So Mom has these plump little awning-stripe pillows sitting in the chairs on our vast, kingdom-beholding portico

From the street they look soft and inviting. Up close they feel preternaturally puffy and slightly hard, not unlike a taxidermied warthog. I both love and hate them, just like with Justin Bieber and high-end vinyl siding. But they’re water-resistant and I’m sweating like a warthog running from a taxidermist, so here we are.

Anywho, my short little run was going so well at the two-mile turnaround that I decided to keep going and do my usual three-mile route, which through the magical mystery math of GPS running watches clocked in today at 3.06 miles. Which makes me .06 thinner and .06 hotter. Please alert Justin Bieber.

OK, first of all—FIRST! OF! ALL!—how come nobody told me about Seth Rudetsky’s “Deconstructs” series?

It’s so awesome it makes me weep and YOU ALL HAVE BEEN HIDING IT FROM ME. Rude.

Second of all, GET OUT OF MY HEAD, SETH! The stuff he talks about here—the historical trivia, the cultural references, the musical structures, the artistic themes—is all stuff I’ve been collecting and obsessing about and devouring in my head—and sharing with everyone who’ll listen—for decades. Each episode is a master class in cultural literacy and music theory and poetic construction, all told through the tiny details I thought I was the only person who noticed. Except Seth approaches it with far more musical training and worshipful obsession than I’ve ever mustered. This stuff is total catnip to me, and I’m about to disappear from public life for decades as I get caught up on—and memorize every detail of—every episode in this series.

Thirdly, SETH IS SO FREAKING ADORABLE. His rapid-fire train of thought, his bubbling excitement over everything he wants to share, his boundless knowledge, his goofy asides ... I’m now totally, 100% crushing on him.

Finally, THIS SONG. Pamela Myers’ clarion voice. Jonathan Tunick’s layered orchestrations. Stephen Sondheim’s boundless genius. I COULD NOT LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS VIDEO EVEN A TINY BIT MORE.

#TotallyCrushing

And not just because of that super-cool jacket.

I like my new gym

17 of my 593 new gym crushes are here this morning.

So ... burning man ...

Sometimes carefully laid plans for a weirdly cool Burning Man exhibit at the Renwick followed by a pilgrimage to see the Obama portraits at the National Portrait Gallery turn into a mostly-chatting-and-half-paying-attention-to-the-arty-stuff wander through the Renwick followed by three hours of catching up at (don’t laugh) TGI Friday’s (I SAID DON’T LAUGH) with a long-lost high-school friend who is now a hella-cool adult friend who will corroborate your story that your TGI Friday’s waitress was probably the shittiest waitress ever to work on a Friday or any other day and I seriously can’t remember the last time I’ve ever left a bad tip for anyone and I used to wait tables so I ALWAYS tip extremely generously and Gareth was my first-ever crush and I just had lunch with him but I’m burying this information deep in this blathery run-on sentence so you probably skipped over that part and saved us all a bottomless swamp of paralyzing awkwardness how ‘bout them Hawkeyes I’m on vacation puppies are cute THIS PART IS IN ALL CAPS anyway where was I oh yeah the Burning Man exhibit was truly cool and breathtaking and informative for those of us who until today had no earthly idea what the hell Burning Man is even about and I totally recommend it but we both heartily do NOT recommend the nearby TGI Friday’s (STOP IT WITH YOUR DERISIVE LAUGHING) especially the slimy booth that had a metal plate over the junction box where the sconce had mysteriously been removed Exhibit A: First Selfie and catching up with Gareth was truly an awesome way to end a truly awesome vacation even through we never got to the National Portrait Gallery but we did get a selfie in front of a nearby George Washington bust Exhibit B: Second Selfie don’t worry I told him a long time ago that he was my first-ever crush and his wife has reportedly come to terms with it and is totally not threatened by me OR IS SHE and he swears it’s not awkward anymore but let the record show HE WAS THE FIRST TO BRING IT UP TODAY BUT IT’S TOO LATE THAT SHIP HAS SAILED SO STOP MAKING IT WEIRD GARETH and the Obama portraits will have to wait until next summer but except for our gaspingly inept waitress today this trip has been pretty awesome.

Cake I like

1. I just left the 150th anniversary celebration/reunion of alumni of the University of Iowa’s Daily Iowan newspaper

2. Which has been and continues to be one of the country’s foremost influential and innovation-vanguard college newspapers
3. With AP accreditation and everything
4. As you might have inferred from my use of the word alumni in point 1, I worked there when I attended the University of Iowa
5. First as a copy editor
6. Which means proofreading and fact-checking nerd
7. Then as copy desk editor
8. Which means head proofreading and fact-checking nerd
9. I got paid to correct people’s grammar
10. And brutally curtail their garish use of excessive, showy punctuation
11. Grammar. Nerd. Power. Trip.
12. Though this probably explains why I’m single and living in my parents’ basement at the age of 50
13. And destined to die alone
14. I also wrote a weekly grammar column for the Daily Iowan
15. Seriously
16. It was called "That Grammar Guy"
17. The name was inspired by the TV show That Girl
18. I am not making this up
19. It used bizarre humor, recurring characters—including a cat named Xanthippe—and my own—hopefully funny—mnemonic devices to explain English grammar
20. Xanthippe was Socrates’ wife
21. But I used the name because I thought it was funny and not for its ties to any concept of learning
22. Mnemonic means "memory-aiding"
23. The m is silent
24. The first one, I mean
25. You’re welcome
26. Anyway ...
27. "That Grammar Guy" ran in the Daily Iowan every Monday for two years
28. I got fan mail
29. Mostly from foreign students who were struggling to learn our crazy-ass melting-pot language
30. I also reviewed theater, music and dance for the Daily Iowan
31. So my work there was both nerdy and gay
32. In my capacity as copy desk editor, I hired my brilliant and delightful friend Annette
33. I got to sit next to her at tonight’s dinner
34. Where it occurred to me that everyone in the room—and every career path we represented—was there based on an intricate genealogy of hiring decisions
35. Mind. Blown.
36. I also sat by my friend Tad, who is at least four years younger than I am
37. We didn’t work together at the DI, so I have no proof that he wasn’t at tonight’s dinner just for the pork and the really delicious ranch dressing
38. Speaking of, I didn’t notice until after I sat at our table that each seat had been pre-assigned a random dessert selection
39. I’m glad I accidentally sat in front of the chocolate cake, because it was insanely delicious
40. I noticed early on that Annette probably wasn’t going to finish hers, and I will go to my grave regretting that I did not ask her if I could have it if she was done ignoring its insane deliciousness
41. My running buddy Rob was also at our table but he left before the evening’s program was over so I barred him from being in our post-program group selfie
42. Long-lost friend Jamie wasn’t at our table but he came over to say hi after the program so he’s my new selfie buddy in place of Leavin’ Rob
43. The keynote speaker for the program was a man who hadn’t given me a job right after I’d graduated from college
44. EVEN THOUGH WE WERE BOTH IN THE ETERNAL BROTHERHOOD OF THE IOWAN THAT IS DAILY
45. But he told a story about marketing tampons to young Russian women tonight, so I guess it’s time I forgave and forgot
46. Tampons
47. Russian women
48. Yes, THAT old cliché
49. So there was this one guy who wrote editorials at the DI when I was there
50. Dark hair, lean, handsome, smart, old-money patrician air
51. Did I mention handsome?
52. This might surprise you given the dearth of hints I’ve provided leading up to this bombshell, but I had a huge crush on him
53. Especially on the days when he wore shorts
54. The crush was so eternal and all-consuming that I’ve completely forgotten his name by now
55. But obviously not his legs
56. This did not stop me, however, from hoping he’d be there tonight
57. And that we’d flirt awkwardly
58. Which is the only way I know how to
59. And then we’d totally make out
60. Oops. Did I just say that?
61. And then instead of sitting here typing this endless post, I’d be marrying him in the DI newsroom
62. With everyone at the reunion cheering for us
63. And fighting each other for exclusive coverage of our wedding
64. (We are all newspaper people, of course)
65. And, of course, in this scenario I’d also get Annette’s leftover cake
66. Plus everyone else’s
67. Because I’m one of the grooms and DON’T RUIN MY BIG DAY BY EATING ALL MY CAKE, PEOPLE
68. Sheesh
69. Journalism people, amirite?
70. Anyway, I didn’t see anyone there tonight who looked like him
71. But none of the guys had any legs out for inspection
72. So here I sit, writing this long-ass post instead
73. Which I’d kinda hoped would stretch to 150 points
74. Because it’s the 150th anniversary of the paper
75. But no

Flashback Friday: Monkrat Love Edition

This photo is from the last show I did with the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus. I can't remember the name of it--I'm sure it was a vaguely gay pun using monk-related words, and I'm sure one of my better-memoried fellow chorines will helpfully provide it for me in the comments--but it was an original story using modified lyrics of existing music about a budding gay romance in a monastery.

My online research tells me it was nine years ago--though my memory makes it feel more like 25--but the few indelible memories I have of the show--aside from getting to perform as always with 100 talented men and their big, beautiful, proudly gay voices--include struggling to to do simple chaînés in fisherman sandals that had enormously chunky Dr. Martens soles, struggling to remember the repetitive and cruelly endless lyrics to a rewritten "Veni, veni, venias" from Carl Orff's Carmina Burana, struggling to wear all 10,007 pounds of authentic fireman gear in my deus-ex-machina fireman role near the end of the show, and having a bit of a crush on one of the two lead monks. (Dear two lead monks from that show, if you happen to be reading this: I honestly have no memory of who you either of you were or which one of you I was secretly crushing on, so for the sake of no hurt feelings and/or no creepy lecherous objectification, please just assume I was and/or wasn't crushing specifically on you, depending on how you wish to remember the experience of that show. Thank you.)

WAIT! Bad Habits! I'm pretty sure the show was called Bad Habits. Because I'm certain it wasn't Monk-eying Around. Or Hold Me Cloister, because that would be about nuns. Or Gurrrrrrrlastery. No, it definitely wasn't Gurrrrrrrlastery. 

Take Back Your Monk, maybe?

Wow. Instagram sure has all my interests nailed after only a few weeks:

Random shirtless dudes being conspicuously muscular in the gym, answers to pressing questions about some girl’s curly leggo hair, a couple more random shirtless dudes but this time enjoying nature, ferocious dinosaurs outfitted in feathers and armor, a random shirtless dude who apparently knows how to fly, and my adorable and beloved husband Ethan Slater, who is currently starring on Broadway in the Spongebob musical. (Hi, Ethan! Call me.)

I say I want some resolutions

I will turn 50 in April (that’s not the actual resolution — it’s just the preamble to the resolution) and to celebrate I will run every race within 100 miles that’s been on my bucket list — plus any other races I discover that sound fun — all summer, culminating in a back-to-back three-day Disney 5K/10K/half marathon in November.

I won’t let up until I get a small group of runner friends to come to Disney World with me.

Plus any of their partners or spouses who want to cheer us on between days of helping us hobble through the parks.

You’ve been warned.

I will stop thinking PB&J and Diet Coke are an acceptable dinner.

I will stop lying to myself about giving up PB&J and Diet Coke for dinner.

I will stop launching scorched-earth Twitter fights with cousin-curious Trump supporters to the point that I make myself angry every time I open my Twitter notifications and discover that they still don’t know how to lose and shut up and go away like normal morons.

I will figure out how to stop my iPhone’s autocorrect from capitalizing Random (see? do you SEE what it’s Doing?) words in the middle of sentences.

I will figure out how to use the universal remote I bought for our TV.

I will use these accomplishments as the final credits I need to finally get my engineering degree.

I will start (or finish) reading all the books I bought (or received as gifts) in 2017 (or 2016) (or before that).

I will get the hint and cut my losses the first time someone shows me we don’t have much of a friendship and it’s never going to go anywhere.

I will bury my tinkle-colored bedroom walls in a deep, rich, handsome, masculine, adult color that I have yet to determine.

I will nag and complain without shame or reservation until we replace our pinky-beige, mousy-blah, suburban-horror Formica countertops with something that doesn’t make me want to hide under the sink and slowly die of mousy-blah ennui hastened by poisoning from any store-brand Formica cleanser we have stored there.

I will continue to cull and integrate and sell and give away the two-bedroom-apartment contents of my storage unit at least to the point that I can downsize to a smaller (cheaper!) storage unit.

I will not use my newfound storage-unit savings to binge on shoes.

Although one man’s “bingeing” is another man’s “stocking up.”

I will stop wasting time winding up the vacuum cleaner cord.

I will work harder (notice that I’m not giving myself any form of schedules or deadlines here) to post more frequent #ArtThrob essays about my favorite works of art.

I will stop accepting Facebook friend requests from strangers just because they’re cute.

I will stop accepting Facebook friend requests from strangers just because they’re cute.

I will stop accepting Facebook friend requests from strangers just because they’re cute.

I will finally join a gym. And maybe post some gym selfies once in a while to prove I’m going there.

I will avoid the New Year’s Day Rose Parade. And all other parades. Just like always. Because parades are stupid.

A few years ago I made a resolution to say or at the very least email or text something nice to somebody — longtime friend or random Internet stranger — every day. The resolution has slowly evolved to also include just texting or emailing a random hello to someone I haven’t talked to in a while. I’m sure I’ve missed a few days here and there, but overall it’s become a happy little daily habit that’s kept me in touch or even reconnected with people from every corner of my almost 50-year (ACK! How did that happen?) life (except for a handful of guys I’ve had longtime crushes on because I’d die inside whether they did or didn’t respond — and, sadly, at almost 50 years old (did I mention I’m almost 50?) I’m still kinda scared of guys I have high-school crushes on). Crippling insecurities aside, I’m renewing my daily-compliment-hello contract for yet another year. And I encourage all of you to consider trying something similar. Because it’s WAY cheaper than flowers. Or therapy. Happy 2018! :-)

Day 8 of hunting the elusive Alluring Calfed Dudebro

My frequent visits to his occasional gym habitat have paid off in rich abundance; he made his third appearance in just over a week this morning. My attempts to engage him via traditional tribal Gym Dudebro greeting rituals — faux-offhand-doesn’t-mean-anything-I-just-happened-to-be-looking-in-your-direction sub-second eye contact and near imperceptible head twitches of human acknowledgement — have not been returned, so my camouflage game is either totally on fleek or my presence is non-alarming or we-all-know-it’s-not-true-but-I-still-have-to-say-it-in-my-report-in-the-name-of-accurate-anthropology not interesting enough to notice.

Sigh.

Aside from his aloof courting rituals, he exhibits a sophisticated system of characteristics and behaviors for attracting and selecting a suitable mate. His ‘90s-small-town-high-school-wrestler-crenellated-bowl-cut bangs keep potential suitors cautiously at bay, while his habit of wiping his brow with the hem of his shirt reveals a corrugated curtain of abs that are as impossible to tear yourself away from as a Siren’s fabled song.

At this writing, he has retreated into the fogs of the storied Brigadoon from whence he came, but not without a final, beguiling presentation of his eponymous alluring calves to the sparse early-morning population of his occasional gym habitat.

I shall keep vigilant watch — always in super-cute shoes, just in case — for his next appearance.

Second day. More advanced.

So Mystery Secret Gym Boyfriend was at the gym again today with his Beguiling Masculine CalvesTM. I was with my trainer so it would have been weird to just walk away from my workout and abruptly introduce myself by saying something mortifying like “My name’s Jake. Are those your calves? I like bread.” Just like yesterday, he kept totally to himself during his workout, but my trainer had me doing legs and while I was on the quad extension machine he yelled from across the gym to ask if I was using the squat rack, which tells me three things: 1) He noticed I was doing legs. 2) He’s considerate and polite. 3) We should have a June wedding.

But there are three more things that have left me in a ponder: 1) I hadn’t been anywhere near the squat rack, which is so far from where I was doing quads that you need a passport and a Silkwood scrubdown to get to it. 2) There are two squat racks right next to each other and neither had weights loaded so his question had only one transparent purpose and that purpose was to ask me how many cats we should get when we move in together. 3) Maybe the wedding should be earlier than June. Like this Saturday.

Anyway, he was doing planks as I left the gym, and don’t nobody wanna have a conversation with a stranger while counting seconds during planks. So I’ll just have to wear a different marathon shirt to the gym tomorrow to impress him with my Total Jock JocknessTM. Which I totally didn’t spend time picking out this morning for that very purpose. That would just be bread.

FIND. HIM. FOR. ME. After my chin heals, of course.

When you’re late for work because you had to wait in the hallway for a bathroom with a shower at the gym — which is literally the first time that’s happened in the three years you’ve belonged there — and when a room finally opens up, out walks the impossibly handsome, impossibly-maybe-he'd-insist-on-being-boyfriends-if-he-knew-how-well-I-could-tap, impossibly-OH-MY-GOD mystery stranger who’d kept totally to himself all during his workout and since your gym is unfailingly Totally Mega HeterosexualTM you don’t make eye contact because you don’t want to seem clueless and creepy but he stares right at you with a huge smile and asks you how you’re doing and you squeakily say fine and ask him how he’s doing and his smile gets even bigger and he says — and you quote, even though you don’t know why you’re still clumsily talking in the second person at this point — “I’m having a great morning NOW ...” and then he disappears as magically as he’d appeared and you go to take your shower and because you’re totally distracted from scheduling your wedding cake tasting in your head you slice nine pounds of flesh off your chin while you’re shaving and then you post a picture of your massive chin scab and the inside of your nose on your blog but you don’t care because WHAT THE HELL DID HE MEAN BY THAT?

So many exciting things happened tonight:

The show sold out, our audience laughed and cheered and then laughed even more, I got my part in my hair combed perfectly straight, one of my secret straight crushes was in the audience and said hi to me afterward and I was able to not melt, and taking my lying-down selfie last night eliminated so many lines and wrinkles in my face that I did it again tonight just in case any secret straight crushes missed it last night and there was a chance I could yet convert them with my appearance of dewy youth tonight. Just let me know, fellas! My unhealthy obsession with you isn't going to ask itself on a date, and despite my lying-down millennial supermodel appearance, I'm not getting any younger.

I'm off to bed after another awesome day. By the time I wake up, the Chicago Marathon will be well underway or even over for many friends who are running it. Best of luck to all of you, and know that you're being cheered for from Iowa both during your highs and when you're pushing through your walls. I can't wait to hear your stories and see your pictures.

1:46 am

I hate it when the bottom drops out and I have a sudden-onset bipolar depressive episode that abruptly shuts down my night and robs me of the opportunity to spend time with my friends and cast members.

I hate it when I keep getting crushes on straight guys.

I hate it that the arrogance and corruption and immaturity and willful ignorance and daily manifestations of ineptitude coming from Trump and his vile, insular orbit are so pervasive and so ubiquitous and now so normalized that we all just roll our eyes after each bombshell and wait a day for the next bombshell, which somehow STILL doesn't land them all in prison.

I hate that I'll read this in the morning and be embarrassed that I posted it. But it's what's in my head, it's why I'm sitting at home in the dark right now instead of enjoying a late cast party, and it's my free therapy. And somehow I feel less bottled up and alone when I dump my thoughts and troubles out in the universe so I can sleep.

Good night.

Me and my Billy Elliot backup dancers

Only one of us is gay. But if the conversion currency is still toaster ovens, I'm probably gonna need lots of room on my kitchen counter.