Sometimes the push for all these advancements in the gay agenda doesn't work for me.
For instance: now that gay marriage is legal in certain states, I must be confronted with the ugly reality that my ex-boyfriend GOT MARRIED in Massachusetts last week. And the lucky bride? He is a South American male beauty pageant contestant. Yeah. Please, twist the knife a little harder now that it's jammed through my chest.
These are not emotions I was ever prepared to confront. Dating, I don't care; co-habitating, fine. But marriage is so officially exclusionary of involving me in their happy future together. I've spent far too much time imagining how my ex would someday pull up to my apartment in a white limousine, just like Richard Gere in the final scene of "Pretty Woman," and climb my fire escape to apologize for being so heartless in the past and then whisk me away. But apparently I was mistaken—he wasn't sitting around all day thinking about me, he was dating underwear models. Oh well, it never would have worked out anyway, I don't actually have a fire escape.
I have ex-boyfriends in California, New York, and Washington; I would prefer the fight for gay marriage in those states be shut down completely, please. Luckily there is a gay marriage ban written into the state constitution of Missouri, so I don't have to worry about any marriage news from my ex-boyfriend there.
OMG, I just thought of something else: what if they adopt a baby? I will die.
1) I just saw "Kick-Ass" and I want to go fight some crime. For anyone who ever read comic books and dreamed of being a superhero, this is a must-see—especially because it is a logical view of what would really happen if you tried to go out and fight crime. And what would that result be? You probably don't really know how to fight, so you'd wave some sticks around in the air and make some ninja noises, and then you'd get stabbed.
The story is styled as if it is being read from a comic book, and and therefore it goes in some crazy directions; but it is restrained juuuuuuust enough to avoid being stupid. The actors are phenomenal—including a young girl who goes on a murderous rampage that would make Quentin Tarantino proud—and whoever the lead guy is, Aaron Johnson?...he's the next Jake Gyllenhall, dorky and adorable. He shall be a huge star.
2) Guess who I met this weekend? I went to a screening of Violet Tendencies, a new indie film on the festival circuit, starring one of my childhood favorites: Mindy Cohn. Yes, THAT Mindy Cohn. Mizz Mindy was in the audience, and I am happy to tell you she is delightful in person. "Violet Tendencies" is a typical independent film: it's too long, sound quality is poor, and the script drips with cliché, but the overall product is so charming you forgive all the flaws. Mindy Cohn is very funny in this movie, I recommend a viewing. I would tell you want the movie is about but the trailer covers everything.
I will say this: the movie is about a straight woman who tries to balance her own romantic life with the emotional demands of gay male friends. I've been burned a few times in this scenario; my problems would arise when a gal-pal found a boyfriend, and dumped me to go be emotionally fulfilled by him instead. It's like I was a foster boyfriend, filling in until someone came along who (a) has sex with her and (b) is more socially appropriate. I wonder if the relationships ever meant anything to these girls in the first place, or was I just filler?
Arizona's governor just signed Bill 1070 into law, which allows a police officer to detain anyone who looks like an illegal immigrant, and require the person provides proof of citizenship. No proof? You go to jail until you can cough up documents.
Just to let you know: a driver's license is not proof of citizenship.
But this blog post is not about the legalities of the Arizona bill. People are freaking out about "legalizing racial profiling," but I'm not sure how this is different from what already goes on?
Case in point: TODAY. I am driving to the Port of Miami, to pick up T.L. He works on a cruise ship that docks here every week; we had plans to get lunch of something.
Crew members have ID's that show they work on the ship, and they all enter/exit from a separate door away from the passengers. There is no immigration checkpoint there; to be employed on this ship, they must all have legal documentation, which is checked by U.S. immigration. Their employee pass is proof they are legally allowed in the country. Every day, thousands of workers get on and off the ships this way.
Today, T.L. exits the ship, and stands on the sidewalk to wait for me. In the meantime, he takes out his phone and calls his mother. He chats for a few minutes, when an immigration officer approaches him and tells him to hang up. T.L. does so. The officer asks him "What are you doing here?"
T.L. showed his employee I.D., explained he works on the ship, he's waiting for his friend to pick him up. The officer then repeats, "So, what are you doing here?" They go through this three times. The officer asks "If you work on the ship, why do you have a phone?"
T.L. is then brought to an office, where he is told to stand in front of several officers, and is strip-searched. T.L. asks, "Can you tell me, what did I do wrong?" and they respond "Stop asking questions," among some other deragatory comments.
What upset him, however, was how they laughed at him as he took off his clothes; his hands were shaking, so they fired questions at him asking why he was nervous, was he hiding something?...and he said no, he was just nervous about being there. And they laughed. Then they kept him in the office for a while, without talking to him; they just made him sit.
T.L. has been harassed by cops numerous times. This is nothing new. He is dark-skinned and he speaks broken English with a Spanish-language accent, and therefore he is a target. And the officers know they can do this, because if anyone complains they just say the person looked "suspicious."
There is no reason a person standing on a sidewalk talking on a cell phone should be considered "suspicious." But they are suspicious because they could be illegal. Technically, the only "illegal" aspect to the situation is the fact that these officers are blatantly using racial profiling. But to whom do we complain? No one. There's no one who can do anything about this.
I understand the people of Arizona feel like they are losing control of their communities. I also realize this law is intended specifically to slow the fence-jumping of drug dealers who then kidnap/kill people. But I'm not convinced giving a stamp of approval to racial profiling is the direction this country should go.
delicious fruit smoothie, made with whole blended fruits (not from a
"juicer"! too much sugar!) and a dollop of Greek yogurt.
3) Exercise. Perhaps run
the stairs at 1111 Lincoln? Or
maybe a morning swim?
4) Clean apartment, do laundry, etc.
Deadlines. There's writing to do.
6) Go to hardware store down
the street and buy wood to build that shoe shelf in the closet. The
shoes on the floor have gone feral, they are out of control and must be
7) Dinner: nice fresh fish. And let's eat the rest of that
hummus that's still in the fridge, with vegetables.
1) Wake up late. Weather: rainy. Go back
2) Finally get out of bed. Skip breakfast, sip a cup of
coffee instead, flavored with 1% milk as a nutritional consideration.
Yea, it's raining! I don't have to work out! Neurotically sort dirty
clothes into multiple piles. Grab several piles and drag to car.
Head to J's building, because her washer/dryer is better.
lunch of Laffy Taffy and Skittles while engaging J in very important
6) Play Super Mario Bros. and God of War for 6 hours.
Really? Yes, 6 hours.
7) Get into argument with J because she is
inconsiderate and always rushes her Mario ahead in Super Mario Bros. in
the 2-player game, and my Luigi gets left behind and dies. J defends
her tactics as entirely Machiavellian and therefore justified. Refuse to play anymore and pout.
9) Dinner: order a
pizza, with vegetables as a nutritional consideration.
"16 and Pregnant" and "House."
11) Contemplate going home to
work. Oops, it's still raining, can't get the clean laundry wet. Time
for Guitar Hero!
12) Sneak out of apartment while J sleeps,
locking door, and head home.
The Wii Fit is out to make you feel bad about yourself.
It is a conspiracy.
The inventors of this thing have an agenda, and that agenda is the destruction of society as we know it. Are they receiving kickbacks from the pharmaceutical companies for pushing anti-depressants? Is Wynonna Judd involved, hoping people will hate themselves and rush to their local pharmacies to hoard bottles of Alli? I believe she is.
I stepped on this Wii thing, in the hopes of completing the bicycle course that looked like so much fun, but before I could start I had to have my body mass measured?...apparently I have the body of a 44 year-old person. I am actually 36. I find this hard to believe so I'll ignore it, there's no way for the thing to know what's going on in my internal organs.
But then it said my goal weight, for my 6'3" frame, should be 177 pounds. I weighed 177 pounds when I was a runway model. I was so skinny, my ribs were visible and my hip bones stuck out. When I walked in the show for Tommy Hilfiger, they had to switch my clothes because I was so skinny that my legs did not fill out the spandex shorts we were all supposed to wear.
I know many people over 6 feet tall weigh much less than I do; but for me, it doesn't work. The Wii does not know this. It just tells me I need to lose, like, 30 pounds. I would like to know how that is possible.
It is not.
Nor should it be.
The Wii asks the impossible. It also asks the undesirable.
It is built to make us suffer. Do not succumb. Fight against the Wii.
Yesterday I was shopping in your Aventura store, where you had grey trousers on sale. They were polyester blend, which makes me wonder why Calvin Klein is selling polyester, but that's another topic for another day. They were on sale, and they looked nice; I was considering buying two pairs—one with waist size 34, one 36, which I like to do so I can wear the appropriate pants if I am having a fat day or not. It's not a fiscally responsible policy but it works for me.
The dressing rooms at Aventura are small; when I go in, I am a bit large for the space and it can be clausterphobic, but that's not a problem.
As I was pulling off my pants while trying to not fall over in the little dressing room, I heard someone knocking on all of the doors. The rooms have full-length heavy wooden doors, which are a nice touch, but they prevent people from looking down to see (a) if the rooms are occupied or (b) who is in there, based on recognition of the foot/ankle area. So obviously this person was looking for someone.
As it turns out, it was a sales associate, looking for her client. There are, what, 15 dressing rooms in this store? Knock knock knock, pause, knock knock knock, pause, all the way down. When she got to my room, I just ignored her, as I would have to shout through the door for her to hear.
But she persisted. Knock knock knock. Pause. Knock knock knock again.
"What?" I yelled through the door. I had one leg in and one leg out of the size 34 pants, which already felt like they weren't going to cooperate as I was apparently having a size 36 day. The sales associate said, "I'm looking for my client." I didn't reply, as I was not the person she was looking for. I presumed she would go away.
She didn't. Knock knock knock.
"WHAT?" I yelled through the door. She said something I didn't understand. I replied "I'm not him!" in the hopes she'd go away. She said something else. "GO AWAY," I said. She said something else! "GO AWAY!" I said again, at this point yelling. I was hopping up and down on one leg, trying not to lose my balance as I apparently couldn't dress and yell at the door at the same time. That room was so small, her knocking was loud and persistent, it was making me nervous and I got confused and the claustrophobia was setting in. Get me out of here.
She knocked again. Knock knock knock. What a bitch.
I ripped off the stupid pants, tossed them aside so I could stand up, and opened the door. Clothing: one shirt, undies, socks. "WHAT?" I snapped. "What do you want?!"
"I'm looking for my client," she said, and then began to ramble something. I interrupted her. "I'm not him, leave me alone!" as I swung the door shut, wondering how trying on pants had become so stressful.
There was a pause. And then a bulb went off in her head. "Wait, I know you!" Knock knockknockknockknockknock.
I'm usually happy to meet my fans from my reality-TV days. They keep me young. But this...I can't...my God, how rude. What happened next is a chain of events that doesn't make me particularly proud. Let me just say this: when someone is backed into a corner and begins to panic, s/he cannot be faulted for reacting with survival instincts. If I were a jungle animal, I would have gone for her throat as I tried to make my escape. Luckily, as this woman is still alive, I was able to contain my violent instincts.
I realize you cannot teach someone common sense. An idiot is an idiot, and obviously this woman is so stupid it is a miracle that she remembers to breathe in and out all day long to keep herself alive. However, you can teach her manners; if a dog can learn to sit, stay, and fetch, this woman can learn to just do her job without the drama. If I were a real celebrity I would have the money to pay for bodyguards to keep people like this away; butt keep in mind I was shopping the sale racks of polyester pants. I can't afford a bodyguard at the mall. Or anywhere.
Obviously, I left without buying anything. I will admit I have several suits from Calvin Klein, I am a loyal shopper almost to the point of being monogamous with that store, so my sales presumably could have financed her salary for working that day. I don't think keeping her around is worth the expense. If you do keep her, please put her on a leash. I could have lived with the polyester pants, but she is someone who is better suited for the stockroom.
Today is Monday, April 5, 2010. I, Dan Renzi, just watched "Brokeback Mountain" for the first time.
It was on TV, Bravo of course, so I didn't get to see the sex-in-a-tent scene, although my friends have told me about it in great detail so I am up to speed on what happens.
I don't know why I refused to see it until I had no other choice—the only other show on tonight was "Dancing With The Stars." But 10 seconds of watching the guy from "The Bachelor" do the Quick Step, to the tune of "Walk Like An Egyptian," and I was nauseous. So, the gay cowboys won.
Who won the Oscar the year Heath Ledger was nominated for "Brokeback"? Oh my sweet gherkins, Heath was good, who could have beat him? That final scene where he's looking at Jack's shirt, hanging with the photo of Brokeback Mountain...when he finally agrees to go to his daughter's wedding because he REALLY DOES BELIEVE IN LOVE...I can't keep typing this, it's too much.
I'm in a mood today.
He said he was coming in town, he asked me to pick him up and we could go see a movie, get some lunch. What a lovely way to spend the day, remembering those good times that aren't so far in the past.
I wore my good burgundy shirt—short-sleeve knit, button down, one of my favorites—I only wear it on special occasions because I have to wash it by hand so the color doesn't fade. My hair, however, wasn't washed. After spending the day yesterday on a boat, I had a great sea salt/wind-blown look going on, to give the impression that I really am this stylish but I put no effort into it. It was a perfectly-timed hair victory.
10 minutes after picking him up, we were arguing. Less than 20 minutes after, he was out of my car and storming away, and I was driving in the opposite direction. 30 minutes later, the nasty text messages were flying. Good hair: wasted. Lovely day: ruined.
We made up, but not really. Too much was said, too much has been said. These mini-reunions still happen, and I still put on my good shirt for him, hoping this time will be better; but if it could have gotten better, then it would have gotten better before we broke up.
So I came home, sat inside and listened to my neighbor chatter away on his phone. He has to stand on our porch to get cell phone reception, right next to my window. He's Italian, everything he says sounds exciting. I would be annoyed, but then he cooks and the whole building smells like heaven, so I forgive everything he does.
We're never too old to not be bothered by boys, are we? It's so terrifying to think I will never outgrow this, that when I am an old man I will still get my feelings hurt because "he" (whoever he is then) ignored me or said something mean. I can't imagine wasting so much time on something so silly, life is too short. Sadly, you can't control what you feel. I can't "snap out of it." Blah.
I wallowed in sorrow for a few hours, long enough to get it out of my system. And I was feeling better, getting some work done on this little computer of mine, until "Brokeback Mountain" came on. There's a higher power at work here, and that power wants me to spend some time being sad today. At least I have permission for my pity party.
It really is a sad movie, isn't it? Poor Ennis. Poor Jack. At least today wasn't a total waste, I accomplished something by seeing this movie.