My Version of Way Back Wednesday

Time Frame: May-July 1999.

I had never wanted to go on a mission. I always dreaded the thought. Growing up mormon, I saw lots of missionaries, and I always thought they were assholes. I had gone on splits (where you go with one missionary, and the other missionary goes with another church member) several times, and I absolutely hated knocking on doors. People would slam doors; hide in their houses; turn on the vacuum; yell; threaten to call the police; and I even met people who knew me from high school. I thought that perhaps a mission wasn’t for me. When I was 16 or so, I got my “patriarchal blessing” which is basically a mormon tarot reading where they tell you what will happen to your life which is as vague as a horoscope, and it said I was going to get married and go on a mission. Therefore, I thought god had decided that I was to go on a mission. Going on a mission was god’s will.

Sin for me at the time was knowing the will of god and not following it. Sin was a separation from god, and that separation was created by knowing his will and then deliberately choosing for oneself against it. I was terrified of hell and not living with god, so I knew I had to go on a mission, or how could I ever be forgiven?

As I started my mission, I knew that the mormon church was inspired by god. Additionally, the mormon church said that the programs set up within the church were inspired by god. Therefore, if I didn’t follow the guidelines and rules set up within the church precisely, I would be sinning and separating myself from god.

I went into the MTC (missionary training center) scared shitless. I was going to Germany, and I knew I didn’t speak German. When you arrive they put you in a group of about 8-10 newbies, and you all learn the language and church stuff together. They give you a schedule for your two-month stay that has every 15 minutes planned out. Mind you, there is no music, there is no television, there is no outside communication, there are no phone calls, and the only glimmer of the outside world was letters. The first day of class arrived, and the teacher started speaking immediately in German. I was petrified. I noticed that he was going around the room and was asking everyone questions. I was even more petrified when everyone around me was responding in German. I had no idea what I was going to say. I listened closely to what everyone else said, and tried to say something that sounded similar.

Part of this whole demoralizing experience was something called SYL (speak your language). You were supposed to only speak in German at all times unless a higher-up said you didn’t need to or things were absolutely desperate. I had almost no words to use. But because the church was inspired of god, I had to do it as much as I possibly could. Because I was such a stickler, I was picked out to be the leader (rule enforcer) of the group which they called a district leader. Therefore, everyone else would suffer my absolute devotion to the rules. As a result our conversation was limited to phrases like “Das ist gut.” (That is good). “Ich habe hunger.” (I’m hungry). And the ever popular “Ich habe eine Frage.” (I have a question). “Ich weiss, dass das Buch Mormon wahr ist” (I know that the Book of Mormon is true). Everyone loathed me because I would only speak to them for the most part in German, but eventually I would relent and speak English for maybe 20 minutes or so during the day. Each time I did, I felt guilty, and like god was unhappy with me. I would constantly repeat things back to people in German if they said things in English.

One Elder (as you were supposed to call them, no first names, only Elder (insert last name)) was quite smart, and he spoke German quite well, and he refused to follow the rules. Granted I knew mormon theology much better than he did, so I would spin circles around him with that, and he was quite snotty, so he hated it, and would constantly insult me and tell others what a prick I was (not to say that I wasn’t). I wouldn’t sleep because I was so concerned about what I was doing wrong and why this “Elder” didn’t like me. I even fasted (no food or water and gobs of “prayer”) to try and find a solution to the problem. None came, but eventually I talked to him in English, and we began to understand each other a little better, and I don’t think he hated me quite as much. If anything we were more a battle of intellects. We were both the brains of the group, and we would vie for always being the best and knowing the most.

During these months, I became quite close with my superior (ugh, there is a whole hierarchy of these things) who would check up on me, and he was learning French. He was short and compact, had bright blue eyes and curly blond hair and looked like he was right out of a Brooks Brother’s catalogue. He would come over and spend time with me. He always wanted to sit next to me. He would tell me how good I was at things and often told me that he loved me and how special I was. We would hug a lot, and I would hold him as we talked. I remember coming into his room when he was lying on his bed in his see through garments. I remember how I could see the fleshy skin under the garments and the hair pressed against the fabric. God, I was so smitten with that guy. He eventually left, and he left me a wonderful letter.

I was very sad after he left. I felt wrong in so many ways because I knew that I didn’t just “love him like a brother,” and I missed holding him, and his smile. Later on, I would talk to him when he was in Quebec and I was in Germany on inter-office mission business, and I was thrilled to talk to him.

Time passed, and while we did see each other after our missions, I was much changed, and I think so was he. He was brash and ready to dive into mormon life (have kids, get married, etc). I was on my way out. I choose to remember him as I knew him then. Leave that impression in my mind. Of his eyes, and his smile, his legs, and his body and his smell, especially his hair. He would just come up under my nose when I put my arms around him from behind.

Like a childhood memory, I will let him remain, and I will let him stay as he was and myself as I was—confused, lonely, extremely OCD, and just starting to look into the truth in my heart.

(The pictures in black and white are of two former mormon missionaries who later became gay lovers. They were shown on a campus in Utah and created quite a stir.)

So I’m a cub.

I realize that I don’t really post pics of myself. And that’s not a big problem in my book. It has more to do with my desire to remain somewhat anonymous. I have to admit that I don’t sometimes like seeing pictures of the bloggers themselves. It destroys the blank wall fantasy (insert Freud was bogus comment here). I actually wonder if people would stop reading if I were to post pictures of myself. In some ways I would like to do that because I don’t think I would really want those people reading anyway. I guess it’s a bit meta to talk about blogging while blogging, but I hope that you will indulge me. I try not to post simply hegemonic (I know I use this word too much) “sexy” pictures that some blogs are so popular for. All that said, maybe I’m getting a little too sloppy, and I should start caring about appearances a little more.

I was chatting with a friend, and I realized that I usually don’t find guys attractive based on how they look, but how they talk or move. One of my friends used to wonder why I was with my partner, and then one day he saw my partner dancing, and he came over and told me that he now understood. I first saw my partner dancing on the dance floor of a leather bar. It just pulled me in. Not his look, not his voice, but his movement, and not that it was overly sexualized either. Other people have told me this means I’m not shallow, but I disagree. I’m just shallow in a different way. Hope that you all are having a good week!

Friendship! Friendship!

This weekend has been a lot about friendship. My partner has decided to no longer speak to friends of thirteen years. I’m not going to go into a lot of detail because I think he will post later on it. Long story short, they’re from Manhattan, and you’re probably not worth their time. I never was a big fan anyway, so it’s no skin off my back.

Other than that, because it was a three day weekend, my partner and I decided to descend upon the beverage benefit at the Lone Star. As we waited in line, someone we have known for several months mostly while hanging out with other friends came by and I said hi, and he barely acknowledges us. Okay, so I’m not going to suck up for your attention. He was right behind us in line. And the whole time I had to pee like crazy and so did JR. I sent JR off to Costco to go pee while I waited in line (it was only a block away) and unfortunately Costco had closed. He returns, and we wait another 40 minutes. Yeah, my bladder hurts today, and this time, I don’t think it’s the clap. This whole time, this guy does not even so much as attempt to even look at us. Mind you, we’ve never been really good friends, but am I unreasonable in expecting at least a small modicum of politeness? I would have if he was just with one person, but he was with four, and so I figured he should make the effort. Later that night we see him and our other mutual friends. We talk to our friends, and now he’s all smiles and friendly. Being the bitch I am, I called him out on it, and he said that he thought we were ignoring him. Right. Even when I was hella drunk I wasn’t buying that story. So whatever. I’m losing faith in some people, but I think there is hope. Maybe it just has to be over 30.

I know I sound like a whinny queen, but hell, I even talked to someone who I met for 5 minutes at another bar, and he was effusively nice. Actually, I really love this guy’s style. He has long hair and is really queeny but a little built. It’s so refreshing to see something different and unique, and to see people who are generally considerate. Hope everyone is having a great weekend (whatever’s left of it)!

Der erste Kontakt ist noch nicht angeknüpft

I was supposed to meet Dan turning 40 last night, but our plans were averted. I was sad. It was actually going to be the first time I met a blogger. I had been making cookies for the august occasion and was planning on giving him some. However, I was cursed. I was telling mon petit Krablet how I never change recipes the first time, and of course, this time I did. They look like total dog droppings.

So much for my chocolate cinnamon chocolate chip with dried fruit cookies. They were alright.

Hope the weekend is going well for everyone.

And check out my latest podcast adventure with Darin on All Preparation and No H Podcast on your Dial. He’s a hoot. Thanks Darin. Click here and click on the latest APNH podcast to here me make a fool of myself. Or you can just download it through i-tunes.

One in Six Gay Men Use Viagra in US

“Ray Gallimore and Trent Aldridge were two of six gay men arrested in Piedmont Park in April who accused an Atlanta police officer of harassing them with anti-gay remarks.

Police rookie sacked over gay slurs. The Atlanta Police Department fired Officer Larry Smith on Sept. 7. He was accused of using anti-gay slurs while arresting six gay men in Piedmont Park for being in the park after its 11 p.m. closing time. The announcement brought a public end to a nearly five-month internal investigation by the department into the April 21 arrests.

The men accused Smith of calling them “faggots” and “cockroaches” as they were handcuffed and forced to sit on a curb for three hours while Smith continued to make arrests in the park. The gay men were eventually fined and/or sentenced to community service.”

Six men at a table with ages ranging from 26-37 sat talking about rewarding, disciplining, teaching, household antics and affection. These six men were also in long term relationships from roughly 3-10 years. No, these men don’t have children. They have cats.

I was thinking that at dinner last night as one of six. Strange. Six gay men and how is that different from six straight men? None of us wants children, but do straight men want children more than we do? Am I a faggot/maggot that only consumes and doesn’t provide some offspring to stimulate the economy? A cockroach that survives despite disease and mistreatment?

No, I believe I am something more. More than erections and cats and children, I believe we are humans. And we are gay men. And there is value in that. I believe we deserve pride because we are not succumbing to the presumptions of “what one does.” Surely, we have our weaknesses, but I would rather live a life of resistance than a life under the approving gaze of hegemony.

NNTA

This came from a good chat friend of mine. It means “no need to apologize.” I apologized so frequently and so often that he decided he need to make something up to save his poor fingers. Apologizing. This is something I find myself doing all the time. I’m always apologizing for everything. And it’s not that I’m insincere. I just don’t want to upset anyone. It’s as if I think there must have been something that I miscommunicated, or there’s something I said that I didn’t want to be offensive, but it probably was.

This is a problem for me. I have OCD, and no I don’t wash my hands. I tend to be scrupulous. Not about others, but about myself. I tend to be the one who’s always wrong. Sure I know that this is irrational. But that doesn’t change it. I think of my OCD books and what they say I should say to myself, “It’s not me, it’s my OCD,” or “Don’t be polemical, it’s just a chemical.” Oh god how I hate these.

This was all spurred on by my recording a podcast with someone last night. And I felt that I was being rude and caustic and abrasive, and so much I would wish to qualify. Qualifiers are so precious to me. But maybe I need to let them go.

The ten: number eight

To begin, I would like to reiterate that I don’t intend this to be so much of a review of the following, but more an attempt to communicate what these works have communicated to me. Additionally, I have a new favorite internet radio station. Maybe reading it with the music in the background might give one a better idea of what I enjoy. Click here to listen with WMA.

Album: Faure’s Requiem
This is what I want played at my funeral. I don’t even want a service. Just play this music, and that is it! Pie Jesu is probably the most often heard section of this work. And while it is terribly beautiful it is not my favorite aspect of this piece. Part of what I find so fascinating about this piece is Faure’s ability to link in motifs (oh, to explain, I’m not going to, but if you’re interested click here) throughout the piece. In many ways I feel like this echoes the rising and falling that I feel throughout life with my own personal recollections and subconscious connections returning like ephemera. This occurs throughout the whole work, and this is something that I truly miss in non-classical music–the connection between the parts of the work itself. In any case, if I listen to this I’ll probably cry or get the shivers at one point every time.

Songs: Swollen by Bent
This song combines so many of my favorites: piano, electronica, breathy vocals, abstract lyrics, and real sounds. Here are the lyrics.

With you in my garden
its more peaceful inside
I don’t need anything else
to make me feel alive

You electrify me
And I want to be in your arms
for always
for always

Our love is swollen
Made of the quietest shade of loud
Holds me like an anchor
Floats just like a cloud

I don’t know why I love creative usage of language. But it seems to remove me from the ordinary, and maybe that seems to me to be more communicative of something personal and less hegemonic.

Book: The Human Stain
The reason I hesitate to put this one in is because I read The Plot Against America, and it was trash. Terrible book. This book, however, twists and turns and always surprises. But even better, it doesn’t do this for plot, it does it to create meaning. A wonderful work on race, sex, nationality, and ultimately personhood. It changed the way I thought about presenting myself and how society’s views about me a(e?)ffects that presentation.

Movie: 2001: A SpaceOdysseyy
I love this movie because it breaks down so many normative film scripts. Beyond that, I like the theme of tools, and how we use them (violence at first), and then how our tools eventually become violent towards us (HAL–which I’m all sure you know is IBM but one letter back on each of the initialism). For me, this film raises issues of consciousness. What does it mean to be alive? Is HAL alive? As HAL says when he is being disconnected, I can feel it, I’m afraid. Is there something beyond what we understand in the universe? Is there a transcendence? Is it in space, or is it within us like a star-baby? Blah blah blah. Sorry for being so boring.

Anyway, that’s it. Hope that everyone is having an EXCELLENT Tuesday. And for clarification sake, my concerns with anonymity in no way reflect the all too common “are you real” question, which I think is so boring. I don’t give a flying fuck if you think I’m real. In fact, I think it would be quite fascinating if you didn’t. I don’t think about if my favorite bloggers are real. I read the blogs. The blogs are the blogs. Not people. It’s all about perception, and I think it’s more interesting to think about authenticity in the sense of why it is important and what it means rather than running around calling people liars and fakes. Yawn…nuff ranting.

And a special shoutout to Persian Guy over at DryFreeLean or Way Beyond the Pale. Love your blog, and thank you so much for your kindness. It’s greatly appreciated.

There’s too much caffeine in my bloodstream, and lack of real spice in my life.

I’m at the sit ‘n’ spin. I’m sitting, and what I’ve brought is spinning. The covers to new chairs that my partner purchased is what I’ve brought.

We had a chair before, and my partner bought the chair from some friends who had a cat. This cat must have found the chair irresistible because now our cats will not leave it alone. Apparently, cats have scent glands that mark items they scratch. Most likely that means our cats are trying to cover up that scent because they don’t scratch any other furniture. We’ve decided that after some months/years of abuse, the chair needs to be retired. Perhaps to be reborn.

We went chair shopping yesterday, and it’s always amazing to me how expensive the furniture is that I like. So after browsing some stores with chairs averaging around $1600, I saw two chairs that looked identical to our current chair in a shop front window. They were in a thrift store; however, they also seemed relatively unused.

After a quick inspection, my partner decides we need both. Why? Beats me. In any case, at $30 a pop, I was just glad he was considering them. I’m a cheap bastard. I also warned him that we should only get one chair because two would not fit in the pussymobile. 10 minutes later I wished I hadn’t been right. My partner tried to squeeze the chairs in, but afterwards, the tint on the car windows were all torn up like a fisting bottom. Eventually, one chair hung out of the trunk secured solely by a bungee cord, the other squeezed in the back seat. The drive home consisted of my hyperventilating while imagining a fatal pile-up on Mission Street caused by a mysterious renegade chair. This, thankfully, did not happen.

At home, my partner decided to dye the seat covers, and I am writing this as they dry. (No, we didn’t dye them at the Laundromat…Just what kind of girl do you think I am!?) This weekend, unlike last, has been spent cultivating my inner grandmother browsing in craft stores and picking out paint. Which brings me to the second part of this post–stores I am beginning to loathe.

–JoAnn Fabrics. I cannot even being to tell you how many hours I have stood around at this store–rubbing fabrics between my fingers. The sad part is that the fabrics never seem to change. Hell, they are even the same in different states. The only enjoyable part of this store is the dirty looks from older disapproving women. Yet the close proximity of this JoAnn’s to SF deprives me even of that pleasure.

–Home depot. Unfortunately, I now know my way around this store all too well. In Denver, these stores were very cruisy, but here they are just insanely busy. One thing I do like is the Zep cleaning products. They probably aren’t environmentally safe, but I can’t resist things that promise to burn off your skin.

–Michael’s. While this store isn’t as bad as some, it is overpriced. I don’t have too many complaints about this one except that the selections are usually small (but why should I care? It’s my partner who is shopping, not me).

–Best Buy. Nice prices, but I’m sick of being here.

As you can probably tell, as on many weekends before, we went to all of these places. I guess that I just missed out on the fix-up-you-place sequence in the gay gene.

On a brighter note, we visited a dairy queen for probably the first time in 10 months. I remain unimpressed, but I’m sure something will draw me back. There’s nothing there I particularly like. No wait, what I really miss is the Holiday Peppermint Candy Chocolate Blizzard. And yet I’m quite sure I could make the equivalent at home.

Why are my weekends filled with suburban shopping excursions? Frugality? Boredom? Codependency? Malaise? No joie de vivre? Perhaps. But maybe it is the suburban ghost of my past that although not being enjoyable is familiar. And in that familiarity is some modicum of comfort.

Bad Weeds in the Waffle Batter

I’m on Bad Weeds again! Listen to this delicious content. It’s episode number 163. Also available through i-tunes. I’m a bit caustic, and offensive, but hey, maybe that’s just me.

And on a side note, I’d like to say welcome to my partners blog: Memoirs of Gay Chia. Check it out and give him the love he isn’t getting at home (if you know what I’m saying).

prostate exams by trans docs on men with stds

So, I’m beginning to think more about anonymity and blogging. In the past little while two of my favorite reads have had difficulty with the work/blog connection. I’m just starting, and I wonder how to really balance this. In some ways, I think it’s so stupid. People are regular people, but when you interview for a job, you are supposed to be some super-human with zero problems and the best work ethic ever. I know I’m not a super-human. I’m definitely no Übermensch. A snippet on that from Wikipedia (not that I’m a huge Nietzsche fan or anything):

1. By his will to power, manifested creatively in overcoming nihilism and re-evaluating old ideals or creating new ones.
2. By his will to power, manifested destructively in the rejection of, and rebellion against, societal ideals and moral codes.
3. By a continual process of self-overcoming.

I do try. I feel it’s my desire to be that existential saint. But in some ways, I feel like one of the ideas I want to throw off is this public/private self that society demands. But I fear I just can’t risk it. I’m working on number three the most I suppose.

Along this line, most people have heard of Cirque Noir, where there is this scene where a guy is topping some other guy, and then it’s revealed that it’s a strap on, and the guy is really a FTM. I knew about it and just had to see it. And I admit, it’s helping me get over my squeamishness about female anatomy. It’s just a variation. Just like I feel we all are. And we should be valued for who we are. Not because we’re just like heterosexuals, or corporate drones, or happy husbands, but because we are valuable individuals that have something to contribute of ourselves. I don’t mean that ideas that many people subscribe to are more valid, but that I try to look for what I truly believe, and then implement that in my life. I wonder how many people really do.