Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Ready to Itch?

Last week, I had to make a quick Target run on my way out of town. As I'm dashing up and down the aisles, looking for the ONE item I need to grab, I come across an American tableau that has become all to familiar. An older, haggard woman with long streaky, greasy gray hair, was pushing her cart ahead of me. Her daughter, equally inbred looking, came dashing up holding the largest container of RID I'd ever seen. For those of you who haven't had to suffer through any of the infestations which RID is used to treat, suffice it to say that "itchy creepy crawlies" pretty well sums it up.

As the daughter handed off her find, she said, somewhat defensively, "It's the biggest one they got, mama."

Eww. Itch. Eww. Itch. Looks like somebody's uncle gave 'em crabs again.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

They Ain't Gunna Lissen.

Today is usually a big day for me. The day after Labor Day, for me, has always symbolized the onset of Fall (more in the school sense than the season sense—Texas doesn’t really have four seasons). A time to reboot. A time for new possibilities. A time for making progress.

I guess all those years of back-to-school excitement created a Pavlovian response which persists to this day.

This year, though, I’m just sad. Sad that a whole bunch of stupid fucking parents are objecting to a pro-education speech by our President being shown in public schools. Objecting to the point where they are threatening to keep their children home from school rather than “subject” them to the “brainwashing” of The President of the United States.

Oh, the delicious irony of depriving your child a day of education to prevent them from seeing a pro-education message.

Believe me, I understand how much one can dislike a President. I still have “I’m the decider!” flashbacks. But what I guess really gets me is how we, as a country, continue to let this group of vocal yokels hijack national debates and our national agenda. I used to blame the Republicans, but now I’ve decided to just blame NASCAR.

I mean, really, when you think about it, this is an activity that consists of people, primarily “aw shucks” males, driving their cars around in circles as fast as they can, being cheered loudly by thousands of people with duck calls in their pockets and not enough teeth to eat corn on the cob, winding up several hours later in the exact same spot which they started. Then celebrating their “victory” by spewing cheap ripple on everybody, especially the buxom, bikini-clad bimbos who materialize from behind the checkered flag.

These are the same people who show up at town hall meetings and shout people down with McCarthy-esque cries of “socialism” (look at you and your four-syllable word!) and a desire to see our country go round and round in circles REALLY FAST.

My favorite (?) was the dumbass motherfucker who derided Obama’s “Afro-Leninism.” WTF? How stupid are you people? I mean we have the Kinsey scale to determine how gay you are. How about the O’Pine scale for stupidity?

What would that look like? I guess a 1 would be some drooling hillbilly and a 6 would be Stephen Hawking? Okay, maybe it needs some work.

All I know is that, for me, the day after Labor Day has been tainted. I’m almost too saddened for ridicule.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Mama's Milk

I’m reading the new Bon Appetit. Cuz I do. And there’s a really cool blurb on the resurgence of milk home delivery. They’re calling it a trend that supports local dairies. My grown self thinks that’s pretty cool. My child self, however, went fucking ape shit.

See, I’m juuuust old enough (wipe that smile off your face!) to remember the Milk Man. No, not because he was the first man I called “daddy.” Just because during my grade school days, we lived where such delivery was available. And I thought it was the most amazing thing ever.

I begged—seriously, begged—my mother to sign us up for a Milk Man. It wasn’t some latent attraction. Never really wanted to do a Milk Man. But I was completely captivated by those cold clear bottles, right outside your door, next to the morning paper, EXACTLY like it was in every TV show and movie I’d ever seen. At least the ones that involved milk delivery.

I thought the milk tasted better, richer. And it made me feel better. And richer. There was something decadent about its simplicity. Then I discovered that they delivered CHOCOLATE milk, too. Are you fucking kidding me? For a ten year old kid, that’s like discovering that your mom’s tit produced milk in multiple flavors (which apparently it does, reflecting what you’ve ingested. Mine would be tequila and asparagus. But that’s another story). I needed that chocolate milk fix.

Lo and behold, my sweet southern mama knew her shit. She knew my “special” (that’s what they called adolescent gay in the south back then) way of thinking would quickly tire of the idea once it had lost it’s “specialness.” So she signed us up. And the milk began to flow. At first, it truly was manna. I wanted it every day, but mama reminded me that we hadn’t drunk the one from yesterday, so it would be wasteful for us to take EVERY day delivery.

Even that one-day gap caused me to quiver with anticipation. This lasted all of three weeks. By then, I knew the routine. I anticipated my anticipation. Which takes all of the fun out of it, and fills the void with stress and indifference. And one day, it might as well have been buttermilk. The taste was gone. I was milk fickle.

Now, all these years later, I realize my mom probably DID order buttermilk that day. She was rather fond of it and loved to crumble her cornbread into a cold glass of buttermilk. But once that taste was in my mouth, I could easily draw a line to the shared flavor profiles with whole milk. But I’ve outgrown the memory of lost anticipation.

And I can now start to wonder, when will the milk man get here?

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Dear Madonna

I, like millions of other gay men, gleefully navigated to the video of Madonna’s new “single” off her latest, greatest hits. Say what you will about the Madge, but she has proven to have staying power in a notoriously fickle industry, and has consistently produced pop candy, while exposing the world to a ton of interesting collaborators.

She has teased, taunted and titillated. But now it has to stop. So, I’ve crafted this note to the former Mrs. Richie and Penn.

Dear Madonna,

Honey--we’re getting old. Touching your puss suggestively while groping your new model/dj/boytoy isn’t hip and cool. It’s kind of creepy. In a cougar creepy way. It’s not “keeping you young.” In fact, it makes you look even older. Being the only AARP member in a troupe of twentysomethings reeks of desperation. It’s kind of like that old people smell.

Don’t get me wrong. You can still dance your ass off. You are still amazing and magical. And I believe that there’s nothing wrong with being a role model for post-menopausal sexuality. But you’re becoming the female equivalent of the old guy in the trenchcoat.

When you simulated masturbation on stage during your Like a Prayer days, it was a celebration of your sexuality and I applauded you. Now it just seems . . . unseemly.
You can still be provocative. Jesus, I just saw Grace Jones perform live and one of her costumes was completely backless. And it was hot. But she didn’t touch herself.

I’m not saying you should act your age. I’m just saying maybe don’t act your daughter’s age either. Even though your boyfriend is, like, 20 years closer to your daughter’s age—I’m okay with that. Get it while you can.