Mother’s Day

Another Mother’s Day come and gone.

No flowers this time around. Instead, I called Mom up and spent some time talking on the phone. I tried to tell her that she did a wonderful job raising me. I tried to say that she shouldn’t think she failed as a parent because her son is gay and HIV+. I’m not sure if I was successful in that regard.

I tried to impress upon her that life is not a competition. It shouldn’t matter what you end up doing or where you’re going so long as you’re happy, so long as you’re a good person or at least try to live a good life. And since my mother is one of nine children on Antonia’s side of the family, I have a million cousins. I have so many cousins, it’s not funny. I bet even the dust bunnies in my apartment have cousins. Most of my cousins are married and most have or plan on having kids.

My mom once lamented to me that she was looking forward to being a grandmother. Well, that’s not going to happen. I seriously doubt I’ll adopt, or that I’ll meet a partner who will want the same thing.

She should cease comparing my life with everyone else. It really doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. I can only focus on now and what might come after. I can’t spend all of my life worrying about the past. Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. That path doesn’t lead anywhere. Life happens; you move on. I may think of the choices I’ve made and the things I’ve done, and perhaps as I grow older I’ll be more contemplative. I have so much to live for and so much more that I’d like to do. I know which direction my eyes face. I choose to live.

My mother refuses to accept the notion that a man can love another man and still have a loving relationship. She says it’s not natural. She uses the word “homosexual” without thinking that the word causes pain. She says I can say ‘gay’ but she’ll continue to use ‘homosexual’. Sometimes I wonder if I’m speaking to my mother and not a homophobe.

Another Mother’s Day come and gone. I don’t know if we’ll ever see eye to eye on most things. We have a complicated relationship. We’re still talking, and perhaps that’s what counts.

Camelot

Right out of a plane in Cleveland,
he found a crowd in the thousands
waiting to glimpse him. Three hours deep,
those high school kids and young couples, beside

themselves with happiness, had waited.
There was no microphone at all. The crowd
pinned him against the plane, pulled at his clothes,
and started to cheer. Still, Johnny began to smile

at the eager crowd. Quietly he touched
many hands. Johnny smiled and gave
encouragement. He touched many hands.
Those people had waited for hours to see their man.

Only those near him could hear, but Johnny
started to speak. That voice they knew gave
him speech, gave them hope–
I will need your help. But if you work hard,
we will win.

Johnny didn’t have to have any bylines
to get in the news. His words were our headlines.

Confessions

Okay, so I’ve been procrastinating about doing this meme, courtesy of Kusala.

Here goes….

1. When you were born, how much did you weigh?

Mandaluyong, Manila, the Philippines. Mandaluyong is one of the municipalities that comprises Metro Manila. You can read more about it here. I have really vague memories considering the last time I returned home was when I was 10 years old in 1981.

Birth weight was 9 lbs., 2 ounces. I was a big baby and born on Christmas Day.

2. What’s your sugar poison?

Dad died of a brain aneurysm caused in part by his diabetes. Hm, I think the six cans of soda a day might have been a factor. When I was a kid, Mom had this fear that I’d develop the same disease so things were relatively sugar-free. No chocolate candy, Cap’n Crunch, Frosted Flakes or Twizzlers. I don’t “hate” very many foods, though this is one of the primary reasons why I think Grape Nuts is food spawned by the devil.

Oh, right the question. I don’t have a favorite sugar poison. I like it all equally. Though if I had a choice, I’d go for a slice of tarte tatin with some homemade vanilla ice cream on the side.

3. If you had to choose between meat and cheese for the rest of your life, which would you choose? Then be specific.

Meat, definitely. I can’t imagine life without pork: pan-fried scrapple, Canadian bacon, crispy beer-braised pork belly, Smithfield ham, short ribs, pickled pig’s feet, carnitas, pork adobo, chitlins and pork rinds to name a few. Who needs cheese?

4. What, in your opinion, is the worst song ever?

There aren’t that many songs that make me want to grit my teeth but I’d have to say just about anything from the group Air Supply is a prime candidate. Oh yeah, and Michael Bolton.

5. Who was your favorite teacher growing up and why?

Ms. Tillou, my British lit teacher in my senior year at New Providence High School in New Jersey. She provided me with a lifelong love of that genre of literature and paved the way for my major/concentration in college. I don’t think I really appreciated fiction until I took her class. I still remember reading Beowulf for the first time, and feeling shivers go down my spine.

6. What personal activity, when performed in public, bothers you the most?

Clipping your fingernails, definitely.

7. Ok, there’s a $50 bill lying on the ground. You pick it up. Dumbfounded by your incredible luck, what do you selfishly purchase?

I’d probably dump it into my bank account. Yeah, I’m boring. Sorry.

8. Do you have a recurring nightmare? If so, explain.

There’s a scene in the movie, The Legacy where one of the guests dies in a swimming pool, except that the top of the pool is covered by glass. I have a REALLY morbid fear of drowning. It doesn’t help that I never learned how to swim.

1982, summer camp at Marist College in Poughkeepsie, New York. I’m in the relatively shallow end of the pool and lose my footing. Luckily, I’m near the wall and grab hold of the edge just in time. I think that experience scarred me for life. Then there was that time when I was in the Navy, but I think I’ll save that for another blog entry.

9. Name one place on Earth you’ve never been, but vow to visit at least once.

So many places to choose from.

Provincetown, Key West and Seattle. I can’t think of only one. Oops. Better add all the usual tourist-y type places in Europe.

10. You notice that question #9 wasn’t really a question. You feel smart for catching such a small detail. What else can you do really well that reminds you how smart you are?

I can make a fierce beurre blanc in my sleep.

Roberto

Today’s mail brought
your memorial announcement
from Miguel.

Hadn’t seen you
for a couple of months
since you returned
to junk, bottles
and crystal.

You called the night
before you died
I was out.
Left you a message.

Recent photo
on a cover
still a clothes horse,
your hair shoulder length,
as it was
three years ago,
we battled booze
with hands dripping
water from the sink,
talking in the thick
snowy TV light
about how life was better
without hangovers
and men

I hold in my hands
the image you liked;
handsome, scruffy,
ink on arms and
the small of your back

I picture Miguel
paying his respects
to your corpse
early that morning;
on the bathroom floor
splattered with blood,
falling after jacking up,
face against sink,
shattering nose
on your face.

Roberto, you were all face.

Dealer’s Table

boxes on folding chairs
unfolded around a folding table

a bowl of nachos
four mugs of beer
a pile of poker chips,
cards face down

i pick up one of the hands,
five crisp cards,
all of them picture cards
red birds light on their wings

in the dealer’s room,
four men play cards
drink, smoke, cough, grunt
i put twenty dollars on the table;
a squinting man looks at the money
he looks like the bank

a jovial man deals me a hand
five of a kind
picture cards
red birds on black wings
i bet heavily on this hand

the bank sits back in his chair
clicks his tongue
he’s sure i’m bluffing
maybe i am
i never had a flush of birds
he sees me, raises me

the fourth hand
a drunk man
flutters his cards
as if he has the jitters.

he sees the bank
i see the bank
i raise the bank
the bank folds

the drunk sees me, calls me
i show my hand of red birds
he has a pair of aces and a pair of threes
i reach for the pot, he stops me
the money slides into his lap
he beams around the table, says
No cigar, two pair beats five birds

black boxes on folding chairs
around a folding table
a game of red birds
folded and unfolded

No Exit

Stuck
in the checkout line
at Fairway
behind a geriatric
while the cashier
peels apart
a wad of bills
one
by
one

Westchester

To see Duncan, I travel north
away from my heart
to the one we’re building in a new place
out of nothing much.

Across the steel bridge
elevated roads lift cars above weeds,
unexpected trees and brick shores.

Harlem streets tick by,
rain sweeps the train windows,
slick streets, slicker river
the one that can flow both ways.

I can never lean again
without fear, I who doubt the solidity
of everything. I wait
for what’s next, and think I must
remember where love comes in.

Here the river fights itself
wave slaps wave, a battle
pulse of ocean versus
flood of river

Suddenly then, smooth
orderly waves march like soldiers
past concrete benches
not made for human flesh

Open sky soothes my aching eyes
past twenty kidnapped cars.

The doors won’t close, then they do
as we curve around to face west.

The Dating Game

Tomorrow I’m going to a dating mixer at the LGBT Community Center in the Village.

This should be interesting. Supposedly it’s one of the most well-attended theme nights at Datebait. A portable microphone goes around the room and you get three minutes to introduce yourself. Don’t forget to list reasons why you should be matched to a complete stranger, in the hopes that you’ll form a lasting connection beyond two hours.

I should disclose that I’ve been to a couple of these before. I don’t know why I’m going, other than because the dating bug has bit me after all of these years. The last few times I’d been bored or curious, or perhaps I was looking for a hookup. When you don’t go to bars or clubs, the chance of meeting Mr. Right or even Mr. Right Now gets drastically reduced.

Gee, you must think I’m a total whacko.

I’m hoping I don’t fuck up my three minutes in the spotlight. I think instead of saying the usual tripe about who I am and what I like to do, I’ll go for something else. Something along the lines of “Friendship is important to me and I believe that if you’re in for the long haul, you need a connection beyond image. Hotness only gets you so far.”

On second thought, that might not be a good idea. That’s the hard part about selling yourself. You want to pimp yourself out but not undercut things. Timing is everything, in both comedy and Datebait. Maybe “A great hobbit, both in bed and in the kitchen.” Hummm…that doesn’t sound so hot either. Wonder how many gay men have heard about hobbits?

I already know I have a lot to offer. I just need to find some wrapping paper and a ribbon.

I guess one of my resolutions for 2008 is to go out more. Now if only someone could teach me how to dance.

Mirror Checklist

Having a “boyfriend checklist” means that any potential soulmates/dating partners should know exactly what they’re going to get.

This is harder than it sounds on paper. How do you make a list of your flaws while being honest and hoping that most of your readership won’t sigh with disgust?

On the other hand, you have to wonder what Frodo might have done if he knew ahead of time what lay in store for him when Gandalf sent him packing.

Without further adieu, here is Spamwise in all his naked glory…

Caveat Emptor

1. I haven’t gone on a date in over seven years. There’s a story there but I haven’t yet decided if I want to write about it here. Some of you might have guessed the reason based on comments I’ve left elsewhere though. Maybe I will, one of these days. I disclosed it before settling down to write the rest of the list, then decided that it’s probably not a good idea at the present time, so I went back and erased it and put this instead. Reason #1 is true by the way, and derived in part because of the original entry.
2. I am not particularly neat or tidy.
3. I do not clean my apartment obsessively. If you employed the “white glove test” as my CC was fond of when I was in the Navy, I would fail miserably.
4. I’m skinny.
5. My favorite color is black.
6. I REALLY like Pink Floyd. To some people, my musical tastes are dated.
7. I REALLY like U2. To some people, my musical tastes are pedestrian.
8. I don’t have many data points that most gay men my age possess. For example, at the last NYC GB gathering, Mark exclaimed with some incredulity that I didn’t know what tupperware parties were.
9. I tend to be soft-spoken.
10. If you didn’t hear me the first time, I will resent repeating myself.
11. I tend to be hyper self-critical.
12. In the presence of a large number of strangers, it takes forever for me to open up and relax.
13. I don’t go to bars.
14. I don’t go to clubs.
15. I don’t know how to dance.
16. I don’t know how to drive a car.
17. I don’t know how to skate.
18. I’ve never learned how to ride a bike.
19. My singing skills are nonexistent.
20. Being the center of attention makes my throat go dry. On the other hand, I secretly crave adulation. Weird, huh?
21. I talk in my sleep.
22. I snore.
23. My teeth are not exactly good-looking.
24. Contact lenses scare the bejesus out of me.
25. If something would happen that would conflict with my workout, I will let it fall by the wayside. The gym comes first.
26. My humor tends to the dryer end of the spectrum.
27. If you joke, I will miss it by a mile.
28. If I could choose my mother, she would be Maureen Dowd.
29. If you ask for my opinion, you should be prepared to receive it in spades.
30. Even if you didn’t ask for it, be prepared to get it anyway.
31. Formal situations make me uncomfortable.
32. Yes, my clothes come from The Gap.
33. Yes, my wardrobe is not particularly fashionable.
34. Did I mention that black was my favorite color? That’s because it’s so easy.
35. Also, earth tones and solids are best. I rarely wear patterns or colors with names like teal and fuschia.
36. I don’t particularly like beer, though I’ll drink it if it’s in front of me.
37. I’ve never gotten drunk and the thought of being inebriated scares the hell out of me.
38. I have never understood the point of being fucked. It sure feels nice though.
39. There are people who think the world of Olive Garden. I am not one of them.
40. I don’t own a cellphone and have no interest in getting one.
41. I don’t own an iPod and have no interest in buying one.
42. Whatever I might have said about Madonna, there’s no denying that she possesses talent.
43. The same cannot be said of Britney Spears however.
44. Ditto for Beyonce.
45. I have long legs and like to use them. Slow walkers annoy me.
46. Tourists are a necessary evil in New York, but honestly, would it hurt for them to walk just a little bit faster?
47. I use the words “um” and “like” a lot. I’m getting better though.
48. I don’t hold a pencil like most people do.
49. I’ve forgotten how to use chopsticks and have no desire to relearn that skill.
50. Although people find David Letterman funny, I think he’s just a braying jackass.

Well, that was strangely therapeutic. I think I’ll go take a nap now.

Phone Calls

A couple of replies really got to me as a result of this rant. I have to confess I didn’t give it much thought [well, not as much as I'd have liked] BUT I did call Mom twice this weekend. As it turns out, she was in Florida visiting one of my cousins. I have a huge extended family across two continents and probably 50 to 80 people divided among four generations, but that’ll be the subject of another post.

She called me back last night. As far as conversations went, it was relatively vanilla. But then, when aren’t they? How’s work, am I doing well, am I still in the same apartment, am I taking care of myself, etc. etc. We have almost nothing in common. She has my family [who I barely know, and that's a soap opera in and of itself], but doesn’t want to hear a thing about my gay life. I told her the last time we spoke, “your son doesn’t share the same values you do, so stop harping on them!”

We spoke for probably ten minutes. It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. Our conversation didn’t devolve into another shouting match. Then, she said something liike, “Well, if you ever decide to call me, I’m always available.” Shades of the parable of the Prodigal Son! It seemed innocuous and I’m hoping she wasn’t preaching but there’s some part of me that always seems to read too much into things, especially where my mother is concerned.

[sarcasm alert] I love Catholic Asian Moms. [/sarcasm alert]

God forbid I start dating someone. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall to hear THAT conversation.