ISleepInADrawer.com

Back and Forth

Me: "I just love it when deeply closeted gay politicians set homosexuals back decades in the eyes of the public."
Zach: "Congressman Foley?"
Me: "Yeah. Just the latest, at least."
Zach: "So I read."
pause
Zach: "The 'latest'?"
Me: "Yeah. Let's not forget Jim West."
Zach: "True. And Jim McGreevey."
Me: "Well, I tend to look on Jim McGreevey's case more as an 'affair' than an outright scandal."
Zach: "Why?"
Me: "Because there are no chat transcripts of him hitting on high school boys half his age, therefore at least escaping the appearance of 'dodgy sexually repressed and uncomfortably suggestive old man.'"
Zach: "So... McGreevey's case is less bad because he went after men of legal age?"
Me: "Yeah. When it comes to splitting hairs, I'll take that victory."

What a tangled web we weave.

The Expanse

The differences between Zach and I are often too obvious to point out. The human brain is an amazing computer, and I'd usually prefer not to insult the millions of years of evolutionary processes that have carefully sculpted and shaped its potential by humbly pointing out, for example, that I am taller than Zach, while he has a far superior memory.

One difference, however, which Zach and I must consistently point out to folks that rarely see us together, involves wardrobe: Zach is by far the better dresser, and has the better wardrobe. Before you, the reader, pictures me, primitive and ape-like, swinging through Seattle's evergreen foliage in the tattered remnants of outfits decades old, let me emphasize that my wardrobe is by all means appropriate for my current profession: a graduate student in the natural sciences. My trademark jeans-and-a-hoodie uniform suit me just fine. Zach, in a profession that requires a more... groomed appearance, has a closet filled with suits and ties. Any hoodies he owns were hand-me-downs from my periodic wardrobe purges where, Stalin-like, I'd banish certain long-neglected items to the gulag of Zach's closet with a simple, three-word question: "Hon, want these?"

Unfortunately, my graduate-school-specific wardrobe leaves something to be desired in the realm of "fine apparel." Over the years, particularly in high school, my parents, cautiously bemoaned my lack of dress clothes, pressing me to purchase (read: purchasing for me after dragging me, kicking-and-screaming, to the mall) a variety of outfits "appropriate for concernts, weddings, and funerals." The bare minimum, in their eyes. Torture, to me. In college and post-college, however, their influence on my wardrobe waned, and my "fine apparel" whittled down to three or four outfits: two tuxedos worn through and thoroughly abused after years of orchestra concerts, a grey "funeral suit," and a sad blazer-khaki duet that hadn't seen the light of day after the departure of my sole white dress shirt after an unfortunate red wine spill. I won't bore you, the reader, with an equally pathetic tour of (what passes as) my "dress shoes."

Usually, such a blatant (and figurative) hole in my wardrobe wouldn't bother me. But, on Sunday, in a particularly tender moment, I announced to Zach that I'd attend an event for the organization he works for on Thursday. A very formal event. A very "lots of elected officials and bigwigs present" formal event. I remember the look on Zach's face when I told him. He had a very specific expression spread across his furrowed brow. It reminded me of how he looks when he's waiting impatiently for the punchline of a rather dull joke, or if he's trying to figure out whether or not I'm intoxicated enough to kiss a yak.

"Jim, you realize this means you'll have to dress up, right?"
"Yeah, that's fine."
"That's 'fine'?"
"Yeah. Just as long as you help me pick out something appropriate to wear from either of our dress wardrobes before Thursday."

We had this discussion on Sunday. Based on his behavior since then, I'm pretty sure Zach's spent the past few days convinced that the real James was kidnapped by extraterrestrials, and that I'm his Beta Unit replacement (think of The Last Starfighter, minus the Zando-Zan). But, tonight (the night before the event), Zach finally convinced himself that I am indeed the real James, and together we pulled out what remained of my "dress clothing," and began to pull out salvagable items. Zach also dove into his wardrobe and pulled out "dress" items that would fit me. We proceeded with a sense of urgency, however, since I also had to set aside time tonight to read for both class and lab, and make cookies for a labmate's birthday celebration on Friday.

Zach: "What recipe?"
Me, busy trying on pants: "Huh?"
Zach: "What cookie recipe?"
Me: "Oh, the same as the cookies I made last month for no reason."
Zach: "Oh, yummy? Will you - "
Me: "Yes, of course I'll make a few extra for you."
Zach: "Yay!"
Me: "These pants of yours fit great!"
Zach: "Yeah. They look good on you."
Me: "Are either of my tuxedos too dressy for this event?"
Zach: "They would be if either were in any condition to be worn out of this apartment."
Me: "Good point. They got pretty beat up in orchestra concerts."
Zach: "What pants do you have that you think are in good condition."
Me: "Well, there's always the 'funeral suit' I got in college. But I don't have a white dress shirt for it after the 'red wine incident.'"
Zach: "You could borrow a shirt of mine. Where is it?"
Me: "The 'funeral suit'? Still hanging up in the closet. I'll go get it."
pause
Me: "Oh, sh*t."
Zach: "What?"
Me: "The cat. She dragged the pants of my 'funeral suit' down off the hanger again and has been lying on them."
Zach: "How do you know?"
Me, holding them up: "See? They were lying on the floor wrinkled up, and they're covered in cat hair."
Zach: "Uh, do they still fit?"
Me: "Oh, I'm sure her lying on them hasn't made them shrink, babe. We'll just need to iron them gently or something."
Zach: "No, I mean try them on. They look a bit small for you in the waist."
Me: "What? Oh, hell no. They fit fine the last time I wore them!"
Zach: "And when was that?"
pause
Me: "My Pappaw's funeral."
pause
Zach: "But didn't he die before you and I even met?"
pause
Me: "Here, I'll show you they still fit. They're the same waist size I've had since high school."
five minutes later
Me: "I can't f***ing BELIEVE this!"
Zach, stifling giggles: "Jim, it's okay. They ALMOST fit."
Me: "Almost?! Jesus H. Christ!... Okay, here. Look, look! Now they fit!"
Zach: "Jim, you're sucking in your torso more than the average human should."
Me: "Yeah, but now I can button them."
Zach: "Does it hurt?"
pause
Me: "Well, does it look like they hurt?"
Zach: "Yeah. A lot."
Me: "What a crock. I can deal with it, though."
Zach: "Could you really sit in those for hours on end tomorrow night?"
pause
Me: "What a crock! Do you know that I only got to wear this suit TWICE in college?"
Zach: "To funerals?"
Me: "Yeah."
Zach: "Well, how long ago was that?"
pause
Me: "Damn it. Four or five years."
Zach: "You haven't worn this suit in four years?"
Me: "I guess not."
Zach: "Well, in your defense, these pants are a bit snug, even for this size. And, based on the brand, you had these fitted at a department store - and they usually fit dress clothes much tighter than the customer's size."
Me: "That doesn't really make me feel much better."
pause
Zach: "Would ice cream?"

So, fifteen minutes later, I disgracefully tossed the now-too-small-for-me "funeral suit" pants on the floor of my closet, and the cat gleefully curled up in them to nap. Zach and I assembled an appropriate outfit for me from his dress wardrobe, though we spent a few minutes arguing over whether it's appropriate to wear black shoes and a black belt with a blue blazer (he was for it, and I opposed it). We called a temporary truce when, inadvertently, my eyes veered over to the now-defunct funeral suit... once supporting pounds of my flabby flesh, and now cradling a twelve-pound purring feline.

"F*** it. Let's go for a walk."

The phrase "go for a walk," in our household, is just a crafty disguise for, "Let's walk down the hill to Fremont, where there's an ice cream shop."

"Jim, do you really want to 'go for a walk'?"
"Yeah."
"What about the cookies? And your readings?"
"I'll do them later. This walk will be good for me."
"Wait. Before we go any further - do you mean 'go for a walk' as in go for an actual walk? Or do you mean 'walk to Fremont for ice cream'?"
"Well, let's just keep walking and see where our feet lead us."

Fifteen minutes later, we found ourselves at the ice cream shop.

Me: "Let's not do this."
Zach: "Yeah, we probably shouldn't."
Me: "Do you want to go home?"
Zach: "No. Let's eat at the sushi place next door instead. That's more healthy!"

We both knew from that moment on that we'd end up back at the ice cream shop right after we finished gorging on sushi. Nothing more needed to be said on the matter. During dinner, we discussed the abysmal state of my formal wardrobe, the apparent increase in my waist size by an inch, and how our relationship has evolved over the past few years... inadvertently, Zach reminded me that, for the Christmas and birthday before we started dating, I failed in both instances to get him presents. Zach obviously immediately regretted stirring up such deficiencies on my part, as my mind raced back to the now-an-inch-too-small "funeral suit" pants (now a bed for my cat). My spirits sank again, and I soon found myself ordering ice cream alongside Zach:

"Small coffee ice cream with Heath bar, please."

Zach winked at me.
"I love you, Jim. And I don't care whether your pants fit."

The woman preparing our ice cream eyed us nervously. I smiled and winked back. Since we were in public, we resisted the urge to join hands. But, at that moment, all the ill feelings were swept aside. Here he stood - my partner, my support, my best friend. Here I stood - expanding waistline, emotions ill-adjusted, awkwardly bumbling through life in a soul that barely fits in my "funeral suit" pants. I embodied everything that was wicked, unhealthy, and cancerous in this society - lazy, overfed, and inactive. Yet, here stood someone willing to indulge me one last time before calmly and lovingly taking me by the hand and gently urging: "Let's change this."

"I'll get the pants adjusted this weekend," I said. "It's a suit worth saving, after all... so am I, actually."
Zach nodded in his matter-o'-factly midwestern style as he paid for our ice cream. "Indeed," he echoed.
"I'll start walking home from work or school most days," I mused.
"And this'll be the last time for awhile we get ice cream."
"You mean 'go for a walk' now means 'go for a walk and not go get ice cream'?"
"Yeah, I'm afraid so."

My coffee ice cream with Heath bar was ready. As the sun dipped below the Cascades, I smiled at the woman who'd prepared it and I cleared my throat to thank her.
Me: "Oh, SH*T!!"
Zach and the ice cream woman: "What?!"
Me, pissed: "God damn it! I forgot!"
Zach: "Forgot what?!"
Me: "Well, now I have to go home and make cookies and I have to not eat them!"

Their laughter filled the room.
What a tangled web we weave.

The Perception of Eggshells

Growing up, I remember asking my folks repeatedly about concepts like "free speech" and "freedom of religion." As I was rather young at the time, and was bringing home concepts I was first hearing about in elementary school social studies classes, my folks relied heavily on example to explain what, at least to them, these constitutional provisions entailed.

1. Freedom of Religion
Parents: "It means you can believe whatever you want about religion."
Me: "Religion?"
Parents: "Yeah. Like stuff from Church and Sunday School. And it doesn't matter what kind of church you go to. Or if you're Christian. You can be Jewish, or Muslim, or Hindu, or anything else."
Me: "Like [name of Jewish classmate] or [name of Muslim classmate]?"
Parents: "Exactly."
Me: "So you can believe whatever you want?"
Parents: "Yes."
Me: "But [name of Pastor] tells us what to believe when he preaches."
Parents: "Yes, but technically, no one here is going to force you to believe it. You can want to. But, if you grew up and decided you liked what Muslims believed, no one can stop you from believing that. And if [name of Jewish friend] grew up and decided he liked what Hindus believed, no one can stop him from believing that. And you can even choose not to have a religion. It's your choice. That's what freedom of religion means."
Me: "But, what if what I choose is wrong and I go to hell?"
Parents: "That's between you and God. No one else."
Me: "Not even you?"
Parents: "Not even us. But, you still have to go to church this Sunday."
Me: "But, I don't have to believe?"
Parents: "Not if you don't want to. That's what freedom of religion means - you can believe what you believe."
pause
Parents: "But, you can't always practice your religion the way you want to."
Me: "Huh?" [I wasn't the brightest child.]
Parents: "You can believe whatever you want to believe. But, you can't practice your religion if it infringes on the rights and privacy of others."
Me: "I don't get it."
Parents: "Well, let's say your religion means God wants you to stand in the middle of a busy intersection and cut the head off of a live chicken..."
Me: "Okaaaay..."
Parents: "You can believe that, right?"
Me: "Yeah."
Parents: "But, can you do that?"
Me: "Uh..."
Parents: "No, you can't. It would disrupt traffic, and people might not like seeing that. You can't practice what you what if it infringes on the right of others not to be a part of your religious practices. Get it?"
Me: "Kinda..."
Parents: "So, you'd have to modify what you practice to fit what's good for everyone. You might have to practice your religion at home, or in an organized place with like-mind people - like in a church or a mosque. Get it?"
Me: "Kinda..."
Parents: "Well, remember when we told you that you shouldn't pray in school?"
Me: "Yeah."
Parents: "That's because other people might not be comfortable hearing you pray, since they may not be the same religion as us. That's why we think it's better for you to pray here at home, or at church. Somewhere private."
Me: "Why?"
Parents: "Since it's between you and God."

2. Free Speech
Parents: "Free speech means you can think what you want, and say what you want."
Me: "Nuh-uh!" a semi-grunting way of saying, "No you can't!"
Parents: "Why not?"
Me: "'Cause kids get in trouble at school for talking out of turn! Or saying bad words!"
Parents: "Well, the school gets to make rules like that so it doesn't disrupt class, or you when you're trying to learn."
Me: "And you guys tell me I can't say bad words."
Parents: "Well, we're your parents. We get to make rules for you and your sister. We want you two to be nice to other people, and think of them and their feelings - and put yourself in their shoes."
Me: "Yeah."
Parents: "But, freedom of speech means you can tell us when you do and don't like certain things. Like, a book or a TV show, or even something we have for dinner. Get it?"
Me: "Uh..."
Parents: "Well, do you know how you like broccoli?"
Me: "Yeah!" I liked to pretend they were trees.
Parents: "And you know how [name of cousin] doesn't?"
Me: "Yeah."
Parents: "Well, that's kind of like free speech. You like broccoli; he doesn't. And he can say that."
Me: "But... he still has to eat it?"
Parents: "Yes. Because we make rules that say children have to eat their vegetables since they're good for you. But, free speech also means that there are certain things that you don't have to read, see, or take part in if you don't like those things."
Me: "I don't get it."
Parents: "Well, what's a cartoon you don't like?"
Me: "G.I. Joe."
Parents: "Well, free speech means you can say that. And it also means that you can choose not to see it. You can watch something else, or go read or color, or whatever you want."
Me: "'Cause no one can make me watch it?"
Parents: "Not in THIS house!"

I'm paraphrasing, at best - coversations strewn over several years growing up, half-remembered, and no doubt influenced by twentysomething years of experiments with free speech and freedom of religion, particularly during my more turbulent teenage years. But, all-in-all, that's how it was explained to me (I specifically remember the "chicken religion" example from my mother); and, it worked. I believe what I believe, and good luck trying to get it out of me. I'll say what I say, and will gladly spend every last ounce of strength defending your right to say what you want to say.

Yes, I'll even defend that right for Ann Coulter. (I don't, after all, have to listen.)

So, here's the part where I remind you, the reader, that I'm apparently quite naïve - quite naïve. So naïve, in fact, that I often mistakenly assume most folks had the same lessons as a child that I did. The lessons that say
1. Ann Coulter can write books, but I don't have to buy them.
2. The Seattle Seahawks can play football, but I don't have to buy tickets.
3. I might believe that passage of Ballot Measure 1 by the people of Virginia would be a morally reprehensible act, but I can do nothing more than urge the good people of that Commonwealth to vote "no" on November 7th. And, if it is passed, I certainly don't have to ever move to Virginia.
4. You might not like the Berlin Opera's production of Mozart's Idomeneo, but you certainly shouldn't be in any position to keep me from going.

Or, perhaps not.

It bothers me that capitulations of this sort seem to be popping up more and more. The Berlin Opera shuts down Idomeneo because of scenes involving the severed heads of religious figures. Comedy Central wouldn't air an image of a religious figure handing a football to a cartoon character. The Pope cites a 14th-century quotation from a long-dead Byzantine emperor, and churches are firebombed in the Middle East.

You don't like what the Pope said? Fine. Protest, burn flags, and shout at the top of your lungs. I'll stand up and defend your rights in that respect, just as I'll stand up and defend identical rights for the Pope. But (and I can't believe I have to emphasize this), don't threaten to sack Rome and kill the Pope. Don't firebomb churches.

You don't want to see images of Muhammad on Comedy Central? Fine. Change the channel.

You don't want to see gay families in Virginia write up wills or adopt children together? Fine. Don't peep through their windows.

You don't want to read Salmon Rushdie's books? Fine. Don't.

You don't like Israel's recent actions in Lebanon? Fine. Protest, burn flags, yell at the top of your lungs, write your Congressional representatives, get involved in political action. Don't shoot up my boyfriend's office.

You don't like Fox News? Fine. Don't watch it.

You don't like the fact that Zach and I are sometimes brave enough to hold hands in public? Fine. Look the other way.

You don't like newspapers that print the controversial Danish cartoons? Fine. Don't read them. Boycott Denmark for all I care. But, don't threaten to wipe Denmark off the fact of the planet.

You don't want a Starbucks in your neighborhood? Fine. Spend your money elsewhere.

You don't like G.I. Joe? Fine. Read a book.

It's that simple.
Some say we're walking on eggshells. I say the eggshells are a figment.

Everybody Loves You

Zach returned yesterday from a 10-day trip: first to Washington, D.C. for business, and then a stop in Iowa to see his family.

Zach: "I kept checking your site while I was away to see if you posted."
Me: "Yeah. Been busy. All these retreats and talks I've had to give have eaten away at my time."
Zach: "Yeah. Plus, you're starting class again next week, right?"
Me: "Yep. Developmental biology."
Zach: "Well, I kept checking your site to see if you'd post - "
Me, interrupting: "About developmental biology?"
Zach: "No. Post the pictures I e-mailed you of me being a good uncle with my nine-month-old niece."
Me: "Step-niece, right?"
Zach: "Yeah. Whatever. Step-niece. I'm a good step-uncle!"
Me: "Yes. And a hot one, too."
Zach: "I know. You said so when I sent you the pictures."
Me: "Yes."
pause
Zach: "So, why didn't you post any?"
Me: "Too busy getting a Ph.D."

But, I suppose I can make the time. Besides, he's one hot step-uncle.

The Lookout

Zach's in Washington, D.C. ("the other Washington") for a few days on business. He took his (dork) camera, and sent me some snapshots of his morning walk. Here's my favorite:

Bread and Water

Last weekend, a friend visited (a brief synopsis here, with snapshots there). It was refreshing and fun; Adam's great company, and an upstanding citizen. It was a needed break from... life.

His visit also reminded me: developing and fostering friendships has never been my strong point - the basics of ordinary human relationships that seem, even at twenty-five, anything but ordinary to me. Visits from folks like Adam, however, remind me that it's still possible - and, when they occur, I shouldn't let them die down and fade - neglected campfires that smolder as mere hints of a rich past.

I must remember to pay attention to such things. Such basic things.

Procession

James: "My birthday's in a month."
Zach: "I know."
*pause*
James: "So... how many presents have you bought for me so far?"
Zach: "Uh... none."
James: "You mean you haven't bought me ANY birthday presents yet?!"
Zach: "Will you be this nagging when you get older?"
James: "Actually, I think of myself as 'older' now, kind of."
Zach: "So, you're saying you're not going to get any more nagging than you are now?"
James: "Oh no. I'll definitely get worse."
Zach: "Great."