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.

Discrimination

Head lice seemed to infiltrate my family school year after school year. It started in mid-fall, almost without fail. The school nurse checked the kids on a semi-regular basis, especially if an infestation was suspected. And every year, we'd get sent home. We couldn't return until Mom had thoroughly doused our heads with lice shampoo and ran that damn micro-toothed comb through our hair until our scalps were sensitive and burning. She'd strip the beds of all their sheets and wash them. Still, the little buggers didn't go away without a fight.

I know other kids in school looked at us like we were dirty, filthy members of society who needed to be quarantined because we infected others with our horrible disease. Despite everything we read on head lice, that it has nothing to do with cleanliness, people still jeered at us. And we were just children. We didn't do anything wrong. Yet, we were stigmatized as unclean. Even once we were allowed to return to class and the nurse inspected our follicles, everyone kept their distance. We were tainted.

It's always the fear of the unknown that causes stigma. Beliefs, whether real or imagined, help perpetuate the stereotypes that cause discrimination. And the other kids, their parents, and even school faculty scowled at us. Even if they knew the facts.

Starting in the fifth grade, I was picked on because I was different. Maybe it was the way I walked, or the way I carried my books from class to class. Perhaps it was the way I talked. There was something about me that other students didn't like, and I became the butt of their cruel jokes. I was tormented, really. Always watching my back, wondering why I was being treated like some kind of freakish monster. A monster who needed a good lashing.

My feminine characteristics had kids calling me hateful, homophobic names throughout high school. On numerous occasions, my locker was slammed, I was tripped in the hallway, books were knocked out of my arms. I didn't even know I was gay at the time. I was more or less indifferent to either sex. It wasn't until a couple days after I graduated that I went on my first-ever date...with a girl. All the guys, from jocks to nerds, never got to see me walk hand-in-hand with a female, and most would always remember me as that queer. Their bias against me had me question who I was, but once Lisa and I started our romance, I was quite certain I was heterosexual, an upstanding citizen in "normal" society.

Truth is, people are discriminated against every day, and for any number of things. Behaviors or appearances that are abnormal, are often grounds for stigma and hatred. Women experience the glass ceiling quite often in the workplace. Gays and lesbians suffer from crimes against them because of their sexual orientation. Black men and women are constantly followed in department stores by security. Transgendered men and women are often ridiculed for their appearance, and segregated by their biological sex. People living with a disability, either physical or mental, are often deemed damaged or broken. Muslims are profiled because of their skin color and clothing. Overweight men and women are constantly mocked by everyday society because of their size.

The list could really continue endlessly. Everyone is stigmatized for some reason or another. Stereotypes perpetuate people's feelings about others. Especially if the other groups are not like them. Humans feel the need to segregate people into subgroups, using descriptions and labels. If we can decide who's who, it's easier to classify them and steer clear of them if a they pose a threat. Regardless if it's a simple outbreak of head lice, or something that can't be fixed, like the color of someone's skin.

We all feel the need to be included, but different. Until we can all learn to accept one another as people, we will never truly be an inclusive society. War will continue, both at home and abroad.

What a Spectacle!

Football. Baseball. Hockey. Basketball. Soccer. Tennis. I really couldn't care less. I never understood people's fascination with sports. Sure, it's one thing to participate, but it's something completely different to act as a spectator. And yet, millions are psyched about each sports season as it comes, rooting for their favorite teams, wearing the jerseys, going to the games. To me, it's a complete waste of time.

It's not that I don't understand the rules of each game. There's a big difference between not understanding and not caring. Still, complete strangers will strike up conversations, as easily as they would to talk about the weather. It's easy to talk about the heat, the cold, the rain, or whatever. Everyone experiences it. But to talk about who won the game last night or how close it was, is just beyond me. I simply answer with a polite, "I don't know". I try not to be flippant about it, but I really just don't care.

I've only been to two baseball games in my entire life. From what I understand, tickets are still relatively inexpensive, but I'd rather spend my money on a movie, or a giant chocolate bar, or a pedicure. Sports have never interested me. Sometimes I feel like an oddity, someone who could have traveled with the circus back in the day. They'd charge a couple coins for the people to see me. They'd gawk and ogle and throw trash at me. I'm a cultural abomination.

But really, who's the oddity here? People who pay exorbitant amounts of money for the "experience" of seeing a game in person, watching and waiting for their team to score a winning point? Some hardcore fans actually paint their faces with their team's colors so everyone knows who they support. Others aren't as obnoxious with their love of the game. Instead, they prefer to wear expensive jerseys with the name and number of their favorite player plastered on the back. They like to worship their athletic icons. And I'm the oddity?

And how does a person decide which team to root for? Is it wise to always support the home team, or choose a random team because their colors coordinate with your handbag? People actually get into arguments and segregate themselves like they're part of some kind of political campaign. Always us and them. But they love it.

As we approach another football season, my news wall is becoming inundated with posts from friends who talk about their excitement. They can barely contain themselves. And it seems everyone comments.

"Oh yeah, can't hardly believe it. I'm gonna go to the game topless with my boobs painted so everyone knows who I root for."

"Shoot, girl, all I have is a jersey with my fav player's name in huge letters on the back. Your boob idea is so much better."

"Dude, I'm totally going. Boobs, beer, and pigskin!"

Everyone seems to know the names of the players. Who's good. Who's new. Who was traded. What their best score was. It's like complex characters in some movie or soap opera. And most of the world is hooked. They love the drama of the game. The edge of the seat moments that get their adrenaline running. The beer flows, the nachos and hotdogs come around, and the spectacle unfolds on the field.

Sports make no sense to me. A football game is comprised of four quarters. Supposedly, each of these quarters is fifteen minutes long. I'm pretty good at math. This equation should equal 60 minutes, an hour. Yet, in the history of everything I've grudgingly known about the sport, no football game has lasted a mere hour. Not even close. Overtime, again. Heck, this country takes the sport so seriously, the evening news is pushed back in light of men in uniform tousling of some bizarrely-shaped ball.

When I was in high school, I was forced to play softball. I always envied the girls because they didn't have to shower if they were on their period. They didn't have to show proof, they could just sit out. No need for a shower, or to get changed in the locker room. Girls had it easy. I, on the other hand, dreaded P.E. I was not athletically inclined in the slightest.

Every time Ian was up to bat, the basemen would take fifteen steps forward. And that was only banking on the very idea that the bat would make contact with the ball. My coordination was horrendous. Once, I was completely mortified when the pitcher, our Phys. Ed. teacher, purposefully tossed the ball way up over my head. He did this a number of times so I had to "walk" to first base. The team in the outfield laughed and jeered at me. It was the most horrifying moment of my sports career.

Perhaps my past makes me loathe the game, any game. But when I sit back and think of how addicted people are for sports and how they live for their favorite seasons, I realize it's not me so much as it is our popular culture. Our world has cultivated multi-million dollar sport franchises with players who make just as much money. Players are nothing more than entertainers who enjoy putting on a show for their devoted fans. If that's the case, actors and singers are my favorite players. But you won't see me wearing grease paint on my face because I'm going to see the latest Annette Bening film.

Costume Capers

Halloween has long been my favorite holiday. As a child, I could dress up and be any number of things. I can do the same as an adult. The only real difference now is that I'm too old to go door-to-door for candy. Of course, if I really wanted to, I could, but people would most assuredly laugh in my face, or call the police. Unless, I dragged some kid around as a guise. I'd never exploit a child like that. Maybe my neice really would like a chapperone. Hm.

In any event, now that I'm older, much older, I can design my own costumes. No need for those cheapy constructed, AND super expensive, all-in-one costumes from the store. The man in the hospital gown with his rubber butt exposed is so cliche, as is anything Dorothy themed. Things that are relevant are always a hot topic. Any election year, we're faced with cheesy masks of politicians' likenesses. If a blockbuster movie comes out, it's guaranteed that much of the characters from the film will be out in full force. Multiples of the Mad Hatter or the vampires from Twilight will abound! Now, that's truly frightening.

With my creative gene, I'd much rather create my own work. Sure, it may be a long process filled with tears and anguish, but I'm typically pleased with the finished product. I love the idea that I have something no one else in the world will ever have. Made by me, it's preciously one of a kind. Something I've always taken pride in.

As an adult, I've conceptualized and constructed many costumes. There was the half man, half woman I dubbed "He Said, She Said" that earned me first place in the costume contest at work. A blood soaked torn shirt with and evil cat sat, poised to attack on my shoulder was a hoot at a friend's party. That creation was called "Cat Scratch Fever" or, "Pussy Whipped", as some drunk dude called it. One year, I took all the elements of an office (push pins, letter opener, stapler, etc) and made them into dangerous weapons, sticking them to my body with horrendous results. A few years later, I created and sewed a couple costumes for my partner and I. We were members of the royal court (king and jester) with regal tapestries and fancy trim.

Yes, I love Halloween, and this year will be exciting, most assuredly. I'm not revealing our plan just yet, but it will turn heads. And even if it doesn't, I like the feeling of playing pretend...and getting away with it.

Nothing But Good Juju

Every time I think about writing, I get a little excited. Ideas start swirling around in my head. What shall I write this time? Sometimes I really don't know the true content of what's in my mind until I log onto this site and start typing away. Speak from the heart, and the brain will follow, or something like that. Before I know it, it's a long read. But my hope is, it's a good read.

I think about money a lot. How much my bills cost. How much living costs. The cost of healthcare, not only for myself, but for my family...and our dogs. Seems like every time theres a problem, a vaccine is due, or just time for an annual physical, it's a hundred bucks a pop. My car's almost paid off. Almost. Just another 10 months or so. It'll be nice to have "extra income" to focus on paying off these damn credit cards.

It seems so unfair how critical money is. There's been talk that the middle class is disappearing as the poor get poorer and the rich get richer. I've never considered myself materialistic, or even a lover of money, but it would be absolutely wonderful to live comfortably without throwing darts at bills to see which ones I'll pay first. I don't live extravagantly, but I am living paycheck to paycheck. I know I'm not alone.

Then, I hear stories about people who seem to have an endless supply of cash. The creator of Facebook is worth billions. And he's in his mid-twenties. There's another kid who generates over $300,000 a year for being the best video blogger on youtube. Then this boy did something the media has dubbed the "trading game" where he used a site like Craigslist and traded up from a paperclip to a HOUSE. Just by finding people who were interested in doing a trade from an item of little monetary value for something that was valued a little more. Time and time again.

Seems like the internet offers an endless supply of opportunities on striking it rich. It appears it's entirely possible to do so using the tools that others have created. It's all right there, in front of us. If you can read these words I'm typing, you already have access to this very powerful tool. But just how realistic is it that I, or anyone else, for that matter could make big bucks by using modern technology.

Within the past few years, I acquired a taste for online surveys. Companies seek out real people to see what their likes and dislikes are when marketing a new product or service. Online survey sites such as Harris Poll and Zoom Panel offer incentives for people who help them out. Surveys take minutes to complete, and you're awarded on a point system to redeem for prizes. I've gotten gift certificates for Amazon, a 4-slot toaster, a blender/smoothie maker, magazine subscriptions...the list goes on and on.

I know to award all these prizes, there's some major incentives for the sponsoring websites. I'm sure they get paid handsomely by advertisers and other conglomerates to use the service. And I get small appliances. A fair trade off, I suppose. Just a few moments of my time each day. No big whoop. There's another site with tons more prizes I recently discovered. It's called Swag Bucks and there's lots of great things people are saying about it. In the few days I've been a member, I've acquired quite a few points. If you're interested in signing up, you can do so by going here:

http://www.swagbucks.com/refer/geminian77

If you sign up with this link, I'll be on your buddy list automatically!

Still, I crave more. Why make someone else rich when I'm just as talented as the next guy? It's not lack of motivation or creativity. I have both of those. It could be lack of opportunity. At what point did the quarter-million-a-year youtube sensation realize he had made it? I'm sure he started off kind of slow, maybe he even never entertained the thought he'd be the highest paid earner on the site. Who even knew you could make money posting videos? I didn't.

A couple years ago, my partner started creating bottlecap pendants. He called them "juju caps". Juju is a term for supernatural powers. It's derived from West African origins. His goal was to sell these on Etsy and become known for them. I wanted to help.

Dressed as a character I dubbed "Lady Juju" I created mini-commercials for the product, and posted them on youtube. The ads are hilarious at times, especially if you know me personally. Complete with my signature goatee and donned in makeup, I transformed myself into this outrageous character. Other characters soon followed. I contacted radio morning shows via email in hopes they'd direct their listeners to the site. The campaign fizzled.

We deleted the video spots from the website, but I had them archived on my hard drive. Although the Jujucaps website no longer exists, I've decided to entertain the world with my many ads for the campaign. Here's one of my favorites:

Depending upon response from this video, I may just repost all the old videos and create some more. But I gotta give the people what they want if I'm to become the next youtube superstar. So, what do you think? Do I have what it takes?

Slumber Party!

There's something I'm really good at, that I imagine a lot of people wouldn't brag about. I have this incredible ability to sleep. Soon after my head hits the pillow, I drift off from a state on consciousness to a state of deep relaxation. Problems and worries don't seem to bother me when I'm laying down, so I just fall asleep. And oh, peace. Tranquility. And I can do it at any time I so choose, and not just bedtime.

I can wake up, feeling well rested, go about my day and when I have a down moment, I sleep. It's like a belch on command, only more polite. Well, polite provided I don't fall asleep in front of company. Call it narcolepsy, but I can control it. Some might say I'm depressed. I say they're jealous of my ability. It never gets out of hand. I'm always in command of my awakeness, so I don't miss out doing things. But on my days off, when I feel the mood strike, I take a trip to Slumberland. And it's amazing.

Now, I know there's a ton of sleep disorders out there. Recently, I saw a special on a boy who would sleep for days at a time. Like hibernation. He wouldn't wake to use the bathroom or eat, or anything. And his family have no idea when his deep sleep will happen, it just does. He retreats into his bedroom and doesn't emerge until his body tells him it's time.

Others might look at this kid like a poor, pitiful thing, who's missing out on what life has to offer. I look at him like a person who's somewhat blessed. He has an excuse for sleeping. That's the only thing I lack when I lounge around and sleep all day. Sometimes I get quizzed on why I choose to sleep some days. My partner suffers from insomnia, so I know there's a touch of envy there. If I had what this kid has, I'd be able to write it off to science, a biological deformity within me. But I cannot. On the other hand, I wouldn't want to lose control of my ability to sleep. I'd want to sleep when I wanted to, not because my brain knocked me unconscious against my wishes.

Today was one of the days I chose to sleep, Labor Day 2010. The movers and shakers in history before us pushed to have working conditions improved and a national day of rest for workers. So, I took their commemorative holiday and did exactly how I felt they intended it to be used. For doing no labor. Nadda. And there's no better way to stall work habits than to become unawake. Naked body between satiny sheets for hours on end, oh so luxurious.

On the Hunt

Robert Stack had such an impeccible eeriness about him when he presented stories of missing suspects, paranormal activities, and abducted children alerts on "Unsolved Mysteries". And I loved him for it. That classic trench coat and authoritative voice made him seem all the more convincing as a man with the plan to solve these mysteries. I saw him as a sleuth who would sit outside the home of a suspect in an unmarked van, just waiting for the right instant to draw his gun and shot 'em dead. Of course, I knew the great Mr. Stack was just a talking head, in a get-up to make him seem that way. Still, I thought he was cool.

My television viewing habits had long surpassed Sesame Street and Mr. Wizard's World. I liked big kid shows. The more mysterious, the better. I lived for the mystery of life, the who's and why's of bad people, the possibility of UFOs or the surrealism of spirits interacting with the real world. But, as much as I enjoyed "Unsolved Mysteries", the shows UPDATEs proved disappointing. It was great for the family and the investigators that the little girl was found safe and sound. For me, it was a let down. Congratulations to the joyous mother, but sad for the viewer who liked everything shrouded in mystery.

It was during my intense fascination with Detective Stack that I evolved into my own gumshoe character. In my imaginary fantasy world, I was Fred Fickle, a bumbling detective with my own mysteries to solve. Only years later, would I learn "fickle" was another word for shy. But I was a shy kid, with very little friends...but I liked it that way. I enjoyed living in this fantasy world where I could create my own mysteries and solve them. However, I'd often find myself trapped, and would have to elude my captors to piece the clues together.

I'd get wrapped up beneath the fitted sheet on my mattress and it would cling to my body like a gigantic spider web, obviously spun by the minions of the diabolical villain. Bed sheets could also double as restraints. When I was feeling really adventurous, the floor of the bedroom was electrified or lava. I dare not touch it with my bare feet. The bad guys were never named, and I never saw them. It was Fred Fickle against whatever obstacles were in his way. The plots typically involved rescuing the daughter of a distinguished and very wealthy business man. My reward would be love, most certainly, upon finding her. Other times, plots involved a missing diamond or an important document.

Never would I, as Detective Fickle, ever come across an actual person. My sister and I would play "next door neighbors", a version of playing "house", but instead of husband and wife, we were neighbors. But I dare not share my mysterious fantasy world with anyone. It was all make believe. All in my mind. Yet, it was so vivid, so real to me. I could be anywhere in the world. The bedroom was an industrial wasteland. The back yard, a dark forest, full of snakes and monsters. The attic appeared as a dimly lit haunt for spirits and chain-rattling demons. The world was my oyster, and I wanted to discover it as only Fred Fickle could.

As an adult, I'm still fascinated by true crime. None of that scripted CSI or Law & Order stuff. I want to see how investigators piece together clues to get the bad guy, or identify the cause of a localized epidemic. Robert Stack isn't around any more. I've caught new episodes of "Unsolved Mysteries", which feature a different host, and are therefore not the same. I'd much rather watch Forensic Files, and have more recently discovered a whole 24-hour network devoted to true mystery shows. I read true crime novels.

I know I'll never be a real detective, but I do enjoy the psychology of it all. I'm endlessly entertained by why people do what they do. Motives are always interesting. Love triangles, deep-seated secrets, drug money...it's fun to solve along with the professionals.

Dangerous Living

As humans, we are succeptible to just about anything. The medical and insurance industries make billions, trillions of dollars from expecting us to fail as a species. Each one of us is only temporarily abled. We can fall victim to any number of mishaps, either physcially or mentally; innate or put upon us from outside forces. Something could be lurking in any one of us just waiting for the optimal time to attack. Danger is around every corner, and where there's no corner, it's there too.

Our bodily enemies could be invisible to our eyes, such as the case of viruses. Or, our enemy could be something very concrete, like an oncoming vehicle. At any point, with the elements are just right, the wrong thing could happen.

I've had my fair share of mishaps. I experienced clinical death resulting from a car accident when I was ten. Nearly killed my whole family. Eight years ago, I sliced the top of my hand wide open, doing the incredibly menial dish washing chore. I've hit my head several times and stubbed my toe. I've had my finger smashed in a door, and cut a thumb with a hand saw. Once, I fell with one leg on each side of a metal beam, used to support my bed. It felt like it split me in two. I've had the wind knocked out of me when the misguided inner-tube I was riding ran ashore. Tonight, I bit my lip over a meal of fried rice.

None of these things were expected, but they all happened. Sure, I sound accident prone, but who isn't? We all are, really. And even if we are super careful, drive with our seatbelts on, lift with our legs, and never look up when it's raining, mishaps will happen. We will harm ourselves.

Sometimes, the mishap is much less noticeable. We humans like to indulge. Hey, we only get one life, why not live it to its fullest? I have an affinity for cold coffee. Too much caffeine is bad, and it's bad on the wallet, too. We like things that are sweet, or salty, or too good for our tastebuds to be true. We're told if we don't watch what we eat, we'll pay dearly for it. High cholesterol, diabetes, coronary heart disease, obesity. But, don't eat too much of the "good stuff" (veggies, whole grains, and the like) or your teeth will fall out, you'll lose your hair and you'll become anemic. Damned if we do, damned if we don't.

Recently, I started lowering my daily caloric intake and exercising on that blasted exercise bike. Oh, how I loathe exercise. But I did it a few years ago, and lost many, many pounds. I was looking good. But that was two years ago. I put all that weight back on, and then some. I have a love-hate relationship with ice cream and chocolate. Oh, the sweet-wonderful-take-me-away taste of Heath bar pieces intermingled with smooth-and-utterly-delicious espresso ice cream and almonds. But oh, you bitch!

Truth is, I'm like most everyone. I want what I want, when I want it, but I don't want to pay the price of eating such delectable treats. I don't want to exercise, but I want to eat it, and eat it all. And, oh yeah, I want a model body. I want to be able to walk around with my shirt off without parents' shielding their children's eyes as I mow the lawn. I'd like to visit the beach without fear of leaving tanlines below my man boobs. And I want to eat ice cream with all the goodies mixed throughout it. But I can't have that.

I've been doing really good the past few days. Ice cream and I have decided to take a little break from each other. I curb my loneliness by getting on that dreaded bike and cycling while listening to classic rock or some dance track. I burn 1000 calories each trip, and I feel so much better.

Last night, I was thumbing through photos (yes, in a day before digital photography) to seek out pictures of Halloween costumes I've made in the past. I want to create a collage of my previous works to display, even if purely for braggin' rights. In the process, I jogged down Memory Lane. Many of the pictures dated back ten years. And wow. What a difference life makes. That, and the comfort of being in a relationship with the right person. You just kind of let yourself go. "Oh, we're in love, so let's eat!"

I want to try to reach the physique I had in my twenties. Well, I didn't really have a "physique", per se, but my waistline was a bit smaller. I'm happy to report that ice cream and I have decided to divorce. It's an amicable split. He's gotten quite a few years of my life, I have the rest to make my own.

Yes, we can get attacked at anytime. Either real, or imagined. I know I'm giving my all in an attempt to make my life better, but even the strong can fall. It only takes the right moment and the right conditions to make things not the way we anticipated. I read this quote on a bumper sticker once, and I've carried it with me: "Life is what happens when you plan for something else." It's true.

A New View

When you speak from the heart, words move freely. They channel from visions in your mind down through your nerve endings and into the muscles that control our fingertips. Our fingertips either find a pen, pencil, marker, or other writing implement. In this day and age, and with the ease of technology, I choose the computer screen as my instrument for sharing my thoughts, words, and other musings.

I could have been "Tiffany", if I were born with a vagina. But, I was blessed with a weiner. Well, I use the term blessed loosely. Being male is neither a blessing nor a curse. I am forever grateful I don't have a menstrual cycle. The sight of blood, my blood, even the slightest, makes me queasy. Yet, oddly enough, I draw blood as part of my job. Stabbing and jabbing complete strangers doesn't seem to bother me at all. Provided their blood stays in the test tube and doesn't mistakenly pool to the surface.

It is a curse, but only slightly, that I wasn't born Tiffany. I'll never know the joy of childbirth, or how weird it feels to experience my body changing as a seed grows into a baby within me. I'm male. All male. I have a penis, and that's that. No pregnancy, no morning sickness, no stretch marks. Oh wait, I DO have those.

I believe I have more feminine characteristics than masculine. My testosterone levels must not be high enough. I still get mistaken for a woman on the phone, at times, and half the time in the drive-thru at the fast food joint. Puberty hasn't quite hit me, and I'm 33. I have stretch marks, though not through pregnancy, but to look at my naked body, you would think I had. I have child-bearing hips and large thighs. Still, I have a male organ. And I like it that way. I do not desire to be a female, yet so many of my traits are characteristically so.

I'm emotional. What macho man would write such a musing, really? Then again, what is macho? I'm on antidepressants, for reasons, I'm not quite sure. I know why Zoloft is key in my life, I'm just not quite sure why I'm depressed. Any sob story or family reunion on Oprah will get me to cry along with these people. Perfect strangers to me, yet oddly familiar. The story. We all share a similar story, as humans. But I don't come from a broken home. My parents are still together after all these years. And everyone seems to accept me for who I am. If they only knew. Still, why do I appear to be unhappy? Am I unhappy?

Just today, I was talking with my partner, the love of my life, about the meaning of life and the idea there's no "great beyond". Once we're gone, that's it. No afterlife. No heaven. No hell. What we do now, won't matter a hundred years from now. Or will it? What will we each do, in our own way, to be remembered? To make our imprint in our world, our culture, and our community. The Egyptians worked their asses off, and thousands of years later, historians are still mystified by their lives. I want to walk like an Egyptian. I want to have a life others marvel over. Not in the way of money or material goods, but in some deeply moving emotional or spiritual way. Like Mother Teresa, only non-religious.

I love who I love.

I'm not religious, but spiritual.

I believe in big things and making a difference.

I'm here now, and plan to be.

I want to live life, not to just exist through it.

I'm creative and smart.

I love to write.

So, why can't I do what needs to be done to make an impression, not just in my life, and the lives of those around me? But to society as a whole. I want people to remember me like DaVinci or Princess Di. I want to be known for something.

Mind to nerve, nerve to muscle, muscle to finger. I will write. I will stand out and be known for doing my best and giving my all to be known for something. Just what, I'm not sure yet. But as I type these words on this Friday night, I know that someone, somewhere, at some point in time, will feel deeply moved by my musings. Maybe it will be just another human with nothing better to do than to browse through other peoples' writings. All it takes is one person to make a difference in another person's life. Are you that person? I know I will be...to someone.

PCAGOE May Challenge

History inspired.

As you may know, I'm a proud member of the Polymer Clay Artist's Guild of Etsy. Monthly challenge voting is now open at http://www.pcagoe.com/. Here's what this monthly lovely entrants have posted.

Happy voting!

Oh, and random voters will receive gifts donated by our fabulous artists!

Caveman's Wheel

Caveman's Wheel, originally uploaded by Ian's Cafe.

Ian's Cafe is a proud member of the Polymer Clay Artists' Guild of Etsy. Each month, the guild challenges its members to create an item that's at leat 50% polymer clay materials. Each monthly challenge has its own theme. The theme for May 2010 is "History Inspired."

I looked for archaeic elegance in my form of creating this wonderful piece I call Caveman's Wheel. You simply can't talk history of modern invention without homage to its birth. Just think what state we'd be in if the wheel never existed. How would we get around?

This rendition is of the primitive wheel is made from polymer clay molded and chiseled then stained with ink to add depth and texture. The piece itself reminds me of a rock. And as wonderful as this photo is, it really doesn't do Caveman's Wheel justice. Must see to truly appreciate!

Polymer Clay Artists Guild of Etsy

Greetings everyone!

I am now a proud member of PCAGOE, or the "Polymer Clay Artists Guild of Etsy." Each month, we have a monthly challenge to push our members to maybe try new and exciting techniques they hadn't tried before. It's also an opportunity to display our talents or to highlight a specific piece.

This month's challenge is fabric inspired. As you can clearly see, we have quite a diverse group. Voting has already started, so be sure to visit http://www.pcagoe.com/ and place your vote. There's special prizes for randomly selected voters!