So I get up at 6:00 and run my 20 miles Saturday morning. I survive, and I actually feel pretty good afterward. I stretch repeatedly throughout the day -- and the rest of the weekend for that matter. I proudly limp to an art showcase thingie on Saturday night with Bill and casually work my epic accomplishment into random conversations with people (most of whom are coworkers and many of whom are fellow marathoners) -- and I bask in suitable levels of praise all night.
I'm fine all day Sunday ... though I blow off the Bucktown 5K Sunday morning because -- DUH -- I'm in waaaay too much pain to run another three miles only 24 hours after pounding out 20. Besides, I could injure myself.
I go to the first chorus rehearsal of the season Sunday night and end up at Sidetrack with some friends afterward. Again, casually working the 20-mile thing into random conversations all night (hey, I earned every bit of praise I can squeeze out of this) and all the while treating my legs and hips with care so as not to aggravate any of the minor aches and pains that are never subtle about announcing their ever-present presence.
I tumble into bed and sleep a long, restful, profound slumber.
And when I wake up this morning, it's back. The searing pain in my right hip flexor that killed last year's marathon dreams almost exactly a year ago. It's back. It also hurts where my IT band connects to my outer hip. I have a VERY noticeable limp. It hurts to stand. It hurts to sit. It hurts to stretch.
It hurts to think I've lost yet another four-plus months of training to an injury I've been excruciatingly careful to avoid.
It hurts.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Running Verse
Six a.m.
Incessant buzzing.
Sweet sleep no more.
Yawn and stretch and try to come to life.
The inner soundtrack is already playing.
My longest training run
stretches out 20 miles ahead of me.
Part excitement. Part dread.
I'm up early to get it all done
before the late-morning heat
has a chance to melt my resolve.
New socks. New shoes.
I unlock my hamstrings
and gently ask my IT bands
to give me four hours
without any trouble.
I chug a Gatorade.
I choke down an energy bar.
Nothing like grit and chemicals
to start your day.
I fill my pockets with Power Gel.
Some ID. Just in case.
A twenty. Just in case.
SPF 45 on my nose and shoulders
and my goddamn love handles.
One last pee.
Perch my sunglasses on my head
for later.
And I'm out the door.
It's cooler than I'd anticipated.
A welcome surprise
that calms my apprehensions
and challenges me to win
the race against the thermometer.
My journey begins.
Mile 1.
There's new gravel along the path.
Sparkling white, even in the shade.
A blank canvas
upon which to tell the story
of my epic achievements today.
Assuming I make it.
I find my groove,
I settle into my zone
and start enjoying the run.
Daybreak. If you'd only believe
and let it shine, shine shine ...
I really wish I could control my inner playlist.
Mile 3.
The early hours
are for runners.
I encounter endless parades
of training groups
plodding silently along the path.
Bootcamps in an army of hope.
Mile 5.
Stop to pee.
The running association and the shoe store
have tables of free Gatorade along the path.
I gulp. I thank.
I keep going.
Mile 7.
The beach by Navy Pier
is set up for a swimming event.
Or perhaps a triathlon.
I don't stop to ask which.
Mile 9.
I've never run this far south.
Uncharted territory for me.
A straight stretch of path
between the lake and the Drive
shaded by beautiful,
abundant,
blessed
trees.
It occurs to me
these gently swaying trees
might make a good closing line
to a poem about running
that I could post on my blog.
Nah.
Half a mile later
I'm at the hill
behind the ice cream stand
by Shedd Aquarium
where my niece and nephew
and their cousins
rolled and giggled in the grass
just a few weeks earlier
while the adults sat by and talked,
reveling in the beauty of the day.
I smile and keep going.
Mile 10.
My turnaround.
It hasn't even gotten hot enough
to take my shirt off.
I'm gonna make it.
Mile 12.
Another free Gatorade station.
Another friendly hello from a volunteer.
Another reason to love Chicago.
Mile 14.
I don't know how Pheidippides—
dispatched to Athens in 490 B.C.
with news of the victory at Marathon—
made his run through the desert
without custom-fitted shoes,
Gatorade and BodyGlide.
But I'm thankful I didn't have to run
history's first marathon in his place.
Everything today is thoroughly modern!
(Finally! A show tune!)
Mile 16.
I take the optional path
through the park on the other side of the Drive.
Just another diversion
in the race to keep my mind
one step ahead
of the pains in my lower regions.
Mile 18.
The non-runners are up.
Regular people enjoing the lakefront trail.
Walking, biking, blading.
With no idea
what I'm about to accomplish.
Mile 20.
I round the bend along the gravel path
and gasp.
The lake stretches calm and peaceful to the horizon.
A rough stone wall separates us.
Serenity.
Eighth-mile home stretch.
Too sore to sprint,
too excited to let the moment go uncelebrated.
I gallop home
with all the grace
of a drunken camel.
Daybreak ...
I've musically come full-circle.
I cross my finish line.
Triumphant. Alone.
I did it.
In the breeze
the trees applaud quietly.
Incessant buzzing.
Sweet sleep no more.
Yawn and stretch and try to come to life.
The inner soundtrack is already playing.
My longest training run
stretches out 20 miles ahead of me.
Part excitement. Part dread.
I'm up early to get it all done
before the late-morning heat
has a chance to melt my resolve.
New socks. New shoes.
I unlock my hamstrings
and gently ask my IT bands
to give me four hours
without any trouble.
I chug a Gatorade.
I choke down an energy bar.
Nothing like grit and chemicals
to start your day.
I fill my pockets with Power Gel.
Some ID. Just in case.
A twenty. Just in case.
SPF 45 on my nose and shoulders
and my goddamn love handles.
One last pee.
Perch my sunglasses on my head
for later.
And I'm out the door.
It's cooler than I'd anticipated.
A welcome surprise
that calms my apprehensions
and challenges me to win
the race against the thermometer.
My journey begins.
Mile 1.
There's new gravel along the path.
Sparkling white, even in the shade.
A blank canvas
upon which to tell the story
of my epic achievements today.
Assuming I make it.
I find my groove,
I settle into my zone
and start enjoying the run.
Daybreak. If you'd only believe
and let it shine, shine shine ...
I really wish I could control my inner playlist.
Mile 3.
The early hours
are for runners.
I encounter endless parades
of training groups
plodding silently along the path.
Bootcamps in an army of hope.
Mile 5.
Stop to pee.
The running association and the shoe store
have tables of free Gatorade along the path.
I gulp. I thank.
I keep going.
Mile 7.
The beach by Navy Pier
is set up for a swimming event.
Or perhaps a triathlon.
I don't stop to ask which.
Mile 9.
I've never run this far south.
Uncharted territory for me.
A straight stretch of path
between the lake and the Drive
shaded by beautiful,
abundant,
blessed
trees.
It occurs to me
these gently swaying trees
might make a good closing line
to a poem about running
that I could post on my blog.
Nah.
Half a mile later
I'm at the hill
behind the ice cream stand
by Shedd Aquarium
where my niece and nephew
and their cousins
rolled and giggled in the grass
just a few weeks earlier
while the adults sat by and talked,
reveling in the beauty of the day.
I smile and keep going.
Mile 10.
My turnaround.
It hasn't even gotten hot enough
to take my shirt off.
I'm gonna make it.
Mile 12.
Another free Gatorade station.
Another friendly hello from a volunteer.
Another reason to love Chicago.
Mile 14.
I don't know how Pheidippides—
dispatched to Athens in 490 B.C.
with news of the victory at Marathon—
made his run through the desert
without custom-fitted shoes,
Gatorade and BodyGlide.
But I'm thankful I didn't have to run
history's first marathon in his place.
Everything today is thoroughly modern!
(Finally! A show tune!)
Mile 16.
I take the optional path
through the park on the other side of the Drive.
Just another diversion
in the race to keep my mind
one step ahead
of the pains in my lower regions.
Mile 18.
The non-runners are up.
Regular people enjoing the lakefront trail.
Walking, biking, blading.
With no idea
what I'm about to accomplish.
Mile 20.
I round the bend along the gravel path
and gasp.
The lake stretches calm and peaceful to the horizon.
A rough stone wall separates us.
Serenity.
Eighth-mile home stretch.
Too sore to sprint,
too excited to let the moment go uncelebrated.
I gallop home
with all the grace
of a drunken camel.
Daybreak ...
I've musically come full-circle.
I cross my finish line.
Triumphant. Alone.
I did it.
In the breeze
the trees applaud quietly.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Who from my labors rest
Last April, when I was a "Xanadu" dancer backing up a fabulous drag queen in the always spectacular Who's That Girl?, one of the other drag queen's choreographers saw me perform and asked me to be a backup dancer in the far more prestigious Miss Continental Pageant over Labor Day weekend.
Flattered beyond description and thrilled that I'd get to work with one of Chicago's leading dancer/choreographers, I of coursescreamed said yes and ran home to put it in my calendar.
The choreographer and I kept in touch over the summer, but as Labor Day approached I realized I'd never heard another word from him about doing the show. I finally called him last Tuesday to see what was up/when rehearsals were/etc. And he said: "Oh, your drag queen dropped out."
So were ya gonna call and tell me, buddy?
I was very disappointed and more than a little frustrated, but -- thinking strategically that I wouldn't want to alienate him and blow any future chances at doing more of this go-go boy stuff (which is TONS of fun) -- I played it cool and started making friendly small talk with him.
And after about the 10th time he turned our conversation to the topic of me fucking him, I realized that perhaps I was being strung along only for a sexual encounter that just wasn't going to happen. So I cordially ended our call and turned to face an ugly new reality: I'd kept my Labor Day weekend completely open for the show and now I had nothing to do. No parties. No barbecues. No weekend getaways. Nothing.
Sigh.
But then I started thinking about all the unfinished projects on my to-do list, and I decided to tackle them all. So -- big breath -- here's what I accomplished this weekend:
• I finally stenciled the bathroom, and it looks hella cool. The pattern is this swirls-and-squiggles thing that looks part Keith Haring and part Aztec and totally sweet marching joyfully around the tops of my walls.
• When I realized how wicked handsome the chocolate-brown-and-sparkly-silver stencil paint combination looked on my walls, I used it to repaint my new cubey candle shelves that Jeff made me. So now the bathroom has thematic continuity.
• I headed down to Fleet Feet on Sunday to get a new pair of running shoes so they'd be all broken in in time for the marathon. While I was there I also got padded running socks, BodyGlide to protect against unsightly chafing and a FREE moisture-wicking shirt available to every shoe-buying customer who's running the Chicago Marathon. I swear, the Fleet Feet staff is so friendly and so knowledgeable, I'd buy my crack and hookers there if they'd let me.
• Since I was in the neighborhood, I popped over to the new CB2 to look for a shelfy thing for my piano music. I not only found something I kinda liked, but I fell in love with the store's whole aesthetic. Now I desperately want to remodel my entire house in Post-Ironic Sturdy/Industrial Danish Modern -- mostly so I can casually set out troughs of fake grass and mean it.
• While I had my credit cards out, I wandered over to The Container Store so I could stare at all the crap organizers they sell and rub myself longingly. (Is their catalog little more than organizer porn or am I just writing this sentence so I could introduce the phrase organizer porn to the masses?)
• I didn't find any organizer stuff I wanted, but I did find some brushed steel box shelves on sale that would look super sweet in my bedroom. For the last three years I've had framed album covers of "A Chorus Line" and "Evita" and a framed poster of "Les Misérables" hanging over my bed, which has done very little to persuade the endless parade of muscular blond men with melon-like buttocks and thick, kissable lips in my bedroom that I'm not a bottom. I've been thinking for months that they (the show tune art, not the muscular blond men with melon-like buttocks and thick, kissable lips) needed to go, and these box shelves were exactly the kick in the bedpan that I needed to make that happen.
• When I got everything home, I realized I'd need more than a few empty box shelves to complete my over-the-bed transformation, so I dug through my box of unhung knickknacks and found a few other things to hang artfully with my shelves. I also found a bunch of crap I'd been saving that looked much better in the dumpster.
• I also decided to prime and paint the extra cubey candle shelves from the bathroom with silver stencil paint and incorporate them into my over-the-bed tableau. (I know -- it sounds like I'm hanging an awful lot over my bed and I'm clearly in danger ofhaving things fall on my head as I sleep overdecorating, but trust me: I'm an enthusiastic disciple of Less Is More. So it's gonna look cool. Play your cards right and you just may be invited over to see it. Plus, I have a pretty big bed, so there's plenty of room for visitors who compliment my decorating skills to romp between the sheets with me hanging things with judicious restraint.)
• While I had the primer out, I decided I should also prime and paint the ugly white conduit that was installed around my bedroom walls when the building got cable a couple years ago.
• While I had the furniture pulled out, I realized I really should thoroughly vacuum along the baseboards in the entire house. After all, it had been 3 1/2 years, and the dust buffaloes were starting to herd.
• And since the house was pulled apart in every direction, I also decided it was the perfect time to do a bunch of laundry as well and let it hang to dry from every available surface.
Whew. As of this writing, some things aren't totally finished -- that stencil paint takes longer to dry out than Rush Limbaugh -- but I slept a very satisfied sleep last night knowing that it didn't really matter that my crappy friends didn't invite me to any of their crappy Labor Day barbecues. Because I had important decorating things to do.
(OK, I did go to Jeremy's last-minute get-together on Sunday night and a nice last-minute dinner with Bob, David and Steve on Monday night. But the operative words here are "last-minute." I am a Boy of Destiny! I want my social life scheduled in advance!)
Flattered beyond description and thrilled that I'd get to work with one of Chicago's leading dancer/choreographers, I of course
The choreographer and I kept in touch over the summer, but as Labor Day approached I realized I'd never heard another word from him about doing the show. I finally called him last Tuesday to see what was up/when rehearsals were/etc. And he said: "Oh, your drag queen dropped out."
So were ya gonna call and tell me, buddy?
I was very disappointed and more than a little frustrated, but -- thinking strategically that I wouldn't want to alienate him and blow any future chances at doing more of this go-go boy stuff (which is TONS of fun) -- I played it cool and started making friendly small talk with him.
And after about the 10th time he turned our conversation to the topic of me fucking him, I realized that perhaps I was being strung along only for a sexual encounter that just wasn't going to happen. So I cordially ended our call and turned to face an ugly new reality: I'd kept my Labor Day weekend completely open for the show and now I had nothing to do. No parties. No barbecues. No weekend getaways. Nothing.
Sigh.
But then I started thinking about all the unfinished projects on my to-do list, and I decided to tackle them all. So -- big breath -- here's what I accomplished this weekend:
• I finally stenciled the bathroom, and it looks hella cool. The pattern is this swirls-and-squiggles thing that looks part Keith Haring and part Aztec and totally sweet marching joyfully around the tops of my walls.
• When I realized how wicked handsome the chocolate-brown-and-sparkly-silver stencil paint combination looked on my walls, I used it to repaint my new cubey candle shelves that Jeff made me. So now the bathroom has thematic continuity.
• I headed down to Fleet Feet on Sunday to get a new pair of running shoes so they'd be all broken in in time for the marathon. While I was there I also got padded running socks, BodyGlide to protect against unsightly chafing and a FREE moisture-wicking shirt available to every shoe-buying customer who's running the Chicago Marathon. I swear, the Fleet Feet staff is so friendly and so knowledgeable, I'd buy my crack and hookers there if they'd let me.
• Since I was in the neighborhood, I popped over to the new CB2 to look for a shelfy thing for my piano music. I not only found something I kinda liked, but I fell in love with the store's whole aesthetic. Now I desperately want to remodel my entire house in Post-Ironic Sturdy/Industrial Danish Modern -- mostly so I can casually set out troughs of fake grass and mean it.
• While I had my credit cards out, I wandered over to The Container Store so I could stare at all the crap organizers they sell and rub myself longingly. (Is their catalog little more than organizer porn or am I just writing this sentence so I could introduce the phrase organizer porn to the masses?)
• I didn't find any organizer stuff I wanted, but I did find some brushed steel box shelves on sale that would look super sweet in my bedroom. For the last three years I've had framed album covers of "A Chorus Line" and "Evita" and a framed poster of "Les Misérables" hanging over my bed, which has done very little to persuade the endless parade of muscular blond men with melon-like buttocks and thick, kissable lips in my bedroom that I'm not a bottom. I've been thinking for months that they (the show tune art, not the muscular blond men with melon-like buttocks and thick, kissable lips) needed to go, and these box shelves were exactly the kick in the bedpan that I needed to make that happen.
• When I got everything home, I realized I'd need more than a few empty box shelves to complete my over-the-bed transformation, so I dug through my box of unhung knickknacks and found a few other things to hang artfully with my shelves. I also found a bunch of crap I'd been saving that looked much better in the dumpster.
• I also decided to prime and paint the extra cubey candle shelves from the bathroom with silver stencil paint and incorporate them into my over-the-bed tableau. (I know -- it sounds like I'm hanging an awful lot over my bed and I'm clearly in danger of
• While I had the primer out, I decided I should also prime and paint the ugly white conduit that was installed around my bedroom walls when the building got cable a couple years ago.
• While I had the furniture pulled out, I realized I really should thoroughly vacuum along the baseboards in the entire house. After all, it had been 3 1/2 years, and the dust buffaloes were starting to herd.
• And since the house was pulled apart in every direction, I also decided it was the perfect time to do a bunch of laundry as well and let it hang to dry from every available surface.
Whew. As of this writing, some things aren't totally finished -- that stencil paint takes longer to dry out than Rush Limbaugh -- but I slept a very satisfied sleep last night knowing that it didn't really matter that my crappy friends didn't invite me to any of their crappy Labor Day barbecues. Because I had important decorating things to do.
(OK, I did go to Jeremy's last-minute get-together on Sunday night and a nice last-minute dinner with Bob, David and Steve on Monday night. But the operative words here are "last-minute." I am a Boy of Destiny! I want my social life scheduled in advance!)
Monday, September 06, 2004
Double standard
Jeremy threw a nice little Labor Day party last night. About 10 of us from the chorus sat around talking and drinking and singing along with CDs for a couple hours, and then we all headed out the door to walk to the new sports bar that just opened up about five blocks from his house.
We had barely all gotten out his door and onto the sidewalk when two black women standing at a window on the third floor across the street saw us and yelled "FAGGOTS!" down at us.
Now, whether or not they could tell we were gay -- hell, whether or not we actually were all gay -- is of no importance compared to the fact that these women knew it was perfectly OK to yell "FAGGOTS!" at a sizeable crowd of complete strangers in a population-dense neighborhood and that they would suffer no repercussions. No significant reaction from us. No threats of violence from other gay people in the vicinity. No horrified stares from their more civilized neighbors. Nothing.
And they were right. We just ignored them and kept on walking.
But had we yelled "NIGGERS!" back at them -- which none of us would do, of course, though we would be perfectly within our rights for doing so, and it would be the most logical retort in an insult war since all we knew about them was that they were black (and obviously combative assholes) -- we could very well have set off a scene that could realistically involve angry neighbors pouring out in the streets, threats and/or acts of violence, police involvement, and maybe even coverage on the next night's news.
Why?
We had barely all gotten out his door and onto the sidewalk when two black women standing at a window on the third floor across the street saw us and yelled "FAGGOTS!" down at us.
Now, whether or not they could tell we were gay -- hell, whether or not we actually were all gay -- is of no importance compared to the fact that these women knew it was perfectly OK to yell "FAGGOTS!" at a sizeable crowd of complete strangers in a population-dense neighborhood and that they would suffer no repercussions. No significant reaction from us. No threats of violence from other gay people in the vicinity. No horrified stares from their more civilized neighbors. Nothing.
And they were right. We just ignored them and kept on walking.
But had we yelled "NIGGERS!" back at them -- which none of us would do, of course, though we would be perfectly within our rights for doing so, and it would be the most logical retort in an insult war since all we knew about them was that they were black (and obviously combative assholes) -- we could very well have set off a scene that could realistically involve angry neighbors pouring out in the streets, threats and/or acts of violence, police involvement, and maybe even coverage on the next night's news.
Why?
Saturday, September 04, 2004
It's not the humidity. It's definitely the heat.
Give me a day that's cool and overcast with air as thick and moist as unset Jell-O® (mmm ... Jell-O®) and I can run for hours and hours and miles and miles ... as I so effortlessly deomonstrated on last weekend's 17-mile jaunt.
But throw in a bit of sun and some bell-bottomed, afro-poofed temperatures (that would be in the 70s, for those of you not able to follow my Jake-must-have-gotten-dropped-on-his-head-a-lot metaphors) and I become sweaty, gaspy, plodding and pink as an Easter ham (mmm ... ham).
Which is exactly what happened today. It was cool and overcast when I took off for what was supposed to be an epic 20-mile excursion, but when I hit the 4-mile mark -- at the beginning of a three-mile stretch along the lakefront with NO trees or shade of any kind -- the friggin' sun burst forth and started frying all my plans for glory.
And when I got to the 17-mile turnaround, I decided it was best to cut my losses and head home without my 20-mile prize.
And then I got all heat-strokey. Again. Long story short: I ended up running about 14 or 15 miles and walking the rest.
Of course, the clouds rolled back in when I was about 3 miles from home. But by then I was beaten into submission and my legs had started to tighten up. And I started feeling like I was developing toe blisters to boot. So my ceremonial final-eighth-mile sprint home probably looked more tragic than triumphant.
And I had been such a good boy last night. They kicked us out of the office early yesterday to get the holiday weekend par-tay started, but I'd been fighting a horrible sore throat all week so I headed home and took a nice long nap that ended up lasting four hours.
I felt much better when I woke up, thank you for asking, but I wasn't quite all there. So I decided to lie low, watching TV and playing around online, and then I slept for another 9 hours and woke up all better, thanks for asking again.
So with an all-better sore throat and epic levels of sleep under my belt, I expected to hit the trail and pound out those 20 miles as easy as pie. But it was not meant to be. Curse you, perfidious running gods!
Mmmm ... pie.
But throw in a bit of sun and some bell-bottomed, afro-poofed temperatures (that would be in the 70s, for those of you not able to follow my Jake-must-have-gotten-dropped-on-his-head-a-lot metaphors) and I become sweaty, gaspy, plodding and pink as an Easter ham (mmm ... ham).
Which is exactly what happened today. It was cool and overcast when I took off for what was supposed to be an epic 20-mile excursion, but when I hit the 4-mile mark -- at the beginning of a three-mile stretch along the lakefront with NO trees or shade of any kind -- the friggin' sun burst forth and started frying all my plans for glory.
And when I got to the 17-mile turnaround, I decided it was best to cut my losses and head home without my 20-mile prize.
And then I got all heat-strokey. Again. Long story short: I ended up running about 14 or 15 miles and walking the rest.
Of course, the clouds rolled back in when I was about 3 miles from home. But by then I was beaten into submission and my legs had started to tighten up. And I started feeling like I was developing toe blisters to boot. So my ceremonial final-eighth-mile sprint home probably looked more tragic than triumphant.
And I had been such a good boy last night. They kicked us out of the office early yesterday to get the holiday weekend par-tay started, but I'd been fighting a horrible sore throat all week so I headed home and took a nice long nap that ended up lasting four hours.
I felt much better when I woke up, thank you for asking, but I wasn't quite all there. So I decided to lie low, watching TV and playing around online, and then I slept for another 9 hours and woke up all better, thanks for asking again.
So with an all-better sore throat and epic levels of sleep under my belt, I expected to hit the trail and pound out those 20 miles as easy as pie. But it was not meant to be. Curse you, perfidious running gods!
Mmmm ... pie.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Paving the way for Generation Jake
I recently stumbled on a Web site that listed the most popular baby names since 1990. And in the boys' column, Jake—without fail—has been in the top 5 ... often in the #1 spot.
Which means, of course, that I wasn't actually a complete antisocial freak throughout my childhood. I was just ahead of my time.
The other boys in my class had unobtrusive, coolly familiar names like Mike or Scott or Brad or Dave or Eric. (Hi, guys!)
But I was Jake. I was Jake every single day of those all-important formative years when your self-esteem is linked directly to having a plain-old, common name—especially one that doesn't rhyme with everything. When it came time to single out kids for ridicule, everyone else was called either dork or geek. Not me. I got my very own custom-tailored (one might call it high couture) nom de moquerie: Jake the Rake that Baked a Cake and threw it in a Lake.
Yes, it was dumb. No, it wasn't really a specific insult. (Yes, I'm 36 now so I should probably stop dwelling on it.) But the nickname stuck. Probably because it had that rhyming iambic lilt—and enough heft to it that it continued to ring in my ears long after my peers found other kids to tease.
Dad wasn't much help either. He coined his own loving nickname for me: Jakerino Dumb-Dumb. (I know. Dad never was much of a poet.) And my ex—who's been my ex now for more than four years—still calls me Jakerino to this day.
Anyway, I persevered through the '70s, '80s and '90s, blazing a trail of social acceptance and paving the way for Jakes everywhere. I even helped foster in an era of great Jakes in literature—like the ones in Sixteen Candles and Melrose Place. Woof.
Despite all the aforementioned social traumas, the name Jake has served me well. Until it started spreading around the country faster than Rush Limbaugh at an all-you-can-eat buffet, it was unique enough that nobody ever had to ask me, "I'm sorry … what was your name again?"
And that rhyming part helped me learn to read. As soon as I mastered the art of hanging around in front of the refrigerator, my folks bought those brightly colored 2-inch magnetic letters and kept them at kid height on the refrigerator door for me. Once I learned how to spell Jake with them, other useful words, like little rhymed bretheren, were soon to follow. (See that stupid nickname above if you need examples.)
Armed with my powerful slient E vocabulary, I went on to beat my two cousins in the all-important typing event of the family's unofficial—though not unprestigious—Baby Races.
You might say my illustrious writing career was hunt-and-pecked to life with these immortal words on my mom's old Smith-Corona: Cake I like.
I still do. It's the official food of Generation Jake.
Which means, of course, that I wasn't actually a complete antisocial freak throughout my childhood. I was just ahead of my time.
The other boys in my class had unobtrusive, coolly familiar names like Mike or Scott or Brad or Dave or Eric. (Hi, guys!)
But I was Jake. I was Jake every single day of those all-important formative years when your self-esteem is linked directly to having a plain-old, common name—especially one that doesn't rhyme with everything. When it came time to single out kids for ridicule, everyone else was called either dork or geek. Not me. I got my very own custom-tailored (one might call it high couture) nom de moquerie: Jake the Rake that Baked a Cake and threw it in a Lake.
Yes, it was dumb. No, it wasn't really a specific insult. (Yes, I'm 36 now so I should probably stop dwelling on it.) But the nickname stuck. Probably because it had that rhyming iambic lilt—and enough heft to it that it continued to ring in my ears long after my peers found other kids to tease.
Dad wasn't much help either. He coined his own loving nickname for me: Jakerino Dumb-Dumb. (I know. Dad never was much of a poet.) And my ex—who's been my ex now for more than four years—still calls me Jakerino to this day.
Anyway, I persevered through the '70s, '80s and '90s, blazing a trail of social acceptance and paving the way for Jakes everywhere. I even helped foster in an era of great Jakes in literature—like the ones in Sixteen Candles and Melrose Place. Woof.
Despite all the aforementioned social traumas, the name Jake has served me well. Until it started spreading around the country faster than Rush Limbaugh at an all-you-can-eat buffet, it was unique enough that nobody ever had to ask me, "I'm sorry … what was your name again?"
And that rhyming part helped me learn to read. As soon as I mastered the art of hanging around in front of the refrigerator, my folks bought those brightly colored 2-inch magnetic letters and kept them at kid height on the refrigerator door for me. Once I learned how to spell Jake with them, other useful words, like little rhymed bretheren, were soon to follow. (See that stupid nickname above if you need examples.)
Armed with my powerful slient E vocabulary, I went on to beat my two cousins in the all-important typing event of the family's unofficial—though not unprestigious—Baby Races.
You might say my illustrious writing career was hunt-and-pecked to life with these immortal words on my mom's old Smith-Corona: Cake I like.
I still do. It's the official food of Generation Jake.
It happened again!
Last month I stumbled on a print ad I wrote for Citi in -- gasp! -- Newsweek.
Then yesterday I was clicking through theonion.com -- the freakin' Onion Dot Com! -- and there, flashing seductively before my very eyes, was a banner ad for Citi that I not only wrote but concepted and more or less art directed (but not, for the record, designed) as well! (Do you KNOW how famous this makes me? Yeah, I know: not at all. But it gives me a pretty huge thrill nonetheless.)
If I hadn't been so surprised by randomly stumbling on this ad, I might have had the presence of mind to grab the source link so I could display it here. About a million revisits to theonion.com later, I've decided the ad was running as part of a very short media buy, because the damn thing hasn't popped up again. So I don't get to show it to you.
But if you're scrolling through any Web sites aimed at college students in the coming weeks and months and you see a Citi banner ad that uses a Space Invaders vocabulary to sell a credit card with a $0 intro APR and a $50 statement credit with your first purchase ... THAT'S MINE!
(I also wrote the jump page it takes you to. For your continued reading pleasure. Apparently there is no end to the contributions I have to make in the world of selling credit cards to poor people.)
Then yesterday I was clicking through theonion.com -- the freakin' Onion Dot Com! -- and there, flashing seductively before my very eyes, was a banner ad for Citi that I not only wrote but concepted and more or less art directed (but not, for the record, designed) as well! (Do you KNOW how famous this makes me? Yeah, I know: not at all. But it gives me a pretty huge thrill nonetheless.)
If I hadn't been so surprised by randomly stumbling on this ad, I might have had the presence of mind to grab the source link so I could display it here. About a million revisits to theonion.com later, I've decided the ad was running as part of a very short media buy, because the damn thing hasn't popped up again. So I don't get to show it to you.
But if you're scrolling through any Web sites aimed at college students in the coming weeks and months and you see a Citi banner ad that uses a Space Invaders vocabulary to sell a credit card with a $0 intro APR and a $50 statement credit with your first purchase ... THAT'S MINE!
(I also wrote the jump page it takes you to. For your continued reading pleasure. Apparently there is no end to the contributions I have to make in the world of selling credit cards to poor people.)
Monday, August 30, 2004
Comfortable with responsibility
At a rally yesterday afternoon on Ellis Island, Vice President Dick Cheney recalled the president's visit to ground zero three days after the attack.
"They saw a man calm in crisis, comfortable with responsibility and determined to do everything to protect our people," he said.
The New York Times, August 30, 2004
Appropriate circumstances for describing someone as "comfortable with responsibility":
• Giving a reference for a teen-age babysitter.
• Awarding a promotion to shift manager at McDonald's.
• Filling out work-release papers for a convicted felon.
• Trying to reassure the citizens of the United States that their president is not, despite all appearances to the contrary, a drooling, retarded, semi-literate, wholly inarticulate puppet whose only significant accomplishment in life is that he was born into a wealthy, powerful family.
"They saw a man calm in crisis, comfortable with responsibility and determined to do everything to protect our people," he said.
The New York Times, August 30, 2004
Appropriate circumstances for describing someone as "comfortable with responsibility":
• Giving a reference for a teen-age babysitter.
• Awarding a promotion to shift manager at McDonald's.
• Filling out work-release papers for a convicted felon.
• Trying to reassure the citizens of the United States that their president is not, despite all appearances to the contrary, a drooling, retarded, semi-literate, wholly inarticulate puppet whose only significant accomplishment in life is that he was born into a wealthy, powerful family.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
I NEED YOUR REPLY
From: franciskalou1@indiatimes.com
To: Jake
Date; Mon, 16 Aug 2004 14:43:43 +0100
Subject: I NEED YOUR REPLY
Dear Sir,
I am the confidant of the ex-president of iraq (Mr. Saddam Hussien) who was removed from power by the Americans as you may know.
He secretly in formed me before he was arrested to contact you and to liance with you to invest the sum of $21M (Twenty one million dollars) which he deposited in a bank in scotland during his tenure as president of Iraq.
Now the proceedures are that you will be given the contact of the bank in the scotland so that you will contact them to open an account online where the money will be transfered into from his account since we can not come out in the open to use this money. After you open this account I will order the bank in a written form to transfer the money into your own account afetr which you can then transfer it to some other account in your place for sharing.
Upon request by you I can send to you the certificate of deposit of this amount for your assurance. We are willing to conceed up to 5% of the total sum to you for all the anticipated help from you hoping that it will cover all your expenditures before and after the transaction.
However, we will desire that you will help us invest our share till we will be free to meet you up in any country of your choice for futher talks, Please if you are interested in helping me please write me back via this address so that we can move ahead.
Regards
Francis Kalou
NB: You should know by now that saddam is facing war crime charges which i dont think he is going to come out of Americans dragnet so lets use this opportunity to make this money our own.Though he said anybody that helps us i should give the person 5% of the total sum but considering the circustances and ready to concead up to 15% for the person.
* * * * *
From: Jake
To: franciskalou1@indiatimes.com
Date; Tue, 17 Aug 2004 02:01:57 +0530
Subject: I NEED YOUR MOUTH ON MY BALLS
Oh my god! This sounds too good to be true! Please wire the money immediately to my bank! Account!
You're welcome!
Jake!
* * * * *
From: franciskalou1@indiatimes.com
To: Jake
Date; Wed, 18 Aug 2004 12:21:07 +0320
Subject: RE: I NEED YOUR MOUTH ON MY BALLS
IF YOU CAN HELP ME WE CAN WORK IT OUT AM VERY SERIOUS. WE CAN DO THAT AND BE HAPPY IN LIFE.
WAITING TO HEAR FROM YOU.
FRANCIS KALOU
* * * * *
From: Jake
To: franciskalou1@indiatimes.com
Date; Thu, 19 Aug 2004 15:07:41 +0224
Subject: RE: RE: I NEED YOUR MOUTH ON MY BALLS
What kind of moron do you think I am? Take your spam-sending, all-caps-using, retarded-third-grader-writing scam and stick it in your spider hole.
Jake
To: Jake
Date; Mon, 16 Aug 2004 14:43:43 +0100
Subject: I NEED YOUR REPLY
Dear Sir,
I am the confidant of the ex-president of iraq (Mr. Saddam Hussien) who was removed from power by the Americans as you may know.
He secretly in formed me before he was arrested to contact you and to liance with you to invest the sum of $21M (Twenty one million dollars) which he deposited in a bank in scotland during his tenure as president of Iraq.
Now the proceedures are that you will be given the contact of the bank in the scotland so that you will contact them to open an account online where the money will be transfered into from his account since we can not come out in the open to use this money. After you open this account I will order the bank in a written form to transfer the money into your own account afetr which you can then transfer it to some other account in your place for sharing.
Upon request by you I can send to you the certificate of deposit of this amount for your assurance. We are willing to conceed up to 5% of the total sum to you for all the anticipated help from you hoping that it will cover all your expenditures before and after the transaction.
However, we will desire that you will help us invest our share till we will be free to meet you up in any country of your choice for futher talks, Please if you are interested in helping me please write me back via this address so that we can move ahead.
Regards
Francis Kalou
NB: You should know by now that saddam is facing war crime charges which i dont think he is going to come out of Americans dragnet so lets use this opportunity to make this money our own.Though he said anybody that helps us i should give the person 5% of the total sum but considering the circustances and ready to concead up to 15% for the person.
From: Jake
To: franciskalou1@indiatimes.com
Date; Tue, 17 Aug 2004 02:01:57 +0530
Subject: I NEED YOUR MOUTH ON MY BALLS
Oh my god! This sounds too good to be true! Please wire the money immediately to my bank! Account!
You're welcome!
Jake!
From: franciskalou1@indiatimes.com
To: Jake
Date; Wed, 18 Aug 2004 12:21:07 +0320
Subject: RE: I NEED YOUR MOUTH ON MY BALLS
IF YOU CAN HELP ME WE CAN WORK IT OUT AM VERY SERIOUS. WE CAN DO THAT AND BE HAPPY IN LIFE.
WAITING TO HEAR FROM YOU.
FRANCIS KALOU
From: Jake
To: franciskalou1@indiatimes.com
Date; Thu, 19 Aug 2004 15:07:41 +0224
Subject: RE: RE: I NEED YOUR MOUTH ON MY BALLS
What kind of moron do you think I am? Take your spam-sending, all-caps-using, retarded-third-grader-writing scam and stick it in your spider hole.
Jake
Weekend Adventures
My Weekend of New Cultural Adventures kicked off last night with my first Dance for Life, an annual evening of performances by every major Chicago dance company to raise money for HIV- and AIDS-related causes. Jim and Jeff and the boys and I got a huge block of tickets, and Jim even had authentic leis flown in from Hawaii for us so we could all be extra-fabulous at the pre-show see-and-be-seen reception in the very cool Crystal Garden on Navy Pier.
We also had a double celebrity sighting in the Crystal Garden! (Well, they're celebrities only among people who drool over the pictures in Atlantis cruise ads in gay publications.) In any case, the guys in this tiny picture were there:
Tonight Bob, David, Steve and I continue My Weekend of New Cultural Adventures with my first trip to Ravinia to hear Broadway diva Patti "The Original Evita" LuPone sing songs from shows she wished she'd done.
In other news, I hit a new milestone in my marathon training yesterday: 17 miles! Which means 1) I'm very confident I can get myself up to 26 miles in the next six weeks and 2) I don't have to run again until Tuesday. Woo-hoo! I'm surprisingly not very sore today, but my body seems to have started developing delayed-reaction pain as some sort of coping mechanism.
We also had a double celebrity sighting in the Crystal Garden! (Well, they're celebrities only among people who drool over the pictures in Atlantis cruise ads in gay publications.) In any case, the guys in this tiny picture were there:
Tonight Bob, David, Steve and I continue My Weekend of New Cultural Adventures with my first trip to Ravinia to hear Broadway diva Patti "The Original Evita" LuPone sing songs from shows she wished she'd done.
In other news, I hit a new milestone in my marathon training yesterday: 17 miles! Which means 1) I'm very confident I can get myself up to 26 miles in the next six weeks and 2) I don't have to run again until Tuesday. Woo-hoo! I'm surprisingly not very sore today, but my body seems to have started developing delayed-reaction pain as some sort of coping mechanism.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
My date with Julie Andrews
So I was at a party last night in a swanky highrise in Lincoln Park. I didn’t really know the hosts, and when I got there I realized I barely knew any of the guests. The Old Jake would panic in a situation like this, but the New Jake embraced it, forcing himself to make small talk with a whole bunch of new people.
I eventually found myself sitting with some of my newfound friends on an overstuffed morel-colored chenille sofa in a comfy library-like room—when suddenly a woman sat down next to me and said hello with a very familiar-sounding British accent. I turned to say hello back and found myself sitting face-to-face with Julie Andrews. As in Julie Freakin’ Andrews. As in Oh My God I’m Sitting On An Overstuffed Morel-Colored Chenille Sofa With Julie Freakin’ Andrews!
Not wanting to come off as one of the drooling, fawning fans she no doubt finds so ubiquitous and so annoying, I made casual small talk with her, slyly managing to work into the conversation the fact that I’d been a professional singer/dancer/actor as well. (I really wanted to talk about how hot Christpher Plummer was in "The Sound of Music" and maybe see if I could get her to confess to having a nose job after seeing how lumpy her nose looked when they sang "Something Good" in silhouetted profile out by that charming little gazebo. But I was a model of restraint.) She seemed suitably impressed by everything I had to say, and she kept making small talk back. And it became increasingly obvious that she liked me. Julie. Andrews. Liked. Me. And the whole time we sat there getting to know each other, my brain kept racing to one thing: I can’t wait to get home and write about this in my blog!
You read that right, dear readers: I was more excited about telling you that I was New Best Friends With Julie Andrews than I was about telling my family or my physically present friends that she and I had spent an evening having a lovely conversation on an overstuffed morel-colored chenille sofa.
Our friendly reverie was suddenly interrupted by a piercing alarm—and my first thought was that not only were we New Best Friends, but I was about to become The Hero Who Saved Julie Andrews From A Chicago Highrise Fire.
But nobody seemed to hear the alarm but me. And actually, instead of freaking out and running around screaming, everyone at the party started fading to a misty gray.
And suddenly, wave after wave of reality started washing over me:
1) I had not, in fact, been chatting with Julie Andrews on an overstuffed morel-colored chenille sofa at a party in a swanky highrise in Lincoln Park.
2) I don’t, in fact, have any friends who live in swanky Lincoln Park highrises who invite me to parties and who run in the same social circles as Julie Andrews. (This wave of reality hurt the most.)
3) I am 47 kinds of gay for dreaming that I’d become New Best Friends with Julie Andrews—and another 23 kinds of gay for being so freakin’ excited about it.
4) I had just had my first dream about blogging.
5) I really hate the sound of my alarm.
I eventually found myself sitting with some of my newfound friends on an overstuffed morel-colored chenille sofa in a comfy library-like room—when suddenly a woman sat down next to me and said hello with a very familiar-sounding British accent. I turned to say hello back and found myself sitting face-to-face with Julie Andrews. As in Julie Freakin’ Andrews. As in Oh My God I’m Sitting On An Overstuffed Morel-Colored Chenille Sofa With Julie Freakin’ Andrews!
Not wanting to come off as one of the drooling, fawning fans she no doubt finds so ubiquitous and so annoying, I made casual small talk with her, slyly managing to work into the conversation the fact that I’d been a professional singer/dancer/actor as well. (I really wanted to talk about how hot Christpher Plummer was in "The Sound of Music" and maybe see if I could get her to confess to having a nose job after seeing how lumpy her nose looked when they sang "Something Good" in silhouetted profile out by that charming little gazebo. But I was a model of restraint.) She seemed suitably impressed by everything I had to say, and she kept making small talk back. And it became increasingly obvious that she liked me. Julie. Andrews. Liked. Me. And the whole time we sat there getting to know each other, my brain kept racing to one thing: I can’t wait to get home and write about this in my blog!
You read that right, dear readers: I was more excited about telling you that I was New Best Friends With Julie Andrews than I was about telling my family or my physically present friends that she and I had spent an evening having a lovely conversation on an overstuffed morel-colored chenille sofa.
Our friendly reverie was suddenly interrupted by a piercing alarm—and my first thought was that not only were we New Best Friends, but I was about to become The Hero Who Saved Julie Andrews From A Chicago Highrise Fire.
But nobody seemed to hear the alarm but me. And actually, instead of freaking out and running around screaming, everyone at the party started fading to a misty gray.
And suddenly, wave after wave of reality started washing over me:
1) I had not, in fact, been chatting with Julie Andrews on an overstuffed morel-colored chenille sofa at a party in a swanky highrise in Lincoln Park.
2) I don’t, in fact, have any friends who live in swanky Lincoln Park highrises who invite me to parties and who run in the same social circles as Julie Andrews. (This wave of reality hurt the most.)
3) I am 47 kinds of gay for dreaming that I’d become New Best Friends with Julie Andrews—and another 23 kinds of gay for being so freakin’ excited about it.
4) I had just had my first dream about blogging.
5) I really hate the sound of my alarm.
Monday, August 23, 2004
15 (kill me now) MILES!
Actually, tonight's run wasn't bad at all. It was a gorgeous, cool night, the trail was full of people, and I just kept running and running until I'd actually done a full 15 miles -- my longest training run yet! (I'm sure my traditional final-eighth-mile victory sprint was pathetic to watch, but at this point I'm feeling nothing but pride -- and what I'm sure will be a very loud pain in the morning.)
And I wasn't held back in the least by the three things I was worried about as I took off running: the toes I thought I broke four days ago, the sore throat I started developing yesterday and the greasy-burger combo meal I snarfed down five hours before I ran.
I also found a lakefront trail map on the Chicago Area Runner's Association Web site -- and apparently I've been running more than I've thought. According to the map, the trail winds around enough that I've been short-changing my accomplishments by using the linear distances I've been calculating. For instance, according to my calculations, the distance I ran tonight was only 12.5 miles, but the map clearly marks the Bryn Mawr-to-Navy-Pier round trip as 15 miles. Woo-hoo!
Check it out:
And I wasn't held back in the least by the three things I was worried about as I took off running: the toes I thought I broke four days ago, the sore throat I started developing yesterday and the greasy-burger combo meal I snarfed down five hours before I ran.
I also found a lakefront trail map on the Chicago Area Runner's Association Web site -- and apparently I've been running more than I've thought. According to the map, the trail winds around enough that I've been short-changing my accomplishments by using the linear distances I've been calculating. For instance, according to my calculations, the distance I ran tonight was only 12.5 miles, but the map clearly marks the Bryn Mawr-to-Navy-Pier round trip as 15 miles. Woo-hoo!
Check it out:
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Letter from Iowa
Ah, the joys of a bucolic weekend with the family. The weather has been perfect, the niece and nephew have been suitably adorable, and the parking has been -- and always will be -- plentiful.
I slept in on Saturday and eventually got my hair cut with NO WAITING. Then I headed to our friendly neighborhood Michael's -- where all the crap in your basement and attic gets born -- to buy stencils for my bathroom amid a sea of screaming children and puffy women in capri pants. Then Dad and I hauled out the ladder and hung new house numbers on the roof of the front porch and cut down a HUGE dead branch from a tree in the front yard. (Quel butch!) After a family dinner of pot roast and tapioca pudding (mmm!), Mom and I did some more shopping -- this time looking for a small shelfy thing to store all my piano music. We didn't find anything close to what I was looking for, but we did find a surprisingly sturdy, amazingly stylish dining room set for $199 at K mart (couldn't bring myself to buy it, though) and a friggin' WALL of Precious Moments and Precious Moments-knockoff figurines at K's Merchandise.
Why do Precious Moments make me so angry? Is it their faux-cute aesthetic that simultaneously offends the rational public and validates the dubious tastes of women who were into rainbows and unicorns in high school? Is it their empty promise of future value, which dupes hordes of feeble-minded rural consumers into "investing" in them with money they should be using for something practical like, say, running shoes and flattering haircuts? Is it the fact they represent the triumph of opinion over reason (as in "I think this girl-with-the-kittens figurine is soooooooo cuuuuuuute so I'll buy it even though I can't afford to bring my wardrobe up out of the stirrup-pants-and-oversize-T-shirts era")? Or is it just that they represent everything vile and unholy in the world -- but, unlike gay marriage and the Olsen twins, they also have to be dusted?
This morning I sang a solo -- twice -- at my folks' church. (I know: Not only do I not have a religious bone in my body, but some might even call me religion-hostile. So file my willingness to sing a solo in a church under "gray areas.") This church, our family's church since before I was born, has an AMAZING music program, which is easily the foundation of the musical talents I enjoy today -- from singing to sight reading to understanding the baroque and classical musical forms. The musical director at the church found a gorgeous solo (Ralph Vaughan Williams' "The Call") that was perfectly in -- though a little on the high side of -- my range, and I apparently made legions of old church ladies happy this morning by singing for them. Besides, when you solo in this church -- especially in the summer -- you get to sit alone in the balcony like you're some rock star and sing hymns at the top of your lungs while ranks and ranks of organ pipes rumble and shake and shout around you. If you concentrate on the music and not the words, it's a pretty cool experience.
This afternoon, Mom and I plan to continue our quest to find my music shelfy thing. Then we're having my favorite pizza for dinner. Woo-hoo!
Then tomorrow we celebrate the entire reason for my trip home: My nephew's first day of kindergarten. Which will consist of: Putting him on the bus and watching my mom and sister cry.
Then I head back to Chicago, where I need to pound out a long run (like 15 miles or so -- oy). Then, if all goes according to plan, I'll organize my piano music on my new shelfy thing. Pray for me.
I slept in on Saturday and eventually got my hair cut with NO WAITING. Then I headed to our friendly neighborhood Michael's -- where all the crap in your basement and attic gets born -- to buy stencils for my bathroom amid a sea of screaming children and puffy women in capri pants. Then Dad and I hauled out the ladder and hung new house numbers on the roof of the front porch and cut down a HUGE dead branch from a tree in the front yard. (Quel butch!) After a family dinner of pot roast and tapioca pudding (mmm!), Mom and I did some more shopping -- this time looking for a small shelfy thing to store all my piano music. We didn't find anything close to what I was looking for, but we did find a surprisingly sturdy, amazingly stylish dining room set for $199 at K mart (couldn't bring myself to buy it, though) and a friggin' WALL of Precious Moments and Precious Moments-knockoff figurines at K's Merchandise.
Why do Precious Moments make me so angry? Is it their faux-cute aesthetic that simultaneously offends the rational public and validates the dubious tastes of women who were into rainbows and unicorns in high school? Is it their empty promise of future value, which dupes hordes of feeble-minded rural consumers into "investing" in them with money they should be using for something practical like, say, running shoes and flattering haircuts? Is it the fact they represent the triumph of opinion over reason (as in "I think this girl-with-the-kittens figurine is soooooooo cuuuuuuute so I'll buy it even though I can't afford to bring my wardrobe up out of the stirrup-pants-and-oversize-T-shirts era")? Or is it just that they represent everything vile and unholy in the world -- but, unlike gay marriage and the Olsen twins, they also have to be dusted?
This morning I sang a solo -- twice -- at my folks' church. (I know: Not only do I not have a religious bone in my body, but some might even call me religion-hostile. So file my willingness to sing a solo in a church under "gray areas.") This church, our family's church since before I was born, has an AMAZING music program, which is easily the foundation of the musical talents I enjoy today -- from singing to sight reading to understanding the baroque and classical musical forms. The musical director at the church found a gorgeous solo (Ralph Vaughan Williams' "The Call") that was perfectly in -- though a little on the high side of -- my range, and I apparently made legions of old church ladies happy this morning by singing for them. Besides, when you solo in this church -- especially in the summer -- you get to sit alone in the balcony like you're some rock star and sing hymns at the top of your lungs while ranks and ranks of organ pipes rumble and shake and shout around you. If you concentrate on the music and not the words, it's a pretty cool experience.
This afternoon, Mom and I plan to continue our quest to find my music shelfy thing. Then we're having my favorite pizza for dinner. Woo-hoo!
Then tomorrow we celebrate the entire reason for my trip home: My nephew's first day of kindergarten. Which will consist of: Putting him on the bus and watching my mom and sister cry.
Then I head back to Chicago, where I need to pound out a long run (like 15 miles or so -- oy). Then, if all goes according to plan, I'll organize my piano music on my new shelfy thing. Pray for me.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine
and an appalling hubris.
BRIELLE, New Jersey (AP) -- An 8-year-old girl who suffers from a rare digestive disorder and cannot eat wheat has had her first Holy Communion declared invalid because the wafer contained no wheat, violating Roman Catholic doctrine.
As if we need another reason to hate the Catholic church.
Church doctrine holds that Communion wafers, like the bread served at the Last Supper, must have at least some unleavened wheat. Church leaders are reluctant to change anything about the sacrament.
"This is not an issue to be determined at the diocesan or parish level, but has already been decided for the Roman Catholic Church throughout the world by Vatican authority," Trenton Bishop John M. Smith said in a statement last week.
What is more pathetic: a mythology more interested in preserving its pointless traditions than in protecting the well-being of its followers or the mindless, co-dependent followers who see this blatant disregard for their health as some validation that keeps bringing them back for more abuse and neglect?
Haley was diagnosed with celiac sprue disease when she was 5. The disorder occurs in people with a genetic intolerance of gluten, a food protein contained in wheat and other grains.
When consumed by celiac sufferers, gluten damages the lining of the small intestine, blocking nutrient absorption and leading to vitamin deficiencies, bone-thinning and sometimes gastrointestinal cancer.
Celiac sprue disease isn't as rare as this story implies. My sister has it. Two of my friends have it. One of my co-workers has it. It's so common in Scandinavian countries that there are entire bakeries devoted to preparing gluten-free breads. It's become common enough in America that the ingredients listings on many of our prepared foods now specifically state whether or not the foods contain wheat or wheat byproducts. It's a ubiquitous, well-understood and easy-to-work-around disorder. So why is the Catholic church so hell-bent on denying spiritual validation for -- and compromising the health of -- its gluten-intolerant followers?
The church has similar rules for Communion wine. For alcoholics, the church allows a substitute for wine under some circumstances, however the drink must still be fermented from grapes and contain some alcohol. Grape juice is not a valid substitute.
Need I remind you how alcoholism is far more common than gluten intolerance? And Jesus said, "Fuck you."
Haley, a shy, brown-haired tomboy who loves surfing and hates wearing dresses, realizes the consequences of taking a wheat wafer.
"I'm on a gluten-free diet because I can't have wheat. I could die," she said last week.
The church has a long, arrogant history of willful confusion between science and make-believe, so I guess we shouldn't be so surprised by all of this. But even when the cause-and-effect consequences of celiac disease are spelled out by a child in terms that even a child can understand, the church remains resolutely steadfast in its refusal to acknowledge and work around the proven biological threats to that child's health.
Last month, the diocese told the priest that the church would not validate Haley's sacrament because of the substitute wafer.
"I struggled with telling her that the sacrament did not happen," said her mother. "She lives in a world of rules. She says 'Mommy, do we want to break a rule? Are we breaking a rule?'"
"Validate the sacrament"? Who gives a shit if a light snack at the communion rail has been "validated"?
Pelly-Waldman -- who is still attending Mass every Sunday with her four children -- said she is not out to bash the church, just to change the policy that affects her daughter.
"I'm hopeful. Do I think it will be a long road to change? Yes. But I'm raising an awareness and I'm taking it one step at a time," she said.
Of course she doesn't want to bash the church. She's co-dependent. She's ineffectively "raising an awareness" in an institution that is shamelessly hostile to the general awareness that the real world -- including many of its parishoners -- enjoys.
This is the same organization that won't ordain female priests even when its churches are closing and its parishes are dissolving specifically for lack of available male priests. This is the same organization that works so hard to ban gay men from the priesthood and then blames the gay men in the priesthood for the atrocities committed by the pedophiles it so obviously doesn't ban. This is the same organization that works so hard to legislate its belief that gay marriage is a threat to the so-called "sacred institution" of marriage but does nothing to legislate a ban on the real threats to marriage: divorce, annulment (a convoluted subset of divorce that only the Catholic church could invent), spouse abuse and adultery (which, by the way, is specifically banned in the Ten Commandments -- which, also by the way, have nothing to say about homosexuality on any level).
This is the same organization that gives me so much joy as I watch it collapse under the weight of its own arrogance ... though I hate seeing all its casualties -- all people it works so hard to hurt -- as it crumbles to the ground.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Sixth face from the left
Count again -- there's a partial face in there just to the left of mine.
The cover of the Windy City Times features this nice picture and a short article about the chorus singing the National Anthem at last Saturday's Cubs game. Notice how the sign behind us has our name wrong.
The cover of the Windy City Times features this nice picture and a short article about the chorus singing the National Anthem at last Saturday's Cubs game. Notice how the sign behind us has our name wrong.
Life and death
My grandma died 20 years ago today. I hesitate to call her my favorite grandma, but she was definitely the grandparent I was closest to, both geographically and emotionally. Both my grandfathers had died when I was pretty young, and my other grandma (my dad's mom) lived way off in Colorado, and we saw her only once every three or four years. Two of her kids and their families lived near her, so they could take care of her as she got older.
One of the reasons I was so close to the grandma on my mom's side was because she lived only two hours away and was openly involved in our lives ... and she eventually lived right in our house the last few years of her life. My mom was an only child, so there was nobody else to care for this grandma—and there was simply no way we wouldn't take care of her as a family as long as we could before we'd put her in a home.
So before I even started high school, we partitioned off the family room with a huge curtain and moved in a bed for her. (I distinctly remember watching early MTV videos—like "Thriller"—sitting next to her on that bed.) There was a half bathroom on that floor for her to use for sponge baths, and as she got weaker and weaker, Dad and I would carry her up the stairs on a chair every other day so she could use a bathroom with a shower. Other than that, she had everything she needed on one floor ... and a busy social life delivered right to her curtained door.
Since the family room was right off the living room and our house was usually filled with visiting friends, Grandma was always a part of everything that went on in our lives. She'd sit in her housecoat with my friends and me when they came over to study or play games, she joined me every morning at 4:00 as I rubber-banded newspapers in our front hall, and she's smiling in every picture of every party or picnic or cozy night in front of the fire that we had in the early '80s.
As I recall, she got sick enough to move into a hospital only a short while before she died -- and while she was there she had a steady stream of visitors including her personal friends and all the friends of our family who'd gotten to know her.
As you can imagine, these events taught me VOLUMES about compassion and sacrifice and love and the importance of family—all invaluable lessons to imprint on the mind of a young teen-ager. That my parents would arrange their lives around the comfort and security of a sometimes cantankerous, sometimes terrified, sometimes exhausted old lady ... that my grandma would do her best not to be an imposition in our home and in our lives ... that our friends would welcome her with open arms and include her in their social plans ... these are the living examples I remember and try to follow to this day.
Obviously, Grandma's death devastated me. It was the first profound death-related loss in my young life. (So far, the only other deaths of that life-changing magnitude have been the stuff of Greek tragedy: four friends died in a plane crash Easter morning of 1988, another friend was murdered by the bomb that blew Pan Am flight 103 out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland, in December 1988, and a family friend's mother was brutally beaten in the basement of the apartment she managed in 1990—and I have never been as pro-death penalty as the day I helped clean up the murder scene.)
But you survive. You move on. You cherish the memories. You carry on the examples. You honor the lives. I was sad when my dad's mom died four years ago, but by then I had a greater understanding of death as a closing chapter in a long story, and I looked at Grandma's death as more of a celebration of her remarkable life.
But sometimes death touches you and leaves nothing.
In the last couple months I've been hit by a steady parade of deaths of people I knew only marginally, if at all. It started in June with the suicide of the young Chicago magazine editor who'd picked me to be profiled in the Top 20 Singles issue. I'd spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with her only a month earlier at my photo shoot, and she was so fun that I left hoping to develop a friendship with her—even going so far as to keep a clever email correspondence going between us.
Two more suicides followed in quick succession: the brother of one of my family's oldest friends (though I'm not sure I'd ever met the guy) and a distant cousin I was only vaguely aware I had (though his mother—a crusty old broad in the best sense of the word—and I always enjoyed an easy rapport whenever we saw each other).
Then, in the last couple weeks, two members of the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus died. The first was a guy I'm sure I'd seen a hundred times in rehearsal, but I didn't recognize his name and I didn't recognize him in our photo directory. Apparently everyone else knew him, though; the email and blog tributes posted in his honor were quite touching. The second was a guy I'd talked to a number of times but never really befriended. I'd always thought he was just quiet, but I'm learning now he was always sick.
And I'm caught in a weird limbo. I'm obviously saddened by the pain that these people suffered and by the pain their deaths brought to their families and friends. But, on reflection, that sadness is mostly academic. I'm sure part of it stems from the fact I had no real emotional connection to any of them. But I worry that I may be becoming jaded. Am I numbed by the bombardment of death in the news and on TV? Have I become self-absorbed to the point that I don't care about other people—even in death? Is it too easy to distance myself from someone I had no real emotional connection to in the first place?
Or—perhaps—my concern over feeling nothing in the face of a loss that isn't even mine to feel is proof that I actually do have the compassion I was taught by my family so long ago when Grandma and I watched videos together from her bed in our family room.
One of the reasons I was so close to the grandma on my mom's side was because she lived only two hours away and was openly involved in our lives ... and she eventually lived right in our house the last few years of her life. My mom was an only child, so there was nobody else to care for this grandma—and there was simply no way we wouldn't take care of her as a family as long as we could before we'd put her in a home.
So before I even started high school, we partitioned off the family room with a huge curtain and moved in a bed for her. (I distinctly remember watching early MTV videos—like "Thriller"—sitting next to her on that bed.) There was a half bathroom on that floor for her to use for sponge baths, and as she got weaker and weaker, Dad and I would carry her up the stairs on a chair every other day so she could use a bathroom with a shower. Other than that, she had everything she needed on one floor ... and a busy social life delivered right to her curtained door.
Since the family room was right off the living room and our house was usually filled with visiting friends, Grandma was always a part of everything that went on in our lives. She'd sit in her housecoat with my friends and me when they came over to study or play games, she joined me every morning at 4:00 as I rubber-banded newspapers in our front hall, and she's smiling in every picture of every party or picnic or cozy night in front of the fire that we had in the early '80s.
As I recall, she got sick enough to move into a hospital only a short while before she died -- and while she was there she had a steady stream of visitors including her personal friends and all the friends of our family who'd gotten to know her.
As you can imagine, these events taught me VOLUMES about compassion and sacrifice and love and the importance of family—all invaluable lessons to imprint on the mind of a young teen-ager. That my parents would arrange their lives around the comfort and security of a sometimes cantankerous, sometimes terrified, sometimes exhausted old lady ... that my grandma would do her best not to be an imposition in our home and in our lives ... that our friends would welcome her with open arms and include her in their social plans ... these are the living examples I remember and try to follow to this day.
Obviously, Grandma's death devastated me. It was the first profound death-related loss in my young life. (So far, the only other deaths of that life-changing magnitude have been the stuff of Greek tragedy: four friends died in a plane crash Easter morning of 1988, another friend was murdered by the bomb that blew Pan Am flight 103 out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland, in December 1988, and a family friend's mother was brutally beaten in the basement of the apartment she managed in 1990—and I have never been as pro-death penalty as the day I helped clean up the murder scene.)
But you survive. You move on. You cherish the memories. You carry on the examples. You honor the lives. I was sad when my dad's mom died four years ago, but by then I had a greater understanding of death as a closing chapter in a long story, and I looked at Grandma's death as more of a celebration of her remarkable life.
But sometimes death touches you and leaves nothing.
In the last couple months I've been hit by a steady parade of deaths of people I knew only marginally, if at all. It started in June with the suicide of the young Chicago magazine editor who'd picked me to be profiled in the Top 20 Singles issue. I'd spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with her only a month earlier at my photo shoot, and she was so fun that I left hoping to develop a friendship with her—even going so far as to keep a clever email correspondence going between us.
Two more suicides followed in quick succession: the brother of one of my family's oldest friends (though I'm not sure I'd ever met the guy) and a distant cousin I was only vaguely aware I had (though his mother—a crusty old broad in the best sense of the word—and I always enjoyed an easy rapport whenever we saw each other).
Then, in the last couple weeks, two members of the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus died. The first was a guy I'm sure I'd seen a hundred times in rehearsal, but I didn't recognize his name and I didn't recognize him in our photo directory. Apparently everyone else knew him, though; the email and blog tributes posted in his honor were quite touching. The second was a guy I'd talked to a number of times but never really befriended. I'd always thought he was just quiet, but I'm learning now he was always sick.
And I'm caught in a weird limbo. I'm obviously saddened by the pain that these people suffered and by the pain their deaths brought to their families and friends. But, on reflection, that sadness is mostly academic. I'm sure part of it stems from the fact I had no real emotional connection to any of them. But I worry that I may be becoming jaded. Am I numbed by the bombardment of death in the news and on TV? Have I become self-absorbed to the point that I don't care about other people—even in death? Is it too easy to distance myself from someone I had no real emotional connection to in the first place?
Or—perhaps—my concern over feeling nothing in the face of a loss that isn't even mine to feel is proof that I actually do have the compassion I was taught by my family so long ago when Grandma and I watched videos together from her bed in our family room.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
A confluence of bloggers
Hunky little Andy organized a small gay-bloggers get-together last night at Sidetrack. The others in attendance were my friend Rick from the chorus and Palochi, who looked vaguely familiar. After chatting a bit, we realized we not only work for the same company, but our offices are on the same floor. Who knew there was another homo blogging away on company time just on the other side of the bathrooms?
Sunday's 11-mile run was catching up with me by the time I got to Sidetrack, though, so I probably wasn't a lot of fun. I did manage to stay awake long enough to sing along with a bunch of show tunes (there's always room for show tunes), but I was home in bed and out cold by midnight.
Before I left for the bar, though, I hung my newly painted block shelves that Jeff made me, and I perched charming little votive candles on them to create a warm and inviting glow. They look just as cool as I'd hoped, but I'm not to wild about the color. I'll leave them up for a while, though,because I'm lazy and inert to see if maybe I'm just being too fussy. And if I get my act together, I'll post a pic. Because I know you're dying to see my poop-tastic new bathroom.
Sunday's 11-mile run was catching up with me by the time I got to Sidetrack, though, so I probably wasn't a lot of fun. I did manage to stay awake long enough to sing along with a bunch of show tunes (there's always room for show tunes), but I was home in bed and out cold by midnight.
Before I left for the bar, though, I hung my newly painted block shelves that Jeff made me, and I perched charming little votive candles on them to create a warm and inviting glow. They look just as cool as I'd hoped, but I'm not to wild about the color. I'll leave them up for a while, though,
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Oh, say can you seeeeee
I'm on your teeeee veeee!
We sang the National Anthem at yesterday's Cubs game -- and once again it was a pretty moving experience. The robust, 8-part men's arrangement our musical director put together for us is lush and gorgeous enough to stir even the most patriotism-jaded soul. And we were well-miked with monitors that sent a full-bodied sound back to us. So, in short, we pretty much ROCKED. Score one for the gay guys.
And, once again, I didn't hear a peep of anti-gay sentiment when we were introduced or when we walked triumphantly off the field. Score one for the mature fans.
Afterward, Jeff and I went shopping up and down the streets of Boystown. Then we headed home to change clothes, pump up my bike tires and get a little exercise -- 8 miles on the bike for him and 5 miles on foot for me.
After cleaning up, we headed back to Boystown for a nice dinner and then a party at Bill's, thrown to celebrate his new closets. (We fags can turn ANYTHING into a reason to throw a party. And this one was pretty fun. It's inspired me to throw a bathroom-warming party -- just as soon as I finish painting and hanging the cool cube shelves Jeff made for me.)
Jeff took off for home this morning, and since then I've sanded and put two coats of paint on the shelves and run 11 MILES -- a first in my pushing-the-distance training journey. Now everything hurts (and stinks) and I'm headed for a nice long date with a nice warm shower.
And, once again, I didn't hear a peep of anti-gay sentiment when we were introduced or when we walked triumphantly off the field. Score one for the mature fans.
Afterward, Jeff and I went shopping up and down the streets of Boystown. Then we headed home to change clothes, pump up my bike tires and get a little exercise -- 8 miles on the bike for him and 5 miles on foot for me.
After cleaning up, we headed back to Boystown for a nice dinner and then a party at Bill's, thrown to celebrate his new closets. (We fags can turn ANYTHING into a reason to throw a party. And this one was pretty fun. It's inspired me to throw a bathroom-warming party -- just as soon as I finish painting and hanging the cool cube shelves Jeff made for me.)
Jeff took off for home this morning, and since then I've sanded and put two coats of paint on the shelves and run 11 MILES -- a first in my pushing-the-distance training journey. Now everything hurts (and stinks) and I'm headed for a nice long date with a nice warm shower.
Friday, August 13, 2004
The weekend with the ex
Jeff got here last night, and we promptly headed out to boystown to 1) buy shoes 2) buy those little floor lights that cast Dramatic Shadows on walls and plants 3) eat at Nookie's and 4) get purple slushy drinks at Sidetrack.
Today he's buying everything in sight on Michigan Avenue while I toil away at work. Tonight we're watching the Olympics opening ceremonies with a few friends.
Tomorrow he gets to guard our stuff while the chorus sings the National Anthem at a Cubs game. (Tune in to Fox at 12:20 pm if you wanna hear us.) Then more shopping. Then a party at Bill's.
Sunday is breakfast. Then he leaves and I try to run 10 miles despite having had no time to run for more than a week. ACK!
Oh -- and remember last month when I asked you-all for suggestions for finding those cool cube-shaped shelves I saw on Queer Eye? After having no luck in the world of retail, I'd mentioned them to Jeff -- the consummate handyman -- and he actually MADE SOME for me. And they're PERFECT. But they need paint. So before the weekend's over, my bathroom renovation should be complete. And if you're lucky, I'll post pictures for you.
Today he's buying everything in sight on Michigan Avenue while I toil away at work. Tonight we're watching the Olympics opening ceremonies with a few friends.
Tomorrow he gets to guard our stuff while the chorus sings the National Anthem at a Cubs game. (Tune in to Fox at 12:20 pm if you wanna hear us.) Then more shopping. Then a party at Bill's.
Sunday is breakfast. Then he leaves and I try to run 10 miles despite having had no time to run for more than a week. ACK!
Oh -- and remember last month when I asked you-all for suggestions for finding those cool cube-shaped shelves I saw on Queer Eye? After having no luck in the world of retail, I'd mentioned them to Jeff -- the consummate handyman -- and he actually MADE SOME for me. And they're PERFECT. But they need paint. So before the weekend's over, my bathroom renovation should be complete. And if you're lucky, I'll post pictures for you.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
*gulp*
I just registered online for the Bucktown 5K on September 12.
And the Chicago Half Marathon the week after that.
And the Chicago Marathon on October 10.
It's a good thing I just happened to think about visiting the Chicago Marathon site, too; registration closes at midnight tonight. So it forced me to make a decision RIGHT NOW.
And now there's no turning back.
And the Chicago Half Marathon the week after that.
And the Chicago Marathon on October 10.
It's a good thing I just happened to think about visiting the Chicago Marathon site, too; registration closes at midnight tonight. So it forced me to make a decision RIGHT NOW.
And now there's no turning back.
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