lessons in paw and fur

As the day of being employed draws ever closer, I feel my anxiety level rising. Like Eve, I have tasted the forbidden fruit, and I want second helpings. Adam tasted it too, but, being a man, he was too preoccupied with the comprehension of nudity to be aware of what he had bitten into. I have experienced how life is meant to be lived, partially. If grad school were out of the pictures, the scene would be complete. I know the story of the grasshopper and the ants (if you don’t know it, I am not gonna tell you—pick up a book). I know I should desire to be an ant and be productive and responsible. Well, I don’t. I don’t want to be an ant. I don’t do well in lines. Neither do I want to be a grasshopper. Have you seen their skin tone? Even Noxzema isn’t going to clear that up. Just because it looks good on Elphaba, doesn’t mean it will be appealing on me (again, pick up a book—or attend the theatre [please note the fancy and pretentious spelling of theater—yeah, you wish you could pull that off with such ease and culturability]). I want to be human. I want to be a man. I want to simply be alive and enjoy that most basic of truths. Of course, I want nice clothes, phenomenal food, a gorgeous house, limitless music on my iPod and DVDs on my shelves, and boundaryless (please note the fancy and pretentious invention of words [yeah, you wish you could pull that off with such ease and culturability]) flight miles. It is a flaw of the world’s economic structure that those items are dependant on money, which is (in most cases) dependent on hours worked. See, I really don’t want that much or ask for the unrealistic.
As the day of being employed draws ever closer, I see the trappings of the universe clearer and less diluted than previously. As is typical, God chooses to reveal His most enlightened truth through the living example of one of his children, Dolan. Dunkyn, Dolan, and I (often accompanied by Chad, as of late) take at least one rather lengthy walk each day—sometimes two or three. Dunkyn enjoys these, waddling along in a rather adorable manner, stopping to sniff every putrid scent along the way—sometimes happening along one that is delectable enough in which to wallow about blissfully (you have not seen Heaven on Earth until you have witnessed Dunkyn in such a state). Dolan, too, loves his walks. He enjoys many a delightful sniffs as well, but he is much more visually stimulated. He trots here and there, up and down, in and out, taking in every sight for consumption. Between the two, Dolan enjoys his walk time the most. Dunkyn would be fine watching TV and snuggling with his Daddy and never leaving his home. Dolan’s sanity, on the other hand, is dependant upon his walking adventures.
As mentioned in other blogs, Dolan and I have started a tradition of racing the last quarter block to the front door. This race is rather difficult and dangerous for all involved. He doesn’t grasp the entire point of racing. All he knows is that he should be in front. To him the vast measurement of that advancement is inconsequential. Instead of running beside me, Dolan runs sideways, about two inches, directly in front of my feet. He darts back and forth, tongue lolling, eyes cast up watching my face in anticipation—worried that if he runs too far in advance he will miss some part of the experience. As a result, it is a rarity that the racing extravaganza ends sans paw squishing, owner tripping, puppy yelping, daddy squealing, or some combination thereof.
As the tradition has become more and more firmly engrained in his psyche, his expectations have been ever raised. It started several weeks ago. We would be three or four blocks away from the house and Dolan, caught up in anticipation, would begin to traipse back and forth in front of me, eyes rolling up to mine, bouncing in excitement, waiting to break into a limited run. Currently, it has reached the point of this example of delighted impatience begining about halfway through our walks. All scents loose their potency, all sounds fade into murmurs, all sights blur to impressionistic watercolors, only the pounding of heart, quickness of breath, and tingling expectancy remain. At first (after overcoming my annoyance at the hindering of my walking ability) I thought his exuberance one more expression of his adorableness. However, I begun to see myself (and most of humanity) through his eyes. What used to be a nearly euphoric experience from beginning to end for my little one has now only half as joyous. Regardless of where he starts his race preparations, the race will only start once we have thrown the poop bag away a little distance from the door. In an effort to not miss a minutia of the race, Dolan has lost half of what is one of the largest highlights of his existence. Instead of allowing himself to enjoy every nuance that lends pleasure, his entire sensibility is overwhelmed by the brief seconds spent in a race where he analyzes each moment so that he will not miss a second.
I love my little man. I hope dearly that he will learn to enjoy each moment, the calm, repetitive, and soothing, as well as the thrilling, heart-stopping, and anticipated. I hope the same thing for his daddy.

Dream to be Desperate

I wanted to be a detective when I was a little kid. Just like Nancy Drew. Uh, I mean the Hardy Boys, of course, my bad. Then, I realized that there is a lot of night work involved and sometimes even in graveyards and such. Gross and a wee bit scary. Next, I thought I would be a photographer for National Geographic and/or People. Getting to see the rain forest and photograph Dean Cane in his bathtub (and out of his bathtub, he he he. . . ). Apparently, you have to wait an exorbitant amount of time for one of the Anacondas to try to devour Jennifer Lopez. God made me many things: tall, tan, taunt, and gorgeous, however, He forgot about patience. However, I would still be willing to document Dean Cane’s bathing procedure for the benefit of future generations. At one point in my Freshman year psychology class in college, my professor said to close our eyes and picture what our life would be like, and whatever we really pictured would transpire within ten years. I saw myself on a stage, singing country music to a sold-out theater, with my wife and adoring children worshiping me from the second row. That was in 1996. You do the math. After falling in love with Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Anne Rice, I decided I want to be a Vampire. I still want to see that one through…
At the end of all my planning, day-dreaming, and foreseen opulence, I am left with a new dream, one that I really didn’t see coming. I want to be a housewife.
A housewife. Some of you would say that I am already there with the amount of scrap booking material I possess. It is a new revelation. Not one that I really wanted. Maybe it is just delusion from being a successful relationship for four and a half months. I wanna stay home all day, cook/clean, have two babies, shop, scrapbook, luncheon with other mothers, write novels during nap time and while they are in pre-school. I am sure it would all be so picture perfect and serene. And even it were, I would shoot myself so that I would have something to stress over. Anyway, new desire. I had gone from wanting to adopt at-risk teenagers to never wanting any kids, to knowing the entire names of my two new-born’s that I will meet one day. I wonder if there are adoption agencies that consider debonair vampires of the homosexual variety worthy candidates.
It is a strange thing to think about. What would the kids do when the school makes cards for Mother’s Day? And their little hands would fall off from all the Father’s Day crafts they would have to make. Since I will do most of the cooking and be the over-protective parent maybe they would just call me Mamma B. I really don’t have the figure for that title, increasingly curvy as I am.
We have even had an offer from a dear friend of ours to carry our children. Hello cart. Meet horse. However, we feel a moral obligation to adopt outside of our sperm banks. There are so many babies who have no parent that they can’t be overlooked out of a desire to produce an overweight, show-tune singing, socially awkward red-headed offspring. I think the cart just rolled two miles away from the horse and crashed into a Japanese Maple tree (those are so pretty, aren’t they?).
While I am sure many, many would find multitude of reasons to deny children to a household that I occupy (my flagrant cursing and inappropriate innuendos, for instance—oh, and the faggotry aspect as well). My only real question: What negative affects does a tattooed mother transpose onto her children? Ah, big questions for another day.

academia

they long for the music
of their own making
to be embraced by hollowness
of their own deluded grandeur
too busy engaging in
pampering adulation
lost in universe of self
knowledge, enlightenment disregarded
wallowing in the filth disguised as
diamonds of their own words
clamoring to voice over others’ souls
betraying shallowness

My Little Disease (not to be confused with My Little Ponies)

As you may have read in the recent news releases, I am gay. Due to this fact, I purchased tickets to Wicked nearly two years ago for the time it would come back to Denver. Well, that time has come and gone now. The boyfriend and I went two nights ago. You would have thought that buying tickets for the best seats possible two years ago would have ensured a prime location smack dab in the middle. You would have thought wrong. We were close, but were off to the left of the stage. Still, it was a delightful experience. Glinda’s part was over the top perfection. Died laughing. I probably annoyed everyone around me by singing along on occasion. I am sure I should have felt some moral compass restraining my impulsivity, but I didn’t. Who says gays have class? I seem to have gotten off track on what I wanted to tell. Deepest apologies. My boyfriend, Chad (I asked, I can use his name), noticed a 30ish or 40ish year old woman a couple rows in front of us. She was a rather large. Not fat, but large—could have put me in my place (which is Sonic). She had on a black dress with white lettering and a white ribbon around her waste. She looked nice, not too dressy, but nice. There were several in attendance who should have been taken out back and stoned for their lack of decorum. Shorts, T-Shirt, Flip-Flops. REALLY? Anyway, about five people down, on the same row, sat an adorable girl. Probably about eleven or so. She also had on a charming black dress with white lettering and a white ribbon around her waste. Well, isn’t that cute? Similar dresses. Oh, wait, no. The SAME dress! Everything, identical, a study in cloning and contrasting size. I though it was cute that a mother and daughter would dress up alike for the show. That would have cute. Somewhat incestuously enmeshed, but cute. Chad heard the little girl lean over to her mom and say, “Look mom, that lady has the same dress as I do!” Sigh. It made buying tickets two years ago for off-center seats totally worth it. It is one thing to show up wearing the same outfit as someone in your own class and peer group. It is an entirely different thing to be attired in the same fashion as a fourth grader. It is even another to not only wear the same garb as a toddler but to be outdone by said infant in the same damn row! If only she had thought to wear her cut off shorts, halter, and sandals instead.
Earlier that day, Chad, Dunkyn, Dolan and I went on one of our walking adventures. While enjoyable, and one of my favorite parts of the day, these walks normally consist of a vast amount of sniffing, pooping, tangled leashes, and pooping. I tend to plan ahead and think of everything that could go wrong in every aspect of y life so that I can be prepared to take some form of action. Well, while I hate to admit it, you can’t plan adequately for everything, and every so often little acts of sheer terror occur that are utterly out of our power to control. It is God’s way of rapping us on the head and saying, ‘Yeah, I’m still here, Dip Shit!!!’ You don’t think He would say that? Well, then let’s blame the devil. Although I must say, I think he would be much too suave and debonair to curse in such fashion. You can be the judge. As I was saying, however, we went on our normal stroll, unawares that potential death was stalking us, determining which of the four seemed the most succulent upon which to feast. We proceeded through our little journey without so much as a snag. I don’t even think I stumbled or tripped once (always a bad sign). The flowers were beautiful. The birds sang in sheer pleasure of the warmth of the sun and the caress of the tender breeze. Butterflies drifted around us in abundant colorful displays of affection. At one point, their colors blended to form the shape and shades of rainbow. Not sure if this was a reminder of God’s promise not to flood the world again, a sign of gay pride, or an omen of a flood coming to wash over the gay community. What do you think, Mr. Falwell? Regardless, beautiful day, beautiful walk, beautiful dogs. What, I left out one? Oh, yes, Beautiful Boys. Why thank you for saying so. I am flattered. Just as our time of perfection was nearing a close, about a hundred feet or so from the front door, Dolan and I embarked on our traditional race of the final steps. We made it a few feet when from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a plague ridden squirrel leap across the neighbors’ front porch, bounding off their table, chairs, and railing. Being the brave, daring, heroic man that I am, I continued the race so that my youngest would enjoy our bonding experience. A few feet closer to the door, closer to salvation, the besieged squirrel sprang from his crouched perch on the porch and leapt towards me. He found his pray in the form of my upper left thigh. Some would say that I screamed little a little girl in a black and white dress running breathlessly from the clutching grasp of Rosie O’Donnel. (Sorry Rosie, really do love you.) Some would say that. They would be wrong. I let out a roar that would have made the Spartans in ‘300’ tremble in fear and loosely concealed desire. The squirrel bounded off my thigh. Dolan tore after him. Being the forgiving example of Christ that I am, I restrained him from defending my honor. We made our way back inside and collapsed in trembling exhaustion. This may be my final blog as I may soon go the way of the poor monkey whose life was also taken by Denver’s Al-Qaeda squirrel population. Farwell, cruel (yet pretty) world.

Chandon

You brought laughter
I reenacted Titanic

You bequeathed steam
I provided music

You were patient and steady
I was flighty and terrified

You transformed when falling
I saw myself


You honor the moment
I agonize over the minutes to come

You make me protected
I make you moan

You swish
I strut


You will drink
I will drive

You shall find your wings
I shall plant my roots


We have a long trip together

Unanticipated

i took your outstretched hand
expecting fleeting kisses at my command

I was granted consistency and foundation


expectations of consuming fire
momentary instances of lackadaisical desire

Gave way, strong stream of steady devotion


pretty face, silly boy
thought would be shallow, pleasant toy

Transformation into substantial, honorable man


guarded heart and protected eyes
sheltered from you originating my cries

Gentle and firm your heart melted mine


your laughter to entertain
only a lover to hold until the rain

Solidly secure, now, within your arms I stand