It's no secret that I had been stalking BOSSY for years when we finally met on her very excellent road trip. She even stayed at my house. Yes, we spent the night together. She even left a note on the pillow before she snuck out early in the morning.
And last week, we were reunited.
Reunited, and it felt so good. Reuinited, it was understood. There's one perfect thing and sugar, this one was it. We both were so excited cuz we were reunited, yeah-eahhhhhhhhh.
I am also deeply in love with this woman, JCK. BOSSY brought us together. And whatever BOSSY brings together, let no man put asunder.
It was through BOSSY that I also met this amazing woman, Shayera, who under no certain terms, has promised me she would make gay marriage legal in California again. And this time she would make it stick. Probably single-handedly.
Across the country people have been and will be gathering in groups so very much like this one, thanks to the long arm of BOSSY.
Special thanks to BOSSY for allowing us all to steal this photos. Can you believe that not a single one of us, other than BOSSY, brought our own camera? BOSSY more than made up with it with these, and oh, yeah, a real live camera man who recorded the entire event, including the big booger I had hanging from my nose.
Yesterday was Prom at our local high school. As usual, girls and guys with their proud parents congregated around our neighborhood to take pictures, since we have some beautiful scenery that people like to use as a backdrop.
But my Mexican-Italian in-laws do not understand Prom.
"Is it high school graduation already? Are they having graduation celebrations?"
"No, it's Prom."
"P-P-P-Prom? What is this. . .Prom?"
"You had two sons and two grand daughters go through the California public school system, and you don't know what Prom is?"
"No. What is . . . Prom?"
"It is a formal dance. The kids get all dressed up and then go somewhere fancy and have a dance."
"Remember a couple years ago? When Amelia went to Prom with Jacob? And they got all dressed up and we went to the high school and watched all the kids walk through the gym? That was part of Prom."
"Or maybe they're just celebrating their graduation."
"No. It's Prom."
"Or maybe it's a big party because one of them turned fifteen; a Quincenera."
"Noooo. It's Prom. Prom."
"I don't think so."
I then stood up, walked over to the wall, and banged my head against the wall three times.
Amelia plays in a band, and last night they had a gig at a local coffee shop. They sounded great! Their band is still nameless, although last night they were throwing around a few name ideas, like Bank of Amerika, Led Zepplin, or Metallica.
While I am very proud that our son, Diego, is being raised fluent in two languages, I must say that it does come with its challenges. There have been times that he has said something to me that I just can't understand in any language, until I realize that he is saying it in English with the very heavy Spanish accent that he hears from Elsa and Ines. My favorite one was when he came up to me and said, "Daddy, I need some beeks bappo roo!"
"Huh?" I asked.
"I need some beeks bappo roo!" he repeated.
"Diego, I still don't understand what you're saying."
Diego was beginning to get frustrated.
"Will you show me what you want? Where is it?" I questioned.
Diego led me upstairs to a shelf in his closet and pointed.
I think every school in the seventies and eighties had at least one. Every school had at least one particular person that, for whatever reason, received the brunt and the majority of scorn and ridicule from the other students; certainly more than their share. Perhaps this person looked different. Maybe they acted different. Possibly, their family was different. For this person, cruelty was a daily routine. Withstanding verbal, psychological, and verbal abuse from other kids became a way of life.
I was not that person. Not quite anyway. Oh, I had plenty of scorn and ridicule to deal with, which brought me great pain. But nothing compared to one of my classmates. Most of the time, I felt bad for this person. Occasionally though, I jumped on the bandwagon of name-calling and making fun, even though I knew what it felt like to be treated so dreadfully. Never did I defend. Never did I befriend.
Not only did this classmate of mine have troubles at school, but their home life was filled with tremendous pain and fear and shame. Nobody at school knew this. If we had known, would we have been kinder? Would the other students have called them over to sit by them at lunch instead of throwing food? Would a nice "hello" have replaced a hurtful name?
I've been carrying this person around in the back of my mind for about thirty years now, accompanied by a degree of shame of my own for my part in my classmate's living hell, and for not lifting a finger to somehow alleviate their nightmare, even if for just a moment.
Then, the other night, an opportunity presented itself. Thanks to the mixed bag that is Facebook, I was able to make contact with this person and, after the typical pleasantries, expressed that I was deeply sorry for what I had done (and not done) so many years ago. My apology was gracefully accepted. This led to a couple of lengthy chat sessions in which we discussed the past and the present and how the two are connected for the both of us.
I certainly do not share this to toot my own horn. I would not have written anything about it except for one startling piece of information:
I am the only one who has ever apologized. Ever. In 30 years. This thought turns my stomach. This thought makes my blood boil. First of all, why the hell did it take me 30 years? And second? Why the hell hasn't anyone else? I can think of a few kids who were downright criminal in the way they treated my friend. Today, in many schools, they would be suspended in a heartbeat for such behavior, my current school included. And third? Kids will be mean no matter where you find them, but keep in mind that the vast majority of the children in my schools growing up were the children of very active members of the Mormon church, the ones who were being taught every single Sunday to love one another. What happened? What caused such a disconnect?
Well, my friend has moved on. My friend is happily married and my friend has built a happy life. My friend has forgiven. But my friend has not forgotten, and is still dealing with the aftermath of so many awful years. Hopefully, my one apology has lightened the load just a bit and provided a glistening of hope.
As I was growing up, there was a little neighbor boy named Bryce (I've changed his name) who lived near us who would sometimes come over to our house wearing his mother's heels, or his older sister's dress, or long sparkly gloves. He was very open about his desire to be a girl, and he unabashedly talked about growing up to be lady. He may have even talked about kissing boys. I really didn't give it much thought, but I now wonder how his staunchly Mormon parents felt about it, and at what point did they say that enough was enough?
I am several years older than Bryce is, so soon after that I grew up and moved out. I didn't hear anything else about him or his family until a couple of years ago my sister told me that he was gay and that at some point he had been living a "gay lifestyle" but then after a while his family pulled him back into mainstream Mormonism, he repented, went on a mission, goes to BYU, and is now happily married. To a woman.
I've read Bryce's blog. He loves show tunes and a few other stereotypically gay things. He still seems feminine in many ways. He posts about his disdain for people like Clay Aiken and Ricky Martin who, in his opinion, say they are gay just because nowadays it is "the cool thing to do." He had a lot of strong words regarding the whole "Yes on 8" debacle. He also talks a lot about his love for his family, his wife, and the teachings of the Mormon church.
I want Bryce to be happy. I can understand how easy it could have been for him to try to turn off a part of himself in hopes of a normal, more accepted life, to want to follow the teachings of the church, and the belief system of his very strong, very close-knit family. It is no small task what he has chosen to do. I know. I tried. No matter what I did I could not get that part of me to be quiet. Some say that part of me was just temptation. Some say that everyone has their demons, whether it be drugs or alcohol, gambling, overspending, overeating, pornography, or any number of other vices, that they must combat on a daily basis. Some say that those are just their temptations that they must resist. Some say that homosexual desires are just another set of vices that must be battled, and overcome.
There are also other "ex-gays" out there who decry homosexuality and have chosen to become straight. I wonder how that is working out for them. That sounds sarcastic. But I would really like to know, how many of them have managed to live lives of fulfillment, without regret, and how many are now ex-ex-gays?
My friend, Stacy, who is a random cool chick, runs a blog called "Stacy's Random Thoughts." After quite some time of successful blogging, she has decided she needs a good mojo shot in the arm and has decided to rename her blog, and she is making a contest out of it, where readers make suggestions and the one she likes best will get a goodie basket with wine involved. What could be better? I'll be checking back anxiously to see what her new blog title will be.
As I was submitting my suggestions to her, I thought, "If I wanted to rename The Jason Show, what would I decide to call it?" Not that I'm actually thinking about doing that, but it is fun to consider the possibilities. So rather than ask for your suggestions (sarcastic and tongue in cheek suggestions would be more than welcome, of course) I am going to ask you to choose and leave your choice in a comment.
So...IF I were to rename The Jason Show, what do you think it should be called?
Pigs in a Blanket
Gird Up Your Loins
Gnashing of Teeth
Beauty Before Age
All Things to All Men
Fine Kettle of Fish
As Old as Methuselah
Pull Out Your Finger
Hair of the Dog
Don't Bite the Hand That Feeds You
Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen
Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel
Head on a Platter
Balls to the Wall
Bed of Roses
Rise to the Bait
Rubbed the Wrong Way
Bone of Contention
Making Hay While the Sun Shines
Manna From Heaven
Fools Rush In
Rub a Dub Dub
I'm certain none of you is having as much fun with this post as I am. I have been cracking myself up! And Hilary has just been eying me strangely.
So what do you think? What would you want me to rename The Jason Show?
In spite of the fact that The Jason Show is a highly popular television series, there hasn't yet actually been video footage of Jason, as himself, on the Show. Plenty of photographs, yes, and also a small scattering of video of other people, but not yet a video of Jason doing things that Jason does. Until now.
Fans, wait no longer. The cast at The Jason Show has recently purchased the dance-game sensation "Just Dance" (quite possibly the world's gayest video game!) for use on the Wii, and one of the Show's camerawomen caught this footage of Jason and Diego playing "Just Dance" for the first time.
Here we give you Jason performing "I Get Around" and "Womanizer."
Let me take you back and blame it on my formative years, as usual.
When I was growing up, every Saturday morning my parents became suddenly motivated enough to make a big pancake breakfast. Pancakes made from scratch, scrambled or fried eggs, and Sizzlean. (My parents were not too health conscious. Why they continually insisted on Sizzlean over regular bacon completely baffles me. And ohmygod I just found this old TV commercial for Sizzlean. You've got to watch it because it is soooooo CHEESY!) And orange juice, or occasionally grape juice. Sounds wonderful, right?
Not so much for me. The pancakes were weird and usually overcooked and caked with cold Blue Bonnet, with a dark brown ring around the circumference. The eggs were congealed. The Sizzlean was, well, Sizzlean. And the whole house smelled like that breakfast all weekend because it usually didn't get cleaned up until Monday. Yes, I said Monday.
This turned me off to breakfast in general, but more specifically, pancakes, congealed eggs, and unseemly bacon products. Plus, I never really liked sticky and sickly sweet stuff, and let's face it: Syrup is definitely sticky and sickly sweet. Don't argue. It is.
And I lump waffles into the same category, along with French toast.
Besides, isn't breakfast supposed to be good for you? Pancakes have practically no redeeming nutritional value, do they? Okay, eggs. All right, milk. Yes, even flour has some nutritional value. Okay, okay, so they do have some kind of nutritional value. But I still don't like 'em.
I will eat them once a year if all circumstances are completely favorable for pancake eating. If I'm in the mood that year.
6. Police pursuits taking up a disproportionate amount of time of the newscast
7. Getting woken during the first hour of sleep
8. Goat milk and goat cheese
9. Throwing up
10. Pancakes and waffles
11. Telephone interruptions
12. Country music
13. Sports on t.v.
15. Mean people
I think I am about to start my man-period. For no particular reason, I'm fighting the Crabby McCrabsters, and keep having thoughts of, "I just want to be alone," or "Don't talk to me," or "Will you just shut UP?" or "I'm so tired of being responsible."
Wouldn't it be fun to just not be responsible for a little while?
Everyone in SoCal is talking about it, so I will too. The earthquake yesterday was different from any other I've felt. It was slow and swaying, like standing on a cruise ship in mildly wavy waters. I was standing next to the counter and actually grabbed it to keep my balance. The water was sloshing out of the pool and the light fixtures were swinging, but nothing else really happened. And, if you're in the mood to read about an earthquake that scared the bejebus out of me and made me scream like a lady, you may do so here.
My six-year-old son is not good at playing independently. He must always have someone with him, someone to entertain him. I encourage him to do things by himself sometimes, but he just stands there looking lost. I owe this mostly to the fact that he has been taken care of one-on-one for most of his life by our nanny, Ines. She has done a very good job with him, but she has also had a very hard time letting him play alone. Any ideas on how to help him play successfully alone? Do any of your kids have this problem? It is so beyond me and my mentality because sometimes it seems that I would rather do anything/everything alone these days. Being able to self-entertain is so important to me. How did I get a son who just cannot do it?
Incidentally, my MIL is just like this. She needs to always have someone to entertain her (or to talk at) and is at a complete loss when she finds herself alone. Are any of you like that?
On the other side of this nation, a woman lives in a state that I have never visited.
This woman and I, we've never heard the sound of the other's voice, and we've never chatted about our favorite movie or TV show. We've never ridden in the other's car or gone on a walk together. We've never seen each other's children nor met the other's spouse.
Still, we are friends. Not in the way most people who have not experienced a meaningful blog-based friendship define "close," of course.
Every few days we visit the other in an abstract yet very real place called the blogosphere to read what the other is thinking and feeling, and throw in our own two cents on the subject. This is what binds us. And this, in my mind, is a friendship that is very significant and real.
Faiqa's life, in so many ways, is like mine.
We have peaceful moments.
We have setbacks.
We are also different in many ways. These differences make me stop and think. These differences teach me. These differences allow me to expand.
There is one difference, however, that Faiqa took and turned into an act of caring and generosity.
You see, her mother is alive and mine is not.
So Faiqa compassionately wrote a touching post on her blog called Native Born and in it encouraged others to support me in my goal of raising $2,900.00 in preparation to participate in a symbolic 60 mile walk, in hopes of doing something that will lead to a cure for breast cancer.
Thank you, Faiqa, for taking the time to write such a meaningful post, facilitating many donations to the cure. It's nice to know there are people out there like you, one of the best friends I've never met.
And many, many thanks to everyone else who has so generously donated. But this post was just for Faiqa. You'll get your own later. I promise. Don't worry. How could I forget you? You're amazing. And I love you.