I Totally Need to Learn More About Music (or I need to re-think my conversations with friends)

It occurred to me last night while out with friends that I have good taste in music. I just don't hear a lot of it or remember much of it.

For instance, I liked a song that was playing. I didn't tell anyone about it. I was too busy looking good, saying funny things, and being all around awesome. But, deep down, I told myself that I liked the song that was playing.

And, as conversations go, we were having a good one. We were (of course) talking about Jeremy Irons (because who isn't these days?) and somehow the topic derailed to the movie he was in where he played creepy twin gynecologists (because . . . yeah, I can't explain this one, either).

Aaany-who, none of us could remember the name of the film, which was especially odd for me because I am totally the person you want on your Trivial Pursuit team. I remember all the movies and co-stars and directors and even the years in which they were made. It's kind of strange.

While the direction of the conversation changed, one of my friends used new-fangled technology called a phone and "googled" to find the name of the film. I had mentally moved on completely, focusing back onto the song that was playing, while others kept talking.

She said (out of NO-where, might I add), "it's Dead Ringers,"and laid her phone on the table.

I replied, much to everyone's laughter at the table, "Oh! Is that the name of this band?"

So, yeah . . . I don't know a ton about music. Oops.

In my defense, I grew up with an eclectic choice of music in my life. My Dad listened to BIG D 103 and I grew up on what I call "do-wop-shooby-doo."

Because I'm 90% certain there is a song where that is the main chorus.

It was also what I call a "Beatles/Beach Boys childhood." And that's actually pretty great. To this day, I like the Supremes (anything Motown actually), the Mamas and the Papas (Cass Eliot had the world's most beautiful voice), and yes - the Beatles.

Patsy Cline. Lesley Gore. The Monkees. Chubby Checker. These are all the people that come to mind.

In high school, I listened to Bob Dylan and the Doors, and I think this made Dad extremely happy.

My Mom, on the other hand, listened to WMAS 94.7, which I believe proudly declared themselves "soft rock."

Dan Fogelberg. Crystal Gayle. Taylor Dayne.

Taylor Dayne's actually not that bad, and "Black Velvet," a song about Elvis by Alannah Myles, is actually pretty good. They played that one over and over, I tell ya'. 

But, in the end, I grew up with a mixed bag of music to listen to in the 1980s and they didn't really involve Duran Duran, the Bangles, or anyone or anything you would ever associate to with the 1980s. It wasn't until the 90s when I had even heard of Duran Duran when they did their "comeback" album. "Where did they come back from?," I wondered. "Was England mean to them?" 

I did know about Madonna in the late 80s, so it wasn't a total loss. (I mean - come on!! I'm gay. OF COURSE, I knew about Madonna in the late 80s. And Dad totally bought me Like A Prayer for my birthday. It was all pretty great.)

Otherwise, it's been a crash course in music that other people know and care about. And that's ok. Thanks to Pandora, I get plugged into some of the current tunes out there. Amazon also does a good job at keeping me informed of the latest hits. I even have been able to introduce new music to Drake and Delilah, my friends in DC who know and own way too music. In a dictator-led country, they would be the first to be spied on. I am pretty sure their music tastes aren't subversive to governments, but it just seems pretty excessive, right? When you have external memory drives and the biggest gig iPhone, and STILL FILL THEM UP, it's pretty evident that the secret police will be on their way to your house. 

I really have no place to judge people on the amount of music, but I actually judged someone last night on their music taste. She-who-shall-not-be named (Suzanne) was swaying back and forth (in her chair, might I add) to a Coldplay song. I looked over at her and she immediately asked if she should be swaying to this song. I proudly said, "No, you shouldn't. Who do you think you are, Gwyneth? OK, Apple, go back to your Coldplay." 

I am pretty sure I am going to Hell for that comment. 

By the end of the night, at a respectable 11 p.m., I got onto the subway and waited for the G train, which stands for the "God help me" train. (If you have ever lived in NYC, you will know what I mean.)

Usually, the train is filled with degenerates at this hour and you hope for the best that everyone smells like they have showered today, because the whole train and platform and people are pretty grimy. 

I suddenly heard this awkward looking woman singing "Ave Maria" while playing on a really big violin, which some musicians may correct me and say it was a bass. But it was a really big violin. (I think.) 

She was not stylishly dressed, wore glasses, and she was overweight, and yet she had all the strangers around me - including myself - stopped in our tracks. The song was beautiful. She was beautiful. 

The train across the platform came and she stopped, and she began a new song when it left the station. It was a beautiful end to the evening and, coincidentally, was also one of my Grandma's favorite songs.

Maybe I know a little about music if I was able to catch all of that.  

In the meantime, I have totally decided to patent, and intellectual property and LEGAL WORD everything around the name Dead Ringers. Because that's totally the name of my new band. I won't know what kind of music we are playing, but I will probably like it. 

Reese Witherspoon is a Brunette??? (the world is over, people)

I'm sorry. I have an issue with you, Reese Witherspoon, and the recent problem I saw in the news.

I can handle the whole "you-got-arrested" thing.

I can even understand when I heard that you asked the arresting officer, "Do you know my name?" I have to admit that I would probably do that, too. If I looked as cute as you and somehow managed to become pretty wealthy as well as landing myself a shiny Oscar, I would walk up to total strangers every single day and scream my name and hand out copies of the latest Entertainment Weekly with my face on it. (My mother would probably join me in said activity.)

You name dropped. You got arrested. It happens. I can get over these facts.

I can NOT, however, get over the fact that you now have brown hair.

I have brown hair. Brown hair is great.

But on you? It's bad. SO BAD.

You were in a movie called Legally Blonde, for crying out loud. Which is hilarious now for two reasons: 1) You were arrested - therein needing legal assistance and 2) you weren't blonde!

But, the most troubling thing is: you just don't look good as a brunette.

I'm sorry! I'm saying this with all the support and love of your toughest girlfriend. Well . . . maybe not your toughest. You were arrested and all, and I have no idea the kinds of "ladies" that are in the Georgia prison system.

But, I am saying this with the sincerest form of love. I have always thought that you were beautiful.

You were down right, cute-as-a-button. Other people can have their Sandra Bullocks. Their Julia Roberts. I'd list other romantic comedy actresses who also won Oscars, but I think this is where the club ends: with you three. (And no, I'm not including people like Diane Keaton because let's face it - no one is like Diane Keaton and no one ever will be. Unless I can get that cloning thing started up again and we will be starting with her. This reminds me: expect a whole blog someday on Diane Keaton. Or a national holiday where we all have to dress up like her. It will be awwwww-some!!!)

I digress. The fact is: I like you. A lot. I watched the film Water for Elephants because I really, really liked the book and - sure, why not! - because of you. Robert Pattinson made me want to scratch out my eyes and ears because bad actors shouldn't be in movies, but I hung in there and watched the movie because of you!

You just seem so nice. And upbeat. And I like that. I want to hang out with that kind of person.

You make unwatchable films: watchable. And yes, I am sadly talking about Legally Blonde 2. And Vanity Fair. And How Do You Know?

And How do I know? Because I watched them all - because of you!

Having said all of this: you can get arrested 100 more times and I will still go see another blah movie like This Means War (as long as you get that adorable Tom Hardy and Chris Pine back).

I will still think of you as a good person, to be honest. I really think in the echelons of the Lindsay Lohans out there in Hollywood, you are probably the Mother Teresa of the acting community.

So, I think the lesson really is this: go back to blonde. It's your calling. It's your destiny. It's also: your best look. And looking best is well . . . best. Right?

If you need any tips: I did a whole blog on my beauty secrets - and well, I think you will really appreciate how I manage to make myself look good. (http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2013/03/my-beauty-regimen-dont-laugh.html)

But, I'm also a natural brunette. And lets just say it. It sure ain't easy bein' me.

Today is the First Day of Summer (and why, yes, I am wearing shorts in April ...)

The first day of summer was today.

Not really. It's Tuesday, April 9th. And I'm told (according to my friends at Google) that the first day of Summer will not be until Friday, June 21st. But, that can't be right.

I wore shorts today. Awesome, navy garment-dyed chino shorts that I roll up so they are just a little bit shorter. Why make them shorter? So glad you asked! Well, I'm not a basketball player, nor basketball player height and I feel all men who are 5'8'' should realize that and stop buying or producing shorts that go below their knees. Shorts are called (oddly enough) "shorts." So, they should be short, right?

Am I the only one seeing this logic?

Anyways . . . back on track: I wore shorts today. And red flip flops. And it was awesome.

Why was it awesome?

Well, it was 80 degrees today. EIGHTY.

Since New York fell to the Ice Age (in what seemed like the real life version of that terrible Jake Gyllenhaal movie), I have been wearing pants - like you do. But, I don't love pants. I love shorts.

So, today was a good day.

Today was also a good day because I ordered some shoes online and they were delivered. I like getting my online purchases. It's a little added perk to the day.

Thirdly, today was a good day (thirdly is a word, right?) because I went to Trader Joe's. Around 6 p.m. And it wasn't crowded. And they finally had asparagus. Brace yourself. Life just got amazing.

I got apples for $.69 cents a piece. Brussel Sprouts for $2.99! The tomatoes were a little pricey, but hey - it's not in season yet. But, I was so excited because today (I declared it) was the first day of summer that I had to buy myself a tomato. Tomatoes are the poster child for Summer, in my humble opinion. Watermelon can be the Jan Brady of Summer, if you ask me.

It also was so warm out that I bought TULIPS. Beautiful, classic, tall, white tulips. Tulips that I had been wanting for a month. Lo and behold - today - on the first day of Summer of all days - Trader Joe's finally had tulips! Asparagus and tulips! This stuff was about to get real, people!

It was all too good to be true. I wanted to sit down and have a glass of wine to calm myself from all this excitement, but I had to get home and stock my fridge with all my amazing purchases.

The Let's Do This jug makes another cameo appearance.

Keep in mind: I had the shoes I bought online. They came today and, like a kid on Christmas, I just had to bring them home. So, the shoes were in my work bag. Okay - man bag. Okay - hand bag. You happy?

You get the point. I had the shoes with me.

I brought 2 reusable medium size tote bags with me to Trader Joe's because - yes - I love the Earth and I bring bags when I plan ahead.

There I was: walking down the bustling streets of Court Street in Brooklyn. A street that I usually love. It's only a few blocks to the subway. Not normally a bad walk, today was a bit tiring as there was juice and almond milk and some seafood among all the fresh produce, so the 2 bags were quite heavier than I intended.

I thought, "why didn't the cashier just give me a paper third bag?"

"Oh, yeah, because I have three and I can barely carry these as it is," I said to no one.

"A fourth probably wouldn't help us here, Greg," I said calmingly to myself. I'm good in a crisis like that.

Just as I got to the Bergen Street F subway entrance, I smiled with the knowledge that I would soon be able to put the bags down and give my "fantastic" muscles a nice reprieve. Or so I thought.

I knew I was in trouble when I heard the sweet sound of "no, Daddy. I can do it all by MYself."

Sweet voice. Harrowing words.

It must be said: I love children. Some would argue that I have the same mind as they do. I believe the Whitney Houston song where the children are our future. Teach them well.

Teach them to let the huffing and puffing 30-something walk down the stairs first. (That's right, I'm not giving you my age with my birthday just weeks away.)

But, no - these parents mostly taught their child to be independent and evidently rude, as I was not the only person waiting a decade to walk the simple two flights of stairs into the subway.

A train must have just left the station, as many people were exiting the subway stop, so there was no room to maneuver around the young tot and her enablers parents. So, with the army of people behind me, we all slowly walked down the steps. One slow step at a time.

Children are cute. They are not, however, the fastest walkers.

This is the one time and place where I am confident in saying that it is appropriate to pick your child up and walk them down the stairs. I'm an adult and even I can't do the subway stairs by myself. If I had the cash, I would simply pay a person full time to carry me up and down the subway steps. It would still end up being cheaper than a NYC cab these days!

More importantly, the subways are tough, kid. I cried on my first day in a NYC subway, lest we forget. And I imagine, she probably cried in one, too. So, let's remember those frightening times and keep our heads down and move quickly.

Her independence prevailed and I didn't. I did, however, make it into the subway station moments before a speedy F train came to relieve me of my fresh hell. So, in the end, it all worked out.

And it was a still a good day. I can't move my neck on the right side, probably from my right arm being dislodged from my shoulder. But my window is open tonight and I can feel a nice breeze. And my tall, elegant tulips sure do look pretty. Yes, today was a good day.

Just Say It.

I wonder about the things we don't say.

I wonder about the things we don't tell each other - right then and there. Right in the moment.

When you let that moment go by - that lost opportunity - is there any way to ever get them back?

In the case of my grandmother, there never will be.

Grandma, as she will forever be known in my heart, was beautiful. Inside and out. I got to know her when she was truly great. I was the youngest of 14 grandchildren in her life, and a few years after me, she had already become a great grandmother. She was retired, settled down, and was just perfect for the Grandma role. She played the part well.

Those 14 years I spent with her were the really great years, in my book. The dramas in her life had mostly subsided or maybe I was just ignorant to any current dramas. Regardless, the years I had were just a dream.

She could say anything to me really and I would go along with it. I would say no to my parents, but if Grandma asked, well . . . "OK, Grandma!" (That would drive my Dad nuts.) Grandma just asked nicely. It was her voice. How could you say no to someone like her?

She taught me to draw and I like to think that she gave me that very first spark of creativity. She used to draw figures of women and she would sketch clothes. Is it a surprise to anyone that I somehow manage to work in fashion in New York?

I am crying as I think of this. I like to think that she would be proud of me. Lord knows, I was not a great art student (though I sure did try for years) but deep in my very soul, I wonder if she had dreamt of being in the arts, especially fashion. So, I like to think that in some small way that she is looking down on me during this period in my life.

This is all in my head, by the way. I could be completely wrong. This is the perspective of childhood memories and - in the end - it's all I have of her.

Grandma made the best pancakes - ever. No recipe, no measurements. Just a little of this and a little of that. My mother has tried to replicate it but, you see - she married into the family. It's not in her DNA. Her mom used Bisquick. (The audience collectively groans.)

So, you can't blame Mom for not getting it just right. As the years have passed, it seems closer and closer to being like Grandma's but, it's doubtful it could ever be exactly the same. To Mom's credit, she definitely perfected the Chicken and Dumpling recipe, so we really have to pick our battles. The Chicken and Dumplings that my Mom makes are a must!

Grandma, if she knew you were coming over, would have pudding in the fridge. I can't help but think of her whenever I see butterscotch pudding. It's sad that its not the most popular flavor of pudding on menus. It's clearly the best.

She used to have glass containers on her counters. In one of them, were pink mints. I believe the brand was called Canada Mints. The flavor: Wintergreen. It was the treat for the road before Dad took us back home.

Clearly, my stomach and memories of Grandma go hand in hand. I am pretty sure it's true for everyone.

I can't make the Chicken and Dumplings. I can't make the pancakes. I can't draw very well. But I can remember her.

I can still remember her home, some of her furniture, as well as the entire layout of the first floor of her Kelly Green home. It was a simple home and because she was special, her home was special to me.

One of my last memories of her is one of the most profound. It happened to be the time in my life when I knew I was probably gay or seriously questioning it more and more.

You have to remember the time. It was around 1992. People just didn't talk about it like they do today. It just wasn't discussed. It was supposed to be hidden. A major gay character on TV was not the norm. I don't think there was even a gay guest star on a very special episode of Blossom. Usually, if they were on TV, it wasn't in a good way. They had AIDS and were dying.

Even the actors on TV weren't out. George Takei was light years away from telling us that not only was he gay - but also very, very funny. Thank GOD times have changed, right?

Anyways, I think Grandma got the sense that something was weighing me down. Always the cool customer with me, she was super casual about it. We were in her living room. She was in Grandpa's gold recliner and I was on the big printed couch. (Grandpa had passed away a few years before but, in my book, that was still his chair.)

She brought up an old story about my cousin Ricky, when he was just a teenager (By 1992. Rick - as he is now known to people - was already married, in the Navy, and living in Hawaii. Side note: It is coincidental that the actor from Silver Spoons, Rick Schroder, and my cousin Rick chose both to drop Ricky in favor of Rick. Side, side note: I still think of my cousin as Ricky and still say Ricky.)

Now, Ricky was the only other male cousin we had around back then. My Uncle Buster had 5 girls. And my Aunt Joyce and her 6 kids were not close to my family. So, on this one side of my family: I had 5 older girl cousins and my sister. Man, was I screwed!

Grandma might have sensed whatever was bothering was a male problem, like how Ricky had trouble with some neighbor kids. I don't remember the whole tale. The gist was: the other guys in the neighborhood were trouble. I think Ricky (yep, still calling him Ricky) eventually told Grandma the problem and he may have even solved it on his own. What was important, especially to Grandma, was that he came to her and they talked it out.

She was opening the door for me to do the same. God, I wanted to! I wanted to scream out right there. I held the cushions of the couch tightly, not sure what to do. I wanted to blurt out, "I think I like this guy. What should I do?" I wanted to ask her a bajillion questions. But, I thought she wouldn't understand. Maybe I would get in trouble. And so, I was polite and basically said something like a thank you. "OK, Grandma. I will."

I never did. She died before I could ever tell her. It was at least another two or three years before I felt I could tell anyone my secret. It was almost a decade before I could tell my parents "I Am So Gay." (wink!)

I know on some level she knew. At the very least, she knew something was bothering me and I needed to talk it out, so to speak. To this day, it makes me sad when someone says they don't feel they can be themselves due to a certain situation or person. As a kid, I was always worrying about being myself.

If I say this . . .

If I like that . . .

But, I grew up. I found the confidence to find myself and live my life.

It's the never knowing about the conversation with Grandma, though, that is hard to think about. I don't like the never knowing. I am like my mother in the sense that I ask too many questions. We both have to know everything. (Mom  - if you are reading - this is a bad quality of ours, so cut it out! And I will, too.)

I know that I should move on from this "never knowing" feeling, Today, I live a life, where I say what I am always thinking and what I am always feeling. I have always done that since I came out. It was my own secret little pledge that no one else knew - until now. I had spent my early youth not saying what I thought and I told myself to never do that again. Don't lose out on another opportunity, like the one with Grandma.

So, I can't help but wonder just this last time . . . what would she have said? What would I have said? How would that conversation have gone down? I like to think it would have been the most special and important talk that we ever could have. And - no matter what - that talk we did share was special. It set me on my path to being the open person I was meant to become. 

Most importantly, I also would like to think that she would have loved me no matter what.

In the end, I am sure of that. She will always in my heart love me - just for me. 

My Beauty Regimen ... Don't Laugh!

It's true. I am glamorous.

It takes work. So much work, in fact, that I have a beauty regimen.

As a style icon (to myself only), I find it invaluable to ensure I look my absolute best at all times. So, I thought it would be helpful to no one if I composed a little list of the top ten things we all should be doing to ensure we look our absolute best.

1. Big hair. The bigger, the better. Go all Texas if you have to. At a formal occasion, the person with the most volume in their 'do, always gets that extra attention from a gentleman. If you don't believe me, just drool over this picture from me in high school.



What a ladies man!

And look how happy and alert I am!

So, I think I proved my point.

When in doubt, go big!












2. Great skin. Now, this just doesn't happen overnight.

You gotta work at it. You have to hydrate. And I am not talking about water.

When people ask me what is my biggest secret to looking so  young, I always say the same response. "The alcohol in my body has preserved me for years to come."

And it's true. And of course, water is great, too.

Now, my second biggest secret to great skin is: the home facial. Any over the store counter brand will do. The picture on the right is a muddy mask thing from Kiehl's that I love. And when your face is so dry and the stuff is just cracking and you can barely move your mouth, it's ready to wash off with a nice, cold wash cloth. 

The other thing I like to do every other month is to get a real facial by real professionals. And when I say professionals - I mean: students. That's right! I go to facial academies all over New York, where (for the bargain price of roughly $50) you can submit yourself to the least relaxing hour of your life.

When I got the extractions done on my T-Zone (ugh, the blackheads on my nose!) I thought the student was going to crush my eyes in as she put her entire palm of her hand on my upper face while she was working on my nose. Who cares if your eyes have trouble opening again? You look great!

3. Moisturize. Ain't nothing worse than seeing dry elbows on a person. Grab a bottle of your favorite Bath and Body Works body lotion and go to town. If you want to use a cheaper or more expensive brand, it's all a preference. But, whatever you do, don't go cheap on the application. Use generously and often. Basically, just sleep in a tub of aloe.

4. SPF. Just trust what every TV doctor has told you. Don't listen to anyone from the Jersey Shore cast. If your dream is to grow up and be Snooki or that guy who went to rehab, by all means, chase the rainbow, my friend. Otherwise ... lube up come sun time.

5. Cut costs whenever possible - do it at home! Just like my home facial. It's more fun and you learn something, too.

Cut your own hair? Sure!
Color your own hair? You're worth it, L'oreal!
Clip your own nails? Of course!
Wax your own legs? Easy!

Why pay someone else when you can do it incorrectly and more painfully? No pain, no gain, I always say. Just think of the gain to your savings account while you are bleeding all over your bathroom floor. It will plaster a smile on your face like you have never seen!

6. When in doubt, go generic. Those name brand products are just a waste. I love my Top Care shaving foam more than life itself. Sure, between my disposable razor and a $1.29 large can of foam, I will permanently have a chin of rough stubble. But, isn't stubble in? I know beards are - and that trend could end now, thank you!

I'm getting off topic. But, seriously, spend a lot on shampoo and no one notices. Spend a lot on your shoes and people will envy you for decades!

7. Floss. Good god, please floss! This is more for you than it is for me. I already floss. But you!  Seriously, sitting across from you in this meeting and seeing your spinach is killing me. Literally. Killing. Me.

8. Cologne. I'm a big proponent of over spraying. Just go nuts. Pretend you bought a never ending bottle. "Irish Shower" yourself to a new you! Because it's better people remember a good smell than a bad smell. And if you didn't do laundry on that t-shirt and it's the third time this week you're wearing it - and it's July - spray on some body spray! Spray on, playa'!

(The caveat here is: you bought a good brand that goes with your skin. If you're wearing the Abercrombie & Fitch cologne - well, all of humanity is now doomed because of you. So, maybe don't over spray. Just sayin.')

9. Shower Daily. Am I the only who does this if I am going out of the house? Just askin' here. Maybe my mother taught me right? But, if you're staying home, stink it up. If you're introducing yourself to the public, then give us something to work with. Smell good. Look good. Win=win!

And my 10th and final biggest beauty regimen tip is the most important:

10. Hair Removal Systems. Hair should be on your head. Yep, that's the only place. You don't need it anymore. Really. If you think about, it's just decoration up there. When we were less evolved, say 60 years ago and living in caves, we needed hair. It kept us warm. But, now we have heat and airplanes to take us to Miami whenever we need to.

So, whatever your hair growth issue is: take care of it.

We should all feel very passionate on this subject. Our political leaders should pass national and local laws.

And, as you age, hair appears in more places than it did since puberty. It's nature's never-ending joke.

  "You're aging, hahaha! Sincerely, Nature."

So, Nature sent us the note and you need to have multiple hair removal systems on hand. You will never look better.

OK - folks! That's it. We're all set to venture on the town looking, smelling, and feeling great. Now, if only I can get people to stop wearing Crocs, we'd be all set!

Date Night!!! (with myself) .... so, yeah, judge away, Judgey McJudgerson

That's right. You heard it correctly. I am going on a date ... with myself.

I've written about this concept once before - how I had spent the better half of my birthday alone and had an awesome day. All in the span of 24 hours, I went to see the Book of Mormon (a show I dreamt of seeing), I got a facial, I shopped, I got an awesome cocktail and seafood lunch, and I saw the Guggenheim (another place I dreamt of seeing.) Basically, I rocked that day. I rocked it real good.

And I do that often. And I see nothing wrong with it.

Yet, when you tell people that you are squirreling away some fun time all on your own, some people look at you with the "oh, that's just sad" face. In fact, today I was actually told, "Oh, that's just sad."

Now, I was on a literal date with another guy when I was asked what my weekend plans were. I was on a date. It showed (at least to me) that not only can I get dates, but I also enjoy them people besides myself.

I had to be honest, though. "I'm having a fun date night with myself!,"I said, with all the excitement of a child on Christmas.

His head tilted. Never a good sign.

I immediately remedied the situation with what I thought was a gangbusters response. "Well, I got this great deal online. I got a ticket to the new Broadway show The Big Knife. It has Bobby Cannavale. You know, that cute guy from Boardwalk Empire? He's been in a bunch of stuff. I think he was Will's boyfriend on Will & Grace. Anyways, it's about Old Hollywood and seems fun, plus it came with a free wine and cheese plate and it was only $39."

Well, his response seemed to be the same. "All by yourself? Oh, that's sad."

He didn't get. He just didn't get it.

I could have been speaking kindergarten level English (which is basically the only kind of English I am able to speak) and he still wouldn't have been able to wrap his brain around the idea of doing something fun alone.

Now, I am no scientist. (It's the truth. I never got the science degree, nor the math degree, nor the I make a lot of money someday degree.) But, I think there has to be some kind of scientific study that shows the benefit of doing something alone.

I am not recommending we all move away from civilization and become loners in the Kentucky wilderness. (Just think of all the whiskey!) But, I do think - from time to time - it's good for people to experience doing things on your own.

I am a long distance runner. I run half marathons. Let me tell you: that 13.1 race is ALL you. It's mental. It's a game. It's a journey. And all the training you did and knowledge you have are there for you to remember but, in the end, it's your two feet and your determination that get you over the finish line. There may be people cheering for you. There may be a friend running with you. But, it's still you doing the one foot in front of the other thing and no one else. No matter how fast you run, no one can run it for you. You're the one crossing that finish line. And it's awesome when you finish - because YOU DID IT.

I think it's important to do things all on your own. It's confidence building. It's a great learning experience.

I learned how to do so much in life because I moved to NYC without knowing a soul. It was sink or swim. How do I get to work? Well, if you think someone is going to explain the subway to you - I have some news: they won't. You're on your own and you figure it out. (Although my cousin Mary and Patty will attest to: I still don't know and don't want to know how to hang things on a wall. They end up crooked or with extra holes in the wall. So, I give up on that one thing. Someone else can do that. I'll bake us some cookies instead.)

I also find that when I am alone, I make friends. I have a face that people just find friendly. Do you agree?

Yes?

Oh - you're just saying that because I have wine.

(Well, the wine does help everyone involved to be more friendly.)

But, I cannot tell you how often I am alone and people just come up to me and start talking.

- Waiting in line (Any line. Anywhere, really).

- At the dentist's office, but only at the dentist's office. For some reason - not at the doctor's office. Maybe because everyone is sick. I'm not sure.

- On planes. On buses. On trains. Sometimes, I would just like to sleep, but OK, fine - let's talk about your job and how you hate it. I guess I am cheaper than your shrink.

My point - and I have one - is: there is nothing "sad face" about me going by myself to see a Broadway show that sounded decent. I guess people who are married or are in a long term contract with their cell phone provider can't understand this concept. Maybe because they are legally obligated to follow all rules and attend social things with a plus one.

I've never played by that rule. I'm a rebel.

I can go it alone. And I can have a great time.

So, cheers to me, I say. I'm going to have my wine and cheese plate tomorrow and watch a celeb do some acting stuff. Giddy up, Bobby Cannavale!

And if you want to judge Bobby and the night I have planned, by all means: go ahead. It just means more wine and cheese for me.

Being Strong and Getting There

I don't remember when I first started championing the little guy, but I didn't realize I was doing such a thing until I was 17 years old. I went away for a school weekend leadership retreat thing and there were all kinds of surprises and activities. One of the surprises was that our families wrote us all notes. Of course, they were the typical mushy kind of letters. "We're so proud" kind of letters.

The truly surprising one was from my grandmother on my mom's side. She mentioned how I always argued for the little guy. She was proud I guess that for some inexplicable reason I always defended the other point of view. In my head, I always was just saying my point of view. The right point of view, might I add. But, she was right. In an argument, I will usually defend the person who is either incapable of defending themselves or ill equipped.

We should be for welfare. We should be for health care for everyone. We should be for charity. We should be for those things which can help those who need help. And yes, there will be those who take advantage of these things, but as I have gotten older, I have come to notice there have been those who are very fortunate who also take advantage of perks and tax shelters, and free tickets to shows or sporting events, etc. and etc.

My point (and I do have one) is: I argue for those less fortunate because I always considered myself the little guy. I am gay - and growing up when I did - that wasn't necessarily a good thing. I was bullied and teased and taunted and made fun of my entire young life.

I have big ears, so as a child, I was called Dumbo. ( I didn't get the joke. I had seen the movie, but I thought they were calling me fat, which was odd since I was an extremely skinny child.)

I was evidently gay at a very young to most kids except myself. So, the kids in the 7th grade called me, "Grimace." (Again, I didn't and actually STILL don't get the joke. And again, Grimace is kind of a round shaped fella, so should I take it as a sign that maybe everyone did think I was fat?) It was eventually explained to me to stop being happy when the 7th graders came over to high five me and say Grimace.

In high school, L.D. Platt used to pull on the tab on the back of my oxford shirt every day in Freshman Algebra class until one day I cut them all off - much to my mother's complaint. I was tired of being yanked daily, but more importantly, I was tired of Miss Duquette thinking I had epilepsy.

In Study Hall Freshman year, George Sotirion, Marco Milbier, and some other guy picked on me one day so badly that I put my head down on my desk and sobbed loudly. The teacher did nothing - way to go, Teach! And then the kids pitied me. I think they felt a little ashamed. Bobby Jo Murray told them off, I think. But, it didn't really change how they felt or what happened. I wasn't cool and I was the kid who cried in class.

There weren't all bad times. Ned Sullivan, my neighbor and fellow student at St. Matthew School, was two years older than me. He was taller and lanky and took the bus with my sister and I. We all waited at the bus stop every morning. On one particular day, Ned was calling me names, like he did often, and I just lost it. My older sister didn't stick up for me - no surprise there - and I was sick of his crap. So, I wailed on him.

I was a nerd who liked to take all his books home with him. (Especially Social Studies! To this day, I still love Social Studies, and world cultures and history. All of it is awesome, and might I add, they usually are the heavy books!) And a book bag with all these heavy books had made my right arm and shoulder quite strong. Plus, he didn't know what was coming and I was (and still am) a quick attack. I dropped my book bag off my shoulder and swung it right across his face and gave him a nice bloody nose.

Mrs. Sullivan, his mother, gave me lots of finger pointing and yelling. I, however, do not remember ever being punished for it. I was so proud. My sister, on the other hand, told me to shut up when I tried to be happy about it. To hell with her!

I learned a lesson that day. If you speak up or stand up, things may change. Ned never bothered me again. And I always kept a full back pack, just in case.

It wasn't and still isn't an easy lesson to follow. There were lots of days where I was still picked on. Even in college.

My first group of roommates Freshman year once left our dorm room and stacked all the chairs from the study lounge in front of it. They also wrote some unkind things about me and where my father worked on the dry erase board. They didn't like me and they wanted their friend from the football team to be their roommate instead. They had all met weeks before school started, so I was doomed before they met me. Then they met me and they still didn't like me. I threw the chairs down the hallway. Someone else could pick them up. I made a lot of noise. And a few days later, I was out of there. But, it wasn't a fun time.

I disclose all this rather personal stuff because I do think it's helpful. I think there is something to learn by sharing these thoughts and experiences.

And with that spirit, I am making a list:

1. Fuck 'em! (I know - I don't like to curse on this blog usually, but it's the best word for the job.)  If you meet a jerk in life, don't let them stop you from being you or doing what you want to do. It has been the overarching theme of my life. I have lived my life - my way - and anyone else can be damned. My life isn't necessarily the most amazing, but it's been mine and no one else's. And I wouldn't have it any other way. So, fuck 'em!

2. Be you. Yes, your humor may be quirky, you may smell, and you may believe that the moon god Zorba is the savior for us all. Who cares? As long as you are being yourself, then it is truthful. Being true to yourself and how you think and believe is all that matters in life. It is the one thing in life we can afford. I cannot stand people who aren't true to themselves and just follow along. I definitely stand out at times in certain social circles and sometimes I am embarrassed afterwards. But, I have only regretted the times I didn't say what I knew in my heart to be true. And with that - the Zorba religion thing is really expensive, so you've been warned.

3. Speak Loudly and Carry a Big Stick. I don't mean a book bag full of heavy 6th grade reading material. I mean, self confidence. Believe in yourself. Believe in your heart. You will find that a confident voice directly confronting someone who is a negative force to you will have some impact on the situation. I don't go after just any situation. To be honest, I still try to avoid the situations where people are just saying nasty or rude things just to get a rise out of me. I don't understand why people say things that they know will just make the other person uncomfortable. Those things are not worth my time or their time either for that matter. But, if someone comes after me directly, you better believe I've learned to stand up for myself.

These small things are BIG things. They aren't easy. I had to learn this over many years. It didn't come naturally to me. My parents raised me to be far too polite. FAR too polite. I didn't really have someone who did the standing up for me kind of thing. I learned over time that the only person in my life who was going to be standing up and speaking out was going to have to be me. And sometimes in life you just can't be the "nice" guy. The "nice" guy can get his oxford shirt yanked.

I'm not saying you do the yanking. I'm saying you be you. Speak up. Say when something isn't ok. I don't like the way you are talking to me. I don't like the way you are treating me. It's not right. It's not good.

Stand up for the little guy. Stand up for yourself.