Grasping for a Metaphor (As Usual)

So I tripped and fell on my face. A mouth full of concrete and everything. I don't remember why I was in such a hurry. Sometimes I just run home from places, so I can get home faster. Either way, I was running, and I ate shit. My iPod clattered to the ground with the pronounced skid of scratched metal. My backpack threw itself off my shoulder in desperate hopes of avoiding impact. And everything tumbled to the ground right in front of these two girls, who of course asked me if I was okay. Embarrassed and unwilling to show any vulnerability or pain, I quickly scrounged up everything I had dropped. I gave the girls a nod of, "Yes, I'm fine, I'm alive and breathing so please stop looking at me with that horrifically pitiful look and just pretend that this singular encounter never happened," and ran all the way home. Brushing the dirty and leaves from my chest, laughing at myself, ignoring the dull moan of pain from my wrists, arms, knees.

The incident was a lot of things to me. It wasn't a surprise, that's for sure. I've always been too clumsy and gangly to control all of my absurdly long extremities. It was a little embarrassing. But luckily, I'll never have to face those girls again. And even if I do, I take comfort in the distortional quality of the darkness. We probably wouldn't even recognize each other. It was painful, but what's life without a few scrapes and bruises anyway?

Most of all though, it was damn exhilarating. And, to me, it was a moment that reaffirmed a lot in my life. It made me remember how hard everything worth fighting for is. And how much strength I possessed, with which I could fight in the first place. And what was WG to me anyway? Literally speaking, it was two horrible years of bitterness and anger. But in the grand scheme of things, it might as well have just been a trip and a fall (a bad fall maybe), on my way home. And no matter how banged up or bruised I was as a result, look at how quickly I could pull myself up and dust off the incident.

I wasn't strong, but now I am. You can throw what you want at me. You can push me down and spit on me. You can say mean words, or throw punches, or try to tear down my resolve. But I'll always get back up and dust myself off. I'll always keep fighting and running and pushing.

I used to be weak and vulnerable. I used to lack hope and resolve. But look at me now. Now, I feel impenetrable.

Tigerheat Regulars

The funny thing about the anything involving gay culture is that it grows very redundant, very fast. And so do the people. I feel like every time I go to Tigerheat or another club in a specific area, the same people are always there. Sure, there are people who come and go. Newcomers are always filtering in, and sometimes (not always), the older members phase out. But the gay communities everywhere are always so concentrated, so small. Everyone you meet is somehow connected to everyone else. It's inescapable. It's like a bitchy suburban community of soccer moms that drink too much coffee and talk too much shit about each other.

Anyway, I went to Tigerheat again quite recently, it it was only then that I realized just how recurring all the characters around me truly are. For me, some of them are a really specific person, but others just refer to a type of person I happen to see there almost every time I go. Before we get started though, I want to familiarize you with a few terms:

Group Savior: A member from the original group of friends in attendance for the night. The Group Savior can be more than one person, but the role is the same: to separate the victim (usually from the savior's core group) and the attacker (usually someone creepy or not very attractive), usually through the execution of a smooth dance move.

Bruno: A safe word my friends and I have adapted to signal when interaction is not desired. The term originated from a quite assertive gentleman who got a little handsy with an individual in our group. As soon as things get this out of hand, mouthing the word "Bruno" is immediate grounds for separation via Group Savior.

So let's get started.

You know those people who just can't take a hint? Like, for some reason, they have this overwhelming amount of confidence, and it's hard to tell where it all comes from. This duo is toxically confident. They're not particularly unfortunate looking or anything, but their actions slowly degrade their looks anyway. Earlier this Summer, my cousin Cory was victim to the Gum Twirling Twins. They move swiftly and efficiently. Their moment between absence and presence is so small that they seem to materialize out of nowhere. And so, they appeared. They surrounded Cory, slithering and slinking around his body with attempted sex appeal. Gnashing their gum like a native New York mother on a mission. It doesn't usually take long before the victim pulls away in flustered dismay. At this moment, the twins stand their ground. They slink back on to their supporting hip, hook their scrawny fingers into their mouthes, and twirl their gum with pungent attitude. It's only a matter of seconds before they try again, and it takes either repeated rejection of a Group Savior to shake them off permanently. And by permanently, I mean that they might leave for a half hour before trying again.

A Close Proximity Stalker is a person who really wants to dance with you, but either lacks the confidence or motivation to do so. You can sense these guys very easily, and once you notice them, they're hard to ignore. There are two subspecies of C.P.S.: the creepy guy, who likes to stare at you and graze against your skin regardless of how awkward it is for you or your group, or the shy boy, who thinks you're incredibly beautiful and can't help but be frozen by his own attraction to you. And sometimes it's hard to tell them apart. You have to be careful with these guys. It's hard not to look for them to make sure they're gone, but make eye contact too many times, and you'll send the wrong message. Beware, though. Close Proximity Stalkers are not afraid to grab your ass when you're not looking.

Although Tigerheat is principally a gay club, heterosexuals sometimes tread the story for one reason or another. Sometimes straight men are really open-minded about their gay friends. They'll go with the gays and the girls to dance and have fun. Sometimes straight men are dragged in by their girlfriends. But the most dangerous straight man of all is the straight man who attends primarily to find the straight girls that come with their gays. The defining factor of the Aggressive Creeper is the forceful dancing and aggressive touching. I swear they must come in packs, because there are so many of them. And they are usually gross. These men are often in their mid to late thirties. They wear baggy jeans, white crew necks, and open button-up short sleeve shirts, most likely from Pacific Sunwear. They wear sunglasses inside. Oakley Sunglasses. More often than not, they have a ponytail that runs down most of the length of their back. This is a standard creeper, who unleashes himself on the innocent straight girls who just want to dance and have fun. They usually reach straight for the legs or hips, violating their victim as fast as possible. It only takes a frenzied look or an outstretched hand to signal the desire to be saved.

Aggressive Creepers come in other forms too. Really young straight guys who don't know better and are extremely horny, and even gay guys too. Gay guys are the worst. They usually shove their tongue down your throat, and their hand down your pants. In fact, that's where the term "Bruno" came from. Guess what he did.

There's a group of really pretty boys at Tigerheat. They're there every time I go. Judging everyone from the confines of their tight knit, beautiful group. I like to call them the Tigerheat Plastics. They don't really do much. They don't even sweat through their beautiful hair. I had the unfortunate experience of trying to dance with one once. Before I labeled his group the plastics, or even realized he was part of them. I tried to spark his interest with fun dance moves and smiles. He just stood there, texting. Come to think of it, I don't really know why the Tigerheat Plastics bother going to Tigerheat at all. I don't think I've seen them have fun once.

I've only seen one Middle Aged Man Just Looking to Have Fun. That being said, I see this guy a lot. He seems like a lost soul, mostly because I know there must be other places he can go to have fun without feeling embarrassed. But then again, maybe he doesn't feel embarrassed at all. I always see him wearing those very light shaded 80s jeans, with a white sweater on. His white hair is pushed back off his face, and he wanders through the crowd aimlessly. When he stops to dance, he usually raises his arms over his head, and swings them back and forth repeatedly. Sometimes there's some hip action, too. I always see him dancing on his own, and never with a friend. It makes me wonder if he ever finds what he's looking for.

So, not everyone's beautiful at Tigerheat. It's a pretty obvious statement, just because everyone wants to dance and have fun, and the Avalon doesn't refuse creepers as long as they pay their share. The thing I've noticed about less fortunate gay men, however, and that they're always the Gratuitously Shirtless Ones. These men must be self conscious about their looks. As soon as they start dancing, they take off their shirt and tuck it into the ass of their pants, usually revealing absurdly thin or muscular bodies. Lots of people are gratuitously shirtless too, and I've found it's usually to distract from something else. Buff older men want us to see their muscles and tan skin instead of their age. Small twinky boy want us to worship their slim and toneless bodies instead of their faces. And you know, I don't mind dancing with guys I'm not attracted to, as long as they have their shirts on. They're still fun and happy. But those poor men with their shirts tucked into their sweaty asses. They're usually slippery.

And don't even get me started on those GoGo Boys.

Three Years and Going Strong

It was the summer before my junior year of high school, and it finally felt like everything was falling into place. I turned sixteen, and I was practically an adult. I was growing taller, thinner, and more attractive. I thought my hair was perfect. I was finally moving past all the petty drama with my group of friends. And I met a boy, and it just felt like the whole world was on my side. Don't you know that feeling? Where you feel like everyone's rooting for you? Even the people you don't know? I was going to be an upperclassman, and no one could stop me.

And it's funny too. I swear to fucking god this happened. One day, I was feeling this way, and I stopped to think: Wow. I'm so lucky. I don't even know how I got this lucky. I'm healthy, pretty good-looking, I have parents who love me, and a roof over my head. I have friends and people I can trust and rely on. I wasn't really born with any disadvantage. I'm so happy too. I'm so happy nothing bad happened to me. And I took a moment to say thank you. And I don't really know what prompted it. It might have been something really stupid. But it still happened.

You know what though? I wasn't that great of a person. I was quick to hate and slow to forgive. And I was spoiled. I think I was. Sometimes I could be sweet, but I think deep down, all I wanted was to be popular. I didn't act out too much, or do anything outlandish, but I didn't truly appreciate life. I really don't think I did. I'm a believer in the idea that you can't really appreciate something unless you've experienced the exact opposite first. And that's exactly what happened.

Five years ago, I got sick. My kidneys shut down. People told me I was the bravest person they knew. I always thought, what other choice is there? I can give up, or I can keep trying.

Four years ago, I was diagnosed with an illness called Wegener's Granulomatosis.

And three years ago, my brother stepped forward. And my life was saved.

Everything got started at 8:00 AM. I don't think I have ever slept so terribly in my life. It was like trying to sleep on Christmas Eve, except one thousand times more intense. Finally, it all started happening. And they wheeled me downstairs, and they prepped me for surgery.

"Alright, careful," the nurse eyed me with a smile, "This is going to feel like you drank a whole six pack all at once." I laughed.

"I think I can handle it. Bring it on." They gave me the injection, and it all hit me like a sack of really comfortable pillows. I laid back, and my head fell heavy on the bed. They wheeled me into the operating room. I don't remember anything else.

And then, it was like no time passed. Not even a split second. But in that lapse of a moment. In that span of no time whatsoever, everything happened. My entire life was given back to me, more or less. It was going to be a long road to recovery, but everything started that day. My brother was the catalyst for the moment that everything started to go right.

It's kind of surreal to think about the operation itself. I just have trouble imagining that I was open on the operating table. Of course I have the scar, and I see the evidence. But it's too weird to imagine myself exposed on the table. To have doctor's sterile hand digging inside me. To have live tissue implanted into my system. It's hard to believe it happened.

And all of that happened in less time than it takes to blink, from my experience. It's funny though, the farther away in time you get from something, the more like an eye blink it seems like anyway.

And from there, it only got better. It was a hard recovery, but I pushed through it. It was like the end of the most exhausting and difficult race ever conceived, and I knew it wasn't the time to give up. And I pushed. Hard. And I learned so much about myself, even after the transplant. And I made it. I finally got back to where I was when I was sixteen, but I grew exponentially more on the inside. And I could feel it. I didn't need to be popular anymore. I needed to take good care of myself and feel good.

And now, here I am. I can't believe it's been three years already. It feels like no time has passed. Not even a split second. All I know now, is that I value everything so much more. I'm just thankful to feel normal. Shitty days happen, but you can go to sleep and wash them off in the morning. When you feel like shit, there's no escape. You want to wish it's a dream every single day. But it never is. Shitty things can happen all the time, but it's not an excuse to stop feeling great. And why focus on what's wrong when you can focus on what's right? Something may go bad, but it can go so much worse.

I learned that I'm a strong person, but I'll always need the love, the help, the support of my family and friends. You're not going to go anywhere unless you have people to carry you when you get tired. I honestly don't think I could be happier right now. I feel so surrounded by positivity and joy, from the people I know and love the best. I feel the sunshine. I'm taking the best care of my body, and my body is taking care of me back.

Right now? Everything is love. Every moment is love. Even when it doesn't feel like it.

Communication (Or Lack Thereof)

I saw "He's Just Not That Into You" with my crazy boyfriend on Valentine's Day, 2009. No, he's not my boyfriend anymore. Yes, he's like, actually crazy. I'll tell you later. Anyway, the preview always showcased this one quote said by renowned actress Drew Barrymore. Despite its context, I always thought it was a pretty good quote, and effective in its simplicity.

So I logged on to IMDb to find the quote, and kind of discuss its greater relevance to my life and everyone else's. I entered "He's Just Not-" into the search bar, and much to my dismay, the movie was already in my search history. Anyway, I found the quote:

"I had this guy leave me a voicemail at work, so I called him at home, and then he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell, and now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies."

I heard that for the first time and I thought, Damn. That's a pretty spot on commentary about our generation. Okay, wait, another quick side note: Where's the dividing line for our generation anyway? I mean obviously, family generations are very easy to define, but what about social generations? Apparently, I'm a member of generation Y. I guess it's pretty easy to see the generational differences between say, you and your grandma. But like, what about someone who's 30? Are they in our generation or the older one? I find it hard to believe that you can say babies born in the 80s are members of Generation Y and babies born in the 90s are members of Generation Z. Think about it. It's not like a baby born on December 31st, 1989 is going to have a propensity toward political neutrality, off the shoulder sweaters, passive voice, game shows and leg warmers, and a baby born on January 1st, 1990 is going to prefer extreme liberalism, laziness, reality television and 3-dimensional and digitally animated movies.

And yes, I know there are exceptions, and yes, I know it doesn't really work like that, but still. It just goes back to our compulsive need to label everything without it serving much of a purpose. But I guess that's another rant for another time? Oh, and also, decades are funny to me too. It's not like on January 1st, 1990, everyone stopped teasing their side ponytails and wearing neon, and opted instead for offensive prints, mom jeans, sneakers, and crop tops.

Also, at what age do we "define" our generations anyway? Teenaged years? I mean we grow out of that stuff, right? Our generation will always change how we do things. And if we're always changing, I guess it's just funny that we need to categorize generations in the first place.

Alright, where was I? Oh right, Drew Barrymore. I heard that quote, and a lot of thoughts clicked into my head right away. I guess what made me think about this quote again in the first place, was the way I was talking to my cousin Cory the other day. I don't remember exactly how it started, but I think he texted me, and I decided to respond to him on Facebook Chat. I mused, "I wonder how many different ways we can contact each other electronically." And so he sent me an instant message on iChat, and I called him on Skype. He replied to me via Twitter, and I sent him a response from my Livejournal inbox. And then he emailed me from his school email account, and then I posted a comment on his profile on another networking site, and he left a comment on my profile picture on Facebook again. And it was just too fun to me! We went through a myriad of different technology, an electronic roll call of every possible internet medium, and managed to complete a conversation without sticking with one or hearing each other's voices. Or seeing each other's faces.

And no wonder our generation is full of so many shut ins, and loners, awkward people who don't know how to socialize, and some other generalizations that aren't really founded on anything! We're so obsessed with conversing with each other through these networking sites and social crutches, that we forget life exists. We forget how fulfilling it is to see someone's face and hear them laugh. So many things get lost in textual translation. Why are we so afraid of real interaction?

…And yes, I’m aware of the hilarious irony of me whining about this on a blog. Online. If you can’t beat them join them. Or something.

And it’s especially relevant in the gay world. Allow me to draw you in again. As I may have slightly alluded to in my entry about Tigerheat, meeting a gay man who’s attractive, smart, and into you, is exceedingly difficult. And you can’t just walk up to a cute guy in a coffee shop and assume he’s gay and drop your number. First of all, if he’s not gay, he’ll probably get offended, and you’ll also reaffirm the stereotype that every gay man hits on every straight man. And you’ll look creepy. And if by some slim chance he happens to be gay, you’ll be lucky, but he’ll also probably think you’re not hot enough for him or something stupid like that. And yeah, we have “gaydar,” but in my experience, I don’t have the best gaydar. I mean, I can pick out the two extremes, like the homophobic football player who’s overcompensating for a small penis and trying his damndest to impress his father, and the exceedingly flamboyant glitter queen who has an affinity towards bleached hair, spray tan, make up, and throwing up his lunch in the toilet. But that’s only going to get me so far, because almost every gay man falls somewhere in between. Not to mention all the hipsters and indie kids nowadays that trick drooling gay men into falling in love with them.

Because it’s so hard to just assume someone’s gay, homosexuals rely heavily on the internet for a lot of their matchmaking. There are so many sites and so many levels of degradation. There are sites which serious gay men actually use to pursue a boyfriend. These sites sort of function as a gay Myspace or Facebook. You make a profile, and email and comment on and instant message, and if you dig what they dig, you set up a meeting at a local café. The next level down, there are trashy hook-up sites (and even iPhone applications). And these are exactly what the name infers. Sites where gay men go to… relieve themselves. They have places for very personal sexual information, and let’s just say, the more trashy the website, the more shameless the users are.

And it’s so hard to meet men in real life, unless you’re at a gay club or party. And those environments aren’t usually places to get to know someone. So it’s hard to get along without using the internet. God, what would we do without it? And of course, I use these sites too, how can I not? It’s sad, too, being a hopeless romantic on an electronic, gay, social networking, website. I’ve honestly never had a one night stand. I try to find a real connection with someone. Because it’s so hard to do that in person. And I do all these things that I complain about because I don’t want to do them. I continue to use them though, clinging desperately to the hope that somewhere out there, there’s a guy who is perfect for me, and who is using that site too.

It makes me wonder. Would Prince Charming even sign on to those sites in the first place? Is it a lost cause? To be a romantic fish swimming in an epic ocean of horny fish?

So here I am, endlessly in search of that person, that perfect fit. In a world of people who rely on Facebook, Skype, iChat, Twitter, Tumblr, texting, missed connections of Craigslist, what if my Prince just gets lost in the electronic whirlwind? What if we’ve already talked, and somehow those perfect components that pair us together better than anyone else were lost in translation?

The best I can do is keep swimming, and hope I find him.

The Language of Music

John Morris Going has inspired me to write an entry about the magic and the language of Music. John seems to only be slightly conversational (if that) in the language of Music, so I thought I'd give a shot at expressing what music means to me. And, as you have seen from the previously posted song related entries, I love me some music, and I read into songs more than I read into what people think about me.

...Anyway. I really think there's something completely special about music. The origin of music is in millions of different cultures, countries, languages, instruments, states of mind, feelings intuitions ideas modesmoodswordsthoughts... they all mash together into this world of expression and profundity, and in the end it all translates to the same beautiful language. Instead of using a tone of voice to express an emotion, it's built into the song itself.

Music is something beyond what we can hold in our hand. And yes, music is inherently intangible, since it never takes a physical form (except in music videos that attempt to translate songs into visual forms of understanding, but even those are just pixels moving on a T.V. / iPod/ Laptop screen. There's still a barrier between the song and real life). The strangest part for me is the prolific effect music has on my life without ever truly being there. It effects my moods, amplifies my emotions. My state in life directly affects the music I listen to. And it's a reflexive process too; new music I encounter translates into new found perspectives on things. The insight that others invest in their music becomes an insight in my own experience. What else can do that?

And there are breeds of music. I've found solace in a specific pocket of music I really enjoy, and I call it sunshine music (no correlation to my blog's title). It's that music that fills you up. It's happy and alive. Ukuleles, acoustic guitars, or just computers, anything really; synthesized happiness. It's that kind of music that I love to blast on a gorgeous and sunny day with my windows down. The music that puts the hop in your step. The music that appreciates life as much as you do. And then there are the dark and twisty pop songs. Heavy on bass and drum machines, with auto-tuned vocals and electric heartbeats. These songs energize me, they fuel my nights; these songs give the dark, sweaty, neon clubs a deadly pulse. Sad songs go well with rainy days. When I'm depressed or feeling down, or when the grey sky stretches farther than my imagination, sad ballads in a minor key fit perfectly. And sometimes comfort rises out of that beautifully miserable sound. And only music has this quality. We can't really assign moods to language or clothes or movies or books. I guess we can, in some sense. But these things don't modify or mold to our lives as perfectly. To me, these things aren't quite as alive.

It's funny how music is such an important component in movies, too. The images themselves cannot accurately portray real life situations. But the addition of music somehow allows the movie to breathe. Only when we hear a musical score can we feel a movie. And when we're not seeing the movie, just listening to the soundtrack, we can still feel those moments, without the images in front of our eyes. And have you ever seen a scene in a movie that lacks music? All the time. It's a notable decision, because a scene without music in a movie full of scenes with music marks a devastating moment. And an audience member can feel that void, whether or not they're conscious of it.

Music adds meaning to life. When life and music overlap, something inexplicable happens. A few weeks ago, I was listening to my iPod while I was walking to class. At that moment, the enveloping bells of the Campanile pierced through my music bubble and into my chest. And the moment was perfect. The bells, the song, and my feet all shared a moment of synchronization. And it may have lasted only thirty seconds, but while all of these separate components became simultaneous, I felt like I was more than just existing. I felt greater mechanisms at play in my life, and it felt strong, symbolic, transcendent. Of course, the moment passed and I went to class, but there was still the lingering of something special. It happens to me in the car too. When I'm playing a song and the people I pass seem to be marching to the beat of my car's music. It just feels like something coordinates that connection. And I happen to catch a glimpse of it.