Thursday, September 21, 2006

The Realization of Me

Who am I?

Lover of Bestiality. “Oh, baby! Baaaaa!”
Conspiracy Leader.
Terrorist of Families.

Janet Rowland - Republican Candidate for Colorado Lieutenant Governor
"Homosexuality is an alternative lifestyle. That doesn't make it a marriage. Some people have group sex. Should we allow two men and three women to marry? Should we allow polygamy with one man and five wives? For some, bestiality is an alternative lifestyle. Do we allow a man to marry a sheep? At some point, we have to draw a line."
March 17 Colorado State of Mind Rocky Mountain PBS public affairs show about the gay-marriage issue

Rick Santorum
“In every society, the definition of marriage has not ever to my knowledge included homosexuality. That's not to pick on homosexuality. It's not, you know, man on child, man on dog, or whatever the case may be. It is one thing. And when you destroy that you have a dramatic impact on the quality.”
AP interview

James Dobson
"Dear Friends, I write to you today with a profound sense of concern...Barring a miracle, the family as it has been known for more than five millennia will crumble, presaging the fall of Western civilization itself....
For more than 40 years, the homosexual activist movement has sought to implement a master plan that has had as its centerpiece the utter destruction of the family."
in a July 2004 letter to supporters

(I stole the above three quotes from a news article on

It is one thing to hear people debate with passion and vehemence whether I should be allowed to one day marry the man I love. It hurts. It causes anger. It causes a feeling of helplessness. It causes me pity, yet understanding. I understand how and why some people have questions of the correctness of gay marriage. I may not agree with them in the slightest, but I can step into their shoes and see either their concern or their fear.

It is quite a different issue to know that, to SOME people, the very essence of my being defines me as vile, corrupt, evil, dangerous, demented, sick, perverted, abomination, malicious, parasitic and infectious.

Most of the time, I can shrug it off and roll my eyes and tell myself they don’t know me, they are not really talking about me, it’s nothing really personal. But it hit me tonight, reading these quotes, they don’t know me, but they are talking about me. They are saying these things about ME! Seriously? Me? And about many of the people that I love? Me loving a man is equal to fucking a dog or sheep? Me always knowing that I have been attracted to men is equal to molesting a child? Me wanting to have a wedding (not a damned civil ceremony) is equal to me plotting the demise and annihilation of straight families? Did I not come from a straight family? Are not some of my dearest friends straight—along with their wives and children? Well, tonight, it is personal. Tonight, they are talking about me and others that I love. Tonight, they are talking about people you know, people you love, people in your family, maybe they are even talking about you! It is fucking personal! And as childish and pathetically weak as this sounds, it hurts me. It hurts my feelings. It makes me cry. It attempts to strip away the good aspects of who I am (and the good of others) and turn me into a monster, something less than human, something evil.

Who is the monster?

Who are you?

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Gay Morailty? It's funny, 'cuz it's true. . .

Confession time:
In order to live life as a gay man, I have had to reject the values I grew up with and that were instilled into my very fiber. I have had to come to believe that the Bible is not 100% accurate or factual (or simply that sections are not what is the core of who God is, but simply a reflection of the culture it in which it was written). I was taught to never lie, cheat, covet, steal, kill, act impure, or write down or tell others all the secrets of my life (they will always come back to ruin you). Obviously, I have rejected that teaching as well. If anyone is the king of over-sharing, it is me. Some would say that I have simply used justification and twisted fact and truth to suit my own needs and desires. Easier than actually staying in therapy and having faith for God to change me, right? I’m not so sure. Walking this path is not easy either, although I will admit, I have much more peace and contentment in this state of being than in my previous.
The problem with rejecting values and beliefs you were raised with is, ‘where do you stop?’ If one thing was inaccurate or untrue, then it goes to follow that other things are too. For instance, we were taught to never lie, under any circumstances. Looking back, I remember conversations where we discussed if we had been alive in the Holocaust. What would we do if we were sheltering people in our home so they would not be murdered? What if a Nazi knocked on our door (you see, I come by my overly dramatic self naturally) and asked if we were hiding people? If you tell the truth, you and the hidden are sure to be killed. If you lie, then, well, you are lying. Wrong! Sinful! Always tell the truth and trust God to do His will. Well, if I am ever transported back to the Holocaust and a Nazi knocks on my door when I have people hiding under my trap door (not a sexual reference!) I am gonna lie to the fucker.
So, where do you stop? When are some things simply black and white? It would be easy to reject everything and live a purely hedonistic and self-absorbed life. I started down that path myself for a few years. I found it empty, dark, and joyless. Maybe sex really is best kept in a loving, trusting, real relationship. Go figure!
I was faced with what many would consider less than a bleep on the morality scale yesterday. I had jerked around and messed up a homework schedule. I needed to perform an assessment on some students and have another of my classmates observe me and give feedback. It was due at midnight last night, and I don’t even have an opportunity to be with my kids until Thursday. I talked to a couple of my classmates. A few of them didn’t do the assignment either. They simply made it up and typed a fictional report. Honestly, I am so disillusioned with grad-school and the pointlessness of playing the game for a piece of paper, that I don’t have much of a problem doing that. (The idealistic fifteen year old in me just flipped me off and died.) However, this professor is one that that has gone out of her way for me on several occasions, helped me have courage to quit my job, and genuinely cares and believes in the process we are undertaking. It is not a game to her, as it is to so many of the other professors. She doesn’t expect us to play the game. She expects realness. Making up a paper for her would not be playing the game. Making up a paper for her would be lying. If I did not make up the paper, I would get a bad grade in the class or have to withdrawal and take the course again next semester, causing me to stay in grad school longer. What is a recovering fundamental fag to do?
Well, I wrote a paper discussing an assessment and observation that I had overseen while I was teaching in the Spring. I turned that in. I also turned in a page telling her that I had procrastinated and messed up the assignment, and that I will take what she recommends—the bad grade or the withdrawal.
I value that I will be able to look her in the eye with honor, and that I give her the same consideration and respect she gives to me. No grade or easy shortcut is worth sacrificing that. Plus, as far as I know, no minority will die if the truth was told in this instance. Unless someone reads this and kills me. (I still find it fascinating that I am technically a minority. I should start a club! Oh, yeah, we already have one, the gay bars. I forgot.)
Still, the question remains and other moral dilemmas and hazy situations are on their way. What is truth and goodness? Do those concepts apply for those of us whose very existence and way of life contradicts those values of so many? Of course they do. Still, though, where is the gray appropriate, and where should we use more definitive shades to color our lives?
Regardless, I think God smiled on His little red-headed gay boy last night.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Falling in Love Again

You have no idea how truly fortunate you are currently. You are in a situation that very few find themselves honored enough to be in. You are on a date with me. That’s right, you! At this very moment! Try not to pee your pants from the excitement—there are few ways to ruin a date more expediently. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch though. If you expect me to, huh, well, get giggy with it later tonight, you need to pick up the tab. I may be easy, but I ain’t free!
Right now, I am at the Cheesecake factory. I decided to take myself on a date (along with my computer). Hell, if no one else is gonna ask, I will take myself out on the town. At least I know I won’t break up with myself later! There is nothing quite like being in a fairly romantic setting—lights low, candles flickering, couples dinning, music wafting gently over the senses—with only your bitter, sarcastic wit to keep you company. Wow, I am turning myself on, I should be careful, people may start to stare.
Speaking of being desperately in love with myself, I got an email from a friend the other day, praising my blog. Now, he, admittedly, doesn’t give out blog complements easily. He feels that most people’s blogs are just tools to stroke their own narcissistic adoration. He heaped his accolades upon me for doing something more and maybe a little deeper with mine. I was greatly flattered, and, in truth, felt a little guilty. Surely if there has ever been a blog centered around obsessive contemplation and self-superiority, it is Ramblings. However, I have learned to take a compliment wherever I can get one. And, yes, I did look in the mirror to tonight and comment on how hot I look for this tender date with myself. I really do look unusually attractive this evening. It only happens about once every seven and a quarter months. It is a pity it is wasted on my straight waiter. Hell, he is bringing me mashed potatoes, cheesy chicken, and maybe cheesecake later. I think I am in love.
Pause for a little bit, please, my glorious dinner has arrived.
Dear Lord, that was sinfully good, and I am perfectly full right now—a little too full, I should stop before I order the Carrot Cake Cheesecake or the Cookie Dough Cheesecake (it is still too early for the Pumpkin Cheesecake [Heaven]). Remember just a few short moments ago, when I was pledging my unending devotion to myself and all my stunning beauty? Well, the honeymoon is over, and I am breaking up with myself. God, I hate me! I was in the middle of my scrumptiously delectable dinner when piece of chicken fell off my fork and splattered mushroom sauce everywhere. I quickly looked down to observe the damage—there was none, somehow my shirt was spared. I could not believe my good fortune. I never have such luck! Blessed be! Shortly thereafter, some of my euphorically creamy mashed potatoes felt athletic and jumped off my fork and dove into the mushroom sauce, again, splattering everywhere—including my shirt. It is one thing to be an attractive, single man of mystery out on a date with himself. It is quite another to be a short, pathetically lonely excuse for a man with food dribbling pitiably down his shirt.
Oh, I have to leave you now, I hope you have enjoyed the rest of our date. My Carrot Cake Cheesecake is here!!!!!

Tuesday, September 12, 2006


“Who is the man I see
Where I’m supposed to be
I lost my heart and buried it too deep
Under the Iron Sea

Oh crystal ball, crystal ball
Save us all
Tell me life is beautiful
Mirror, mirror on the wall

Lines ever more unclear
Not sure I’m even here
The more I look
The more I think that I’m
Starting to disappear

Oh crystal ball, crystal ball
Save us all
Tell me life is beautiful
Mirror, mirror on the wall

Oh crystal ball,
Hear my song, fading out
Everything I know is wrong
So put me where I belong

I don’t where I am
And I don’t really care
I look myself in the eye
There’s no one there

I fall upon the earth
I call upon the air
All I get is the same old vacant stare

Oh crystal ball, crystal ball
Save us all
Tell me life is beautiful
Mirror, mirror on the wall

Oh, crystal ball, hear my song
Fading out
Everything I know is wrong
So put me where I belong”

Song: “Crystal Ball”
Artist: Keane
Album: Under the Iron Sea, 2006

Today is milestone for me. One week exactly. One week since I broke down and wept. I didn’t think I would get here. Maybe it should have come sooner. Do most people grieve for a solid three months? Do they shrug their shoulders and simply say, “We’ll that didn’t work out, what next?” I hope not. I hope not everyone grieves for three months either. It ain’t fun. Even if some say that I have chosen to grieve and hurt to an extreme. Maybe that is true, maybe it is not. Neither negates the truth of the matter.
It is funny, maybe not funny Ha-Ha, but still funny. I was so afraid that I would lose myself in my last relationship (in an all-consuming way—like in my first) that I messed it up, not able to really show and give the love I felt. Even with all my walls up to protect myself, I lost myself—just in a different way. Not to another man like I had feared, but to pain. I would look in the mirror and not see Brandon anymore. I used to be happy in the very core of me; now, all I saw in my eyes was dull ache and desperation. I thought I had already worked through the things I didn’t understand and yet I was thrust under the waves of compounding unanswerable questions. Life was, once again, shaken to the very foundations of my stability. It scared me, thoroughly. More than ever before in my life, actually. I was not sure I was going to get to the other side and regain a semblance of sanity again.
I disappeared for awhile there. That Brandon is not back yet. He never will be. That is ok. A new Brandon is emerging. Breaking out of the chrysalis that has enclosed me for the past ninety days. I am new. Some good, some bad. I have a whole new set of baggage attached and some hurt that will rest in my being for the duration of my life. I also am stronger, a little wiser, and while I have a whole new set of guards up, I also am more willing to risk those being breached and let myself be open to the possibility of being truly loved and even truly hurt again. You see, I learned that if you protect yourself so much that you can not risk real love, you won’t get to experience love fully, but you will still get to experience the pain, fully. Pain comes if we choose it or not. Protect ourselves or not. Love is always a choice, always a risk.
Are the tears over? I doubt it. Is the constant state of desperate insanity over? I think so. Am I going to choose to risk love and being loved? Although it will undoubtedly be clumsy and awkward, yes, I am. There is a man I am familiar with, a man who has new aspects to him, a man who is scared and excited about who he is becoming that looks back into my eyes from the mirror now. Yes, there is still pain in those eyes. The sickeningly beautiful thing about pain. . . it is where joy, love, and hope blossom from.
“Tell me life is beautiful!”

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Lube: The Quest for Equality

I thought I would switch things up a bit tonight as I blog. You know, try something new—something different. I hope you can handle the shock to your system. I am not going to talk about how simple, easy, and fair life is. No, no. I am going to bitch. Maybe even be a bitch. Maybe both! Gasp! The audacity! Yes, that is what I am going to do: Bitch and Be a Bitch! I may also invent a cereal and name it that. That would sweet.
Today, as it should every crisp, partially overcast, yet oddly muggy Sunday morning, my mind turned not to tulips, daffodils, and chrysanthemums, but to AIDS. Hard to make a bouquet out of, but still deserving of attention. Today was the AIDS walk (for which I raised a big whopping $0—thank you so much, all you faithful who gave so generously! I did put in $20 for myself to walk—maybe everyone was already giving to the Help Pass Ref I & Default Amendment 43 fund—yeah, that’s it). Anywhoooo, the AIDS walk. . . (remember, I said I liked to use these [. . . ], you were forewarned).
I saw something there, while I was helping to defeat the virus by shuffling my feet on asphalt, that I see at every ‘gay’ event that always makes my hackles rise. I could choose to go off about how the AIDS walk is a ‘gay’ thing, but I will save that delectable treasure for later consumptional delight. I am upset, offended, astonished and ashamed of the trash cans! The Trash Cans!!! Burn them all! No, they are not made of dented, tacky aluminum, or as boring as black bouncy-back Rubbermaid receptacles, of such I can only wish. They were made of cardboard. I have no particular problem with cardboard. It is fairly multifunctional and is very equal-opportunistic. I do, however, take issue with the design gracing the ever humble surface of this miracle named cardboard. It was plastered with ads for ID Pleasure. For those of you innocent types (as I laugh, like you would be reading this!) that is a [use your whisper voice] personal lubricant. I actually have no problem with ID Pleasure. It is the one I have chosen to spend my money on, and would recommend it to others if so asked—and obviously, even if not asked. However, could we be more tacky and socially offensive?
Why is it, that every single gay event I attend I am accosted by free condoms, lube, or cock rings, porn, dildos. . . (ok, not all those are free, but still)? Why is my identity as a gay man synonymous with all of that? Yes, yes, I know that ‘gay’ is SEXUAL identity, but come on, really?!?!? Can we grow up and have some class yet? If we wanna do lube wrestling later on at Tracks or something, great! But maybe we can save some of our so-called ‘liberation’ for when it is a little more appropriate. It greatly disturbs me to see children, families, and helpless puppies walk by all of the propaganda and smut. My family has greatly struggled with me being gay. They are wonderful, truly, to me. They love and adore me, but they have fear of what it all means and what the consequences may be for me. Why wouldn’t they? I will never ask my family to lower themselves and deface their sense of decency (based not at all on gay or not) by shoving their faces in the blatant lack of moral sensitivity. I wish they could join me in an AIDS walk or a PRIDE celebration one day. No sooner would I ask or expect them to take a field trip of a bath house.
Most of what we show the world is simply for shock value, to get a reaction, to say ‘fuck you! I am who I am, and you will never tell me who I can love!’ Well, I echo that sentient, fully! But, I would like to say ‘fuck you!’ in ways that show who I am and who I love, show them that is what they are judging and condemning! They are judging love and passion and something real and genuine and pure. Instead our ‘fuck you’ comes out confirming everything they are trying to condemn. In that endeavor, I join them. I condemn a culture that has no problem shoving every form of sexuality in the face of children--that has lost its morality and decency compass. It is no different than all those preachers who scream about how great God’s abundant love is and, without so much as a breath, bellow of His hate of faggots and dykes!
None of this is said in shame of who I am or in devaluing my gay brothers and sisters. I am proud that I am gay man. I have no shame in kissing the man I love. Kisses and hand holding, etc. should be done in public, if done for love’s sake and not to make a statement. I have no shame that I am sexual. I am not going to go to hell for having sex with men. However, I will loose who I am if I am not true to the belief that we are more than just animals, that I have more to offer as a gay man than just my cock, that we have an obligation to each other to show the true beauty, goodness, and brilliance that exists within our Gay kingdom (or queendom, whichever you prefer). Let’s promote safe sex, and NEVER be ashamed of who we are or even of what we do in the bedroom (and other places [on really good days]), but let us present ourselves with pride, honor, responsibility, class, and sensitivity! One of our stereotypes is that we, as gays, have the patent on style and taste. Let’s live up to that stereotype, shall we?

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Good Luck With This One. . .

For having been, for all intrinsic purposes, more miserable than I have ever been for the past twelve weeks, the past two days have been very nice. Last night, my friend KE came over and we watched “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” Everyone said that this movie is wonderful. Everyone is stupid! I wish there had just been five funerals! After that extravaganza, I went to a late movie with my friend R?. We saw “The Covenant.” It is done by the same people who did “Underworld” (one of my all-time favorites). ‘Covenant’ was not near as good, but, dear Lord, the eye candy and homoeroticness of that movie. Hallelujah! Then, this morning I had brunch with my wonderful friend SH, followed by a second viewing of “Little Miss Sunshine” with TB (not tuberculosis), JS (not jock strap), and SM (not S&M). Very, very fun. Now, I am getting ready to go to a huge gay party with KE. Not in the mood for a big party, but we are going to ‘make and appearance’ (apparently, my adoring public needs to witness the glory that is me) and then we are going to go do something low key.
Now, wasn’t that a fun little overview of my last twenty-four hours? I thought so. Especially with all the damned initials!!!
There was one thing that the horrific Wedding/Funeral movie did bring up for me. There is a scene where a man dies, leaving his gay lover behind. I can not imagine going through such a thing. I have barely managed to stay partially sane through a break-up—significant though I believe it is, it is nothing compared to my lover dying! How do you go on?
To top it off, you not only have to face live without your love, you don’t even have the same status as a man and woman, even if a lot of it is just in name. You were never legally married or husbands. You are not a widower. You do not get to stand up in church and give a eulogy of your husband. ARGH!!! It blows my mind, really. The more I think about it, the less I understand the reasoning behind the popular opinion’s stance. Yes, I can have a ceremony; I can be married in the eyes of God and friends. I can change my will to include him and give him power of attorney, blah, blah, blah. Sounding Spoiled Warning: I want to be really, really married. I want, I want, I want, I want. I am willing to throw myself on the floor in the supermarket and kick, scream, and tirade until I can. So there! Nah-nah-na-na-nah!!!
Well, that was fun. Random fact for you. Tonight (for the party), I am wearing a dress shirt and sweater. It is official. It is sweater wearing time. While I love wearing sweaters, it is way too early. I am not ready for summer to be gone. Of course, I am sure everyone else will show up wearing tank tops and jock straps, but I have never been one to follow the fashion trends.
Addendum (five and a half hours later):
So, KE and my “appearance” at the party turned into a closing the place down. Very fun though. And, I was right. Everyone had their skinniest T-shirts on, muscles bulging—everyone but MR, who also had on a sweater! Thank you MR! The sweater I was wearing is a very nice one from NYC. However, it was big when I bought it and I was fifty pounds heavier—two years ago, almost. At some point in the evening, I took the sweater off, folded it and put in on the sofa. A little while later, a guy came up to KE, who was sitting beside it and picked up my sweater, started unfolding it, and let out a little squeal, “Oh, what is this afghan? Oh, my, it’s got sleeves. It must be a fat-girl sweater!” To which KE and I died laughing. The guy’s face got so red when he realized the sweater belongs to me!
Even if I didn’t just wear my jock strap, at least I made an impression!

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Terror on the Playground

I just wrote last week about turning old. Well, that is still true, but there are certain qualities about being old that I have not yet been able to encase into my being. I bought the first season of “Supernatural” last night. I had not seen any episodes of it, but it looked like something I would love. Kind Buffy-like. Hence, much television pleasure. I started watching the pilot episode as Dunkyn and I crawled onto the futon to sleep. Apparently, the fear part of me is sill about five years old. I was terrified. I think it was mostly the music, but still. I had to keep fast forwarding so that I could see whatever was about to pop out and how the scene would end. Then I could go back, all the while glancing over my shoulder, and watch it again in normal time. I discovered that if you do that about fifteen times, a normal hour show takes a hell of a lot longer to get through. Just extend the terror. Can’t wait to do it again tonight. Although I should probably save it for the daytime or until I am dating again (if that ever happens). Maybe I will just stick to Will & Grace.
I find it fascinating, not to mention frustrating, how so much of myself seems to be divided. In so many ways, I am an old soul. I have always been responsible (excluding the paper we value so much—money), fairly boring and more thoughtful and self-aware then many in my age group. However, I feel like I am twelve when in a relationship. It freaks me out, I have no idea what to do or how to be, not to mention being able to stay sane through it all. I still don’t quite know what I want to be when I grow up. Yeah, I have wrinkles around my eyes now, and a few gray hairs (that blend very nicely into the blond and red around them, thanks for noticing), but part of me is still in diaper training.
Will there ever be a day when I am completely one uniform person? Probably, when I am old and get Alzheimer’s. Then all of me will be childlike, maybe even the diapers!

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Lotto Winnings

I just got home from a movie, after which, I had ice cream cravings, so I went by 7:11. I got a snicker’s ice cream sandwich. It was not what I wanted, but it had ten less fat grams than the good one. What’s a recovering fat kid supposed to do? Right after I paid, I had a feeling that I should buy a Lotto ticket. I almost did. I was too embarrassed to ask the sales clerk to ring me out again—she was already pissy. Oh, well, since I did not collect my winnings, it enabled a poor homeless family (who should be buying food instead of Lotto tickets) to win and change their lives. It feels good to do a good deed.
I am learning more of myself all the time lately. I put my feelings out on my sleeve and tell people things when I should keep my fat mouth shut. I already knew this about myself, but still, it bears relearning. However, I really don’t want to learn that lesson. Why is it bad to tell someone you love them? Why is it bad to say what you think is great about someone? Why is it pathetic, needy, weak to say what you feel and desire and care about? People always tell me to play coy, play hard to get, don’t let someone know how much I like them. After all, it is not attractive to look too eager or appear that you need someone. Heaven forbid you just be straight forward!
If it looks like I am playing hard to get, it is because I don’t want you to catch me! I hate all this stupid game playing crap. Granted, I overdo it. No question. I can’t seem to only say something once; I have to say something every time it is in my mind. I can see how this would freak people out, or simply wear them out. Who wants to hear someone say they love them all the time when you don’t have the same feelings? Who wants to hear about someone else’s hurt and worries all the time? Who wants to constantly be deep and real? It is not as much fun. I should know, that is why I don’t watch the news. The last thing I heard was that there is some war going on somewhere and some natural disasters were obliterating stuff and unnatural queers were still denied equal rights. Do I really need to absorb anymore information of which I have no power to change? No. I do have the power to change my compulsion to say what I think and feel at all times. No more of that. From now on when someone asks, “How ya doin’?” the answer will be, “I am fucking fabulous! Wanna hear about the family I helped out with my Lotto winnings?”