love IS like a butterfly

oh, dolly:

"Parton's been a strong champion of the gay community, contributing to this year's Love Rocks CD benefiting those homos at the Human Rights Campaign. And when asked whether she supports same-sex marriage, she jokingly responded, "Hell yes. You people should have to suffer just like the rest of us!"

read the rest of the blog here.

dirty laundry

somehow it's already been two weeks since my last column came out in baltimore gay life. this week's the first time it'll run under its new name, "dirty laundry," a name that kel thinks is cliched but i'm quite proud of. so, without further ado:


believer

“I don’t date,” my friend Cory matter-of-factly said to me yesterday. He’d alluded to it several times before, trying to sound mysterious. “Alright,” I told him, finally taking the bait. “Why don’t you date?”

“It’s complicated,” he answered pertly. He was going to tell me; but he wanted to make damn sure he had my attention first.

“It’s fine if it’s complicated. I’ve got time.”

“Ok, so here’s the deal,” he told me, taking a deep breath. I adjusted my hands on the steering wheel and turned down the music. “And just so you know, this isn’t me being all, ‘I don’t date because I don’t want this guy to get the wrong idea about me and think that I’m into him.’ Seriously, I don’t date.”

“So you’re what? A monk? Celibate?” I asked, incredulous.

“No. It’s because I don’t believe in love. I believe in infatuation and sexual attraction. And I believe that people need to feel close to one another and that they need that kind of validation. But it’s bulls**t. I’m just not sure that love really exists, so what’s the point in dating? Monogamous relationships aren’t congruous with human nature: why do you think that men cheat? Why do you think that all relationships end? It’s because we’re not meant to be in them to begin with. That’s why I don’t date. It’s pointless.”

I didn’t have a comeback so I just sat there dumbfoundedly driving. I thought, This man has gotten so jaded, has been hurt so many times and so badly by the age of 26, that he’s given up entirely. It wasn’t until the next day that I brought up the topic again.

“So all that stuff you said yesterday about not believing in the existence of love,” I started.

“That’s right,” Cory said.

“It just really shocked me. I feel like maybe you have a skewed notion of what love is,” I said, not wanting to be condescending or sound too confrontational. “I don’t believe that love is like you find in romance novels or on Passions. It’s not what the media or Hallmark greeting cards or Julia Roberts movies would have us believe. I’ve had that, and I’ve been infatuated and I’ve felt that passionate.” Not in a while, maybe, but it was a good start to my argument. “I really don’t think that that’s what love is. But I know I’ve been in love.”

Even as I said it to Cory I started to doubt myself. How do we know what love is, really? How do we know if we’re in it or if we’re not, or when it’s the right time to profess it? How do we know it exists at all? Maybe he had a point. I’m not one to lose an argument, though, even when I’m floundering, so I plowed ahead.

“You say that relationships are worthless because they’ll all end, and that love doesn’t exist. But I think you’re wrong.”

I told him what I think love really is: sitting for days with your boyfriend who’s in the hospital; driving home from work because his car’s been in a hit-and-run accident and he’s too afraid to deal with the cops alone; hearing him complain for five months straight that his stomach hurts and never once rolling your eyes. I told him that love very seldom looks or feels like it’s supposed to, but that once it’s gone you’re never surer of its existence.

“I’m not arguing with any of those things,” Cory said.

“And I don’t care if I’m heartbroken, and I don’t care that I’m going to be heartbroken for a while, or that I’m bound to be heartbroken again. Love exists and relationships are worth it. You just have to keep trying. You say now,” I went on, “that you’re too stubborn, that you’re not willing to compromise, not willing to let anyone in; but just you wait. You’re going to meet someone someday and that tune’s gonna change. And I hope I’m around to see it.”

I wasn’t just trying to change Cory’s mind; in a way I was trying to convince myself, too. I have to believe that somewhere, someday, whether it’s in Baltimore or New York or Oklahoma or God-knows-where, I’ll meet the man who makes me feel all the things I’d just been defending. I have to believe that I won’t get so cynical during the hunt that I forget the prize. That all of the pain and joy is worth it, in the end.

hot in here

for possibly the first time, i'm sharing a forward that's not from my father. thanks, tom, for giving me a chuckle this morning.


"A man died and went to heaven. As he stood in front of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, he saw a huge wall of clocks behind him.

He asked, "What are all thoseclocks?" St. Peter answered, "Those are Lie-Clocks. Everyone on Earth has a Lie-Clock. Every time you lie the hands on your clock will move."

"Oh," said the man, "whose clock is that?" "That's Mother Teresa's. The hands have never moved, indicating that she never told a lie."

"Incredible," said the man. "And whose clock is that one?" St. Peter responded, "That's Abraham Lincoln's clock. The hands have moved twice, telling us that Abe told only two lies in his entire life."*

"Where's Bush's clock?" asked the man.

"Bush's clock is in Jesus' office. He's using it as a ceiling fan."

oversexed

dearest, dearest readers, i haven't forgotten any (of the 12) of you. it's simply that i had one of the worst clinic days in the history of the pediatric asthma clinic, a storied history that goes back at least six years.

i just had to share this dirty little conversation i just had with hilary, though:

hilary: there is a verse that says "Oversexed" in that song--too much for the oldheads?
robert: haha, OVERSEXED. why don't you change it to "too much dick in my pussy" or
hilary: only if you hold up that sign
robert: "he wanted to fuck me in the ass and i let him because it means i'm still a virgin"
hilary: that'd go over REAL well. i dont think Rand H wrote that, robert
robert: um, in my world they did

the man

apparently, my dad has stumbled upon a gold mine of 25-year-old pictures of himself. here are two more. oh, rich!

swinger

my father just sent me this picture of him at some anniversary party with the message "check out this swinger from 1986." and it seriously made my day.

windowless

the lady who sits behind me in my office has just been moved upstairs. or will be upstairs sometime this week. i saw her packing a box and said, nonchalant as i'm capable of being, "oh, packing?"

"yeah," she said, "just as soon as i've come i'm gone again." for a brief, terrifying moment i thought that she meant that she had left her job or had been fired. it was going to be a more awkward moment than the one hilary's having right now, as she drives around baltimore with her hot-but-completely-silent-22-year-old male coworker. (so, ahem, you watch much tv? no? well, what about npr? no? oh, um. so i'm a singer. no, not like american idol. classical. yeah, like opera. no, not like with horns and stuff.) thankfully, though, the lady's just switching rooms.

"well, at least up there you'll have a window!" i said. this office is a cramped, often-too-hot or too-cold windowless box. it's strange to think about the impact that little things start to have when you're as bored as i get at this job. i spent the next 30 seconds thinking to myself, gosh, it'd be so nice if we had a window in here. then i picked up my pen and ordered more taxicabs for our study participants.

marn!

we can thank queerty.com for this funny entry about waxing...and this HOT-ASS shot of david beckham. i think that my next tattoo will be "oklahoma" across my lower back. hot, no?

valley of the

some fucking putz had a ukelele on the shuttle this morning. he didn't just have the ukelele; he was strumming it and singing along. at 8.25 am. and this fucking mustachio'd indian girl--the same girl who has several times cut in front of me in the shuttle line--was egging him on, making requests. i swear to god. i was looking around, wondering why no one else on the shuttle seemed to mind this impromptu concert. surely i wasn't the only person not feeling like attending a luau.

maybe if i'd slept better i wouldn't be so crabby. then again, i'm pretty sure that even if i'd woken up fresh-faced to the world the story would be the same.

i had to return michael's house keys to him last night in an emergency drive-by because he'd locked himself out of his house. on the way home, intending to stop and buy ice cream, i stopped and bought two 40's. when hilary asked me what kind of ice cream i bought, i told her, "two new kinds of ice cream: one called sierra nevada and one called yuengling. they're good but they make me feel funny."

when i was at the slant buying my 40's, there was another guy my age right in front of me in line buying a fifth of captain morgan. he wasn't dressed for a party, since he was wearing workout shorts, a t-shirt, and flip-flops, the exact same thing i had on. it was too early to be stocking up for the weekend. clearly, this man, like me, was drinking alone. i had the urge, walking out of the slant behind him, to ask if he wanted to hang out. a complete stranger. not because he was hot; i don't even think he was gay. but because if we're both drinking alone on a monday night we might have something in common.

saw

oh, and i bought mouse- and roachtraps at the store last night and placed them strategically throughout my apartment. the only problem now is that i laid awake in bed last night, convinced that every little scrape or drip i heard was a mouse caught in one of the traps, struggling to get away. i pictured the mouse getting his little mouse-paw stuck on the trap (i got the gross sticky kind) and dragging it across the floor, or worse gnawing his little mouse-paw off to get away. like a really tiny version of the movie saw. and i'm the evil mastermind.

Ingenue

it was a good, pretty quiet weekend. since i'd resigned myself to the idea that i'd be spending the entire weekend alone, except for friday night when i went to a dinner party at cory's and then went out with kel, i was surprised to find myself alone very little. i saw hilary, hung out with cory; had an impromptu beer-and-tv-hangout with mike. i "ate dinner" with terry via telephone. for those of you who will be reminded of peter "watching a movie" via telephone with joe, my apologies.

what's so strange, though, is that my periods of alone-time seem to be magnified in my mind. even though cory and i spent 4 hours together saturday afternoon, i left his apartment feeling alone, dreading the prospect of solemnly eating subway with my television in my apartment. what's my problem with not being around people? i spent four months in england without a friend to speak of, spending nearly every non-classtime moment by myself. there's something to be said for enjoying your own company, not constantly craving (paging kd lang) the distraction other people provide.

then again, maybe that's what i am looking for: distraction.

fride

robin: yeah. temple, northeastern, cardozo, and oregon are all getting there's when i get my last recomendation letter processed. (hopefully this week) then second wave of my 2nd choice schools will get there's hopefully next week.

robert: that is the second time you've misused "their" and i just cannot let it slide!

robin: sorry. i really haven't looked up this weekend from studying/writing and my brain is fried. fride if you will.

robert: haha

robin: omg. i just made myself laugh outloud

robert: well it was a good one

dirty laundry

ruby told me at a dinner party at cory's on friday night that she's trying not to read anything for two weeks. it's a way to clear her mind, to get all of that extra noise from the world out so that she can be more creative. i'm jaded. how does she drive? i wanted to say. doesn't she have to read street signs? i knew that wasn't what she meant. but i'm a bitch. she's also doing something called "morning pages" to get her creative juices flowing. me, all i need to get creative is to be in a place of emotional durress. then it all just comes.

it makes me wonder, though, what happens when i finally (ok, so if i ever) get balanced? it seems like i've gravitated toward the dark side of things since i was 15, and that a lot of what i create, be it singing or writing, comes from that place. it's always more fun to play the evil character, to play the character that's splayed open. rolling around on the ground. that sort of thing. catharsis.

when i'm content, though, or relatively content, it doesn't seem to come so easily. it's almost as if i'm not unhappy, or at least pensive, i have nothing to say. it's easier for me to be all blood-and-guts these days, while i'm getting used to another new set of rules.

i think that from now on my column will be named dirty laundry, because that's what it is, really. mine and everyone else's. and i think that's why it's good.

why indeed

someone just reached my blog by googling "why do baltimorians like fried chicken."

it's going to be a good day.

ew

i feel dirty. not sexy, spank-me dirty. not need-a-shower dirty. dirty on the inside. i feel dirty from seeing the movie mysterious skin last night.

ok, so that's a bit of an exaggeration (what? me? i won't believe it.). but seriously, the movie creeped me out so much that every time i think of a few of the scenes a little shiver runs down my spine.

it's directed by a guy named greg araki--you might remember him from such early-90's queer cult classics as the living end, heralded as "one of the first important openly gay films along with go fish" [that's not a real quote because i just made it up.]. like go fish, i thought that the living end was pretty terrible. michael doesn't agree with me on that one, and he knows a lot more about film than i do. which basically means that if you "appreciate" "film" then you'll be nuts for greg araki. if you're like me and your favorite movies include steel magnolias and the birdcage then you might not get as much out of it.

mysterious skin had a lot more polish than the living end. you know when you see an indie film (think beverly kills, those of you who were at NCGLFF) and it just seems so...how do i say this politely...sloppy and amateurish? like the director picked the actors up by hanging out outside a dunkin donuts bathroom in rural iowa. like it was shot using a plastic, handheld microphone that the director held out from behind the camera. myseterious skin wasn't like that. it looked like a movie. and the guy from third rock from the sun was really good.

the problem is the movie's subject matter: dual child molestation. we go from child molestation to small-town hustling to big-city-aids hustling to big-city-aids-getting-your-ass-kicked-while-being-raped hustling. oh, and then at the end of the movie we find out that not only have these two guys been molested by their baseball coach, but the molestation went on for like a few months with one kid--who claims to have loved the older man (he was 8 at the time)--and that at some point during the coach's summer of love he engaged in an orgiastic 3-way with two eight-year-olds who "fisted him up to their elbow."

that's right. eight-year-olds fisting someone up to their elbow.

i need my brain scrubbed.

vermin

i saw a fucking mouse in my apartment yesterday. a fucking. mouse. there i was, stirring my chicken peanut curry (it turned out to be very good) when i saw something move in the corner of my eye. thinking it was a roach, i whipped my head to the right, only to see a little (actually it wasn't that little. if it was really little it might've been kinda cute. this was like at least four inches long. wait, does that make it a rat? oh fuck. i can handle mice, but if it's a rat i am OUTTA THERE.) gray mouse run around the corner towards my bedroom.

my first reaction? "FUCK NO." literally. i said that. not screaming, not crying. just a very forceful and angry "FUCK NO."

you see, it's not just that i've now seen a mouse in my apartment. i've also seen one very, very large belly-up beetle (i'm calling it a beetle) and three small roaches. the two that i've seen and been able to kill in my bathroom i can handle. it was the one that i found when i opened up the cabinet that holds my dishes that i can't deal with. it ran behind a crack in the cabinet and was gone, only to resurface, i'm sure, once the cabinet has been closed and it's free to galavant all over my dishware.

the feeling that my apartment is being overtaken by vermin--mice (rats?), cockroaches, and the new proliferation of daddy long legs--is one more nail in its coffin. i mean, come on already. the place already stinks because it's an old, musty apartment with old, musty carpeting. the linoleum and tile are shameful--even after i've scrubbed them (yes, terry, i actually do clean my apartment once a week) they're sticky. just because they're old and horrid.

michael told me, in my flurry of indignation, that mice and roaches are common in city apartments.

"well," i said, "i've certainly never lived anywhere that had mice or roaches."

"then you've led a very priviledged life," he said, referring to my recent stint at the uber-fancy waterloo.

"yes, i have," i said. "and i miss it."

seriously, people. mice and roaches.

pssy

robert: in other news, i'm a total sicko because there is a HOT HOT elevator repairman working on our floor
robert: like pierced, tatted
robert: tall, dark hair, our age.
robert: and i have lust in my heart every time he walks by
hilary: HAHAHAH
hilary: slip him my number
hilary: be like
hilary: _pssy- hey
hilary: er.r..Psst
hilary: HAHAHA
robert: pssy
hilary: not pssy
hilary: HAHAHAHAAH
robert: right
hilary: i'mm dying
robert: me too
hilary: like tears
hilary: hahahhahhahahha
hilary: anyway
hilary: say "psst...hey- call this number
hilary: it's for a repair job
hilary: you will be compensated
robert: she needs you to repair her pssy
hilary: HAHAH
robert: it aches real bad
hilary: oh that was funny
robert: -wipes tear-
hilary: that was rich

snap

this is the best local blog? clearly they're mistaken. and morbid.

interruption

do you know the episode of seinfeld where kramer gives elaine's home number to some company and they start faxing her all of the menus for all of the restaurants in new york city? i know it's totally not hip-urban-queer to watch seinfeld, but gimme a break. it's a good show. ah, you know that one? well, it's become my life.

for the last two nights a fax machine has been calling my house. only during the nighttime. or maybe they've timed it only to happen when i'm in bed, like there's a sensor under my mattress or something, because it happens either late at night or early in the morning.

two nights ago, after michael went home, i curled up in bed with dress codes: of three girlhoods--my mother's, my father's, and mine (don't bother reading it. it sucks. not that you were planning on it.) only to have my house phone ring at around 11:00. thinking it strange--the only people who ever call my house are telemarketers and terry--i answered the phone, hoping nothing was wrong. the unmistakeable, hateful sound of a fax machine greeted me. i went to bed. at midnight, the phone rang again. i let it ring, enjoying my tylenol-pm-induced stupor. when it rang at 12:30 i dazedly unpluggd the phone.

all was quiet for the rest of the day; dinner passed without fax interruption, michael left, and i went to sleep. this morning at 6am, however, the fax decided to start trying again. i refused to get out of bed to unplug the phone this time, though, instead shutting my bedroom door and turning my humidifier to high. when i woke up the fax machine had left 3 screeching messages on my answering machine.

i stood there in my underwear, phone in my hand, sleepy but determined to solve this fax problem once and for all. *6-7, i dialed. nothing. *6-7 again. nothing.

"did you try to star-6-9 it?" michael asked me this morning. "you can get the fax number that way and fax them to tell them to stop faxing you."

"oh," i said. "no. i tried calling star-6-7."

"that's for making it show up as unavailable when you call someone."

dammit. so i spent $1.50 (or more) making sure that this fax machine had no idea who was calling. dammit.

vagrant

as i stand here typing this, taking a needed blog-break from practicing, a vagrant--yes, i said vagrant--is standing right outside the window of my ground-floor, street-facing apartment berating anyone who walks by. he's saying something about "wives and husbands" and "riches." i'm not exactly sure what he's saying--the sound is muffled by those sturdy window-bars separating he and i.

i just caught the word "reminiscing" and "bag." oh, and now "colored people."

as he carries on, a crowd of 15 peabody students has gathered on the 2nd-floor terrace, watching. my first thought is, god, this really isn't conducive to practicing.

baltimore.

procrastination

i was supposed to be in the clinic 13 minutes ago, but in an effort to quell your insatiable desire for more blogs (i know that at least 3 of you will be disappointed if i don't blog), i've posted pictures from this weekend with george and my new friend ruby (who i will heretofore refer to as rubi).

i'm sorry, but is this not the BOOBIEST angel you've ever seen?


















"you're making fun of a child's artwork?" michelle, my coworker, asked me when i was taking this picture.

"you bet i am," i said.

why i date this man, part the second

michael: ok so i can't buy those soy crisps anymore
robert: oh no, why
michael: they are too good. i ate the whole bag, still only like 180 calories, but damn
michael: they were good
michael: it was like pringles, once you pop....
michael: or crack, once you fiend
robert: haha
robert: once you crack you can't go back
michael: crack is whack

why i date this man

michael: i'm so doomcore, i just got a death in june email while listening to rosetta stone on my computer

michael: hahaha

robert: wow

robert: THAT is doomcore

robert: that's like when i get a hippo text message advertisement while sucking cock

michael: : hahaha, which i'm sure has happened

robert: over and over again

roll over beethoven

i must've somehow stumbled into a phone booth, because i've turned back from classical-singer-by-night into secretary-and-sometime-research-assistant-by-day. the recital this weekend went really well--george somehow found a pianist that could play his crazy pieces after just 30 minutes of rehearsal, and the people in the audience were friendly and appreciative. and, funnily enough, i ran into an old acquaintance from depauw, jeff wright. i swelled with pride hearing that the some of the first (and tawdriest) queer experiences he had took place at my senior year's queerblowout house parties. no, i wasn't involved in the tawdriness. tawdrity. whatever.

now, though, twelve hours of driving and a church service later, i sit here in my office, trying to ignore my at-a-glance calendar and cling to the weekend for just a few more minutes. i don't want to do anything they pay me to do today--clinic visits, shipping piss samples to kansas. spending the weekend with musicians was fun, and it reminded me that no matter how many asthma control tests i administer, phone calls i triage, or meetings i sit through, that i am, deep down, a musician. and that none of the people in this office, no matter how supportive or kind they are, can really understand what that means.

oops

sadly, the version of this week's column that got published in baltimore gay life wasn't the right version...so, ignore that one. here's a cleaner one:


Mountaineer
by Robert

"This isn't too steep for you, is it?" my boyfriend Michael asked with a worried expression as I followed him up the mountain.

"No, it's fine. Seriously." We were in West Virginia, on day two of our four-day excursion to a gay bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere.

I’d given him reason to worry. Weeks before our trip I'd started an anti-hiking campaign. "Listen. I don't really 'do' things like 'hiking,'" I told him, accentuating the statement with Nixon-esque quotation-mark gestures. "I'll make you a deal," I told him over dinner another day. "We can go hiking, if by hiking you mean walking through a field that's completely flat." Then, "See that?" I said, pointing to a serene pasture, dotted with bales of hay. "That's the kind of place I want to hike. That's just gorgeous."

"So really, when you said that you'll go hiking, you meant that you'll go for a walk?" he asked.
“Yes,” I said.

“This is so nice,” I told Michael during our hike. "So this isn’t too much for you? After you made such a big deal about what you would and wouldn't do hiking I didn't really know what your limit was."

"Honestly. It’s great," I said. I followed Michael the rest of the way up the mountain wondering why he seemed to think I was such a weakling. I mean, who does he think I am, for God’s sake? Beth from Little Women? It's as if he expected to turn around halfway up the mountain and find me hunched over a fallen log, holding a handkerchief up to my mouth and coughing up blood, insisting that I was fine.

I've been hiking before. Not mountain climbing, nothing that involved cliffs or rappelling, but I've walked through the woods, so I assumed that I could handle walking through the woods uphill. I am from the country, after all. OK, so I'm from a middle-class neighborhood in a small town in Oklahoma. But it's very near the country.

The truth is I'd never been hiking in the mountains. I didn't know if I'd hate it or love it. I mean, I enjoy camping (as long as it involves a campfire, s'mores, a six-pack of beer, and a fancy tent that zips), so I was definitely ready to give hiking a shot. I really only made such a stink about hiking because, frankly, it seemed funnier to do that than to just say, "Sure! Hiking!"

I seem to do this a lot, though. There are certain situations – when I’m forced to walk long distances (more than, say, six blocks), or when my boyfriend wants to go hiking – that I really play up the bratty, princessy side of my personality.

I can’t lie: That side really is there all along, and there’s more than a grain of truth in everything that I say in jest. If I have the opportunity to make someone laugh I’m going to take it, especially if it’s at my own expense. And one of the easiest ways I’ve found is by taking what I really think – those dirty or hateful or bratty thoughts – and voicing it.

The problem, then, is that I do it so much that people always think I’m serious. Sure, a side of me is a bitch and another side is a princess, but that’s hardly all there is. I’m somehow always surprised when people don’t know that I’m kidding.

It’s not that I really dislike hiking, you see. It was just funnier if I pretended like I only wanted to hike if there was no climbing involved. It’s a reliable way to escape – joking around, playing a character; it’s always easier than telling the plain truth.

“I had a really nice time this afternoon,” Michael said to me when we got back to the hotel.

“Me too,” I said. Michael gave me a skeptical look. “Really,” I told him. And I meant it.

Robert is a classical singer, writer, and secretary who's proud to live in Baltimore, the gem of the bay. Learn more at http://reluctantreceptionist.blogspot.com.

stagefright

i've started to get nervous. i'm driving down to durham tomorrow morning with a stranger (not totally a stranger; we've swapped back and forth some very funny emails) to sing fog argument, the song set that george wrote me for me last year and then graciously edited for me when i stopped trying to sing so high.

i haven't sung in public, really, outside of a churchy situation, since i did that early opera (in drag) last fall. since then it's been a lot of singing to the lord and singing to the walls of my apartment. before terry left, my audience also included a roommate who would laugh at my rehearsal method (it does sound quite funny). but lately the only people who have heard me sing, except for one lesson with steve in the last six months, are people who walk by my first-floor apartment. or people who live in my apartment building. i imagine that people are walking by, thinking, "wow. that guy's really going after it!" i've yet to be harrassed by drunken yacht club patrons, but since i live next door to the bar it's inevitiable.

so tomorrow night marks my reentry into the world of public performance. i'm trying to focus more on the little things--getting there, rehearsing, which dress shirt i'm going to wear--than the performance itself. otherwise i'll get nervous. ok so i'm nervous.

a&f

thank you.

flower

ouch! (but it's true):

"To compare [Liz] Phair's first three albums to her most recent discs is to see a schizophrenic split unprecedented in rock history since Jefferson Airplane became Jefferson Starship. She defends this as part of her inevitable growth as an artist -- a specious and nonsensical claim, given that the melodies and lyrics of her earlier work are infinitely more sophisticated, complex and mature than the sunny platitudes and hummable inanities of late.

"It's nice to be liked / But it's better by far to get paid," Phair sang in the now prophetic "Shitloads of Money". The problem she faces: If the SUV crowd doesn't buy the music she's crafting for them, will any of her older fans remain? The strength of most of Wednesday's show suggests that perhaps they will, but it all depends on how much more of this dismal new dreck Phair expects us to tolerate."

god, it must be a really busy day at work.

badunk

my close, personal friend anna ditkoff (ok so i've met her twice) writes in citypaper today:

"Dressed in white with sunglasses perched in her short hair, she made an impression on Club Mate’s laid-back dance floor—while the other dancers swayed to midtempo hip-hop, she shook it like it was being banned tomorrow, going into squats that would make a personal trainer jealous. Simultaneously entranced and intimidated by Badunkadunk’s moves, my friend and I edged onto the dance floor, then quickly decided we needed another drink...

...The dance floor was now packed, and the swaying had given way to full-blown dancing led by my personal hero, Badunkadunk, who had been pulled onstage by a bouncer to show us all how it’s done. And she didn’t disappoint, dipping down and undulating like a charmed snake. After a while, a girl in a tiny black skirt and a woman in a gold satin gown were brought up as well. They tried to keep up but couldn’t, falling back on girl-on-girl freaking. Badunkadunk didn’t have to pander."

laser

robin just sent me this link with this message:

"Looks like we have competition.
Cha Cha Cha Chia!
R"

sick runs in the family.

sometimes i'm a singer

i seriously struggled with this week's column, which was due to the editor last night at 10. i finally got it in around 11.30, and was fairly happy with it. fairly, not really. there have been times in the past that i've had a little bit of a roadblock when i was trying to get something written. maybe i didn't feel like an idea was fleshed-out enough, for instance, or maybe i didn't really have what i wanted to say in order. other times i've had so many angles, so many things to say, that i'll read the finished piece and be like, "oh gosh, i wish i'd remembered to talk about so-and-so." not the case with this week's article.

i kept trying to write, and it just kept...being crappy. it was like, trying to tape together a bunch of different thoughts and make a column out of it. it's just hard sometimes. like, i know what the people over at gaylife want, and this week i found myself struggling to give it to them. it's not a short story, after all, it's an op-ed column. the same pitfalls i find myself avoiding--writing a formulaic column every week, in which i pose a question, tell an anecdote, and expose something raw and emotion-riddled--are built into column-writing. what i mean is, how do i keep writing pieces that are dissimiliar but follow the same formula? it's the nature of the beast.

the paper's editor tells me he thinks that "i'm at my best when i expose my vulnerabilities." my columns do tend to be a little more bitter than sweet. but won't i eventually run out of vulnerabilities to expose? i mean, you can only talk about gender self identity self doubt love relationships marriage so much, right? do i have to be a quivering bowl of neurotic jello to be a good writer? it doesn't seem to hurt.

fucked up shit.

...and to think that some states won't let gay people adopt.

as you can probably tell, hilary and i have spent yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeears in the modeling industry. i wish this photo were taken with some sort of funhouse camera, one that distorts and reshapes. but no, that's really my face. 

which people at this big catholic after-mass picnic are gay? could it be the guy in the seersucker suit and bowtie? the queen wildly gesticulating next to him? the world may never know. 

so you're feeling political

a big welcome to the newest blogger joining our little circle: brian's one of us now. be afraid.

moon shuttle

the hopkins/homewood shuttle, the big white bus that i take to and from work for free everyday, has been mayhem since school started. i don't know what the deal is, but the lines of people waiting for the bus have started wrapping around the block, looking like the lines people wait in for tickets to an aerosmith concert (does aerosmith still have concerts? i don't know. also, does stephen tyler have a blue teardrop tattoo on his face? i was wondering that yesterday. michael told me this weekend that when people have those tattoos it means they've killed someone.).

these long lines have translated into a lot of crazy people pushing their way onto the bus, packing themselves like sardines into the un-air-conditioned space. this morning was no different. i was trying to place myself above myself--listen to my music, breathe deeply, not get too irritated. as the bus started to pull away this morning, though, a man--an idiot man--who somehow couldn't tell that the shuttle was already packed to capacity, ran alongside the bus, past people who were also waiting, knocking on the front door. not watching where he was going, he ran clear off the curb and fell out of sight. he totally fell down.

i'd like to say that my first thought was oh no! i hope he didn't fall under the wheel! or i hope he's not hurt too badly! it wasn't. my first reaction was to glance at my watch, annoyed, and hope that i still had time to get coffee.

two med students rushed off the bus to the man's aid. the bus driver (cracketta herself) ambled off the bus, half-smoked unlit cigarette in hand, to assess the situation, then informed everyone on the packed-to-capacity bus that we'd have to unload and try to fit on the already-full bus behind us. about 1/3 of us--those who had gotten on the shuttle in mt vernon--got on the second shuttle. all the others, those who ride from homewood and always frown at us as we hold up their progress downtown, had to wait for another bus to come.

it's never easy, this working life, and it's never boring (what!?).

bland.

i just had a moment where i wished i had another blog, only because i thought of a really funny tagline for it.

if i weren't so happy with "post-punk, post-modern, post-graduate," i'd definitely switch it to "reluctant receptionist: the bland alternative."

solitary excitement

michael told me i was moody last night. which, i suppose, is true. it was the first time that i'd tried cooking for just myself--every other time that michael's had other plans i've ended up eating leftovers or getting take-out, scowling while i watch will and grace or access hollywood (terry and i used to call the period between 7.30-8, the time after will and grace and before prime-time started "the 7:30 television wasteland." actually maybe it was just me who called it that and terry nodded his head.).

last night, though, i decided that, goddammit i wasn't just going to throw something on the foreman grill and call it "dinner." i was going to cook myself something good to eat. i love cooking, after all, and christ knows i love eating. so i made myself what i called chicken-piccata-for-one. i pounded out the one chicken breast, then dredged it in flower, eggs, bread crumbs. i pan-fried it, then whipped up the picctata (capers, lemon juice, broth), threw it in the oven.

i got my chicken piccata for-one out of the oven, perfectly juicy and bubbly and tart. then i went to serve myself and (paging marta) grabbed the handle of the saute pan, severely burning my left hand. i was determined, though, not to let it ruin my first fancy dinner alone. i'm going to have a lot of them over the coming months (until i move in with hilary and amanda, and finally have someone to cook for again), so i was going to forge ahead.

i sat down with my asparagus, grilled to perfection, and my chicken piccata for one, and my salad, and...watched will and grace. alone. and i ate my chicken piccata for one, and thoroughly enjoyed it, while icing my burned hand. alone. so, this is a new step in life, this re-learning how to be by myself, how to enjoy robert when other people aren't around.

god, this should've been a column...

anne lenhart, how many more humiliating pictures do you have of me in that sick, sad vault!? (this is a lesbian, not another man. one of the only women i've ever kissed.) and yes i have a backstreet boys chinstrap. i was twenty years old, gimme a break. 

face to face

sweet, sweet retribution.

doomcore

this morning, as i was standing around waiting for the printer to finish yet another batch of mailings, i was talking to the newest addition to our office, michelle. she's just as crazy as karen, but in a whole new, wonderful way. she says "fuck" and "shit" a lot. she's got four boys, one of whom has a mohawk.

it was because of the picture of her boys, on the desktop on her computer, that the following conversation happened:

"yeah, his hair looks flat here but it's really up in one of them mohawks. he uses elmer's glue!" michelle told us.

"clear gelatin works, too. it gets really stiff," i contributed.

karen piped in, "morgan [her 9-year-old] informed me a few days ago that she was going to be 'goth.' she's nine. she's going to be 'goth' and she said that her favorite store is that hot flavor or top topic..."

"hot topic?" i asked.

"yeah, that's it."

"let 'em do it," i told michelle and karen. "let them have the mohawks and be goth. eventually they'll grow out of it."

we do grow out of it, to an extent. we lose our mohawks and our dyed hair, our tattoos go under our clothes, the makeup gets washed off and our latex bodysuits (ahem, michael) give way to black button-downs. but make no mistake, those screaming, rebellious teenagers are still down there somewhere--they just have to make a living.

he should be terminated.

i hope that no gay person ever goes to see another one of this asshole's shitty movies.

technodespair

this is RIDICULOUS.

finally, robin's become a toga-wearing party animal! 

extracurriculars

this is a shout out to ron (of gay life fame), who apparently "kicked ass 15-3" at last weekend's drag queen volleyball tourney in rehoboth beach. to have a theme this clever and fully realized took some extreme effort...congrats, guys! just so we'e clear, ron is not a full-time drag queen. (thank god.)

this is a TOTAL JOKE.

hilary: i'm researching jews
robert: here's all you need to know
robert: big noses, cheap
hilary: haha

move over susan graham

as i was sitting here at work (between running around the office like a faggy little chicken with her head cut off), thinking what to blog, what to blog, it struck me that something new and good has happened in my life (besides michael): i've been singing again.

there's nothing like working an office job 40 hours a week and having no musical prospects on the horizon to make you really feel like you wasted 50 thousand dollars on a master's degree. for instance, yesterday i printed and stamped 200 postcards, then stuffed those 200 postcards into 200 envelopes along with 200 letters. for two hours. this is how i use the education i got at the venerable peabody conservatory. i stuff envelopes.

lately, though, because of friends (hilary, george) and choir directors (tom, david lawrie), i now have a total of four fairly major gigs in the next seven weeks: two recitals, a new music festival, and a bach motet. sweet. now when i go home and practice it doesn't feel quite so much like i'm just singing to the neighbors. the last time i sung in public, outside of church, was a year ago. i've seriously been feeling like why do i need to practice? it's not like i'm singing to teenage asthmatics.

for now, though, i have a few new goals, a little more focus. ride the wave.

i somehow forgot to share this picture with all (five) of you yesterday: for the second time, my picture was in the "b-scene" section of baltimore gay life! it's just too bad i haven't learned how to deal with the paparazzi yet (re: opening my eyes when having my picture taken). 

mountaineers, part the second

how shall i start telling stories of the gay bed and breakfast i went to this past labor day weekend? i'd say "queer" bed and breakfast, but trust me: there was nothing queer about it. those people didn't even really know what transgendered people were. at our last breakfast (breakfast was always served family-style, with all 30 people staying at the resort eating together in one big, really nicely appointed cafeteria, and was always absurdly fatty and wonderful), one of the two lesbians said "wait, there are that many trans people?" like apparently she thought there were maybe 5 or 6 in the world. and she's a doctor.

so, the people were a little conservative, as was to be expected. conservative yet slutty. it was the closest thing to an all-gay middle-aged summercamp that i could imagine. which is why it was such a wonderful, entertaining weekend.

i can't properly explain the kind of place that it was where we stayed. there's an outcropping of queer people on the mountain/valley where our resort was located. apparently something like 200 queer people call the place home year-round. and when the whole county has under a thousand people (most of whom, i'm sure, don't leave their shanties all that often since they're so busy frying bologna and chasing chickens around), that makes for a very queer place. which was awesome. the local diner, for instance, the "lost river grill," is owned by a gay couple from baltimore. our last night there, they were hosting karaoke at the adjacent bar. there were two tables of straight, west virginian-looking people, fat men and women with trucker hats and mullets, but everyone else in the bar was gay. it was this country bar--deer heads on the wall and everything--that turns into a gay bar every night. a DC gay bar, no less.

by the time we left, the lesbian owners of the general store were calling us by name. the air was clean, the weather perfect for driving with your windows down. i understand why people spend a weekend at lost river and end up buying a summer home there (the weekend we were there, this crazy, burly italian/jewish man named barry who works out at the DAC bought a half-million dollar home on the mountain).

but, buying summer homes isn't my lot. my lot is to park my honda accord next to their audis and bmw's, relax with them by a pool for a weekend, then go back to baltimore, refreshed and poor. and ready to go back.

i like this picture because michael looks all chic and i'm like, "hey, look, i'm a-drankin!" thanks, patrick, for the pic. 

greenness

west virginia was "wild, weird, and wonderful," or whatever the state slogan says. i'll post more about it later (when my boss isn't standing over my shoulder), but for now, here are some pictures.

mountaineers

dearest readers, i write you this blog from "the guest house at lost river," the gay-owned b&b michael and i are staying at this weekend. it's in the

middle

of

nowhere. and it's absolutely beautiful. we're the youngest people here by 5 (10?) years, as we expected. there's one wonderfully stereotypical lesbian couple--megan and laurie, megan an opinionated "physician" (not doctor, oh no) who likes college football and informed us at breakfast that all the looters in new orleans should just be shot by the national guard. now it's back to the pool, where i'm reading mark doty and frying with a bunch of middle-aged gays.

life is good.

ps.

there's literally no (NO!) cellphone reception here. but there's email...

panic

a rumor just went flying--and i do mean flying--around baltimore, including my office, that gas stations would be shut down at 4pm. once i checked reuters, which didn't have anything posted about it, and called terry to see if the rumor had hit chicago (it hadn't), i breathed a sigh of relief. i just got the following email, which was sent to the whole hopkins community:

"There is no gas station shutdown.

Governor Robert L. Ehrlich, Jr., issued the following statement: "Marylanders can ignore the rumor that the State is closing down gas stations today, or any other day. The rumor is absolutely and entirely untrue. Marylanders should continue to lead their every day lives, while being mindful to conserve energy when appropriate. We are already taking the precautionary steps to help ensure every Marylander has access to adequate supplies of gasoline. Again, continue leading your everyday lives, conserve energy when appropriate, and enjoy the holiday weekend."

A Baltimore radio station apparently gave out false information saying gas stations would be forced to close. Please keep in mind that health care professionals should use good judgement for emergency preparedness purposes to always maintain appropriate gas levels in order to be able to be responsive to our patients' needs. Please help dispel the gas station rumor with family and friends so that unnecessary shortages do not occur due to reaction to false rumors.

Thank you."

goddamn, baltimore. wise up.

the name game

my coworker steph just sent me the following email:

"This was taken off of USA today where they have blogs from news reporters:

"Yeah, baby!

Stuck in traffic evacuating New Orleans, Bianca Doucett, eight and ½ months pregnant, went into labor near Hattiesburg, Miss. Other family members called 911 on their cell phones, and the paramedics helped Doucett deliver a baby girl. Doucett says she planned to name her Ka'Niyah, but now she says she might call her Katrina. "

All I can say is at least the hurricane improved that little girl's life, she will be thanking the hurricane later that she wasn't named KaNiyah!

Steph"

i guess she can't be part of our study...

amend this

it's hard for me to read articles about gay marriage, because before i'm done reading them i get so mad that i close the browser window.

how many more carrie bradshaw references can i come up with?

now, having woken up a little, i share with you this week's column, courtesy of the fine folks over at baltimore gay life.

Homebody
by Robert

I went to bed at 11 o’clock last night. I don’t tell you this because I think it’s strange; in fact it’s become quite normal. Back when I could afford to be a little crazier, back in college and grad school, I went to bed at two, three, four in the morning. Then again, I didn’t have to show up to class until 10, and some days not at all. Those carefree times are over. My shining, happy face has to be sitting at my desk by 8:30am (ok, so between 8:45 and 9) five days a week, ready to work on projects, sit in meetings. I didn’t want to admit it to myself for a long time, but I’ve become that guy. I’ve become the guy who wants to get in bed at nine, is reading a book by ten, and is asleep before midnight.

My friend Ashli, a foppish 22-year-old, has recently stopped bothering to ask whether or not I’ll go out with her on a weeknight, something I’m less likely to do than adopt a Cambodian baby and name it Maddox. I scoff at the idea, laughing as I tell her, “Go out? Ashli, it’s Tuesday. I don’t think so.” I then adjust the half-glasses I have on a chain around my neck and achingly hoist myself up out of my easy chair, grasping my gray metal walker, grumbling to myself as I amble to the bathroom. Ok, so that’s an exaggeration. I like to think that I haven’t just grown up and gotten tired. I like to think that my priorities have changed. So what if those priorities now involve a full eight hours of sleep a night? I don’t dye my hair blue anymore, either. People change.

It’s not just that I’ve joined the ranks of corporate America, or that too many years of debauchery have taken their toll. Sure, that’s part of it. When I moved to the east coast and didn’t have to drive an hour to get to a gay bar I thought I’d finally made it. But lately it seems like I’ve discovered a whole new option, one that’s been hidden from me by designer rum promoters and cigarette vendors: there are things to do besides going to gay bars. I know, it sounds shocking. But really. Apparently there are gads of activities I could’ve been doing this whole time: going to the farmers’ market, having long, gossipy dinners with friends, going hiking, or reading, or writing…the list just goes on and on. I guess it just never occurred to me to do anything besides go to the gay bar—if it was there, and available to me within walking distance for the first time in my life, why on earth would I want to go anywhere else? Now, though, I find myself going weeks at a time without setting foot inside a gay bar; I used go out every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Sometimes during the week, too.

What’s changed? Why have I suddenly decided to pursue so many other interests? I’m certainly not drinking a lot less than I ever was, nor am I spending much less money. I think it’s because what’s become important to me, as cheesy as it may sound, are the people I’ve chosen to share my life with. It’s a lot easier to talk to someone when you’re not forcing yourself to dance to wordless techno (did I really just say the phrase “wordless techno?” God, I really do need that walker), shouting yourself hoarse over a droning, thudding bass. The older I get, the more I realize that the best things in life usually come at you quietly; if you’re distracted you’re probably going to miss them.

The next in my ever-expanding catalog of adventures is a Labor Day trip to a gay-owned bed and breakfast in West Virginia. As other gay Baltimorians flock to the beach, my boyfriend and I will head west, ready to escape ambulances, muggers, checkout girls, traffic. Just as I was congratulating myself on yet another non-gay-bar excursion, though, it hit me: I might not be spending as much time in gay bars, but I haven’t gone that far from the beaten path. Think about it: going with my boyfriend to a gay-owned bed and breakfast; going for dinner with a bunch of queer friends--I haven’t taken myself out of the gay ghetto, I’ve just changed its address.

Maybe this should tell me something. Maybe I’ve been too hard on the gay bar. After all, people at the gay bar are just looking for the same community I’ve been finding elsewhere for a few months. So I won’t stop going to the gay bar completely; I might even venture out on a weeknight sometime. Just as long as I’m in bed by 11.

hangover

tylenol pm, thou art a cruel, cruel mistress.

coades

in my study we use all kinds of codes: ".d" means "don't know." ".n" means "didn't ask/didn't do." ".a" means "not applicable." it's a ridiculous and confusing system. here's a conversation with terry:

terry: can i get everything done in 45 min?
terry: idk
robert: .d
robert: er, .n
terry: does that stand for no
robert: .d is don't know
terry: right
terry: .n is no
robert: no, .n is didn't ask/didn't do
robert: no is no
robert: I <3 MY JOB!
terry: i bet
terry: isn't that .<3
robert: haha
robert: perfect.
terry: no, it's .p

teach me sweet teacher

i wore a tie to work today. not only that, but i wore slacks and dress shoes, too. and my hand-me-down gucci belt. today i'll be in the clinic for about 6 hours, "demonstrating" how a "study visit" should be "conducted." i'll have my boss watching over my shoulder, and three people from another study site learning how to do the magic that it is we do. what i'm finding funny is that i already feel like somewhat of a faker at this job--i have since i was a secretary, much less since i became a research assistant--and now i'm instructing people. the blind leading the blind, as it were. "why does asthma happen, you ask? i don't know. now blow in this tube." "how does this medicine work, you ask? i don't know. it's working, right? don't complain, laquisha."

i've had a bunch of people asking me lately, when the find out i work in pediatric asthma research, "oh, so you're a phd?" "no," i tell them. "oh. so, a masters student?" "no. i got my masters in classical singing."

the people i have to instruct are here...time to run. wish me luck.