Patience is a Virtue I Never Got

I have decided to write a series of blogs on life's various virtues. I figured I would begin with the virtue of which I have none: Patience.

Other than having immense control over when I ejaculate, I have little other patience in my life. I am a firm believer that instant gratification should be faster than instant. There are times when waiting for a web page to load on my computer that I am possessed by an insane rage and desire to punch my fist through the screen, should it take longer than I believe is appropriate. (I once upon a time had a 2400 baud dial up modem...it is a wonder that I made it through high school without poppin' a vein in my skull).

It is more likely, in any given situation, that Perez Hilton and Will.i.am would give each other blow jobs than I am to be overly patient.

Actually...let me clarify...Perez would totally blow Will.i.am, and, in the right circumstances, I can be patient.

Take, for example, my current living situation. Yesterday, the "roommate" declared that he isn't moving out. When I made it clear that I was resentful and angry that not only was he breaking his word but also that since he hadn't paid full rent in, perhaps, years...I was particularly upset that I was being forced to pay to subsidize the living situation of a man that I loathe. I spoke calmly and clearly. I made it clear that there was a direct connection between my feelings of disgust for the man and the fact that he is not only comfortably but eagerly and consciously taking advantage of both David and I, lying to the state to get welfare benefits, and a destructive force in our home and in our lives (did I mention that he snuck and registered the dog that he and David got TOGETHER with the state...under his name...did I also mention that David has paid for the dogs food, care, and vet bills...oh yeah...except the $300+ vet bill from last month...which I paid).

But I am patient. You see...in this situation...one where an individual is most blatantly and clearly committing an injustice, is blissfully ok with his behavior, and is unwilling to see how it is fundamentally wrong...it can only turn out one way. And my sweet love David, in order to help remind us of this fact, did something wonderful yesterday. David put up, all over the house, great little cards that I got from my best friend RJ. Each card has a picture of a lotus blossom and the words "Nam-myoho-renge-kyo," on it. That means, "I commit myself to the cosmic law of cause and effect as expressed through sound." Today, the roommate came in and asked me what the cards where and what they meant. I was MORE than happy to translate for him.

You see I believe in karma. Science believes in karma. There is a scientific law that says for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction (Newton's Third Law). It is the rule that guides everything in our universe. In terms of human actions: what one puts out one gets back.

I am sure that this situation is one where I am fulfilling a cosmic debt that I owe. But, acting with integrity and (key word) patience, I know that everything will work out not only right but also justly in the end. I feel sorry and pity for the man that knowingly and willingly, without regard for anyone else, commits unjust acts against others while claiming to desire friendship. I have a deep sadness that my partner is being torn apart by this other persons behavior and by the fact that for perhaps the first time, he will be unable to remain friends with someone he once loved...especially after 10 years with that person. But I know, in the end, it will be as the good book says..."Ye shall reap what ye sow."

And he has sown a shit storm in a land mine covered in Agent Orange and napalm. Pay back is a bitch. I have the patience to wait for that.

One Liner of the Week Award: Vikki Reich

By 9am this morning, a film of sweat had already broken out on my forehead. It ain't right that it should be this damn hot this damn early.

So, I posted a Facebook status making reference to the sweat box in which I find myself.

And that's when it happened, Miss Vikki Reich (www.twitter.com/uppoppedafox)let loose with the One Liner of the Week when she said, "Air conditioning is one of the few factors that motivate me to go to work."

Congratulations Vikki on your One Liner of the Week Award. You join a long line of smart asses and cut ups that have been so honored. I salute you. *curtsey*

Michael Jackson Would Have Stapled His Eyeball to Get Out of The Staples Center

In my own twisted fantasy world...Beyonce Knowles would have started off the Michael Jackson memorial. She would have taken the stage in a low cut, yet tasteful, black Vera Wang number. With tears glistening in her eyes, just on the edge of falling, she would have looked down at Michael's casket and sang:

"To the left, to the left, Michael Jackson's body is in the box to the left."

I know. There is something terribly warped about my mind. I think my Mother smoked and drank while she was pregnant, and I know my Daddy's sperm were drunk and high when they accidentally bumped into my Mother's ova and conceived me.

That was the cheesiest fucking memorial service that I have ever seen in my entire life.

Now, I will say...the opening number of "Soon and Very Soon," was very tasteful. It was a beautiful rendition of a song that I grew up singing at Calvary Baptist Church in Duluth, Minnesota. But the intervening grand standing and sermonizing about made me teleport to the Staples Center, dressed as Linda Blair from the Exorcist, and, as Mariah Carey squawked her way through her duet, shouted, "YOUR MOTHER SUCKS COCKS IN HELL," and then projectile vomited directly into her open mouth.

And don't get me started on Brooke Shields crazy ass. First of all, I was like..."What the hell is Maria Shriver doing speaking at Michael Jackson's funeral?" Then I thought...damn...Lisa Marie has had work done to make her look like Maria Shriver. And finally, after reading my friend Ebony's facebook page, I realized it was Brooke Shields lookin' like Lisa Marie lookin' like Maria Shriver...and I was over it.

Now I love Michael Jackson more than your average bear. I paid him and his influence on my childhood (have you seen it?) in a post in this very blog. But Lord Have Mercy...the over the top dramatics by people that were less concerned about sending Michael off right and more concerned with the fact that at least 3 billion people would see their crazy asses during the side show extravaganza was enough to send me into a fit of inappropriate Facebook status posts.

(The best of which was "Brandon Lacy is Talkin' to the Man in the Coffin...I'm asking what happened to his Face! No message could have been any clearer...if you get plastic surgery and look like an alien you done made a crazy change!")

Wrong? Perhaps. Funny. You bet your plastic surgeon's stock of silicon it was.

And don't get me started on that whack ass rendition of "We Are the World." First of all, save for Michael Jackson, most of the rest of the artists that sang the damn song are still alive, half of them were there, and they couldn't get even one of their asses up on stage to sing the song? Shit. Lionel Richie was ON stage, and he didn't chime in until somewhere in the chorus. It was the most bootleg version of that song I have ever heard. That little Korean girl on YouTube that sings Michael Jackson songs and memorizes them phonetically would have done a better job than Bubbles the Chimp's retarded cousins that got up there and hacked it apart.

But I will admit I did cry at the end.

When his brother got up there and let the entire globe have it for havin' the nerve to talk shit about how strange and wierd Michael was while, at the same time, making the man live under so much scrutiny until he got so fed up that he moved to the Middle East and started wearing a burqa, I clapped. When little Paris Michael got up there and said she loved her Daddy and missed him, I was a big old crying mess in the kitchen.

And, for the record, I believe that little girl is actually biologically his. I got a niece that is mixed and has the same skin color. Plus, I heard she is the only one that can sing and dance. I bet she came out the womb with a sparkle glove and a zipper jacket. She didn't cry when they slapped her on the ass, she said, "Heeee heeee...OW!"

Michael is on his way to his dirt nap. The man is probably in Heaven right now thinking he should have possessed his own corpse, crawled up out the coffin, done the Thriller dance, flipped Latoya the bird, and moonwalked the fuck up out of the Staples Center.

Rest in peace Michael. These fools done turned your funeral into the biggest PR bonanza in the history of the Earth.

Beyonce Ain't Got Nuttin' On Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo

Today I heard a music most most beautiful.

Forgive me if I wax on the poetic side and get a bit dime store novelish, but damn...I had an experience today that totally blew my mind.

So, for the last three months I have been practicing Nichiren Buddhism. As I, an obvious neophyte, understand it...Nichiren Buddhism is a school of Buddhist thought that has peace and justice as core values, teaches that enlightenment can be reached in a single lifetime, that all people are welcome regardless of who they are or from whence they come, and that the essence of the law is encapsulated in the title of the Lotus Sutra, the last sutra espoused by Shakyamunia aka “The Buddha,” which is Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo. Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo means “I dedicate myself to the cosmic law of cause and effect as expressed through sound.”

And what a helluva sound it is.

Today, David and I went to gongyo (prayer service), which begins with a fast-as-lightning recitation of a portion of the Lotus Sutra. I had the words spelled out for me phonetically, and though I tried my damnedest to keep up I felt like a white boy from Connecticut dropped in the middle of a Puerto Rican family fight. It was not cute. The service continues with a constant chanting of Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo...which I have down just fine. Hell, I've had that down since the first time I saw Tina Turner's biography “What's Love Got to Do with It.” I am still clapping from the scene when she beats the hell out of Ike with that boot.

My name is Tina Turner. I have 35 cents, if you give me a room, I swear I will pay you back.

Sorry...I had a Negro moment.

Anyway, so today, David and I were chanting, and the room was filled with the polyglot poly-hued Rainbow Coalition youth to elder congregation that is the Sokka Gokkai International. Black folks, white folks, Asian folks, Latin@s, queers, and Jews...I have never been to a more diverse, in all senses of the word, room.

About 10 minutes into the chanting, with a very loud and very enthusiastic Japanese girl sitting next to me...basically shouting instead of chanting (love ain't had nothing to do with that mess)...when the most intense thing happened.

The chanting, quite literally, stopped sounding like a group of folks on meth trying to shout Japanese phonetically at the top of their lungs, to an amazing and God-touched choir. In dead seriousness, I grew up in the church...and I grew up with a church choir that makes Kirk Franklin and the Family sound like Ma Jones and the Little Rascals. I have written before that I experience God through music and that my most divine experiences have come during musical experiences, and today...my prayers...my chanting...mixing with the chanting of the other folks in the room took on, truly, a symphonic choral sound.

I am not lying or exaggerating when I say there was a tremendous harmony, baritones, tenors, sopranos, altos, all mixing together...weaving together...without a director, without practice, and without prompting. I have never experienced that before during gongyo, but to experience it today was breathtaking.

The beautiful thing about Buddhism, particularly Nichiren Buddhism, is that it is a religion without a dogma that welcomes all faith paths. In order to be a Nichiren Buddhist and a member of Sokka Gokkai, I don't have to give up my love of Jesus. The fact that through worshiping the Divine in this way and the Divine as it manifests in all creatures takes nothing away from my belief in the mercy, grace, and love of Christ is a true blessing.

And the fact that I came to this understanding, through the gift of music...the only way that I have ever experienced the immediate presence of the Creator, tells me that I have found the right place and a spiritual home.

I Would Lift It If I Could

I love my partner more deeply and more profoundly than I ever anticipated. In truth, though my love is flawed as are all works of human beings, I have pushed myself above and beyond my own preconceived boundaries in order to match the love and care, respect and kindness, patience and understanding that he has shown me.

Right now, I can see him struggling. A moment ago, I was standing in his Mother's kitchen, I could see his back, framed by the window above the sink, and I was struck with how simply I am in love with him. I love the way his back, in a goldenrod tank top, narrowed to his tiny waist. I love the soft hair that fades down the back of his head until disappearing in a smooth line on his neck. I love his elf-like ears and the set of his spine. And on top of all that I can see on his shoulders the weight of his previous relationship.

As David and I have made our way towards a sustaining and healthy relationship, we have had to deal with the realities of life. Life dictated that he and I moved in together a bit earlier than we had anticipated. Due to the termination of my employment with the Center for Media Justice, David and I made the decision that I should move to New York at the end of March instead of June. The difficulty with that is David's ex partner.

I have written about this individual before. I have talked about the ways his pain has impacted our relationship. I have written about my anger and frustration, my compassion, and the end of my patience. He is the single most divisive and hurtful aspect of our relationship, which is a bit unfortunate. He is a hurting individual that is using his personal pain to heap guilt onto my partner and hateful feelings on to me. And David, caught between loving me and the residual feelings of obligations that he has towards his ex, finds himself lodged between a recent past that was fulfilling and hurtful and a future that, as far as we can tell, promises much of what he has hoped his life would be.

I have some experience with carrying the burdens of the past around. The past is a heavy anchor that drags along the seabed no matter how strongly the winds of fortune are blowing your way. The world can be sending you gale force love and luck, and, yet, a past anchor, caught on the sea floor, will slow, though not halt, your progression forward.

Recently, we had reached an agreement with our roommate that he would move on with his life at the end of July. He would vacate our space, and we would truly move on to the next phase of our relationship. A couple of days ago, he attempted to declare that he wasn't going anywhere. We took appropriate first steps to assure him that he would be.

Of course the response was far from adult, matched previous behavior, and descended into an old pattern of vilification of me and guilt tripping of David.

Nothing about this situation has been simple. Little has been pleasant. And it has been my personal challenge not to lose sight of this man's humanity. I haven't always been successful, but I have never been malicious, I have never been inflexible, and I have never been unreasonable.

But the time has come for justice to happen. If David and I are to have a peaceful place in which to move forward, we need a peaceful place in which to do it.

I have done what I can do in the situation. I have swallowed what I can swallow, and I have tolerated what I can tolerate. Last week, I almost reached a point of relapse, which, for me, signaled I had reached my mental and spiritual capacity to continue in the current living situation.

And, ultimately, I know the true closure of this piece of David's life is David's to do.

But when you love someone, you want to lift anything you can lift, carry anything you can carry, and bear anything you can bear. David has articulated to me that he craves peace, that he wants peace, love, and joy. Yet, the singal greatest source (other than my occasional craziness) of his consternation comes from a source outside of us. And, because of the key player in the madness, it is all set to get uglier before it will get better.

In many ways, David and I are very similar. But, in some significant ways, we are different. When I am hurting or struggling or in pain, I reach out. I turn to my friends and my family. I post all my business on my blog. I talk about what's going on and what I am feeling. I am a true extrovert.

My love is not.

And for someone such as myself that has a constant craving to know everything that is going on...letting him have his space to center, process, and strategize is tough.

I want to fix this for him. I want to make this better. I want to make it smooth and seamless. But, God has granted me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. I cannot change the reality of our living situation. I cannot change the behavior of his ex partner. I cannot betray what I know is right and just and allow myself to be treated inhumanely and with rabid animosity without addressing it. I cannot stop loving David. I cannot confront his ex for him. I cannot set boundaries between David and his ex. I cannot force his ex to respect the agreements he has made.

But I have the wisdom to know that none of this is permanent, that David loves me, that I love David and that karma is a bitch. For a long time I have backed down, walked away, or been walked over because I was either too young, too scared, or too lacking in self confidence to stand up for myself. Those days are gone. And though I can't stand up for David. I can stand beside him, lending him strength of love and spirit to do what it is that he decides is right for him, and for us, to do.

Everyday Heroes: Pookie

In 2003, I was standing outside of my four-plex on 15th Avenue South, right on Powderhorn Park, in Minneapolis. It was the first Sunday in May, which in my neighborhood meant one thing: MAY DAY PARADE!

The May Day Parade in Minneapolis is no joke. What started as a small gathering of local hippie types has turned into the largest neighborhood festival in the Twin Cities. Fifty thousand individuals gather to watch a spectacular event that celebrates labor rights and the return of Spring. Life size and larger than life puppets, created by In the Heart of the Beast Mask and Puppet Theater, wander through the South Side and entered the park directly across the street from my former residence.

On this particular May Day, Lindsay Selvig, a former friend and colleague of mine waltzed over and introduced me to her girlfriend: Andrea Nordick. Little did I know that Andrea aka Pookie would become one of my best friends. Lindsay and Andrea broke up shortly after I met Andrea (from hence she shall be referred to as Pookie). The summer after their break up, Pookie and I became reacquainted as volunteers for a summer youth leadership social justice program of the Unitarian Church. Pookie, my pal Gunnar, and I were adult allies that provided mentorship to the program run by my junior high school (now former) chum Quiana Perkins (is it a coincidence that my two former friends Lindsay and Quiana are now bosom buddies...me thinks not). Anyway, that summer I discovered that Lindsay's portrayal of Pookie was actually a project of Lindsay's nutso crazytown behavior on Pookie. To be real, my love Pookie has her own struggles...but in a crazy contest between Lindsay and Pookie...Lindsay would end up in a dark padded cell, in a dirty straight jacket, licking the backs of Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches while Pookie would get off with some light therapy.

Not long after that summer, I received an email from Pookie about a job opening at the Girl Scout Council of Greater Minneapolis. At the time, I was stil working with Lindsay at YouthLink, Minnesota's largest service agency for homeless youth. I applied for the gig at the Girl Scouts, and a few months later I was switching offices from downtown Minneapolis to Sabathani Community Center.

Pookie and I started having lunch a few times a week at Quang's (best Vietnamese EVER), and that lunch time relationship morphed into a powerful friendship. There is nothing that Meatballs over rubbery rice noodles and bun (pronounced BOON) with beef and fried tofu can't handle.

Since the fall of 2004, Pookie and I have supported each other through many a hard time. We have laughed together, cried together, and she even hid cereal from me. Pookie is now a brilliant lawyer, continues to be a brilliant friend, and, though she is a major worry wart and an OCD clean freak (beware of FRANKY)...I love her tons and tons and tons and tons and tons.

She is one of my everyday heroes.

Don't Let Me Kill A Homo At the Gym

Lord help me, but I am about to go ape shit on a homosexual.

Let me tell you a little story about a Fagatron on whom I am about to go Optimus Prime. There is this midget queer at my gym that I have seen on several occasions. I have seen him on those several occasions because he basically is at the point of stalking David.

Now, I do not mind when a gay pays some attention to my man. David is hot, and if you are ever so blessed as to see him naked, you will also worship at the Berube Booty Shrine. So I don’t begrudge a homo now and again takin’ a peek at David’s goodies. As a matter of fact, if the guy is hot enough and polite enough and asked nicely, I would probably give him permission to play with ye hot booty…as long as I get to watch.

But, now and again, comes along a motherfucker that loses their goddamn mind. And today was NOT the day to get stupid around me.

This little bizatch, who has a remarkably beautiful body, is obviously used to being able to claim what he wants, when he wants, regardless of who is around or their relationship situation. I had chalked it up to bad manners that he would do shit like hop on a machine directly next to David. And, though I wanted to beat him with a free weight today when he decided to position himself right behind David to do some ab exercises, all the while dipping and ducking his head in the mirror in order to catch David’s eye, I restrained myself.

But when this poop butt bitch motherfucker spins around and literally looks at me and then makes it a point to stare up in David’s ass as he climbed into the shower, the little Caucasian meat sack crossed the line from ill-mannered flirt to disrespectful fucknut.

I am pretty mild mannered. I occasionally get angry, but you really have to do something stupid to make my body vibrate. Today, if someone had walked past me with a seismograph that little needle would have ripped a hole in the paper.

I was seething in the shower. I got out, walked to the locker, and the little jacktard anal drip is standing in the mirror preening. David walks up, Little Doggie Style swings his eyes back to David’s ass, and I had a minor explosion. In good Minnesota passive aggressive manner, I announced loudly, to the entire locker room, that I was tired of disrespectful faggots that see a man, know he is with someone else, and decide to act like a motherfuckin blue nosed baboon, turn their ass bright red, and start dripping man menses on the floor. While little dude is fit, I could step on the little trick and grind his ass into the ground if I must. And, if he steps out of line again, I must.

Addressing my jealousy in a situation where there is innocent and respectful flirtation happening is one thing. But when you cross the line into the Land of Blatant and Intentional Disrespect, I got a passport stamp that says Whoop His Ass on it.

Try me and see if I’m playing.

All is Well

Sometimes life sends you test situations, like the one in which I find myself now. The test is not a knowledge test. There isn't a correct answer. If you get it right, you don't get preferred entrance into Harvard. The test is how you comport yourself as you try to come to an understanding and solution to the task or situation at hand, and the prize is a better and deeper understanding of yourself, the things you need to learn, and the ways you have or have not grown.

I was always very good at taking tests. I had some pretty amazing scores on the ACT and the SAT. Sometimes, I wish I could replace these life tests with one of those. I thought they were stressful, but Lord in Heaven they were Cheeze Whiz on a cracker...nasty...but definitely swallowable on a dare.

The cool thing about life tests is that you don't have to take them alone. Over the years, as I have written and blogged, folks have written to me thanking me, yelling at me, or laughing at or with me. But one thing that has always come across is that folks, whether they agree or disagree with my point of view, have expressed that they had perhaps gone through similar experiences, never would have written publicly about them, and were grateful that I had done so.

In addition to wanting folks I care about to know what is going on in Crazyland aka My Head, I also want to share snapshots of my life story in the hopes that it will connect with either the funny bone or a serious moment that someone else has had or is having. One lesson I have learned good and well is that no matter how alone you feel, no matter how isolated you feel, you are never alone. Your Guiding Power is always with you, and though that is less comfort for some than it is for others, unless you are locked in a cage on a mountain in Tibet, you probably are surrounded by people that care about you, care what happens to you, and are there to support you and send you the love and light you need to pass the test at hand.

I know I have those people, and their love is bright and shining and glorious, and I appreciate all of them. From old friends with whom I am practicing an active spiritual path to a new friend that sent a text asking if he could stop by with some rice and beans, I have been blessed with numerous angels in my life.

Some of ya'll have touched base wanting to know if I am ok. I am actually doing just fine. I got my man. I got my health. I just got a paycheck. I got my God. I got clothes and food. And, as of today, I got my health insurance, which means I got a therapist that don't know about me yet.

All is well.

P.S. I almost had to kill me a homosexual at the gym today, though. So, all may not be well with him in the near future. Lord have mercy. Check back for that blog later tonight.

A Change is Gonna Come

Living in my house, right now, is like living in a constant state of spiritual warfare. And, today, I almost lost a big battle.

I am a recovering addict. I spent several years using crystal meth fairly heavily, and I hid it quite successfully from the people that love me. I was a binge user, and I used on a clockwork schedule: every two weeks for two to three days at a time, almost always over the weekend.

After having a near complete breakdown and spending a week as a guest of the mental health ward of Fairview Riverside hospital and then spending another almost six months in various structured recovery programs at the Pride Institute in Eden Praire, MN, I was able to get to a place where I had the skills to fight back against my own biology. Addiction is a physical and mental illness and it takes physical and mental therapy to keep it in check.

I have had, what is called in 12-Step lingo, slips. But I haven't slipped for a long time now, and I am aiming to keep it that way. But, to do so, I have constantly to find ways not to internalize difficult emotions and emotional situations, I have to eat well and exercise, and I need to be engaged with a life and a world that is spiritually uplifting.

In general, my life is centered around all of those things. I have a great partner that is extremely supportive, I am a Christian that believes in the universal and healing power of love embodied through Christ (one of many Sons of God and prophets sent to teach us), I have recently begun chanting in the Nichiren Buddhist tradition (nam-myoho-renge-kyo), I use this blog as a vehicle to draw out lessons from my daily experiences that I need to learn or look at more closely, I write and perform poetry as a way to externalize my feelings, and I try to find small ways, each day, to experience God, the Divine, and love.

Unfortunately, with the love of my partner and a desire to build a home with him, has come his ex partner (of whom I have written plenty before) who lives in our living room on our couch. I am not overstating or exaggerating when I say his presence is an actively hostile and malevolent force that is actually palpable. His energy is destructive and hurtful, his words and actions are negative and damaging, and I, as the new boyfriend of his ex, am the direct and active target of his hate. When something goes wrong or amiss in the house, I am to blame. When David and I had our first threesome, which was a beautiful and spiritually uplfiting experience with an amazing human being, he didn't speak to me for almost a week yet did not treat David the same way, he stares at me with such undisguised loathing that it feels like a punch to the stomach. To be the object of revile for anyone, particularly someone with whom you live, is a constant burden and pressure.

I quite literally choose whether going to the bathroom is sometimes worth the walk to the living room, and I tell you that on more than one occassion a bottle has looked more appealing than a porcelain bowl on the other end of the house through the spectral landmine field I have to cross to get there.

The economy sucks, and David, as a freelancer, has had a great reduction in the amount of work he has been able to do. Yesterday, he left for a two day gig in the Hamptons. We can use the money, but, more importantly, David needed to work, for himself, on a fundamental level. For several days leading up to his leaving, I felt the weight of his absence. David is a buffer of sorts between the ex and me. His ex feels required to constrain himself when David is around. When David leaves, he feels no such constraint. I wrote before about the ex and the ex's current boyfriend and their ambush and attack of me. This time, there was no screaming...just a heightening of his already hateful presence. And, frankly, I reached the end of my spiritual reservoir.

Thank God that God had my back.

Quite literally, yesterday, I was on the fast track to relapse. I began looking for a connection. In this interconnected Internet ready world, finding drugs is as easy as logging into Craig's List or any number of cruising sites. I know all the code words and key phrases. Luckily, just as I was on the edge of the relapse cliff, my phone rang. I had just come home from a work event, and my best friend called. We have been trying to see each other, unsuccessfully, for weeks. The one sure way to get me out of and away from myself is for someone else in need to ask for my help. He sent a text saying that he could use some friend time. I packed a bag, jumped in a cab, and I headed to Harlem and spent the night. This morning, we got up and chanted together, which fed my spiritual well just enough to keep sober, though I didn't know I was going to need to use it so soon.

Today, the ex did one of his favorite hate tactics. He played on my fears and vulnerabilities around David. He enjoys telling me stories about the few times, over their ten year relationship, when David did not adhere to their relationship rules. And though I know in the moment that exactly what that hateful man wants is for me to start questioning David and myself, there are times when fears slip through cracks. They did, and I was again speeding down the path to relapse.

Except this time, as I started to leave the house to look for drugs, I stopped myself. I looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. The clouds were rolling in thick and black and ugly from Jersey...and I began to ask myself what the hell I was doing. I had gotten up from the computer where I was doing work for my amazing job. I was walking away from the committments I made to my partner. I was walking towards hurting myself deeply and fundamentally. So I turned around and walked home. I ordered some terrible MSG filled food from the Chinese spot downstairs, and I ate myself into a near catatonic state, all the while composing donor renewal letters for work (I may be crazy, but I am definitely productive).

I am done with letting another human being impact my life and spirit to the point that I am willing to do myself harm and, in doing so, hurt the people that love me. The ex is moving out of our home at the end of July. I am not sure if I can find enough ways to sustain myself until then, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. I may have to spend many more blog entries between now and then speaking to you all about this situation.

Also, my insurance kicks in tomorrow and you best believe that me and therapy are about to get real cozy like again.

The minute that man exits the building for the last time, I am going to have a shaman, a priest, a Vooduin, a medecine man, a rabbi, and any other holy person I can find to come over and deep clean his ugliness and hurt and hate and pain and darkness out of this place. I wonder if they got some sage flavored Febreeze at the Target.

Thanks for reading ya'll.

For the Homeland (A Poem for Bagua)

This is a fierce ass poem by my friend, brother, and co-Palabristas Rodrigo Sanchez-Chavarria. For those of you that don't know...some deep shit went down in Peru a couple of weeks ago. Indigenous people murdered for oil and natural gas. The shit is real, and it isn't right, and as much as I love Michael Jackson and think the coup in Honduras is fucked up...neither should have overshadowed the Bagua tragedy. You can hear this poem read by clicking on the Ninja in the side bar and scrolling to For the Homeland.

For The Homeland (A Poem for Bagua)

by Rodrigo Sanchez-Chavarria

With my hands I write these words for the homeland

Today my heart stopped
My blood spilled
On land that will be given
To oil companies that will rape it
Brand it, and sell it with my name on it

Today my body is motionless on the road
With no one to claim it
Until the bullets stop flying
Until they stop crying
Because no one asked them
if they wanted to perforate their people
asked them if they wanted to witness babies dying

The ground sobbed red tears as bodies fell
Painting a brief picture of living hell

With my hands I write these words for the homeland

Today Peru lost 2-1 and
people said they played with no heart,
I know where it lays.

In Bagua
where blood mixes with brown soil
In rivers
where brothers and sisters float boca abajo.
And mothers try to identify body parts
While I am trying to identify self worth

Remembering that the blood spilled is pumping through my veins,
that the land where I was born to the land where I stand
will always be indigenous land.
Remembering.
That when we left in 88 Alan Garcia was fucking up the economy
Then ran to hide in Paris
Only to come back for a reconquista
to kill people he sees as second class

Today the bullets cried
My brothers and sister died
Media blinded to the lies
That the cowards use to hide

With my hands I write these words for the homeland

Today I died in bagua
But when my funeral comes
Don’t put me in a casket
Or bury me 6 feet under

Instead baptize me in the Marañon River
So my soul flows south with the blood spilled

Bury me next to the mass graves
With my eyes wide open
So i can see
What others say is not there

Then broadcast these words over radio waves
Banned for speaking the truth

Indigenas nunca son cuidadanos de segunda clase
Indigenous people are never 2nd class citizens

This is for my people
In the homeland
Fighting in the trenches
Blocking streets, police
While we overseas fight the oasis painted by white picket fences
This is for Alfredo,Pelusa, Mariana, rodrigo, camilo y Apu
Who remind me of home and fuel the purpose of what I do
for our babies, who asked why we cry at this injustice

For jose Antonio Encinas who taught me about power
And how politicians’ abuse it, we call them cowards

This for Santiago Manuin
Because 8 bullets could not stop his heart beating
His strength
His fight for his people
Their land

This is for Pizango finding refuge in Nicaragua
While his heart and spirit stays in bagua

And for the rest of us
Who are away from home
In strange lands that we can’t call our own
Some of us facing death for the first time and
Raising fists, pens, and words in defiance
To form a global alliance with you, our people.
Because borders, time zones, years, guns and oppression
Cannot stop our love for you.
Today I died in Bagua
And was reborn to use my hands to write these words for the homeland

Rookies Versus Barbarians: East River Park

This Saturday, the ladies and I gathered for our first weekend of softball since the end of the Mesozoic era. For what feels like the last 200 years, it has rained every weekend. So, though this weekend past was Gay Christmas (aka Pride)…the Rookies sucked it up, sobered up, and showed up at the East River Park to play a double header versus the Barbarians.

When David and I arrived in the hot June son, my eyes were greeted by two Little League teams playing on our fields. Immediately, I had a PTSD flashback to Roosevelt Island. For a moment, I saw the ghosts of angry parents, public safety officers, and drama queens overlaying the Astroturf.

As the boys began trickling in, we set up camp behind a bench full of cheering parents to smack our gums. Surrounded by children, Reggie began talking about his early morning sexual adventures.

“Girl, this morning I was surrounded by cock…”

As Reggie’s voice trailed off as he realized that he had just taught several 1st graders a new word, Joe came to his rescue with an artfully placed…”-aroaches.”

With only a slight pause between the cock and the aroaches…we all breathed a sigh of relief that we had perhaps, this time, escaped creating a mob of parents angry not only that the faggotry were taking over their fields but also teaching their little ones the finer language points of power bottoms.

much fanfare, the Little Leaguers exited the field, and we took over. Now, I am one of the team’s pitchers (take that how you will). Before each game, I pray that Reggie will name me an extra hitter or that he will put me off somewhere in right field…preferably in Brooklyn. No such luck this week. As the game started, I took the pitcher’s mound, and started off with a bang.

If by bang you were to infer that I walked several people.

After a terrible first inning (neither the pitcher nor the fielders shone during the first 10 minutes or so), we all seemed to get our stride a little bit. At the end of the first inning, we had managed to bring the 10 run lead of the Barbarians into a 2 run lead.

My first at bat, I shocked the Hell out of myself and everyone else. I hit a home run.

When I say I hit a home run, I smacked that ball to the other side of the rainbow. I was so surprised that I almost didn’t run…considering that there were two other folks on bases, that would have really sucked. But, I managed to shoot around the bases, although I almost stopped and punched the shit out of the Barbarians’ 2nd baseman who said, as I passed, “Wow. I didn’t expect that from you.”

I contemplated running past home plate, grab a bat, swing by first and take out the 2nd baseman's knees.

I ran home to the cheers of my teammates, wish I tried to return, but I couldn’t breath.
As the game progressed, not only did we catch up to the Barbarians, we overtook them. My pitching improved slightly (very slightly), but the Rookies are a shit-talkin’ but loveable bunch and they cheered me through the process.

And I have to say the team was an offensive power house…Herrick, Joe, Scott, Tom Poteat, and Vinnie were pinging balls way oh way out yonder. Scott and Vinnie also hit homeruns! Almost every person up ended up on base, and the first game ended with a win for the Rookies: 16-15.

The game also ended with some drama. The catcher from the Barbarians decided, after we took the lead, to throw his glove. The Ump tossed him from the game, and then decided to both give lip to Blue and tell his own team that they should be ashamed of themselves.

He should have been ashamed to come out of the birth canal with that face.

In the end, the drama was resolved, the Rookies won, and we moved on to Game Two. But not before I reminded myself that damn....it ain't life or death...it's just gay softball.

Game two was much less eventful…there were some great hits…and both teams were fighting their asses off…so much so that we found each other to a stand still. The second game ended with a tie (12-12), and we ended our second best weekend of softball of the season.

Thank you to my teammates for the love and support out on the mound. The pitcher stands at the loneliest place on the field…and if I had been pitching for the Barbarians…the would probably have skinned me, built a raft, and sailed my fleshy carcass across the East River.

The King of Pop is Dead! There Will Be No Other King.

I am not going to tell a lie. I love Michael Jackson. I used to tell folks that I didn't care what he supposedly did...he could put out a record from prison, and I would have bought it. He was a consummate entertainer...anyone that grew up anywhere that received radio waves or a television signal tried to Moonwalk and could do at least one move from Thriller on command. There are whole lost native tribes deep in the Amazon that are doing the Moonwalk right now. I swear to God.

Since Michael falleció yesterday afternoon, the entire Milky Way has been abuzz with commentary on his life and death. Overwhelmingly people remember him fondly. Many folks have shit to say about the man and his life. Let it not be said that I do not support a critical review and recounting of a man's life. Martin Luther King was a womanizer that cheated on his wife. JFK was bangin' Marilyn Monroe in the White House, and Bill Clinton most definitely had sex with that woman. But, those things are not the sum of who they were. Michael Jackson may have touched those children inappropriately. A court said no. The court of public opinion has other ideas. But, in the end, the outpouring of love has not been about Michael Jackson the flawed and flayed man...but Michael Jackson the artist that is inimically tied to the memories of so many of us from the MTV generation and before.

The first piece of music I remember, as a child, was an 8 Track of the Jackson Five that my step-Dad would bump, high on cocaine, as we shot down Lake Street in Minneapolis at 70 to 80 miles an hour. As a child choral star, I often fancied myself as the next MJJ...though I have seven siblings...and my sister Meta and I would have come to blows over who sang lead.

Simply put, there isn't a period of my childhood that doesn't have a Jackson Five or Michael Jackson song as part of its soundtrack. In 1985, my Mom moved us to Kansas City to live with Keith, who would eventually become step-Dad II. We had a lively neighborhood with a number of kids. In the Summer, would all play together in the streets and in each others yards...roller ball...hide and go seek...double dutch...drill team. We would fight, would celebrate, and I saw my first titty when Kenya lifted up her shirt on my back porch. Running through all of that was Michael Jackson. When “We Are the World” was released, you would have thought that Michael and Stevie and Cyndy and the rest were going to swing through Africa and then stop by our neighborhood on their way back to their lives as superstars. It didn't matter what we were doing...when the opening chords of We Are The World floated out of some one's open window...we would scream for Mrs. So and So to turn it up...a hush would fall...and then the entire damn neighborhood would start to sing.

Never in my life before or since has any...and I mean...ANY singer commanded an immediate silence and homage of an entire neighborhood of 8 to 12 year olds engrossed in play time. Michael Jackson belonged to us. When he Moonwalked...all of our asses Moonwalked.

When my sister Meta got to go to the Bad concert...I wanted to kill her, bury her body, die my hair blond, bleach my skin, take her ticket, and go to the show. I thought life in prison was a fair cost for seeing Wacko Jacko live. And when Remember the Time came out...combining my favorite singer with my favorite actor, Eddie Murphy, set in my favorite time period, Ancient Egypt, I thought for sure I had died and gone to Pop Culture Heaven.

Several years ago, the old Sears building on Lake Street in Minneapolis was converted into condos and lofts, and I moved in. It had been the second largest Sears in the world, and my Mom worked there when I was a child. There was one cold, wintry night when we were in the car. Mom went in to get her paycheck, and she left the radio on. On that night, I heard a song so beautiful that I was crying as I was singing because, I too, was “Talking to the Man in the River.” Yes lawd. I thought the man was talking to the Man in the River...and instead of the line being “it couldn't have been any clearer,” I swore (and sang)...”I couldn't bend any quiver.” But damn the words...the song moved me...and to this day it is one of my top five favorite songs.

From “Off the Wall” to “History Part One,” I am a devoted Michael Jackson fan. We may never know who the father of “Billie Jean”'s baby was...but Michael Jackson was a “Thriller”...and, tonight, right now, in his honor...I am a "Dancing Machine.” Michael baby...in Heaven...ain't no such a thing as "Black or White." Say hello to Farrah for me...and Tito...and Celia....Isaac Hayes...and Marvin Gaye...when I get there...we gonna have us a concert that is going to overshadow the Second Coming.

Hey glory.

PANIC!

Last night, David and I wended our way down to the East Village to Nowhere Bar for Charlie Vazquez's Panic! reading series. Nowhere Bar is a great little dive, with amazing three dollar drink specials. The crowd is a mix of bears, otters, and wolves...but the East Village Indie Punk sorta furry guys as opposed to the "I Might Eat You and Masturbate with Your Juices" Bears that hang out at the Ramrod.

The crowd last night was spectacular. At the first Panic! I attended, there was a smallish crowd that filled up about a quarter of the bar. Last night, the crowd was standing room only. Double Pride Panic! was packed. The reading started off a little slowly, but there was a great mix of men and women, all of whom were people of color. Charlie was being a bit of a bugaboo by not telling us where we would be in the line up...but that added to part of the charm of the evening. Of especially fantastic interest were Vincent Bernard, Taylor Siluwe, and Rosalind Lloyd.

Let me tell you, Rosalind read a story about a hot tranny, and the story was so damn steamy that my ass got moist. Yes lord.

I took the stage last to the cheers of new and old friends: Reggie and Steve Herrick from the Rookies, Shelly from Camp Heartland, my new fave person Allison, my old school gal pal/soul sister/co-fried chicken fiend Shante "Paradigm" Smalls, the delicious and sweet Karlo Karlo, and, of course, my love David "Good Booty" Berube.

By the time I got up in front of the crowd, folks were feeling good...the drinks had been flowin' for about an hour...and at $3 a pop...the crowd was fairly lit up and jolly. I started off by reading my poem inspired by the struggles of Chief Joseph. My set started comically as I went to flip the page to finish the first poem, and the pages stuck together. I didn't realize it and thought I had just lost a damn page...I stared blankly for a second...and then said, "Huh...I seem to have lost my poem." It was then that David started yellin' from the crowd..."The pages are stuck together."

I checked it out, and sure enough, there was the missing page. Thanks David!

I was feeling pretty jolly myself by the time I took the stage, so I was cracking jokes in between poems and tellin' bawdy stories about butts and dicks and the like. You know, the usual. I followed Chief Joseph with my ode to Nicole..."Love Poem" then I swung on through to "Christmas Eve Eve Morning," which is a poem I wrote about just how good my baby is in the sack...and, of course, I ended with "Mixed Emotions." (You can listen to Mixed Emotions by clicking on the Ninja in the side bar of my blog).

The crowd went crazy. For a minute, I thought somebody behind me was showin' their titties or doing live porn. When I realized they were clapping and whistling for me, I did my usual: I bolted from the stage. Afterwards, folks said very nice things about my reading...including several people that said that I was a "comedian," and I needed to do stand up.

Too bad when I try to be funny I turn into Fozzie Bear. Wakka wakka bitches.

The highlight of the reading was when the publisher and founder of Velvet Mafia, a press that focuses on queer erotica, approached me and said that he wanted to talk business. How about that?

After the show ended, David and I hung out with my new pal Karlo. Karlo is a super sweet human being that has a very gentle spirit. I met him at the Sol Awards of the Hispanic AIDS Forum a couple of weeks ago. We rode the train home together, where I regaled him and Titi Carlos with stories of Hot Daddy.

David and I ended the night with a special house guest, but David gets mad if I kiss and blog...so I shan't put the delicious, sweet, and fun details on here...as I would like to actually have sex with my boyfriend again before the Second Coming. Coming. Get it? Wakka wakka...

Thank you to all you lovin' and awesome folks that came out last night and showed all the artists in the show some love. A special thank you to Mr. Charlie Vazquez for having the reading series and lettin' a little old Midwestern gal such as myself up in the mix.

Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, and Ed McMahon

They are all dead. What the fuck? It's a bad day to be a super star.

Rest in peace ya'll.

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.

I Didn't Kill Anyone Today

Sometimes you just got to let other people have their shit. There are times when even your best intentions not only pave the road to hell, they build a train, lay the tracks, hire a conductor, and give your ass a free ticket for the ride down.

Let me preach to you for a minute.

So I made a lovely dinner tonight. After working until almost 7pm, I came home and made a delectable, light, and nutritious shrimp and pasta dish. It was so good that I thought about filling a bathtub with it and doing various pages of the kama sutra to it while, simultaneously, eating my way to an orgasm.

Back to the drama. So I come home after a day that had some ups and downs. The ups were that my current boss, unlike some of my previous employers, made it clear that he trusts me to do my work, is about as far from a demonic control freak as one could possibly get, and he values my opinion, the quality of my work, and trusts me to get the job done.

Three weeks in I believe I can say with confidence that I have delivered more than expected, and I will continue to do so. When you are given respect and not patronized, when you are given trust and not controlled, when you do your job and let others do theirs (with input and feedback), then I am willing to walk on fire for you. Show your ass, and I will show mine.

But I digress.

I have, in the last couple of days, had to deal with folks that are obviously stuck up in their own stuff. And, as I have done and many people do, they project their shit out on to others.

The trick, when others project their shit on to you and go crazy, is to not claw out their eyeballs and serve them in a nice white bean soup.

Instead cook a delicious dinner, as I did tonight. I made up a simple and healthy recipe of basil and garlic shrimp fettuccine served with French cut green beans (so cut by my loving man) and red bell pepper. It was divine.

Using food as a way to not kill people is a good coping skill. Ocular nerves and fettuccine do not go well together.

People are going to be in their shit now and again. You may have the best of the best of intentions when you reach out to someone…and it may get thrown back in your face. Actually, it may get poured over your face like you are an Arab in Guantanamo, But, never, fear Allah is with you.

Just don’t kill anybody.

Yellowfin Tuna Steak

Hello chilluns:

So, I have had another recipe request, and I thought I would post it here for your consumption.

Ingredients:

2 Eight oz Yellowfin Tuna Steaks
1 cup soy sauce
1 teaspoon oregano
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon onion powder
1 teaspoon garlic powder
2 garlic cloves
1 small piece of fresh ginger
1/2 teaspoon of fresh rosemary


In a flat pan or large bowl mix the soy sauce, oregano, chili powder, red pepper flakes, onion powder, and garlic powder together. Dip your steaks in the sauce on both sides. Marinate the steaks for 30 minutes to two hours. If you are going to marinate the steaks for more than 30 minutes, cover and sit in the refrigerator. If for 30 minutes, then leave them out at room temperature.

In a large frying pan, add two tablespoons of olive oil. Heat the oil over a high flame. Mince your ginger and fresh garlic and add to the hot oil. Stir the oil, ginger, and garlic together until the garlic begins to brown. This is to infuse the ginger and garlic into the oil. Remove the steaks from the marinade. Add the steaks to the skillet, and then pour the remaining marinade on top of the steaks. Sear the steaks on each side for approximately two and a half minutes. Add fresh rosemary to the steaks, and then remove from heat. This will cook the steaks roughly half way through and leave a rare center.

Take my advice...while you can cook the steaks the entire way through, tuna is an exceedingly dry fish...and the flavor will be so much better if you leave a rare core to the steaks.

Serve the steaks over brown rice with steamed broccoli and enjoy!

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.

Friendship

Friendships end.

That is a reality in life.

Some friendships end because of time and distance. Some end because of a conflict. Some folks just drift away from one another until the friendships, organically, dissolves. Other friendships are ended by conscious decision, while others simply fade away and bosom buddies, when next they meet, are near strangers.

In my life, I have rarely had a friendship end. That is, until the last couple of years.

One person, important to me, ended our friendship because of simply too much history. We saw each other through deaths, rehab, relationships, murders, work crises, HIV, and sexual assaults.

Another friendship was the victim of post-pardum depression. That loss was bitter and unexpected and an unfortunate side affect of a beautiful pregnancy. This was another person with whom I had shared much, in fact, we met when we were 13, and our friendship remained vibrant for almost 17 years.

The third friendship I lost because I didn't have the space to let this person into some of my life difficulties, and that created a situation where this individual felt that I had slammed the door in his face when he tried to reach out to me. I heartily disagree with this assessment, yet, that is the reason I was given, so it is the reason I accept.

And this last, is one that I conceptually, and fundamentally don't understand.

I decided to check in with a man that I believed was my friend regarding the state of our friendship. This person happens to be the partner of the third friend that chose to end our friendship. This is man that I, quite literally, love and respect and is, I believe, a model for how one can live ones life with honesty and integrity. So, when he told me that he didn't think we were friends because “we don't see each other and we don't share anything...at least recently”, I took what he said at face value.

But I don't understand it.

For me, friendship is,plainly put, a state of being when one person cares deeply for another, their well being, and, if called, shows up in a number of ways to support and build community with another person. Sometimes showing up means physically being present. Sometimes it means being an ear on the other end of a phone call. Sometimes it means responding to an email. And sometimes it means showing up spiritually, carrying a desire and prayer for peace and joy in an other's life, even when distance keeps you from showing that love and respect in person.

There are people in my life, that are not just friends, but family, that I have not seen in years. My best friend, and older brother, Jerry Jones, is someone that I haven't seen, physically, since January 2005. Time and economics haven't been on our side in terms of seeing one another. But, whenever I have picked up the phone, he has answered. We share a love for one another. And, if that is present, then there is friendship.

Over the years, I have added friends to my community that I hold dear. Having left Minneapolis, physically, I still carry with me the friendships of so many. Many of those folks were with me at a barbecue last week. I listened to their stories, and, though I am not with them on a regular basis, if any of them called and had a need, I would do what I could from where I am to fill it. That is friendship.

My truth is that should any of the four individuals in my life that have stepped away from the friendship that we have had, have a need, I would be there to fill it if I could. I have seen too much anger, abandonment, frustration, hurt, and pain in the world. I know how those things can intercept, interrupt, and intervene in love freely given. I have, indeed, let all of those things limit or eliminate my ability to be present for those for whom I care. I respect the choice of anyone to define the limits of their relationship with another, up to and including severing that relationship. But, that does not mean that I have to cauterize my feelings or no longer appreciate the friendship we have had and the memories we made together, whether they were last week or a decade ago.

Friendship should never be ephemeral, easily given, or readily taken away. It is too valuable. And in a time of great spiritual recession, those things of lasting value are that much more precious.

Minnesota Part Three: Scooby Doo Where Are You?

Saturday dawned with a glorious fury matched only by Bebe Benet in her Lion King wig. To say that it was a perfect day would diminish a temperature that felt as if you were immersed in a warm bath, cooled to the universal ideal behind the idea of the most gently caressing breeze. Mercurial gold slicked cat's eye green oak leaves, tossing stately broken shadows across uniform grass blades marching in military precise waves across the open field, as I arrived, late to my own damn barbecue in Powderhorn Park.

The third day of our trip was the time I had scheduled to see the bulk of the people I adore that live in Minneapolis. Since my Mother moved north to Duluth in early spring, I could no longer slip into the city and make excuses for not visiting the extended family. So, in a five and a half day trip to Minnesota, I had to squeeze in three cities roughly 500 round trip miles from each other. Thus, there was no way in hell that I was going to be able to spend quality one-on-one time with the people I love. As a matter of fact, only Susan and Rocki, Taylour, and Pookie and Wifey were able to get some sit down time...much of that having to do with luck and flexible schedules.

So, before heading to Minnesota I sent out an invitation to my friends asking them to join me for a four hour cook out in the best damn park in the world: Powderhorn. Powderhorn is a mecca in Minneapolis. As a child, I lived a block from the park. It figures in to many of my best childhood memories. As an adult, following college, almost organically, most of my close friends from undergrad moved into the neighborhood. In the late 90s, Powderhorn was undergoing a Renaissance that only marginally relied on gentrification. Long term residents began taking back control of the neighborhood from working poor folks that had turned to drugs and prostitution to make ends meet. A vibrant arts community began flourishing. Progressive folks and like minded queer women expanded their hold on the area. The neighborhood participated in a queer invasion of City Hall by elected one of three queer council members (of 13 total) to the City Council in the early 2000s. And, by a margin of less than 100 votes, narrowly missed putting a third Green party member on the Minneapolis City Council.

The park, roughly a mile in circumference, sits hidden in the middle of the neighborhood, with a natural lake sitting smack dab in the middle. This park, incidentally, is also home to the May Day Parade...a celebration of labor and the return of Spring that draws more than 50,000 people to the 'hood each May.

This particular June day, about 30 of my close friends showed up to cook and eat and eat and cook. Children abounded including Giselle and Isa, my two nieces...daughters of my fam Rodrigo and Nubia. The kids lovingly refer to me as Tia (Aunty) Brandon. Of course, Isa runs up and gives me a hug. From behind her back she pulls a delightfully colorful art piece and announces, “Tia Brandon...this is for David.”


I almost dropped her. She hadn't even MET David yet. And here he is, movin' in on the love and devotion reserved to Tia Brandon.

Actually, David spent most of the day playing with the girls, and they absolutely loved him and he them. It made me smile broadly to see it.

By 1pm, we had three grills going with kabobs, veggie burgers, corn on the cob, wieners, and Hmong sausages going. To date, I have never ever eaten anything in the sausage family that tastes like Hmong sausage. Find the nearest Hmong person you can...and beg them to make or direct you to where you can find these sausages. Trade one of your children for them if you have to. I promise. It's worth it.

At the fiesta were my unfailing group of friends: The Scoobies. The Scooby Gang aka Team Superflick aka The Ultramoviastic Squad is comprised of Peter, Debbie, Hayley, Dawn, Cathy, David, Kristina, myself and Jesus with adjunct members Ruben, Anna Mikelson, Erik Streed, Eric Hardisty and, now, David. We have also added two junior members, Lucia and Gabriel, with the newest and most junior member, Samuel, still in vitiro. Most of the group went to high school together (Kristina and I were the odd balls out), and all of us have known each other since at least high school...with the exception of David and Ruben (they married into the family). But, through rehab and funerals, birthdays and births, we have been there for each other for a long, long, time. I expect that I will be at the funerals of these people (or they at mine) depending on which of us kills the other first...probably over a game of Phase 10 gone horribly horribly wrong.

With only a small fire, started by Boa who threw still smouldering coals into the metal garbage can, to mar the day...it was with great sadness that I wished all the amazing friends/family that came out to say hello, a loving farewell.

David and I loaded the leftover Cheez-Its into the rental, and made our way two hours North by Northwest to Brainerd to visit family.

Now, my family history is a bit complicated. My Mother has been married four times, my Father has been married twice, I was raised by my first step-father until I was 13, and through him I came to have another step-Mother named Melanie, who had a daughter from a previous relationship. My birth father was remarried to my step-Mom Becky, from whom he is now divorced, and they had four children together, one of whom died as a child. Are you confused yet? Lost? No worries...I had to draw David a map.

From these various family mixings I have five biological siblings: Jason, Julius, Jasmine, Shannon and Kinchee (who died when he was an infant). I also have three additional siblings, two of whom that are related to my brother Jason by blood, Ella and Clinton, and one sibling that is not related by blood to either me or my brother but is the half sister of Ella and Clinton.

If some Baginses are Boffins and some Boffins are Boyles, who won Britain's Got Talent?

In the end, as I told David, it doesn't matter the blood status...I have eight siblings: Jason, Jasmine, Shannon, Julius, Clinton, Ella, Kinchee and Meta. I am the oldest of the bunch. I have “known” all of them since birth except for Meta, who I met the day before her 6th birthday, and I love each of them fiercely.

And, Melanie, who has never been legally a Mother to me, was most definitely a Mother to me...including the year that I lived with her in the 7th grade. Family is family...and only antiquated Euro-centric systems of family value blood quantum over emotional attachment, love, and support.

Our Saturday was filled with family, memories, and a whole mess of Mayflies that had hatched and carpeted the walls and tables of the lakeside restaurant where we had dinner that night. But no infestation of mayflies could dim the joy of spending a glorious day, surrounded by family and friends, and reveling in the love with which the world has blessed me.