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Rinse and Repeat

My hair is flaming. Not gay-flaming–actually on fire flaming.

The flames savor my Aqua Net-coated curls, and aren’t even slightly blunted by Laura’s eight-year-old hands turned ad hoc snuffers. And while our parents are running full-tilt across the field–their mouths agape and faces contorted by fear and shock– everything slows down.

But before the flames lick my scalp, my parents reach us and extinguish my head with a mixture of dirt and water. Now reduced to smelly, singed puff balls, my sizable blond fro won’t be garnering any attention from passersby for a while. And Laura’s fingers will resemble Lil’ Smokies for the next few weeks.

***

Long after my parents realized that Laura and I could get ourselves into trouble in approximately four seconds, I’d passed through my early years with plenty of nicknames based on my curly hair.

The blond phase.

From Cheese Curls and Curly Sue, to Goldilocks and Mop Top, I’d had plenty of little monikers, and responded to each with a knowing smile. Like most kids, I soon tired of the repeated name-calling, and wished for my hair to be straight like everyone else’s. But the most the curls ever did was change from bleach blond to dark brown. And tighten.

And while high school came with non-hair affiliated nicknames–like Pip and Faggot–I still got more hair-raising commentary from the peanut gallery: “I bet the girls love running their hands through those curls!” And they did–completely unsolicited no less. Not to mention students sitting behind me in class thought it was fun to hide pencils in my hair, so that when I bent to get something out of my book bag, I’d shed a forest’s worth of No. 2’s. But I figured that sort of thing would taper off once I graduated. I mean, out in the real world I’d heard of something called personal space. It sounded amazing.

Nicknames didn’t really follow me to college. But I came to resent my curls because, like most late-bloomers, I didn’t want to look like the baby-faced, naive “Boy Next Door” or a Boy Meets World doppelganger. So I used my misunderstood goth years to add a bit of flair–black hair dye–and style–a mohawk–to my so called life.

The misunderstood mohawk years.

Soon enough, I realized I looked exceptionally dumb and gave my hair time to rebound. Plus, I assumed people would be less inclined to offer hair critiques if I didn’t draw attention to it.

***

Years after the mohawk incident, and following several unfortunate cases of head-shavings gone bad interspersed with “accidental dreadlocks” and a stylist intervention, I’ve come to realize how much work curly hair can be. And how good it can look when treated well.

Now, I’m not saying that people with straight hair have an easier time.

Actually.

I am. Because my morning routine involves approximately 612 steps. Or 10.

One: Assess rat nest; Two: Convince myself it’s worth the effort (have a cup of coffee if necessary); Three: Turn on the shower tap and dunk my head repeatedly; Four: Keep head under faucet until fro resembles a saturated sponge; Five: Run fingers through fro to break up massive snarls (scream if necessary); Six: Pump out palm-full of high-quality, non-alcohol based conditioner and run through hair; Seven: Use plastic, wide-toothed comb and brush through curls (whimper through remaining snarls); Eight: Rinse thoroughly and clean comb of dead Cousin It hair clumps; Nine: Towel blot dripping hair; Ten: Add Moroccan oil with keratin.

Now, this sounds easy and all, but it takes a good ten to fifteen minutes from start to finish. And that’s if I don’t want to do anything else to it. Sure, I don’t have to condition it whenever I go out. But the fact that Facebook’s tagging function can’t recognize me with untamed hair is telling enough for me.

The fro that stumped Facebook.

But there’s a significant drawback to taming my hair: public crazies who feel it’s their duty to run their hands through it before informing me that my hair is, in fact, curly.

“You don’t say?!”

My sarcastic incredulity often falls on deaf ears, being lost amid profuse head nods and smiles–as if they’re affirming their toddler that, yes, they did just use the potty correctly!

And you wouldn’t believe the repulsive looks I’ve gotten when I’ve had a bad day and respond with something like “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? This is my fucking head!” As if it’s my fault for reminding them that my body isn’t the public’s domain. Plus, I can only wash my hair once a week, so I certainly don’t want someone’s hand funk mixed in until the next washing.

Still, the curls have gotten me out of jams before. Like the time a cashier made everyone else wait in line while I ran to get my wallet–all because she was certain I was Josh Groban. (Because Josh Groban shops for spatulas at the Dollar General in Sanford, North Carolina.) So I signed the receipt with a little extra flourish.

I love you, Sanford. Love, Josh Groban? Or not.

And even though I have to assure plenty of people that it’s not a goddamn perm, when all is rinsed and combed, I’m pretty glad my curls have lasted.

Because they’ve been a fitting metaphor for my life: frizzed and burned out, matted and kinked. But repeatedly conditioned and revitalized along the way.

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A Strange New Nation

With pundits on both sides firing off on yesterday’s SCOTUS rulings on DOMA and Prop 8, my Facebook thread rightfully aflutter with glad tidings and celebratory photos, my phone buzzing with calls and texts from family and friends, and my heart pounding with exhilaration, I kept repeating something–a new mantra of sorts–I learned from Dame Judi Dench as her on-screen character Evelyn navigates a new life in India.

“Initially you’re overwhelmed. But gradually you realize it’s like a wave. Resist, and you’ll be knocked over. Dive into it, and you’ll swim out the other side.”

And while Rachel Maddow likely won’t reference The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel anytime during her discussions about national LGBT rights versus state-centric LGBT rights, I find many of the characters’ quips about starting anew incredibly empowering. Because, like the retirees in their new environment, LGBT people have a new landscape opening up before their eyes.

It’s difficult to articulate the absolute importance of yesterday’s rulings, and the unexpected nature of it all–especially given the way the SCOTUS took a step back with their ruling on the Voting Rights Act. For many of us, it seems like a dream, while its reality leaves us in shock. So many activists–especially of the Stonewall-era–never thought they’d see such a day, experience this wave of change first-hand.

But as Evelyn so rightly alludes, resistance to the tide will only ensure a swift fall from grace. And I think Republicans are soaking wet and floundering. Because the rulings not only illustrate how grossly ineffective the Republicans’ egregious DOMA-defense expenditures have been, but they also reveal how archaic and anachronistic their conservative 1950’s-era perspectives of the sociopolitical and economic landscapes are today.

And while there is still plenty of work to do before the dissonance between the national and state definitions of marriage are reconciled and marriage equality spreads–including greater vigilance in southern states hard-hit by the Voting Rights Act ruling–it is a new day in this strange new nation.

With a legislative body whose anti-LGBT head has been lopped off–a welcomed decapitation.

Whose body is riding the wave into a brighter future.

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If I was a White Supremacist-Misogynist-Classist

Dear SCOTUS:

I love saying your acronym, because it reminds me of scrotum–which is what our proud country is built upon! Because it takes real balls to stand up for what’s right–or is it reich? Oh, fiddlesticks–I forget how to spell it! Let me go ask my friend, Paula. Even if she’s a woman and clearly much more dense than I, a man.

But speaking of Paula, I’m sure I’m not the only one happy that she’s off the air. Not because of the black comments–especially since she’s just reminding us that it’s all about heritage, not hate, y’all. I’m glad because I was a little unsure about a woman being, you know, in the man’s realm–television. Which should always be tuned to Fox News.

Can I get an Amen?! Oh, thanks Scalia!

And Scalia, I have the utmost faith that you and your brethren will push the weaker sex back into the home, where they should always be knocked up (either by their loftly wedded husband or a rapist) and subjugated like a good 1950’s woman! Because it’s a man’s responsibility, and it’s up to him–and Him!–to speak for them. Plus, while the good wives are prepping dinner, they can take care of the darling Duggar-like clan they’ve spawned, because we know birth control is the devil and we’d rather see their lady parts fall out than take their personal health and safety into consideration. Plus, at home they’ll have time to watch their favorite shows and classic movies, especially that handsome man’s-man Rock Hudson.

Sure, he’s rumored to have been a homosexual, but that’s absurd! Those ninnies frolick around and decorate houses, and they certainly don’t look like him! Thank the Lord above that we can get away with denying them “civil rights”–like they can really be married. I mean, they don’t have the parts to, uh, make babies. Because that’s what a real marriage is: a penis and a vagina together forever. I tell ya, this whole business of recognizing those people and their deviant ways is a chip in our country’s armor. Before long, they’ll demand for us not to beat them straight. The nerve!

I mean, really. Between the homosexuals and the brown people, I’m at a loss. And don’t get me started on the handicapped and the environmentalists. To think that they feel that they’re entitled to the same things I have. And to access ramps everywhere? And a frack-free living? The audacity! Who in the hell will trim my lawn, or care for white children?

It’s the disintegration of society, that’s what it is! Pure anarchy!

But SCOTUS, with the trends you’ve made in the past, and with your news this morning about the Voting Rights Act, I have the utmost faith that you’ll return this country to its former glory, and will find a way to get that brown Muslim out of the White–I repeat, White–House.

Your humble straight white male minority constituent,

Bubba

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Right Side Up, Upside Down

We’re all in Monday mode. Some of us just need coffee to snap out of it. Or something stronger. Really, though, most just need a wake up call.

And I got mine this morning, when I read this article about the anniversary of a horrific event I had no knowledge of.

Forty years ago today, the UpStairs Lounge fire in New Orleans claimed the lives of 32 people who gathered to celebrate the anniversary of the Stonewall riots.

Thirty-two people.

Each of whom died brutally and, in death, was a punchline of bigoted disc jokey jokes. Out of hatred and embarrassment, some of their bodies were never claimed. Their lives were relegated to historical obscurity, their charred bodies to a potter’s field.

***

The murder of a single person is horrific, yet there’s the promise of justice, of some promise for balance–that the guilty party will be made to answer for their crime. But the “otherness” of those who perished in the UpStairs Lounge didn’t justify a thorough investigation. Their lives, their stories, their families, their friends, their contributions meant nothing to the law enforcement personnel who waded through the wreckage, who left the body of Rev. Bill Larson fused to iron window bars overnight.

Very little separates people who view those different from themselves in such a casual, dismissive way from people in swastika-adorned uniforms surveying a barbed wire enclosed camp. In the same disturbing ways, they justify their behavior. Because there has to be a scapegoat, right? And it can’t be us. So it has to be them.

But the alarming point is that many people choose to think this way–whether it’s some perverse malignancy of thought or contorted survival mechanism, they embrace it. They don’t ever think that the microscope can ever be turned on them–that they will one day find themselves the target, not the eye through the scope. Regardless of upbringing and education, nationality or creed, there’s always a tipping-point at which a person has to take a deep, hard look in the mirror and either register their reflection as that monster lurking within their consciousness, or an empathetic advocate.

And if you’re brave enough to become an advocate, to speak your mind, to defend those who ask for help, then you’re stronger than any adversary. Because strength isn’t measured by how many Molotov cocktails one can throw from afar, but by how many people you can help, to whom you can lend a hand.

By the number of people you can educate.

Because what can be said of us when we can go about our days unfazed by such horrific images? How can we buy clothes from retailers whose problematic, unethical employment practices force Bangladeshi garment factory workers to choose between their safety and their paychecks? Why has our moral compass become so terribly confused by cheap polyester and the “more is better” mentality?

Where has our goodness gone?

Goodness resides in education. It’s there, waiting to be unlocked and shared.

And has been, and will continue to be.

By Inez Warren, the mother of Eddie and Jim Warren–two gay brothers–who died in the blaze with her sons.

By pastors of the Metropolitan Community Church, one of whom died trying to rescue his partner, their bodies found clinging to one another.

By Rev. William Richardson, who held a prayer service for the dead and received a formal rebuke from the Episcopalian bishop and a flood of hate mail.

By my parents, whose strides to build and support an LGBT ministry with other advocates in the heart of the Deep South are awe-inspiring.

By my sister, who has always been my fiercest advocate.

By my friends and chosen family at the LGBT Center of Raleigh and across the country.

***

So as manifold reforms hinge upon the Supreme Court’s decisions this week, I cannot help but cast a retrospective glance, acknowledging the inherent strength and power that we possess to effect change.

Regardless of the outcome, let’s not couch our efforts in whether we “win” or “lose.” Because the world is a topsy-turvy place.

And, right side up or upside down, we’ll always have to clear a hurdle or two.

But it’s always easier when you have a team cheering for you.

A team you can count on.

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North Carolina’s Body Politic: A Cadaverous Stump?

You know how everyone’s extended family has at least one raging drunk tucked into the mix? Who always totters around family gatherings, slurring their words, eating all the pinwheel sandwiches, and standing up and toasting at the most inopportune times, usually without their pants?

Well, I just saw mine on the news, and stared slack-jawed at the television screen.

And hung my head in shame, muttering, “Jesus. Get ahold of yourself!” as the newscast droned on about her latest antics.

But it’s not Aunt Patty making headlines tonight.

It’s my former home state: North Carolina.

***

Not only has North Carolina’s Republican majority routinely walked out of the Houses without their proverbial pants, but they seemed to have forgotten a little something else.

No, not the pantyhose tucked into their underwear. The Constitution.

With every slash the Republican majority makes to Medicaid, to voter rights, to LGBTQ rights, to women’s rights, to immigrant rights, to environmental protection, to religious freedom, North Carolina’s body politic is resembling a cadaverous stump.

Republican-authored legislation has been hemorrhaging minority rights at such alarming rates, it’s difficult to identify suitable tourniquets. But even when citizens apply pressure to quell the bleeding, they’re rewarded with handcuffs.

The most recent legislative lunacy evidences the callous disregard the Republican majority has for the rights of those “others” who don’t line their pockets with dirty money.

Who work and work and work for a better future, and are constantly feeling the swift breeze of so many doors slamming in their faces.

Who are just trying to get by.

Who just want a legal ID that reflects their gender identity.

Who just want to govern their own reproductive organs.

Who just want to marry the person they love.

Who just want to be acknowledged.

Who just want peace and balance, with a touch of order.

Who just want a state that takes into account all of its constituents, not just the wealthiest or whitest.

***

Before long, the newscast shifts to the weather, and I stare back down at the stack of papers on the cafe table, and think about our Disunited States.

How absurd it is that, after crossing state lines, the stories of minorities retaining civil rights read like chapters from The Lord of the Flies.

How foolish it is for there not to be blanket protections for all citizens–that gender identity, socioeconomic class, sex, and ethnicity are still such divisive topics, and often limit the rights extended to a state’s constituents.

It’s a sad time in our country when the drunk relative becomes the role model.

When a raucous few are rewarded for pouring them another, and the cab called by a concerned majority leaves empty.

When I don’t regret leaving a state I once loved.

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The Stay-at-Home Gay

Gays have a lot of hurdles to clear, some of which are planted in place by our Disunited Theocracy; others by A-gays; historically entrenched, ridiculous stereotypes; and Oprah.

Okay, maybe not Oprah.

Still, so many gays aspire to be “rich and ripped,” “beautiful and successful,” “popular and revered”–with a house in the Hamptons, a cottage in the Keys, and a second home in downtown San Francisco.

Adopting two dogs.

And wearing lots of cashmere for good measure.

Why gay men find themselves gravitating to these ideal types–as if they have something to prove–is anyone’s guess. And there’re probably about as many explanations as probable sources–being socially ostracized, having to remain closeted for one reason or another, being excessively fearful of abandonment, being a late bloomer, on and on ad nauseum.

So many of these factors make gay men more highly susceptible to experiences that eventually define stereotypes, which later confine gay men to a rigid, laughably ridiculous set of behavioral criteria. And while we’re all capable of free will, sometimes it’s easier to go with the crowd.

Buy the expensive things.

Wear the latest fashions.

Embrace a bit of body dysmorphic disorder.

Hell, I’ve tried all of the above, and did actually learn some things: (1) Credit card debt sucks, and makes you resent all of the pretty things surrounding you that contributed to it; (2) Even a Michael Kors $250 hoodie can give you man boobs in the most unflattering ways possible; and (3) Food tastes much better than bile.

But figuring out who you are, and how you’re going to deal with life’s ambiguity, requires a lot of self-reflection, tough love, and emotional restructuration. Most of the time, such introspection is triggered by unpacking heavy emotional baggage, which is rarely fun, and often requires a lot of chocolate.

Coming out, and all of the internal dialogue in the process, strengthened my resolve to deal with toxic situations; after all, reconciling a mentally- and physically- abusive relationship with yourself is one sure-fired way to realize how best to cope with all of life’s stressors and characters. Most people don’t ever have such deep, messy, and intense conversations with themselves. Because those are scary. But what’s even scarier is feeling like a fish out of water and not having the slightest clue how to deal with such overwhelming emotions.

Thankfully, I beached myself a while back and have plenty of tools in my kit–from flailing about and baking in the sun–to patch up bizarre or challenging situations.

All of which have come in handy as I’ve found myself becoming a stay-at-home gay–a StAHG. (Ba da bah! Yes, I’m lame.)

***

No one could’ve ever convinced me that I’d one day take on the role of homemaker.

Especially not the woman I met while contemplating the potential financial boon of donating plasma as an undergraduate, who turned to me with her wide, meth-rotted grin and said, “I do this fer a livin’!” (Bless her heart. And mouth.)

I always assumed I’d be employed, even if at a job I loathed.

But as y’all know, I’d played all my cards at my last job, and didn’t have the energy to reshuffle the deck in the hopes of a better hand. And was incredibly fortunate to have Andy agree, and support my decision.

Still, I felt like a big loser–a feeling most freshly unemployed folks experience. And after I waded through all sorts of emotional cesspools, I began to make peace with myself, and realize that as loser-like as I felt, I also felt sort of proud to have acknowledged that something was severely wrong–that I was severely unhappy–and to have done something about it.

But even with that knowledge informing my next steps, and Andy being nothing but supportive, I still felt pressure to right myself immediately–perform some Matrix-esque move mid-fall to swing into another saddle.

But, why?

***

Delving into the proverbial why can be dark and ugly. Because all sorts of unseemly, latent ideas or perspectives can be brought into sharp relief.

Like when I acknowledged that I’d long thought stay-at-home spouses were lucky because they didn’t have any real obligations–no set hours to bank, no project deadlines to make. They could just wake up late, lounge around, and throw something together for dinner. And if there were kids, then they had an even easier go of it. Because those poopy, drooly blobs of joy can be blamed for anything–late dinner, stained or frumpy clothes, unconditioned hair.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself pressed for time after running errands, making meals, scheduling appointments, cleaning house, managing finances, and conditioning my hair after waking up at 6:00 AM! And double shockaroo when I threw searching for apartments and handling cross-country move logistics into the mix; conditioning my hair just didn’t make the cut.

Worse still, I didn’t even have a poopy, drooly, furry, three-legged and wheeled blob to foist off some of the responsibility for not accomplishing everything I wanted!

How did I–an educated gay man–fall into this role?! 

And that’s when I realized I was being a ridiculous, whining wretch.

So, as I deservedly cringed at each word of my horrid question, I began to unpack the three most problematic components of my complaint:

Educated. Like a lot of folks, I’ve come to expect a college education and MA to do the heavy-lifting, to beat all of those potential jobs out of the bushes. But these days, in this economy, that’s just not the case. For baby-boomers and millennials alike, times are tough. And I need to really acknowledge that, and not give up after not hearing back from jobs I applied for. Even those awesome jobs I was certain I’d snag. I’ve sung my millennial blues. Time to put my nose to the pulverizing stone and work it.

Gay. With as much bullshit as LGBT’s face, I figured I’d somehow receive some payout from the universe in the form of excessively disposable income, an even tan, and muscled calves. But being gay, or going through a lot of self-discovery, doesn’t translate to a handout or a break from reality. It just means you probably have the life-experience to deal with plenty of foolishness that’s thrown your way, and hopefully excessive empathy to share with others who don’t.

Man. It’s no newsflash: our androcentric, heteronormative society rewards straight white men; they are the golden children. Everyone else has to step it up to even receive a fraction of the entitlements they enjoy. So, just because I’m a white man doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t expect plenty of setbacks, unfairness, and hard times ahead–that I should never think I deserve anything more than anyone else. It’s time to grow up and grow a(nother) pair.

So after I chastised myself and quietly apologized to all of my friends who work intensely hard as stay-at-homes, I began to admit to myself that I shouldn’t be ashamed of being a homomaker (last one, I promise).

That everyone has their own problems, their own demons to wrestle. Yes, including the A-gays who don’t see themselves as good enough, even as they watch their housekeeper (for the Keys) brush their newly coiffed Jack Russells, Mad and Onna.

That we all have growing to do, and joys to love–whether the human, furry, or imaginary variety.

That as my D-gay self tries hard not to become a sad cliche, I can still be proud and work hard toward a more fulfilling, professional future.

That, regardless of how long it takes for any of us to realize our potential, we’ll all have to take our respective leaps of faith to new, exciting adventures.

To do our best to land with both feet on solid ground.

To be grateful for those who act as our rocks.

To act as rocks ourselves.

Even a foul-mouthed, excessively cracked one like me.

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Where the Homosexuals Roam

It’s always hard to find your niche.

And as Andy and I traverse this big, crazy city, we’re trying to strike a balance between professional and personal–that lovely dynamic that, if just slightly off, can throw a big heap of shit into a Vornado blowing our way.

Still, we try.

And know that we’ll figure out what to do and what not to do. Where to go and where to avoid. Who we are and who we want to be.

And as I’m literally flipping back through chapters of my life, I’m stumbling upon some pretty interesting reminders of what was important then, and how I made light of missing the mark more than once.

Because, at some point, we’re all throwing darts in the dark.

And sometimes, we hit the bullseye.

***

Excerpt from The Graduate School Diaries, 2006-2007

Crying in the dark, I suddenly realize the only way I’ll make it through the last hundred pages of Dialectic of Enlightenment is if I have a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels close at hand.

Otherwise, I’ll gouge out my eyes.

The occasional, inspirational I can do it! just isn’t helping me sift through the hundreds upon hundreds of pages of seminar reading tonight.

I need help.

Nestle’s help.

Especially after catching my reflection in my Art Deco vanity’s mirror.

Coupled with Droopy-like bags under my eyes, my haphazardly grown stubble complements my stained sweatshirt, grey sweatpants, and the pièce de résistance: a sock-flip-flop combo.

I epitomize Graduate Student on the Edge.

Skittering from my room like a roach from Raid, I grab my keys and sprint out to my frost-covered car. I can almost taste the salty-sweetness.

But as my windshield defrosts, a terrifying thought crosses my mind: What if someone sees me?

My stomach dismisses such nonsense with a wave of a phantom hand, and I reassure myself that the chances of seeing anyone cute or interesting at Harris Teeter at 10:00 on a Saturday night are slim to none.

Slim to none.

***

Driving the short distance, I turn on NPR and listen to The Nutcracker Waltz ooze out of the speakers. Its holiday-tinged jingle always makes me think of sweet things. Especially chocolate.

I accelerate, make a few turns, then pull into a space.

And hesitate.

The parking lot is a bit more crowded than I thought it’d be. Still, my sweet tooth is horribly controlling.

“Go on, they’re all at China Buffet. You know you want those pretzels,” it sings from the back of my mouth.

I comply.

And immediately regret my decision.

The entrance doors close behind me.

And I’m left, dumbfounded. (And talking to myself.)

When in the hell did Saturday night become Mo Night at Harris Teeter?

Flushed with shame and sweat, I dart behind a shelf of baguettes. From there, I watch in agony as droves of gay men and their painfully attractive partners sashay to and fro, gingerly dropping Silk, Kashi cereal, and vegetables into their carts.

The only thing that’d be gayer would be a gaggle of them exchanging guffaws and laughing at Mother’s Day cards.

“Look at this one! Mom will just love it!”

Then, like realizing you’re wearing hot dog shoes at a weiner dog convention, it hits me: Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.

Oh. Shit.

I panic. At any moment the Fab Five will pop out from behind an apple bin and immediately revoke my gay card. Unable to speak, Carson will point to my clothes and collapse into Kyan’s chest.

But I can’t stay behind the baguettes forever. I take a breath and step out into full view.

“Get this Party Started” doesn’t skip off track, and no one drops their Rice Dream.

I charge for the pretzels, all the while quietly humming “Beautiful”—the beginning’s “don’t look at me” line being painfully poignant.

But as I mentally belt out “I AM BEAUTIFUL, NO MATTER WHAT YOU SAY!” and pass a cabbage display, he turns the corner and comes right toward me: He who rides the bus and to whom I never work up the gumption to speak.

My heart lifts when there’s visible, momentary recognition on his part. But my cat lady attire contorts his smile into a grimace. He looks away.

My face burns as bright as Rudolph’s goddamned nose.

My pretzel order doubles. Almost there.

By the time I see the Buy One, Get One Free! sticker beneath the pretzels, I don’t give a damn and scream a little. Because, by now, I’ve acknowledged that I might as well have a sign plastered to my forehead reading, “Desperate? So am I! Grab a bag!”

While I stand on my tip-toes to pilfer the last few bags from the top row, I can only think about running to the nearest self-checkout.

But then I realize I have to get a Mother’s Day card.

Detouring a few aisles over, I scan the selection. I channel my inner magpie, reach for the brightest, most metallic card possible and cringe at the oh-so-perfect, saccharine sentiment inside. With the Technicolor Raincoat Card and two massive pretzel bags now in-hand, I head to the registers.

But then, like some well-orchestrated ballet version of musical chairs, all of the gorgeous couples begin making their way to the checkout counters en masse.

Must. Go. Now!

After scanning my spoils, I halfway expect the receipt to print out an extra message next to my VIC Card Savings that reads: “Pathetic. Good luck with all that.”

But I have no time for such an automated dis. Asparagus, extra-virgin olive oil, salmon steaks, and Tofuti-Cuties are being scanned on neighboring registers.

More importantly, I begin to feel the stares, hear what sound like gasps from the gays who’ve nearly lost hold of their Edamame Crisps upon seeing me there alone—fluorescent Mother’s Day card in one hand, two bags of chocolate-covered pretzels in the other.

I snatch my receipt and retreat to the welcoming, nonjudgmental darkness outside.

***

I don’t bother turning on my apartment lights, and rip into both bags, smothering my sorrows with enough sodium to make a salt-lick block blush.

Still, it’s hard not to wax philosophical in moments like these. So I ask myself, Should I take Mo Night as a sign that the Culture Industry works in mysterious ways, to perpetuate stereotypes and alienate others?

Meh.

Instead, I resolve never to go hungry again, provided that, next time, I’ll shave, rest up, and wear something suitable when I venture back there.

Where the homosexuals roam.

Where I want to be.

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On My Honor

It’s cold.

Below freezing, actually. And I’m outside, in the Georgia mountains, peeing off a cliff. Later, my frantic parents will tell me that today is the coldest night on record in 50 years. Right now, though, I can’t stop shaking.

I totter down the slope toward camp, and am nearly frozen in place by a few frigid wind gusts. Passing the cold fire-pit, I duck down into the tent I share with my two fellow scouts, Jack and Dillon. Two breath clouds filtering from nearly enclosed sleeping bags are the only evidence of where exactly they’re laying.

Now that I’ve voided the only warmth in my body, I envision myself dying of hypothermia like this kid I saw on an Are You Afraid of the Dark? episode, haunting people like he did, whispering ghoulishly, “I’m colllld.”

But before that vision’s realized, a warm light emanates outside the tent. Maybe I did die up there on the hill, hand frozen to dick.

Jesus, is that you?

Nope. Not unless Jesus is a ginger.

Gary, another scout, has thrown some toilet paper onto the fire-pit’s pitiful embers. Like blood to sharks, the fleeting heat beckons everyone’s frigid bodies.

Everyone extends numbed limbs. No one speaks; we just watch the paper wad curl into a charred ball and disappear. And like the embers’ heat, the momentary glimmers of hope we saw in each others’ eyes soon fade until there’s only darkness.

Something’s got to change. We’re not prepared.

***

At dawn, Troop Leader Barstow tells us to line up. He has a plan.

But before he gets to the point, Dillon—tall as an elm tree at age ten—sways and falls backward, laid flat by the cold. Leaves gust around him as he lands, and we all just stare in stunned silence.

While Barstow and the older scouts help Dillon up and keep him conscious, I step behind a large oak tree and cry. But before I fall back in line, I wipe away the tears and snot with my toboggan-wrapped hand.

Don’t ask.

When I get back to the group, I hear something about backtracking down one of the trails. Before I know it, camp’s deconstructed and we’re humping it down a mountain trail.

But I only see the sheer drop-offs on either side. The sight of them makes me grab my abdomen, bruised from crashing down a steep slope and through a rotted tree trunk during last night’s Capture the Flag.

I stare ahead. Everyone’s exhausted, but we slowly amble on.

And here I thought that time I was nearly drowned by a rapidly sinking, swamped boat while trying to earn my Rowing merit badge was bad.

We reach a rushing stream that we never passed on our way in. So much for backtracking. But at least I now know I’m not the only one who barely skated by on my Orienteering badge. Then again, that’s not really comforting right now, especially when my feet are submerged up to my ankles in hypothermia-inducing stream water. Nathan, Bartow’s second in command, has us trudge across the stream, and then back through it to the original trail. I’m scared to look at my feet. Surely, there’re only stumps left.

If only I’d actually learned something from earning my Wilderness Survival badge. Well, other than never leave your only food source—a rotisserie chicken from the local Piggly Wiggly—with the scout who has a glandular issue. Suffice it to say, as he sat stuffed with chicken and the rest of us fought over the accompanying soy sauce packets, there was nearly a remake of Lord of the Flies. And another thing: sucking on rabbit-tobacco buds is nothing like cigarettes, and it’s no substitute for food.

Where was I?

After a ridiculously long, painful trek down every possible trail, we finally emerge into a campground—a real one, with an actual picnic table.

Sleep-deprived, cold, and hungry, I have no idea how much time passes before I see an absolutely beautiful sight: a navy blue Chevy Caprice slowly pulling into the clearing where we all sit collapsed over our backpacking supplies.

Soon, we’re piling into the back of the heated car and gorging ourselves on Almond Joys.

We’re that much closer to home.

***

Drinking coffee and mentally scrawling this recollection in my head, I have to smile at Laurel.

“As an organization, Scouts is just creepy. Like Santa Claus. I mean, when you think about it, who’d send their kid into the wilderness with someone who’s basically a stranger with a guidebook? It’s like putting your child up on some costumed stranger’s lap.”

I choke on my mocha.

“And that’s not even touching the anti-gay sentiments,” Arielle adds.

It’s true. Boy Scouts’ religious-infused credos and honor codes have an underlying subtext: I will be a good, God-fearing Christian man with a wife and at least two kids.

Okay, maybe not the two kids, but definitely a wife. And I’m not being paranoid. I think the popcorn’s Kool-Aid-infused.

Even after our troop’s close call with death, as we gathered in the same cramped room in the local Methodist church and recited the Scout Pledge, there was still that collective emphasis on the line “I will be…morally straight…”

Never mind that we almost all died, just as long as we were all saved, forthright, God-fearing lads who liked the Girl Scouts in that way.

Maybe they were prepared to die like that. I sure wasn’t.

So, while they rattled off The Oath, The Pledge, The Allegiance to God and Country, I synced along with them, but was really thinking about how badly I wanted to earn my Woodworking badge with a particular Eagle Scout.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d be as morally straight as me. Or, maybe not.

Either way, I’d be prepared.

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Another Dei-ty in the Neighborhood

Shortly before I’m mistaken for Jesus by a coke addict claiming to be my disciple, I silently conjure a minor pox upon the woman whose unwavering, deadpan stare is making our Pinkberry experience a bit unnerving.

It’s one thing to cast a passing glance.

It’s another thing entirely to turn and stare. Especially with such a quizzical, judgmental air.

Sure, we all stare–make people slightly uncomfortable, intentionally or not.

Like the time when I was four, standing in a hot dog line with my mom, staring doe-eyed at a fairly rotund man in front of us.

I pointed directly at him.

“Mommy!”

My cherub-like red cheeks coupled with my a golden fro, and my chubby, outstretched arm allegedly attracted the attention of several others in line.

*Everyone stares, rapt in my cuteness.*

“He’s faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.”

*Collective facepalm*

I don’t get a hot dog.

***

Now.

As any big move goes, there’s a lot to learn about your new home.

And I’m trying to keep up.

So, to help me keep track, here’re a few things I’ve learned:

(1) People stare. Hard. I could be Josh Groban. Or Jesus.

(2) Everyone runs traffic lights. So don’t expect to go immediately after the light turns green.

(3) Pinkberry is basically amazing.

(4) Coffee Bean is doubly amazing.

(5) Parking is a nightmare. Which is why it pays to confirm your apartment either has parking nearby, or has a space included with your rent.

(6) The weather is glorious. It’s sort of like Groundhog Day, just with sunshine in lieu of Bill Murray. Every single day.

(7) DO NOT GO ON THE 110 DURING RUSH HOUR.

(8) Don’t think you can breakfast in Koreatown, antique in Sherman Oaks, walk on the beach in Malibu, and still retain your sanity. Pick a few things to do within close proximity of each other every weekend.

(9) Act like you know where you’re going. Even if you’re hopelessly lost.

(10) Don’t succumb to Big City Snobbery and avoid speaking to people. (Except coked-out Disciple of Jesus.) For instance, I had a perfectly lovely conversation with a man in line at the bank. I have no idea what he said, but he smiled a lot, and so did I.

***

It’s hard to believe we’re actually living here now. It just hasn’t clicked yet.

Back to Malibu!

Because it wasn’t that long ago that we were just visitors.

California is where we want to be.

But with every new lesson we learn, we’ll slowly find our way.

And begin to call this place home.

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Between the Sheets

Y’all remember when the amazing Katie of Domestiphobia came by and did an Apartment Therapy photoshoot of our beloved Raleigh apartment?

(If you didn’t, CHECK IT OUT. Now. Seriously.)

Well, the biggest embarrassment we listed has now been addressed.

Y’all can go back to your lives. (You’re welcome.)

Because, now, we have nice sheets.

Time for a change!

Sheets?

Yes, sheets!

***

Sheets are very important.

You should have a good relationship with your sheets.

Because they know you.

They really know you.

*Creepy giggles*

And yet, we don’t give’em their due.

I certainly didn’t. Which is why I had black sateen sheets.

(I WAS MISUNDERSTOOD AND LONELY. Gah!)

But, kittens.

The lengths we went to get some nice, ungodly expensive sheets were, well, ungodly.

***

It all started at the West Hollywood Restoration Hardware.

I know what you’re thinking.

Cliche!

First World problems!

And you’re right.

But we’d been eyeing these sheets for months and months online, and had told ourselves that we’d get them if we made it out to California. So we sort of had to get them or we’d really have failed ourselves, and we can’t do that, right?

Right.

So, we were ready to drop some serious money for some serious bedding.

We walked in and I assumed we’d be attended to.

Not only were we completely snubbed by the headset-wearing, snobbish poseur-employees, but we couldn’t even figure out where in the hell to find the actual bed sheets.

I mean, I get it. These folks work in a nice place. They have a certain clientele they cater to. And I guess tee shirt-wearing guys like us don’t fit that bill.

But you know what? The pregnant lady who came in 50 minutes after us, who kept demanding to see someone about her immediate need for bath towels in some god-awful baby poo brown, shouldn’t trump the two mo’s desperately trying to politely flag down an associate.

This is where Andy’s no-nonsense New York approach totally won out. After he cornered a newbie (bless her heart) and told her that we were about to walk out, and how that might be bad because she’d probably get a really nice commission, we suddenly got helped!

(Y’all, it was like watching a lion go after a baby gazelle. I was so proud!)

Nearly an hour after the absurdity commenced, we walked down this ridiculously dramatic staircase to the register, past an oddly placed iced tea station where one of the flakes that shrugged us off sat sipping and laughing with two coworkers.

What I really wanted to do was slap the tea out of her hand, scream “THAT SHIT AIN’T REAL ICED TEA!” and sashay away.

But I smiled anyway. Because that biznitch didn’t get the sale.

Now, we both had misgivings about dropping substantial money on sheets.

But we did.

And you know what?

They’re totally worth it.

They’re comfy.

They breathe.

They look nice.

They look adult. (Not that kind of ‘adult.’)

And I’m okay with that.

We're so grown up!

Because you have to love what surrounds you.

And since our living space has been downsized by nearly 700 square feet, we definitely have to pick and choose wisely what stays and what gets stored.

So, there you have it.

Love your sheets.

Roll around in them.

Give’em some love.

Wait.

Er.

No.

[Yes.]