ISleepInADrawer.com

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The human race has plenty of reasons to tease me. For starters:
1. The incidents (yes, this occured several times) in which I'd put on one of my mother's slips and run around the house.
2. The fact that I nearly laid an egg when my U.S. Postal Service online order of stamps arrived the other day.
3. A bookstore can sway me with promises of cupcakes.
4. Left toenails: blue.
5. When it comes down to it, I really enjoy alphabetizing.
6. Right toenails: red.

So, here are a few more reasons: tonight's Storm game.

The men of my family have tried very hard to make a man out of me. There were failed attempts to teach me to
1. fire a gun
2. hit a baseball (I'm pretty sure I ran away from it)
3. catch a baseball (I'm pretty sure I ran away from it)
4. throw a football (you get the idea)
5. catch a football
6. throw a frisbee
7. hit a golf ball (I became quite good at hitting the dirt)
and so forth.

Attempts to get me to
1. like sports
2. participate in sports
3. and be good in sports
all ended in a colossal failure that now manifests itself as my "adult" existence. For most men in my family, this shouldn't have been such a difficult task. But, every family has its... well... you know.

Anyway, they gave up long ago. Monuments to my attempted masculinization persist, particularly the long-neglected basketball hoop affixed to my mother's garage. I believe it's been touched twice, and glared at with utter contempt, by yours truly, about as often as the sun has risen over this globe.

But, tonight, something extraordinary occurred. I went to an organized sporting event... and had a blast...

It must have been embarrassing for Zach. When we arrived and sat down (some 45 minutes prior to the start time), I was filled with questions:

"What's that half circle?"

"Why do they call it 'dribbling'?"

"How many points do you get for a run?"
"Jim, it's called a basket..."
"Oh, that too."

During Zach's fourth or fifth attempt to explain the basic rules to me, I began to understand them. My mind was able to wrap around the concepts better than football, baseball, or even volleyball. Ball in basket. None of this "45th down" stuff from football, or who's-on-first sh*t in baseball. And don't even ask me what's going on with volleyball.

During the National Anthem:
Me: "Oh my God. I hate my life."
Zach: "What?"
Me: "Look up at the screens."
Zach: "What?"
Me: "We're screwed. This country is so screwed."
Zach: "What?!"
Me: "They have to put the words to The Star-Spangled Banner up there."
Zach: "You're kidding!"
Me, pointing: "See for yourself!"
Zach: "Oh my God."
Me: "Yeah. Kind of makes you wonder if our society is even WORTH saving when we can remember twelve thirty-second product jingles from the radio, but it's suddenly too much trouble to have folks learn a simple two-minute patriotic song, you know?"
Zach: "Yeah, it does make one wonder..."
pause
Me: "Actually, it doesn't make me wonder. We deserve what we get."

As the game begins:
Me: "Ball-in-hoop!"
Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "Oh, I'm just reminding myself of the point... Oh, YEEHA!!!"
Zach: "What?"
Me: "We just scored!!!"
Zach: "No, that's L.A. They're the ones in purple."
Me: "Well, sh*t-on-a-stick, damnit. I thought that was us."
Zach: "Why?"
Me: "I like purple."

Later:
Me: "Their coach must be so cool."
Zach: "Why?"
Me: "'Cause her last name's Donovan."
Zach: "So?"
Me: "So?!?! Haven't you ever heard Mellow Yellow?"
Zach: "Uh, yeah."
Me: "The song?"
Zach: "Uh, yeah. So?"
pause
Me, under breath: "'I'm just mad about Saff-'"
Zach: "He scores!!!"
Me: "She scores."
Zach: "Oh, sing your damn song."

Much later:
Zach: "Oooooh!
Me: "What?"
Zach: "Annie Lennox just got fouled."
Me: "What?"
Zach, giggling: "Annie Lennox just got fouled!"
pause
Zach: "I've been waiting to say that all night."
Me: "I think her name is Betty."
Zach: "Oh."
pause
Zach: "Shut up."

Much much later:
Me: "I wanna be a referee."
Zach: "Why?"
Me: "They have all the power!"
ten minutes later
Me: "You know how I said earlier that I want to be a ref?"
Zach: "Yeah."
Me: "Well, I changed my mind."
Zach: "Why?"
Me: "Well, everyone's yelling that they're blind."

Much much much later:
Me: "Oh, good! I like this part."
Zach: "What part?"
Me: "They're doing another jumble. They just announced it."
Zach: "What?"
Me: "You know, a jumble. Where the ref tosses up the ball and they leap up for it."
Zach: "James, that's not a jumble."
Me: "But it's what they said over the loudspeakerthingy!"
Zach: "It's jump ball."
Me: "Oh, I can't hear a damn thing in this place anyway.

Just after halftime:
Me: "Oh, no!!!"
Zach: "What the hell's wrong? We scored!"
Me: "No, she just scored in the other team's basket!"
Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "Yeah, why didn't anyone stop her? She just scored a point for L.A.!"
Zach: "Jimmy, they switched sides at halftime."
Me: "Really?"
Zach: "Yeah."
Me: "Oh."
pause
Me: "Isn't that confusing?"
Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "I mean, to the players. You know... what if they get 'em mixed up and start running the wrong way."
Zach: "I don't think that's likely to happen."
Me: "Does the audience get confused?"
Zach: "Not likely."
pause
Zach: "Except you, of cour-"
Me: "Oh, YAAAAAAAAAY!"
Zach: "Jim, quiet. That was the other team again."
Me: "Oh."

Other highlights included
1. the BO of the man infront of me which, for about twenty minutes, I thought was someone's really old hair gel
2. Zach's Seattle Storm hologram collector's cup
3. foam soap in the restrooms
4. we won, too... 77-72

I'm entirely shocked that I enjoyed myself, and found it interesting. I'd be intrigued to go again. Hell, the tickets were even slightly cheaper than taking in a film at the Seattle Cinerama. On the way home, Zach asked if I'd want to go to a men's basketball game, too. But, actually, it doesn't sound as interesting, and actually seems a bit more intimidating. Perhaps all the straight male odors and pheromones at such an event would put me on the defensive.

Perhaps.

And perhaps, at the women's basketball game, the huge number of lesbian couples there provided indirect maternal comfort, making me feel comfortable and free to ask all the insane questions I want. Plus, they were cursing out the refs the most. I learned lots of new words.

Or, perhaps I suffer from some sort of subconscious/unconscious gender discrimination. If given a choice, I choose to interact with women over men, perhaps as a result of my own extreme discomfort with my own malformed masculinity. Perhaps, though entirely comfortable with my sexuality, and my physical gender (the Y chromosome and all of the accessories it gives me), I've become estranged from the behavioral side of my gender, and will thus forever run from it.

Or, perhaps I just like the way lesbians curse.

The Storm

Thanks to free tickets, and Zach's desire for "something new and exciting," I will be attending a Seattle Storm game this evening.

This morning, I had to ask Zach what sport the Seattle Storm team plays.

I, for one, will need beer. I'm also bringing a book.

Pheromones

Zach and I aren't exactly what you would call "clean people." Don't get me wrong: we bathe (shower, actually), and enjoy a well-cleaned body (bonus if clean mind and soul are included at no extra price). But, aside from our personal hygiene habits, it ends there. We both, to different extents, struggle with a slovenly approach to our living space.

So, having lived together for the past month, you can imagine how the apartment has progressed through stages of
1. empty
2. full of boxes
3. full of fragments of boxes and materials that seem to have exploded, but were really "unpacked," scattered around unopened boxes

To help us walk from Point A to Point B, oftentimes we clean, but call it "organizing" to fool our minds. We'll stack chaos in a corner, or a hallway, and leave it be until the weekend. Then, one of us will begin to go through the chaos, and the other will eventually join in.

This tidal sequence has gone on for the past four or five weeks, and we've nearly gone through everything from the move. But, as we've brought order to chaos from the move, our unpacked belongings have brought a new chaos to order.

Now, we're just plain messy with the things we've unpacked.

When I reach a point where I can't stand the mess any longer, I resist the objections of my brain, and decide that it's time to clean.

Fortunately, my definition of "clean" is simple and straightforward: do some laundry.

Try it sometime. It's amazing how less-dirty a bedroom looks when you pick all the soiled clothing from the floor and put it in a washing machine. Often, looking at the "finished" post-laundry dwelling, I must resist the urge to weep at my own cleverness. Quick and easy and, thankfully, I've plenty of time to catch up on my reading while the washing machine and dryer run their cycles.

Sometimes, however, I'm delayed or thrown off track if some of Zach's clothing items get mixed in with ours.

You see, I've discovered a downside to being gay: we get our clothes mixed up.

It was Zach who first pointed it out. About three days after moving, I set up his hamper in the bedroom and began tossing dirty clothes from around the apartment into it. Zach looked on, obviously bothered:

Me: "What?"
Zach: "Oh, nothing."
Me: "No, really. What's that look for?"
Zach: "Well, shouldn't we separate our clothes? I'll do my own laundry."
Me: "Zach, I really don't care if our clothes get tossed in the same laundry load. I'll wash yours as well as mine. I don't care. Doing laundry makes me feel productive."
Zach: "But -"
Me: "End of discussion."

Until the next day, when I realized that Zach and I have virtually identical pairs of underwear. And, while we already share many other parts of our respective wardrobes, I'm not about to share my underwear with anyone.

Thus, separate dirty clothes piles were hastily erected, and our wardrobes have remained partitioned since then. Our washing schedules have also been partitioned. He does his laundry, and I'll do mine. He even has his own titanic box of discount detergent, sitting humbly next to my Trader Joe's brand of liquid detergent. If I happen to wear something of Zach's, though, I feel obligated to wash it. That's where the delay comes in.

For the past six months or so, I've found myself highly distracted, in some instances more than others, by Zach's scent. I don't mean to imply that he stinks to high hell or anything. No. This is, by far, a good kind of distraction. I smell him, or smell something he's worn, and I - at least for a few seconds - perk up in an instinctive manner, wondering, "Where is he? Where is he?" After a few seconds, the instinct dims, and my own frontal cortex can decide whether I've time to go find him, or if I'm in the midst of some other task.

For someone raised to value independence, it's an almost crippling sensation. One chemical signature suddenly triggers my brain, thankfully for only a few seconds, into a must find Zach sort of overdrive. This sort of surrender-of-control, I've been hoping, doesn't manifest itself in other ways. But, if it does, I've been considering surgical removal of parts of my brain, just in case.

In any sense, irked though I am when this occurs, my biggest mistake by far was telling this to Zach. Well, perhaps telling Zach wasn't the problem - more troublesome was the method in which I'd told him. He'd passed by in a flurry, after going for a bike ride, and had released an ample supply of his presumed Zach Pheromones.

My Brain: Must find Zach
Me: "Uh... hey! Where're you going?"
Zach: "To the bedroom to change."
My Brain: Must find Zach!!!
Me: "Uh, wait!"
Zach: "Why?"
My Brain: Stimulus gone. Back to normal.
Me: "Hey, you're not gonna believe this."
Zach: "What?"
Me: "I just had this urge to run up to you, bend down to your chest, and sniff you a bunch."

You see my problem: I often fail to think prior to speaking. This handicap has plagued me for years, and now has recently manifested itself in such a way that my boyfriend now thinks I have an armpit-smelling fetish.

Since this small misunderstanding transpired only last week, I've yet to rectify it. But, then again, Zach's a little too disturbed to mention it. We would just sweep it under the rug, if our apartment didn't have hardwood floors. I'd thought about attempting instead to sweep the issue under some of the dirty clothes that pile up on these floors (the hampers haven't caught on yet with either of us), but that's not quite possible right now. Saturday evening, you see, my brain decided to "clean." Several hours and two loads of laundry later, I had a "clean" floor, no space to sweep the chest-sniffing incident under, and a basket of fresh-from-the-dryer clothes to fold.

Folding laundry does not fall under my definition of "doing laundry" (which, in turn, is a synonym of "clean"). I'll remove clothes from the dryer, though, and let them sit peacefully for a few days (at least), until someone trips over the full basket in the middle of the night while getting up to go to the bathroom. This should explain to a few of you, by the way, why my clothes often look like they've been sitting in a laundry basked for days at a time: they have.

Anyway, Monday night, while getting up to go to the bathroom, I tripped over a basked of clean, unfolded laundry. Tuesday afternoon, after getting home quite early from work, I decided to bite the bullet and fold the laundry. The first step in "folding laundry" involves television, as I always watch TV while I fold laundry. You see, first I watch TV for an hour while the basket of laundry fails to fold itself. Then, I search through the basket for a long period of time, fishing out Zach's shirts that I'd worn. Usually, in a given laundry load, this includes two particular items: a mangy red sweatshirt of his that I've adopted and one of his Iowa State University t-shirts. I folded these during a commercial break and put them in Zach's dresser. For step three, I usually spend the next two hours or so folding clothes at a rate of one-item-per-hour. Then, when the time for Zach's usual homecoming nears, I hastily and clumsily fold the remaining items and, when Zach does come home, pretend I had the task done hours prior, just to hide the fact that it'd really taken me three hours to fold two shirts that weren't even mine. After all, why give him more to concern himself with? He already thinks I suffer from an armpit-smelling fetish.

Tuesday night and Wednesday night, Zach lounged around the apartment wearing the above sweatshirt that I'd washed and folded.

Yesterday evening, just before he came home, I found this red sweatshirt dumped unceremoniously at the foot of our bed. For some reason, feeling a need to "tidy up" (not to be confused with "clean"), I decided to pick up the discarded item and place it in his hamper (he, after all, wore it this time). Instinctively, I drew the sweatshirt up to my nose and inhaled, waiting for my brain to switch into go find Zach mode...

...and nothing happened.

Twenty minutes later, I'd resovled against calling 911 or checking myself into the hospital for acute-loss-of-olfaction, as the scent of biscuits burning in the oven had convinced me that nothing was wrong with my sense of smell. Instead, the scientist in me began to analyze this apparent problem: I'd smelled something of Zach's... something he wore only 12 hours prior... and my brain had failed to switch into "must find Zach" mode.

A good scientist will dissect an atypical observation, breaking it into constituent parts until finding the single variable, or group of variables, that altered the outcome. Finding another item he'd worn two days prior, I smelled it, and perked up as my brain tingled with must find Zach.

So, what was different about this mangy red sweatshirt?

This afternoon at work, while I was in the bathroom peeing (most of my Good Thinking is done in the bathroom), it hit me: I'd washed that red sweatshirt with my own detergent.

Sure enough, upon walking into the apartment tonight, I went directly to Zach's titanic box of discount detergent and smelled it.

must find Zach

My mind, my instincts, my inner animal... they aren't attracted to Zach's pheromones... they're attracted to his detergent.

I'm about to go pick up Zach from an after-work event. I can't wait to reassure him that I don't indeed have an armpit-sniffing fetish, because I've just found out, through painstaking scientific inquiry, that I'm really attracted to his titanic box of discount laundry detergent.

But, perhaps I should rephrase that before I tell him.

The Fog

As a quirk of my personal grooming habits, I check the headlines prior to flossing.

Browsing a story concerning heat wave-related fatalities across the United States, I came across a phrase that made my blood run cold:

"Most of the deaths came in the mid-western state of Arizona."

Mid-western?!?!

Someone in the BBC editorial staff obviously needs a geography lesson.

Unfortunately, most Americans need these lessons with greater urgency. I am reminded, specifically, of a classmate in the fifth grade, and the ferocious argument we had on the playground one day when he, holding up an unlabled map of Africa, claimed it was the state of Maine. The persistence and passion of my protestations, which centered on the key points of Maine's single strip of Atlantic coast (as opposed to Africa's entirely seaworthy coasts, broken only by the Suez/Sinai frontier), and the fact that the Nile does not flow through a single fragment of North America, were interpreted by my opponent as a sign of desperation in the face of his presumed correct interpretaion of facts. Feeling he'd triumphed over me, despite my superior arguments, he cut off my appeals by pronouncing me "Fag!", and tried to drive the point home (via "might is right") by running up to hit me.

I ran like a girl.

Escaped.

And went to play four-square.

In Illinois.

A midwestern state.

Faith

One of Zach's co-workers owns a piano. A piano he and his wife don't have room for. A piano that now needs a temporary home. I believe they say they'll put the piano on "permanent loan."

A piano? On permanent loan?!

Sign me up, baby!

Zach has let them know we may be interested. Of course, now here's the part where I'm wishing we had bought a home, rather than simply moved into an apartment. Obviously, noise will be an issue. I've contacted our landlord with what will probably be the first of many weird requests over our stay in this new place. The gist: "Sir, can we get a piano? Please please please?!" While some may chastize me for bein soft, I'm fully prepared to hear a resounding "NO" from the authorities. I have to respect my neighbors, and God forbid they should wish for Peace and Quiet. Not that I plan to beat the Holy Hell out of those keys. I've been forever gentle with the musical instruments I've been entrusted with over the years; but all my promises of quiet, background melodies may not persuade those-in-charge that a piano really, truly wouldn't disturb the peace of this complex any more than the midnight parties of our condo neighbors across the alleyway already do.

I, after all, will never play at night.

At this point, I should extinguish any rumors or misconceptions conerning my abilities as a musician. Yes, I've had many years of lessons. As many of my fellow Americans were raised going to Little League, Boy Scouts, YMCA, and the dreaded (by me, at least) summer camp, I was taken to music lessons. Family tradition, after all. My progenitors included an opera singer, several church organists (one with perfect pitch, which she failed to pass on), singers, actors, and dancers. While the rest of you were learing to play "catch" with dad, I was committing

Every
Good
Boy
Does
Fine

to memory. And, I loved it. From kindergarten through my last day in college, I was a musician. Well, a hack musician, at least. At this point, I should emphasize that the musical talent flowing through my family's gene pool, at the very least, skipped me. I got plenty of gay, but not many musical alleles. Hence, piano lessons from K through 12 produced little more than a sad rendering of Debussy's Reverie. Double bass lessons, added in the 6th grade, went a little better. I became an Orchestra Nerd, and even did the All-State Thing back in high school. When college became lots-on-my-plate, I dropped the piano lessons and concentrated on double bass. Don't get me wrong, I still spent as many hours in front of a piano as I did a bass. But, the piano officially moved into the shadows... something I never played in front of others. It became my own - entirely. Expressions and impressions of my moods, my thoughts, my feelings. Bass became what-I-wanted-others-to-see. Sitting in front of a piano, though, what-I-really-was came out to play. Within the limits of my skills, of course, in both cases. Yet, regrettably, as I came from a family of
1. musicians
2. and teachers,
we never really made much money. Hence, basses were rented, not bought. Following college graduation, I was cut off. Actually, since I've come to depend on music as a means of soothing the Savage Beast Within (you know, the thing that gets me cranky when my belt and shoes don't match), it was a pretty traumatic parting. Especially since, upon the sudden separation of my parents and my abrupt move to Seattle, I was also leaving the piano behind. I guess, for many of you out there, it would be akin to quitting both Little League and Junior Soccer at the same moment. On my CV, I have a small section (it fills up the rest of the final page) labeled "Personal Interests and Hobbies." Nestled in between "International politics" and "European History (esp. Tudor England," are two seemingly insignificant entries:
Double Bass (not currently playing)
Piano (not currently playing)

For the record, I don't really enjoy looking at the final page of my Curriculum Vitae.

Though I excelled more at the double bass, the piano has always been there. Persistently, sometimes in the background... sometimes in the spotlight. I may not have been particularly good at it, but
Every
Good
Boy
Does
Fine.

"Fine" is good enough for me. And this good boy, for his sanity, his boyfriend's sanity, and the sanity of all those he encounters, would really like this piano-on-permanent-loan. The pragmatist within is advising caution - after all, the landlord could refuse on the grounds of noise pollution (which is often the style I use to play Chopin). Yet, the optimist, particularly after a few beers, begins to scan the apartment, picking out that Magic Spot where the 88 keys can rest, waiting until I come home to let them know what sort of day I had.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Is your thumb pricking, Sarah?

A short one and a tall one.

Yep, that's right! Early September, you're having visitors (again, a short one and a tall one)! Turn down that futon, shine that prosthesis, and teach those kitties that peeing in our underwear is a No-No!

One last Hurrah before grad school.

Through the Looking Glass

Friday morning, I exited my dentist's office elated. For, you see, my latest dentist is
1. all-knowing
2. kind and laid-back
3. quite handsome.

Plus, I only had one cavity to fill. Considering some of my recent dental experiences, this was a breath of fresh air.

I was so elated that I felt the need to call Zach and deliver the good news, while I waited for a U. District bus to ferry me to work. I did not notice the homeless man who was already at that stop. But, I did after a few moments. While talking to Zach, I heard...

"Excuse me, sir?..." I look up. "You could be normal and join the rest of us by taking off those glasses.... What, you think you're better than us? That's why you wear those glasses, isn't it? You're so F***ING SMUG SUPERIOR that you have to wear glasses. Would it be too much to ask you to remove your glasses and act normal so I can punch you in the face for being so smug and superior?"

At this point, my weird-sh*t-o-meter was off the charts. And, yes, I was still on the phone with Zach. I'd quit responding to Zach (whatever he was talking about), but he just kept going.

So, in one ear, Zach was agreeing with me that our new dentist rocks. In the other year, an increasingly unstable homeless man was berating me for being a four-eye:

"Sir, if you don't remove those glasses, I'll do it for you. People like you need to know that those glasses aren't going to save you! You have to remove those glasses. YOU HAVE TO REMOVE THOSE GLASSES. Is it too much to ask that you quit being superior by wearing your glasses? Jesus Christ! Just be normal like the rest of us!"

At this point, I'm pretty sure Zach could hear this as well as I could, as the man was shouting louder and louder. Zach, I believe, assumed it was merely a nearby conversation, and that I was in no way involved.

Alas, I was involved:

"Excuse me, sir. You have to remove those glasses. YOU HAVE TO REMOVE THOSE GLASSES. I hate you for wearing glasses and refusing to be normal like the rest of us. What, you think you're better than the rest of us. YOU HAVE TO REMOVE THOSE GLASSES. I'll bet if you take them off you'll be normal like the rest of us and then I can punch that arrogant face of yours. I hate you! I HATE YOU! Take off those Goddamned glasses! I'm not wearing them and I'm normal. You be normal so you won't be superior and so I can... can... punch you!"

At this point, I multi-tasked, listening to both Zach and my new glasses-loathing companion, and hastily reading the posted schedule, only to see that my bus wasn't coming for another ten minutes.

Ten minutes of listening to this guy? He was approaching ever closer. For the first time in my two years in Seattle, there wasn't a U. District cop around. So, a strategic retreat was called for.

I walked five blocks down to the next stop. My companion followed at first, but stop a half block down the road to yell at a heavyset man for his Coke-bottle glasses.

On my way down to the second stop, I met a law enforcement officer, and informed him of the homeless man. He asked me to describe the man, and I did the best I could. But, I didn't forget to include, albeit with a note of smug superiority, that the homeless man was also wearing

[wait for it...]

a bright, blue, shiny pair of glasses.

Training Wheels

Sometimes, folks ask me point-blank why I use phrases such as
1. "When I grow up..."
2. "Since I'm not really an adult..."
in ordinary conversation. Usually, I'll bet such language is usually filed away under James' Deprecating Humor: He's Merely Joking. After all, in other instances, this would indeed be the case.

But, in the case of the above two phrases (or variations thereof), it's not a case of self-deprecating humor. I really mean it. I'm not an adult. I'm responsible, trustworthy, educated, sexual, and am even in a stable monogamous relationship with all the trimmings of adult emotional and physical well-being...

But, I'm not an adult.

After all, I can't ride a bicycle.

Rumor has it that, once, I could ride a bicycle. Long, long ago. I was taught, and I even had my own little-kid bike. I graduated (painfully) from training wheels. But, somewhere around the age of 11 or 12, I put the bike away, and haven't ridden one since.

I always found the act of riding a bicycle very, very stressful. Granted, folks who know me well shouldn't be surprised to hear that I find certain everyday or mundane tasks stressful, like
1. talking to a group (2 or more) of people
2. driving in an unfamiliar place without a map
3. taking part in athletic activities.

Yeah. Those things stress me out. But, bicycling has been worse. Upping the levels from "medium anxiety" to "myocardial infarction." Well, I should qualify that. Bicycling hasn't always induced such heightened alert. There have been pleasant instances on a bicycle, but those were few and far between, and regrettably difficult to reproduce.

I think bicycling was so difficult for me as a child, and so fear-inducing as an "adult" (adult-sized child?), since the act brought together so many other fears and "problems" wired in my brain.
1. I wasn't a very coordinated child, yet the punishment for loss-of-balance was, at best, scrapes and bruises following an abrupt fall.
2. I preferred (and still do) a sense (illusion?) of being "in control," and the act of riding, which, for me, involved trusting gravity more than my own primate brain, just didn't seem possible. More often than not, my finely-tuned flight-or-fight instincts would kick in, and I'd fly off the bicycle, running as far from it as I could.
3. I didn't always enjoy being outside: it was hard to be alone... and the bright sun, hot weather, and insects made reading outside impractical. I preferred (and still do) hands-on games, not whole-body exercises. Yet, bicycling is an activity that must be done entirely out-of-doors.
4. People. They'd see me. This alone was the biggest fear. I didn't want to be seen and laughed at every time I stumbled, fell, or leapt off to run as far away from the bike as I could. I was never very popular at school, particularly as I entered the "awkward phase" from second grade on up. So, I also feared running into my classroom/playground taunters.

I suppose, looking at the list now, these don't seem like huge concerns. But, for some reason, in my mind, they built on one another, compounding and compounding an already stressful situation until, suddenly, the sight of my bicycle produced a crippling anxiety. I suppose I was, and still am, a fragile child at the core.

So, when it came to bike-riding, I didn't see it as something new and exciting to try. More often than not, I felt like my time would be better spent doing something else, like reading or playing with Legos or watching He-Man. Plus, there were ugly incidents of bullying that added onto my negative feelings. Thus, as I was prone to do as a (younger) child, I shut away What Was Fearful and Frustrating, and replaced it with activities more enriching (at the time) to my soul.

Then, over time, I became a not-so-young child. Cartoons like He-Man, Duck Tales, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were replaced with CNN, Absolutely Fabulous, and Star Trek: the Next Generation. Reading progressed from The Berenstain Bears and The Boxcar Children, through James and the Giant Peach and The Chronicles of Narnia, past The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings (but really, one can never truly set aside Narnia or Middle-Earth?), and up to The Scarlet Letter, The Songs of Distant Earth, The God of Small Things, and the Harry Potter series. My voice, believe it or not, deepened. I got lots of acne. Hair grew on my arms, lets, and on other places. I became grateful for the large and heavy notebooks I had to carry around in high school, as I suddenly found some of my male classmates irresistable. I felt awkward, more awkward, and finally (blessedly) less awkward. I had a biteplate and braces, and finally my wisdom teeth pulled. I found some passions: music, history, science. I thought logically. I tried beer. I kissed. I smiled more often, and no longer felt weak crying now and then. I grew so fast that my legs hurt. At first, I wore the clothes my mom bought me, and then started buying my own. I got part-time jobs, learned to drive a car, won awards, and earned a high school diploma. I had sex and, remebering the persistent speeches from my parents growing up, made sure it was safe sex. I went to college, smoked, traveled to new places, and earned a B.A. I also laughed and played solitaire. Once, I got a B+ in physics. I opened bank accounts, got credit cards, and even had student loans. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I paid my bills on time. I became trustworthy.

But, I was still a child, held back by fears.

I decided to confront them, bit-by-bit, day-by-day. I still fear talking to lots of people, but not as much. I can ask questions now without getting as nervous as I used to get. I can eat alone in a restaurant without feeling awkward or out-of-place. I'm not ashamed of my body. I no longer try to make myself sound stupid or ill-informed around others. I care less, work more, and know when to take a break. I even pick my battles, and don't need to win or be right all the time. I use self-deprecating humor without meaning it. I'll even admit when I'm wrong, and don't beat myself over the head for every minor mistake.

But, I'm paralyzed at the thought of riding a bike.

Perhaps it's crippling me due to the combination of fears and the resurrection of uncomfortable and embarrassing childhood memories. I've never really tried to explain this to Zach, who has persistently vowed to get me on a bicycle so the two of us can ride together on the Burke-Gilman trail or around Green Lake. Zach loves to bike, as does a good mate of ours. Both have expresed wonder and confusion at my adamant refusal to even approach and mount anything other than a stationary exercise bicycle.

But, today, I somehow became calm enough for Zach (grinning in that cute way that always wins my obedience) to take me gently by the hand, and lead me outside to his bicycle. His intentions were to lead me out into the alleyway behind our apartment, put me on his bicycle, and see how I did. I, for some reason, reluctantly agreed - until he made me wear his helmet. It took a good few minutes to get that over my giant cranium, particularly since I wasn't helping and Zach, being a few inches shorter than me, had some problems getting it fastened properly while balancing himself on his tip-toes. But, the sudden introduction of the helmet spooked me... I became acutely aware of the number of neighbors out in the alley - taking out trash and recyclables, going to their cars, bringing in groceries, or standing out on their balconies enjoying the sun. I opted instead to "try it out" on the tiny patio just outside of our apartment, blocked from the alley by a large, wooden fence. Zach acquiesced (he had to, as I would have fled indoors otherwise), and urged me to mount the bicycle.

For some reason, the act of swinging my leg over the bike, and planting my rear on the seat, struck me like a blow to the head. It all came rushing back - the memories and fears. My hands sweat profusely as I twisted my palms against the handlebars, and my breathing became ferocious and erratic as I wobbled to keep my balance on the bicycle. I sat there, trembling, and scared to death of going out in that alley. I sat silent for a few minutes as Zach looked on, puzzled and concerned. I couldn't do it... I couldn't ride it... I feared
1. falling
2. crashing
3. becoming an object of laughter and ridicule
4. stares.

Of course, by fearing becoming an object of laughter and ridicule, I became an object of laughter an ridicule - a self-fulfilling prophecy. A neighbor came around into the yard at that moment, staring curiously at the sight of a grown man (looks like an adult, but really much more child-like) sitting, scared stiff, on a bicycle, with another man attempting to comfort him. Frustrated, I removed the helmet, clumsily dismounted, and retreated indoors.

Zach, patient as ever, has, I believe, contented himself with the fact that I was at least able to get on the bicycle. Perhaps that is, actually, a positive note. That'll be the first time in twelve or thirteen years, actually. Previously, I don't think I would've been able to approach it, after all. I explained to Zach my extreme discomfort, and poor history with bicycles, ranging from personal fears to social anxiety. I even showed him a set of comics from Calvin and Hobbes that I, for years, have identified with a little too much. Maybe, given a little more time, I'll be able to get on it and actually ride a few feet. With, of course, Zach walking alongside, his hand planted on the back of the seat to balance me.

Sounds a lot like learning to ride a bicycle, right? But, I've already had that lesson. "They" were right when they said, "It's just like riding a bike: you never forget." I remember how to ride a bicycle. That's not what I need to learn here.

I need to learn to be an adult. And shed my training wheels.

The Fourth

What do Queen Beatrix, King Albert II, King Juan Carlos, and Queen Elizabeth II now have in common?

Well duh. They're royalty. But, as of yesterday, what else?

Canada: Fourth Nation to Legalize Gay Marriage

Naturally, they can all now get together, rub elbows, and proclaim themselves heads of state of the only four nations in the world to permit gay marriage!

At least, four for now.
*crosses fingers*
*plans massive international gay conspiracy*

With a named Supreme Court nominee and pseudo-bombings in London taking up all the press time, I just thought a few of my fellow Americans might have missed this little development from our oh-so-envious neighbor to the north.

The Asylum

"Uh-oh, kids. He's whipped out the Washington State map... Better go put your fustian boots on quick!"

Sometimes, living in Washington State is a lot like having a first-class ticket on the Titanic. Sometimes.

Washington state has no income tax. Approximately 60% of state revenue is collected by a general sales tax or specific product sales taxes. Most of the rest (~30%) is covered by property taxes (reason #6,012 why I haven't bought yet). Special projects and expenses are usually covered by
1. loans of some sort
2. other specific taxes

In its most recent session, the state legislature passed a 9.5-cent gas tax increase (yes, "increase," as we already have a rather large gas tax), to come into effect step-by-step over the next few years. The gas tax increase has a noble purpose: state road construction projects. The biggest two projects by far, however, as critics note, are in the Puget Sound region:
1. replacement of the Alaskan Way Viaduct, Seattle's very own Highway to Hell: a 1950s-era double-decker state route 99 concrete monstrosity that glooms an otherwise pristine downtown and harborfront view of Elliott Bay; heavily damaged in the 2001 Nisqually earthquake and far beyond repair, Seattlites are only now beginning to believe the 2,000,000+ geological surveys predicting that the next MINOR quake will, at best, partially collapse the expressway (the only one through downtown, I should add) or, at worst, pancake it in a matter of seconds (cold comfort to the 100,000+ vehicles that use it daily).
2. replacement of the state route 520 bridge across Lake Washington, connecting Seattle to the Eastside (that is, "Eastern shore of Lake Washington"... think: Microsoft HQ, Bill Gates, Bellevue, and suburbs galore); as one of only two bridges connecting Seattle to the Eastside (the other being I-90), it's as heavily used (if not moreso) as the Alaskan Way Viaduct, though it isn't crumbling "as much."

Enter anti-tax mogul (Muggle?) Tim Eyman, one of the most (if not THE most) recognizable names in Washington state politics. He's championed the repeals, deaths, or restrictions of many of the state's property tax codes and gas taxes, and even championed the end to affirmative action programs in state government hiring and higher education. And, quite frankly, he's won as many battles (just look at the car tabs controversy, folks) as he's lost (slot machines, anyone?). A colorful figure, to say the least: admired by many, and loathed by just-as-many.

His latest, and arguably most popular measure to date, is the (voter-initiative) repeal of the 9.5-cent gas tax increase. It's an issue we all see when we fill our tanks (thank God I don't drive to work), and inspires a good deal of grassroots rage, particularly among the millions and millions of Washingtonians who don't take the Alaskan Way Viaduct or the 520 Bridge daily. On an individual level, I've heard spiteful mutterings from bitter non-Seattlites:
"Let those tax-and-spend liberals get crushed. It's what they get for building such a rickety structure."
"They [Seattlites] tax themselves to death, but can't replace one stinking highway. Poetic justice, if you ask me."

While this sort of venom may help some sleep better at night while paying more at the pump, I'm hoping that most of my fellow Washingtonians won't let gross blanket assumptions convict me to death-by-highway-pancaking.

When I brought this up at home a few weeks ago, I immediately took Zach's temperature, as he proudly announced he's also against the gas tax increase. He opposes it for many of the same reasons that I (in theory, but not in fact) oppose it. In theory, I oppose any sort of tax like the gas tax increase because, and this shocks the hell out of me, I find myself entirely opposed to Washington State's tax system.

No income tax?!?! Jesus, people: that doesn't even pass the Laugh Test. I've never seen people so anti-income tax, even in deeply-liberal Seattle. What ever happened to the progressive cause of a graduated state income tax? Washingtonian opposition to a state income tax is apparently widespread. King County Executive Ron Sims showed promise as a (Democratic) primary gubernatorial candidate, until he came out infavor of a graduated state income tax. The Political Grim Reaper practically had to escort him off the battlefield, handing victory over to State Attorney General Christine Gregoire (now our governor, and an adamant 9.5-cent gas tax increase supporter).

So, instead of raising money by a graduated state income tax, or even a flat state income tax, Washington raises revenue through a high sales tax (in which a household making $20,000 devotes 7.1% of its income to sales taxes, while a household of $130,000 forks over only 2.5%), a property tax system equally punishing (but 100-fold more complicated), and, for me (a Seattlitle), monorail and public transit taxes and a local sales tax. And, each time the state needs more revenue to (let's just say...) replace a double-decker highway before it collapses, Washingtonians profoundly reject any option of a state income tax in favor of a gas tax increase, sales tax increase, or property tax increase. Back to the Titanic, think of it this way: rather than grabbing a life preserver, I grabbed a crate full of silverware before jumping in, time and again.

When I typically bring up the idea of a state income tax (whether flat or graduated), I'm typically me with:
"Are you crazy?! Tax, tax, tax! That's all you want. Give government more money! I already have high sales, property, monorail, and gas taxes!!!"

I used to answer this in a polite, reserved, and civil manner. But, after hearing it for the 12,000th time, here's my reply:
"Dipsh*t. A state income tax could, if done properly, replace sales and gas taxes, and decrease property taxes."

Sure, we'd have another complicated set of forms to fill out every April, but you'd save at the pump, at the cash register, and probably at home, too. So, I oppose the gas tax increase because I want it, and the sales tax, replaced with a state income tax. But, since that won't happen (sorry, Ron Sims), and since no gas tax opponents have come up with another (reasonable) way to replace the crumbling Alaskan Way Viaduct, 520 Bridge, and other roads and bridges statewide, I guess, in practice, I'll vote FOR the gas tax increase issue, and side against Tim Eyman. I don't claim that a state income tax will solve all of Washington State's revenue woes overnight; but, it's a first step. Exploring the state's tax and revenue problems, I'm beginning to see the tax system as one of the root causes of the state's failing schools, crumbling infrastructure, and persistent economic woes. Reading up on the subject recently has made me wish I'd pursued economics in college; it's a fascinating subject that I wouldn't mind (someday) wrapping my brain around.

I see that the Pacific Northwest loves to abandon particular taxes at will (Oregon, for example, has no sales tax). But, we apparently also hate to make up for the lost revenue. You can't have your cake and eat it, too, folks. I've wanted to go up to gas-tax-increase opponents, shake them vigorously by the shoulders, and yell
"What? What do you want me to do instead? You oppose an income tax, property tax increase, sales tax increase, and now a GAS TAX increase?! What do we do instead? Let the next earthquake pancake the viaduct? Kill lots of people?! Is this what you want? You're not giving me any other options here!!!"

What do they want instead? These repairs, if postponed or abandoned, will cause deaths. Hearts stop beating. Where do they want the money to come from instead? Cut the already pathetic school funding? Abolish Sound Transit? Demolish the capitol building? What?!

My fellow Washingtonians, you've opposed all the other alternatives to the gas tax increase. So please, eat it at the pump, or wise up and reform your tax system. Then, the Titanic, while floundering, can at least still float - and this Seattlite can live to be taxed to death.

Dibs on McClintock

Just to show that Zach isn't the only one who can live-it-up in this apartment:

Case One:
Work has been a bit discouraging lately, particularly with graduate school looming as a Great Huge Unknown that, in September, I'll have to deal with. So, I took yesterday afternoon off to finish Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on the Bainbridge Island ferry, and later on at the Seattle Public Library.

The Seattle Public Library is... unique. And, yesterday, also quite warm. So warm, in fact that, on a particular neon green escalator, I decided my bright yellow University of Iowa hoodie clashed too painfully, and had to be removed.

I now know that one should not attempt to remove clothing items on an escalator.

Mid-shirtremoval, seeing nothing but bright yellow with my face pressed against fabric, my balance and inner ear decided to go on a cigarette break - four gigantic steps down-escalator later (translating to about seven escalator steps), I wrenched the shirt off, curled down my t-shirt (which had attempted to flee my torso in the process), apologized to the homeless man who'd finally broken my four-gigantic-steps-down journey, scrambled back up two steps to retrieve a flip-flop, and scrambled back up the remaining steps to retrieve my man-purse, just before it got sucked back down at the top of the escalator.

Case Two:
I fell down on the stairs today at work.

In front of a member of the National Academy of Sciences.

Case Three:
I'm almost out of stamps. So, I bought more online.

Fifteen minutes later, I was gleefully informing Zach that I never knew how much fun buying stamps could be:

Me: "We're going to get stamps of American Scientists and Pacific Coral Reefs! I'm so excited!"
Zach: "Uh, okay."
Me: "One of the ones on the American Scientists set is Barbara McClintock!!!"
Zach: "Who's Barbara McClintock?"
Me: "She discovered transposable DNA elements."
Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "Nevermind. We're getting stamps! I'm so excited!!!"
Zach: "Uh -"
Me: "Dibs on McClintock."

Quality of Life

I suppose I should start out with a disclaimer: Zach, in his infinite wisdom, approves wholeheartedly of this post. Please don't walk away with assertions such as, "Jeez. James must really find Zach annoying. How sad." Obviously, kiddos, I'm crazy-go-nuts about him. That said...

The other day, a friend of mine asked, "So, what's it like now? Living with Zach, I mean. Do you guys do anything cool?"

Yeah. Sometimes we watch Battlestar Galactica, and then go to the pub so I can have a beer. Zach, as you will see, gets so many jollies out of life whilst sober, that he has little need for a pint. Three cases within the last twenty-four hours:

Case One:
Zach hit his head on the wall while attempting to blow his nose. You might wonder how this happened, as I did. Zach had been thrashing his head about as he attempted to blow his nose because, in his words, "It tickles!! The tissue tickles!"

Case Two:
Zach had a job interview yesterday morning. He didn't want to have to come home to change after the interview (why he needed to change in the first place is another matter). So, he resolved to take a change of clothes with him. I should also note, at this point, that he, like me, takes the bus in to work.

His bus stop is right across the street from mine. So, as I was boarding my bus, I saw him, coming out of the gas station right by his bus stop: he's a good-number-of-inches-shorter than me, with a head about the same size as mine. This fact is merely relevant to emphasize how innocent he appears, especially when he's in his nicest black suit, with (alas) the most hideous, faded-purple, torn backpack I've ever seen slung across his shoulder, a pair of jeans bulging from the rip. The wind has tossled his hair, making it appear "frizzly." The genuine Zach Accesory lay in his right hand, a "Big Gulp" (from the 7-11) of Diet Coke ("I have one every day!" he boasted to me later in the evening, in response to my inquiry). His other hand was held up to his forehead in vain, attempting to shield his eyes (Zach doesn't believe in sunglasses) from the sun's rays. He was so busy squinting that his mouth repeatedly missed the straw of "Big Gulp," leading to many near spills.

These are all qualities that, apparently, landed him an immediate second interview, by the way.

Case Three:
Zach's in the shower, while James is brushing his teeth.
Zach: "Ow!"
James: "Wha-whu-mahwuh?"
Zach: "Huh?"
James, spits out toothpaste: "What's the matter?"
Zach: "Oh, I got shampoo in my eyes!!"
James: "Do you want some baby 'No Tears' formula shampoo."
Zach, grumbling: "No..."
pause
Zach: "Could you?..."

All-in-all, it's an eventful time. But, not in the ways I expected.

Bad Driving Situation

I'm still at the point in my adult life where I feel it's best to repress any events that occurred during the span I'll aptly term the "Uncomfortable Years." An alternative title would've been the "Prickly Panties," for no particular reason. I reserve the right to change it.

Anyway, the "Uncomfortable Years" encompass the time period in which I managed, without even really trying, to achieve
1. maximum awkwardness
2. maximum insecurity
3. moderate repressed femininity (think limp wrist, minus painted toenails)

The period spans a number of years but, despite a strong instinct to pretend those years didn't happen, memories still bubble up to the surface.

Besides, during those "Uncomfortable Years," I also took Driver Education in high school; and, there, I learned all about Bad Driving Situations.

The film, I'm pretty sure, was made before my parents could even drive. Since my Driver Education course (like so many of those high school classes) sat us alphabetically, I was in the back row, near the projector. So, I also saw evidence of extensive Scotch-Taping to keep the sad, yet uncomfortably entertaining, educational film in... working order.

The film follows the adventures of a remarkable young man, who looks frighteningly like a 16-year-old Kurt Russell (I didn't stick around for the credits), as he learns all about driving from the Narrator. Since I don't remember the character's name, let's just call him Billy.

--------
Billy is going to have a swell time learning to drive from the Narrator, won't he? He's so happy that he's going to drive and become a big man, like his father. First, Billy spends what must be twelve or thirteen hours checking over every micron of the family automobile to make sure everything is in working order. Not just the tires and mirros, after all; that upholstrey has to be in working order, too, Billy! Safety first! Then, he gets into the car (but not before first checking to make sure there aren't any pedestrians he might accidentally hit with his door when he opens it) and fastens his safety belt, since the front seats of this model of car have a safety belt. The back seat passengers, obviously, don't need seat belts, since they're in the back seat. Aren't the '60s a great time to be alive?

Uh-oh, Billy. Another car has pulled up behind you at the stop sign. This is a Bad Driving Situation. Give Mr. Johnson behind you a Friendly Tap of the Horn, just so he knows that you two are now in a Bad Driving Situation, and he'll need to stay right where he is until you are able to proceed through the intersection.
--------

Oh, thank God. The Scotch tape gave way.

My sister, who, years prior, had seen the same film, often jokes about Friendly Taps of the Horn with me. I often chastize Zach for failing to give Friendly Taps of the Horn to Seattlites when they do rather daft things behind the wheel like
1. come to a full and complete stop on the Interstate to allow another vehicle to merge
2. stop at a green light to consult a map
3. at a stop sign, permit other cars to proceed out-of-turn simply because the sun is out
4. drive bipolar-style simply because (oh, surprise!) it's raining

I bemoan Seattlites for creating Bad Driving Situations, and give them liberal Friendly Taps of the Horn to remind them that I want to get home without gruesome death. I pride myself on creating only Good Driving Situations, just like Billy and the Narrator want. Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, Mr. Johnson: I'm thinking about your safety.

That is, until this morning when, going south on Eastlake Avenue, I saw a cute guy and nearly hit a parked car.

Nearly.

The cute guy and his mate looked stunned, and the driver of the car behind me gave me a few extended Friendly Taps of the Horn to let me know that I'm a retard. She was even kind enough to raise up a finger at me, probably as a proposition for intimate relations. I thought about giving her a Friendly Tap of the Horn back, to let her know that I'm
1. taken
2. a homosexual

But, the bus behind her let out a few Friendly Taps of the Horn to let us know that our persistent rush-hour flirting was creating a Bad Driving Situation, as the bus could not maneuver into place to pick up the cute guy, his mate, and his fellow commuters.

Billy, I have failed you.

The Choice

As you may recall from way back yonder, I'm eagerly anticipating the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. So much, in fact, that I'll be going to a bookstore at midnight on Friday (or, technically, is it midnight Saturday morning?) to get a copy.

Picking a bookstore, though, has proven... difficult.

At first, it was easy.
Zach: "Jim, I'll go with you. So you won't be the only adult there. We'll get your book and we'll go. I haven't read 'em, but I'll even take you to an IHOP so can start reading and find out how many T.W.E.R.P.s Harry Potter got - "
Me: "O.W.L.s, dear. Not T.W.E.R.P.s! They're a test the Hogwarts students take at the end of - "
Zach: "Whatever. Just reserve a book before I change my mind."

So, I did. I chose a store near home, that'll begin selling books at midnight. It's a large, independent bookseller, and one of our favorite establishments for quick bookshopping trips.

But, last night, we visited another bookstore so I could pick up "yet another" book concerning my favorite period of history (Tudor England, if you must know). On the way out, Zach noticed an advertisement, and couldn't help but point it out to the attendant who was ringing me up.

Zach: "So, you guys are doing a Harry Potter release party thing?"
Attendant: "Oh, yes! We'll start selling books at midnight... and we'll have cupcakes and butterbeer and... oh, just a little party..."

Cupcakes?

And butterbeer?!

Would I really cancel my book reservation at the first, more convenient, bookstore for some cheap cupcakes and butterbeer knockoff at a smaller, less convenient locale that isn't even opening its doors until after midnight?!

A frustrated Zach posed that question to me last evening after we left the latter bookstore, my mouth spouting out childish questions such as, "What do you think butterbeer tastes like?"

So, again: would I really cancel my reservation at the first, more convenient, bookstore for some cheap cupcakes and butterbeer knockoff at a smaller, less convenient locale

Oh, you bet your ass I would.

From Adams to Zemlinsky

Here's a sentence I should never utter again:

"Zach, don't fret; I'll alphabetize those CDs for you!"

For the record, he has over 800. All classical. And, thanks to Bach, Brahms, Beethoven, Bruckner, Britten, Bax, Barber, Bernstein, Bartók, Berwald, Berlioz, Berg, and Bruch, you can guess which section is currently filled beyond capacity.

On the other hand, he's so grateful that, suddenly, I can do no wrong.

Juxtaposition

I found plenty disturbing regarding the recent bombings in London - the grief, horror, and inevitable what-if-this-happened-to-me. But, what I've found, by far, the most disturbing concerns media coverage, particularly on television. I don't know why I failed to notice it earlier... Perhaps I just wasn't paying attention.

It's the commercials. Hello, news anchor. Horrific acts of terrorism in London? Scores dead and injured? Innocent victims all around, you say? The tragedy, the images - the shocked faces, the wailing and grief - it's all too much. You're breaking my heart, but my need to be informed is winning out: I'll stay tuned. Oh, you say I must wait after "these messages" have carried out? Alright. I'll wait.

happy people spreading peanut butter on bread - their lives now have meaning

fast cars VROOM VROOM over muddy fields, smiling driver

cheerful toothpaste makes dentist visit blissful

use of this deodorant will bring you love from many women

come watch this show - big glowing box will change your life!

Leave it to the tragedy of innocent victims to point out the ridiculous regard in which I hold commercials. After images of death and destruction, you're going to shove happy images of smiling-with-peanut-butter-on-bread in my face? Perhaps, on 11 September, no one broke for commercial breaks. If so, why does London deserve any less? British lives matter no less than American ones. [But, then again, I was also fuming because no tragedy of terrorism, war, or genocide in (say) Rwanda, Bali, Darfur, or Uganda received as much attention. That's another matter, though, for another time.] Is it too much to ask that, while reporting human tragedy, we're permitted a surrounding appropriate to contemplate the gravity of the situation? How can one individual viewer sit back to analyze, delive into, and come to grips with the reality of the London bombings (or Madrid attacks, Bali attacks, Rwandan genocide, and the whole mess that is Darfur) when, after five minutes of grim reporting from the scene, complete with images of victims, survivors, and wave-after-wave of stunned or silent faces (drenched in shock), we're given five minutes of loud, fast-and-furious soundbytes of

wear this shirt because you can't live otherwise

make my biscuits or your kids will be sad

Kids will be sad if I don't buy this brand of biscuits? People are DYING out there, and I'm supposed to think about biscuits, and happy people spreading peanut butter on bread? Perhaps I'm overreaching. Perhaps the news media DID give a reasonable amount of time for Reality to sink in... for most. In such a case, it would seem that I require significantly more time than most to... well... cope.

Maybe this shouldn't be something to cope with. Maybe most of you looked, watched briefly, sympathized, and then spread peanut butter on bread. With a smile. In any case, I found television on Thursday and Friday quite difficult to watch. The persistent commercials popped up - unwanted, persistent visitors. They might as well have been banging on the doors and windows, peering through the blinds. Trying to draw me away, to keep me from caring - or, perhaps, to ensure that I don't care as much. Perhaps. Of course, I don't meant to imply that the makers of (happy) peanut butter, (VROOM VROOM) fast cars, or other fine products actually want me to Care Less about Important World Events (when said events are even reported on by the media, of course). But, one must admit, the abrupt transition between death-and-destruction and happy, smiling peanut-butter lovers leaves something to be desired. At least, to me. I find them, at the least, distracting, when I want to pay attention to World Events We Should All Be Concerned With.

But, the sharp contrast between
1. passionate speeches by PM Blair
2. VROOM VROOM
brings to light another issue. While I found VROOM VROOM, biscuits or your kids will hate you, and happy peanut butter distracting, distasteful, and disrespectful Thursday and Friday, today, as the dust settles and Life gets back to Normal (but really, what IS normal?), I didn't mind the persistent reminders that I do indeed need to go buy a RV in Tacoma RIGHT NOW, NO WAITING. I guess enough time passed, finally, for me to catch up to the rest of you. But, now that happy peanut butter no longer seems offensive or, at least, blatantly out-of-place, what about the rest? What about these two posts regarding the London bombings? More-than-likely, they'll be my only mention of them on this site. So, my next post will probably be back to something less grave. Such as
1. the big glowing box changed my life again
2. use of this deodorant made my scent more tolerable for Zach
3. vroom vroom [note the little letters] in my Buick

So, does the abrupt transition between grave reflection of tragedy and terrorism, set against the backdrop of the current situation in the world we live in, back to the trivialities of my own life dampen the former and unnecessarily elevate the latter? This Friday, I'm pretty sure my primary concerns will be
1. happy hour
2. season premiere of Battlestar Galactica
3. the midnight release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Trivial, right? Especially in a world where cities are bombed, ethnic conflicts reign, and political and economic strife run rampant. So, perhaps, as I slip back into my typical routine, I'll revisit this entry. Not its content, exactly. But, it's context - its position - relative to the entries that precede it, and the entries that follow it.

And I'll see what a difference a week makes.

All Rise

From the London News Review, via Andrew Sullivan:

What the fuck do you think you're doing?

So you can pack up your bombs, put them in your arseholes, and get the fuck out of our city.

The Corpse

Perhaps I'll lose some readers over this one. But, oh well.

On my last trip back to Illinois, my mother gave me a few snaps (I believe the rest of you call them "photographs") of various family members. Though the "gay thing" has pretty much called for me to keep my extended family at arm's length, the past few years have been marked by the deaths, both expected and unexpected, of an assortment of my extended kin. Thus, with so many passings, my immediate family has been a bit preoccupied with family history.

As I've somehow become a (hack) scientist in the midst of a family of musicians and teachers, I believe my mother, in particular, is eager to trace the science genes ("science alleles, mother...") through her lineage. I, though, maintain that occupation is still predominantly an environmental cue, and far from fixed in stone. I don't really consider myself to be a scientist; I just play one at work. And so far, no one's come in to lead me away, back home to play with Legos. But, I'll admit, it is still intriguing to ponder familial connections in what-I've-done-so-far-with-my-life. Since you can count my immediate scientist progenitors on one hand, it's pretty easy to trace the science alleles back. Hence, I should not have been surprised that, on my last trip back, included in the snaps of one of my pappaws as a child, or one of my mammaws as an infant, there was an 8" X 10" photograph of my great-grandfather while he was in medical school.

He and I share the same first name. Since his son (my pappaw) and I slouch the same way, perhaps he did as well. That's really about all that I know. But, he was a scientist. The photograph shows him in a class for medical school. He's standing in the back (quite frankly, I tend to do the same), with only his face peering over a much shorter classmate's head.

Though I do indeed keep much of my blood kin at arm's length, I was actually excited to receive a copy of this photograph from my mother. I suppose, though I've built up my own "family" over the years, fearing many of my own conservative relatives, I still have a small urge to look back at my predecessors, and think: this is another part of how-I-got-here.

So, I bought a frame, slipped the photograph in, and mounted it on the wall next to my B.A. ("gift certificate") above my desk.

When I showed it to Zach, he looked not at my pappaw's father, with whom I share my first name, but at what my pappaw's father and his classmates were doing in class that day:

"James, what's that they're standing around..."

I look:
"Why, it's a cadaver. What'd you think it was, silly?"

Though he had probably guessed that on his own, I'm willing to bet that Zach was hoping for another answer...
1. "Oh, I thought I'd be funny to photoshop in a dead body."
2. "It's a mannequin."
3. "Didn't you know they had blow-up dolls back then?"
4. "One word: cannibalism."

You really can't see more than the lower legs. Students are blocking most of the rest, as are some rather soiled-looking rags. But, seriously folks, let's be honest about this: it's medical school. Of course you need cadavers to study human anatomy and physiology! Sorry guys. There are no substitutes. Only the Real McCoy will do. We've tried substitutions before: Galen, due to cultural taboos forbiding human dissection, had to use barbary apes, leading to countless myths and misinterpretations which persisted up through the Enlightenment.

As for the corpse, I'm sure he or she had lived a full life, and had stated explicitly that his/her body should be donated to science upon death. I would hope, at least. Anyway, perhaps it wasn't the most appropriate time or place for a photograph - no one is smiling, at least. But still, there it hangs, on my wall. Nine live humans, and one dead.

At least my ancestor was one of the breathing ones.

Deus ex Machina

After a weekend going stir-crazy in the apartment, unpacking box after box, and finally volunteering to hang up our pictures, portraits, and other wall-suitables, we chose to take a break today and get out of the apartment. Early in the afternoon, we headed to Gasworks Park with blankets, food, and books. I wore plenty of sunscreen (three paranoid applications in a two-hour time span), ate roasted corn, and I made admirable progress through Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

As sunset approached, the park became more and more crowded. We brought our belongings closer to us, making room for stragglers eager to see the fireworks. I'm a pretty huge fan of fireworks. Granted, I'm not the one who'll clap and scream and cheer all through the show - I prefer to sit back and watch. But, I still get my thrills. I'm not a huge holiday person, though. I've yet to figure this one out entirely. Sure, I'll participate in limited functions, but I've been bemoaned as the "party pooper" when it comes to both holidays and my own birthday, shrugging and pronouncing, "It's just a day, like any other." But, if it involves a paid holiday, and fireworks, I'll attend...

...and promptly be shown up by the two most patriotic, and entirely brainless, high school cheerleaders on God's Green Earth.

As I mentioned earlier, we began to make room for other fireworks-viewers between 9:00PM and 10:00PM as the sun was setting behind Queen Anne Hill. These two girls sat down behind us just before the show began. Immediately, we knew we were in for an interesting time. Zach, who had been lying down on the blanket, using his bag as a pillow, was unceremoniously kicked in the head. I was stirred by giggles. I didn't get a good look at them. But, a few general impressions:
1. haltertops
2. flip-flops
3. make-up definitely banned from Bob Jones University
4. straight blonde hair, straight brown hair
5. vacant expression in the eyes
6. approximately eighteen years old

I suppose #5 should have set off alarms. But, at the time, I was more eager for fireworks. Soon, however, once Zach recovered from being kicked in the head, we began to pay attention to what they were saying:

Girl: "Ohhhhhhh! [impatient sqeal] I just love the Fourth of July!"
Other Girl: "Me too! And fireworks!"
Girl: "Me too! They're my most fav-or-it-est!"
Other Girl: "Totally!" [snaps gum]

The show was upon us. We were asked to rise for the national anthem. Zach suddenly became concerned that folks would trod over his bike, and spent most of The Star-Spangled Banner moving it to a better position. I, however, attempted to sing, but was soon drowned out by one girl spending 75% of the national anthem chanting "Yeah! Go America! Wooo! F*ck Osama! F*ck Sadam! We'll kill ya!" The Other Girl was singing, but getting some key phrases wrong...

"When so proudly it hailed... uh... twilight's last gleaming..."

"...Gave roof, through the night, that our flag was still there..."

The Other Girl eventually joined her friend in chants of "F*ck Osama! Go America!"

Girl: "I love America."
Other Girl: "Oh, me too!"
Girl: "Yeah, it's so great..." snaps gum
Other Girl: "Totally."
Girl: "We're so gonna win..."

Zach heard this part, and we'd sat back down by this point. I had to repress some urges of rage, and this nagging desire to turn around and lecture these tactless, daft witches on the dangers of
1. blind rhetoric
2. blind patriotism
3. ignorance
4. cursing in front of small children

Later conversations with Zach showed he briefly had to repress the same urge. "Jim, it took every fiber of my being... EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING... to keep me from turning around and... Oh, I have no idea what I would have said to them... but it wouldn't have been pretty... it wouldn't have been pretty."

Promptly following the national anthem, a CH-47 Chinook military helicopter carrying a company from nearby Fort Lewis flew in, towing an American flag, and took a pass around Lake Union. As it saddled up next to Gasworks Park...

Girl: "Yeah, wo-hoo!"
Other Girl: "Go America!"
Girl: "I - like - loooove America."
Other Girl: "Oh, me too!"
Girl: "I love the Fourth of July."
Other Girl: "Oh, me too!"
Girl: "This country is - like - the greatest ever."
Other Girl: "Here it [the helicopter] comes again... woo!"
Girl: "Yeah, I support the military in - like - everything. I support the war."
Other Girl: "Oh yeah. Totally. You - like - have to. How could you not?"
Girl: "Oh, totally. It's - like - important."
Other Girl: "Yeah. Oh, speaking of important, do you know what happened to me the last Fourth of July?"
Girl: "No..."
Other Girl: "Jeremy, that guy from the really hard art class I took, called me."
Girl: "No way!"
Other Girl: "Way! We talked for - like - forever!"

At this point, rage turned to amusement. Sure, these girls were thumbing their noses at any point of rational thought or analysis, and entirely flew in the face of my personal theory that it is possible to separate love of country and love of policies of said country... but, it was just so funny. Perhaps because, while I'd always thought it was possible for people like this to exist, I never dreamed that they did exist. The reality was, while sad, so laughable... Zach, apparently, had come to the same conclusion. As we applauded the Chinook, we also broke out into giggles and guffaws over the unexpected entertainment.

Other Girl: "I love America. F*ck Osama."
Girl: "I love fireworks. When are we going to get to them?... I love the Fourth of July."
Other Girl: "Yeah, I love - like - all fireworks."
Girl: "I love Seattle."
Other Girl: "Me too... Would you ever - like - live... anywhere else?
Girl: "F*ck no!"
Other Girl: "Me neither."
pause
Girl: "Of course, I've never been anywhere else..."
Other Girl: "Oh - like - me neither."
Girl: "So, I guess I'm keeping my options open."
Other Girl: "Me too."
Girl: "I - like - love the Fourth of July."

At this point, if you're trying to find voices for these girls in your head as you read their lines, I'd like to recommend the Delta Delta Delta skit from Saturday Night Live.

Finally, the fireworks began.

Other Girl: "Oh, they're - like - playing music to go along... I LOVE Ray Charles!"
Girl: "Me too! Oh, that one [firework] was my favorite! That one, too!"
Other Girl: "Me too! That's my favorite!"

I counted thirteen different fireworks identified by the girls as either "my favorite" or "my most favoritest." Zach and I alternated between watching the fireworks, and blatantly laughing at the girls behind us, who were utterly oblivious to anyone other than themselves. I nearly choked with laughter when one of them screamed, "I love that one! That one!... Oh, I love sparkly things!"

as Richard Wagner's "Ride" from die Walküre plays during a fireworks segment
Girl: "Hey, isn't this - like - Jeanette's song?..."
together: "It is! It is! It is Jeanette's song!"
Other Girl: "This is my favoritest song."
Girl: "Who does it?"
Other Girl: "Uh..."

during the finale, in which God Bless America is sung
Girl: "Yeah, God bless us!"
Other Girl: "America rocks!"
Girl: "We do - like - everything right! Go America!"
Other Girl: "I love America! Woooooooooo!"
Girl, singing along: "'...to the praries! And the oceans, like the phoooooone!... Gooooood bless America (and me!)'..."

We're pretty sure they didn't share a functioning neuron between them beyond the cerebellum and brain stem. I wanted - like, really wanted - to turn around and give them my speech on loving America. Of course you love America. So do I! Everyone does!

Reader: "Everyone does? Are you sure?"

Yes. Everyone loves America. And, just so we're clear on this: what is America? It's a word... a word describing an idea, a history, and a political and cultural reality so complex and all-encompassing that, when "America" is broken down into its infinite constituent parts, it becomes obvious why I can't disagree with the phrase, "I love America." When you put so many things on the list of what encompasses America, you're bound to come across a few things that would please even the most hard-hearted terrorist. When "America" includes such diverse items as
1. the many fun ways of pronouncing "New Orleans"
2. apple pie
3. films showing close-ups of Ewan McGregor
4. the Trail of Tears
5. brisket
6. the Ku Klux Klan
7. the Mi Lai massacre
8. feather pillows
9. the orchestral works of Aaron Copland
10. Abraham Lincoln
11. Portland, Oregon
12. Fresca
13. Roe vs. Wade
14. an IKEA store near you
15. doughnuts
16. the internment of Japanese-American citizens during World War II
17. New York style pizza
18. slavery
19. the Central Intelligence Agency
20. Spokane Mayor Jim West
21. Adam and Tony
22. crisp apples
23. mud pies
24. pornography
25. gay marriage in Massachusetts

These are just a few items associated with "America." Give me infinite time, and I'll come up with an infinite list of "America" things - right down to my boxer briefs. Now, before anyone looks at this list and accuses me of being pro-KKK, pro-massacres, or pro-slavery, know this: there are some things in that list that I hate with every fiber of my being, and there are some things I love. Since I love gay marriage in Massachusetts, and gay marriage in Massachusetts is, for better or for worse, part of "America," then of course I love America. For the record, nothing beats my mother's apple pie with crumb crust, served with cheese. But, with a simple list of "America," such as the above, the infinite diversity of the word, and idea, of "America" makes it both impossible for me to disagree with the phrase "I love America," and for the phrase "I love America" to amount to anything more than a hill of beans. It becomes an empty shell-of-a-phrase, holding less relevance than the rarely-uttered, "I love oxygen." Of course I do. So do you. The cellular processes on which I thrive would not be possible without it. Of course you love "America." So do I. I'm willing to bet, though, that we don't love the same things about it.

You, after all, have yet to try my mother's pie.

As for those girls, I weep for them, their parents, and for all of us. For America. On the way out of the park, when I said this to Zach, he tried to reassure me: "Eh, don't worry. They'll never be the ones with the power in this country."

I don't know, Zach. Stranger things have happened.

So, I'm hoping for some divine intervention, should it become necessary. After all, who says Deus ex Machina is an outdated literary device?

Obstruction

Forget the actual move. I've not discovered the most difficult part of moving into a new home: unpacking.

Not that the very act of unpacking is more back-breaking than, say, packing up the boxes, dismantling the IKEA furniture, delivering unwantables to the Goodwill, hauling heavy posessions, and trying not to snap at the man one loves as the seemingly endless process of moving begins to strain the back muscles and shorten the temper... but, I've found the dangers of unpacking quite unavoidable. For, you see, the time tables have been dismantled. The deadlines have been met:
1. I gave six weeks of notice to landlord and housemates.
2. Apartment searches were finished weeks ahead of time, with a quality dwelling located.
3. Boxes, bags, and furniture gathered for moving a full four days early.
4. Belongings unceremoniously moved five days before I actually had to be out of the old place.
5. Old place vacuumed and dusted four days early, keys turned in on the way out.
6. Rent checks for the new dwelling turned in a day early.

But now, unpack? Settle in? I ask you: by when? Give me a deadline, and I'll meet it. Hell, odds are, I'll beat it - with time left over to paint my toenails, alphabetize our CDs, and cook Zach a gourmet breakfast à la James (pancakes with all the trimmings). But, no deadline, you say? No timetable? Damn. It looks like I'll be living the next six months out of boxes

Perhaps this speaks to the inconsistency of my self-motivation. School? I'll do my homework, and I'll do it damn well; I'll participate in class, though you can bet your bottom dollar that every question is tied to the preface, "I know this is a stupid question, but..." Work? I'll do as you ask, and I'll exceed your expectations; expect my own curiosity to motivate me more than a paycheck. Home? Rent is on time, as are the bills. But, the dishes? Oh, they can wait until I'm finished re-reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Time to dust? Not when there are so many atlases to pour over. Scrub the tub? Let's walk around Green Lake instead. Unpack those boxes? Not right now - my sunburn is peeling.

I suppose when one removes the deadlines, then the great battle of Need vs. Want begins, with Want continuously winning. Who wants to unpack boxes when I could be doing other things I'd enjoy more?
1. Reading
2. Tickling Zach
3. Eating broccoli (bonus with cheese sauce, followed by a course of well-stacked Oreos and a tall skim milk)
4. Daydreaming (today I was a concert pianist)
5. Sending out postcards and letters (who says snail mail is old news?)
6. Rousing game of Squadron Scramble
7. Baking

Once the Essentials were unpacked or set up (bed, toothbrush, food in kitchen, functioning toilet), if left to my own, I most likely would've only unpacked something as I needed it.

Luckily, Zach has enough motivation for the both of us. Don't get me wrong: he hasn't been doing all the work. In fact, it's surprising how adept he is at pushing me to contribute my fair share. While we still have boxes piled up, under his leadership, we've set up a quality kitchen and bathroom, with the bedroom and den nearly finished. A well-organized trip to IKEA last evening took care of our few remaining furniture needs, and we spent most of today (aside from an evening break to hold hands and eat Raisinettes during Batman Begins at the Neptune) assembling items. By Monday, we may actually have 80-90% of the apartment set up. Along the way, I've learned much more about Zach than I ever thought possible.

Of course, the amount of information gatherable about one person is essentially limitless (I, for example, tie ribbons around my right wrist for no apparent reason whatsoever, though Zach claims I do so merely to tickle him). So, I shouldn't be surprised that moving in with him would expose me to more information regarding Zach, what makes him tick, and so forth. But, still, I couldn't help but be amazed, and a little amused, Tuesday night, when Zach decided that it was time for us to set up the furniture for our den.

I like cozy, close quarters. Large amounts of empty space, whether on walls, floors, or what-have-you ("negative space"), generally don't seem as welcoming to me as a study with an intricately carved fireplace mantle, rich-colored rugs draping the floor, and walls lined with bulging bookshelves or portraits of Great Historial Figures. Bonus if globes and maps are somehow involved, too. While, between the two of us, Zach and I have a good deal of odd-shaped furniture, I was puzzled by his apparent anxiety as we attempted to decide where everything goes.

Me: "What are you doing?"
Zach: "Moving this table."
Me: "Why?"
Zach: "It's blocking the love seat"
Me: "Well, not really. It was just 'blocking' that small portion on the right. Plus, it's a coffee table. They go in front like that."
Zach: "It's blocking. We can't have it there."
Me: "Uh, okay."

Zach: "We have to do something about the chair."
Me: "Which chair?"
Zach: "The rocking chair we bought from Mike."
Me: "What's wrong with it?"
Zach: "It's in a bad place. It's blocking the dining area from the den."
Me: "Not really. You can still get around it pretty easily. Especially after you moved that coffee table earlier."
Zach: "I need a path."

A path? Don't we all. I'm famous for making paths. Just ask my parents - I was a master at leaving my matchbox cars scattered on the carpet after an evening of playing, and then, just prior to bed, carefully constructing a path for folks to meander through, rather than putting my toys away. I was especially good at reminding adults of this fact the next morning, when they'd invariably stray from the path, and crunch my cars with their grown-up feet. "You can step around it!! Just go here, here, here, here, and here!" It was hopscotch on an acid trip.

Me: "Zach, it's fine. We have a path without moving the chair. It'll do."
Zach: "You don't understand. I need clear, precise paths."
Me: "It's not that hard. Just look at where you go, and don't step on things. You can step around it!! Just go here, here, here, here, and here."
Zach: "No, I don't operate like that."
Me: "You don't like obstructions, do you?"

It turns out that he doesn't. Of course, I shouldn't have been surprised. I need a clear path from bed to bathroom because I have a bladder the size of a raisin. Zach needs a clear path from bed to bathroom simply because he "needs one." Just like we need oxygen because we need oxygen (well, technically we need it as a final electron acceptor... but that's not really important right now). At Batman Begins tonight, and every other movie, we sit on the aisle, with Zach taking the aisle seat, because, simply he has to. Otherwised: boxed in = bad. It's not quite claustrophobia. Is there such thing as pathlessphobia?

Perhaps.

But, I consider phobials something disabling, crippling. Zach's still fully functional - moreso than yours truly (Who knew I'd become inconsolable when I couldn't find the syrup dispenser?). He's mastered the art of sculpting his surroundings to fit his needs. So, we've spent the past few days setting up a pathful dwelling - flowing enough to satiate his soul, yet full of enough "comforts" to ward of my odd wariness of "negative space." Beyond physical layouts, Zach's proven a talented motivator as well, getting me to put down the book and perform a variety of tasks towards the greater goal of unpacking

All-in-all, I've seen him in a new light, exposing what may become his greatest talent: clearing obstructions. He's formed a satisfactory path between the dining area and the den, true - but I refer not to his literal achievements in the organization of furniture... he locates any type of obstruction and clears it. Pragmatists would weep. His own uneasiness around obstructions leads him to clear them. He needs a clear path in the apartment, so he moves us toward the goal of unpacking quickly as a means to remove physical obstructions. I've preferred frequent "breaks" to read, which obstructs his goals for unpacking; hence, he pushes and motivates me, clearing yet another obstruction. My persistently moody nature creates occasional tension - yet another obstruction. He rectifies this one with the gentle persistence of cottonwood seeds, softly tumbling in gentle breeze.

He's a problem-solver, in every sense.

So, I'm intrigued to see what we do (or don't do), when it's time to vacuum.