Sunday, June 29, 2008

Queer Fear

So this weekend I decide, against my better judgment, to hang out with some of my hall mates from my freshman year of college. They're all pretty nice guys but I can't say I'm great friends with any of them because they can be quite immature (and we all know what a paragon of maturity I am). Case in point, last semester they took my roommate's mattress/pillow and instead filled his bed with packing peanuts. They also drew penises all over his notebooks. Oh yeah and finally, they poured a bottle of laxatives into his milk. I wonder why they never targeted me for any of their pranks though. They were probably intimidated by my extremely masculine demeanor, prominent arm muscles, and the gun I kept in my drawer. Or maybe they hated me... Anyway, all of this is inconsequential because like I said, I decide to hang out with them against my better judgment.

So during the conversation that I was half-listening to, Friend A says to me out of the blue,

"Dude, I have this friend and he is gay."

And I go,

"Really? That is very progressive of you."

And he goes,

"No, he's really cool. I mean, as long as they don't hit on me, I don't have a problem with gay people."

And I chuckle to myself. Not out of nervousness, because I am used to these kinds of incredibly awkward conversations. But I think it's very funny that this guy is worried about men being attracted to him even though he is 80 pounds overweight and has back hair. Girls may find me repulsive, but men are clamoring for my attention!

So what I don't get is that if every straight man knows the difference between Kelly Ripa and Kelly Osbourne, why can't they realize that gay men are just as discerning? We too, can tell the difference between Chris O'Donnell and Chris Farley. Just because our attraction to men is "unfathomable", doesn't mean our taste in men is equally preposterous.

I admit that my argument has insofar been vain and superficial. I will be the first to tell you that it's not all about appearance (me being an ugly duckling myself). Ok, so maybe this guy is worried that a gay guy would fall in love with his golden heart and sterling personality. But upon second thought, that too seems unlikely.

I think a lot straight guys' fear of gay guys stems from their misconception that we would capitalize on any opportunity to jump up their ass. Well, it should come as a relief (and I suppose a slap in the face) that they needn't flatter themselves. We aren't interested.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Hillary 2012

So I reluctantly admit to myself that I'm probably only going to get one comment per post on this blog, (and sometimes none at all). This saddens me immensely because I had lofty dreams of becoming the next great blogger, or you know... the first. Seems like I never learn the danger of aspiring to greatness; it always leads to disappointment. Not that I want to be the focus of universal praise and adoration, but it'd be nice to know I have a sizable group of loyal readers and I'm not just writing all of this for a few middle-aged pedophiles from Jersey. But in order to keep my giant head at a manageable size, maybe it's good to know that nobody cares about my life and I'm really just talking to myself.

But as it were, I'm writing this from Dupont Circle. Lured by the free wireless internet. But we all know that is just a ruse, I could have very well gone to McDonalds if I wanted free Wi-Fi. I'm really here to find love. So I sit on the grass, trying to withstand the awful smell, hoping that I didn't sit in poo, cursing the bugs that are crawling up my pants, waiting for my one true love to see right through my nonchalant expression and snatch me up. But as I uncross my legs trying to return some feeling into them, I remember the danger of aspiring to greatness. So I pack my things and leave.

And as I leave, I get accosted by a frustratingly persistent member of the ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union). And being the softy that I am, I get suckered into listening to the entire stupid sob story about prisoners of war, and the tortured Americans, and freedom of speech, and all that crap that nobody cares about whatsoever. I try desperately to find a way out but it's far too late, I'm in her clutches and there is no escape for me. If only I had the balls to just push that bitch out of my way and continue to wherever it is I'm going. But I don't have the balls, and ultimately I am forced into a one-time donation of eight dollars (I hid the $50 in my wallet). She recommended that I give a hundred dollars but I just laughed at the ridiculous things coming out of her mouth . As I scuttle away, I can't help but feel like I totally wasted $8. I am no Rockefeller. My money better go towards something worthwhile like legalizing gay marriage on Mars or getting Hillary elected in 2012.



Friday, June 20, 2008

First Time

For approximately a week, I think about what to write for a first entry that would be worthy of commencing this blog. Perhaps I should write about my unhealthy relationship with my parents / God / everyone I’ve ever met / food. Perhaps I should recap my entire miserable life thus far. Perhaps I should describe the grim outlook on my future. But I dismiss all of these options as cliché, contrived, or some combination of the two. So I continue spending my days pulling my hair out and my nights lying awake with my eyes wide open like a bush baby. And suddenly it comes to me. Since this blog is anonymous, (or so I desperately hope), I decide to write about something that I’ve never shared with anyone before.

It seems as though everyone else’s “I first realized I was gay” story occurs while they are lying in bed in the dead of the night. They clutch desperately to their sheets and their eyes are shut tightly to keep the tears from trickling down their pallid faces as they cry themselves to sleep. That’s not how it happened for me. I first knew I was gay sometime in the 7th grade when, in the mid-afternoon, I was staring at my best friend's crotch through his basketball shorts and I realized I’d rather be blowing him than listening to him talk about his ugly girlfriend who probably didn’t even know what a blowjob was. (Clearly we weren’t best friends for very much longer) But that night, I did cling desperately to my own sheets praying, “Dear God, I have never asked you for anything before. Correction. You have never given anything to me before. So would you please remove this nuisance from my life so I can join the football team and we can make a deal to never speak of it again." God must have been watching Will & Grace that night because my prayers were unanswered.

Truth be told, if God were to ungay somebody, I would be as good a candidate as any. Don't get me wrong, I'm vain and superficial and I go to the gym way too often and I think Edith Piaf is a glorious singer. But my ungaying deservedness isn’t merit based as much as it’s need based. Which is to say, I literally cannot be gay. Because in my opinion, there are a number of different species of gay. There’s the Midwest gay, whose father is some sort of preacher and as soon as he stupidly comes out to his family, they tie him to a fence post and beat him to death with a shovel. I’ll count myself lucky that I’m not in that group. But I’m unlucky in that I’m not in the next group, the everywhere else gay.

The everywhere else gays make up the majority of the gay population. He inevitably has a life story about how difficult it was living in the closet and how painful it was to come out. But I have no sympathy for the everywhere else gay because in the end, his parents and friends are understanding and everyone just wants him to be happy. The ethnic gay resides somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. While we don’t fear for our lives, we find it hard to concern ourselves with issues of pride, self-identity, and “wanting our parents to know who we really are before they die,” like the everywhere else gays. Mostly because if our parents knew who we really were, they would die. After all, the only happiness our parents want us to achieve is the kind of happiness they imagine for themselves. So if we come out, our mother isn’t going to go to the sink to do the dishes and cry and come back 15 minutes later and tell us she still loves us like the everywhere else gays' mother. Our mother will fall to the ground convulsing and cursing the dishonor we have brought to the family name. Our father isn't going to give us the silent treatment for a week but end up inviting us on a fishing trip where he tells us he still loves us like the everywhere else gays’ father. Our father will hand us a big sweaty wad of cash and tell us he never wants to see us again.

In the Asian community, the only reason why people have children in the first place is so that they can brag to the other parents at the local Chinese school (and eventually take 30% of their children’s taxable income). And if you don’t have a child that you can brag about, well, you might as well not have a child at all. So far in my life, I’ve worked very hard so that my parents can say I am better than their friends’ kids. I suspect that's the only reason why they still feed me and keep my cage clean. However, I find myself in the midst of a quarter life crisis. Because I have been doing what my parents want for so long, I don’t really know what I want anymore. Maybe I do know what I want. I’m just too afraid to do anything about it because inevitably the stupid fuckers at Chinese school will talk.

But before I get any more existential, what I’m really trying to say is that my life sucks. The only way I can truly be myself is if my parents were dead. Until then, I continue to put on this charade where I turn off America’s Next Top Model whenever somebody walks in the room and I go out with girls that annoy me so much that I feel urges to drive my car into the highway barrier.

Anyway, as a closing remark for my first entry, I just hope that this blog will serve as an outlet for my emotions, (as opposed to drowning my sorrows in a pint of Haagen Dazs while watching Brokeback Mountain or something equally disturbing). And I have faith that when I look back on this entry in five years, I will laugh at my teenage anxiety and be thankful that my life turned out perfectly fine.


...or perhaps I will scoff at my childish optimism as I roll my still alone and quite obese self out of bed to refill a syringe of heroin and eat two entire Chipotle burritos.