On Polls, Words and Contemplating Popping My Cherry

I was out with a group of folks the other night. Some were old friends. Others were casual friends. And one guy was someone I’d never seen before in my life. We ate bad food, got loosened up on margaritas and jumped around like teenaged girls at the Britney Spears concert.

Good times were had by all.

Over the course of this magical evening, I was asked quite a few times if I was on Facebook.

No, I take that back. I was actually never asked if I am on Facebook. It was just assumed that I am on Facebook.

And yet, I am not on Facebook. In fact, I’ve gone on record against Facebook. I sold my soul to Twitter, but I’ve been able to keep my Facebook hymen strongly intact.

But now I’m thinking that maybe it’s time to pop the cherry.

It became clear to me the other night that Facebook is just the way people are keeping in touch these days. Email’s out. Phones are certainly dead (unless you are using them to update your Facebook status). You can pretty much kiss hanging out in person a very fond farewell. Facebook has taken the place of all of that.

For the record, that saddens me. It really does. And yet, I don’t want to be left behind. I still want to be a part of society. I want to foster friendships with the people with whom I gawked at Miss Spears. And as disappointing as it is, the only way to really do that at this juncture seems to be Facebook.

So what’s a boy to do? If I join Facebook it means going back on my word. It means doing something I said I’d never do. If I don’t join Facebook, it means I’ll grow old completely alone (or maybe with a few cats).

I’d say growing old without friends is the worse fate, but I’m not so sure of that. Some of the people in my life will never let me live down going back on my word when it comes to Facebook. And those people can be relentless.

And yet, as relentless as they may be, I’d like to keep them in my life. And that may mean I have to go back on my word.

Oh, Facebook gives me a headache!

But what if it wasn’t my word? What if it was your word. What if you decided whether or not I should fall in line with the masses? If that were the case, I could not be held responsible. You’d be held responsible. And I could give up my Facebook virginity with a clear conscious.

So, I open it to a vote.

My eternal fate lies in your hands, dear readers.

On Proposals, The Pussycat Dolls and An Exercise in Expanding Your Imagination

Imagine, if you will, that you are sitting in the front row at the Britney Spears concert. I know that’s a hard image for most of you to conjure, but I have copious amounts of faith in your ability to fool yourselves. I also have copious amounts of faith in your willingness to follow me down any silly path on which I choose to lead you (even that addictive path known as Twitter).

Now image that before Britney wows the crowd with her musical prowess, those legendary hookers known as the Pussycat Dolls slink around the stage singing hit after hit, shocking a crowd that had no idea the group was responsible for so many mind-numbing pop gems. They strut and squat and generally seem like they are really enjoying almost exposing themselves to thousands of young impressionable girls.

At some point during this fantasy between Buttons and When I Grow Up, the Dolls take a moment to talk about dreams. Their dreams of becoming famous tarts have come true. If you follow your dreams, you too can learn to dance in nothing but panties and dangerously high heeled boots. Or you can take the stage with the Pussycat Dolls right then and there.

Now imagine that at this very moment the man next to you asks you to join him on stage. Keep in mind that in this little fantasy you are deeply in love with this man. And if in real life you would not be deeply in love with a man, in this fantasy you are a woman.

You got that?

So now you are standing on stage with both the man of your dreams and the Pussycat Dolls (OMJC!). The man of your dreams falls to one knee and the crowd explodes into cheers (OMG!) The man of your dreams mumbles some words about love into a microphone and you start to cry and he gets up and hugs you and the Dolls hug you and everyone’s crying and you are now getting married (OMFG!)

You can stop imaging now. Take a few deep breaths. Calm yourself down. I know that was a pretty mesmerizing exercise and you must be slightly exhausted.

Now that we are back in the real world, I am here to inform you that everything I just described above actually did happen in the real world. It happened last night. I was there. I saw the whole thing with my own two eyes and I can dig up seven witnesses to back my story.

Some guy actually proposed to his girlfriend on stage with the Pussycat Dolls at the Britney Spears concert last night. And for the record, said couple were not teenagers. I’m pretty sure they were pushing thirty.

Now, in the moment this was all very exciting. I’m sure it was even more exciting for the couple on stage. After some thought, however, I am a little appalled. A surprise proposal is fine. A surprise proposal that involves the Pussycat Dolls is just wrong.

The Pussycat Dolls are a manufactured pop group that is all about selling sex. The single that put them on the map asks whether or not some guy wishes his girlfriend where as “raw” as they are. Call me crazy, but that’s hardly the atmosphere in which I’d want to kick off a marriage. Then again, maybe I’m just old fashioned.

Perhaps nothing says monogamy, fidelity and matrimony quite like the Pussycat Dolls.

On David’s Bridal, Michael Weiner and A Few Musings on the Subject of Gay Marriage

I’ve been rather silent on the subject of gay marriage. As a gay man, I’m all for it. As a compassionate human being who believes in love, I think it’s the only way to go. As an American, I find it deeply disappointing that I live in a country where all men are indeed not treated equally.

I’ve been silent on the subject because everyone else has been doing enough talking for all of us. I don’t always feel like I have anything fresh to offer. I’d also like to think that anyone reading my musings on any kind of regular basis can surmise exactly how I feel about gay men and women being allowed to marry in the United States.

Today, however, I’d like to share a few thoughts and experiences related to the subject of gay marriage. Please excuse the lack of cohesion. In fact, think of what follows as a set of related mini posts. And please do not look here for some grand statement about why gays should be allowed the same human rights as everyone else. If you are truly looking for that, look inside yourself.

Over the last week or so I have been slammed with emails from David’ Bridal. I do not know how I got on their radar. I do not know why they feel the need to send at least two emails a day. All I know is that I’ve been getting the emails and I am not amused. This morning I clicked on the link at the bottom of the email in order to unsubscribe myself. In doing so, I was brought to a web page that asked me why I wanted to unsubscribe. A list of options appeared as well as a space in which I could type my own reason. I chose to do that. “I’m a gay male,” I typed. “I am not allowed to get married and I have absolutely no need for your services.”

I was reading Voenix Rising this morning and came across this post. Michael Weiner, co-founder of the Rockstar Energy Drink company, is a complete bastard. Among other things (“When I hear someone’s in the civil rights business, I oil up my AR-15!”), the bastard had some choice words to say on the subject of gay marriage. “I don’t like a woman married to a woman. It makes me want to puke … I want to vomit when I hear it. I think it’s child abuse.” Boycott this bastard. And, if I may be so bold (and slightly hypocritical), oil up your AR-15 just in case you run into him.

My best friend is in love with a man. That man is from Australia. Because they are gay they can not be married. Because they can not be married, my best friend’s partner has to be in the United States on a visa. That means that his time here is perpetually limited. Until they can legally be together, they will continue to live their lives being uprooted from their homes. It breaks my heart. It makes me sick.

Lastly, I would like to just say that I believe in people. I believe in love. I believe that one day soon we will have moved beyond all the fear and hate that currently dominates our society. I have to believe that. I have to have hope. I have to accept that the antiquated beliefs of an older generation will give way to the open-mindedness of those who will soon make the crucial decisions in this country.

Believe with me.

On Massages, Cerebrospinal Fluids and A Kinky and Relentless Sheet

I had the first professional massage of my life yesterday evening. It lasted for roughly two hours. It focused on my neck and back. And while it was indeed worthwhile, it hardly changed my life the way I sort of expected it to.

I guess that’s what I get for having high expectations.

I sought out a masseuse because my back’s been giving me trouble ever since I landed on it after slipping on some ice a few months ago.  I saw a doctor and nothing is technically wrong with my back.  And yet it still hurts me.  The discomfort finally got to the point where I was completely willing to part with some hard-earned cash in order to have a stranger run his hands all over my naked body. Usually this only costs me a couple of drinks and a cheap dinner. But when you are working with professionals, you’ve got to pay up.

(That last bit was a joke. I promise, Mom.)

I arrived at my appointment early so I could fill out a bunch of paperwork, including a statement that there would be no sexual advances allowed during the massage. I signed that one a little begrudgingly. Who doesn’t have a fantasy of getting it on with a hunky massage therapist?

The session began with what my masseuse called craniosacral therapy. According to my massage therapist’s website, craniosacral therapy “centers around the functioning of the craniosacral system, which consists of the membranes and cerebrospinal fluids that protect the brain and spinal cord.”

I have no clue what that means. I do know, however, that during this portion of the massage I was able to remain clothed, and I was pretty excited about that fact. I tend to only enjoy being naked around strangers if sex is involved.

(That, by the way, is another joke, Mom.)

Once the membranes and cerebrospinal fluids that protect my brain and spinal cord had been worked over, it was time for the real fun to begin. My therapist told me he was going to leave the room and I was to get undressed “to my comfort level.” I was then to get back on the bed and cover myself with the sheet.

He left and I froze. I wasn’t sure if most people get completely nude during a massage or not. I didn’t want to break some unspoken Code of the Ancient Masseuses. I wanted to appear worldly and knowledgeable and comfortable. I surmised that the only real way to appear worldly is to be naked. And so I got naked. Then I got under the sheet.

I was fine with the whole nudity thing for the most part. The sheet never fell lower than my waistline. Even when my legs and gluts were being worked on, the sheet remained in its place.

There was only one slight problem with that. As I was lying on my back having my legs worked on, the sheet kept rubbing back and forth over my crotch. It felt kind of good. And when something rubs across a man’s crotch and feels kind of good, there are noticeable ramifications.

Luckily, I was able to keep things under control by thinking of completely non-sexual images. It’s amazing what some deep breathing can do when you’re up against a kinky and relentless sheet.

When all was said and done, I was glad I’d finally decided to see someone about my back. I’m still sore, but I feel better for having been worked on. My therapist was friendly and knowledgeable. He talked me through a lot of what he was doing. He recommended a few things that may help with my discomfort and bad posture. And then, of course, he recommended I come back in a couple of weeks.

I may do just that, but mostly because I miss that sheet.

On Friday, Sun and A New Batch of Mini Posts

It’s Friday! It’s sunny! How about some mini posts?

On Makeup, Revlon and My Bid for RuPaul’s Drag Race
I’ve started wearing makeup. It’s a sad truth, but a true truth. Remember how I lost that patch of hair out of my beard? Well, I’ve started concealing it with an eyebrow pencil. It’s slightly embarrassing, but less embarrassing than having a blinding white bald spot on my face. And so the decision was made and I boldly walked into Walgreens and purchased a Revlon Colorstay Brow Enhancer which I now wear on my face. Next stop – RuPaul’s Drag Race.

On Fate, China and Letting Your Path Know You
Do you believe in fate? At the latest meeting of my book club, the topic of fate came up for discussion. One of the members of the group was born and raised in China and has only lived in the United States for a little over a year. Unlike the rest of us, he firmly believes in fate. He told us that his path has been chosen for him and that all he can do is either speed up the process or slow it down. He can not, however, change the path. This is such a foreign concept to Americans and we pressed him about his beliefs. One member asked him if he knew what his path was. His answer was priceless. “No,” he said in his heavy accent. “But my path knows me”

On Weather, Degrees and Three Seasons in Four Days
The weather in Chicago is just nuts. We went from winter to spring to summer in the span of four days. On Tuesday we were facing near freezing temperatures. There was the threat of freezing rain and even snow. Yesterday was a beautiful spring day. The high was somewhere around 68 degrees. The sun was out. We even got a little thunder shower last night. And now today we are looking at a high of close to 85 degrees. It’s going to be a hot one. In summary, the temperature in Chicago has risen over 50 degrees in fours days. How’s a boy supposed to dress when the weather just can not make up its mind?

On Solange, Splashes and My Personal Summer Jam of 2009
Since it is apparently now summer here in Chicago, I thought I’d share with you what is promising to be my personal summer jam of 2009. It’s a little on the old side already, but it never made a huge splash so it’s not yet overplayed. And, frankly, it’s deliciously perfect for summer. Ladies and gentlemen of the internet, I give you Sandcastle Disco by Solange.

And with that, have a wonderfully groovy weekend.