I’m fascinated by Newt Gingrich.  Yes, as a history nerd, I love his mind.  But that’s not what’s most fascinating to me.  With recent news that his candidacy is surging in South Carolina thanks to his strong debate performances, all I can ask myself is, “Why?”

Let’s be real, the dude is the definition of the word “icky.”  From his appearance to the way he conducts himself.  Even his smile reminds me of the creepy fat dude who, once in the privacy of his own home, you know is wanking to some truly sick porn.

Yes, I know, this shouldn’t matter, it’s the person above the appearance, but let’s be real, this isn’t 1909!  That was when an unfortunately looking man was elected President, William Howard Taft.  There have been questionable ones since then (I’m looking at you FDR and Nixon), but none truly warranting the word “ugly.”

Presidents aren’t just politicians, they are the definition of whatever we define as power at that moment (and, unfortunately, it’s always been in the male form, even when Hillary Clinton cracked the ceiling).  They are a definition of the time:

- Woodrow Wilson: Though not particularly attractive, he had the bookish thing in his corner, sending the electorates libidos into an intellectual orgasm.

- FDR: Yes, crippled, but so was the country (hello, Great Depression!).  But he had that special something, like Susan Boyle.  Sure, she’s a dog, but sings like an angel.

- Lyndon Johnson: Okay, he looked a little too similar to a houndog, but the dude had “MAN” written all over him!  He’d put back a few with you, go skinny dipping, and then shoot something.  And he loved Fresca (my personal favorite sophisticated beverage).

- Ronald Reagan: We needed a Grandpa to feed us jelly beans.

- Bill Clinton: The cigar says it all.

- George W. Bush: He had the dumb girl at the bar you could easily take home for a night of tickle tickle without any extra work required appeal.

So where does this leave Newt Gingrich?  Are we as a country in a place where we’re willing to elect another fugly?  I don’t think so.  If you take Barack Obama and put him next to Gingrich on national television, you’re going to see a smart, tall, dashing black man next to a man who hasn’t seen his penis since 1996.  Yes, the debate will be stuff of television magic, but at the ballot box, people will go for the greater endowments of Obama over the rotundness of a dude named Newt.

It’s a once you go black sorta thing, ya know?

I am 29 years old, young enough to eat pretty much whatever I want, but too old to officially fuck up (like get arrested for Coke possession or wear white after Labor Day). I don’t feel particularly old nor young, I feel like I’m 29 years old.

Last week I had my first encounter with the realities of my age. I had a voicemail from my father, “I’m with your mother, she’s about to go into surgery, talk to you later.” Okay now, let’s address a couple things. This surgery was not expected, so you can imagine my shock of not only the news, but also the delivery of the news. Notice there was no real explanation of what the surgery was for, what her current state is like, or any real sign of a good or bad outcome, just a direct sentence delivered in a dry voice. And then the, “…talk to you later,” as if perhaps we’ll meet up for milkshakes. Now I understand women’s complaints about men, because only a straight man would leave a voicemail like that. The dramatic homosexual in me required details and emotion, perhaps peppered with a light use of sentimental humor.

After what seemed like forever, I finally got a hold of one of my siblings to get an explanation. She was doing alright, but it looked like a long hospital stay and a longer recovery. I made arrangements to get home as soon as possible.

There’s nothing like news of a parent falling ill to force you to consider the day that they will no longer be here. I’m only afraid of three things: 1) dying in an airplane; 2) a world without Fresca; and 3) losing my mother. I know it’s going to happen someday, but that doesn’t mean I have to be okay with it. I feel the same way about the new Facebook.

I don’t want to play the, “My Mom is more special than yours” game, but she is. A gay boys relationship with his mother is one of the most sacred things in the homo’s life, followed by name brand lubrication and alcohol. For most us, at some point, we’re the “sissy” or the outcast in someway. But not to our mother’s. To them we were their “special little boy,” acknowledging that yes, we were different, but that difference only made us better.

It was that acknowledgement that gave me the confidence to later be comfortable with myself and my sexual orientation. She would say things like, “When you boys grow up and have children, or,” looking at me, “adopt.” It was this acceptance that made me aware of my difference, but not in derogatory way. I was going to do something greater then the conventional, and this inspired me to take a chance and do what I love: comedy.

There’s a joke I heard once, for mother’s, there’s nothing greater than having a gay son once the mom gets old, because we’ll ensure they are properly lit and look presentable. It speaks to a stereotype I loathe, but after last week with my mother, I realize it’s true. My mother tried to describe to my father what a pashmina is, but the closest he got was thinking she wanted to wear an animal. I was able to do the things the straight men in my family were uncomfortable doing, domestic things. And even though normally this separation of domestic roles would bother me, somehow I found comfort in being the homo Nurse with the mostess. And I knew it made my mother happy too.

She’s getting better, slowly, and for this I’m grateful. Now that I am a little bit older, I realize that the thing that she implied made me special as a kid, actually turns out to have made me possess one of the most conventional of all traits: nurturing caretaker.

I’m afraid of bread. And cheese. I convince myself that honey is better than sugar, but in the back of my head I know they’re just the same thing hidden behind a cute little bear container. Going to town on some hummus (which I’m an expert at) can keep me up half the night wondering why I’ve made the decisions I’ve made in my life. Cough drops are candy. Gum, no matter how much I chew, will never be an adequate appetite suppressant.

This is my brain (picture frying pan). This is my brain on food (picture egg being cracked into frying pan).

This is my brain on food imagining that the egg is cooked to be a little runny, with salt and pepper, and a veggie sausage (because veggie is better then real meat, right?), with toast in the toaster (to sop up the runny egg), maybe some Yogurt, Greek yogurt, Fage (pronounced “Fa-yeh”), with honey (as stated above), with some granola (not nuts, I’m allergic), and a big glass of orange juice, and coffee with soy milk (protein, right?). I’ll avoid the croissant (but think about it through out the meal).

I’m from St. Louis, Missouri, the “Show Me State.” As I’ve gotten older it’s become apparent that the meaning behind “show me” is “show me the deep fryer.” I’m not about to poo poo on the great Midwestern diet of canned corn (sometimes creamy), potatoes and fried chicken, but rather use it as a means to illustrate how the constant presence of mayonnaise in my life influenced the way I eat and think about food today.

A typical day growing up would be…

BREAKFAST: Cereal. Sounds non-threatening, but typically resulted in multiple bowls featuring such spokesmen as a talking tiger, a leprechaun or the cast of “The Flinstones.”

LUNCH: A meat sandwich of some kind (mayonnaise!), with chips, a hostess cupcake, some gummies, a soda, and carrots (which would be left to rot in my bag while it sat out in the sun).

DINNER: One or two servings of some canned food, a starch (which meant mashed, baked, or scalloped potatoes), and meat. Followed by a sheet cake.

After dinner I retired to the living room to watch TV, a bag of chips and soda would accompany me. And of course you needed a snake right before bed, which would be ice cream or, if I was being healthy, a bowl of cereal. Multiple bowls.

At 23 I weighed 275 lbs.

Living in New York has a natural way of slimming you down. Not by walking, but out of the hope that you’ll get laid. I lost the weight, mainly focusing on eating what the Food Pyramid told me to. And running, lots and lots of running. But that wasn’t enough. I gave up soda (except Fresca) and deep fried foods. Then meat (except fish). Then fish. In 20 years I will figure out a way to survive only on bananas and twigs.

I love bananas.

I love bananas so much that I had to give them their own paragraph.

Bananas.

I did it again.

From a childhood of obsessive eating to an adulthood of obsessive control over what I eat, you can imagine how difficult it is to just simply eat. I eat a lot but I hate eating. It calms me down and drives me crazy. It fuels my life and brings it down. Apparently it also makes me write in metaphors.

Someone once told me that I should go to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. I thanked her for the suggestion (and imagined myself punching her vagina). Food is everywhere, and somehow I’ve managed to control myself so it doesn’t drive me crazy. Somehow being on the border between functioning adult and obsessive-compulsive foodie works for me.

Except when I see kids eating bags of Doritos’s and I want to ask them, “Does your mother know you’re eating that?” Obviously I know that his mother likely gave him the bag to begin with. So it’s all on me to control myself, not judge too much, and actively strive to eat what I know to be right and healthy.

Bananas.

I try to be emotionally honest sexually.  Unfortunately an ugly cry after sex isn’t a turn on for most people (and if it does turn you on, we’re not cut out for one another).

I’m in the midst of a very long dry spell, the length of which I will refrain from saying.  We’ve all been there (at least that’s what I’m telling myself).  It’s not that I’m not actively trying.  I’ve done…

• ONLINE DATING: You name the website (or iPhone application), I’ve done it.  My favorite are the guys who say they are looking for a long term relationship, something serious, and then their profile picture is of their asshole.
• THE BAR SCENE: This is a great idea in theory, but only leads to the guy following you into the bathroom and attempting to grab your junk as you pee.
• FRIEND SET UPS: My least favorite of everything I’ve tried.  Classic story, your friend knows somebody perfect for you, “You both have SOOOO much in common,” they say.   So you reluctantly agree to the blind date, only to learn that the only thing you have in common is that you both have a slight weight problem.

Pat was right, love is a battlefield.  On the bright-side, if you’re fighting in the battle, you get to be on a first name basis with Pat Benatar.

My biggest struggle is that, contrary to the majority of the New York gay community, I’m not as sexually inclined.  I do not giggle when the words “top” or “bottom” are used; I’ve only not known the name of one person I’ve slept with (the “Chinese Armpit Licker” is a more apt name for him then whatever his actual name is); and randomly hooking up is next to impossible for me. This is mainly because, nine times out of ten, the cereal box I was snacking on the night before is still on my bed (embarrassing but true).

Thanks to the movie Bridesmaids, I’ve been thinking a lot about the song “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips.  This power ballad from the 80′s holds a lot of meaning, and just as many life lessons.

I know this pain (especially Carnie)

Why do you lock yourself up in these chains

No one can change your life expect for you (right?!)

Don’t ever let anyone step all over you (SMACKDOWN!)

Just open your heart and your mind

Is it really fair to feel this way inside? (Rhetorical, yes, but an incredibly important life question)

It’s all about holding out really.  Just keep doing it.  Because, as we’ve learned from Wilson Phillips, “Things can change/ Things will go your way / If you just hold on… for one more day!”

Basically what I’m saying is if Carnie Wilson can do it, then I certainly can.  Just shoot me from above.

Wilson Phillips – Hold On by EMI_Music

I write jokes in my room, which I pay $850 to live in.  Technically it’s not only my bedroom, but it’s also my office.  That’s tax deductable, right?

Is deductable a word?

Turns out it’s not (thanks New York!).  It’s not deductable I mean.  The jury is still out on the existence of the word.

I’ve never seen this jury though, so don’t quote me on that (especially if it’s not a real word).

I’m prompt with everything in my life – except taxes.  I put them off until the very last minute.  They aren’t out of my mind entirely, I begin to think about them after the start of the new year.  I think about how much I earned (or how little), how much I can deduct, and why don’t I listen to my mother and actually keep receipts.

Typically I wait until tax day to do them, but this year I filed a full 5 days before the deadline (you’re welcome Obama).

Regardless of whether you get money back or not, actually filing your taxes is the governments way of giving you a heavy dose of tough love.

One of the first things they asked me was if I had children (I do not).  Then they just assumed that I’m single, which I’m convinced was because of the inflection in my voice.  Then they start going down the list…

• You’ve earned such amount
• You’ve spent such amount
• You have no savings
• And you’re wanting to deduct your gym membership?

Who are they to judge me?!?!  You don’t know my life!

I wound up getting money back, albeit very little.  You know you’ve become a full fledged adult when you find out you’re getting money back, and the first thing you do is think “I can pay off my credit card.”

Well, it’s not all going to the credit card bill.  Fresca isn’t free!

“I am Banana Man,“ I would scream as I ran around the house with a “cape” (a long-sleeve shirt wrapped around my neck) and underwear (possibly clean) on my head.  Nothing in particular would turn me into this potassium rich superhero, but at the age of 6, does one really need an explanation for what they do?  I was such an indoor kid, my running around the house served as the only real exercise I got.  Once I got to the kitchen, I would proceed to eat as many banana’s as I could, and then take off yelling, “I am Banana Man!“  Eventually the banana binge would catch up with me, and I’d keel over, my stomach aching, and fall asleep.

Looking back, I see this as the single most significant child rearing technique my mother used: let them make themselves sick so they will pass out.

You would think this behavior would lessen my interest in banana’s as an adult, but you would be wrong, I love them!  I’ll eat the shit out of anything banana and/or banana like.  Because I’m allergic to most nuts, I get violently angry when I discover a banana centric dish that has nuts.  It’s very difficult for me to make it through a day without eating a banana.

Which is why my discovery of Tropical Race 4 in a fascinating article in the New Yorker stopped me dead in my tracks.  TR4 (I’m down with the terminology) is a mutated strain from Panama disease (which caused the wilting of banana’s back in the day), and was discovered in the mid-90′s.  The current banana everyone in the U.S. eats is the Canvendish (it’s the only one sold in most stores), which was created in the 1960′s to combat Panama disease (which killed off most of the old-school banana’s we used to eat, the Gros Michel).  But now TR4 is going after Cavendish!  The only real solution to TR4 is to create a genetically produced banana, which won’t sell.  UGH!

The past couple of days I’ve purchased banana’s that were a little green.  It’s difficult for me not to tear into a banana immediately (as you can imagine).  After I ripped open the recently purchased banana’s, they turned out to be not ripe, leaving a horrible taste in my mouth.  My first thought, “Oh my God, what if I’ve just eaten a TR4 banana?!?!  Could I have TR4?!”  Even today, I had to spit out my banana.

This just has me beside myself.  I can’t imagine a world where the banana’s I binge ate as I child no longer exist.  And if I have TR4 now, I’ll have it with pride, and use the little bit of notoriety that I have to bring awareness to the plight of banana’s, and Banana Men, around the world.

I Am Banana Man!!!