The Truth is Under the Urinal Mint

The World As I See It

By Donn Saylor

The Great Ladies of Film

The other night, I caught an old silent film on Turner Classic Movies entitled The Passion of Joan of Arc. It was a silent flick, from 1928, and I was astonished by the performance of the lead actress, Renee Maria Falconetti. So much so, in fact, that I not only found the portrayal to be one of the most amazing I’ve ever seen on celluloid, but I was also inspired to think of what other great female performances would make up my choices for the Top 10 Performances By An Actress. While compiling this list, I easily came up with over thirty selections, but I finally whittled it down to ten of what I feel are the most powerful, skilled, and astounding performances. The list could go on for days, reaching 30, 40, 50, even 100, yet after much deliberation, here are my choices for the top slots....
1. Meryl Streep, Sophie’s Choice (1982)
Come on, does it really get any better than this? Everyone knew she was a great actress before Sophie, but Meryl established herself as the greatest film actress of all time with this one performance, which is really more of a life-altering experience than a mere performance on film. As a Polish concentration camp survivor who ends up in Brooklyn, Streep’s Sophie endures some of the most inhuman, ungodly acts, going from the prison of the camps to the prison of a doomed relationship with a psychotic beau (an incredible Kevin Kline). Yes, Streep shaved her head, lost numerous pounds, and learned to speak Polish and German flawlessly without an accent. But it is the scenes of Sophie telling her story, with a single camera fixed upon her china-doll face, that one cannot forget. With the fall of a tear, the gentle force of a wan smile, the desperation of those seen-it-and-done-it-all eyes, the real power of the film lies in the kaleidoscope that is Sophie’s face. This is not a performance that will simply move you; it will break your heart – and then it will change you.
2. Renee Maria Falconetti, La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc/The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)
The late film critic Pauline Kael, who was never one to hand out compliments, said that Falconetti’s performance was perhaps the greatest ever captured on film. Indeed. La Passion is a silent film, the sets are minimal, the musical score nonexistent (though modern-day versions have dubbed in a beautiful and appropriate score by Richard Einhorn), and director Carl Theodor Dreyer demanded his actors wear no make-up (unheard of at the time). Like Sophie, the bulk of Joan’s story is told through Falconetti’s phenomenally expressive face. In an age when film was conveyed through big, over-the-top actions and aped, unnatural responses, Falconetti is the epitome of subtlety and restraint, her perfectly round face and huge mirror eyes conveying nearly every human emotion in the course of a one hour and twenty-two minute film (if you’ve ever doubted that the eyes are the mirror of the soul, see this performance). But although the film is only one hour and twenty-two minutes, Dreyer took eighteen months to film it, and rumor has it that he all but destroyed young Falconetti. She had never done a film before La Passion, and she never did another after it. The script is not really a script at all, it is the actual transcript from Joan’s trial some 500 years ago. And watching it, you’ll think you are watching the real deal unfold before your eyes. Falconetti is nothing short of miraculous. It’s a shame that such a miracle never worked again and died penniless and unknown in Buenos Aires in 1946. Oh, but what a legacy she has left us!
3. Katharine Hepburn, The Lion in Winter (1968)
If the power of Streep and Falconetti’s performances lie in the face, then the strength of Hepburn’s portrayal of Eleanor of Aquitaine resides in every muscle in her slight frame. Playing the exiled queen to Peter O’Toole’s power-hungry Henry II, The Lion in Winter is a verbal sparring match between the two great actors. As I said in an earlier article, I’ve always thought The Great Kate was a bit overrated, but this is one Hepburn performance that more than fills the bill. Her Eleanor screams and rages and remembers and whispers and cries and laments with a sincerity and fire that is unparalleled in film history. Hepburn’s brilliant personification is not simply passionate, it is fueled by a deftness and devotion to nuance that is rarely seen in such a larger-than-life character. In a recent telefilm adaptation, Glenn Close recreated this same role with a raging conflagration, but even the amazing Close could not touch what Hepburn did here in the original.
4. Vivien Leigh, A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)
Blanche DuBois is arguably the most famous heroine of any play in contemporary American theatre, and a plethora of talented actresses have portrayed her on stage and screen over the years. Yet it is Vivien Leigh’s Blanche that will forever remain the quintessential fading, tormented Southern Belle, driven to the brink of insanity by her monstrous brother-in-law, Stanley Kowalski. In real life, Leigh herself was battling her own mental illness around this time, and perhaps that is why her Blanche works so astoundingly well: it is one of those rare moments when actress and role blur into one extraordinary creation. Uttering some of the most poetic, renowned dialogue of our time, Leigh transcends mere words as we watch Blanche slowly slip into the bowels of insanity, clutching with fingernails at her paper-thin grasp of reality. But Blanche is a hellcat, and she doesn’t give up her grip on sanity without a fight. And it is a duel that ranks among the best ever filmed.
5. Elizabeth Taylor, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)
Chewing the scenery is an understatement. From the moment Elizabeth Taylor’s Martha barrels onscreen, we know this is not going to be an easy ride. Surveying her messy kitchen and eating cold chicken off the bone like someone from the Renaissance, Martha spits, “What a dump!” with such vulgarity that even Bette Davis would blush. This sets the scene for a film in which Taylor’s Martha goes head-to-head with Richard Burton’s George in a no-holds-barred domestic battle that is ruthless, heartless, offensive, and emotionally draining. Taylor so flawlessly inhabits Martha’s almost obscene persona that she is, at times, uncomfortable to watch. Yet this is the exact thing that makes Taylor’s performance so damn magical. If Martha is making hubby George, guests Nick and Honey, and even us the audience, uncomfortable, what exactly is going on under that abrasive exterior? Through the course of this cocktail party from hell, Martha may scream and yell and swear and belch, but she’s also slipping up: slowly, bits of her scarred humanity come showing through. In the film’s final moments, as day breaks over this charred rubble of a marriage, we finally glimpse the madness and illusion that have not only held George and Martha, the couple, together, but what has held Martha herself together. Taylor’s Martha spends two hours pushing us all away so she doesn’t have to look in our eyes. But oh when she’s forced to, it’s acting at its best.
6. Joan Allen, The Crucible (1996)
Nicholas Hytner’s film version of Arthur Miller’s classic is about as close to perfection as any one film can get, thanks in no small part to the powerhouse performances from the downright brilliant cast. Daniel Day-Lewis, as John Proctor, gives, what I think, is not only the performance of his career, but one of the Top 10 Best Performances By An Actor (perhaps a later Truth is Under the Urinal Mint article), but there’s no way his work would have been nearly as potent without the tour-de-force supporting performance of Joan Allen. Allen plays John’s morally-upright and long-suffering wife, Elizabeth, and her portrayal defines the meaning of the word support. All of Allen’s screen time is worthy of note here for the simple fact that she is so spot-on powerful that when she isn’t onscreen, you’re left wondering where she is, what she’s doing, and what she’s feeling. It is the numerous layers that Allen gives to Elizabeth that make her so totally compelling. What at first may be perceived as righteous morality gives way to layers of control, anger, steeliness, and long-buried pain. Though she may hide under a saintly veneer of Puritanism and quietness, this Elizabeth is no shrinking violet. She is a woman scorned, troubled by the profound love she has for her philandering husband. Near the end of the film, as she reaches for John by the riverside, she says softly into his cheek, “I’ve never known such goodness in the world.” After watching Allen, neither have I.
7. Emily Watson, Breaking the Waves (1996)
Emily Watson was in her twenties and had never done a film before her debut as Bess McNeill in Breaking the Waves. But, like Falconetti, she proved that stellar acting does not require a lengthy resume or a well-known name. Her Bess is, in a word, miraculous. And miraculous is a word that could be used on many different levels to describe this film. Lars VonTrier’s direction and script are so wholly unique and forceful, this movie transcends the label of “movie” and becomes an experience. Bess, cloistered by an ultra-religious 1970s Scottish village, goes from saint to whore to savior with the deftness, skill, and raw emotion only a great actress can portray. In addition to Bess, Watson also plays God in several scenes, in which Bess has conversations with the Almighty One via prayer. In a lesser actress’ hands, this prospect would seem ludicrous and laughable; in Watson’s, it is nothing short of extraordinary. She crafts Bess with such understandable naivete, such sheer power, such naked, living feeling, that the entire experience becomes painfully, brutally real for anyone watching. And thank God for that.
8. Nicole Kidman, The Hours (2002)
Before The Hours, Nicole Kidman had never impressed me much. I always thought she was a capable actress, and I had somewhat enjoyed her work in a number of films before her astounding portrayal of Virginia Woolf, but she had never struck me deep in my soul. Enter Virginia. To say my soul was shaken is an understatement; I sat in the theatre, transfixed, long after the final credits rolled. Playing the famous novelist, Kidman emerges herself so completely in her role that we somehow think that Ms. Woolf has risen from the dead and decided to make a movie. And it’s not just the prosthetic nose Kidman sports; it is the way she gives mental illness a human face. She doesn’t simply play someone who’s melancholy: she stares into the depths of the abyss that is depression and takes us along for the viewing. It is a beautiful, eloquent, and unflinching portrayal. Kidman is at her finest in the train station scene, where Virginia and husband Leonard are discussing her illness and its possible remedies. The scene is acting at its best, with Kidman’s Virginia mired down in the depression that would finally kill her, yet buoyed by the hope and creative life-force given to her by her work and the devotion of her husband. Unlike Blanche and Martha, however, Virginia is not battling some nameless foe: she is the victim of a demon she can feel in every muscle in her body. Kidman embodies her with such grace, it ranks among the greatest in cinema history.
9. Miranda Richardson, Damage (1992)
In my book, Miranda Richardson can do no wrong. Every contribution she has made to film is worthy of praise, but Richardson has yet to surpass her heartbreaking performance as Ingrid Fleming in Damage. Ingrid is wife to Parliamentary member Stephen (Jeremy Irons), who happens to be having a sexually-explosive (to say the least) affair with his son’s fiancee (the incandescent Juliette Binoche). Throughout the bulk of the film, Richardson’s Ingrid is a quietly sustaining presence, adding a rational centeredness to an otherwise overtly sexual story. Richardson’s true glory comes forth, though, in one of the movie’s final scenes (sadly, her only scene of any significant length). After learning of her husband’s infidelity, and also facing the loss of her beloved son, Ingrid’s great sadness, anger, and pain spew forth with such gut-wrenching honesty and realism that many critics have compared Richardson’s performance in this scene to a Shakespearean catharsis. She unhinges every minuscule drop of Ingrid’s grief, sending it flying to all corners of the room, exposing her very soul and its utter emptiness and desperation. It is a classic performance, and the aforementioned scene alone effectively demolishes the fragile house of cards the rest of the film has been building. Betrayal has never been so crushingly, sickeningly real. Or beautiful.
10. Kathy Bates, Primary Colors (1998)
OK, I admit it, I’m a sucker for any performance that contains dialogue like, “I am a gay lesbian woman and I do not mythologize the male private parts!”. But sparkling dialogue aside, Kathy Bates gives a brave, tender performance as Libby Holden, a self-described “political dust-buster”, who’s called upon to clean up the scandals surrounding her old friend Jack Stanton’s campaign for the presidency. Wise-cracking and tough as nails, Libby is a hurricane of strength, humor, and efficiency. That is, until the final scenes of the film. Bates makes us believe in Libby’s goodness from the beginning, yet it isn’t until late in the movie that we see the toll that a life in politics has taken on this woman. Despite all she has seen in her career – all of the sexual escapades, shady business dealings, and questionable morals, Libby Holden still believes that all people are inherently good. When she is faced with the harsh truth, it is almost too much and the rough exterior starts to crumble. We catch a glimpse of the tender, emotional soul underneath it all. Bates imbues her Libby with a fearless sensitivity; she knows about the scandals and political bullshit, but she wants to believe that politicians are more than their mistakes. Just like all of us want to.
So there you have it, my friends, my choice for the Top 10 Best Performances By An Actress. You may disagree with some of my choices, in fact, I’m sure you will, but that’s the beauty of film. We are each affected in different ways, and these ten ladies are the ones that spoke to me most profoundly.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

The Grammar Police

Call me Sergeant Saylor, Grammar Police.
I absolutely despise poor grammar. A while back, Louisa, my dear friend and co-worker, and I were discussing how infuriating bad grammar is. It is not so much a sign of good breeding or education (I have no formal secondary education save for one year of acting school and I come from a working middle-class Midwestern family; Louisa never graduated high school and comes from the same kind of family as I); it is more a sign of self-respect, manner, and dignity to speak with proper command of the English language. This also extends to proper spelling (I am not going to my cousin's wedding next week for the simple fact that he has known me for all of my 28 years and still spells my name 'Don') and, in some extreme cases, handwriting.
Let me give you a few cases in point.
First of all, there is a huge difference between the words SPEcific and PAcific. Let me elaborate. My handy dictionary defines specific as "Explicitly set forth; definite;" Pacific means "tending to diminish or put an end to conflict; can also mean tranquil". Let's face it, how many times have we encountered "pacific" used in this way (the ocean notwithstanding)? I usually encounter people using it like this: "That's what the directions say. They are very pacific." Or: "These people pacifically asked for no onions on their burgers." Now I highly doubt these people asked for no onions in a manner "yearning end to a conflict", or that the directions were "wonderfully tranquil". Grown adults using "pacific" in this manner...it's a shame and a blight on our society, if you ask me. In the majority of English speaker's lexicons, "Pacific" is an ocean, nothing more, nothing less. "SPEcific" is a word used to describe things that are distinctive or explicit. The two words are not interchangeable. Try it and you will be arrested by The Grammar Police.
Secondly, and this bugs me to no end, mainly because my so-called "superiors" at work say this quite often: "detail-ORIENTATED", while unarguably a word, is never used and awkward and yokel-sounding; the correct work is "detail-ORIENTED". Orientate means to "make familiar with", as in an orientation for school or work. Orient means "to focus toward the concerns of", which means something quite different. When you refer to someone as "detail-orientated", you are saying that they are somehow introducing or saying hello to details. When you say they are "detail-oriented", you are saying that they are focusing on details. The latter is obviously the appropriate selection. And I defy those "detail-orientated" speakers to peruse any ad in the Help Wanted section of any newspaper; businesses are looking for "detail-oriented" employees, not "detail-orientated" ones. Show me a business that is, and I will take the cuffs off.
Then there are, of course, the obvious ones. Working in the field I do, in the place I do, I hear it all: "We don't need nothin" (the grammatical error is obvious, but WHY OH WHY do Iowans INSIST on dropping their g's?!?!?), "I ain't got none", "That don't make sense", "You get me one of them?", good Christ, the list could go on for days.
Recently, there was an editorial in the local paper regarding the deer problem in the area. I can only imagine that the editors chose to publish this letter simply for its comical value, but the intentions of the writer are quite genuine. I don't want to say the editorialist's name, but let's just say it something along the "hickified" lines of "Ginnie Mae Bates". The article is atrocious, including lines like, "I have lost a van and a car. It cost money when they need fixed", "I used to think they were so pretty. Not no more." What Ginnie Mae was thinking, I don't know. Apparently she's never seen a dictionary or read a book. As I've said, proper grammar is not defined by education of any kind or some high-falutin' bloodline. It's a matter of respect. Appropriate use of our language isn't an esoteric idea; it's something we should all have a firm grasp of. And if you don't, then don't be surprised to see flashing lights in your mirror sometime while you're driving down the road. It just may be The Grammar Police.
And that's the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

My Darkness
Let me tell you about my darkness. For twelve years now, I have been plagued by the demons of my depression, and with each year, I am forced anew to confront these beings in their various guises and costumes. Some years are worse than others, and each new bout brings forth fresh revelations and insights into why, where, and when they decide to visit me. It is a battle I alone can wage, and all the support, medication, and therapy in the world takes a backseat to the work that only I can do.
Depression is not, contrary to popular belief, a comfortable cloak of melancholia that one can just drape around one's shoulders and withdraw from the world. If only it were! It is instead a constant fight to do even the most routine things: eat, sleep, shower, work, relax, function. I am a voracious reader, and the simple task of focusing and concentrating on a book is next to impossible. This is one of the greatest challenges – and heartbreaks – I face whenever I get low.
Over the years, I have been on a variety of medications. Some worked okay, some failed gloriously. I've been in therapy for over ten years now, and even the regular self-exploration and healing of the therapist's couch can't entirely keep my shadows at bay. It is a chemical, clinical imbalance that is rooted somewhere in my brain. So unless I can get a good deal on a new brain, this battle may just be one that will continue to rear its head. Not a comforting thought, trust me.
I noticed last year that I was getting depressed every year around the same time. From mid-January till the end of March, I could almost depend upon depression laying itself on top of my life, like clockwork. My therapist, and my psychiatrist, made a diagnosis of Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD. What an appropriate acronym.
What this means to me, in essence, is that something traumatic happened to me, at some point in my life, around this time of year. My conscious mind doesn't remember it; my body and my subconscious do. It is tremendously frustrating to have all the tools and energy and drive to deal with something, but when you don't know what you're dealing with, healing is far, far away. This compounds the already crippling presence of a sadness that has invaded your personal atmosphere.
A new medication prescribed to me last year has helped significantly. This year's SADness isn't a fraction of what it usually is. But I've still gotten low, and I still know that there is something there that continues to weigh me down. And so, at my wit's end, I've decided the only thing I can do is allow it to be there. Without the benefit of identification and the glory of examination, I have chosen to just let it be. Battling it is not the answer anymore. But embracing it just might be.
The great Stephen Levine, who has done so much amazing work with the sick and dying, has always maintained the Buddhist thought that you shouldn't fight any disease (or dis-ease). You should welcome it, embrace it, and let it go. Only through love will these demons die.
That is, of course, much easier said than done. When I am sleeping fourteen hours a day and just want to be able to enjoy the sunshine of a clear winter afternoon, it is incredibly difficult to embrace an unknown phenomena that is holding me back. When all I really want to do is hit it hard, welcoming it is quite a foreign concept. Each year I continue to work on it, and each year I make a little progress, but I am looking forward to the season when I don't need to do all of this.
Hopefully it will not be far off.
And that's the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

How I Spent My 2004:

A Queer in Review

Well, here we are. 2005. Another year has passed, and we are facing 365 new days of hope and potential. After taking the last week off to spend the holidays with my family (and good christ, it felt like a decade!), I am back at my computer screen to regale you with yet another edition of the little diamonds of wisdom I find under the urinal mint.
2004 was a big year for me personally. So I’ve decided to recap the last year and tell you what I’ve learned. Cuz if life is anything at all, it is a learning experience.
In no particular order....
[Drumroll, please!]
It is perfectly natural to grow older. This year, I noticed a lot of physical changes in me. You know, my voice lowering, wet dreams, hair where I didn’t have it before ---- oops, that’s puberty. Sorry. I’m talking here about the physical phenomena known to all of humankind (and quite a pisser to most of them) known as Getting Old.
It is, of course, impossible not to be more than a little freaked out after noticing slight changes in what, just days ago, was a perfectly youthful physique. My eyes now have little wrinkles in the corners when I smile, as does my mouth. My hairline is slowly going the way of Glenn Close’s. My hair is turning ever-so-gray at the temples. The hair on the top of my head has grown as thin as Carnie Wilson after her gastric bypass. My knees crack whenever I get up. And my back is a real bitch.
But, you know, I’m surprisingly okay with these things. It just means that I’m not 16 anymore, and when I look back at who I was when I WAS 16, I’m struck with the thought: Who the hell would WANT to be young again?!? I’m just relaxing into this process of growing older. It is perfectly natural. And perhaps those people who pour billions into the cosmetic surgery industry every year are missing this simple idea.
Quitting an addiction is entirely possible and not as hard as some would have you think. Despite all the self-help books, Melody Beatties, and AA junkies out there, there IS such a thing as getting better. I quit more than one painful addiction this year, and not only was it not nearly as difficult as the world was telling me it was, but I also haven’t looked back. I’ve looked forward. And that is, I think, what has saved me.

Life is full of temptation, but come on people! We are intelligent, beautiful, vibrant human beings with the power and love of the Universe inside of us. We can conquer anything! As individuals, as a people, we really can – no matter what you read in the newspaper and see on CNN (unless you tune in to CNN just to drool over Anderson Cooper, like I do). There is no need to waste life sitting in a smoky church basement, or spending money on some quack’s bestseller-of-the-week. Look inside yourself. I did, and it is perhaps the most valuable lesson I learned this year.
Spirituality is an amazing thing. After years of flirting with Buddhism, this year I sat my first Buddhist Retreat. It was life-changing. Spending days on end in total, complete silence with just your thoughts and your meditation...it is indescribable. And once I found that spiritual center inside myself, all the b.s. of my life just fell away. I started, finally, growing into the person I’ve always wanted to be (and really am at heart). Spirituality is indeed an amazing thing.
I adore this old quote, and I have no idea who said it, but it sure speaks volumes: “Religion is for people who are afraid of going to hell. Spirituality is for people who have been there.”
Amen to that.
Love is everything it’s cracked up to be. It’s true. As Erica Jong wrote, “Do you want to know something really subversive? Love is everything it’s cracked up to be. That’s why people are so cynical about it...It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for.”
I always thought that love had to be this emotional roller coaster of passion and tumult and fits and rages and making up and dividing and making up again. I didn’t know that love could be quiet and beautiful and utterly, utterly serene. That it could sneak in when you least expected it and fill your world with a completely new vision. That it could pack more power in its silence than in any roller coaster.
Yes, my friends, it IS everything it’s cracked up to be.
There is still a LOT of work to be done. With Kerry’s defeat and Bush’s second term (and our second sentence), I have realized that there is still a hell of a lot of work that needs to be done. Can 51% of this great land actually think that dunderhead is fit to serve in elected office of ANY kind?!? Conspiracy theories aside (and I do have a few), they’ve put the fuckwit in the White House again, and we’ve got four more years of war, joblessness, division, ever-growing national deficit, and ANYTHING but equal rights. And so it is OUR jobs to educate that 51%, to help them see outside of their boxes, and to break free of the sheep mentality. No person is a sheep, though 51% of Americans sure act like it.

I started doing my part just today. I wrote out checks to Amnesty International and the Human Rights Campaign. There are a ton of wonderful progressive organizations out there that are committed to getting us out of the Dark Ages. If you’re like me and spend most of your everyday life wrapped up in work and personal stuff, just donate a couple of dollars to the charity of your choice. It’s a great place to start, my friends. We each have a voice that can fill the Earth. Let’s make sure we use it.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

For John

In the movie “Short Cuts”, Annie Ross sings a bluesy anthem that I’ve always adored; it’s called “To Hell With Love”. I’ve identified with that title in more ways than I care to admit over the years. When I first started to accept my sexuality, I fell in love quite hard with a close friend, and I ended up getting my heart completely crushed. Though I will confess that I didn’t fall in love again till John, I put myself out there a number of times, baring my soul and vulnerability to a myriad of men, only to experience the same breaking defeat. Love, it seemed, was not for me. I would live my life alone, and, not to sound pathetic, I was okay with that.
I valued my independence and freedom. I couldn’t fathom the idea of sharing my bed and my breakfast table and the details of my life with another human being. The idea, quite frankly, disgusted me. I could keep my own schedule, do what I wanted, stretch out in bed, and fart at the breakfast table. This was my life, and I relished it. Sex ceased to be a priority for me long ago, and anyway, I did enough of that in my younger days to sate me for a lifetime. No, I was resigned, and somewhat looking forward to, a life of celibate independence. No man for me, thank you, I’m no one’s bitch.
And then life reached up and slapped me across the face. Once again, I was wrong.
I was indeed on my way to a life of celibacy, quite literally, after looking into a monastic position at a Buddhist retreat center in rural Massachusetts. One day, about a month or so before I was to head East to have a trial run at the retreat center, I checked out my profile status on Veggie Date, an online forum for vegans and vegetarians to meet. I hadn’t logged into Veggie Date for some time, and my membership was expired. But when I did a search of available gay men, I came across this guy named John in Boston. After reading his profile and seeing his adorable picture, I promptly renewed my Veggie Date membership and sent this mysterious John a letter of introduction.
And the rest is not only history, it is perhaps, I hope, my future as well.
This web site tells you all about John W Beck. But let me tell you about the John W Beck that I know and what he has brought to my life.
He is funny, sweet, warm, compassionate, and eats faster than any human being I’ve met in my entire life. He has taken this cynical, and somewhat dark, heart of mine and filled it with light and hope and the calm, calm winds of peace. He has the most endearing little quirks that melt my heart, and he has renewed my faith not only in love, marriage, and monogamous coupling, but in humankind as well. He treats me like a gentleman, with nothing but gentle words and gentle movements and gentle, vibrant energy emanating from his fingertips. He is sexy, beautiful, and altogether intoxicating. I am lucky to know him, and even luckier to love him.
If I ever doubted for a second my feelings for John, which would be understandable after my past relationships, I no longer do. When John and I were in our car accident last month, my first and only thought was of him. Indeed, as the car spun out of control and started to roll over, I kept saying only one word the entire time, “John, John, John, John....” It is my mantra, and, perhaps in some small way, it saved me.
And I knew we reached a new plateau in our relationship when, the last time I was in Boston, he farted at the breakfast table. God, I adore this man.
I don’t know what the future will hold for us, but I am optimistic. The last seven-plus months have been blissful, and I hope the rest of my days will be equally incredible. I hope he is always in my life. Come Spring, I will move to Boston, and I hope John and I will take things to a new level. Regardless, in this moment, which is really all any of us have, my heart is his. And, I think, it always will be.
Oh, and I noticed something today. My mother and I went out for pizza, and we both ordered those little individual pan-size pies. When I was finished with my entire pizza, I noticed my mom was still eating her first slice. Somewhere in Boston, I knew that John would be proud of me.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

Insurance Insurgent

Last month, on November 27, John was visiting me in good old Iowa and was kind enough to be my date for my friend Ellie’s wedding. The night before the nuptials, we had our first dusting of snow and sprinkling of freezing rain. It was just enough precipitation to blanket the bleak landscape in a thin layer of white stuff and pepper the roads with some occasional icy patches. And it was on one of these said icy patches that, en route to the wedding the following evening, I lost control of my truck and we started to spin. We twirled around the road, across the oncoming traffic (without hitting anyone, luckily), and into the opposite ditch, where we proceeded to roll two or three times before coming to a stop on the passenger side just a few feet from a set of railroad tracks. Miraculously, there were no injuries for either of us (not even a bump, bruise, or scratch) — thank heavens for seat belts and the good sense to utilize them.
After this very traumatic event, I felt a tiny bit of relief knowing that I was fully-insured and my vehicle and my well-being would be looked after. I mean, I pay significant insurance premiums every month for full coverage in case anything like this happens, so why should I worry? Am I right?
Umm....No. Not at all.
Insurance in this country, let’s face it, sucks donkey dick. It doesn’t matter how much you pay, what plan you get, or who sponsors it; unless you are wealthy, you just can’t afford to pay the bill should something happen. I find it a perfect display of our country’s priorities when it is a requirement by law to have auto insurance, but having health insurance is optional. I hope some fat cat insurance company CEO is resting comfortably at night knowing that millions of innocent men, women, and children can’t afford to have a head cold, let alone – god forbid – cancer or pneumonia...but they HAVE to have the Buick Skylark insured in case of a fender bender, or they’ll go to the big house. Hmm.
Immediately after the accident, I called my insurance company and gave them all the pertinent information. The next day, a very straightforward, brusque woman named Linda called me to take my “statement”. My statement. I felt like I was being accused of a felony, that any second they would storm in with an unflattering and way-too-bright spotlight and berate me with strategically-mapped-out questions designed to trip me up. Well, I wasn’t far off. Linda, in her blunt, “I’m-all-bidness” voice, DID toss some strategically-mapped-out inquiries my way, but gratefully there was no spotlight or hairy-armed guards with arsenals. After the interrogation, er...interview, which REALLY made me feel like a criminal, Linda told me she would go out and “assess the vehicle” and get back to me in a couple of days. “I think we’re looking at a total loss here,” she said. It didn’t sound promising.
Either way, I still at this point was not overly concerned. If the truck was fixable, then I would be okay. I had insurance. If the truck was totaled, that too was fine. It would be a lot less money I had to pay out in insurance and car payments every month; I could just borrow my parents’ extra vehicle till I moved to Boston in the spring (where I’m not crazy about the idea of having a car in the first place).
The next day, Linda decided she wanted one estimate, just to make sure the truck was a total loss. Once again, I was nonplused. And then, the next Friday, the phone call came. Even though the Blue Book value I found online priced my vehicle at $6500, Linda’s Blue Book value priced my vehicle at nearly double that. The estimate came to only (only!) $8200, and so, the news arrived that my truck would be repaired.
Well that’s cool, I thought, at least I’ll have my vehicle back and in good shape, and if I change my mind about taking it to Boston, I’ll have it to take. And it will just cost me my deductible, $500, which, while a lot of money for me, was somewhat do-able.
Umm....No. Not at all.
I got my check yesterday for $6672. Let me give you that figure again. $6672. The truck is going to cost $8200 to get fixed, and the insurance people cut me a check for $6672? Surely this must be some error; there will be a clerk in the check-issuing department who will be feeling very silly come Monday morning.
And then I realized it. I am stuck paying the $1500 difference. The few-hundred-dollar deductible, which is itself way too much for me to pay, has now been consolidated with all these other costs that appeared on the estimate. Costs that the insurance freakos feel were “upkeep issues” that were affecting the truck before the accident, thereby exonerating them of any liability. Yes, I suppose my completely-destroyed and smashed in front tire and busted spindle could’ve just happened as I was parked at the Piggly-Wiggly. Or my window just could’ve smashed itself out for the hell of it, already weak and worn-down from my various in-car sing-alongs with Bette Midler. Yes, yes, I see it all so clearly now!
Hmm. I think not, my friends.
Whether it’s $1500 or $8200, it doesn’t matter a flying fuck to me, they’d both take me a hell of a lot of time to pay off. I shudder to think what could’ve happened had John or I been injured even the slightest in this accident. As I lay in a coma missing both my eyes and peeing though my left nostril, would Linda have appeared with a baseball bat demanding I owe her $1500 or my truck would be turned into a Rubik’s cube? I must admit, I honestly don’t know. And on top of all of that, I’d be double-screwed because I’m sure my measly health insurance wouldn’t cover my coma, and so, after I learned how to hold a ball in my hand again, the hospital would be demanding thousands of dollars as well.
And I tell you what the icing on the cake will be: when the car insurance people call and tell me they’re cancelling my policy.
I’m waiting for their call sometime this week.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be with you.

Drag Queen

Sixteen days ago, on November 21, 2004, I quit smoking. Yes, my friends, it’s true: Yours Truly extinguished his last smokey treat with no regrets. So far, it has been surprisingly easy, but I’ve learned many lessons from the past and my previous attempts at quitting.
Before I go into what’s working for me, let me give you a brief history of my smoking. I started eleven years ago, at the ripe old age of 16. I hung out with these two trampy girls at the time, and we used to go for a long drive out into the country to a place called “The Bridge”. “The Bridge” is, of course, a bridge. It’s located on a deserted stretch of road in rural Iowa, tucked between what passes in these parts as two generously rolling hills. It was the perfect place to hide from view and smoke. And on particularly hot, windless days, the cow pasture next door provided a pleasant aroma to cover the cigarette smoke that hung in the air like smog. In those early days of smoking, we hated everything about it: the taste, the smell, the sensation, the feeling it left us with. And who the hell knows why any of us start smoking; I’ve stopped analyzing that one years ago.
My dad smoked, and his dad smoked, all the way back to Adam. My dad was a three-pack-a-day Marlboro guy who puffed away for damn near 40 years before quitting cold turkey in 1992, just before his fiftieth birthday. All throughout my childhood, I remember him with a cigarette (and my grandfather too). My brother and I hated it, always swishing the smoke away and proclaiming our disgustedness with Dad’s filthy habit. But secretly, I think I wanted to know what that little stick of tobacco actually tasted like, and the year after Dad quit, I started.
It was all secretive at first, and then when I moved to California for college, it gradually became more regular. The first couple of visits home, I didn’t smoke. Then I couldn’t NOT smoke. I had been effectively reeled in, and to my family’s horror, I was now a full-fledged smoker.
Those things that I hated about smoking (the taste, the smell, the feeling), I now loved. That first drag off a smoke.... Even as I type this as a non-smoker, I can honestly say there ain’t nothin’ like it. The smell of blue tobacco smoke lazily spiraling from the end of a lit cigarette and filling the air.... Many ex-smokers will attest that they still loooove the smell of cigarette smoke, and I am no different. I still go to the smoking break room at work and hang out with all the smokers (cuz, let’s face it, smokers have a bond that non-smokers do not) and relish the smoke-filled air. And I also find the scent of cigarette smoke on someone’s clothes, be they male or female, intensely erotic. And the feeling, ah the feeling of smoke filling your lungs first thing in the morning with a cup of coffee in hand! That burn in the back of the throat.... For smokers, it’s heaven with every puff.
But even remembering these “good” parts about smoking, I am not tempted to start again. Because even though these are the happier memories, there are tons of not-so-happy ones that far outweigh the pleasant ones. The constant cough, the loss of breath after climbing a staircase, the chest pains that I experienced the last three months of my smoking (and didn’t tell anyone for fear they would tell me to quit). The ever-increasing price of cigarettes. The ex-communication by the non-smoking public. The list goes on.
Which brings me to this subject of self-proclaimed “ex-communication by non-smokers”. While I understand people have allergies and many just hate the smell, smokers in America are often relegated to the back of the bus. Smoking areas are nearly always outside, even in sub-zero temperatures, and anywhere where there are a majority of non-smokers around, the smoker is made to look like a freak. Yes, on this note, I still side with the smoker. It is, after all, my body and my choice what I do with it. And I’m sorry, I just don’t buy a lot of this secondhand smoke research; there are just too many fluctuating numbers and roller-coaster statistics out there. So let me quote one I came across: according to the Centers for Disease Control, the effects of inhaling secondhand smoke are almost nonexistent. Unless you live in close quarters with someone who chain smokes continually, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, at the end of one calendar year, you - the - non-smoker - will have inhaled the equivalent of two cigarettes. Two. That’s all. But I am getting way off course here, my point is simply that non-smokers shouldn’t fear smokers or their smoke in the least. However, since we live in a country of terror alerts (is today a Red or an Orange Level?), Mad Cows (hey, there’s a good reason not to eat meat!), and far-from-equal rights for its citizens (come on, are they THAT scared of gay people that the Constitution needs to be amended?) – not to mention a cowardly dictator/president who initiates ALL these fears – it is of course understandable that cigarette smoke would frighten most non-smokers.
So let me tell you what is helping me quit. The first thing I did was read Allen Carr’s book “Easy Way to Stop Smoking”. This book was incredible and really opened my eyes to EXACTLY what I was doing to myself with each of those cigarettes. The second thing I did was the Smoke Away system, I’m sure you’ve seen the ads on TV. It’s all-natural vitamins, and it really does help. And the third thing, which I am going to do very soon here and am quite excited about, is acupuncture. I’ve tried everything from the patches to the gum to the pills to hypnosis (twice), so I figure that acupuncture certainly couldn’t hinder my progress. I’ll let you know how it goes.
In closing, I just want to say this. Whether or not you choose to smoke is your business. Go easy on one another. Don’t lose touch with your fellow man just because he likes to toke off a tobacco stick. I am now a recovering non-smoker and almost all of my friends still smoke. And somewhere in that break room, beneath the mushroom cloud of smoke, you’ll find me sitting happily, chewing gum, and conversing with the smokers just like I was one of them.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

As the Bodice Rips

My Love Affair With Historical Romance Novels

My romance with historical romances began years ago, in junior high school. At the weekly trip to the library, everyone else was checking out the latest Stephen King or Dean R Koontz novels, but not me. I was tucked behind the stacks, perusing the cheap, dog-eared, worn-out paperbacks heralded with operatic paintings of women and men from days gone by, in clandestine positions, complete with massive, heaving breasts bursting out of a bodice and rock-hard pecs glistening in the moonlight. Ah yes, my friends, the historical romance novel. They were among the first things to fuel my homoerotic fantasies; in fact, they still do. I mean, isn’t there something cool about buying a book NOT based upon literary merit, content, reviews, awards, etc., but upon how hot the guy on the cover is?
Check out my bookshelves and you will find the collection of a word-devouring, appreciative reader. Erica Jong, Milan Kundera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Toni Morrison, David Sedaris, Maya Angelou, Henry David Thoreau, Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, Elizabeth Wurtzel, the list goes on and on. But tucked on the bottom shelf you will find some perhaps lesser-known names. Johanna Lindsey, Jennifer Wilde (who was, in fact, a man writing under a female pseudonym), Patricia Hagan, Dorothy Garlock, Debbie Macomber, Christina Dair. Alas, historical romances are my dirty little secret. I will tell strangers on the street that I am a porn freak with an impressive collection, but I’ve only told a few about my obsession with historical romance novels.
Why is it that I feel so ashamed?
Perhaps it is because these books are marketed mostly to women. Okay, not mostly...ONLY to women. In fact, some of the romance publishers out there have even done away completely with the female model on the cover of their books. Instead, it is just a nice book-length painting of the studly hero of the novel, usually shirtless and wearing either a loincloth, saber, feathered pirate’s hat, lasso, or some combination thereof. And so, in the name of making historical romances a totally masturbatory experience for readers, I wholly support this publishing endeavor.
Perhaps it is because that while many of these books are well-written and certainly well-researched, they have never achieved the greatness or notoriety of a book by, say, Boris Pasternak or Margaret Mitchell. Let’s face it, all historical romances are basically the same story with slight variations. There is the Old West story: rowdy cowboy tamed by shy schoolmarm with a past; or vice versa: hell-raisin’ spitfire tames quiet cowboy with a past. There is the Indian story (in historical romances, it’s still “Indian” and not “Native American”): strong, silent Indian with high standing in the tribe and sassy, sexy White Chick who is his captive. The romances set in Medieval Times are much the same: handsome, proud nobleman falls for Cockney, low-class servant; or: beautiful, regal member of [lesser] royalty falls for hairy, unrefined stableboy. Regardless of the time period, the stories are eternally alike. Two sexy, strong-willed young people, one with a Dangerous and/or Scandalous Past, come together to spar and make googly eyes and spar and fuck and spar and get married and live happily ever after.
Perhaps it is because that I once found a web site where you could enter your zip code, and the site would tell you how advertisers and manufactures view your area from a marketing prospective. When I entered the zip code for my town here in Iowa, the top two statistics were this: “Most likely to buy a historical romance novel” and “Most likely to own a gun”. Hmm. I DO live in Iowa, but I’m really not a hillbilly. I swear. Am I ashamed that if I buy a historical romance someone in The Big City will track me down and call me a hick?
Well....that’s just a chance I’m willing to take. For the most part, I read very literal, serious, acclaimed books. I pepper my reading with historical romances. They serve to lighten the mood and take my mind off of things, especially when my reading tastes get too serious. They are dependable, one of the few things in the world that are dependable anymore. I know how they will begin, evolve, and end. Nothing jumps out to shock or startle me, or make me sick or scream. No, romances are pretty predictable, and that’s the way I like them. They prescribe to that old theory that good guys win, bad guys lose, and the guy always gets the girl. The endings are always, always happy. In a world of so few happy endings, I guess I always seem to go to the one place where I know there were ALWAYS be a happy ending....the historical romance novel.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

The Marriage Proposal

A bride – or two – in white. A groom – or two – in tails. A kid throwing rose petals and the unmistakable snoozefest of lovely romantic pipe organ muzak. Ah, the American wedding! A year and a half ago, this scene would cause me to vomit instantly, or at the very least go charging from the building.
I didn’t “do” weddings; I didn’t “get” marriage. I mean, why on Earth would two people want to spend their ENTIRE lives together? That’s a frightening, outdated mode of thought. I felt we simply weren’t built to be eternally monogamous creatures. Look at the animal kingdom. Very few animals mate for life. One of those animals is the penguin, and it has also been proven that penguins only have one orgasm a year. Need I say more?
I also thought that marriage was a patriarchal, heterosexual institution that was archaic and even somewhat offensive. Who in their right minds would want to involve the government in their private love affair? I certainly don’t think – and this view hasn’t changed – that I need the government’s stamp of approval to call my love somehow “valid” or “legal”. I’m sorry, but only my heart can make those kinds of calls, and I want our moronic government no where near my heart, my private life, and the person I love. Marriage, I used to deduce, was for people permanently stuck in the Stone Ages.
Then there is the matter of the wedding. It’s always been passed off as a day to celebrate the love of the bride and groom. Well, that’s a bunch horseshit. You and I both know that the wedding is for the bride and the bride only....and ok, maybe for the bride’s mother too. I can’t tell you how many wedding receptions I’ve worked as a banquet server, and the place is decorated in pinks, purples, yellows, and all shades of eye shadow they stopped making in 1987.
You can’t tell me that the GROOM picked those colors out. Wouldn’t it be cool if the bride and groom actually did the appropriate thing and planned it together, and had, say, one more feminine hue and a complimentary masculine hue to accompany it? That would make the most sense, with marriage being a partnership and all, but then, sense seems to rarely play a part in a wedding. Everything from invitations (my personal favorite: a pink embossed piece of cardstock with the words “Today I Marry My Friend” emblazoned on it) to music (anyone who can work a country/western love song into their wedding ceremony is worthy of note here) to receptions (I once worked a “Cinderella Wedding” with a cake shaped like a castle and little [plastic] glass slippers filled with trail mix at every place setting) seem to defy any concept of sense. Or, at least GOOD sense.
But I digress. Eighteen months ago, I would’ve pooh-poohed the idea of marriage and weddings all the way to the stars and back. However, the last year and a half has proved educational and has served to turn me around a bit on my view of marriage. I have watched several couples I love, including my brother and his partner Joe, walk down the aisle. At first, I kept my pessimistic attitude and secretly thought, “Why the HELL would anyone put themselves through this?”. But then that icy wall around my heart began to crack a little, and I started seeing the appeal of both marriage in general – and the wedding itself.
Enter John. I must be honest here and tell you that he plays no small role in this. Until I met him, I couldn’t imagine spending a night...let alone a lifetime...with someone. He has shown me what it means to be a good partner, lover, confidant, and friend. I know he is someone I very well could spend the rest of my life with. I’ve never been so comfortable and happy with another human being.
Also playing a big role in all of this is, of course, politics. The issue of gay marriage is a hot one, and I certainly support anyone’s right to marry the person they love. I don’t know how anyone could want to deny two people in love the right to celebrate that love and get married. It truly shows the lack of compassion in a great deal of the American (and I use that term loosely to describe these people) people. There was some senile old farmer who wrote an editorial into the local paper here in Iowa saying how if gays are allowed to marry, then what’s to prevent him from marrying his beloved cat? I won’t even comment on that except to say one small thing: That old man is one sick fuck. I’m amazed he could actually WRITE.
Anyway, when I attended my brother’s wedding, I felt in some part of my brain that I had to be there for my people. And if I were to ever meet someone I wanted to marry, then I too owe it to my people to get married. Whether it’s legal or not, whether there’s anyone in attendance or not, whether anyone even KNOWS about it or not, it is my duty as a gay man to celebrate my love in that most classic of American traditions: the wedding/marriage.
A lot of the anti-gay marriage folks say that two people of the same gender getting married isn’t Christian. I’m not going to argue here (even though I would win), but I want to remind ALL of these people that marriage is not a sanctity reserved JUST for heterosexuals or JUST for Christians. All religions, including Satanism, have marriage ceremonies. For a country founded upon the concept of freedom of religion, we sure seem to forget that there is more than just Christianity out there.
But the best way for me to fight for my rights and the rights of my people is to get hitched when I meet Mr. Right (and I think I’ve already met him). It’s the ultimate display of love and commitment...and revolution.
And as Margaret Cho said, “Our revolution...is long overdue.”
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

The Timepiece of My Life

He is beautiful. He has the most poetic, soulful big brown eyes you’ve ever seen. His hair is chestnut brown, with streaks of coffee, mocha, jet, and even a little salt-and-pepper. His breath is a song, a sweet-scented, soothing lullaby. His name is Rupert, and he is the most amazing little man I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.
And Rupert is, of course, a dog.
Milan Kundera noted in The Unbearable Lightness of Being that “Dogs are the timepieces of our lives.” I concur, but Rupert Tuesday Saylor is so much more. He is not only my timepiece, he is also my heart, my serenity, and my undying light. He has made a father out of me and taught me the meaning of unconditional love. When the world is at its bleakest and all hope seems lost, the light in his eyes pulls me back from the ledge. Rupert has saved me on a number of occasions, both figuratively and literally, and he takes it all in stride, as if it’s no big deal, and asks for another doggie biscuit.
I first had the honor of meeting this pooch on a sunny Southern California afternoon. I had decided I wanted a dog, and I went from pound to pound, shelter to shelter, looking for the canine of my dreams. At my last stop, I walked down the row of kennels. All the dogs were barking and bounding up at me from behind their wrought iron gates. Each dogs’ individual kennel was lined with poop and food and overturned water dishes: utter chaos. But not Rupert’s. In the second to last kennel was my son. He sat upright, a bit aloof in the rear of the kennel as I walked by. His area was pristine: no poop, no pee, no food, just a perfectly upright half-full water dish. As I came into view, I could see his stump of a tail begin to vibrate with glee, but his reservation at this new person was obvious. When I crouched down and held out my hand through the cage, he got up and came to me without hesitation, stump a-thumpin’ the entire way. He rested his chin in my upturned palm and allowed me to scratch him. He then sat and offered me his paw through the bars in introduction. Please take me home, his eyes seemed to say, I will change your life.
But I was young and stupid and, while falling totally for him at first sight, I just couldn’t make a decision right then and there. He was by far the best dog I’d ever seen, and my heart already counted him as my own, but I just wanted to be sure. I would end up going back to the shelter three times before making my decision. After some paperwork, an interview, a screening process, and lots of socialization with my new counterpart, Rupert was mine. He had been found as a stray, wandering the streets of Los Angeles, covered in flies, malnourished, and abused. But his warmth toward me was immediate, and, after getting fixed at the shelter a few days later, I took him to his new home.
What kind of dog is Rupert?, you may be asking. Well, to be honest, no one really knows. He has a lot of Beagle and German Shorthaired Pointer...and more than likely a whole slew of other breeds mixed in as well. He looks like a 70-lb. Beagle. He has the coloring, eyes, ears, nose, and temperament of a Beagle, with the body and energy of a Pointer. Whatever he is, he’s beautiful, and he’s my baby boy.
Rupert has been with me through several cross-country moves and has settled into life with my parents, his Grandma and Grandpa, who adore him as much as I do and spoil him like a grandchild. They have a plaque hanging in their kitchen that says, “We don’t have grandchildren. We have a granddog.” I’ve tried to take Rupert with me when I’ve moved the last couple of times, but he just can’t adjust. He’s used to life with his Grammy and Grampy, and not only does he enrich their lives, but they enrich his as well. I’m still his Daddy and always will be, but I have had to do the noble thing and step aside. Rupert’s happiness is all that matters. But jeez, sometimes being an adult and making grown-up decisions really bites the big one.
Luckily, I am home with my folks and Rupert for a few months while I save up money to move to Boston, so I get to spend a lot of time with my wonderful son. I’ve seen a lot of growth in him in the seven plus years I’ve had him. He used to sleep beside me every night, but he refuses to even go near the bedroom now. He enjoys stretching out on the couch instead. I suppose that, like humans, dogs also grow more independent the older they get. And gone are the days of licking the carpet and getting random boners (even after he was fixed, Rupert still got excited). But he still enjoys the simple pleasures of a plush squeaky toy, preferably a duck (he’s always hated those rubber toys), the taste of a doggie biscuit, and the release of an occasional belch or the room-clearing fart. God, I love that dog!
I think that dogs are the smartest, most brilliant creatures on Earth, far surpassing even we mere humans. I think the secrets of the Universe, the cures for diseases, the hope of peace and bliss, all lie behind a dog’s eyes. The catch is that they were not given a human voice with which to speak. If they could talk, we would live in Paradise every day. There would be no war, no illness, no senseless acts of violence or stupidity.
The dogs would see to it.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

Roger & Me

I first met Roger five years ago, when he and I started work on the same day. He was 18, I was 22. Somehow our lives, so radically different, had led us to this restaurant in Northern Iowa, where we would wait tables, quit, and return again and again for the next several years of our lives. He was finally a legal adult after years of being skipped from foster home to foster home; I was back from California after a drink- and drug-crazed stretch in Los Angeles. I didn’t think this new job would be the one for me; I was sure I would hate it and would not fit in.
I was wrong.
My initial impression upon meeting Roger was “Dayummmm...he’s HOT!”, and I desperately tried to find a signal on my gaydar screen (Alas, there would be none). A few minutes later, I heard him telling another server that his girlfriend, Danielle, worked at this restaurant also, and she was a hostess. Subsequently, I found out Danielle was only 13, and she and Roger were expecting a baby.
When you hear information like this, it is of course impossible not to judge. Not knowing either one of these people, I made my own silent evaluations. Babies having babies, immaturity, abortion, that sort of thing. And I was less-than-thrilled to meet Danielle, the red-headed temptress who got to have sex with this big hunk o’ man.
OK, so I was wrong. REALLY wrong.
The first time I met Danielle, I fell madly in love with her and it has yet to let up. Indeed, her hair is red, but that is the only comparison I can draw between the vixen of my initial imaginings and the angel that is the real deal. She truly is an angel, ethereal in her beauty and possessing something truly other-worldly. Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’d never met such a mature, confident, pure-hearted, level-headed young person. She’d made a decision to have the baby, and stay with Roger, and that was that. As I’ve gotten to know her better over the years, I know that when Danielle makes up her mind (as with all the women in her family), don’t fuck with her.
Roger and I, being the “newbies” at this job, got to be fast friends, which was odd for me since I rarely – if ever – had straight male friends. ANY male friends, in fact. We settled into our positions there and into a comfortable workplace friendship. The lust I had felt at our first meeting quickly dissipated; we often talked of the raunchiest of subjects (pooping being a favorite). We reached a level of comfort completely foreign to me in male friendships.
Time went on, and Roger moved up to management fairly quickly. Danielle had the baby in June of 2000, after a lot of complications and some really big scares for everyone involved. But Christian came into the world happy and healthy, and not long after came bounding into my life.
Now, anyone who reads this column is probably aware of my feelings for children. Kids just aren’t my bag. They’re fine, they’re great, I just don’t wanna have anything to do with them. But the first time I saw Christian, my heart was a pile of kosher gelatin in his fat li’l baby palm. I was head-over-heels for him with one look. Never before (or since) in my life had a child actually CRIED to be held by me. He’d lift up his little Buddha arms and cry out for me. After that, Christian and I were the best of friends.
Just before Christian’s first birthday, Roger and Danielle asked me to be his godfather. I was, of course, thrilled. I have never received such a wonderful gift. I myself will never be a father or have children of my own, but Roger and Danielle blessed me with the gift of a godchild. I am forever grateful to them, and to Christian, the little man who turned my heart around.
Over the next few years, I would move to California on more than one occasion...and always return to Iowa and this restaurant. Roger would also quit, for school and other work gigs, and he too would always return to Iowa and this restaurant. Our lives, it seems, had grown intertwined.
In 2001, Roger joined the Army National Guard, in order to get financial help to go back to school to study medicine. It was, he knew, a fragile time for our country and our world, but we never imagined anything would come of it.
Roger and Danielle married last August, just after Danielle’s 18th birthday. I was asked to be a groomsman, and I proudly stood beside my friend and watched him marry the girl of his (our?) dreams. Christian was ring-bearer. Roger had just returned from Basic Training, with a freshly-shorn head and beefed-up bod, and I had just returned from yet another stint in California, and strangely enough, I too now sported a shaved head and had gained some poundage.
We picked up where we had left off, and the group of us continued our lives. After a year in Iowa City for school, Roger, Danielle, and Christian returned to Northern Iowa. Roger and Danielle started back at our restaurant again, where I too had recently restarted after a hellish stint at a financial services job. Danielle had transferred to a local college, and Roger was looking to save up some money before going back to school himself. He still did his drill weekends for the Guard, and the three of us were working together again, just like old times. Funny how things come full circle.
Just a few months ago, Roger got a management position at our restaurant. He was to be our new full-time manager. After just a few days on the job, the presidential elections of last week rolled around. We, of course, cast our votes for Kerry, and prayed for an end to the madness that was governing this nation and this world. Our hopes were apparently not shared by the majority of our fellow Americans.
Less than fifteen minutes after Kerry conceded and Bush knew he would be president for another term, thousands of U.S. troops were called up to serve in Iraq...including Roger’s unit. He shipped out yesterday for his training. It came as a blow to all of us, and we were understandably angry. The vengeful part of me (and I’m sure a few others too) wanted every Republican who voted for Bush, including those I work with who are amongst my circle of friends, to feel some amount of responsibility in Roger being called up. A young man with a new wife and wonderful son, a guy in the prime of his life, planning his future, who worked for everything he ever got and hadn’t been handed anything in his life...it simply wasn’t fair that he should have to go.
I could tell you all the obvious stuff. How Roger and Danielle defied all the statistics and have stayed together, more in love now than the day they met. How Roger is a stand-up guy and has always provided for his family, despite having no father in his own life and not a lot of role models. How Roger, like so many underprivileged young people, was seduced by the money offered by the military in order to go to school.
But I will tell you this. I think of Roger as a brother. He is one of my best friends, indeed my only male friend, and I think he represents the best of what this country has in its youth. If all young people are as strong, assured, and dedicated as Roger, then this world will undoubtedly fall into skilled, capable hands. It kills me that he has to leave, that he has to serve in the Middle East, under a president/dictator who has never worked for a fucking thing in his life and has no concept of what war really is, that Roger must put himself in harm’s way for senseless reasons and an inept governing body.
I hold him in my heart and in my prayers. I ask that you do the same. I want Roger, my brother, my friend, my comrade, back home with his family as soon as possible.
Godspeed, dear Roger.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

“I Hate People”

So says the pin John bought for me during my trip to Boston last week, after my incessant bitching about working with the public (see last week’s article Tips & Ass) and the seemingly endless ignorance of our government and many voters. I know, of course, that this pin was a joke and meant totally in jest, and I didn’t take it seriously at all. However, it did raise a very important moral question for me. Do I REALLY hate people?
And the conclusion I have come to is a resounding “NO.” I do not hate people at all. In fact, I think the reason I am so hard on people much of the time is that I adore humankind. Let me go into a bit more detail about this. If I hated people, I just wouldn’t give a shit; it would be reflected in an I-don’t-care attitude toward my job (and hence, the public I work with so closely) and my views of the world. But I DO care. Greatly. And that is reason I take things so personally, the fact that I see the absolute potential of my fellow man. I want all beings, including myself, to reach their full potential and be as good, as compassionate, and as respectful as is humanly possible. If I truly hated people, I would fester with an “Oh well, that’s just people!” kind of mentality. But since I do love people, deep down, I want to see us all continue to evolve and progress as one people.
Being a Buddhist, this issue is one of deep introspection and searching for me. Especially in a time of war, in a time of indecision, in a time of bad government and bad choices, in a time of daily massive human rights abuses, in a time of general turmoil. I meditate daily, trying to find that place of nothingness and calm, and thus, meaning and peace. Peace begins at home, I know, with each of us. And meaning only comes when the mind is empty and open. Openness. That is undoubtedly one of the most important tools we as a human race can possess.
So the question remains, How exactly do we deal with people? As the Buddha said, “With gentleness overcome anger. With generosity overcome meanness. With truth overcome deceit.” That is perhaps the best piece of advice I’ve ever been given. Christianity calls it The Golden Rule, that “Do unto others” thing, and it is filled with an undeniable wisdom. Is it difficult? You bet your ass it is. But it is our own individual responsibility to work to make it so. It doesn’t happen easily, and most of the time (speaking for myself here), it doesn’t happen at all. Yet as long as we try, try, try....that is the first step to compassion. Ah, compassion! Compassion is what will save us, my friends.
Last week, on my first day back on the job after a wonderful trip to Boston, I was feeling less than up-to-par. My mind was still on holiday, it seems. But I waited on my tables with my usual passion (THAT I do possess in great quantity), yet the words of last week’s article were still ringing in my ears. Writing that article was one of the most cathartic experiences of my life, and it felt amazing to let all that “stuff” out. Anyhow, I waited on a table of five people: a 30-something couple, their two very young children, and their baby. They were all very friendly, and the children were especially well-behaved (“please” and “thank you” were staples of their vocabulary, surely a sign of excellent parenting). When this family left, they gave me a 40% tip and written on their receipt was this message to me, “You made our night. Thank you for the excellent service. May the Lord richly bless you. Keep up the great work.” This note, the likes of which I’ve never before received, brought tears to my eyes. This simple gesture helped renew my faith in the human race. I doubt those fine folks will ever read this article, but if they do, I want them to know how much Hope they’ve given me and say a very heartfelt “Thank you!”.
All of the Buddhist teachers I’ve ever worked with also have this Hope for the world. They see the chaos that is this planet today, and they still somehow retain their Hope and Vision for something better. Perhaps that is what makes them such incredible teachers, they are able to impart that Hope to their students. I, for one, have gotten a lot of Hope from the Buddhist teachers I’ve been blessed enough to encounter. Yet we, as everyday citizens and laypeople of the world, can also impart this Hope to one another in much subtler lessons. Like the family of five I waited on, they all became my little Buddhas and showed me a much more compassionate side of my human family. We all have this power. The trick is to harness it, then release it, to as many people as possible. Therein lies the compassion, and thus, the power and ultimately, the peace.
November 2 is fast approaching. Please please please make sure you vote. Even if you’ve never voted before (my mother is 62 and this is the first years she’s ever voted!), it is perhaps more important now more than any other time in history that you vote. Of course I care who you vote for, but I care even more that you VOTE. And when you’re in the polling booth, do this one thing for your fellow human: vote for Hope. It is the greatest gift we can give one another.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

Tips & Ass

Restaurant Etiquette and How to Tip:

Advice From Someone Who Knows

As the late Ann Landers once wrote, “Many servers have more class than the people they serve.” Ann also had another gem with this one: “A person who is nice to you but rude to the waiter is not a nice person.” There is so much wisdom in those two sayings that I cannot even begin to tell you. But, alas, I will try.
I am a bright, intelligent, outgoing, educated person who has worked a variety of jobs and always goes back to waiting tables for a living. There is something undeniably rewarding about talking with people (the good ones anyway), connecting with them, and, in some small - almost insignificant - way, brightening their day a bit. It is that connection that most longtime servers, such as myself, keep going back for. Yet it seems that in these early years of a new millennium, it’s getting harder and harder to tie on that apron and paste on that smile. The restaurant-frequenting public – for lack of a better term – is starting to suck.
Over the years, I have learned a hell of a lot about waiting tables and even more about humanity. And so I am here to provide you a list of tips (if you will) and advice to enhance your next dining experience...without making your server run screaming for the hills....
1. 18-20% is the nationwide standard for an appropriate tip. I live in Iowa, where people think 10% is a generous tip and rarely tip more than that. Many, including my own mother, think 15% is standard. Neither of these is appropriate, or respectful, to someone who has given you even a modicum of decent service. 10% was appropriate during the Reagan years (WAKE UP, IOWA!), 15% was acceptable in the early and mid-nineties, and the last several years 18-20% has come into play. And you can expect this to keep rising. As long as it is perfectly legal for restaurants not to pay servers minimum wage (when taxes are taken out, I make a dollar an hour), and as long as there are good servers out there (and there are), you can expect the standard for tipping to steadily increase. I’ve heard of servers getting paychecks in the grand old amount of $0, so we depend on tips for our income. You realize this, I know you do, so please compensate us accordingly.
2. Your server does not cook your food. Since this is a hard one for most people to grasp, let me say it again: Your server does not cook your food. True, a good server should definitely give you updates on how your food is coming along if it is taking an unusually long time. But if it does take an unusually long time, it is not your server’s fault. Neither is it your server’s fault if something is prepared wrong. If your steak is not cooked right, your server had absolutely nothing to do with its preparation, and throwing a fit to your server is disrespectful and just plain mean. If you are the type to have a coronary over food that is not prepared to your standard, here is my advice: a) first and foremost, ask to speak to a manager; b) get over it, it’s one fucking meal out of your day and chances are if you speak to a manager, you won’t be paying for it anyway; and c) seek therapy, there are a hell of a lot of bigger issues in this world than whether or not your dead carcass was served medium or medium well.
My friend and co-worker Robin, who is one of the best servers I’ve ever worked with, once had an interesting experience that would’ve sent me straight out the door. A single female customer had to wait a long time for her food; the kitchen had apparently lost the ticket. Robin was very friendly and honest with the guest, explaining to her what happened, offering her a salad or another glass of wine on the house. The woman narrowed her eyes, looked at Robin, and said, exasperated, “I know this isn’t your fault. But this will affect your tip.” One more time, everybody now!!!: Your server does not cook your food.
3. Always tip. Even if the service was shitty, you still owe your server a tip of some kind. What most people fail to realize is that as servers, we pay taxes on everything we sell. So, essentially, we are paying you to come eat in our section of the restaurant. To balance this out, and to pay our rent, we expect a tip in return. If your service was bad, tip appropriately and speak to a manager; there is NEVER an excuse not to tip. Never. Ever. Ever. I mean, if someone comes to paint your house, and you don’t like their attitude, you still have to pay them. Am I right?
And you would be amazed by the amount of people in Iowa who just don’t tip. I have some semi-regulars who come in to my restaurant, and they have yet to leave me a cent. He is the town cop of one of the local po-dunk towns, and he comes in with his wife and screaming kids, and never tips me. But here’s the catch: they always pay with a check. If you are going to be monstrous and evil enough not to leave a tip, at least be smart about it. I have this guy’s home address, phone number, social security number, and driver’s license number. If I wasn’t such a nice guy, I could destroy his identity. Same with credit cards. If you are not going to tip, remember that there are probably some servers who aren’t as nice as me and could go for a nice little shopping spree online with your credit card numbers. Come on people, use common sense.
4. Separate checks are a pain in the ass. I’ll keep this one short, sweet, and very very blunt. If you are too stupid to do simple math and divide a number in 2 (or 3 or 4 or 5), or you can’t perform easy addition, then you simply do not have the right to go out to eat. It’s that simple.
5. Your server is not a nanny, babysitter, clown, magician, or any combination thereof. If you insist on dining with a slew of screaming children, remember that it is not my job – or any server’s job – to warm up your bottle, tend to your children, read the menu to them, corral them, or keep them entertained. If you want a dining experience with your children that will keep them enthralled, may I recommend the fine folks at Chuck E.Cheese. They specialize in this sort of thing, and I’m sure they would welcome your business.
6. Do not go out to eat if you are not hungry (or if you are having a business meeting, job interview, etc.). This one, to the non-server-industry-initiated, may sound like common sense. But I can’t tell you how many times I’ve waited on people who declare upon greeting, “We’re not hungry, so we’re splitting half a sandwich.” Eh? Did I miss something? I liken this to going to the local IRS office “just for fun”, or to the proctologist “just because”. It makes no sense.
Also, if you are a businessperson having a meeting, conducting a job interview, etc., why not use that comfortable little space called Your Office? I rely on table turnover for my income, so when you sit in my section for my entire shift and conduct business (then leave a three dollar tip), it is totally, completely disrespectful. I would never show up at your job and just sprawl across your desk and hang out there for the entire workday. Please extend me the same courtesy.
I could, of course, go on for days, but I will stop here with one final word of advice, and perhaps the most important. Be respectful. If someone says hello to you and asks how you are doing, RESPOND. You would be shocked at how many people ignore these polite, civil greetings that most upright mammals perform on a daily basis.
I say: “Hi! How are you today?”
I oftentimes hear:
[grunt] “Coke.”
Try answering the questions as I pose them. That’s how communication works.
The golden rule of any society and nearly all religions dictate that you treat others with respect, and you in turn get respect. It’s really not a difficult concept, but I’m amazed on a daily basis how many people just don’t grasp it.
Am I bitter? You bet I am, and I have every right to be. But I will continue to wait tables and hang onto those few good people who are still out there, who know how to tip, how to communicate, how to dine, and most importantly, how to treat a fellow human being. Because, after all, no one is just a server.
Beneath the apron and the name tag lurks something radical and unknown to a lot of customers:
another human being.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

A Kindred Spirit:

Bitter Waitress (dot com)

Loving LaStreep

You can keep your Streisands and your Judies and your Chers and your Midlers (okay, so maybe not Bette – I do adore her). And you can also have your 20-year old ingenues, your daughters of Hollywood royalty, and your big-boobed one-hit wonders. Just give me the incandescent beauty and talent of Meryl Streep any day. Last week, Meryl won an Emmy for her astounding performances in several roles in the brilliant Angels in America. As I watched this graceful, elegant, and of course, immensely talented 55-year old mother of four take the stage, I was reminded of why Us magazine called her “The First Lady of American Cinema”. Indeed she is. She has more Oscar nominations than any other actor (13), has won twice, has given us some of modern film’s most memorable heroines, and still manages to stay out of the Hollywood limelight.
Not that Meryl hasn’t had her share of controversy. Katharine Hepburn despised Streep, saying that her acting was too mechanical and contrived. Even Meryl herself slung some mud at Madonna while the Evita film was in pre-production (“I can sing better than she can. If Madonna gets it, I'll rip her throat out!”). But such antics are indeed rare for LaStreep. Like any great actress, she prefers, it seems, to let her real voice and power come through in her performances.
Everyone knows Meryl’s biggies. Sophie’s Choice, of course. Undoubtedly one of the most powerful, wrenching, and downright brilliant performances ever put on celluloid. I still remember the first time I saw the infamous train scene. Staring into Meryl Streep’s eyes, I was there, in that moment, at Auschwitz, and my stomach tightened and I thought I would throw up. That’s the first time I realized what great acting could do.
There’s a slew of other incredible performances from this prolific period for Meryl in the late seventies through the mid-eighties. Kramer vs Kramer, The Deer Hunter, The French Lieutenant’s Woman, Silkwood, Out of Africa. (I still hear an echo in my ears from time to time: “I had a fahhhhhhhhhhm in Ahhhhhhhhfreeeekahhhhh, at za foot of za Ngong Hillz....”). But it’s Meryl’s quieter – okay, maybe not quieter per se, but certainly less-recognized – performances that I have found hold the true essence of this amazing woman.
Let’s first examine The Bridges of Madison County. This film came in the mid-nineties, when Meryl’s work seemed to taper off (in reality, she did just as many films in 90s as she did in the 80s). I don’t just have a soft spot for Bridges because I’m from Iowa; in fact, I didn’t really get into the book the film was based on at all. Neither, apparently, did Meryl. She said that while the book was fine, she didn’t find it a “spiritual experience”. But Clint Eastwood (who also played the principal male lead, Robert Kincaid), directing the film version, knew what he had when he cast Meryl after a worldwide hunt for Francesca Johnson, the lonely Iowa farm wife heroine of Bridges. Breaking away from the book, Eastwood and screenwriter Richard LaGravenese built the film around Francesca, creating an earthy, real framework from which to spin her tale (the book was told from Robert Kincaid’s point of view).
With that said, however, the true genius of the film is Meryl’s performance. It simply wouldn’t have worked (or at least, not as well) with any other actress in the role. But interestingly enough, the real power of her performance is not in a speech (though there are many stellar ones) or her conviction (flawless, of course); it lies in what is not said. It lies in Francesca’s movements. Her hand tucking back a stray wisp of hair, or smoothing her skirt, or clapping lightly in glee, or scratching her temple, or touching Eastwood’s body, or hitting his chest, or covering her mouth. In these slight gestures, Meryl conveys all the hope, all the desire, all the love, all the yearning of this lonely woman. The performance is nothing short of astonishing.
Another favorite Meryl of mine is Kate Gulden, in One True Thing. Kate is a loving, doting housewife to a seriously flawed college professor, mother to two grown children, could give Martha Stewart a serious run for her money, and is dying of cancer. In a lesser actress’s hands, this role easily would’ve fallen into the category of “Julia-Roberts-Coughing-Up-A-Lung-At-A-Theater-Near-You”, but Streep molds it into a work of art. Her Kate is no dying saint and nothing is candy-coated in what I think is one of Meryl’s more wrenching performances. There are rages and fits and screams and pain and tears...and a lot of hope and peace and connection as well. There is a scene in the city park at Christmas, during the lighting of the trees, when the townspeople get together and sing “Silent Night”. With close-ups of the Guldens, and Kate’s pale, ravaged face, it is enough to break your heart (and one of the most powerful in the film). Some parts of the movie are incredibly difficult to watch, so intense is this portrayal.
So, I am reminded again why I love LaStreep: When I watch her, I forget I’m watching her. When I watch Meg Ryan, I know I’m watching Meg Ryan. But when I’m watching a Meryl Streep film, Meryl Streep ceases to exist. It’s just Kate. Or Francesca. Or Sophie. Or Baroness Blixen. Or Lindy “Dingo took my baby!” Chamberlain. Or Suzanne Vale. Or Susan Orlean. Or Ethel Rosenberg. Or....
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.

Cell Phone Confessions

I have a confession to make....
I hate cell phones.
It’s not a mild dislike, really, or even a strong distaste; it is an abhorrence. When I am walking in the grocery store and hear a soccer mom on the phone with one of her offspring discussing which flavor of ice cream to get, or waiting on a table where the customer cannot even have the courtesy to get off the phone to speak to me before, during, or after the meal (not only disrespectful to me, but more so to the poor sap on the other end of the phone), my skin just crawls. That’s right, the wonderful world of cellular telephones has reached even these most remote parts of Iowa, where it’s not just big city folk (Des Moines, Minneapolis) who carry the credit card-sized beasts of technology, but also farmers, housewives, and gas station attendants. I just cannot understand for the life of me why anyone – except for maybe on-call doctors and brand new parents – would actually need one of these devices. Are we really that self-important that anyone must be able to reach us anytime, anywhere, any place, for any reason? Call me radical, but I actually like the idea of having one telephone planted firmly at home, either mounted on a wall or on a counter top, that doesn’t play “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” or “Oops I Did It Again” when it rings, and that has a slender cord coming out the base that attaches to a wall socket. Ah, the novelty!
And I get a little rush of satisfaction every time I walk into a vegetarian restaurant or a co-op, and there is a “No Cell Phone” sign posted on the front door. You know, the old “No Smoking” sign, except instead of a burning cigarette it’s a big monstrous cell phone with a wicked red slash through it. So surely I’m not the only one who feels this way.
Okay, since I’m being totally honest here, folks, it’s time for another confession....
I used to have a cell phone.
That’s right, yours truly once owned one of these contraptions I now blasphemize. In my own defense, though, it was a shared plan with my parents, the phone was free and I was living at home at the time, so I decided to take it. I never used it. Not a single time. And the only person who ever called me was my mother, who phoned to ask me things like how to shut the computer off or if vegans could eat cream cheese. And yes, even my mother has a cell phone and can maneuver it with relative ease – this from a woman who types the entire body of an email in the subject line.
I have noticed also in the last couple of years how my friends no longer have home phone numbers. They don’t even bother to set up land lines anymore. Everything is via the good ol’ cellie. My friend Lori talks to me with her cell phone’s headset on. Mind you, she doesn’t call from the office or even her car; she calls from her couch on a Sunday afternoon in between trips to the laundry room. My friend Jes has lived in Iowa for a year now, but the only way to reach her is to call a cell phone number in Arizona. Even my hippie friend Caety has fallen under the cellular spell; she takes a toke and voice-activates my phone number.
So then I got to thinking. Perhaps I’m being too hard on all these cell phonies. There’s got to be an advantage somewhere. After searching for some reason, I came up with the idea that perhaps having a phone on you at all times makes you somehow safer than the rest of the population. I mean, if you are being attacked or car jacked or stranded in a blizzard, it would be nice to be able to call for help right away. Okay. So there it is. The one sensible reason for having a cell phone.
But is it really so sensible? All that extra cost, not to mention the annoyance of those ring tunes, and you may never use it. I was talking to my dear friend Edith, who is happily cell phone-less, and she was stuck on a roadside after her car broke down in a snowstorm. She got out to walk to the nearest gas station, and as she got out of her car, a highway patrolman pulled up and said, “We’ve gotten half a dozen calls from people driving by. I’ve called for a towtruck.” So you see, even if you don’t have a cell phone, everyone else in the free world does, and they’ve got your back.
So if you are like me and cannot stomach the sight of a Nokia or a US Cellular or a Sprint PCS, I urge you to give the damn thing away. That’s right. Donate it to charity. I donated mine to a wonderful organization called Call To Protect. This program is designed to help battered women get assistance immediately should they need it (a wonderful use for that cell phone the rest of us carry to learn about our girlfriend’s new ‘do or Brad Pitt’s new flick). If everyone were to donate their phone to Call To Protect, we could protect every woman in the world from domestic violence. To learn more, visit their web site at www.calltoprotect.org.
And that’s the world as I see it. May peace and joy be yours.