ISleepInADrawer.com

Freedom Toast

Yesterday morning, Zach and I ate breakfast at a local restaurant. A family of four sat at the table next to us.

Zach says I'm nosy... and he's entirely true. I do tend to overhear conversations. Particularly when I hear the word "France" tossed around so liberally. I turned my ears their direction, thinking they must be talking about the results from the first round of the French presidential election.

Instead, this is what I heard:
Brother #1: "And I'd like the French toast..."
Waiter: "Alright."
Brother #1: "But, can you make it as American as possible?"
pause
Waiter: "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
Brother #1: "The French toast. I want it as American as possible."
Brother #2: "We hate French things."
Brother #1: "So, if you could minimize the 'Frenchiness' of the French toast, we'd really appreciate it."
Brother #2's Wife: "Yeah, that way the breakfast will be a little less cowardly."

At this point, Brother #2's daughter (who looked to be about ten years old) erupted in a fit of giggles. The waiter shifted uncomfrotably.

Waiter: "Alright, as... uh... as 'American' as possible... got it."
Brother #2: "Oh, and could I please add a side of Canadian bacon to my order? I forgot to tell you earlier."
Waiter: "Extra side of Canadian bacon... got it!"
Brother #1: "Wait, it's not from Quebec, is it?"
Waiter: "Uh... no I'm pretty sure it's domestic - not even from Canada."
Brother #1: "Oh, that's good!"
Brother #2: "What a relief."
Brother #2's Wife: "We hate all things French."
Waiter: "Uh... okay, guys. I'll put your orders in, and breakfast'll be up soon."

I would've loudly ordered a croissant after that, but they weren't on the menu.

The Edina Monsoon Bake Sale

Last week, Adam posted of his misadventures (or, more accurately, misgivings) at the Phoenix LGBT Pride festival. My boyfriend wondered why Phoenix didn't hold its pride parade/festival in late June, closer to the anniversary of the 1969 Stonewall Riots, as cities like Seattle and Chicago do.

I asked Adam, and his response revealed just how little Zach and I know about the desert southwest: "It's f***ing hot in June!"

When I told Zach, he nodded, "I guess that makes sense."

Then, presciently, he added, "And I suppose that's better than having no Pride parade at all." (Sometimes I think Zach and I don't have much in common, but then I remember how much we both love parades - particularly if men walk around in their underwear.)

Still, his afterthought ("...I suppose that's better than having no Pride parade at all...") seems eerie in its Crystal Ball ability to foreshadow Seattle's latest self-induced crisis: the Pride Parade. It's a saga that, as it unfolded, I lamented, "This is a quintessential 'Seattle Problem'."

Friend: "What do you mean by 'Seattle Problem'?"
James: "Well, I think, of all the world's cities, only Seattle would get itself it this pickle, claim it doesn't know how it got into this pickle, and then form a committee to attempt to pound a square peg into a round hole as a solution."

Seattle, you see, decided last year to move its Pride Parade from its prior location on Capitol Hill (historically, Seattle's gay district, which has in recent years become less and less "gay") to the heart of downtown. The festival afterwards was held in Seattle Center (you know, where the Space Needle is), rather than Capitol Hill's isolated Volunteer Park. The move split the gay community, with an alternative Pride festival still being held on Capitol Hill while hundreds of thousands of Seattlites - Zach and I included - watched the official Pride parade tear through downtown last June.

I have to admit, though, that I had mixed feelings about the move. On the one hand, I never really cared for Capitol Hill. As you, the reader, no doubt knows, I don't make a very good gay guy. I can't dance, dress well, or style my hair to the satisfaction of my boyfriend. I'm a (hack) scientist-in-training, I only own one Cher CD, I drive a Buick, I haven't been to a Seattle gay bar in over a year, my cat has asthma, and my body is neither muscular nor sculpted. Thus, my fondness for Capitol Hill was always, at best, marginal. I never even sought to live there, gravitating instead toward neighborhoods in northern Seattle.

But, I couldn't help but feel that, historically, Capitol Hill should rightfully host the Pride Parade. For decades, it was Seattle's gay ghetto and, even afterwards, the unofficial seat of gay culture in the Puget Sound region. The Pride Parade's presence on Capitol Hill seemed to push against the neighborhood's slow-but-inevitable gentrification. "Besides," I was once overheard saying, "It's historically been a neighborhood-specific event. What would happen if we were to move the Summer Solstice Parade from Fremont to downtown?"

On the other hand, though, the Pride Parade's relocation to the downtown neighborhood, and subsequent festival in Seattle Center, seemed to celebrate how much progress Seattle has made in the acceptance of its gay citizens: gay pride celebrated in the core of the city, surrounded by its most famous landmarks. LGBT Pride was now a community-wide event.

Eventually, the latter argument won me over. Plus, as stated before, Zach and I love parades, and we knew the official Pride Parade downtown would march circles around the alternative parade held last summer on Capitol Hill. We were not disappointed, and were looking forward to a repeat of last year's success this June.

Until, of course, Seattle created its own crisis. You see, the organizers of last year's (downtown) Pride Parade and festival apparently failed to comprehend simple economics... like... paying for last year's parade. Apparently, some of them didn't realize that a downtown/Seattle Center Pride Parade and festival would cost more than a Capitol Hill parade. Now, crushed by debt from 2006 Pride, 2007 Pride was looking doubtful, at best.

The crisis unfolded, however, in a very 'Seattle' way. First, they said they can't afford a Pride Parade for 2007 and don't know what to do; then, they said they do know what to do, and decided to declare bankruptcy and throw in the towel; most recently, they said they didn't mean to declare bankruptcy and throw in the towel, and that a downtown parade (but no festival) will of course be held.

I may love parades, but I do loathe see-saws. And Seattle has a particularly awful habit of see-sawing around a problem. First, a crisis is created, and then subsequent crises are created to confront the initial crisis.

For an example far removed from Seattle Pride 2007, take earthquakes:
1. In 2001, the Nisqually earthquake severely damaged the Viaduct, a double-decker highway cutting between the downtown region and Elliott Bay.
2. Though damage was obvious as soon as the shaking stopped, no one wanted to do anything about the damaged Viaduct, and so the problem was ignored.
3. The Viaduct has, since 2001, settled into the silty infill beneath it, warped, and cracked. A moderate tremor will now send it tumbling onto downtown Seattle.
4. With #3 now obvious, government bodies at all levels and most citizens have panicked (myself included), tossed blame and accusations, proposed wildly impractical solutions, held referenda, and finally come to no consensus at all.
5. Heads stuck back into sand, hoping beyond hope that 4.6 billion years of geological processes will spontaneously cease to apply to the Puget Sound region.

Back to the Pride Parade for this June, the latest headlines indicate that the parade will - somehow - go forth, in downtown. When asked to explain how this saga of debt, bankruptcy, non-bankruptcy, and now a trimmed-down parade unfolded (with roots tracing back to last summer's painful move from Capitol Hill to downtown), one organizer commented, "It's a bake sale that got out of control."

I do love metaphors (and hate see-saws and love parades), but that quotation gave me a chill, as this self-induced crisis has sired more self-induced crises. I was reminded of another quotation, this time from Absolutely Fabulous, one of many British comedies I'm devoted to. Edina Monsoon's straight-laced and responsible daughter scolds her mother's very 'Seattle' life:
"Mum, you've absolved yourself of responsibility. You live from self-induced crisis to self-induced crisis. Someone does your hair, someone chooses what you wear, someone does your brain, someone tells you what to eat and three times a week someone sticks a hose up your bum and flushes it all out of you!"

No one sticks a hose up Seattle's bum. But, before anyone makes such a move, I'm going to suggest that Pride Parade organizers raise funds by selling pot brownies.

Waiting is the Hardest Part

He asked if we'd set a date yet.

Zach, how about July 22nd? I think I'm free.

Assuming I don't drop dead before then.

One Small Step

You, the reader, should be very disappointed that you do not have the opportunity to conduct scientific research with me.

I study a certain family of small fishes. Obviously, I must catch fish in order to study them. Luckily, they're found nearby in Lake Washington, among other places in the Puget Sound region. This time of year, I make weekly trips to trap and catch a few.

You, the reader, should be very disappointed that you do not have the opportunity to accompany me on these fishing trips. Three weeks ago, you missed me throwing a fish trap far into Like Washington, without first anchoring the trap to the shore. As a bonus, I also threw like a girl. Two weeks ago, a fish managed to flop its way out of my hand and into the hood of my hoodie. As I bonus, I screamed like a girl. Today, I attempted to stand up after setting a trap, and instead slid into Lake Washington. I would've cried like a girl, but I was too busy repeating the screams of two weeks ago.

I'm now wearing some of my Emergency Clothes. But, to raise my spirits, I'm going to stuff my face, in my Emergency Clothes, at a local Indian buffet.

You, the reader, should be very disappointed that you do not have the opportunity to conduct scientific research with me, because my antics in lab are actually much more amusing than my attempts to catch small fish.

La Marseillaise

Me: "God, I can't wait for April 22nd!"
Zach: "Why's that?"
Me: "It's the first round of the French Presidential election: Sarkozy vs. Royal vs. Bayrou vs. Le Pen."
Zach: "Who'll make it to round two?"
Me: "If you ask me, the smark money's on Sarkozy and Royal, with Sarkozy winning overall."
Zach: "Is he the right or the left?"
Me: "Right. Royal's on the left. Le Pen's on the far right, and Bayrou's a centrist."
Zach: "Ah."
Me: "Here's the latest Economist. They've endorsed Sarkozy, but even with that bias, they've a pretty good overview of the top four condenders."
Zach: "Ah."
Me: "Oh, and here's an issue from a few weeks ago, outlining the biggest shortcomings of President Chirac's twelve years in office. It's a good article."
Zach: "Ah."
Me: "Oh, and take my predictions with a grain of salt. Five years ago, I predicted that Chirac and Jospin would be the top two finishers in round one of the presidential election, and instead it was Chirac and Le Pen. So, shows how much I know."
Zach: "Ah."
pause
Me: "Did you lose interest a minute ago, and have just been saying 'Ah' in the hopes I'll eventually stop talking?"
Zach: "No. I lost interest three years ago."
Me: "Do you ever worry that there's too much sarcasm in our relationship?"
Zach: "There's too much French politics in our relationship."
Me: "That's okay. The Turkish Presidential elections begin in May."

Teaching is Friendship

"See the cat? See the cradle?"

Small Steps

While I was giving a "professional scientific talk" earlier this evening, the first of many over my (hack) graduate career, Zach sent me a text message from the state capitol building. Luckily, the mobile phone in my pocket was set on "silent" mode:

"DP is in the next batch of bills"

A short time later, when I was receiving constructive criticism of my talk from my peers, another one:

"DP vote"

I got home just as the news was breaking: now both houses of the Washington State Legislature have passed a basic domestic partnerships bill. It will soon be off to Governor Gregoire's desk for her signature.

For an issue I've openly advocated, in my own way, I suddenly found myself all dressed up with no place to go. Positively giddy with excitement, I smiled and skipped around the apartment, full of regret that I couldn't tackle Zach in a warm embrace or call up buddies and slide off to a local pub for alcohol-drenched celebration. I tried to hug the cat, but she burst out an asthma attack that frankly ruined the mood.

So instead, I found myself jogging, in the rain, along the Wallingford-Fremont border, singing the State Legislature's praises (or at least 63 of them). Before I go too wet, however, I stumbled on just the place for the James-shaped sack of positive energy running along Stone Way: the Rowdy Cowgirl BBQ.

While my boyfriend and his co-workers celebrated in Olympia, I sat my wet form at a table and tucked into a pulled pork sandwich, grinning ear-to-ear.

It's a good day.

Flirtation

My cat lost her 10,000th collar recently. I wasn't surprised; it was inevitable. At my insistence, she has a collar that, by some basic mechanical principles beyond my comprehension, detaches itself from her neck when it becomes snared. Such a scenario, apparently, happens often - or at least 10,000 times. We haven't replaced the collar yet out of laziness, though I should soon. One co-worker advises me not to bother. "She's microchipped, James. If she gets lost, they'll get her back to you." But, I'd rather not rely on her microchip for three reasons. First, I don't trust Seattlites to check my cat's microchip. Zach and I have heard too many cases of Seattlites taking in a "stray" (colarless) cat that, it turns out (usually months or years later), is indeed microchipped and already has a family! Second, the Seattle Animal Shelter still has my cat's old name (from her neglectful prior owners) registered - Lolita. Since my cat isn't a prostitute, I don't want them to use this name. Finally, Zach and I fear that my 70-year-old neighbor wants to capture and eat my cat; I'd like to think that the collar that's (usually) around her neck somehow dampens his appetite.

Thus, my cat has been prancing around the neighborhood nude the past week, and I've been watching my 70-year-old neighbor carefully to make sure he doesn't eat her. Since she's spent most of her time with us collared, I've also discovered a new physical characteristic I'd previously ignored: her scruff... the extra skin at the back of her neck, usually covered by the collar she so loathes. Prancing around nude, however, I caught her late last week in a spontaneous embrace and discovered, much to my surprise, that she loves having her scruff scratched. Being both the world's worst biologist and world's worst cat owner, however, I needed a book about cats to tell me that she enjoyed it.

Zach: "How do you know she enjoys it?"
Me: "Because she shuts her eyes and blinks a lot, and purrs."
Zach: "But you said she also purrs when she's sick or having an asthma attack. So, a cat purring doesn't always mean it's a good thing."
Me: "Yeah, but this is a different kind of purring. I think she's... happy."

Our cat isn't generally your typical, affectionate "lap cat." Hence why, after having her in our home for nearly two years, we still can't tell when she's happy. But, in addition to my amazing capacity to waste time and energy, I also have an uncanny ability to look up information about topics that are foreign to me, and also have little practical value. For example, I'll likely never look up the straightforward mechanism that allows my cat's collar to detach itself from her body when it's snagged. But, I'll spend hours reading books on cat behavior. That's how I learned that blinking and closed eyes, coupled with purring, are a sign of satisfaction and trust from a cat.

Me: "The books also say that cats can recognize our eyes. And if we blink at them, they'll blink back as a sign of affection and trust."
Zach: "Huh."
Me: "Yeah, I'm going to blink at her now until she blinks back."
Zach: "Uh, good luck with that."

I think she doesn't blink back because I usually wear glasses. Still, I spent most of the last week blinking at my nude cat in the hopes that she'd return my affection. Zach says we need to give up, let her be the asocial cat she is, and get a beagle. I needed to persist, though, just for the reassurance that my cat, like me, could be saved. We're both creatures that spend much of our time alone - not so much by choice, but by design. We both have difficulties relating to people, and interacting comfortably with them. The discovery my cat's scruff, and it's soothing effects on her psyche, however, opened the door to a wonderful possibility: if I could gain her trust and affection - get her to blink at me, then surely that would also be a sign that there's hope for me. If a cat can be salvaged, then so can a human.

By Sunday morning, my blinks had not been returned. Zach rose early and watched his "shows" (the Sunday morning round of political talk shows). I was preparing a presentation for Tuesday afternoon, and decided to drag my laptop and some data files to a neighborhood coffee shop with free WiFi. Being early Easter morning, the shop wasn't too crowded. Most of the patrons were, like me, absorbed with school or work, sipping espresso beverages with the stern sincerity and drive of dedicated professionals. As I settled at my table, I took a glance around the room and smiled, and was surprised to see someone smiling back at me. His tight-fitting pink t-shirt and stack of college texts oozed three simple words: "gay college student." Our eyes met and lingered until I, embarrassed, blushed and sat down. I opened my laptop and typed a hasty message to Zach:

"I think I just accidentally flirted with a guy in a pink t-shirt."

Flirtation, like science, has never been my strong point. Most of the men I've dated weren't seduced by my smooth style or penetrating glance; they were largely masochists who somehow found my awkward habits "charming," at least for awhile. Thus, I was horrified that I'd inadvertently initiated a flirtatious exchange with a man sitting quite near me. I was even more horrified when, after typing my message to Zach, I noticed him glancing at me again, and smiling. I looked up and tried to smile back, though I believe it looked like I was sneezing.

Zach had sensed the panic behind my single sentence message, and was amused. He knows me, and my social disabilities, better than most, and viewed this accidental exchange as an opportunity to, at least, practice my social interactions and, at best, perhaps make a friend. Thus, his reply gently prodded me to continue.

Unfortunately, I didn't know how to proceed. I usually assume that there's a strict code of conduct in such cases, a code and script that the rest of you (well-adjusted) humans know and operate by. And I, impotent and left in the dark, don't know how to proceed. Thus, I spent the next few hours polishing my talk, and having an entirely awkward flirtatious exchange of smiles and glances with the student in the pink t-shirt. Zach rang me around noon to come home for lunch, and I told him of my inability to return flirtatious signals sent to me. He was amused, and likely expected such a result. It is hard, after all, to break me of my habits.

"Maybe I'll try winking at him casually as I leave," I hastily whispered into the phone as I packed my bag.

I hung up the phone, picked up my bag, and walked towards him, and the exit. He raised his head, our eyes met, he smiled --

and I blinked.

Like my cat, he did not blink back.

The Roach Show

Thursday, after a series of morning meetings, I drove to Olympia to see exactly what my boyfriend does for a living. I'd been to the capitol complex several times before, but never when the state legislature was in session. Zach gave me a sesson tour while I tried not to feel too underdressed as suit-and-tie clad lawmakers and lobbyists skirted past my frayed-sweater-and-backpack-toting form.

I sat in the viewing galleries of both chambers, and soon discovered that I favored the state House of Representatives over the state Senate. As I explained to Zach, "It looks like the state House members keep fewer elaborate flower arrangements on their desks, despite the fact that the House has twice as many members as the state Senate." The House had other things going for them. Their chamber had a better color scheme, more cluttered desks ("It's been lived in! Like they're getting something done..."), batphones in constant use at each desk, colored console buttons at each desk for voting ("Which one gives you Diet Coke?"), and (best of all) a bell - a genuine bell reminiscent of the greyhound dog track Adam and I visited in Phoenix - that rang each time voting began. Literally, I had to clasp my hands over my mouth each time the Speaker rang the bell in order to keep myself from spilling out a boisterous, "And... they're off!"

Luckily, I dig the Small Things. Otherwise, I would've been disappointed that, due to my morning meetings in Seattle, my arrival in Olympia was too late to catch this exchange on the floor of the state House during the debate of a controversial insurance bill. Actually, I do slightly regret missing the drama, since the antagonist, State Representative Dan Roach, who not only planned his rule-busting remarks (and gave a pathetic "non-apology" apology for them after the fact), but is also the son of State Senator Pam Roach, who became quite famous in my own self-centered universe with her "Who moved my flowers?" diatribe on the floor of the state Senate.

I'll skip obvious puns about Roaches and the state legislature. I'll also skip my own diatribe that could be summed up in one rhetorical question: "How could the people of the 31st District elect two members of the Roach family?" Stupid question, James. The good people of the 31st District elected Pam and Dan because they wanted to, and they knew what they were getting. I, similarly, knew exactly what I was doing each time I voted for Frank Chopp, the often heavy-handed Speaker of the state House, who also happens to represent my district. It ain't pretty, but I made my decision - and the good people of the 31st District made theirs. The people have spoken.

But, I will note, with some regret, that I'm actually a bit jealous of the good people of the 31st District. For now, I know that two of their three elected state representatives are comedic polemicists. I'm not sure about the third guy, a democrat. But, if it turns out that he can inject as much of the sublime and ridiculous into state politics as his 31st District peers, I'll be positively hopping mad. Why can't I, after all, have such headline-grabbing representatives at the state level?! Friday, on the bus, I heard three people discussing Dan Roach's outburst, and compared it to Pam Roach's previous flower tantrum. But, I've yet to hear of any similar sophomoric tactics from state Representative Jamie Pedersen or state Senator Ed Murray. And Speaker Chopp, at best, usually gets an eyeroll from local folks who oppose his position on rebuilding the Alaskan Way Viaduct.

Really, I feel cheated. I voted for pizzazz, and all I get is sound policy. Sheesh.

Monday

6:22AM, in bed

Me: "We need a bigger bed."
Zach: "Why?"
Me: "Because fifty-two minutes ago, you kneed me in the balls."
Zach: "Oh."
pause
Zach: "Well, that's what you get for sleeping in the wrong direction."