Dec 15

It is very much on purpose that I haven’t seen the pictures or video. I’ve kept it to text on the BlackBerry screen. At age 32, it seems I can still become a teenager feeling Columbine too easily from two time zones over. It seems trite or not fair to feel what isn’t immediately my problem. As I sit here with everyone I know accounted for and safe, to grieve people I’ll never know doesn’t seem right. It wasn’t me and mine. Very likely if you’re reading this it wasn’t your and yours. To be sad, to cry, to rage, to pray when I’m not in the immediate seems wrong. I don’t, can’t, won’t feel the sting of what those in Connecticut feel as I move on with my day. To pretend I do is offensive. 

But yet, I’ve become an adult where this is reality. It happens in malls now, workplaces and sidewalks. It can be kindergartners or Congresswomen. We’ve somehow came to accept a world where school funding goes for metal detectors and security guards instead of computers and textbooks. We’re alright with a world where health care for all sorts of illness is not a protected right, but gun ownership is. We’ll even give lip service to anti-bullying measures, but still legislate against equal rights with a straight face. 

And that’s why I sat down to write this morning. Not because I can burst into tears, not because I’m a person who feels things that aren’t immediately related to me, but as a man who has seen too much. 

I find myself feeling less depressed and more angry that this keeps happening. Where were the people in charge when this kind of thing started? Why didn’t they do something? Why are we still not doing anything? 

I suppose it would be nice to be able to close out this little post with a call to action or some grandiose idea of how to move forward, but I’ve tried typing that and it just doesn’t  work. Maybe it’s too soon for that. 

Extrapolate and pontificate all you’d like about the reasons why, societal ills and legislative gridlock that prevents meaningful change from happening, but we have to admit that it’s getting worse instead of better. I’m not going to pretend I’m wise enough to know the answer. But what I do know is that many of us who grew up with school becoming a place of violence now have the power and responsibility to do what wasn’t done for us. 

To borrow a phrase from the President, I wonder if we can get and sustain an anger that’s enough to shout down the “carnival barkers” on TV, radio, Facebook feeds and even some of our pulpits? Or will we go back to our lives after this weekend and wait for it to happen again? 

I hope not.

End of Summer poem

Ok, it isn't really the end of summer for a few more weeks, but seeing the back-to-school ads and our general population increase, it feels that way. So, I wrote a quick poem this morning. I suck at titles, so it is as yet, untitled:

Summer is precocious
in this college town
when internships and so many
soon to be lost virginities cause
our population
to feel its age.

At first, it's just the
traffic's lighter and
the cereal aisle
less crowded.
Raisin Bran is on the
10 for $10
instead of Lucky Charms and Trix.

At the downtown bar,
you'll realize that
blue-eyed boy is gone
and your glass of wine
is delivered by a girl
too young to have crow's feet
and a picture of a toddler
in the black wallet where she
takes down your order.

Sure, you'll fire up the
grill, make sangria and
suntan your forearms and shins,
but even the boys brazen
enough to jog or play tennis
with their shirts off seem to
apologize for the 6 packs
being Bud Light Lime.

It isn't until the first, cool
night in August,
just after the extra long
twin sheets appear in Target
that you realize the prodigal
Abercrombie princes
have returned
wearing unabashed sex
as easy as pre-distressed
t-shirts and plastic flip-flops.

A table over, you hear someone
use the word "syllabi"
and a group of girls
in homecoming court heels
walk by
talking about "circle up".

And so, you sigh
force a wider smile
and slide an extra $5
in the wallet
and remember the
blue-eyed boy
is named Jacob.

I'm Back

There’s a certain something to ugly crying in a therapist’s office that is both disorienting and relieving. Something feels so great about letting whatever it is that seems to be the matter out, and at the same time incredibly awkward for doing this in front of a perfect stranger. Nevermind that it’s a stranger you happen to be paying, which really ups the creepy ante when you consider it.


However, when doing so, I’ve found the appropriate response is to first locate the tissues. They will exist and they will be placed in such a way that they should be in clear view to someone who has just entered the room or who isn’t trying to prevent snot from hitting their dry clean only pants. Trust that you will eventually locate the tissues, but the snot will also locate your pants. That’ll be $10 for the copay and $3.50 for the cleaners. It’s really not such a bad deal all told.

I’m likely getting ahead of myself, though. I’ve been awfully remiss about posting anything here lately. It’s just that every time I sat down to write something, it turned awfully morose, awfully fast. A post called “I’m a Cutter” isn’t necessarily the best read. And while I’m never one to care much about sharing personal information, I also don’t want to be another sympathy suck on the interwebs. Thankfully, I’m a good bit past the yuckiest of the yuck, so I think I’m more apt to move on with my usual healthy (or unhealthy dose, we haven’t gotten to that yet) sense of humor.

I can say that the whole sling snot onto my pants moment was a bit of a bucket list item for me. What actually ran through my head somewhere between the Beggin’ Strips dog moment of “Kleenex. Gotta find a Kleenex” and “Fuck. Really? These are dry clean only” was “Ugly cry in the therapist’s office. Check”.

That moment wasn’t really that far into my experience in “therapy”. (By the way, we have to come up with a better name for it. I’m up for suggestions. So far, I refer to is as a visit to my “Crazy Coach”). And I’m sure that it might disappoint the Crazy Coach to know that this little moment is a highlight of our time together, but it was this moment that I realized that I actually don’t have a written down “Bucket List”. (Bear with me).

Sure, I have ideas of things that I’d like to do. I’d always said I wanted to see Bjork in concert and I did that earlier this year. I’d quickly tell you I’d checked that item off this proverbial bucket list and that it was a big deal for me to do it. However, I’ve never taken the time to actually sit down and write out my list of other things I’d like to do.

In an extrapolation of that, I’ve realized that I’ve never really set and achieved a goal. I mean sure, I wanted to finish high school and college, but not because it was a “goal”. It just felt like “the next step”. Life has just sort of happened to me and I’ve gone with the flow. However, not once have I ever sat down and said, “I want to achieve this and here’s how I’m going to do it”. Damned near 32 years, folks and not once. Ever.

So, now that I’ve crossed off Bjork as well as slinging snot with the Crazy Coach, it’s probably time that I sit down and do that, isn’t it? I may even post some of the Bucket List items here as I come up with them. The bigger picture goals like “lose enough weight such that my button-up shirts don’t pull around my gut” and “pay off the car faster” are probably not things that are all that entertaining to read about. But, things that I do plan to establish a plan for and then figure out.

As obvious and easy as it probably is to most of you, these are totally uncharted waters for me. It seems like such WORK. But, I’m sure something that’s overall very much for the best, just like the visits to the Crazy Coach. (And y’all, I have to brave the Double Diamond of Death now that she’s moved offices). And yeah, now that this little post is out of the way, I’m hoping I’ll be back here a little more frequently, too. Also, since the Crazy Coach doesn’t budge on her pricing, let me know if y’all get any coupons for dry cleaning.

Aftermath

It’s fair to say that I have a conflicted relationship with UK Basketball. Most of the time, I’d say my attitude is “tolerant”. Living in Lexington for 10 years and in Kentucky for nearly 32, the Cats are an inescapable part of life. I’ve learned that everyone from the so-called “good ol’ boys” to the cashier at Kroger will quickly assess a new acquaintance by the response given to “How ‘bout them Cats?” and despite my native Kentuckian status, I’ve yet to figure out a good reply. 

As with most things athletic, basketball doesn’t interest me. It’s a lot of back and forth with precious little change of scenery. I’m baffled when I hear people use words like “thrilling” and “exciting” when describing a game. The little bit of “March Madness” I’ve seen this year held my attention for about a minute. In that time, I found myself being irritated by the melodramatic falls/attempted fouls and wondering why only 3 seconds had ticked off the play clock. 

My indifference can easily lean towards disdain. It’s easy to be annoyed by people who are evangelical about something that doesn’t show up on my radar, especially given the fervency that UK fans are known for. I think we can all agree that our Cats are in fact wild and maybe a little feral. Sometimes I just long for some of that energy to be put to what seems to my disinterested mind, a better purpose. 

However, I’ve grown up in Eastern Kentucky and realize that sometimes the boys in the blue jerseys are about the only hope that pops up in a given year for some. For a state that’s bottom of the list in just about every metric, our state school’s basketball performance gives some a reason to thump their chest, raise their chin and paint the truck nuts blue and white. I usually can’t bring myself to begrudge someone their source of happiness if it is, by and large harmless. 

And that’s what’s so sad about last night. It stopped being harmless. By now, we’ve all heard of the commotion on State Street, the overturned cars, the fires and the vandalism. I learned of it in seeming real time through Twitter while walking down Woodland Avenue. Something about the electricity in the air compelled even my unconcerned self to walk down and join the celebrating masses. And while my visit was more about rubbernecking than revelry, I also had a general sense of “good for you guys”. 

My two companions and I started the night with a general amusement when I read the reports of sofa fires. We all knew they were coming and so it didn’t seem to be a big deal. (Also, if one of you can explain this phenomenon to me, I’ll gladly buy your dinner). By the time we’d made it to Woodland and Euclid, the party was going full blast and it seemed a contained chaos. In contrast, the tweets kept rolling in about fires, pepper gas, overturned cars and SWAT teams from the other side of campus. 

It didn’t and doesn’t seem possible. I know we’re rabid fans, but the inconsistency between a celebration and a riot doesn’t add up. How do you go from one to the other? How does overturning a car show your enthusiasm for a basketball victory? How does vandalism express joy? 

I know these fans are the minority. Most people in this town and in the state raised their respective glasses, then tucked themselves in with a smile on their face. They’ll spend this morning whispering about this or that play over a pew or maybe make a cup of coffee and pop an aspirin. But it seems like this majority might need to sit down and have a heart to heart with the minority. 

I made a drive around campus early this morning and saw that just about everything looked normal. There was no evidence of last night’s throng at Woodland and Euclid. Limestone only had the occasional, errant beer bottle, no worse than any other Saturday night near campus. What really stung was when I drove down State Street and saw the litter, the remnants of various fires and the WHAS news van with a camera set up. Because it wasn’t the Cats victory or the literal thousands of peaceful fans getting broadcast back to Louisville; it was this. The debauchery and destruction is how the story is being framed outside of Lexington, not the “we showed ‘em who’s best” line that I think most fans would have preferred. 

So, we’re down to one final game. I’m told it’s a game that most believe UK has a damned good shot of winning. I won’t feel hard at my friends or at my city for taking to the streets in celebration. Even if I don’t understand it, I’ll likely even raise a glass of Kentucky Ale with them, because whether I like it or not, I love this city and the Cats are a large part of it. But, when the Cats bring home a national title and the nation’s eyes are on our little patch of bluegrass, this time, can we maybe show a little class?

Let’s realize that our city and UK itself will be in the spotlight and let’s show people what an amazing place this is. I can’t imagine it’s easy to be proud of your team, but not proud of how your city and fans are portrayed. 

I have no delusion that everyone on Limestone is going to hold hands and sing “My Old Kentucky Home,” but maybe when this next gathering happens we can leave the matches at home and overturn a stereotype instead. 

Fittin'

Maybe it’s wrong to say out loud, but Mammy is my favorite character from the movie “Gone With the Wind”. Scarlett’s too vein, Rhett’s kind of a dick, Ashley needs to grow a pair and good ol’ Mellie is just too angelic. Mammy is the voice of reason; always kind and caring, resourceful, and is rarely afraid to speak her mind. She’s one of those people you aspire to be, except for that whole not being counted as a person since you’re a slave part.


I mandated that we watch the movie a few nights back. The boyfriend had never seen it and I felt as a gay man, it’s one of those movies you have to watch. It ranks right up there with “Steel Magnolias”, “To Wong Foo” and anything with a “strong female lead” (what Netflix decided to characterize our tastes in cinema). One of the scenes I’m never able to shake is Mammy hanging her head out the window, yelling at Scarlet and saying, “It ain’t fittin’. It ain’t fittin’… ain’t fittin’” as the screen fades to black.

It’s been one of those lines that found its way into my vocabulary after I first saw the movie several years ago. Sometimes, a situation can only be summed up by sitting back in your chair with a sigh as an “It ain’t fittin’” slides out to indicate not only disapproval, but that some shit just ain’t right.

Having been recently laid up with a minor strain of plague, made worse by antibiotics that my respiratory system appreciated, while my digestive system rebelled like the county boys from Georgia at the start of the War, I’ve had plenty of time to think. Granted, some of that may have been through a Day/Nyquil induced fog, but I think I’ve hit on something that seems important.

While falling asleep the other night, the word “fit” popped into my head. Just that. “Fit”.

My fashion gay self instantly went to clothes. To all of the people I’ve helped shop for clothes over the years, the first thing I always preach is fit. Style has little to do with trend, and what’s “now”. Most of us really don’t have the time or the money to be too concerned about that. It’s fit that makes something really work. Shirt’s too big, you look dumpy, pants are too short, you’re gonna look stumpy. That’s just the basic rule of clothes and fashion. Fit comes first. So yeah, I get it. Fit’s something that’s important. (For any of you who feel too snarky, I’ll remind you that I make no claims to be able to dress myself).

But, I think I can expand on that. We’re in January, so of course people think about fitness. You want to be fit, right? I know I feel better when I’m physically fit. I can also tell you that I’m nowhere near that now. While I don’t want to make a “resolution” about it, it is something that I plan on being more aware of, mainly because some of my clothes don’t fit.

However, I’m thinking of expanding this “fit” idea a little further. Clearly, there are other areas of my life where things don’t fit. Relationships, career, money and any number of things aren’t fitting with my goals or just my desires. Some things just need a little tailoring, a little hemming, taking in, or letting out, but I’m also going to be mindful of the figurative dresses that I’ve been trying to turn into pants. The things that aren’t ever going to fit and need to be discarded or the things that just can’t be tailored.

That’s the journey that I plan on taking myself on this year. To be aware of where I am, what fits, what needs tailoring and what needs to go to the Goodwill. We all have that thing in the closet that we cling on to, just hoping that one day it’s going to magically fit. It’s time to let that go, right? So, here’s to a 2012 that ends with nothing that “ain’t fittin’”.