Everyday Heroes: David Berube

When I tell folks that a year after we ended our relationship, I still live with my ex-boyfriend, almost to a person their mouths fall open and they ask, "Ummm how does THAT work."

I explain that our relationship didn't end because we didn't love each other or because there was some giant meltdown, it ended because it had changed into a deep and meaningful kinship that was no longer best suited by being boyfriends. We made a choice to continue living together and to be family to one another, and while, in the first few months, things were sometimes rocky, it is a loving home that we share, with Mimzy, and it works for us.

I done told y'all before I am a quarter lesbian on my Mom's side.

The fact is that David is permanently and forever a part of my life. He has seen and supported and loved me through some intensely hard times in my life, some created by me, others that the Universe brought along. And while it hasn't always been pretty, it has always been loving, and I have been able, I think, to give back that love and support in equal measure.

Most recently, though, when starting my HIV medications, David was, in fact, amazing....supporting me through some really rough patches when I was angry and sad and hurting. He supported me through the side effects and gentle and caring on the mornings when I just couldn't sleep because of my medication.

We bicker like little old ladies in a nursing home. His trumpet farts in the morning work my last nerve, and I think his recipe for cooking salmon is just plain wrong, but he is one of my Everyday Heroes. I love him. I value him. And I thank him for being a part of my life for the last four years and letting me be a part of his.

Love you, Fool.

 

Volunteer Positive: Changing Lives in Chiang Mai

For those of you that have had a chance to pick up a copy of my book, It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt (available in paperback or e-book), then you will have had a chance to see the amazing artwork of David Berube.

David is a working artist in New York that received his training from the Columbus College of Art and Design, and is a fantastic printmaking and illustrator. He also has a passion for international travel and has spent significant time traveling and creating art in Southeast Asia.

After returning from his latest trip through China, Cambodia, Laos, and Thailand, David reminded me of a program that had come to my attention a few months ago called Volunteer Positive. Volunteer Positive brings together HIV positive volunteers around the globe to work in communities impacted by HIV and AIDS. The program is designed to provide HIV positive and allied individuals with a chance to do meaningful international volunteer work.

The Volunteer Positive program states as its purpose:

Volunteer Positive seeks to create a world where people living with HIV can openly serve as international volunteers promoting a global culture of understanding and acceptance through person to person diplomacy.

Volunteer Positive seeks to fight stigma by highlighting the power and efficacy of the HIV affected community.

Volunteer Positive seeks to provide a strong and vibrant image of empowered and self-sustaining HIV long term survivors using their health, passion, and compassion to transform the lives of others.

Volunteer Positive seeks to work with other international volunteer sending organizations to expand awareness of the contributions of people living with HIV.

David will be traveling to Chiang Mai, Thailand where he will be working with a variety of projects including:

the most recognized and respected NGO's in the region. These include and HIV education groups run by Buddhist Monks, a program for HIV orphaned Thai children, LGBT advocacy groups, Arts organizations, refugees from neighboring Burma, HIV+ community support networks, primary and secondary schools, sex worker education facilities, 3rd gender communities, and public health facilities that serve those living with the virus. Each volunteer will be matched with a specific placement, and in addition will also participate in group service work as many different NGO's come together for the benefit of the community.

In addition, every volunteer will receive cultural training that highlights language, culture and current issues in HIV impacting the region. This is an amazing opportunity, but it doesn't come without a cost.

David has already raised 2/3rds of the roughly $4,000 in costs associated with the program, and he has about $1,000 left to go. He is relying on our community to support him in doing this work, which, in his own admission, is a big and transformational step in his own life and work. It is amazing, frightening, and exciting. Let's all help make sure that David can do this work, which is as important for him as it will be for the lives with which he will have a chance to interact.

You can make a personal contribution to David's trip and work through Paypal by sending a donation directly to his account at cutdart@yahoo.com. You can also mail him a check directly by check. And, to sweeten the pot, David will be sending artwork to those that are able to contribute to his trip.

Please consider supporting David and his Volunteer Positive trip...$20 may be a single meal out for you, but it would mean the world to him.

POETRY: Resuscitation by Any Means Necessary

This poem was inspired by the following people: Keith Stiles, David Berube, Kenyon Farrow, Ashe Helm-Hernandez, Paulina Helm-Hernandez, and all my nieces and nephews especially the children of Rodrigo Sanchez-Chavarria and Nubia Esparza.

Resuscitation by Any Means Necessary

I. The Wedding

They gave me life
with their “I do,”
filled the room with satyagraha
Soul Power
and soul food
filled the spirits of the congregation of the community
unity behind this most holy union
Africa and Mexico joined in beloved matrimony
a bond we will help them hold
as they have held us
loved us
gave us life
in that old deep Southern style
sweet like cornbread ought to be
sustenance that we can feel
joy that we have seen
like the prophet said, “If we can't love and resist at the same time, we probably won't survive”
they gave us survival

II. The Murder

He gave life
to Troy Davis
brought him back from the dead
just a few days after Georgia killed him
He said, “Black bodies and innocence are an oxymoron.”
We done passed the point of righteous indignation
this nation has a place for us: prison, the streets, a box in the ground
He holds us down, keeps us real, gives words to the rage we feel
when we lose another black brother
to white supremacy
watch another lynching
on cable tv
this one done with a needle instead of a rope
but don't get it twisted
September 2l, 2011 was a good old Jim Crow picnic
while we ate, they set another nigger to swingin'
so this minister of the people spoke out
He gave us back Troy's spirit
raised his voice to almighty God
and gave us the key to our own redemption


III. The First Responder

He gave me life
that night in Central Park
Bethesda watched over me
kept me close
in the darkness
wrapped her wings around me
held me
until He could arrive
His voice got to me first
from above, like an angel
He came for me
a single phone call
a ten digit 9-1-1
and He was there
must have ran
the 10 blocks and two avenues
to get to me
before the paranoia could take me
it wouldn't be the last time
He saved my life

IV. The Family

They give me life
remind me with giggles, Skype messages
video recorded Glee covers
why I fight the fights I fight
it's not just for me but to see
a day when babies don't have to be taught swordplay
in the cradle
and the hurdles we've leaped over
will be dismantled
shackles hacked off
so that the ones that call me Uncle
and Tia (Aunty)
can dance (and giggle)
until this life is over
never knowing police brutality
or the need to Occupy Wall Street
those precious little feet will walk in Heaven
on Earth
give birth to little revolutionaries
with no need for a revolution
but who will stand love watch
over us all

V. The Puma

He gives me life
in the Thunder Cat mornings
Panthero and Liono
greeting the dawn in each others arms
He sees me as I am
and as I may one day be
believes in me
like I could part the sea
if I put my mind to it
sees beyond the modern day leprosy
understands my reality
but wouldn't let HIV
keep his love from me
it's humbling
the way he holds me against the sky
I fly when I am with him
I live when I am with him
I live
He gives me life
they give me life
I live
I LIVE.

On the Eve of Turning 34....

Hot diggity damn, I feel like I was celebrating my 21st birthday just last year. The venerable and now passed on director of the advising program where I was working as a student, Dr. Guillermo Rojas, took me out with the other staff for drinks and, silly viejo, doubted that I could drink a blow job shot with my hands behind my back.

Straight men are so silly sometimes. Sleep well Profe Rojas!

Back then I was a twinky homo living in Minneapolis, finishing up undergrad, and dreaming of one day marrying a strapping man with an ass and penis that would make the Greeks cry, writing books, changing the world, taking care of my friends and family, and living a life to make my Mama and them proud (and all the while eating well and looking good doing it).

I'll be Hot Diggity Damned if I ain't well on my way.

The last 13 years have brought all kinds of ups and downs, changes, dramas, hurts, mistakes, BIG mistakes, BIGGER mistakes, friendships, friends lost, friends and family died and moved on, loves, break ups, lessons learned and lessons re-learned, tons of laughter, tons of healing, some wounding and wound taking, and some life shattering events on a personal and global scale.

I turned 21 in 1998. It was at the height of the 90s prosperity. Clinton was still in the White House. The interwebs was making 21 year olds into overnight billionaires, poor people were poor but richer than poor folks had ever been before, cars were getting bigger, the economy was getting bigger, and I was growing up amongst prosperity and in a cohort of radical queer organizers that helped me believe anything at all was possible.

In the meantime we've had two and a half wars, eight years of GW Bush, the first black president, a recessions almost as big as the Great Depression, an oil crisis, an integrity crisis, and one hell of a collective identity crisis.

But through it all, I have been blessed to know and grow and love and be loved by so many amazing people. And tomorrow I celebrate my 34th birthday and the release of my first book, written with my former partner and friend David Berube (it includes 20 of his prints): It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt.

Life brings many blessings and many lessons. It's brought me amazing family, amazing friends, and amazing loved ones new and old (am happy to have a new blessing in the body of Keith in my life as well).

Thanks to you all that have helped make this journey possible. I love you!
It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't HurtIt Ain't Truth If It Doesn't HurtIt Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt

It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt. Buy It Now!

Four years ago, I got an email from an old college friend by the name of Maureen McDole. Maureen, her husband, and a couple other folks had started a new, small press in Florida called Summerfolk, and Maureen wanted to know if I would be interested in submitting a poetry manuscript for consideration for publication.

Does a carriage horse shit in the street?

oOf course, I said yes. It took me about a year to get my act together to get a manuscript to the editors, and in the meantime I met the man I would eventually be with for the next three years. On meeting David, and seeing his art work, I asked him if he would consider a collaboration with me on the book. Twenty poems matched with 20 of his lino cut prints from his Face A Day series. He said yes. The publishers said yes. And so, the concept that would become the book, It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt, was born.

The last three years have been a wild ride of love, war, growth, change, hurt, loss, pain, and healing. Gabriel Garling with Summerfolk Press designed a fantastic book, but, the economic reality of the times is that the press, a labor of love, has been put on hold due to the recession. Unfortunately that meant that the good people at Summerfolk couldn't print our book.

Enter Sven Davisson at Rebel Satori Press.

About a year ago, I realized that I was well on my way to writing my first novel. By August of last year, I had a good 100 or so pages written. My friends Emanuel Xavier and Charlie Vazquez were both being published by the Queer Mojo imprint of Rebel Satori Press. I asked them if they would put in a good word with their publisher for me. He asked to see a sample of the novel and a synposis. I obliged. He obliged me by giving my a contract for my first novel, Eden Lost, which will be out later this Fall (YES BETTY TISEL I AM WORKING ON THE DANG REVISIONS!). In May, Sven descended from his mighty mountain eyrie in Maine to attend the book release party for Emanuel Xavier's latest project, Me No Hablo con Acento, and I had a chance to meet and hang out with Sven. I mentioned, in passing, that I had this completed manuscript that I was considering self-publishing. Sven gave me complete side eye and said, "No, no. Send it to me. If I like it, I will publish it."

Sven liked it. Sven published it. You can order it right now. Help a broke writer be less broke and do yourself a favor...get an amazing book with poetry and art that is, in my humble opinion, amazing. But don't just take my word for it. Take their words too:

"Brandon Lacy Campos is an important poet that doesn't cut corners and doesn't compromise. His work is vivid, jagged, and it takes up space in the most beautiful way. To invest time in getting familiar with his poetry is to invest in vitality. I hope this is just the first shout to announce the arrival of his chorus." -Bao Phi, author of Song I Sing.

"Brandon Lacy Campos is a word thief of the best and brightest kind, pilfering from “a corrupt system that must fall/If we’re ever to have liberty and justice for all.” These scathing, impassioned poems kick up stars dragged along asphalt—with outlandish sass, old-time funk, and a hot, ever-shimmying soul that could teach the stiffest otherness in anyone more than a few things about its most generous self." Ed Bok Lee, best selling author of Real Karaoke People.

"Brandon Lacy Campos is part tomahawk thrower and part philosopher, a fresh voice of queer rebellion, an outsider talking of revolution, avenging exploitation. The stinging lashes on a slave’s back, the mystical incantations of native medicine men, the curiosities of an innocent white child and the cultural bisection of a bilingual Latino—these are the things he sees, as these are the things he is. These poems are monuments to the victims of abuse, to the splendor of visionary queer consciousness—to true America." Charlie Vázquez, fiction writer, blogger and host of the queer East Village reading series, PANIC!, author of Contraband and co-editor of From Macho to Mariposa: New Gay Latino Fiction (get this book too! It includes an excerpt from Eden Lost).


You can buy your copy of It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt, today!

Hudson Valley Seed Library Art in New York City

Just over a year ago, my partner David hitched a ride with our good friend Karlo Colon about an hour and a half north of the city to hang out with the folks from the Hudson Valley Seed Library. The Hudson Valley Seed Library is a great organization that each year makes available heirloom seeds to the public. But instead of packaging the seeds in any old seed packets, the seeds are sold in packets with original artwork done by regional artists, and it just so happens that this year my partner was chosen as one of the artists.

Each fall, the Seed Library hosts an art exhibit where the original prints can be viewed and purchased. This year, there will also be an exhibit of 2011 artwork at the Horticultural Society of New York. Don't miss this opportunity to see amazing work by local artists.



Contemporary Heirlooms:
Art from the Hudson Valley Seed Library
December 9 - 23, 2010

Opening Reception: Thursday, December 9th, from 6:30 to 8:00pm

The Horticultural Society of New York is pleased to present Contemporary Heirlooms: Art from the Hudson Valley Seed Library as part of its continuing exhibitions program featuring plant-based art.

The exhibition showcases for the first time in New York City original artworks commissioned by the Hudson Valley Seed Library for their unique Art Pack seed collection. Each season, the Seed Library looks for a diverse range of artists to interpret the herbs, flowers and vegetables from their catalog for the designs of their seed packets. The focus this year was on the heirloom varieties currently available through the Seed Library. All sixteen artworks from the 2011 collection will be on view. Drawing from a range of different styles, materials, and experience, Contemporary Heirlooms includes works in a variety of mediums, including collage, encaustics, oil, ink, watercolor and digital art by a diverse selection of artists.

The Art Packs were established to celebrate the beauty of heirloom gardening in New York. The collection is part of a long tradition of art in the Hudson Valley, stretching back to the Hudson River School in the 19th Century. In addition to being a vital region for food production, the region continues to be home to many artists. The diversity of the artwork and artists chosen is meant to reflect the genetic and cultural diversity of the varieties offered by the Seed Library and is emblematic of the region.

Founded in 2007 by Ken Greene and Doug Muller, and based in Accord, NY, the Hudson Valley Seed Library aims to create an accessible and affordable source of regionally-adapted seeds that is maintained by a community of caring farmers and gardeners. The Seed Library is member-driven and led by a simple principle: the 700 members receive seeds each spring and then are encouraged to return the seeds from the mature plants in the fall. Sold to the public, the 130 heirloom seeds varieties are divided into two categories: the "Library Packs", which include seeds grown locally by the Library members; and the "Garden Packs", which are seeds bought from wholesalers. By 2014, the Seed Library hopes that they will be able to exclusively sell locally grown seed.

The art from the Seed Library collection has been exhibited in various locations throughout the Hudson Valley, including: Kingston Museum of Contemporary Art, Kingston; Roos Arts, Rosendale; Kaaterskill Fine Arts Gallery, Hunter; and the Gardiner Library, Gardiner. The Hudson Valley Seed Library has been featured in Martha Stewart Living and Margaret Roach's blog, A Way to Garden. Most recently, The New York Times ran a feature article and profile on the Seed Library and their mission to grow, save and share New York's heirloom varieties.

A Preview Party, hosted by Great Performances & Katchkie Farm, will be held on Thursday, December 9th, from 5:00 to 6:30pm. Signed limited print editions of the original artworks will be for sale during the opening and throughout the exhibition, along with seed packs and framed Art Packs.

The Horticultural Society of New York is the premier resource center for all things horticultural in New York City. Through a broad array of unique educational, vocational, and therapeutic programs, resources and exhibitions, The Hort brings together plant and gardening experts and enthusiasts to share knowledge, exchange information, and take part in activities that enhance environmental and cultural life in New York. The exhibition program combines an innovative curatorial approach with a unique gallery space to showcase emerging and established artists in all media who are inspired by the natural world.

The Gallery at The Horticultural Society of New York is free and open to the public Monday to Friday, from 12 to 6pm. For further information, please visit www.hsny.org or contact Chris Murtha at 212-757-0915 x121 or cmurtha@hsny.org.
For more information about the Hudson Valley Seed Library, please contact Ken Greene at 845-626-4910 or ken@seedlibrary.org.

POETRY: A Birthday Poem for David

Today is David's 46th birthday. If I were a rich man, I would have bought him a gorgeous artist studio on a lake where he could escape to make beautiful things.

I am not a rich man, but I can always write.

Happy Birthday baby. Love you.

A Birthday Poem for David

I love you
Like the morning loves the dawn
Brilliantly
Yet slowly
My love rises
Each morning
Like a fresh day
A little brighter
No matter the weather

I love you
Like the sea loves the shore
Kisses it gently
Steadily
Washes over it
To smooth away worry
To calm it
To change it
Just a little
As the two change
With each other

I love you
Like the Moon loves the night sky
Sometimes silently like the new moon
Sometimes brightly like the full moon
Never waxing or waning
Steadily
Like the tide
We push each other
To reach for the stars
To touch the face of heaven

I love you
More than yesterday
Less than tomorrow
Just right for right now
Sometimes it feels like it is too much
But the heart can grow
As much as love can
Getting stronger
Day by day
Steadily
I love you.

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-September 12, 2010
-New York. NY

Fucked Up Day

This morning I woke up feel pretty shitty after having had drinks at Therapy last night with a couple of friends. I wasn't hung over. I had just a couple of cosmos, and I ate some greasy calamari while watching Brad Loekle terrorize some straight man during Electroshock Therapy, Therapy's weekly comedy show.

I didn't realize that it wasn't my stomach that was feeling shitty, it was my spirit.

In reverse order here is why today pretty much tops the Shittiest Day of All Time list.

1.) About a month ago, I got locked out of my apartment, couldn't rouse anyone, and so I checked into a hotel down the block from my house. The room was outrageous at $300 and some change plus tax. But it was either that or sleep on the street. Today, after reviewing the credit card statement, it turns out that the new girl working at the desk at the hotel double or triple charged the room, as the charge came up to $1,076. David, understandably, was fairly furious.

2.) I took out some cash day before yesterday to help out a family member. The ATM machine charged us double. So I got out $200 for the price of $400. David got more angry.

3.) This morning one of my best friends who also happens to be my ex-boyfriend decided to remove himself from this life permanently. His Father found him and called us as my ex's current boyfriend has been staying with us for a few days from Virginia.

What an awesome way to start off my vacation week. This day fucking sucks. I feel disconnected from everything at the moment. The sound of people talking literally sounds like it is coming to me through an echo chamber. The sound of my own voice sounds desperately cheap to me. Two out of the three items above are consequences of my own stupidity, machine error, or human error. We don't have the money to lose, but, more importantly, I shouldn't have lost my friend.

I think I am so angry that I can't feel shit. Even writing this is like I am sitting inside of a small cubicle somewhere in the back of my brain directing an over sized human shaped plush stuffed toy to do this typing. Mimzy is chewing her food in the kitchen, and it sounds what I would imagine a giant mechanical pig would sound like as the pieces crunch and then hit its stomach with little pings.

Oh yes, and to top it all off, I got visited by what I assume to have been Chris' ghost. No, I am not losing it, yet. But I was laying in the bed, and I woke up because someone stomped through the bedroom on the way to the kitchen. I hate it when David wears shoes in the house because he pretty much clod hops through the house as if he is marching to war. So, I figured that he was doing his usual house drills. I looked up from the bed, and in the TV, I could see the reflection of someone moving back and forth in the kitchen. I thought David was leaving to go somewhere, so I shouted out to him. The figure in the reflection stopped moving. The only problem was that David was in the studio which is in a room, through a door, BEHIND the television. David came into the bedroom to tell me that he was there. And when I looked up the figure in the TV was gone.

If there was a 911 to call for drama, I would have picked up the phone.

I am trying to make as much sense out of this as possible. Actually, that is a goddamn lie. I am avoiding actually thinking about any of this. I feel as if a force shield has come down somewhere between my heart and my rib cage. Another one has wrapped itself around my brain, sort of like shrink wrap or those shrinky dinks you used to put in the oven as a kid. And another one has carved itself into the space around my body just above my skin. I want to care about what's happening right now. I want to care about Peace in the Middle East, Haiti, Greenhouse emissions and LeBron James, but I can't. I am taking a break from reality. I'll let you know when I get back.

The Being of Facebook

There was a time when I felt that I was surrounded by brilliant individuals, and I wondered how it was that they came up with the ideas, thoughts, and reflections that I heard them speaking. I was once a member of a group called Visions Collective, which was a multi-racial/multi-gender/age diverse/sexuality diverse cohort of organizers/artists/academics. Some of the most brilliant people from the Twin Cities made up this group, and for almost four years we met on a regular basis, struggling together on a range of issues that began with the Israel/Palestine conflict and covered everything from war to sexuality. One of the most beautiful things about that group was that we permissioned ourselves to let the journey and the discussion be the outcome without requiring any tangible product. Growth, challenge, synthesis, confrontation, and conflict were the products and they were valued. But, even as a core member of that group, I felt like a fraud. The rest of the folks in the group seemed as if they thought deep thoughts and spent their waking hours dreaming up a better world. It seemed that their brains were always at work behind their eyelids.

I have never been a great thinker. I have always been a feeler and have let my emotions guide my tongue. Often I didn't know what I believed until I heard others espouse their beliefs. I would let their statements feed my emotions and based on my reactions to what others were saying, I came to an understanding of whether or not I agreed or disagreed. And my thought process started when I opened my mouth. And though others found value in what I was saying, I always felt like a charlatan. I didn't sit at home and think about the issues of the day. I didn't and rarely do now, ponder anything. But I am always feeling, there are always shifting morphing tides inside of me that, from time to time, erupt into a thought or idea that I spill out onto this blog, into an editorial, an article or in some other written format. Now and again I find myself in spaces that I once thrived in, those groups of great thinkers that are still trying to figure this world out and make it a better place, and in those places I am given the gift of being able to think out loud.

I have come to understand, though, that now adays my regular engagement with thinkers and philosophers, artists and academics is through the medium of Facebook. Folks like Staceyann Chin often pose questions that provoke long "conversations," artist like Isauro Cairo post photographs that stimulate everything from inquiry to outrage to lust and force me to rethink myself as a man, as queer, as an artist and my relationship to my body, masculinity, and desire.

And I don't feel as if I am a charlatan anymore.

I feel as if I am constantly surrounded by people that think deep thoughts and feel deep feelings, and I have come to understand that I think through feelings. Like an ant, which uses a complicated set of scents to communicate information and ideas, my body mass produces layers and layers of feelings that, in my own internal language, translate themselves into ideas and positions on myself and the world around me. And the world around me and myself seem to become more and more connected.

I find myself drawn, without judgment or expectation, to amazing new and exciting people from my partner David to my colleague Bill Martin, and all through a medium that allows me to engage with the little cues and stories that they tell, sometimes with intention and other times subconsciously, through the things that they post and the glimpses that they share into their lives, likes, dislikes, pains, discomforts, art, and celebrations. And I find myself, on a daily basis, falling in desire, lust, intellectual rapport, extreme distaste, hate, and downright rejection with people that I often do not know or only know through a small picture through a tiny window made up of fancy coding and ones and zeros on a commercial networking site.

But I know that so often the connections I have made in the real world are deepened through the online interactions, and I have made significant and meaningful connections that began as online admiration (or down right flirting) and transformed into real life friends and lovers. And throughout it all I have come to learn more about myself as a thinker and feeler, more about myself as an artist, and more about the world in which we live and the people that are also out there trying to make sense of it all.

Doggy Style

I am totally, absolutely, totally, head over heels in love...with a dog.

Her name is Mimzy, and she is the boss of me.

About six weeks ago, David and I were talking about how we missed having a dog around the house. David spent hours flipping through webpages on Jack Russell Terrier adoption sites. One day, he sent me a picture of this little face staring up at me out of a red blanket. I was frickin' hooked. I ran into the studio, and I told David that this was our girl.

We took the train to Central Connecticut, and then we borrowed David's Dad's truck and drove to Boston on a rainy day when I had the flu in order to get our new girl, Mimzy.

It has been a love affair since then. Now, I know I am biased as a parent, but literally people stop us on the street because she is so damn cute. She has unusual markings for a JRT, and she is basically so laid back that sometimes I wonder if she's dead. She is generally ridiculously delicate and very inquisitive...actually at the moment she was sniffing the cacti in the window sill.

She is also smart as hell.

So she hates/loves the canned air bottles I have and use to clean my keyboard. But it's not just the cans she flips out about. If the can is sitting by itself on the shelf in her view, she is absolutely ok with it. She knows that the can isn't a threat unless I touch it. But let my hand stray near the can or touch it, and she loses her mind. And she does one of two things: She either snaps at my hand OR she grabs the can of air via the straw attached to the nozzle and drags it away from me. She does the same thing with the self-inking address stamp I have for work. As a matter of fact, yesterday, I looked over my desk and she was on the bookshelf. She grabbed the stamper, very softly, dragged it onto her sleeping pallet, and stood over it looking at me as if it dare me to try and touch it.

I got nipped in the man titty today for teasing her with the spray can. Mimzy ain't no joke.

In the last couple of weeks her personality has really come through. She is sweet and playful. She's a trickster, and she is a lover. And she has totally captured my heart and the heart of Michael Urie the dude that plays Mark on Ugly Betty. He hasn't more than nodded in my direction but when Mimzy enters the dog park, he is all about her royal cuteness.

She Puts the Amour in Glamour

Nea Marshall is more man than most men on this planet could even dream of being. Bebe Zahara Benet is more woman than the most voluptuous, femme, fierce glamor puss born with a vagina. Together, Bebe and Nea make up one of the most brilliant, beautiful, geniune, sweet, kind, fierce and loving people I have had the honor to meet.

Last night, David and I, after trekking to the Upper West Side to hang out with our friend Jack, and then shooting down to the East Village for gongyo with Oshen, hauled our cookies to ther Lower East Side (after a side trip to SoHo due to my poor navigation skills) for a fundraiser to celebrate the work of Ru Paul's Drag Race winner and Minnesota drag legend, Bebe Zahara Benet. We arrived to the event about a half an hour later than I expected, both of us were soaked due to the ridiculous Noahian rainstorm that had homosexuals marching two by two down Spring Street, and David was in a foul mood...cuz sugar melts in the rain and that one is sweet from crown to toe jam. And I had a cold sore forming on my lip that made me look like Oscar De La Hoya after Tito Trinidad used his jaw as a stress reliever.

We arrived to find a chic club filled with lovers and fans of Bebe. We checked in, and I had dollars ready in my hand, only to discover that Nea had put David and I and our friends on the guest list. Talk about feeling like a rock star at a party full of A Listers. Eat your heart out Kathy Griffin. The woman at the door informed me that one of my friends had arrived, and we scooted inside to find Natasha full up on the free wine from Barefoot (one of the amazing sponsors of the party). Tash had brought a gaggle of friends out to support Bebe (at least five), and for that I love her love her love her.

Now I have told David that I am known for my punctuality, and he never seems to believe me. So, when we walked in late, Tasha was about to have a fit, and the first thing out of her mouth was, "Ummm you are NEVER late. I thought your roommate had gone crazy and took an axe to you." I smiled triumphantly, and instead of assuring her I was just fine and that Jason Voorhies hadn't tried to take me out, I made her repeat her statement about my gift of punctuality to David.

I convinced her that the Dark One hadn't tried to shank us on our way out of the house. She then told me that she had met Bebe, they had bonded as kindred black girls, and then she told me I was to march directly back to the dressing room and present myself to the Lady of CamerOOOOOOOOOOOn.

I walked back, with David in tow, and squealed with joy as Bebe (all 19 feet of her) jumped up and gave me a hug and kiss. I introduced her to David, and the first thing she said was, "Why are you late? You are never late. You had us worried."

I turned a wicked smile on David and said nothing. It was enough to bask in my moment of triumphant glory.

We kissed Bebe again, and left to watch the show. Let me tell you it was BRILLIANT. Bebe is so damned elegant, such a great performer, and has such a wonderous story. So many people connect with her from some many different life paths, that it is amazing to watch an ethnic rainbow crowd scream, cheer, and clap for this amazing African immigrant.

The MC for the night was the fantastic Mimi Imfurst, who also threw down in the performance arena. But the crowning moment of the night was when Bebe took the stage and spoke to the audience. Bebe spoke from the heart about her experience as a performer, about the love she has given and recieved from her fans, and about the movie that is being done about her life. It is important to note that this documentary has been in the works (and filmed) for three years. It just so happens that Bebe won Drag Race during this time period, in all truth that was icing on the cake of her necessary documentary. In the film, she explores what it means to be a performer, a drag queen, a black man, an African immigrant, and a Cameroonian. She spoke of the need to understand the realities of queer folks in Africa, of the struggles of faith and family, and of the need to hear, again, from Drag Queens...gender queers...the people that are so often reviled yet have so often LED our movement (GOD BLESS SYLVIA RIVERA).

And she needs our help.


The film is almost completed. They are moving into the final phase of post production and final shoots. Over the next six months, the documentarian, a sweet and beautiful woman by the name of Emily Branham, will be working to finish the film and raise the $25,000 needed to get it done the right way. So many of us watched Drag Race and cheered Bebe on. The room last night was filled with fans and folks that clapped and loved her performance. Bebe has given everything to us. It is TIME for us to give back. Please give a gift to the non-profit organization that is making this film. Your gift is FULLY tax deductible. You can give online to Fractured Atlas (the folks making the film) by clicking here. For those of you that have deep pockets and the means to give in a larger way, anyone that gives a $1,000 or more will be listed in the film credits as an Associate Producer. I personally plan on giving $75-$150 a month, each month, for the next six months to support this film and Bebe's work. As a queer person of color, I NEED to see and hear the voices of people from MY community that LOOK like me that SOUND like me that KNOW what it means to move through this world as a person of color that is queer. I want queer brown kids not yet born to have a piece of their stories present and available in a way that our stories, right now, are not. If you watched Drag Race. If you cheered Bebe on. If you have been to a live show at the Town House in St. Paul or the Gay 90s in Minneapolis. If you have seen her this summer on her Absolut Vodka Pride tour. If her life, her story, or her art has touched your life. PLEASE GIVE TODAY.

I love you Nea Marshall. Thank you for the gift of joy, beauty, and realness you bring to our lives.

To see a trailer for the film, The World Needs A Bebe, please click on this link.

A Little Bit About Me

My gal pal Divine Grace sent me one of these ridiculous questionairres via Facebook. Her answers were, well, hilarious. I figures since 1) it's nice sometimes to share a bit about myself with my readers that isn't angry or overly deep, and 2) I am exhausted after playing gay softball from 8am until about 12pm and then working out for an additional two hours, and 3) since I just made and ate a kick ass dinner, and 4) I am lazy as hell, I thought I would repost the survey I answered right here.

By the way...Divine has an amazing blog that is so so wrong yet oh so damn right. Click on her picture, and it will, like the song, take you there.

So here it is, the survey Miss Divine sent my way. Thanks Sugar...you owe me 20 minutes of my life that was sucked into a great Survey Hell Vortex.


1. What time did you get up this morning? 7:32am

2. How do you like your steak? If it isn't still mooing it's overcooked.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (I vomited 15 times during the movie)

4. What is your favorite TV show? Is that the box with the moving pictures that tells me stories?

5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be? In the land where Rivers are made of cosmopolitans and lakes are filled with fried chicken and collard greens.

6. What did you have for breakfast? A banana...big...thick....long...

7. What is your favorite cuisine? Hmmmmmmmm I love NOOOOODLES. Thai, Vietnamese, but not Chinese...too short.

8. What foods do you dislike? Dirt.

9. Favorite Place to Eat? (I almost peed myself at Divine's response to this one)...preferrable at the kitchen table.

10. Favorite dressing? Creamy Italian...or a Creamy Puerto Rican.

11.What kind of vehicle do you drive? I don't think riding the subway counts as driving.

12. What are your favorite clothes? If it doesn't have a hole in the crotch and soy sauce stains on it...I'm good.

13. Where would you visit if you had the chance? Uranus or any anus for that matter.

14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full? I prefer to take my fluids intravenuously.

15. Where would you want to retire? By the time I am old enough to retire...the retirement age will have been raised to "dead."

16. Favorite time of day? Dawn/Dusk...it's when the vampires know to wake up and go to bed.

17. Where were you born? Duluth, Minnesota...I can pretty much promise I was the only mixed race, black, white, puerto rican, and native american born there in 1977....or since.

18. What is your favorite sport to watch? Anything where the guys have round butts and small tight shorts.

19. Who do you think will not tag you back? President Obama

20. Person you expect to tag you back first? Michael Jackson

21. Who are you most curious about their responses to this? Chastity...I mean Chaz...Bono

22. Bird watcher? Only after I've had too much absinthe.

23. Are you a morning person or a night person? I only wake up at Noon and Midnight.

24. Do you have any pets? David.

25. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share? I qualified for projecticle vomting for the 2012 summer games.

26. What did you want to be when you were little? A Vampire

27. What is your best childhood memory?Have you seen my childhood?

28. Are you a cat or dog person? Dogs....whether on two legs, four legs, or doggie style.

29. Are you married? I ain't got no ring yet...at least not one above my penis.

30. Always wear your seat belt? Man...I grew up watching those crash test dummy commercials. Heck yeah.

31. Been in a car accident? A fender bender.

32. Any pet peeves? PEOPLE WHO SMACK THEIR FOOD SHOULD BE GUTTED AND FORCED TO EAT THEIR OWN INTESTINES.

33. Favorite Pizza Toppings? Anything I can fit on top of it made of once living flesh.

34. Favorite Flower? Sunflower. What. I'm gay.

35. Favorite ice cream? Vanilla with chocolate covered almonds. Same way I like my men.

36. Favorite fast food restaurant? Burger Queen

37. How many times did you fail your driver's test? Never. Of course, I didn't take it til I was 23.

38. From whom did you get your last email? Lynne Serpe candidate for NY City Council from Astoria

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? Christopher Street Adult DVD

40. Do anything spontaneous lately? I just farted.

41. Like your job? Love it.

42. Broccoli? Love it.

43. What was your favorite vacation? College.

44. Last person you went out to dinner with? Nasia

45. What are you listening to right now? I farted.

46. What is your favorite color? Cash Money Green.

47. How many tattoos do you have? Uno...for now.

48. How many are you tagging for this quiz? A few.

49. What time did you finish this quiz? Unfortunately, it hasn't ended yet.

50. Coffee Drinker? I brew my own...it comes out if you squeeze my left nipple.

Hope

Look. I ain't Barack Obama. I got no audacity of hope or a hope chest or the Hope Diamond (though I did see the Hope Diamond at the Smithsonian...shhhhhinnnnyyyyy!). But tonight, I do have a slim sliver slight shaving shimmer of hope (yay alliterations!). David's ex...the Roommate of Darkness...declared openly that he is moving out on July 31st and that is his final answer (he IS the weakest link. goodbye).

As someone thoroughly trained in the scientific method (observation. empirical, and measurable), I am a fool to actually allow any itsy bitsy shadow of optimistic outlook to stain my cold, calculating hard science heart.

Pssssht.

I am a big old Renaissance softy that reads esoteric literature, speaks and reads several languages, believes in ghosts, fairies, and goblins, and jumps at any opportunity to believe that human beings are inherently good and ultimately redeemable. I spend a lot of time being disappointed. But golly gee I wear a smile while I pick up the pieces of my shattered expectations.

And poor David. He has been waiting almost two years to move on to the next part of his life. And, I have been waiting right along with him for most of that time. I am scared as hell to really embark on a fully open relationship, which I told my love had to wait until Lady GaDrama was no longer sleeping on the couch, and so the spectre of that life challenge is lickin' its lips and rearin' its Voldemort lookin' head at me. But, you know, I have seen enough perky asses from my window this evening to be willing to walk hand in hand with David down the path that ends with my penis firmly ensconsed in several of the aforementioned observed's booginas. How's that for a scientific method for ya.

Our beloved president, St. Barack Hussein "I Got a Fatty Dick" Obama commanded us all to hope, and let me not be the shmuck that fails to serve and obey the commandments of our Lord and Chief Executive. But, past precedent (sorry Mr. President) has taught me that crazy people that thrive on misery should not be trusted until one sees their bony behind walk out the door for the last time. So, I shall say I am cautiously hopefulmistic.

And you can bet a bitch is funna be chanting some nam-myoho-renge-kyo and prayin' to Jesus, Allah, Shakyamuni, Yaweh, and Scooby Fucking Doo to help this actually come to pass.

Amen.

Rookies versus Demons

I finally figured out how to pitch a damn softball. Which, is hilarious, since I am one of the pitchers for my beloved team, the Rookies. Before yesterday, I thought I had it down. I had this habit of starting off a game throwing more balls than strikes. My old team used to call me, lovingly, one in five...meaning one strike for every five balls. Not a good average. Usually, around the second inning, I work it out so that I throw enough strikes that the opposing team can't risk not swinging. But, it was more luck and prayer than actually knowing what the hell I was doing (plus umpires that felt sorry for me out there...all alone...walkin' folks like they were in a parade).

Well, yesterday I discovered that if you actually hold on to the damn ball, firmly, and then release it...instead of letting it roll off your finger tips, the ball tends to go where the hell you want it to go.

I am a genius.

Yesterday, we played the Demons. The Demons (at least in attitude) lived up to their name. The first game was not a shining moment for our team. First of all, I was too terrified to pitch against the damn team. I chickened out right before we began, which put Scott on the pitcher's mound and me at 2nd base.

I had never played any base...let alone 2nd base...(outside of the bedroom) in my entire life. The first game was hilarious as both the umpire in the in-field and Mason, playing shortstop, coached me between almost every pitch. Mason, who I just adore, would tell me where I should throw the ball when it came to me. And come to me it did...a couple of times I did what I was supposed to do...a couple of times I sure as hell didn't. At one point, Dan made a minor error in calling time, and Mason, aka Miss Softball Rules 2009, let him know that he hadn't done it quite right..at which time the very loving “Blue” out next to me exclaimed...”See...it's a learning experience for everyone.”

Lord have mercy.

During the first game, we were the home team, which meant that we were entitled to the last at bat. By the time the 7th inning came around, it was 15-0. The Demons were shovin' their pitchforks in our collective culos.

At one point, I was on first, and Mason was the 1st base coach. He gave me the usual coaching around when to run and when to stay put and when to put my booty up in it and get on to 2nd base. Whoever was batting after me smacked the ball, and I sprinted to 2nd base...only to have the ball go foul...and I waltzed back...at which point Mason declared, "That's ok honey...they all wanted to see your ass when you run anyway."

Mason knows just what to say to make a gay's day. (David snapped a couple of shots of me bent over on base...and I can say with some pride that the lunges and squats are working their magic).

At the end of the 1st game, it was my last at bat, and I saw the pitcher beckon to the outfielders to move in closer. That, of course, pissed me off, and I whacked the ball away out into left field.

That'll show 'em.

And then, I believe it was Joe...though I can't quite remember... came to bat, whacked the ball good, and we ended the game 15-2. Someone from our team exclaimed...”Ha! So much for a shut out.”

And the Demons were pissed.

I mean come on people...you were beating our booginas into poontang dust, and you are going to get all uppity because we finally managed to score in the last inning of the game. It's only GAY softball people.

Oh yeah, that's right, more than half of their team was straight.

Well, at least we were playing gay softball. We have our token straight, Antony, but, you know, he's sensitive, so that doesn't really count.

The second game was much better. First of all, I was pitching...which was better for the infield since Mason, Dan, the Umpire, and the Lord Jesus Christ didn't have to spend half their time coaching me and the other half praying I would be where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there.

My first couple innings pitching sucked, then I had the revelation of which I wrote earlier, and from that point on, I believe I walked one or two people for the last six innings of the game. How about that!

My most shining moments came in the second or third inning of the second game when two line drives were hit directly to me. I snatched both of them up and managed to get them to 1st base without overthrowing it or takin' out any wildlife. My team, as always, was loving...and Reggie was catching and kept smiling even when I was throwing balls directly at the damn batters.

But, even more impressive than my bachata-ing while pitching, was the fact that we were giving just as damn good as the Demons. They were the 1st place team, and for almost the entire game we were never more than one or two points behind them. Going into our last at bat, we were three runs down and, thanks to some crazy shennanigans by Dan aka Speed Racer and Mason aka Mama's Boy...we scored two runs. The Demons looked mighty mighty pissed.

I repeat...it's only gay softball.

The day had some amazing plays, particularly by our returning Rookie Tom Ward...who kept running with Mason basically waving a stop sign in his face....just missed being tagged out...and politely hopped onto home plate. He scored...and I had to use the defibrillator on Mason.

Did I mention that I also caused several team members a minor heart palpitation when my third base coach waved me in...and I kept right on running...almost right into the catcher...who was holding the damn ball. I made it back to third, but I think I permanently damaged one of Scott's aorta.

In the end, we lost the second game 8-7, but we had a good time...and with only 10 people actually showing up to play....a bitch was real tired by the time we left.

Much love to Rich aka Pom-Pom McCooties and David aka Tight Booty Berube for cheering us on...and much love to the boys for the ride back into the city.

PS Steve Bowman also made some power plays...and once revealed his mean face over the Demons anti-social autistic antics...I love Steve.

I Want to Punch Perez Hilton In The Face Too!

Every day you have to take the good with the ugly. Sometimes there is a dash of the down right ridiculous in the mix that makes you step back, have a shot of something to blind your sperm, and start again.

Today was one of those days. I am going to alternate the good, the ugly, and the ridiculous.

Let's start with the good.

This afternoon I was communicating with an acquaintance of mine, Sñr. Noris Chavarria, when he told me that he had just been looking at my blog. Now, I just met Noris week before last at the Sol Awards Gala at the Battery Park Cafe. I was impressed that he had come across my blog, so I asked him where he had encountered it. He told me that he had come across it on another blog, MiApogeo.com. Curious, I tuned my browser to MiApogeo.com, which is an amazing pan-Latino news source on the web, only to find a listing of the top seven LGBT Latin@ bloggers to watch. I was listed as #2 right after my friend and compay Andrés Duque. I almost shit myself in surprise. I was listed with other blogosphere luminaries as Charlie Vázquez of Spittles the Clown fame, and Gloria Nieto, who I met when I was barely 21 years old and had fallen in dire love with Lonnie Tapia, one of Gloria's protégés in New Mexico.

That was definitely a highlight of the day. But, hand in hand with a taste of glory comes a little reality to keep you grounded.

This weekend past, I received my benefits package from Bard College. Now, one of my regular bitching moments is about David and the fact that he hasn't had health care since leeching was a popular practice. In order to add David to my health care plan,we had to sign a statement assuring Blue Cross Blue Shield that we are, indeed, domestic partners. It was necessary for us to take said form to a notary public and sign it in front of said notary. We can't get married but we have to jump through hoops and rope cattle to get a decent dental plan. Anywho, during our first trip to Chase this morning to do our due diligence, I had forgotten my ID, and so it was a no go. Mission aborted. Fall back, regroup and plan a new route of attack.

Basically, we decided to come back after nap time.

So, after David had lapsed into unconsciousness after a particularly grueling hell day at the gym, we ventured back to Chase. I had my ID, we signed the form, said “I do,” and badda bing badda boom...we were an official couple in the eyes of God and Empire Blue Cross Blue Shield. Amen.

David was so tickled that he loosened his death grip on the debit card and suggested we amplify my summer wardrobe beyond the two pair of shorts I had that I purchased two summers ago. We swung through Daffy's, which owes me new retinas from the assault on my eyes from the ultraviolet and ultra ugly clothing they had on the rack. We decided to try our luck at Old Slavy, excuse me, Old Navy instead. Now, we had carried our precious declaration of domestic partnership form in a manila envelope, which also held extra copies of a document I had created for a work meeting last evening. I was holding the envelope, wondering why I was carrying around said extra documents, when I suggested to David that we just chuck the thing. He said that he would carry it as he didn't want to waste paper. I poo-pooed him and dropped the envelope in a trash receptacle at the NQRW stop at 57th and 7th.

We got to 14th Street and Union Square when we realized that our notarized love declaration was inside the abandoned envelope.

Talk about STOOOOOPID.

We hopped the train, retrieved the document, and decided that God didn't want me to have new shorts if he was willing to let me do something as dumbass as all that business.

We headed home, and I finished up my work day. It was then that I was told the second best news of the day:

This weekend, Perez Hilton was punched dead in his eye by Will.I.Am and his bodyguard for talking smack about the latest Black Eyed Peas CD.

From deep inside me welled up a great feeling of diabolical joy....from my toes to my cockles to my cock, I was rigid with delight. I was immediately filled with a joyous jealousy...joyous that he had gotten his fat ass ugly bitchtastic face smacked...jealous because I wanted to smack the hell out of him too.

A girl can dream. But...the joy could only last for a short time.

My best friend and I have been like two ships passing in the night or two trains on a Metro rail line in DC. I haven't decided which one yet.

I had plans tonight to meet RJ at five til seven at Sokka Gokkai International in the village for gongyo (chanting). RJ and I have been trying to see each other, without success, for several weeks now. RJ and Noel have been dealing with some difficult family stuff lately, so I left home early, stopped at the Trader Joe's Wine Shop and picked up a gift bottle of wine for RJ. I arrived at SGI five minutes earlier than I was expected. 6:55 came and went. At 6:57 I sent RJ a text asking him where he was. At 7:05 I went upstairs, late, for the service. I sat in the back, so I could scan the crowd and keep an eye on the door in case he came in. The service ended, and I left. I sent RJ a text saying that I hoped he was OK, but I was on my way home.

He finally responded, once I was on the train, saying that he had been at gongyo. I told him that I had waited for 15 minutes for him before going in, and he let me know that he had gone in early and had been chanting. DOH! I didn't see him inside, and we missed each other...again. I am going to go and sit outside of his damn house and wait for him to come out because, at this point, this is ridiculous.

Anywho. I came home, made a delectable din din, poured a glass of wine, and wrote this blog.

I still want to punch Perez Hilton in the face.

PS I forgot to mention that there was a hot Latino Daddy at the gym today that had an ass I would have happily pounded so hard he would have had to order a new assring when I was finished with him...that is until, in the locker room, I saw him checking out David's ass...and when he saw me see him checking out David's most definitely eye candy worthy ass...Mr. Hot Latin Daddy lost his damn mind and rolled his eyes at me. Cabron puto hijo de una maldita chingada!

I would still fuck him, but I would have to beat his ass afterwards. Some gays have no damn common sense.

Minnesota Part Four: My Ancestors Are Way Cooler Than Yours

The earliest branch of my family on my Mother's side immigrated to the United States, then the British Colonies, aboard the Mayflower. The gentleman that was to spawn my great-great-great Grandmother was a coopersmith from Britain. For those of you that are not in the know, a coopersmith fashioned the hoops that held barrels together. Now, one may think that sort of thing wouldn't be very impressive...but only if one fails to recall that until the late 19th century, almost all cargo in the world was transported in barrels held together by those hoops. Thus, a coopersmith was often a self-made man. This ancestor of mine...had bank.

Too bad someone along the line spent it, cuz I ain't seen nary a damn nickel of it.

My most direct branch of family emigrated from Ireland in 1822, well before the Potato Famine. This relative-o'mine, by the surname Carey, first name Richard, left Ireland, and moved to Newfoundland. Later, he realized that Canadia isn't a real country, just a bunch of Minnesotans that lost their way, and moved to Maine. There he married and had a son by the name of John. This man, John Richard Carey, got hitched and moved to Superior, WI. At the time, Superior was King over the Arrowhead region of the Minnesota Territory. But, my ambitious forebear banded together with seven other families, crossed the bay, and founded the city of Duluth, which was named after a 17th century French knight that explored the area. John R. Carey would later become the first postmaster, first Probate Judge, founder of the Democratic Party, and founder of the Presbyterian Church in Duluth, Minnesota...Minnesota's third largest city.

Somehow, his children managed to squander his political connections, convert to Lutheranism, and move to the country and take up construction work. I could choke all of them.

Actually, I love my family. It is amazing to have been born in a city of nearly 100,000 people that your very own family co-founded. When I was a kid, I visited the Depot Museum in Duluth, and I saw an exhibit about John Richard Carey. I remember telling my classmates that the old ass man in the painting had the same last name as my Mom. I had no idea, at the time, that I was staring in the face of my Great-Great-Great Grandfather...a politician, family man, city founder, and racist.

Indeed, the man wrote a book called the History of Duluth and Northern Minnesota, which can be found in the Minnesota Historical Society's archives, where he speaks of the glories of the north lands, and advocates for the removal or murder of the native populations.

I think it is hilarious that his grandson married a native woman.

When David and I arrived in Duluth, I was expecting two and half days of calm and relaxation. My Mom lives on Schultz Lake. A private lake that is only accessible if you own property on it. I had phoned ahead and told my Mother that after several days of nonstop motion, David and I were tired and did not want to have to do a bunch of family visitations. I thought she understand that we would spend time with some family, but, in general, we wanted to just relax.

I should have been much more clear in my instructions.

I should have known something was up when, after realizing I didn't quite remember the way to the lake house, I called my Mom's house and my Grandma answered the phone. My family is quite like cockroaches...for everyone you see...there are a hundred more lurking nearby. When we reached my Mom's house, David smiled at the beauty of the home and the lake, and then we both gasped, as we saw through the window of the house below us, about a dozen of my family members.

I could have killed my Mother.

We walked into the house to three of my aunts, my grandmother, my uncle, a great aunt, a great uncle, my Mom, her husband, the boyfriend of an aunt, and one of my little cousins. This was the first time I had ever brought home a boyfriend to meet my extended family, and shortly after our arrival, two more aunts showed up. Sweet Jesus, David looked as if he were going to run crying back to New York, and I buried my face in the giant roasting pan of barbecued meat that my Mother had prepared.

If you think I am sassy, you should meet my relatives. Smart assery is a gene in my family, and it is also a point of familial pride. I hadn't been in the house for five minutes when the snarky comments and the fun poking began. To escape, David and I went fishing on the lake with my great-uncle (a retired military lifer), and my uncle (a recently reformed Bible beater). That should give you a clue as to the choices we faced.

It actually turned out to be a lot of fun. In the end, with my family, the bottom line is that family is family, and if you are thinking about joining up with our outfit...you have to pass muster. And, though I am the brown queer mega-liberal grandchild/nephew...I am also a family favorite. My aunties were sizing David up, and my great-uncle was eyeballing David like he eyeballed the North Koreans during the war.

They loved him.

After a few hours of covert evaluation of David by my fam, they all trickled out...and by trickled I mean they almost all left at the exact same time. So obvious.

David and I spent the rest of our time visiting with my Mother, fishing on Schultz Lake, and joking about my poor Aunt Mike (real name Chioko) who, in her mid-80s, is still a gorgeous Japanese survivor of World War II...and crazy as hell.

Minnesota Part Two: Mosquito Attack!

Minnesota is L’Etoile du Nord, the land of 10,000 lakes, and a giant breeding ground for hawk sized mosquitos that pull kamikaze dive runs on exposed skin and suck you dry. God forbid you miss a spot during your daily bath of Off bug spray, because those vampiric bitches will find whatever spot you missed and siphon off enough effluvia to start their own blood bank. I have mosquito bites on my toe nails for Christ sakes.

Sorry…got distracted by a hottie wearing a black zippy with his chest amply visible from my third floor apartment window. Back to mosquitos.

Frack mosquitos! (Tiffany told me I curse too much in my blog posts, so I have decided to say frack today instead of the other f-word….blame Calamari for that one).

So, Friday night last week, David and I got back to Aaron Keith’s condo to prepare for the wedding of Denise and Mike. Around 5:00pm, my phone rang, and Little Chicken aka Tay Tay Begay aka Taylour Johnson was downstairs. Taylour drove five hours from Madison to Minneapolis to hang out with me for 24 hours before returning to Wisconsin. That’s love people. Take notes.

Shortly after Tay Tay’s arrival, David, Taylour, and I set out for the nuptials. With confidence, we set out on foot for St. Paul College…less than a mile walk from AK’s pad in downtown St. Paul. I thought that the choice of the college was an excellent one. It was perched on Cathedral Hill directly across from the gothic St. Paul’s Cathedral. The view from the hill top took in all of St. Paul, the state capitol, and the Mississippi River. In my mind, I was silently acknowledging the wedding location. After trekking upwards for about a mile, we finally wove our way around several interstate interchanges and found ourselves standing outside of St. Paul College.

The college was under construction, the parking lot empty, and caterers were setting up down the block for a wedding…for the next day.

After twenty minutes of milling around, I finally was able to summon the actual address of the wedding from Taylour’s iPhone. The event was at the St. Paul College Club….not St. Paul College.

An hour later, on foot, we reached the wedding…just as it ended.

DOH!

As we entered into the posh St. Paul COLLEGE Club and found the guests sipping wine and the wedding party taking pictures. We stood on the back porch, and my eyes immediately filled with tears. Denisse was absolutely stunning. Ms. Velez now Mrs. McHugh is a radiant human being. Her spirit shines brightly within her, and it is obvious that she is a woman of poise, intelligence, and integrity. I fell in love with her the moment I met her, and I felt as if I had found a sibling that had somehow gotten lost in my hodgepodge familial mix.

Her man is hot as hell, and I have already laid claims to him should he ever swing even remotely bisexual.

After a few moments Denisse looked up and saw us standing against the club’s back door. She smiled broadly and waved and mouthed “I love you.” I smiled and said, “I love you back…” and then the three of us, Taylour, David, and myself, went back inside to take advantage of the free beer and wine. As dinner began, and the toasts were made, I looked up to find Denisse beckoning to me. I moved through the crowd and hugged that adorable vision of perfection. Denisse and I met on the Latino Advisory Committee to the Mayor and City Council of Minneapolis. She is as brilliant as she is beautiful.

The rest of the night passed quickly. The highlight of which was getting to dance merengue with Denisse in her wedding gown, and oogling the hot Espanola working a bright orange dress with mango juicy breasts. After Denise and I danced, her mother leaned over and said, “You are an amazing dancer.” That night, I was inspired.

By half past ten, we were all exhausted. We hopped a cab and shot back downtown. The cost of the cab from where we were to where we were staying was about ten percent of what it would have cost to go the same distance in NYC. Damn I miss the Midwest.

Later that night, Tay and I decided to go out for a drink at the gay bar down the street. Now, when I moved to Oakland, the Innuendo was the new hip gay bar. I even did a lube wrestling fundraiser for my former softball team there.

Times had changed.

We walked into a full on bear bar. And not the hot daddy kind of bears. Oh no…these were the ginormous bear eating bears voguing and quaffing buckets of Long Islands.

We left quickly.

Our second day in Minnesota was amazing (except for the hour and a half walk to the wedding). Seeing Denise and Mike happily married was enough to make me start planning my own wedding. And, seeing my Little Chicken, who drove all the way from Madtown to see me, was a super awesome treat. Family and friends are amazing…especially when they are hot.

Minnesota Part One: Isn't It Romantic?

So a lot of life has happened since last I wrote. Iran had an election, and, in keeping with recent U.S. tradition, we still don’t know which candidate is president. The New York State Senate is still in a deadlock with a locked chamber and a bunch of lunk heads screaming at each other on NPR. Obama caved on the Defense of Marriage Act but signed an executive order extending benefits to the domestic partners of federal employees, and Chastity Bono is a big old tranny named Chaz (I called that one ages ago).

As The World Turns…

Last week, David and I began a whirlwind tour through the great state of Minnesota. Speaking of not knowing election outcomes, Al Franken has not yet been declared the winner of my home state’s Senate seat, but Norm Coleman has been ordered to pay roughly $100,000 in Franken’s court fees since Coleman lost several appeals already. Teeeheee.

David and I hit the tarmac running…shortly after arriving, we found ourselves surrounded by bright sunshine and a rental car. We cruised down 35E to St. Paul, with a quick stop for some Taco Hell. And by Hell I mean that once that grade D beef hit my lower intestines, the gates to Hell opened in my anus and let forth a stench like the Devil’s breath after rimmin’ a dirty hole with a yeast infection. It was just that nasty.

We got to downtown St. Paul, and we met up with my old friend Aaron Keith. A big old delicious hunk of a mocha man with vocal chords that could melt butter. AK was a dear heart and volunteered to loan us his condo while we were in town. He went off to stay with his boyfriend Jerry (we’ll talk about her in a minute), and he gave us the keys to the condo. It was spectacular. After a quick shower and change, David and I headed off to have dinner.

We shot down 35W and headed to Powderhorn Park. The best damn neighborhood in Minneapolis. There, tucked onto a street just across from the park, is the Purple House…home of Susan and Rocki and Luca and Flo and Kelly Brazil. At any given time, I have known Susan and Rocki to have anywhere from two to six roommates in addition to their daughter Luca, cat Patzo, and a couple different canine inhabitants. Also a gecko…we can’t forget the gecko. We were met on the sidewalk by a jump ropin’ Luca Peluca head. I scooped her up and gave her a bear hug. She jumped down and darted into the house…and out came Mrs. Raffo-Simoes…who gave me one of those love hugs that reaches right inside of you and makes everything absolutely ok. I introduced her to David, and it was love at first site between him and her. That made me happier than a clam in the ocean with plenty-o-plankton to eat.

Susan made up a lesbo-licious batch of goodness…some roots and berries and the like. Rocki came home, and I about did a high kick….and we all sat and visited and caught up. Just being near Susan and Rocki changes my whole outlook on life…I can be the saddest most forlorn creature…a spittin’ image of Gollum and those two, without coddling or condescending, turn me right back into a jolly furry footed hobbit. And I got the hairy toes to prove it.
We left Susan and Rocki’s well fed and wishing Susan well as she was leaving on the MS 150 bike ride from Minneapolis to Duluth the next afternoon. After some sidewalk chalk time with Luca and a surprise visit from Nicole and Alejandra, we headed back to St. Paul.

Aaron Keith is an amazing jazz singer, and it just so happened that he had a gig directly across the street from the condo. Now, by the time we arrived, David and I were about to fall over from exhaustion. Jet lag between the East Coast and the Midwest is a bitch

The bar where AK was performing looked like a cross between a Hooters and an old Prohibition speak easy. I was waiting for Dillinger and a go go dancer to walk in at any moment. Instead we walked in to find Aaron Keith croonin’ and Jerry, his boyfriend, channelin’ his inner Negro.

About seven or eight years ago, I was dating a guy named Rich. On Valentine’s Day, Rich and I went to see Aaron Keith perform at Jazzmine’s in downtown Minneapolis. At the time, AK sang “Isn’t It Romantic,” to us. I have been hooked ever since. I love that song, and I love his arrangement of the song. Moments after walking in, AK said to the audience that he had a friend in from New York City (doing his best Pace Picante Sauce voice)…and then broke into the song. At the end he looked out and said that I must have an old soul to love that song. Later that night, while having dinner at Mickey’s Diner, I was singing another old song from the juke box, and an elder woman came over and asked me how I knew the words to that song…saying, “That song is from when I was a girl.” I may have been born in the 70’s but my soul was manufactured around 1935.

But back to Aaron Keith…or more specifically…his boyfriend Jerry. Jerry was a trip. The man is one of those white guys that loves black men and, after a couple of drinks, turns as black on the outside as they feel on the inside. Jerry tried to get really ghetto on me, and I had to ignite my inner negro and shut him down. Which I did. Rather quickly. You may feel black on the inside. And lord knows you have had enough black inside of you…but I am black…step biyotch. Jerry was fun. A little over the top (which is about the only thing about him that is a top)…but he was fun. And…I can see why AK tears that booty up.

After returning to the apartment and discovering that somehow in the preceding hour our key had ceased to function, we returned to the bar, got AK, and got our asses into the apartment and into sweet oblivion. I am exhausted just remembering it, and that was just day one of our Minnesota super tour. Rah rah for Ski-u-Mah!