Getting my body beach ready for my upcoming vacation ain’t easy, but it’s moderately funny.

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?

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.

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.