstention from alcohol (see above), and general obedience to God never really gained any traction with me. On the other hand, I recall several wine and champagne bottles given to my parents as Christmas and New Years gifts thrown in the garbage in the name of setting a good example for me and my brothers. As far as I knew until that night, my folks still adhered to that rule. But here we were, all of us in no condition to drive home, and not really caring either way. I realized that I was entering a phase where, after accepting that your parents are actual human beings, you begin to counter this newfound discovery by asserting yourself not only as human, but a grown-up. Emboldened by this revelation, I was anticipating having a pretty good time in Tucson at my other cousin’s wedding the following weekend which was sure to have booze flowing freely.
My brother and I exchanged greetings with my parents as we sat down to a home-away-from-home-cooked dinner, a welcome respite from a full day on the road. Later that night, I went with my mother to the grocery store to pick up something for us all to enjoy for dessert. As she began picking out toppings for ice cream sundaes, I said casually, “I’m going to go pick out some beer for me and Andrew.”
She pouted and frowned like a two-year-old being called for a bath. “Do you have to?”
I was too road-weary to put the effort required into ruining a perfectly good evening with family, but I really wanted a drink, so I sheepishly responded “No…..I don’t have to….”
She gave me the pouty two-year-old look again.
“I’m on vacation.” Maybe this whole asserting myself as an adult wasn’t such a good idea after all. I puffed up my chest and convinced myself that the tension would blow over. I placed my 12-pack on the conveyor belt at the check-out and I wondered if my mom would use a different tactic to keep me from drinking that night.
“I really don’t know how your father’s going to react to you having that. In the house,” mom said in a prophetic tone. Pfft: as if that dynamic had ever existed in our family! I don’t recall ever hearing, “Just you wait until your father gets home!” in my 18 years living with them. Nice try, mom.
At the same time, I felt overcome by her vortex of guilt. I felt a sinking sensation, my morale was about to give way under the crushing weight of mom’s time-tested methods.
“If it really means that much to you, I’ll just put it back.”
Mom wanted to make it clear that I had gotten the wrong idea. “Oh, no no! Don’t put it back! I just want you to know how I feel,” she said. As she approached the cashier, without looking at me she threw in, “And you know how I feel”.
I paid for my beer and admitted to myself that mom had triumphed. Her unique brand of passive aggression conquers all. I was absolutely petrified that I had misunderstood my brother when I asked him if he wanted anything from the store, that “Just whatever you’re having,” really referred to whatever flavor of ice cream. I knew that this was a bad judgment call on my part, and the night I defiantly brought a 12-pack of Budweiser into my parents’ home would come to be known in my family as “that night”.
I tried my best to act normal as I walked through the door. “I told him, Tom!”…..Silence. I had totally called mom’s bluff! I was home-free! I had won!
There has to come a point where you take your family dynamics, unspoken resentments and expectations, and reconcile them with your life. You either rise above them or give into them. I choose to rise above them. I may not be proud of everything I’ve done in my life, and I don’t claim to have my shit together by any stretch of the imagination, but I know who I am right now, and I refuse to sugar-coat or hide it any more.
Before heading to bed, my brother and I were polishing off the last of our beers and chatting on the balcony. We stared into the Sonoran void, puffing our cigarettes. “Way to stick to your guns on that one,” my brother said. I took another swig and smacked my lips in satisfaction.
The waking nightmare that was having mobile-only internet has finally come to an end. I haven’t updated this thing in forever, but I’m trying to do better. I figure I just use this as a diary for my comings and goings (there are a lot more now that I’m not in a suffocating relationship) and hope that the creativity will flow from there.
…what did I ever do to you to make people turn off the shower without redirecting the water to the faucet? Do you realize how mortifying an ice-cold blast of water to the face is just after you wake up? Verifying that the the little button is pressed down is something I don’t think I should be expected to absorb into my morning routine.
Drowsily,
-Percival
RIP Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and Ed McMahon! (Except I didn’t really care about you, Ed, until I realized you were the first in the inevitable triad of celebrity deaths)
I arrived at the venue with Jose (who tagged along reluctantly) and our friend Danny (who had seen neither The Faint nor Ladytron live before, but was a fan of both) with just enough time to wait in line for one drink at the bar before Ladytron started their set.
They played most of the songs I wanted to hear, but left something to be desired in their on-stage presence. Their lights were no doubt entrancing, but the highlight of the ensemble was the two lead songtresses, both of whom seemed “more concerned with being witches,” as Danny put it, than connecting with their audience. I agree with many of the reviews of the show that I’ve read: while The Faint and Ladyton together seem like a genius idea as far as drawing a like-minded crowd, the juxtaposition of bleak, stoic Ladytron and high-energy, pogo-friendly The Faint resulted in a disconnect between the two sets.
The lady-like silhouettes of Ladytron
The Faint
The Faint en rouge
As far as enjoyability, when I’m attending concerts or events, I generally keep the attitude of “Fuck it, I paid my [price of admission] and I’m probably never going to see these people again in my life”. So when The Faint took the stage, I barely hesitated to shove my way to the front of my section and dance my fat little heart out. Yes, I am That Fat Guy at concerts. Yes, I need a 12 foot radius in which to dance, and yes I will sweat all over your sweat-banded little hipster head!
“Now, I know you’re going to go to the [Downtown Disney] parking lot to finish this – but don’t. This is Disneyland. There are cameras in your ass right now.” – Disney security guard to Jon, after being kicked out of a HOB Anaheim show for drunken fighting.
I had bought tickets to the Rufus Wainwright show several months ahead of time, thinking that me and my friend Leo where going to be the only ones attending. By the time the show rolled around, my brother and Vanessa, my friend Danny, and Leo and his husband were planning on being there.
I had originally envisioned this as a group outing, with the two couples, Danny and myself attending the show together. But, it didn’t quite work out that way. But I managed to see everyone at some point, which was made me feel like quite the social butterfly.
As much as I love Rufus, this show will not make it into my list top 10 concerts ever. The eyes of everyone in the crowd was almost creepily transfixed on the stage, without any hint of actually connecting with or enjoying the music, and, judging by the “shush” that Andrew and Vanessa received during the show, seemed to resent anyone else who was having a good time. I was also hoping to witness Rufus in his full glory, with an orchestra and back-up singers. Instead, it was just Rufus and a guitar/piano and while this set-up led to a very intimate and almost too casual tone (he forgot the words to several songs) I was nevertheless awestruck that Rufus was able to pull of some of his most technically difficult pieces such as “Vibrate” and “California”, the latter of which was preceded with this gem of an introduction:
Lucy Wainwright-Roche opened (while I was outside at the patio bar) and accompanied Rufus during a few songs along with Loudon Wainwright, a prolific late-1960s folk singer and composer of the score to Knocked Up (thank you, Wikipedia!).
Rufus and his guitar from afar (Hehe...that rhymes)
May 3 was my first performance as a Men Alive chorister, Songs of the Noble Heart. I think the performance went well, but my fucking pants kept on falling down! Must get them altered before the July 17-18 performance of Wicked to Oz. I was unable to get any photos or video of the performance, so here’s a vid of the Berlin Phil and Rundfunkchor Berlin performing Verdi’s “Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves”, one of my favorite pieces we performed in the concert:
On May 16, I did something I thought I would never. I dragged my ass out of bed, put on my Saturday best, and lugged by ass to Long Beach for Gay Pride 2009. My good friend Leo, who lives in Long Beach, invited me to come and I thought it would be a good way to get to know some of my fellow choristers who would be running in our pack that day.
After sitting through about 9 hours of dykes on bike, queens (drag and leather), and an unending stream of churches, government agencies, non-profits and Jazzercisers, we headed up the street to the festival.
I wish I had some engaging, insightful analysis of my first Pride experience, but I have to admit it was just about what I expected it to be. It was crowded (although not nearly as packed as I thought it would be) and hot. For some reason I was expecting the Long Beach scene to be everything I’ve been looking for in a gay enclave: inclusive but not cliquish, down-to-earth by not repressed, and above all diverse. I have to admit I was somewhat disappointed to see the same mix of folks I’ve come to expect from the gay scene in LA/OC.
That’s not to say I didn’t have fun: the whole thing was really entertaining. I had my fair share of drinks and laughs, and I had a great time hanging out with new peeps.
The handsomest mayor/gubernatorial hopeful, Gavin Newsome (This queer is still unconvinced, though)
Big scary black man in a pimped out car! Run! Oh, wait....
Leather/BDSM Demo Tent. Electrified paddles: who knew?
Mainstage
Addendum: Attending Pride without protection from the sun resulted in an incinerating sunburn and subsequent skin-peeling episode. I was tempted to remain indoors for the better part of June for fear of making small children cry.
The next time you’re at a social gathering and you think the attendees might enjoy dancing at approximately 128 beats per minute for about 40 minutes, consider this mix I made! Won’t you give it a listen?
Running time: 40 min 8 sec
Dear Big Lots,
It’s pointless to have a saucepan lid that gets as hot as the pan itself. I also acknowledge that second degree burns on my fingertips are what I get for actually buying your piece of shit products.
Love,
Percival
This article can also be seen on The New Gay, one of my favorite blogs. Movin’ on up, y’all!
My borderline obsessive monitoring of the media (or as much as I can conglomerate from sources on the Internet) has brought me to the conclusion that people who oppose gay marriage can be broken down into two basic categories: A) Those who have some kind of misguided moral disagreement with homosexuality as a “lifetstyle choice” and, B) People who have placed in the traditional institution of marriage a tremendous amount of symbolic and emotional value.
I won’t address the first group in this post, because I’d rather not use my valuable finger muscles to dignify their ignorance. Most of these people are simply buying into whatever their religious leaders or peers have told them, and they blindly follow them into believing that gay people in general are evil. The second group of people, however, provokes both my confusion and empathy in equal amounts. On a personal note, I really don’t buy into all the fuss with weddings. Then again, I’ve never really been one for symbolic rituals: I didn’t even participate in my school’s commencement ceremony, only rarely celebrate my own birthday with more gusto than knocking back one or two more drinks than I would on any other day, and honestly have no particular intention of planning a wedding when/if I marry my boyfriend.
But weddings, and marriage, as an institution are unquestionably important. The union of two people as professed in a public ritual of mutual love and commitment exists in almost every culture across the globe in some form, and is a significant milestone in many peoples’ lives. I know this sounds like a lot of the rhetoric we hear from the opposition that is used as a rationale for barring gays from equal marriage rights, but I say this only to underscore the idea that straight people might be on to something when they express anxiety over what they perceive as the redefinition of marriage as they know it.
Personally, I can come up with no response to said argument other than the separation of church and state. The government has no practical interest in wedding cakes and bridesmaids. It’s only interest in this issue is facilitating a social contract between two people. As such, the government has no place issuing civil documents with the word “marriage” – a sometimes religious, and usually symbolic act – written on it. The documents should be called “civil unions” and should confer equal rights upon both of the holders of the contract.
Suppose tomorrow morning we woke up and everyone had equal opportunity for marriage rights. What would happen to the “marriage licenses” of heterosexual couples that were issued today? Would they be required to go to the county recorder’s office and exchange their marriage licenses for civil unions? I really don’t think they should be expected to do that. Equal marriage rights for gays and lesbians don’t preclude fairness for heterosexual couples. As citizens, they have a stake in this as well. They hold their marriages close to their heart – and rightfully so!
So why not make both a “civil union” document and a “marriage license” document available?
Many folks simply cite Brown v. Board of Education, and breathlessly claim that issuing civil unions, even though they come with the same rights as marriages, are “separate but equal” and, therefore, inherently unequal. But if you do your research, Brown v. Board of Education found that segregating black and white students into different schools was inherently unequal because the facilities were inherently unequal. In the same way that two houses on a city block have certain characteristics that make one property better than the other – a particularly large backyard, for example, for a nice wrap-around porch. The constitutional principle in Brown v. Board of Education applies to the gay marriage debate only if you’re considering issuing civil unions without the same rights that a marriage license would grant.
If two men want to get a “marriage license”, then let them have a marriage license, already! If two women want to get a “civil union”, then let them have the piece of paper! Nothing is “redefined”, and everyone’s happy! If someone can point out how this might not be the simplest solution to the problem, please let me know, because Google Reader certainly hasn’t given me any answers so far.
