My First Novel Completed!

On November 4th, I entered a national contest with thousands of other would-be authors to complete a 50,000 word novel by November 30. After hours upon hours of typing, backspacing, and filling in the blanks of my life, it's finally complete.

Total word count: 89,624 words!

I call the piece "Are you a Queer? The Life of Identity and Other Crises"

Details to come.

The Ian Show

Recently, I've decided to tap into my inner diva. Or, so to speak. I'm creating a YouTube channel in hopes of becoming an internet super star. I've long had a love for performance. Back in the day, I'd write script and the neighbor kids (my brother's and sisters' friends) would come over and we'd read the skits and record them on tape. It was a lot of fun.

In my teens, I bought a couple camcorders. One "high end" from home shopping network and another from Toys R Us. The one from the toy store shot exclusively in black and white. I'd write script or just out impromptu skits with my kid sister. The skits didn't necessarily have to make any sense. At some point I put panty hose over my face and stretched the legs of them while spinning around in an office chair squealing, "I'm wacky rabbit, wacky rabbit, Whaaackeeee RABBIT!"

Totally stupid, I know, but there was something about it...some magic, that I loved.

In high school, I was in a number of plays, my interested in them spawned from a ridiculous skit in Spanish class. Every quarter or so, we'd have to act out a small skit in front of the entire class, using words we had learned in previous lessons. The first such session involved me and a classmate mimicking we were in a plane. I clutched my stomach and squeezed out a painful, "Me muero!!" Which translates to: "I'm dying."

The entire class was uproarious. Suddenly the shy kid who was constantly, secretly, on edge for fear of bullying or being called horrible names, was thrust into the spotlight. My fellow students loved it. Of course, I'm not sure if they loved the fact I was dying because they hated me, or if somehow I made a mass connection. Even the football jocks who had long been disturbed by my perceived sexuality found my rendition of a Spanish-speaking-man-suffering-from-air-sickness funny. With each successive skit-driven assignment, I died, or somehow uttered the phrase that made me famous in that class.

At some point during my junior year, a classmate urged me to audition for the high school's fall play. She long had a love for the theatre and was cast in all of the plays she auditioned for. With her lead and encouragement, I went to auditions and scored my first role as a man who goes to a seance with his wife and channels King Henry VIII. I was marvelous. I know, because audience members told me after each performance as they filed past the actors and actresses.

I was cast in supporting roles for both the spring and fall plays of my senior year in high school. I loved the rush of being on stage. The feeling that at that moment, all eyes were on me. And people came because they wanted to see me, the shy gay kid who was breaking out of his shell. Or maybe they were driven there by seeing the plenty of other kids on the stage. In any event, whether they came because I was in the play, or if they came because they were related to the other performers, I knew I would leave an impression on them. I shined.

Before I started college, I went to an open audition at Webster University. As a result, I was cast as a transvestite in a student film and a Marilyn Monroe look-alike, complete with goatee in an experimental film by the Associate Professor of the film school. It was a lot of fun and we got free pizza and copies of the finished movies (VHS format). Subsequently, I performed as a female impersonator at a local club.

As an adult, I performed in three community plays. As a 1940s gangster in "Give My Regards to Broadway", an old man in a play that felt like a Saturday Night Live skit, and lastly as a clam shucker in the ensemble cast of Carousel (my first singing role). There's something about being part of the community and giving something back that I adore about small theatre companies. It's a lot of work, but it was a fun lot of work.

It's been awhile since I've been in any theatre production, but every Halloween, I do enjoy dressing up. I like when people look at me, mesmerized by my costume. I like stepping outside of myself and becoming something else. I like the theatrics of it all. It's like where ever I step, that's my stage. I could don a full costume and go to the post office, and boom, that's my stage. All eyes on Ian. And there's some high I get out of it. It's like an out of body experience for my personality.

So, I've had a history of being theatrical. I love it. I can be anyone or anything. And that, my friends, is what The Ian Show is all about. Let the voting begin on what my YouTube channel will be called...

Papa Don't Preach

My father is a loser.

His love for gaining a high at the expense of my ailing mother is enough. I've been dealing with his drug-induced love all my life. Though, he's gotten progressively worse. Anything he can smoke, put up his nose, or in his mouth, he will. No matter what the cost. And now he's cost himself his eldest son.

I tried. I really did. To accept that he wouldn't change, because he, himself refused to. I'm tired of the fight. Tired of him stealing my mother's prescription medications. Tired of arguing with him about what he's made my family become. Tired of his outright ignorance and disregard for me, my brother, my sisters, and most importantly, my mom.

She's suffering because she chooses to live with him. They just celebrated 33 years of marriage. I'm not sure what the celebration entailed, but it most assuredly was not a romantic candle-lit dinner. It probably consisted of a drooling stupor and Mom turning to bed early. Now, I'm sure there were wonderful moments of pure bliss during those years, and maybe there will be momentary pockets of more...but I'll never know that because I'm done. Absolutely done with him.

Today got ugly. But I stood my ground. I knew what I needed to say, and I said it. And unlike all the other times we got into a heated discussion about his drug abuse, I didn't shed a tear. Historically, I would argue until I was hurting. He'd threaten to kill himself (his only out when backed into an undeniable corner). I'd tell him not to be stupid, and he'd make me realize how sad he was, although he'd never expressly say it. The conversation would end with me in tears, unable to speak clearly with my wavering voice and deep, angry sobs.

Yes. I was a champion today. I'm not looking for a medal of honor; it is a sad, pathetic story. I couldn't back down. I was too angry.

Mom was in a car accident. We spent 5 hours in the hospital. She's okay, but the car's totalled. When my sister took Mom home, Dad yelled at her for not filling her prescription of pain medication. No concern for the well-being of his wife. No concern for the feelings of his children. His only concern was for him to get high, or mellow out, or whatever. What a pathetic piece of crap. A TRUE embarrassment. And he's my father. But not any more.

I was on the way to console my mom when my sister called and urged me to get her out of the house. "Dad" had lost his mind, gone insane really because he was concerned about pills that aren't prescribed to him. I knew I had to get her out of that hostile environment. Years ago, she refused to divorce him. Perhaps out of fear, or guilt, or comfort, and now I had to rescue her...or so I thought.

When I arrived, he was frantically on the phone dialing Walgreens to fill her prescription. They were in their bedroom, Mom curled in a near-fetal position on the bed. I brushed by the druggie and laid next to MY mom. I didn't say a word to the old man. But he responded, "What, so I'm an asshole?!"

From that moment, I knew it was on. Whatever "it" was. Dad was pissed because he needed his drug fix. I was pissed for the same reason. I knew what I wanted to tell him, I just didn't know exactly how it would transpire.

I told him I was tired of him stealing medication from my mom. I told him he was tearing the family apart. I called him selfish. I told him I wished he would kill himself, like he always threatens. I told him he was a horrible father. And I meant every word I said.

At one point, he threw the prescription bottle at my head when I questioned who the meds were prescribed to. When he wanted it back so he could complete the automated Walgreens transaction, I refused, saying that I'd have it filled when I took Mom with me. At that point, he referred to my partner as "your fruit boyfriend". I had always known my sexuality bothered him, but he was usually cordial with my partners. Now, his true colors were rapidly evolving.

Still, I refused to hand him the bottle. He angrily got into my face and threatened to hit me. His face reddened and his scowl pierced through me. Still I didn't waiver. The old man has two bad knees, and my foot was only inches away from a hearty kick, right into the closet. Mom begged him to back down and asked me to give him the bottle.

By the end of the 30-minute ordeal, we both told each other "Fuck You", he told me get out of his house, and to never come back. He did say I didn't care about him, but I pointed out that I called him for his birthday yesterday (they got married on his birthday). He flat-out told me "so what". The failure also made claims that I was "homosexual" because I was molested (not true), and that I was a "sarcastic sonovabitch" (when I'm angry, it really comes out).

During this nasty shouting match, Mom, in all her complacency, wrote him a check for the cost of her just-filled prescription. He snatched it from her fingers and cast a dagger-stare at me before storming out of the room. I pleaded for my mother to come home with me, but she refused, fearing harsher repercussions if she wasn't home when he returned (whenever that might be). So, I let her be. I hugged her hard and told her I loved her then I came home and cried my eyes out.

But I didn't show him my tears he had seen so many times before. Mom told me she was surprised that I finally stood up to him ("like a man," were his words). My brother congratulated me on my performance as well, saying, "I've been waiting for you to do that. Felt good, didn't it."

Yes, it did feel good to tell that horrible excuse for a human exactly how I felt. Without crying, and without writing letters that were undoubtedly crumpled up and thrown away. It doesn't feel good, however, to know that Mom still has to put up with that man and all his insane antics. I'll still visit her, just not in their home. Other people have opted out of visiting there because of his behavior, and I'm sure I won't be the last. Because Keith makes sure to be consistent in one area: being a bigoted drug-induced asshole like everyone knows him to be.

Of course, I'm still angry as I write this. The anger will fade away, but my feelings will not.

A Friendly Hello

There's this man who makes me smile. I don't know his name, and as far as I know, he doesn't know mine either. I've never spoken to him, but every time I see him, he makes me happy. If only for a moment.

He lives in a place that I would rather not visit, but nonetheless, I see him nearly every day on my way to the office. He lives in an area where the houses are dilapitated, some even with the rooves caving in. Boarded up windows, burnt out shells of some homes, crackled lead-based paints, trash strewn about. And yet, he's there, this man, with a huge smile on his chubby face, waving to passersby on their commute through the shoddy little town.

I don't know his motivation behind standing in front of his presumed home, grinning largely in the most friendly way. He waves to everyone, this man. Some people honk or return a wave, but most glance and drive on. Either out of fear, or confusion, these commuters don't even seem to acknowledge this man as he spreads a little bit of cheer. But, if they're like me, their lack of perceived lack of appreciation is internalized so no one else can see it.

See, I appreciate this man in all his pleasantly rotund and jolly demeanor. I don't overtly acknowledge him, but occasionally, when the timing is just right, I'll nod and smile as I drive past. He'll nod in return, and somehow I know he understands, even though he's constantly nodding...and waving. It's as if he's saying "Yeah, I know this town is crap and people look down on it, but happiness can happen where you least expect it."

It's never as bad as you might think.

And that makes me smile.

Life Happens

Life is what you make of it. If we focus on the dreary, what could very well be real, we fail to recognize just how silly and zany it can be. Sure, smoking causes cancer. People who shoot up drugs are constantly on the brink of overdosing. A nervous twitch could be the onset of multiple sclerosis. A trip to the grocery store could end in loss of limb or death if another car careens into our paths. Deep frying jalapeno poppers in the Fry Daddy could potentially burn the house down. We all think nothing will happen, pushing the bad into the backs of our minds, as we carry about our lives.

But when you think too much about any of the above, you begin to fear life. I think skydiving would be an amazing experience, but it's not for everyone. Why? The dangers are imminent. Namely, the parachute won't open, the plane will crash, there's no guarantee of a safe landing...etc, etc. Of course, going to work on a daily basis could potentially pose some threat. Just last week, two cars were broken into in the surrounding area. But that's only if I make it to the office. I could get into a car accident, or have some truck slam into my body when I kneel to change a tire alongside the road.

Dangers about, they really do. The typical person will surpress these ideas and live the present. We all throw caution into the wind. We fixate less on the mishaps of living and find our way to get what we need to survive. Even those who fear leaving their homes for any of the above mentioned reasons could fall victim to electric fires, slipping in the shower, or stepping on a nail. Bright yellow CAUTION tape should really wrap around out "personal space" so we're made aware of the dangers outside our bubble. But in an ordinary day, we never truly know what bad will happen. (As I write this, my sperm count is dropping as the heat of the laptop incinerates my little guys, and the tendons in my wrists are knotting up.)

Inconveniences that result from living are overshadowed by the here-and-now. Studies have undoubtedly shown smoking causes cancer. Yet, smokers aren't worried about that...now. Need to get to Point B, when Point B is halfway across the country? Just hop in some large pressurized tube with 100+ strangers and go careening through the sky at the hands of some captain you've never met. Amusement parks make millions of dollars each year by charging people who are "thrill seekers" to ride on runaway trains will little more than an iron bar to protect them from any mishap.

We overlook the hiccups in life so we can focus on living, having fun, or what have you. When we spend too much time fearing the what-ifs, we miss out on being human and enjoying ourselves. We have things like cars and trains for getting around, razors for removing unwanted hair, and ovens for preparing our meals. A gas water heater keeps our showers hot and a pair of scissors is oh-so-handy for just about any craft project or coupon clipping. But any of these things could very well secure our demise. Still, we carry on.

Focusing on these little things may make us realize just how ridiculous life could be. Things that make Saturday Night Live's "Debbie Downer" skits seem so funny. We realize that if we pay credence to possible mishaps or obstacles in day-to-day life, it's all a bit absurd. By the same token, it makes us laugh. And enjoying life is one of the most wonderful things we'll experience.

DEBBIE DOWNER SKIT

Funny Doesn't Mean Laughter

I'm depressed. But aren't all artists?

I'm deep. Real deep. Sometimes I think so hard about something that I get wrapped. Like this blog, for instance. I want to write, and I know how to write, but there's some motivation lacking or something. Well, the motivation is there, but a topic fails me at the moment.

Let's reflect on what makes Ian smile...

Seeing my partner happy and knowing the love we share.

Seeing my niece's face.

Knowing my cousin's young family.

My pets.

Ice cream.

Creating.

Giving a satisfactory experience to a client at work.

Desperate Housewives.

McDonald's large iced hazelnut coffee.

Flying a kite.

Writing something amusing.

A sunny, but cool day.

Let's reflect on what makes Ian laugh:

Sharing something funny with my partner, that he equally thinks is funny.

When our dog runs around the house like he's WAY over-caffienated.

Reading posts on http://www.lamebook.com/.

Conan.

Reading posts on http://www.regretsy.com/.

The ridiculousness of day-to-day life.

Margaret Cho.

Being tickled.

Thinking of something that's inappropriate for the setting.

Yes, I'm a multifaceted person, just trying to make sense of this crazy world we live in. Sometimes I wonder if there's more to life than the here-and-now. Of course, I know there is. I read about it all the time. Rags to riches stories, brainiacs who managed their business correctly, and accidental millionaires. I know money's not the solution to everything, but I also know it has the ability to make life more comfortable. No, I'm talking about some alternate, parallel universe. A place that not even leading physics can identify. Does it exist?

If it does, would I be the same person I am today? Or would I look like me but have a different, if opposite, personality?

Death

I find things fascinating that perhaps I shouldn't. I'm curious about death. I'm not morbid, or goth, and I certainly don't want to kill myself. Rather, I'm interested in reading how others died. Especially historic people: actors, inventors, kings, business people...you name it, if they died, I want to know why. Occasionally, I find myself researching the deaths of people who were for the most part nameless faces in the crowd.

The first time I laughed out loud at something on television was during an old episode of "I Love Lucy." Everyone says it was one of the best programs ever made. Still, with Saturday morning cartoons and other shows aimed at children, with silly creatures doing odd things, you'd think I'd laugh. But I didn't. Bugs Bunny in drag wasn't funny; neither was Gargamel when the Smurfs managed to foil him again. But that crazy redhead in all her fabulousness proved more engaging than any prettied up male rabbit or fictional blue gnomes. And she was in black and white.

I fell in love with Lucille Ball. Not the character she played, but the actress herself. I loved Lucy. She made me laugh. I wanted her to know the profound impact she had on my life. In all my young years, I had barely cracked a smile when it came to children's programming, but this lady had me roaring with laughter in her hare-brained schemes with Ethel. I set out to write her. Sadly, by the time I had located her mailing address, Ms. Ball died of an aortic aneurysm on April 26, 1989. My letter was never sent.

So, there's was never closure. People need closure to say the things they never got to when a person was alive. Lucy's death weighed heavy on my heart. I know I didn't know her personally, but she made me laugh. I also know I wasn't the only one she made laugh. Scores of Americans and folks abroad have been enlightened by her, but she spoke to me. And I never got to speak back to her. I never got to tell her how she made my tiny bedroom television worth the space it was taking up. She left me, and the world, too soon.

It took a long time before anyone close to me died. I was 29 when an older friend succumbed to liver disease. Janet was closer to me than I was to her. So, her death, while sad, didn't cause me to lose sleep. She had been suffering for quite some time, and I last visited her just two days before she passed. I felt closure.

Up until 2007, all my grandparents were living. Then, one by one they died. Grandpa, Grandma, Grandpa, Grandma. Granted, some of them had lost "grand" status a long time ago. When I was a kid, we were close. As an adult, I became foreign to each of them. Mostly because of me, but due in part to their social beliefs. The emotional distance of my relationship to each of them made me related by blood alone and not by the moments that shape the love for grandparent to child.

After each death, my parents and siblings would band together and reach out to aunts, uncles, cousins, and they'd form a plan. Typically, I offered to be there, but didn't want any part of the coordinating. Closure wasn't in my plan. It was facetime I was concerned with. I could provide emotional support for those who needed closure. Bonds with grandma or grandpa were so strong some relatives couldn't bare to experience life without them. Sure, I'd be a shoulder to cry on. I'd even wear cotton, or some other material that would sop up weepy sobs.

Funerals aren't fun. They should be. It's typically the only reason my extended family gets together. Always a time for celebration. Each time someone dies, we get together at the parlor and talk about how long it's been since we've seen one another, and what we're doing with our lives, and how we should get together on purpose, for a purpose, that doesn't involved a delicately preserved matriarch in a box. But it never happens. No family reunions, no parties, no celebration.

So perhaps my infatution with other people's deaths stems from an inability to make death personal. No one I ever genuinely cared about ever died. Cancer took my "favorite" grandparent in June. She was a sweet woman, but she lived two states away, so I felt I hardly knew her. It's easy to have a favorite something when that something is shrouded in mystery.

Lucy came into my home mostly whenever I wanted her to. At that time, Nick at Nite played her show constantly. I knew she was a good woman. And funny. So hysterically funny. She had a standing invite to come visit me any time, but she was taken too soon. So, I investigate the deaths of people I hardly know. Wikipedia has become my friend. And the more tragic or bizarre the cause of death, the better. Actors who die young are especially entertaining.

I never try to overthink a death when I learn of it. I'm just curious as to why people died, their age, and what was going on in their lives just before they took their last breath. Maybe it makes me odd, but I don't mean any harm in it. I'm a curious creature, living on this strange planet, who is fascinated by life because my life hasn't been touched by a great mass of fascinating people.