The last time I saw my father was in 1997 when we went to see Titanic. He’s not dead or anything, we just don’t talk anymore.
My father never wasn’t conventional. My parents divorced when I was young and my father got custody of me and my siblings. We lived with him for six years until he sent us to live with our mother (on June 7, 1993, not to be too specific). It was in those six years that the groundwork was set for the man I would eventually become. And yes, I am really a man.
I never had a bedtime. Not because he didn’t want me to have a bedtime, but rather because I insisted on watching “The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.” It was there that I saw the stand up comics that would become my inspirations for pursuing the same goals.
He encouraged my obsessions with Bette Midler, Madonna, and Oprah, even though they didn’t necessarily fit the mold of what makes a “young man.”
He let me watch any movie I wanted to, no matter its rating. How else was I going to see my first crush, Tom Cruise, in Rain Man?
We don’t speak anymore because of the incredible amount of negative history that is there. As I age, I’m able to separate the things he did from the things I’m grateful for. Nothing is ever perfect, especially in relationships, but what matters most is one’s outlook on the bigger picture. He wasn’t a dad, he was more that distant Uncle who overstays his welcome at Thanksgiving. And that’s okay.
I see him in me, both the good and the bad, but being able to rationalize that is what makes me a man. Well, that, and this…
Getting my body beach ready for my upcoming vacation ain’t easy, but it’s moderately funny.
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 so excited, I’m so excited, I’m-so-scared!
Can we just agree on one thing: Hillary Clinton has become the shit, right? Like, woah, she’s totes in hear realm.
I supported her during the election. Well, at first I supported Obama, then I endorsed Edwards because Jean Smart of “Designing Women” fame endorsed him, and finally I settled on Clinton because of her postion on health care (it was the first time I supported a candidate for legitimate issues, rather than for them being a Democrat or black). I loved everything about her campaign, and her concession speech was probably the most eloquent and moving concession speech I’ve ever heard.
I had hoped she’d find a place in the Obama administration, but didn’t count on it. I predicted he would go for a totally fresh cast of charcaters, anti-establishment types. But then when it was announced Clinton would be the Secretary of State nominee, it was almost like my best friend had just been elected Student Body President, I was thrilled.
I knew she’d be awesome at the job, but didn’t anticipate her being as cool as she has become. As my friend Lori pointed out, Obama’s statements always say he’s “… deeply concerned…,” whereas Clinton’s are like, “… there’s just no basis for that…” It’s like she can now be the smarty pants we’ve always wanted her to be but she could never be, cause she had to be a politician. No more, now she can be like, “Nope, you’re wrong, and let me tell you why…”
She is amazing, I adore her, and love that she can now be that know-it-all we all hated in high school but really don’t mind having negotiate us out of nuclear war with North Korea.
Check out the wax version of her. Spooky!
What a fun show!
Have you seen the video of Nancy Reagan and Barack Obama together? Hilarious! I love the look on Obama’s face when she observes, “You’re a lefty,” as if it were some subtle political blow (which it probably was). Nonetheless hilarious!