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’”.

Christmas Chaos

It isn’t until 9pm on the night of Christmas that I start to wonder why and how it is that we do this every year. Granted, I haven’t been 100% clear of late while living in a Mucinex/Sudafed/DayQuil fog. Apparently, while medicating my Christmas cold I’ve played Words with Friends games where I don’t actually recall most of the words that have been played. I spent a good part of the day yesterday marveling at how sound I was being beaten in all of my games and how 7 or so words had been played in each game that I simply had no recollection of. Disclaimer: I haven’t had a drop of booze since...ok I can’t really remember that either, but it’s been a few days. 

To the point though, I found myself looking at a living room filled with gift bags, glitter, opened gifts and a tree that I hadn’t bothered to plug in all day and wondering why in the world we do this to ourselves. The traffic, the stress, the overeating, the “can I afford this” and the planning and attending events is really enough to make any of us marginally sane people quit the entire business of it. Let alone do it again next year (and with enthusiasm). 

In the past week alone, I’ve done nearly all of my Christmas shopping, hosted 3 events at our place, the smallest having 7 people and the largest having 16. We’ve done 2 proper dinners and an appetizers and booze night. They’ve all been fantastic fun, but have required constant house cleaning, grocery shopping, booze shopping, scheduling and lack of sleep. I’ve had skirmishes with my mom, stressful work days and the occasional realization that I’m having my first Christmas without my grandmother. It really is enough to make anyone realize that her “Christmas phrase” of last year should really be an annual tradition. 

However, there’s a constant to the middle of all of the chaos and stress that can only explain how I’ve retained any thread of sanity and that’s the boyfriend. Jason. The first time I’ve used his name on the blog. Because, ultimately this post is as close to a love letter as I’ll probably ever give him. Neither of us are the romantic type. What I suppose some couples say with flowers or dates we say with a snuggle on the sofa while we watch Top Chef. 

There really isn’t much more that I would ever need. In the past few days he’s ensured I’ve taken the appropriate cold medicine (even if it’s resulted in some memory loss), made me sit down when I wanted to be up doing things, made me tea, rubbed my shoulders. While in the middle of his own Christmas chaos, he's cooked every morsel of food that has been served here and in what I think is the ultimate act of love: he served my mom (someone who hasn’t always been especially nice to him) Christmas dinner with a smile. 

There’s something that makes you fall in love with a man a little more when you see him pulling a turkey out of the oven, knowing he’s intending to serve it to your family, not because they consider him family, but because he knows it makes you happy. To have them (and their crazy) and to have him in the same room, with paper plates, a flame retardant tree and the aforementioned turkey is somehow this year’s definition of happy. And he understands that without my even needing to say it. 

And so, with the gifts having been given and received, the food in TupperWare and the whole EVERYTHING of everything the past week has been, I’ll say I couldn’t have done it without him, and he probably already knew that too.

Pixie Dust Redemption

We all have our parental issues and I’ve probably overshared on here about my issues with my mom. In case you’ve missed it, the short version is her Jesus doesn’t so much like the fact that her womb produced homosexual offspring. Having recently been around nearly all of her family at the funeral of her mother, my amazing grandmother, I’ve even confirmed that the gay runs on her side. She also refuses to see the humor in that, believing that my “lifestyle” is somehow of my own choosing.


During our initial conversations after my coming out, she searched for answers as to how I could have arrived at the conclusion that I’m gay. She tried to blame teachers, my psychotic father, my liberal Baptist college, my semester abroad or some of my friends. After none of those quite panned out, I finally tried to convince her that it was actually Disney’s fault. Yep, that’s right; blame the mouse. Ok, not so much the mouse, but Tinkerbell. She’s the one that done it.

You see, Tinkerbell and I had an altercation once. I was on a band trip to DisneyWorld when I was 14. The trip was really fraught with disaster after calamity. Just prior to the trip I dislocated my knee cap, which left me trying to hobble around Disney and Universal on crutches. Once we landed, the first hurricane of the season blew in and once we got back home, our plane caught on fire. And while all of these things certainly helped to shape my fairly overall poor impression of Florida, I think it was my run-in with Tinkerbell that’s left the longest lasting mark.

Prior to arriving at the Magic Kingdom we were given instructions to meet beside the castle at the end of the day so we could be counted and herded back on the bus. A friend and I had spent the day together and being the good nerds we were (shout out to all the band AND academic team kids) we showed up early. However, after waiting a few minutes no one else from our group was in sight. After a few more minutes passed, the park was about to start the closing fireworks and still none of our group was anywhere to be found.

If you’ve been to DisneyWorld, you know that part of the daily closing ceremony is for a metallic, robotic Tinkerbell to fly out of the castle. She flits about the park sprinkling pixie dust and then flies back into the castle just in time for the fireworks to start. Prior to this occasion, I had never been to DisneyWorld and wasn’t familiar with my fairy friend or her usual route. So, in an attempt to find some of our group, I decided I would stand on a bench (bum knee and all) and see if I could see over the crowd to find people. It was about the time that I stood up completely and the crowd came into focus that I felt it. WHOMP!!! I felt a hard thud against the side of my head. I turned to see what had just attacked me and then felt it again. WHOMP!!! This time the impact was right in the center of my forehead. I had the good sense to duck before round three started, realizing that each impact was propelling my forward bound assailant backwards. I then looked up to see Tinkerbell flying off and realized I was covered in her sparkly pixie dust.

Yes, kids. I was attacked by a metal (cuz yes, Miss Tinkerbell packs a punch), robotic Tinkerbell as she flew on fishing wire in The Happiest Place on Earth. It’s at this moment that I like to imagine I was confirmed as a gay. Sort of a christening, if you will. As you might imagine, my mom isn’t convinced by this explanation either.

However, a couple of times in the past few months she seems to be making a new kind of peace with me. She wanted me to bring my boyfriend to the funeral and was upset with me when I didn’t. She even talked to me about wanting to spend more time with him and get to know him. Just last night, she talked to me about not wanting to upset what family we have now that the great glue that held us together has passed away.

It’s with all of this in mind that I decided to take my mom to DisneyWorld for her 60th birthday next month. She’s never flown, been to Florida or seen the ocean, so I’m packing lots of firsts into one weekend. But, I’m hoping to take a moment somewhere near the scene of the crime to grab my mom’s hand and press the reset button. Maybe we can get a little sprinkling of pixie dust, take a breath of Florida air and let the past fall away.

I don’t have any delusion that she’s going to join PFLAG, but I do hope that our weekend together will give us a chance to just be mom and son for once without all of the other baggage. Then, we can start from there. Since I didn’t sue the mouse over my head injury and emotional distress, I think he at least owes me that much.

Hopelessly Devoted

First memories are supposed to be filled with favorite stuffed animals or maybe a tricycle and a warm summer day. Mine involves home invasion and proof that foreshadowing is not just a literary term. 

My best guess is that my first memory comes from when I was about 2 years old. We’d been away to visit my grandmother and we came home to discover the house had been broken into. I don’t recall anything about tampered locks or broken windows. I don’t even have a clue about what was taken. All I can remember is that the burglars took one thing from my room. They took my Olivia Newton-John record. It was even a greatest hits album. 

Apparently, most kids start singing along with Sesame Street or Mister Rogers after learning how to walk. I was singing along with “Physical” and “Xanadu”. My mom will tell you that I walked around singing “Let’s get phibical” all the time. 

What’s even more bizarre about this is that I have no idea how this record came into possession of a 2 year old. I grew up in a household that almost exclusively listened to country music. Looking back, this random bit of pop music seems like such a strange anomaly. Let alone that it was a prized possession of a toddler. 

So, what I remember is that we got home and there was an immediate bit of hysteria. There’s a blur and then I remember going into my room and finding everything was out of place. I noticed my neat pile of records had been knocked over and that she was gone. Olivia was missing. I bawled. My mom came to me and I somehow conveyed what had happened. From there, there were lots of tears until I could be taken to the TG&Y and a replacement could be purchased that very evening. 

It is both the jarring feeling of someone breaking into our home and my mom making everything right again that I remember really strongly about all of this. It says a lot about my mom that in the middle of what had to be a difficult time that she made it a priority to bring Olivia back into my life. I’d also imagine it probably made the whole thing easier to deal with by shutting me up and getting me back in my room with my beloved record player. 

It wasn’t until just yesterday while I was beginning to put the pieces of this post together that I specifically remembered my record player. In this particular memory, it’s completely secondary and not really anything I specifically recall. However, this record player was a huge part of my childhood. I was always a music lover and spent every penny I got as a kid on records and eventually tapes and CDs, but this portable record player was always my favorite toy. 

It was sort of a briefcase shaped thing with a sky blue base and a blue and white striped lid. It had a silver latch and a white plastic handle so you could pick it up and carry it around. I lugged it to the front porch, around my room and to anyone’s house that’d let me bring it along. What I just remembered yesterday was that when you opened the lid, the underside had a little cartoony landscape painted on it that prominently featured a rainbow. 

From there, I remembered that my Olivia’s record label was MCA Records. The center of each of their records had a little rainbow that would spin around with the record. I recall listening to “Hopelessly Devoted To You” and watching that rainbow spin and then seeing the matching rainbow on the record lid and always being perfectly content. 

It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized that between “Grease” and the “Physical” video, that Olivia Newton-John was a gay icon. It now strikes me as more than a little humorous that that’s how my life began. I was a little gay child in southeastern Kentucky taking solace in watching rainbows spin around on the record player and listening to a songs about talking things out “horizontally”. 

And so, I think back to that kid today as our city celebrates Pride and while we celebrate one more state recognizing that gays have rights too. Today, I’ve watched parents take their kids to Pride and even participated in helping 3 little boys tip a drag queen. I’ve come a long way since watching rainbows spin on a turntable, but I think I’m going to go to iTunes and download a few songs. Because even if I didn’t know it, 28 years ago in my Snoopy bedroom, I was celebrating Pride. 

Happy Father's Day, Mom

“You are the original template/You are the original exemplary/How seen were you, actually? How revered were you, honestly at the time?...The Heart of the House, The Heart of the House, all hail the goddess”. 

--”Heart of the House” Alanis Morissette 

I’ve always ignored Father’s Day. Being the product of a single parent home meant that Mother’s Day was the only Hallmark holiday that I had to worry with. While my father wasn’t totally absent from my childhood, he certainly didn’t play an integral role. He’s also kind of a dick. So, it was left to my mom to do the parental heavy lifting.  

I could bore you with a sappy, single parent overcoming the odds story, but that’s all too familiar and Lifetime movie-d now. I will say that for the past few weeks my mom and I have actually not been speaking to each other. Oddly enough, it’s because I’ve been rather displeased with her for talking to my psychotic father after a good 10 years of cutting off all contact. 

However, today I can’t help but think back to my first memory which is of her righting a wrong and saving the day. Growing up, she was always there to encourage me to follow my interests of writing and music even when other boys were playing Little League. She endured the endless drumming on the back of the car seat when I played percussion and barely raised an eyebrow when I conducted along with the radio after relenting and letting me try out for drum major. 

She drove me to the airport and watched me fly away to places across the country and the world to go find myself and become a better person, even when we were broke and driving in big cities scared the crap out of her. Nevermind the heartbreak and terror she had of putting her baby boy on a plane and shipping him out into the world alone. 

Despite how much irritation it may currently cause her, she raised both her kids to be independent, free-thinkers who are as quick to assert themselves as they are to laugh in the middle of crisis. Whether or not she intended to, by example she taught us how to stare down the world, while keeping your head down and getting through it. 

It seems to me that the strongest people I know are products of single parent (usually mom) households. While I suppose that I agree with the consensus that two parents are better than one, I think there’s some valuable life lessons about self-reliance and getting  through adversity that kids learn when there’s just one person playing both roles. 

And so, while most are buying ties or golf gear for Dad, I think I’ll end the stalemate I’ve been at with my mom and give her a call. I should probably wish her a Happy Father’s Day. 

The Wall: Part 2

We’re all familiar with the alleged textbook definition of insanity and what it might imply about one who repeats certain actions. I’m back in Cleveland for my second rotation of working Catastrophe duty and it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’m back to feeling completely spent. It was about this same point in my last rotation where I hit the proverbial wall and it appears that today I’m back on the wrecking ball and swinging away at it.


I’m more physically and mentally drained this time. Mercifully, this trip has been less emotionally taxing. I’ve really only had two moments where I had to step away after hearing some harrowing story from a customer in Joplin. I’ve also been balancing out my moments of stress and homesickness with the knowledge that I shouldn’t get too stressed out, because after all, we are living in the End Times.

The day that I drove back here was the day that had been proclaimed as The End of the World by some nut job. And while some may argue that clearly didn’t happen, it does seem like it was about this time that the globe exploded in storms, earthquakes, volcano eruptions and general geological and meteorological chaos. I now hear there’s a hurricane ‘a brewin’ and I’d just imagine we’re due for a good oil spill or tsunami about any day.

If I learned anything from my Baptist, Liberal Arts education, it was that the Bible isn’t necessarily meant to be taken literally. For instance, the 6 days that the world was allegedly created in might not directly translate to 6, 24 hour spans of time. A “day” on Heavenly Father Standard Time (because we all know Daylight Savings is from the devil) might be anywhere from a millennium to an eon. So, I’ve taken to believing that while the End of the World might not have happened, it could be we’ve just reached the beginning of the end.

First off, we have to acknowledge that Oprah is off the air. The fact that the woman who had the power to elect a president has now decided to leave us to fend for ourselves has to be a bad omen. We now have to decide what to read, what to eat, how to exercise and what’s an acceptable level of overweight on our own. The vacuum she’s left is surely a sign of the apocalypse. Oh sure, she has her own network now, but we aren’t going to learn anything from watching The Judds except how much is too much mascara and red hair dye.

We have Sarah Palin running for President again, a guy named Weiner exposing himself without a hint of irony, and even the winner of American Idol was a good ol’ wholesome American boy who continuously sang a song about having sex. I can’t imagine the message America’s impressionable youth got from hearing “lock the doors and turn the lights down low” every week.

If all of these in tandem aren’t a sign that Jesus is comin’ for to carry us home, then I don’t know what is. So, bearing this in mind, I’m living it up. I’ve been eating and drinking well. I carelessly rode a roller coaster that took me 410 feet in the air at 120 miles per hour and I’m regularly driving in traffic with Ohio drivers. I stuck my bare feet in Lake Erie. I may even get careless and throw a match in the river after work.

I’ll be back home on Friday and we’ll see if my hedonistic living continues. The boyfriend may not appreciate my philosophy that Armageddon is nigh. We did go to the same college though, so maybe it won’t be too much work to convince him that we can use my few days off before I return to regular work to build an ark or at least go to J. Crew for a new rapture outfit. Baptist college also taught us that one would want to look their best when checking in at the pearly gates.