Monday, June 30, 2008

You Asked For It

It’s been almost two months and people have been hounding me for a fresh, new blog entry. The wait is over, and I’ve written a whopper! After wrestling with many possible gay-pride-related topics that would ultimately end up being viewed as fluff, I decided to share a fun little story about a recent experience on public transport.

A very attractive young man turned to me during a train ride last week. I didn’t know how to react at first. It was one of those moments that every awkward young man dreams of. I thought to myself: “YES! Cute people DO want to talk to me!”

Him: Do you have a minute?
Me: Yeah.
My thought: Oh fuck yeah!
Him: My name is Daniel.
Me: I’m Richie.
Him: I was looking at you just now and I thought you’d be perfect for our group. A bunch of other guys like me meet up every week…
My thought: ::drool::
Him: … and reach out to the world through our savior’s teachings.
Me: FUCK

The beautiful, steel grey-eyed hunk of a man was a God warrior, one of three things I hate to encounter when I'm on public transport. The other two are hobos and drunk girls.

There are four tactics that I use at the gay bars whenever I encounter a creepy man who wants a slice of my pie and I don’t feel like sharing. Surprisingly, these tactics can also be used against God warriors, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and Mormons.

  1. Giving fake contact information.
  2. Politely excusing yourself to the restroom so you can make an escape.
  3. Saying that you have a boyfriend.
  4. Letting on that you are mildly interested, then starting to pick your nose.

I opted for the third tactic, announcing that I had a boyfriend. How would he react when I told him that I wasn’t attracted to people with self-lubricating genitals? I thought that would do the trick, and watching the color drain from Daniel’s face left me with the same satisfied feeling I get when I tell children that there’s no such thing as Santa Claus. But Daniel quickly regained his composure and inundated me with questions about the validity of my homosexuality.

“How do you know that you’re really gay?” he asked. Before I could answer, he tried to draw parallels between my homosexuality and some dude from the bible who built an army for God. The only parallel I could see was the fact that both me and the soldier were constantly surrounded by men who haven’t seen women in ages, but I digress.

I can go on for hours about the fifteen minute conversation - nay, clash of faiths – between me and the annoyingly handsome (and possibly sex-starved) God warrior. We kept invalidating each other’s arguments with even more intriguing arguments much in the same way that Daffy Duck pulled a gun on Marvin the Martian, but Marvin pulls out a ray gun, then Daffy pulls out an even bigger gun, then Marvin pulls out an enormous cannon, until the weapons get bigger than the actual planet. It was getting out of hand.

In an attempt to end the madness and to get my mind off of the fact that he suggested that homosexuality is indeed a choice (because he talked to a lot of experts on homosexuality), I proposed a compromise. I would agree to meet with his little God warrior group and listen to what they had to say if he would agree to come with me to a gay bar and ask the patrons there if they chose to be gay. His response: “I won’t do that.”

I asked him why, and he said “because where I come from, that isn’t acceptable.”

I said: “where I come from, that’s called a double standard.” I told him that we’d reached an impasse and politely excused myself. And with that, I got up and exited the train. It was four stops away from my actual stop, but I just had to get out of there.

I’ve probably missed out on every major march on Washington for gays and lesbians, every hate crime protest, and every gay marriage campaign since I came out eleven years ago. But that day on the train, I felt like there was an opportunity to contribute to the cause in some small way by defending my own homosexuality. Aggressors toward homosexuality don’t always stand on podiums in Washington or run the Americans for Truth campaign. Sometimes they look cute and try to chat you up on the train. Be prepared to defend yourself!

It’s good to be back.

Friday, May 09, 2008

Made only from rags, but I wore it so proudly


I always told myself that if Dolly Parton ever went on tour, I'd sew a coat of many colors to wear to her concert. My boyfriend and I had been working on our coats for weeks, and I have to admit that I was a little apprehensive about wearing a patchwork coat in public. After telling someone about the idea, they said that I'd look like I was wearing a clown coat and that people would make fun of me. Every stitch I sewed after hearing that made me ever squeamish about doing it.

I didn't think I'd wear it out, but I did (thanks to the diligent efforts of the boyfriend who spent his whole day finishing it for me). As soon as I put it on, all of the apprehension melted away and I marched toward the Chicago Theater with my head held high. A lot of people stared, but the stares were accompanied by smiles and seemingly genuine gasps of astonishment. Fans at a Dolly Parton concert are some of the nicest folks around, and no one said one negative thing about my coat that evening.

After Dolly sang "Coat of Many Colors," a crazy man ran up onto the stage and showed Dolly his own coat of many colors and I fumed. Have you ever seen what happens when two gay boys wear the same thing to a party? One of them ends up leaving with scratch marks on his face. But things weren't that serious at the concert. I didn't run up to the stage to show my coat off to her like he did, but part of me wishes that I did.

People loved the coat and complimented me and my boyfriend on the effort, which was good enough for me. What was more important was that there was a lot of love stitched into the coat on his behalf, much like the coat that Dolly's mother made for her.

After the concert, the woman sitting behind the crazy man came up to me and asked why I didn't go up and show mine up against his. The crazy man's coat only had about four colors, whereas mine had about 5,000 colors. But pointing something like that out is the Sin of Pride, and Dolly wouldn't approve of that behavior. We did get a good laugh out of the whole thing because she and the rest of her friends sitting next to her had dubbed him "The Freak of Many Colors."

Oh no, that's the Sin of Wrath! Don't tell Dolly!

Thursday, April 10, 2008

BYOB? NFW!

Parking cars on the lawn isn't the tackiest thing I've ever seen.

I was one of 78 people who got an e-vite this week for a "Spring Kickoff Martini Party." This is from someone I barely know. In the opening line of the e-vite, he states that he's got a martini shaker that is "just itching to be used" and I had a sneaking suspicion that he actually intended that tag line for the e-vite to his big gay orgy.

Invitees were also informed that this party is strictly BYOB and due to a large number of invites, people are advised to provide their own glassware.

Let me get this gay: He's inviting me to a martini party but I have to bring my own liquor AND my own martini glass. How tacky is that?

Fortunately, not one of the 78 invitees has agreed to attend. It always makes me happy to know that you can't always pull the wool over everyone's eyes the same way that Big Momma and Juwanna Mann try to do in those films.

Monday, April 07, 2008

Sushi Survivor

I remember watching talk shows like Sally Jessy Raphael and making fun of the deluded women who pined over the men who abused them. It would always be a man who emotionally abused a woman by talking down to her, taking her money, and making her wait for him while he was doing god knows what. The abused woman would also comment about not being satisfied by the man, which would always surprise me because most of the men who do the emotional abusing would be very attractive. After repeated abuse, the woman would always go back to the man because he'd offer her something that she couldn't refuse like empty promises or something shiny. Audience members would goad the abused woman, asking her why she kept going back to the man and she'd reply: BECAUSE I LOVE HIM. It would be years before I truly understood what the abused woman was going through.

I went to eat at a sushi restaurant called Tank this past weekend. I'd been there many times before and it's not always my first choice, but I hadn't been there in a while so I thought I'd give it another chance. No matter who is at the helm of Tank's host podium, you can always count on being treated like you're a street urchin who'd just wandered into Cartier. They never greet you, but just coldly ask: "How many?" as they roll their eyes and usher you to the back of the room where they throw the menus on the table and walk away like they just lost thirty seconds of their life that they totally could have used to file their nails or treat someone else like shit.

If you're wearing a rabbit's foot and a four leaf clover, you'll be lucky enough to get seated in less than 45 minutes (even though there are always empty tables). Be sure to take a picture of your waiter because you'll be going so long without seeing him or her that you'd need it to remember who exactly you have to kill to get a refill on your $3.00 soft drink.

We couldn't read the menus because it's so poorly lit inside Tank. It was like being in an actual tank. I almost had a heart attack when I saw how they'd raised their prices. The soft shell crab roll is $14.00 at Tank and it doesn't even give you the power to become invisible like it should for that amount of money.

The music is so loud in there that people have to yell at each other in order to be heard. It gets so loud that you sometimes think that you're in a noisy cafeteria, but with better wall decor. It doesn't help that all of the tables are so close together that you end up backhanding someone when you gesture during the climax of a funny story involving fantastic sex and parachute cord.

We waited for 58 minutes before our food arrived and we scarfed it all down in nine minutes. Afterward, we were still hungry. We'd wasted almost two hours, we were treated poorly, and we weren't satisfied. I remembered that this is why I hate going there and that I'd said this so many times before, yet I still come back. Suddenly I realized that I was that abused woman on Sally Jessy Raphael.

Whenever I tell people about my terrible experiences at Tank, they ask me why I keep going back. I tell them that I love the sushi.

The rude host, the ungodly amount of time we spent waiting for something that ultimately didn't satisfy us, the fact that the prices were prime examples of highway robbery, and my inexplicable love for the accursed ambrosia after all of the harrowing experiences are all consistent with the talk shows like Sally Jessy where audience members tell the abused ones to "kick him to the curb!"

I'm sure that Tank is aware of this and that's why they've got that one thing that keeps people coming back for more. There's that one thing that is just so attractive that it makes people forget all of the emotional distress and allows them to justify any future turmoil. With the abusive men, it's the promise to buy the abused woman a romantic trip to Branson, Missouri. With Tank, it's half price sushi on Saturdays and Sundays. We need to wake up and smell the mental anguish!

There are a lot of wonderful men out there who are better than the slime balls you used to see on Sally Jessy and you have to understand that the same is true for sushi restaurants. In the long run, you'll be a much happier and better-adjusted person if you just close your eyes and make the leap.

In the rare moment of lucidity after leaving Tank that day, I gave my friends permission to shoot me if I ever mentioned the desire to go to Tank again.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Importance

It's been difficult to write blog entries that are new and exciting, so I decided to use one of those online topic generators to help things along. The first prompt that came up read "list things that are very important to you." This was indeed a stroke of fortune because I think that listing things that are important to me will help people understand the uniqueness of this blog. To keep things simple, I'll just make a numbered list and discuss each item.

  • It's important to stay informed about current events. The three most important letters in the world are "C N N." Nobody cares about what goes on in Port Charles because the world is waiting to see what witty things are going to come out of Anderson Cooper's mouth. I watch so much CNN that the logo is burned into the bottom left hand corner of my television screen.
  • Too much technology is a bad thing. Our ancestors didn't have Tivo and they were able to survive. How much more fun can you have reading The Da Vinci Code for the fifteenth time instead of mindlessly tapping away at a Nintendo DS? LOTS!
  • Never have a one night stand with someone you picked up at a bar. Bar chastity is one of the few unspoiled treasures that gay men have. If you start spreading your legs for any hot man who buys you shots of Jim Bean, then the whole community will start whispering behind your back like you were in elementary school: "Raunchy Richie whose crotch is itchy. He's such a whore and he's always bitchy!" Take my advice and don't go out to bars thinking that sex is the only thing that matters.
  • I love having sex with women. Every time I have sex with my boyfriend, I imagine that I'm a Dutch soccer player and that he's a girl with a strap on. I love the softness of a woman and the way her body trembles when I take her to that moment of ecstasy as our bodies undulate in an explosion of sexual energy.
  • I especially love April Fools Day. And if you haven't already figured out that this post is a joke, then you don't know me as well as you think you do!

Thursday, March 27, 2008

This is not what I meant when I said "Exposed Wood!"

If you're like the other dirty birds in Chicago, then you're probably hard up for places to go when you want anonymous gay sex in the mid morning. Foster Beach isn't warm enough during this time of year. The back room at The Ram does open at 9:30 A.M., but all of the better-looking felchers don't show up until after six. So what's a fella to do? He goes to the nearest Home Depot!

I went to the Home Depot today to pick up some trim and was surprised to find that there wasn't a lesbian in sight, what with all of the jokes about the lesbians loving the Home Depot. I really think that they're doing a great job of catering to the gay clientèle with all of the cute boys they've got in the customer service area and all the sassy, big-bootied black women ringing people up at the registers. Everyone knows that sassy black women make the best fag hags and that lots of gay men fantasize about customer service butt sex. But I digress.

There are a lot of dark corners in the lumber section, (which is surprising when you consider how much fluorescent lighting that place has) and I had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing a man briskly walking away from another man who was zipping his pants back up when I passed by. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that I'd interrupted a public sex act. It turns out that I wasn't the only queen in the Home Depot looking for some trim!

I do notice that I get a lot of hungry stares from the men who shop there. At first I thought it was because they didn't think that it was right for Asian/Hispanic hybrids to do home improvement, but now I realize that it's because they possibly wanted a piece of my pie.

I guess I shouldn't be all that shocked to discover that sort of thing going on at Home Depot. When you think about it, the whole home improvement genre is rife with sexual innuendo. Things get nailed, screwed, and you sometimes use a tool called a 'stud finder.'

Thursday, March 20, 2008

You Spell Potato

Someone named Jen was nice enough to bring this to my attention:
I was just surfing the web and I came across your website and I have to tell you that you've been misspelling the word Oblogitory. It should be Oblogatory with an "A" not an "O" because the word Obligatory has an "A". That's all.
I only inherited two things from my mother. One is the gene that causes male pattern baldness and the other is the need to point out when someone is wrong. I'm going to use one of these gifts here today.

Sorry, Jen. While you do raise an excellent point, I must point out that "Oblogitory" is not a word, so there is no way that I could have misspelled it. In this case, it's a proper noun that doubles as a neologism. If there's something that just has to be addressed in blog form, it's Oblogitory.