Favourite Things

Julie Andrews as "Fraulein Maria"

Raindrops on roses & whiskers on kittens.
Sometimes when I am having a particularly tough night I do what Fraulein Maria says to do and I simply remember my favourite things. It is clear that Maria and I are from completely different worlds as her favourite things are nothing like mine.
Let's start  at the very beginning, a very good place to start. LOL I couldn't help myself there.
So we have raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, neither of which I am particularly found of. I suppose I have seen a raindrop on a rose before but of all things in life, this would fall near the end of my list. As for the whiskers on kittens, wouldn't it be weird if the kitten had no whisks at all? Perhaps I just take that one for granted.
So now we have bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens. Bright copper kettle don't even make me smile and warm woollen mittens remind me of winter. So again we are at the bottom of the list.
Brown Paper packages tied up with strings are things  we take away from the bitter so that can go on my list. I like meat.
Cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudel really do rank high for me. Ponies are just mini horses and to me seem like angry strong people trapped in an animals body. Apple desserts are gross and collectively fall at the bottom of my list.
Doorbells & sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodle. Hmmmm, this a tough one. Doorbells definitely have a great function in life but I can't get all exited and grant them favourite thing status. Sleigh bells to me are simply and instrument in the Christmas concert. I have never even seen a sleigh in real life so I am not buying this one. Schnitzel with noodle on the other hand is one of my favourite foods for sure! So finally me and Mrs. Von Trapp have something in common. 
I have been shit on too many geese in life to appreciate the wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, so I am not even gonna discuss the merits of this one.
So when we break down this beloved song of Maria Von Trapp's favourite things we really begin to see that it must be the tune that has captured us for close to 50 years because that lady had some freaky favourite things.
One thing we have to remember I suppose is that Maria Von Trapp didn't write that song. It was written for the movie "The Sound of Music" and was more than likely a list of nobody's favourite things but rather a rhyming little jingle that made us all smile.
Julie Andrews won our hearts with her portrayal of the lovely nun who fell in love with a handsome Captain while eating schnitzel and admiring geese by night but I don't believe that the list of things we sing about today could possible be today.
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes? really? Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eye lashes? Wouldn't that make you dead? Fraulein Maria was way smarter that that. She didn't seem like the kinda lady that would love a blue satin sash better than anything.
She fled the Nazis in the 1930's and she and her family eventually settled in the States performing their magic for generations.
Her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren to this day will sing those cherished songs in public concerts around the world. Poor old Maria has since passed away and the world is left with the odd appearance of Julie Andrews on "The View" to see the smile of Maria alive again.
I am not going to bother to list my own favourite things in song here today as mine would most not likely be g-rated but I did find a clever little parody of the song on the Von Trapp's website.  I like to think it was the song that the dear old Maria would have been singing in her final years. God Love her.
We all know the tune so please, take a moment and sing along to the new Von Trapp family's favourite things.

My Favorite Things – A Parody

Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting,
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Cadillacs and cataracts ,and hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the pipes leak,
When the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heating pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Back pains, confused brains, and no need for sinnin',
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin',
And we won't mention our short shrunken frames,
When we remember our favorite things.

When the joints ache,
When the hips break,
And the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I've had,
And then I don't feel so bad.

The Real Maria

Adieu, Adieu to you and you and you. xoxo

The One That Got Away

I fell in love once, quickly and intensely with a guy, but he scared me. He scared the hell out of me. He was younger, clever, tall and strong. He was beautiful. His confidence was unlike anything I had ever seen or experienced before. I met him around the same time I met Darren and both of them intrigued me. What was the most obvious difference between the two was that one pursued me clearly and passionately and one didn't.
I am such a bitch at times. When a man likes you and makes it clear that he likes you, often time us chicks run to the guy who ignores us and treats us indifferently. Del liked me and genuinely showed me he liked me. He was gentle and sweet. He would kiss me and make the hairs on my neck stand on end.
He would call me and show up at my door with romantic gestures and make me feel like such a man. Del showed me that men can love men and it can be nothing but natural and masculine. He showed me that I was worthy of a public kiss and a snog in the corner of a bar. He made that summer so much fun and made our brief time passionate, exciting and it was love to me.
Looking back now, I don't know if I fell "in" love that summer but he taught me what love was and what love could be between two men. I ultimately had to make a choice and I have tried not to look back at that choice over that last 4 years, but sometimes I do.
A while back I read on Facebook that he and his handsome boyfriend were going to get married. It made me kind of sad. Like that chapter of my life that I had indeed put on hold 4 years ago had been closed.
I wondered if I had made a mistake. My relationship with Darren had not really gone where I had wanted it to go and it was mostly my fault, but I felt very lonely. I love Darren and always will but I suddenly felt that guttural feeling for Del.
That moment of regret was quickly replaced. I realized that Del moving to Vancouver and finding love  was definitely a great thing. It taught me that there are fish in that sea that we share for a brief time and we release and there are some that will will tag along with for life. Del was my catch and release and I love what we shared. It will always be there and always be real. It was passionate, it was intense and it was real. It was Del.
Everyone needs a summer like the one I spent with Del. It is my right of passage. It was a life lesson and it was love. He was my Dirty Dancing, my Stand By Me and my Footloose all rolled up into one hell of a sexy man. That summer taught me what to look for in life, in love and in my future. Del has become my gauge for the men I want to date now. If they don't make me feel like Del made me feel, I know it isn't worth it.
Del you are awesome, you are hot as balls and you are going to have the happiest life with the best guy ever.
Del, I have a little message to your man.... Congratulations mister. xo

Please Stab My Nipple, And The Other Thx.

Simply put, I wanted to have a pierced nipple. I am not sure why, I am not sure where I saw one first and I am not sure why I thought it wouldn't hurt. All of these things aside I called down to a local tattoo/piercing shop, inquired about an estimate and made an appointment.
We parked the car and I began to almost run to the shop with childlike excitement. I was almost giddy with anticipation. This was one of those decisions in life that came by lightly. I really did not weigh out the pros and cons and just thought it would be cool to have a pierced nipple.
We walked into the shop filled with rebellious teens with spikes in their heads and tattoos on their necks. I for the first time during this experience began to doubt what I was doing. I appeared to be entering the underbelly of St. John's. For the first time during this piercing my nipple phase, the red flags began to appear. I looked around the waiting rooms and every little freaky kid there turned into a red flag. The girl behind the counter with the spider web tattoo and the bad attitude was red flag. Then, came out the "dude" who was going to be stabbing me. He was cute, in a tattooed, pierced, homeless, California skateboarder kind of way. He was a huge red flag.
For most people when they see a red flag in their life it is a moment for them to pause, think, and rationalize a decision that they are about to make. It is your human instinct telling you to run away and hide. I simply painted those red flags white, saved face and did what I had intended to do. I would just learn my lesson later.
I walked into a room that had tools and a dentist chair. Darren came with me. I was suddenly not feeling well and the fear of what was about to happen was hitting me. I really wanted to be cool though. This little punk was making small talk with me about music etc and as I stripped of my shirt he asked me if I ever faint when I got needles. What a stupid question. Of course I faint when I get needles! I told him no. Darren gave me that pop eyed look and I immediately shut him up with a blank stare and I laid back in the chair.
It was at this moment that Darren and I knew that this was going to get ugly. These types of things never go smoothly for me and I was no doubt on the edge of one of those embarrassing and painful experiences that my therapist will spends years trying to block from my memory.
He asked me which one I wanted to do first? WTF? I suddenly realized that he was piercing both so I immediately thought about his question. Any normal person would state their intention of just wanting one and he would proceed and all would be good. I however, firmly stated " the left." You may wonder to yourself why I didn't say that I simply wanted one done but I had intended to do the left so I thought if it went poorly I would just say I changed my mind about the right one and I would leave with what I wanted.
He marked my nipples and put clamps on them to make them easier to drive a stake through. It was then That he said "OK Dude, let's do it." He proceeded to pierce my left nipple. I couldn't watch, breathe or really focus on anything. The adrenaline was coursing through my body and wether it was nature protecting me or my mind blocking this to protect me but I felt no pain. He asked me how it was? I looked at him and looked at Darren. They were both smiling and nodding at me. It was done. I felt a little pressure but there was no pain. I stood up and look in the full length mirror. Holy moly, it looked sexy. I was a stud. I totally got my nipple pierced and I didn't faint or anything. Then came the moment what would prove to be the beginning of my downfall that day. I said to the sexy, California, homeless dude, "do the other one."
As the words came out of my mouth I realized that it was a horrible mistake. I should have left good enough alone and left with one nipple pierced and have a good memory of this experience. I didn't however.
I assume that all of the protective adrenaline had drained from my body at this time. I was fully aware of what was happening. I was breathing and I was looking. He took this long, curved needle and attached the "horseshoe" ring to it and proceeded to push it through my right nipple.
As the needle pressed through, tearing the flesh along the way I felt a pain unlike anything I had ever felt before. I looked at Darren and he knew. He knew that I was about to lose my shit. He sees that look in my face every now and then and he knows there is nothing he can do to stop it. My body began to stiffen and I began to make a primal noise that I am sure could summon the dead and made dogs run away. As I screamed like a child being ripped in half I arched my back like a 4th degree yoga pose and raised my belly bottom to the ceiling and howled. I really cannot put that noise into words but is was loud, shrilling and came from a place inside me that I have never visited before.
The sexy, California, homeless dude was totally freaked out. He began pressing down on my chest trying to flatten my arched pose simply saying "dude, relax...dude, relax."
Finally the torture had ended the ring was in and I was was weak and sweating. I felt like had been tortured and beaten. I was exhausted and suddenly I realized that he was about to open that door where I had to go outside into the waiting room where no doubt there were a half dozen thugs and freaky kids laughing at me.
Sweat and tears were rolling down my face. I then had to pay for this and tip the little shit for stabbing me twice. I walked to the counter and feared looking back to see the faces of the people waiting.
I looked back in shock. The place was empty. I can only assume that the noises that came from my room must have scared the shit out of everyone of this little punks and they fled in fear. Maybe that was the good thing that came out of that day. Perhaps I saved some father from having to walk to the supper table that night to see his daughter with one of those bull rings in her nose or a spike going through her eyebrow. Maybe I was an instrument of good. I personally may have been a red flag that remained unpainted.
All I know is that the lesson "quit while you are ahead" would have been a great one to learn that day. That right nipple, that caused me such pain and torture went on to get infected and reject from my body.
I still have that left one and I still like it. I wear it like a badge of honour. I will have it until I die. After what I went through that day i will never let that this out of my flesh. It is like a bullet I got in Nam. Its there for good. My own war wound.
If you ever find yourself in a shop full of odd kids with spike in their heads and webs on their neck and some kid is drawing dots on your nipples and you are not sure of what you are doing. Stop, put your shirt back on and run. Trust me. Run like you have never ran before.
This spring I am going to get a half-sleeve tattoo. First I am going to my doctor for an Ativan prescription. Just sayin.

KFC = broken finger

So I am the first to admit that i have huge weakness for real food. Not veggies, not sweets but serious chicken and gravy. Beef and fries and deep fried anything. If I don't eat it all at supper It will no doubt haunt me all night until I return to the kitchen and scrape that plate clean, lick my chops and settle into a slumber of gut rot and indigestion.
This is nothing new for me. In fact I have balanced a bowl of ice-cream, a plate of chicken and a glass of milk up the darken staircase to sit in bed and eat it while watching "The Biggest Loser." Its ok, iI own it. Im thick and I'm furry and I'm all manly n shit. I am also a little greasy at times but its all good too.
One night I was awakened from a dream. It was a dreaming about KFC. I laid in bed thinking about whether it was worth driving to the late night drive thru before I realize there was indeed left over KFC in the fridge. Like a starving rabid dog after its prey I leaped out of bed naked, bolted down the stairs in my quest for deep fried protein. Somewhere around the turn in the stairs I sensed I was loosing my footing. It was dark, the house was asleep and I was not wanting to broadcast that I was running to the kitchen to eat chicken and salad at 2am. As I hit the curve of the staircase in what appeared to be a full sprint I lost my footing. My recovery was pointless. the darkness meant I could not see up nor down and I found myself flailing to the bottom of the stairs. My ass hitting each step all the way down until my left hand's middle finger got locked into the spindle and I slammed to a halt in agony... As every capillary in my body was engulfed in blood and my head just about blew off me all I could think about was that chicken and gravy.
At 195lbs I should have turned around and ran up the stairs but I was on a mission. The finger was clearly dislocated and the pain was intense. I thought about calling Darren to help me but I knew if I did he would not let me eat the chicken so, like all starving gays, I wrapped my busted hand in a towel, heating the chicken, poured a glass of chocolate milk and made my way upstair to binge. As I finished my "snack" of 3 pieces of chicken, gravy and milk I thought I should look at my finger. Oh. No. It was purple and swollen and looking pretty nasty. I licked the chicken juice off it and when to bed.
I still sneak down those stairs at night to eat shit that is not meant for bed and I still think I should loose 20lbs but I still think I am gonna eat a chicken if it is in the house.
Im a carnivore. I am a meat man. I would never sprint down the stairs for tofu or beans.
My finger is still jacked and popps out of place daily causing pain and a reminder of what sleep eating can do. The next time I run down the stairs in a nighttime question for KFC I promise to take my time and not fall. I will chew slowly so not to choke and I will not tell the whole world about it after. I am so tired but in the back of my head the is a little voice cling me..... "Hey Jay, its us, nachos... come eat us!"
Don't worry, I will walk slow and chew well and I will wake up and find the wrappers around my bed, hide the evidence, go to the supermarket and replace the crap I binged on the night before.
Like all my stories this one is totally exaggerated. Just don't ask Darren. He is a total lier!

Purgatory Is Full Of Babies

As I continue to live my life in peace and honesty, I often find myself poking back to the days of Catholic school and all that came along with a good Catholic education.
Because I have spent most of my adult life trying to forget the lessons and fables I was taught as a child I naturally and instinctively switch back into full Catholic mode the moment  hear people talk about their Catholic childhoods.
I can recite every prayer and the order in which they were said. I still know the stations of the cross and the seven deadly sins. I know that I was taught many things that I now consider child abuse but this evening as I watched The Rosie Show with Rosie and Jenny McCarthy as her guest, I had the most horrible of flashback. Purgatory and hell. I had tried so hard to forget about purgatory and hell.
As a young Catholic I was haunted by the thoughts of hell and even worse, purgatory. Purgatory was clearly full of little babies that weren't baptized in time and hell was full of killers, Hitler and other horrible people and protestants. Jews didn't go the hell, they just died and I didnt know about other religious groups back then.
I would say prayerers for my pets and my plants. I would wonder what happened when a plant would die and it wasn't baptized. I was convinced that anyone and anything that was not Catholic was doomed to a painful eternity.
It was no surprise to me tonight to see that both Jenny and Rosie, both raised in Catholic homes, had the very same fears as kids that I had.
We went to school and prayed before school, before lunch, after lunch and before we went home. We prayed the scariest and most horrying prayers and the church used the fear of God to make us good kids.
I now understand how wrong it was but I also understand why they did it. They did it because it was what their parents and churches did to them and those before them.
I chose to break that cycle. Kennedy knows no more about purgatory than she knows about heroin.
Rosie and Jenny made it sounds so funny as they reminisced about the days when the nuns would scare the evil out of them but I have not fully recovered I guess. Im still a little bitter. I hope I can get to the place where I can laugh about that crap.
Let's give it a try...

An old Irishman, McDougal, had a loyal and faithful dog who died. McDougal went to his parish priest and asked, "Father, could you say some prayers in Mass for my dog?" The old pastor said, "McDougal, you know very well that we don't pray for animals at Mass. Why don't you go down to that Baptist church and ask them? I'm sure they'll do it." "Well, ok, Father, I think I'll do just that. Oh, by the way, do you think they'll be offended if I offered them $5,000 to pray for my dog?"

Father exclaimed, "Why, McDougal, you never said your dog was Catholic!"

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord xoxo

Why I HEART Kathy Griffin

I am in love with a woman and her name is Kathy.
Kathy Griffin is barnone one of the funniest people on earth. whether you agree with me or not does not matter because I am writing this blog and not you so just sit there and read about my love affair with my girl Kathy.
From Seinfeld to Suddenly Susan to the D-List Kathy has been charming the pants off the world with her wit, her humour and her glamour.
She is not your everyday kinda girl. She went from a regular home in Illinois to the power and glory of Hollywood and she did it unlike most other starlets. She did it by saying the truth and knocking the right doors down despite who was on the other side.
She was a nobody who wanted to become a somebody and along the way she realized that she was a somebody the whole time. Her fame came from her heart and her gut. She dared to tell the jokes that no other comic would tell. She made enemies as quickly as friends and she won the hearts and love of her public in the process.
Her often abrasive nature endears us to this incredible woman. Her message not one of hate but off fairness and equality through humour.
I feel like I know her and although she will never speak my name or kiss my cheek I know that she knows me too! I mean, we have so much in common.
She was the youngest girl in her family and so was I. She couldn't shut up as a child and neither could I. She is a shinny, famous, rich celebrity and.... I'm not. She stands up to bullies and knocks them back into their place no matter how rich and powerful they are, so do I... (kinda). She eats in the best restaurants and dines with powerful and very important people. I had half price appetizers at East Side Mario's with Heather and Darren. She hosts award galas and I had the girls over for wine and meatballs a few weeks ago. I mean our similarities are endless. She has fiery red wavy, shoulder length hair and I have hair on my shoulders. She has a team of people that make her beautiful, efficient and on time. I have an iPhone. But most of all we both are dedicated our lives to making this world a better place, one laugh at a time.
Kathy is one of those people that I feel like I have always known yet I will never get the chance to actually speak to.
Despite this, I know that she will move on without me and get over the loss of not having me as her assistant or her personal muse or BFF. It's all good.
On a serious note, our friend Kathy has used her fame and money for great causes. Her relentless quest empower the gay communities around the world has raised her status in the gay community to the level of Judy Garland. Her shows are filled with "gays" that hang off her every word. She will smash the pride off the biggest celebrity and empower the weakest of common men. She is a hero to many but to me she is my pal Kathy.
One of these days I will travel to see her live in concert and I will take away with me more than a memory and a ticket stub. I will take away a once in a lifetime experience to be in the same room with a modern day goddess that single handedly changed the way the word thinks... One laugh at a time!
As I hold my thumb to my ear and my pinky to my mouth I say two words to Kathy... Call me!

What's in a name?

Hi, my name is Asarella.

We have friends and family around us everyday and everyone of them has a name and we cannot imagine them as anyone other than the name they were given. However have you ever met a beautiful girl or a stunning man and their introduction was followed by this is my friend Gladys or my buddy Herman.
What were their parents thinking? We all have names and if we are blessed to have children we often give the names that we like, have some sort of family attachment etc but an ugly name is an ugly name.
I was at the supermarket recently and saw the cutest little baby girl in her mothers cart smiling at me in that way that little girls do. Her beautiful blue eyes and long lashes coupled only by the beauty of her charm. Then her mom leans down and say "Are you smiling at that man Ruth?" Ruth? I think you grandmother would have understood if you chose to name her Emily or Sarah. Ruth? I instantly saw that beautiful little baby as a middle aged fat lady with a hairy lip with a big black mole and a smoke hanging from it.
My grandmother indeed had an old lady name as well. Her name is actually making a bit of a comeback but I would never name my child Mabel. That being said, I did honour my Nan before she died by naming my dog Mabel and proceeded to send Nan a picture of her and told her all about Mabel my puggle.
My Grandfather's name was Asarella. That's right folks. His name was Asarella. He went by Robert for obvious reasons and only the people who knew him as a child called him Rel. Now, there was never a need for the discussion of why nobody named their child after Pop. Naming your son after one of Cinderella's wicked step sisters is never going to be a popular idea. He understood.
Whatever. People can name their kids anything they like. Gwyneth Paltrow has an "Apple" and Nicolas cage has a "Kal-el". Jason Lee (My Name is Earle) named his kid "Pilot Inspektor." That is correct. "Pilot Inspektor."

You named me what??? Ruth? Really?

Maybe pretty little Ruthie and the supermarket will bring Ruth back. Maybe all of those baby Connie's and Stella's and Frank's and Herbert's out there will change the world.
I suspect they will hate their parents for doing that to them and name all of their own kids John and Jane.
A name says a lot about a person but it really is up to people to own their names and make them as much a part of who they are as their pretty blue eyes and charming disposition.
If that lady on Maury last night can be that loud and that proud and be named Chiquita; all the power to her. If being named after a banana has made her stronger then maybe her parents know that a name is simply a name and nothing more.
From the grandson of Asarella.... peace out!

That's right, My name is Chiquita! I own it!

Please note: If your child's name has appears in this blog I am sure that he or she is adorable and their name is lovely and you are the best parent ever!!!

Warning!! I am about to rant about a public figure that gives me the piles!

Barbara Walters (40 odd years ago) in the earlier days of her journalism Career. 

First off.., I hesitate to publish this blog. I am reluctant. Don't get me wrong, if there was one person on this earth I would like to have a long deep discussion with it would be Barbara Walters. Not because I admire her but because I despise her and her presence. I am not sure where this distain for her is rooted in my psyche but I figured I would share it in hopes that maybe I can someday see her face and not want to kick it. Someday maybe I can hear her voice and not scream "oh shut up!" Someday maybe, I can sit across from her and actually hear what she has to say and not hear a prompted well written judgmental script that is often meant to make her guest look stupid and her look thought provoking. Unless of course her guest is an popular celebrity whose ass she is crawling up and then uses them to name throw for weeks.

Over the course of my life I have watched plenty of shitty stuff on TV. But to me nothing is as shitty as Barbara Walters. Yes, she is a TV legend. Yes she is a crusader for the modern day suffrage movement breaking down walls for female journalists dating back to Elizabeth I I'm think. But seriously. To have this woman talking her scripted and well versed opinions on modern day television about modern topics with modern woman is ridiculous. This woman should have retired 20 years ago. It is like asking Einstein to come on TV and discuss decorating in the 21st century.

She has a billion dollars and an ego to match. She is pretentious and over-bearing and lives and has always lived a privileged life. She is so far removed from the "real world" it is crazy.
Today she asked a porn star why she would ever decide to do porn? Really Barb? That is the best that your judgmental little mind could come up with. This former "porn star" has been reading in grade schools to under privileged kids and Barbara, totally knowing how to relate to both the under privilege and the porn industry took control of the questioning. She was clearly offended that a woman that has sucked a dick before and gotten paid for it is not as good as her and has no right to read to children.
I swear I want to hold the cane the day it reaches out and yanks her off stage.
There comes a point in time when we all stop working. Most of us look forward to that day like a child does to Christmas. We save our whole lives and we count down the days to retirement like opening the windows on our advent calendar. Yet for some reason the "professionals" in the public eye seem to work into their 120's despite the fact that they have more money than any of us could dream of attaining. They get their faces pulled and cut to give them the appearance of the younger competitors and they have the cameras equipped with special lenses to make them look cloudy like some bad episode of Moonlighting with Cybil Shepard.
Barbara Walters has served her purpose and as far as I am concerned over-stayed her welcome. She was a groundbreaking journalist in the 1970's and in the 1980's her interviews put her on the international map. Now at the tender age of 187 it is time she go and enjoy her time for herself. Go retire, buy a condo on the beach and relax. She needs to stop talking about topics that are so far removed from her 5th ave lifestyle. Her republican agenda is evident and clear and it is as disturbing to me as her judgmental gaze on anyone that does not look at her with admiration.
She looked at that young lady today who simply read to poor children, that she no doubt invited on the show, like a pariah. She demeaned her and made her look like a whore. Like a $2.00 slut. Indeed I think Barbara Walters came across as the $2.00 slut. She is a whore to herself, her ego and her need to be in the spotlight and judge everyone from her well placed ivory pedestal. Where I come from, when people put down others in order to elevate themselves we call them something, a bully.
Barbara is the worst kind of bully. She is a passive aggressive, powerful woman of a bygone era that refuses to move forward with the times. She makes her 243 year old face look younger with her surgeries and camera tricks but her true age comes out every time she opens her mouth and the ignorant disturbing thoughts and ideas that have died a generation before come out of her mouth in her clever passive way.
She is actually 82 and genuinely looks about 55. Her appearance is no more natural that her banter with the ladies on The View. You can often see her words being coached from an earpiece that she relies on. As a gay, modern, intelligent man I find her offensive, patronizing and completely narcissistic. Her ego, her money and her power in the industry, is the only reason she is still working and I am so over her. What she brings to TV is no more than what my cat brings to dentistry.
Go home Barbara, your relevance has passed. Let your legacy be what you attained in your glory days and not your downfall of the 21st century. You are not funny. You are not entertaining. Your questions are often rude, patronizing and unbelievably outdated and not something that people really want to hear. Your tightened face and pretentious accent is like nails on the backboard of my life.
If this blog, to you, sounds like bullying. Trust me it is not. I am voicing my opinion of a person that earns millions and millions of dollars by putting her pointless opinions and tired body on my TV everyday.
Yes, I could just turn the TV off and not watch her but the truth is, I kind of like The View. I find the opinions of 4-5 ladies while I eat lunch quite often humorous and thought provoking. Then Barbara speaks and every hair on my body stands on end.

Barbara Walters As she appears today at the age of 82.

Imagine your 4 year old went off to school and had a 82 year old teacher. hmmm, would that be ok? No
Imagine the next time you went to the salon to get your hair and nails done and you have a new 82 year old stylist. Not gonna happen.
Imagine the doctor who was going to come in and perform your brain surgery was 82. EFF that!
This is not meant to be anything negative about our aging loved ones. Their relevance is as important now as it was when we were kids. But seriously, if my mom was getting plastic surgery, changing her appearance, going on TV and talking aloud with opinions that are so old fashioned that they embarrassed an entire generation, I might tell her to go retire and live the rest of her life in peace. If she continued to have surgery, uses fancy lenses and go onTV talking nonsense I would indeed call her a narcissistic twat and change my last name!
Ms. Walters no longer cares about the news or the views. She no longer cares about advancing her journalistic career. She no longer cares about the rights of woman in the workplace. She is an exploitive journalist that is out to make a quick buck and fill her wallet as full as she can before that one more surgery finally turns her into Michael Jackson and her belly button becomes her nose!
Now. all of this being said, there is nothing wrong with having plastic surgery. There is nothing wrong with working till you die. There is nothing wrong with doing it in the public eye. There is nothing wrong with being Barbara Walters. Just know that if you are, not everyone will like you and just like you have a voice to express your view, so do I!
In the words of the great Barbara Walters:
"Show me someone who never gossips, and I will show you someone who is not interested in people."
All of this being said, there is nothing wrong with Barbara Walters choices and career moves but how dare she judge anyone when she can't even be real about herself. I am simply not a fan of her at all!
Now, take a little time and enjoy the view!

Not that there is anything wrong with it!

Best Friends

Yes Chrissy! I used this pic! xoxo

A best friend can be anyone. It can be your mom or dad or it can be someone you met last week. There is no rule that is set in stone when it comes to being a best friend. They are simply there.
When you are sad, they are there. When your are mad, they are there. When you are hurt, they are there. When you are happy, they are there.
They may live next door or they may live around the world, but they are always there.
We rarely plan our best friends in life, rather it moves much more organically. As time passes by and we grow older we can pinpoint the times in our life when we truly needed someone there, someone to talk to and someone to smack some reality into our head. It is at those times that we can look right next to us and see the person that is there. Our best friend.
They are often brutally honest and say what needs to be said. Best friends have that freedom. They can say the harshest things to our faces and 5 seconds later we know that we needed that bitchslap and we call them an asshole and smile to ourselves and gives thanks that they were there.
My best friend came into my life during a time of serious change and difficulty. My family moved clear across the country when I was 10 and I was forced into a completely new environment, new school and new people. That kind of change is difficult for any person but for a 10 year old effeminate boy it can be a defining moment in your life.
She sat beside me in that grade 5 class and she was funny, introverted yet social. People knew her and liked her and she had a quirkiness about her that reminded me of me. Over the 2 years that I lived in that little town she was a good friend. We laughed, exchanged Cabbage Patch Kid clothes and did what 10 year olds do. We would go to the mall and eat fries at the Woolworth's lunch counter.
Then I moved away again at the age of 12 and in the times before Facebook and email we lost touch.
By the time I moved back to Newfoundland I was a man and I thought about the kids in my class from that small Newfoundland town often but never saw any of them or spoke to them again. I remember odd things about many of them but what one weird thing I remembered about Chrissy was her birthday. She shared my birth week and I always remembered that.
I was 27 years old and out at a bar one night and met a cute guy, we laughed and talked for a while, decided to walk up the hill to the Tim Horton's by his apartment. The topic moved from this to that and eventually the conversation shifted to his roommate. He mentioned that she was at home asleep. I asked her name. He said her name was Chrissy. For the obvious reason I immediately asked him if he knew when her birthday was. He said March 14th, 1973. Holy shit. What are the chances of there being two Chrissy's born on that day? He confirmed her last name and that small town that she was from and I asked him if we could go over to his place so I could talk to her. He told me she was probably asleep but I insisted.
I walked into this strange apartment into the darkness of that Saturday night. As he led me up the stairs to her room and knocked on the door I reached out and opened the door and stood there in the darkened room.
As she woke up she must have been startled by the two manly silhouettes standing before her. She rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath and in a soft but sure voice she said two words, "Jason Lush?"
It was like one of those TV shows where they find your family after 20 years. We laughed and we cried. We sat up all night and talked about where our lives had gone and where our lives were going. We re-connected in a way that was stronger than our original connection.
That was July of 2000 and from that day on we both have always known that we were indeed best friends. We lived and laughed for years after that. We fought and made up several times but we always reached out and made sure that we had each others back. She moved to Calgary and I haven't seen her in 4 years now and since then she has had 2 little girls that look just like her. She has become a mother, a fiancé, and the wonderful woman that I always knew she was going to be. We talk and text all the time but someday we will again live in the same place at the same time and we will sit down everyday and have a cup of tea and talk about all the losers in our lives and how superior we are to everyone else, then we will laugh smugly and do it again the next day. That is what we always did. We did it well.
I love my best friend like one can only love a best friend. Unconditionally. She can, and will irritate the hell out of me again no doubt and my life choices will continue to bug the hell out of her but in the end we will always have each other. That is what best friends are for.
Thanks Chrissy for all of the laughs and all of the tears. You have been an inspiration to me as often as you have been a pain in my ass. You are the woman I want to be and I am the man you will always dream of! lol Best friends! xoxo

The Pigeon Committed Suicide

There comes a point in time when you have to deal with the truth. You have to suck it up and just deal with it. I killed a pigeon once. with my hands. That's right, I killed a pigeon on Water Street with my hands.
Now I would not call this a downright bird murder or try to defend myself by claiming that I had no intent on killing this bird but rather he was clearly suicidal and saw me as his way out of this world.
I was quite innocent, walking down the street having a smoke on my way to the Chinese Grocery Convenience Store to get a snack. Back then there was a call centre located in the building I worked in and the entire staff would come out for their smoke breaks and fill up the sidewalk around the building. They were a colourful crew of people who dressed mainly in panama bottoms and hoodies while I has dressed in my shoes that sounded like I was wearing heals. Let's just say I looked like a pretentious snot.
I knew I had to part the red sea of call centre workers in Mickey Mouse sweaters and Labatt Blue pants in order to get to the store. I strutted on through the crowd looking all fancy and pretty in my shirt and tie. Then, as I passed through the crowd looking to cool for school, I saw something through the corner of my eye.
There was a pigeon flying down toward the sidewalk that I was walking on. I hated pigeons. They carried scabies and diseases and were no doubt the cause of Bert and Ernie's break up! I just didn't like pigeons.
So as I strutted my way to the grocery I could not help but notice that the pigeon seemed to be aiming for me.  I could feel the panic set in as he began to do that "backwards wing fly thing" as he got closer and closer to me. Everything on that street was in real time but that pigeon and I had shifted into slow motion.
Let's remember that there were about 50 people standing around watching me think I was hot as shit walking down the sidewalk as this episode enfolded.
It all happened so fast. One second I was thinking he was going to miss me all together and fly over my head and then the next thing I knew there was face to face with a monster. There was a dramatic flutter and My screams were probably heard in Greenland. I completely freaked out. I acted on instinct and I acted like an animal. That stupid fucking bird must have had a bird Stroke or something to fly at my face like that.
The entire episode is a blur. I remember the burst of air caused by its scabies ridden wings. I remember screaming like a 4 year old girl as I tore the bird in two. I remember it was over. I won.
Now, there I was on Water Street after the terrible Pigeon attack of 2002, walking past the body of a dead pigeon covered in feathers and blood. I walked across that street like nothing had happened at all. I didn't even look back at what must have been the horrified faces of the workers on the sidewalk.
I started to feel bad but then I thought about it. That pigeon was clearly having some issues if he picked the only person in the world that was so afraid of him that he would kill him if he flew at him. He chose me. He was clearly committing suicide. Im a lover and not a hater but I also believe in us being able to have the right to die. Just like that pigeon.
I never said this was a nice story but I can't be the hero all of the time. This time I was the anti-hero. I was the bird killer and not the bird saver. I was the bird assisted suicide helper. yes, that is it.
Anyway, RIP gross reptile with feathers that look like gasoline. I wish I hadn't killed you but I also wish you didn't fly at my bird fearing face! FYI, this is also the reason why I don't go for walks around the lake! Just sayin'.

Pink Triangle

For as log as I can remember a fascination with World War II has been with me. Not only the war as a whole but more specifically the Holocaust. As a child my father, who lived in Germany during the 1960's would tell me stories of what he knew about the country and it's people. He often would speak in short German phrases and let us look at his old Photo Albums of the German people and the countryside. It was hard for me to wrap me head around those peaceful photos and the ones that I saw in the other books I would look through.

My father ordered a Time-Life series of books with thousands of photos and descriptions of the Holocaust. Those books scared me and fascinated me as well. How could, just a generation before me, this madness have existed? How could so many people be collected, tortured and murdered for no other reason than being born who they were? How could this history so far removed from me continue to affect me so greatly?

By the time I was a University student studying the History of 20th century germany and was writing a lengthy paper that I realized my connection. For the first time ever I learned of the Pink Triangle.

The Pink Triangle was one of the Nazi concentration badges used to identify male prisoners who went sent their because of their homosexuality.

In the 1920's, Berlin, unlike many other major cities in the world had a thriving "Gay Culture." Despite the fact that most civilized countries had criminal laws against Homosexuality, the post WWI German culture seemed to turn a blind eye to the romance of the gay youth. By 1933, many of these gay men and women would start to be rounded up, tried, sentenced to concentration camps, labour camps and death. Their deaths often came at the hands of their guards and often other prisoners. They would often be beaten to death by fellow inmates for no other reason than being homosexual. Gay men would be used as human targets by the SS Guards who would use the Pink Triangles on their chests for target practice. Up to 100,000 homosexuals would arrested and tried during the Nazi era and those who were found guilty and refused to conform to heterosexual lifestyles were simply packed into cattle cars and shipped away. Some 60% of those where never seen again.

Men, just like me, were victims of the Holocaust. Men, who for no other reason but for loving a man were used for target practice. Used for medical experimentation. Used to death. Most of the Pink Triangle men who survived the war and the hands of the Nazis were simply retied after the war but the Allies and the Russians for the same crime of Homosexuality and were thrown back in to post war prisons and often spent up to 20 years in jail for being Gay in Hitler's Germany. It is horrific and unimaginable.

I cant't even fathom having to experience such fear and such horror for being the man I am today. I spent a great deal of my life hiding who I was in order to protect myself and my family. However I was never protecting anyone from the murderous hands of our government.  

This badge of the Pink Triangle is exactly why blogs like mine need to exist today. Stories need to be told and people need to understand that I am gay today because I was born this way. Just like the men two generations before me. They did not choose to be rounded up, tortured murdered and dumped into mass graves and not even be given the dignity of an acknowledgement for some 50 years after their deaths.

So here we are today. Sons and daughters, brothers and sisters and I ask, what can we do to preserve the memory of the thousands of Homosexuals that were slaughtered and forgotten by history until now? Maybe we can make ourselves aware of the world that we currently live and and see that the hatred and murder that is now documented and honoured as a moment is history is in fact a moment in our present. I am not only talking about the Matthew Shepard tory or the endless numbers of gay youth that are committing suicide at an alarming rate, but the number of homosexuals that are being rounded up in many countries today and publicly executed. A message to others like them that this will be their fate if they live the life they were meant to love.

In Iran these two gay young men where hanged publicly for being gay. The bear the Pink Triangles of today. their lives were stolen out of hatred and ignorance. 

I'm fully aware that my life is not something that everyone understands, that everyone chooses to try and understand, or that everyone will ever understand. But I don't understand Spanish yet I don't persecute those who speak it. I don't understand calculus but I don't gather up the mathematicians and hang them. I don't understand a lot of things. So I read, I learn and I educate myself and my child to ensure that I am doing my part to make sure that I, nor the generations that follow me will ever be caught in the middle of a holocaust.

I never want to hide who I am much less have to hide for my life for fear of being captured and killed for who I am.  I am  proud gay man and I mourn the loss of these men who came before me. They wore the Pink Triangle and a badge of shame and often they died and were buried without a thought or a prayer because of that Pink Triangle. 

Today I see the Pink Triangle as a symbol of hope. It is a mark that gay men and women see as a moment in time that we can never forget. We are lucky and blessed to live in such a time when we can love who we love and marry who we chose and we are proud of how far we have come. We also are aware that all of this can be lost in the blink of an eye. For we know that those who forget our history are doomed to repeat it. 

I will never forget what happened at the hands of the Nazi's. The millions of Jew's, Poles, Slavs, Gypsies and Homosexuals that were ripped from the arms of their loved ones, labeled, branded and murdered. Until recently the Homosexuals were left off the lists and were forgotten. I will never forget. You should never forget. Our children should never forget. The next time you see a Pink Triangle I hope you stop, remember and think, that If Hitler were around today I would be arrested and most likely tortured and worked to death or shot in the chest as target practice just because I wrote this blog. Imagine that...

Broken Duck

One evening a few summers back, I was driving to pick up Kennedy and take her to the Avril Lavigne concert that was playing that night at Mile One Centre here in St. John's. As I drove across town it began to rain. Those summer rains are often refreshing and much needed but this one was particularly aggressive. The rain was falling faster than my wipers could keep up with and I found myself squinting through the glass trying to see the road before me. Suddenly I saw a dark figure fall from the sky. This small dark blur was then frantic on the road. At first I could not really rationalize what I was seeing. What was it? Then it was clear. In front of me was a little duckling with his broken little wing dragging behind him trying to dodge between the cars whizzing by him. Instinctively I maneuvered my car to block off all lanes of traffic, jumped out and proceeded to chase the little duck until I was able to scoop him up and and safely carry him back to my car.
Now what? I had this little dazed duck in my arms, in the middle of the road during a blinding rain storm. I began to drive. Kennedy was waiting for me and this concert was long anticipated by her for months.
I went into her house with this little duck in my arms and got her mom to make me a bag of popcorn and get a bottle of water and the old cat kennel we used to have. This little duck, that Kennedy named Dexter, would rest for a bit, have a snack and some water until we got back from the concert and then I would see what I could do to make him all better.
That night Avril was amazing and Kennedy and every other tweeny girl in that crowd screamed and squealed to every song. All I could think about was Dexter. Would he be okay when I got back to pick him up? Would I be able to find help for him on a Saturday night?
Prior to my experience with Dexter I had a serious aversion to birds. To me they were simply reptiles with feathers and I was creeped out by all sorts of flying critters. Flight seemed unnatural to me and I did not trust them as far as I could throw them. But Dexter was different. He was calm and trusting. He was innocent and lost and he needed me.
After the concert we raced back to Kennedy's house where Dexter was waiting patiently. He had eaten some popcorn and certainly gained the attention of Kennedy's cat. In the protection of his kennel he seemed to recognize me and seem relieved when I picked him up to bring him home. I drove home with dexter on my lap as I stroked his little head and dreamed of a life with a pet duck. Joey and Chandler did it on Friends so why couldn't I? I mean it is not like he was a wild duck. He was just a baby and maybe I could teach him to use a litter box and maybe even fly around and then come back home like an outdoor cat always does. All kinds of thoughts raced through my mind on that ride back home.
When I returned home I got to work. Immediately I google how to bind a ducks broken wing. Google gave me expert instructions on how to hold him, wrap him, tape him and and tend to him. I contacted a friend whose father was a veterinarian and she told me that I could bring him to her father's clinic the next morning at 7am and he would take care of Dexter.
I placed dexter in the bathtub that I had carefully filled with cool water. I laid out all of the material I would need to help him. I had the gauze, the tape, an antiseptic to help with the cut on his head and of course I had a whole lot of love for this little duck floating in my tub. He swam around in circles. His little webbed feet gently paddling him around propelling him from one one the tub to the other. Once he had that little swim I decided it was time to take care of that wing. I was not sure if it was going to hurt him or not so I held him close and told him that everything would be over soon and then we would go watch some TV. With my laptop on the floor beside us I set his wing back and wrapped it just as the website instructed me to do to. I cleaned up the little cut on his head and I wrapped him in a towel and brought him to to living room. As promised, I turned on the TV and we sat there together and watched TV.

We talked and decided what show to watch and we ate some popcorn. He seemed so content and peaceful. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the bonding time we had. He was sitting quietly on my lap, happy that he was not alone under a bush afraid and bleeding in the rain. He was with me and he was loved.
As my mind moved forward into the thoughts of our life together as duck and dad he started to twitch a bit. I thought I should loosen up the tape in case it was too tight and cut the edges to give him that little bit more comfort. I asked him how that felt, his little head looked up and gazed right into my eyes and his little head fell limp. After our 4 hour bromance he died in my arms. He looked at me that last time and let go.
I was devastated. I was horrified. I was alone. This little duck laying lifeless in my lap had given me such joy for such a short period of time but the experience as a whole changed me.
I cried that night like I had lost a pet of 20 years. I felt guilt like I had killed him and I felt peace like I had given him a few hours of love and comfort before his inevitable death. A life is a life and his was no different than mine. I was so sad that for a brief moment I swore that never again would I help a soul. It was too painful. I was mad that he had died. I was mad that I was feeling such pain over the death of a little strange duckling.
Dexter was more than duck. He was a reminder of the love that we as humans can have for all life. His short life and quick death reminded me of all that I loved and lost. He reminded me that no matter how short the time is that we have with someone that we can indeed feel love and loss. He was one of the greatest lessons of my life.
I picked up Kennedy the next morning and we both cried I as I explained to her that Dexter had died. Her broken little heart made mine bleed. We sat in the car with tears running down our face hugging and sharing our thoughts. We both loved Dexter. We both thought Dexter needed a special place for his final rest. We drove around for a while discussing what would be best and most fitting for a duck that fell from the sky into our arms.
We found ourselves in Outer Cove, a beautiful little Hamlet on the eastern edge of this awesome island that all three of us called home. We walked toward the edge of a cliff and I instinctively launched little dexter into the sky and over the edge of the earth and into his afterlife. At that very moment and flock of ducks flew low over our heads crying their cries as they passed over us and over the edge. It was magical. Kennedy and I cried tears of happiness as we knew what we had accomplished. Dexter was most definitely at peace and to this day I like to think that the flock of ducks that flew over our heads was his family taking him to where he needed to go next.
In a matter of hours Dexter sent from flying freely in the sky, to hitting a telephone wire and crashed to the earth in an abrupt thud. His fate was sealed in that moment but mine wasn't. I made a choice that evening to save him and although I did not save Dexter that night, he in turn saved me. He renewed a faith in me that I thought I had lost and he made me know that love is more the a feeling, it is a power that we have no control over. Dexter was a gift from that power in the sky. He was a gift from love. He was a gift of love. He was love in the form of a duck.

My Eyes! There Are Eggs In My Eyes!

I have plenty of memories of my 20's that are sad, funny and clever but this next one is one of those stories that I replay in my mind often and every time I laugh out loud. It was also one of those moments when I question my character as I faced the life long question. Do I help or do I laugh?
There was about 6 of us laying around my friends Chrissy's apartment. The sofa, chair and floor was covered in lazy bodies focused on the TV, saying nothing really. The room full of smoke and there were a few red eyes to be seen.
Jackie, who was Chrissy's roommate decided she was going to get up and make a snack. She slowly stumbled to the kitchen in our full view, took 2 eggs out of the fridge and put them in a bowl. She looked at us and said "By's, can u put eggs in the microwave?" Now I can't speak for anyone else but I knew that your could not hard boil an egg by simply putting it into the microwave in a bowl but I found the devil come out of me as well as the rest of the crowd as there was a resounding "yes" from all of us.
You could see all of our heads begin to perk up as Jackie placed her eggs in the microwave, set her desired time and watched and waited.
It seemed like forever. I know we all where waiting for them to explode and the giggles and looks around the room made it clear. I recall Jackie asking if they might blowup. We all said "oh no."  Then came the signal. The microwave had finished cooking the eggs and they did not explode. I was a little disappointed and so was the rest of us. Jackie seemed quite proud of her self as she removed her little lunch from the microwave and proceeded to walk into the living room carrying the bowl with her freshly cooked eggs.
What happened next was one of the most spectacular sights I have ever seen and it remains one of the funniest things ever.
As Jackie stuck out her tongue to us all in a silly way and said "I knew I could put eggs in the microwave, sure I saw it on TV," the scene before my eyes moved into slow motion. At one moment she was standing there right in front of us smiling, then there came that noise. I find it hard to put that noise into words but it would be best described as the release of those cap guns when we were kids. Within a millisecond Jackie smile was covered in the guts of 2 fully cooked, microwaved eggs. The explosion sent eggs to every corner of the room but mainly to her face. She instantly dropped the bowl and began screaming, mostly from fright but her screams certainly fell on her best friends ears. Our response was clear, it was loud and it was in unison. OMG did we laugh. Jackie was laying on the floor with hot egg all over her face screaming "My eyes! There are eggs in my eyes, this isn't funny" and I proceeded to pee my pants on the sofa. The laughs did not stop within seconds or minutes. We laughed until Jackie stopped crying and she too laughed. She was fine and only her ego was slightly bruised but we laughed for days about that. Shit it has been years and I am still laughing.
So to answer the life long question, Do I help or do I laugh? I always laugh.
The residue of that lunch is probably still in the cracks and crevices of that apartment but the lingering laughter is forever. Oh, Jackie and those eggs will always be one of those moments in life that I know I will never forget. She not only made two, short-lived, eggs that day but she made memories forever for a few friends. Thanks Jackie for trying to boil eggs in the microwave. Despite your burned eyelids, I am sure that you look back at that moment in time the same way the rest of us do. You laugh, pee a little and then go make an boiled egg sandwich, on the stove!
Love you Jack! xoxo

From 40,000 Feet Down

There are nights like tonight when I find it impossible to sleep and I wander about the house in search of a thought or a distraction from the hamster wheel rolling in my head. The thoughts rush through my mind like a stack of newspapers in a windstorm, flying by too fast to even stop and catch one thought long enough to formulate an actually opinion.
My mind had always worked this way. It is a compartmentalized mess of thoughts, fears, dreams and expectations. Then something catches my eye and the hamster wheel stops. A calm rushes over me and I focus for a brief moment on one thought.
Tonight I sat in the window, looking out into the very day skies of the North Atlantic, stars shining bright and a flash of lights catches my eye. It is an airplane flying thousands of feet over the distant lights of Newfoundland. I look up at the flashing lights of the wings and can't help but wonder who is on that plane? Where are they going? And are they wondering the same about the cities and town of the lit up countryside below.
I picture families on their first voyage overseas on the redeye to London or Paris. Going to meet family for the first time, dining on cookies and ginger ale. Laughing and talking and enjoy this long flight before they will soon be in the arms of their loved ones. I picture grief stricken people on there way to funerals and saddened occasions that are calling them unwillingly to a part of the world that they may want to never return. I picture them up there, 40,000 ft in the air, looking down on the lights of my town and wondering who we are down here. Assuming it is a sleepy city as they fly by night, completely unaware that I am indeed watching them watch me.
I have often been on plane and flown over cities and towns and saw moving cars and wondering if they looked up and saw my plane and wondered where we were flying? Wondering what out stories are? Vacations? Weddings? Funerals? These are questions that we will never know the answers to.
We are alas, strangers of sorts, crossing in the night connected in an odd way but will never really know who the others are. Like two ships the cross in the night.
When you fly you see no borders, you see no countries and you see no people. You simply see the vastness of great oceans and the beauty of great landscapes. Your minds consumed with what is on the other end and not with what some thousands of feet below.
I think about it all the time. I find myself jealous at times. I fantasize that the people far above my head on on route to fabulous and exotic journeys that I will never take myself. Every now and then I wonder if they do indeed see that light over my door and for that brief second we connect. On a level that neither of us will truly understand.
We are all just fish in the giant fishbowl of life. Most of us will never ever know the other and yet most of us often wish we were the others.
My mind is so weird like that but it is with those weird twisted thoughts that feel the most calm. I feel a peace inside that I cam somehow be connected with a world I want to see one day and their voyage over my house allows me to think that I too will one day fly over their house and give them the chance to dream and think about me, sitting up there eating my cookies and ginger ale, looking down on their lights and wondering who they might be.
Like my Nan, some people live and die in one place. never once venturing outside of the comfort of their existence. What did she think when she saw those places fly over head? Did she dream of being on them and was that her flight to San Fransico?
Life is about what we make it. We can either sit in our windows and watch and wonder about those up above us who are living their dreams or we can be them. I can't wait to continue to be on those planes looking down and allowing those looking up to dream and achieve to be me. I will see this world one step at a time and I will look down from my place and see the bright lights of the cities and towns below and send them my wishes and love for their own safe travels.
So the next time you look up into the sky and see a plane flying far overheard, remember it is full of people like you and me and they indeed are looking down at us and wondering who we are and how we live and know that your time is coming. Soon you will be off on your own dream flight looking down and them with that same curiosity.
Or maybe I need my meds adjusted and I am the only one who thinks of such silly things in the middle of the night. Either way, it brings me peace. Bon Voyage!

My Notebook

So tonight, after 7 years of intention, I finally sat down and watched "The Notebook". Since 2004 I have heard every woman, gay man and many straight men in fact, gush about this fantastic movie. It was indeed one of those movies that I had heard so much about but I feared watching in case the reality of the story, plot and acting was in fact disappointing. Well let me say this... It was not disappointing.
It was a poignant tale of the endurance and power of love. The love that this couple shared was as powerful as the lives they lived and the air they breathed.  It was beautiful, it was emotionally crippling and it was the kind of story that makes you stop, think and be thankful.  I was clearly taken by their love and found myself crying and shouting at the TV at the same time. Often the telltale sign of a great movie.
The notebook was a beautiful tale about how love can last from one life into the next but there is also a secondary story being told.
I found it ironic that for 7 years I did not ever bother to watch this movie and then, a week after I beginning blogging I sit down and watch one of the most beautiful movies ever and it was written about the power of writing your thoughts. When you put your thoughts and feelings into a letter or into print they become eternal. They last forever. They never die. The entire movie was a reflection of the past. A peek through the aging eyes of an beautiful couple; into a life that was far off in the distant past yet on the tips of their tongues. How quickly life fades into twilight and how we are, in the end, nothing but bystanders of our own history. Whether we chose to share our history with the present and future is up to us.
Our stories will never be known unless we tell them. If we do not record our thoughts and dreams then they have no chance to every come true. If we can allow our children to peek into our eyes and see the people that we once were, and who we want to become, we are giving them a gift that is as valuable as life itself. We are giving them our hopes, our dreams and our endless love. Our love in its truest form. Our dreams become theirs and in turn become endless.
If I could open a book and read and understand the power of the love that brought me into this world I would take that as the greatest gift I could get.
Watching that movie tonight validated this blog for me. It made me realize that by writing, expressing and sharing my thoughts, I am in turn empowering myself and those who will follow me.
My words are my thoughts and feelings and they are read by many people these days. Some laugh, some cry and no doubt some disagree with me entirely, but the one thing that every reader takes away from this is the same. Everyone takes away a piece of me, a memory of their own, and a little bit of love.
I am writing my own notebook on this page and one day, many years from now long after my last breath, my grandkids and great grandkids will look at the pictures and read the words and the loves, laughs and life of the man who helped bring them all into this world. Indeed that is worth it all in the end.
So, two thumbs up for the notebook.
I cried, I laughed and I loved.
The story of my life...

You Know You're Gay When...

It's Friday night and this list is hilarious and for those of you who know me... very accurate!!! 
Pour a glass of wine, sit back and have a laugh! ;)


You know you're gay when...

You wear the appropriate underwear for each of your dates.

You understand the subtle differences between at least 20 brands of vodka.

You understand the immense importance of good (or bad) lighting.

You can be in a crowded bar and still spot a toupee from 50 yards away.

You can tell a woman you love her bathing suit and mean her bathing suit.

You can tell a woman she has lipstick on her teeth without embarrassing her.

No one expects you to kiss and not tell.

You can have naked pictures of men you know in your home.

You can have naked pictures of men you don't know in your home.

You can have naked pictures of men you don't know in your home and on your computer.

Unlike your women friends, you can hang out in men's locker room.

You understand why the good Lord created spandex.

You understand why the good Lord did not intend everyone to wear spandex.

You know the difference between a latte, cappuccino, cafe au lait and a macchiato. And if you don't, you know how to fake it.

You know how to get back at just about everyone.

Your pets always have great names.

Nobody expects you to change a tire.

You're the only guy who gets to do the "Cosmo" quizzes.

You know how to get a waiter's attention.

You only wear polyester when you mean to.

At any given instant, you can recite who was gay since the dawn of history.

You are, hands down, your nephew's and nieces' favorite uncle.

You get to choose your family.

You can tell your sexual compatibility with a potential partner by the way he holds his drink.

You can smile to let someone know you can't stand them.

You wouldn't be caught dead in Hooters.

You can freeze an approaching bar troll twenty feet away.

You're good pals with women other people can't stand.

You've always got an opinion, and don't mind sharing it.

You've read the book, seen the movie, done the musical.

You know how to "air kiss".

You know exactly which cosmetic surgery to consider having... and the perfect excuse to give people who ask where you've been for two weeks.

You know how to dress strategically.

You know when to move out and move on.

You are the only one at the class reunion who looks better than you did in high school.

You've got at least one framed picture of a pet.

You know that being called a "cheap slut" isn't necessarily an insult.

You wouldn't buy someone a mug for their birthday.

You know which wine to bring.

Sales clerks don't mess with you.

You have a medicine chest stocked for any occasion.

You never hold a grudge for longer than a decade.

You've just about defeated the accent you were born with.

You know the way to a man's heart is not necessarily through his stomach.

You choose the most fabulous greeting cards.

You know every film ever made with male frontal nudity.

You've got sunscreen at every conceivable SPF level.

You have the latest International Male catalog.

You wouldn't dream of dressing out of the latest International Male catalog.

You can be bitchy without anyone blaming it on biology.