Judging by what you see on television, you would think that the gym was merely something ubiquitous in gay culture. And to a certain extent it is, depending on the circle you run in, or how shallow you and your gaggle of gays are. Some of us go to the gym for health reasons, some go for shallow reasons, some go to have sex (not me, I've never had the desire to get down and dirty at the gym, frankly I feel like I should have a paper bag over my head at the gym since you would think I'm channeling the love child of a rat and Jabba the Hut). I like the gym though, I really do. It took me a long time to feel the benefits of exercise and working out on my body. I am in no way a gym rat, on average three-five times a week is how often I go. But, I have come to the realization that I'm a much better person when I work out.
While we're on the subject, let's just keep it real. Another reason we go to the gym is because clothes look better when you're worked out and you get more attention when you work out. I don't think I will find anyone who disagrees with those statements. Taking that into consideration, we all have areas of our body we would like to improve on whether its that washboard stomach, bigger biceps, slimmer legs, or little ol' Betty Backfat. And taking that into consideration, we as gays are constantly comparing ourselves to each other, who has better arms, who has better pecs, who has a smaller waist, etc. Life is one big dick measuring contest.
As we get older it only gets worse and we find the battle of the bulge becoming more intense. I will admit I am guilty of this behavior myself. We are always trying to one up each other in the physical department and be the best and brightest body out there. That's another reason we go to the gym. We're competing against each other. What for exactly? It could be to be the cutest one at the bar or to have that little something extra on your resume in the dating world.
I find it the strangest when you haven't seen someone in a while and last time they looked like Michael Phelps little sister and the next time you run into them at a bar you think you're being pushed by the Hulk, or Taylor Lautner (is there really a difference?). The next few minutes are spent casually stalking them to notice the massive muscle gain. How did they do it? They must be taking something. I wonder what it is. More importantly, where can I get some? Then you have an annoying benefit of the doubt person with you who thinks they did it the old fashioned way. That particular thought may seep into your mind and you may start to believe it, until you start seeing everyone around you bulking up like they are the body equivalents of Costco. I have had to stop myself from running up to these folks and grabbing them by the shoulders (which are pretty much as big as my waist) and shaking them down until they're desperate to tell me how they have achieved such physical greatness.
I really don't see an issue with a little enhancement here or there. I read about a monthly shot that your doctor can give you (with a few bucks under the table) that is supposed to get you pumped and ripped but with a natural tint to it, only mild side effects. Those being a bit of bacne and one day a month of aggression and mood swings. Helloooo, they make oxy pads and my boyfriend already thinks I'm crazy so what's to lose? Bonjour bigger biceps!
Monday, November 15, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
To Be Young, Gifted, and Black
He's extremely good looking. He can charm your pants off. Girls think he's dreamy, guys want to grab a beer with him. He knows about wine and has an astounding career path. Intelligent beyond your level and willing to splurge on shoes as much as he would on a scotch. He hits the gym everyday, oh! he also is a great dancer, all types of dance. Does this sound familiar to you? You don't know him. Trust me. You think you do, but you don't. This is the media's portrayal of the modern gay man or MGM as we'll call him.
But wait, that is what gay men are like, I know one, is what you're saying to yourself. No, you don't. Stop it. First of all, Tom Ford doesn't count because you don't know him and because...he's just not going to count for this exercise. And secondly, the one gay friend you are thinking about is a mess. Just because he wears a bowtie and screams "girrrrrlfriend!" and snaps as he dresses you in a tacky satin dress does not make him anything more than a mess (equivalent to that dress he said you looked fierce in).
Tony and I were having this discussion recently over some Two Buck Chuck and sushi during happy hour (see what I mean? At least its wine though, which gives us extra points toward that MGM). The media has made a horribly inaccurate misrepresentation of the gay man. Thanks to what we see on the silver screen and the small screen, we think that gay men are these everything-aficionados who can tell you where the best arugula is found in all of LA's farmer's markets whilst running to the gym (literally, running to the gym). I hate to burst society's bubble, but...where's a needle when you need one?
Don't get me wrong, I would love if we were all Tom Fords. But quite frankly, there's more gays out there whose behavior is more on par with Lindsay Lohan (drug addicted party animals with no aspiration) or the Kardashians (perpetual live-at-homers- using their parents money to strive for the middle). Tom Ford is the exception, not the rule (WWTFD?). I have no idea why there aren't more of him, I don't make the gays, I just write about them.
Perhaps you actually have to want to be that cultured. You have to want to be able to walk into a room and have a conversation on a variety of topics, you have to like wine or some type of well drink (with only one mix-in, usually not sweet), you have to want to look age appropriate and not like a 35 year old teenager or a middle aged 22 year old. You have to want to have that corner office as opposed to the tallest go-go box or nicest fitting room.
I'd say its part of growing up, but there are just as many uncultured breeders out there as there are gays. So what makes some grow up to be refined, cultured and powerful and others to be Andy Dick? Maybe there should be a charm school (like they did for young girls, and let's face it, gays are pretty much young girls at heart anyway) that can school you and teach you how to act civilized and properly. Classes can range from how to speak proper English, to dressing appropriate for your age, to current events discussion(no TMZ allowed).
Let's be optimistic though, people evolve and as a species we are supposed to get better. Perhaps, we are on the verge of a transformation into more Tom Fords, maybe gays are the new wine, we get better with age, like women (see, there's the female comparison again, bring on the queer theorists!).
I should probably prepare for the backlash of gays that are going to read this and not understand the humor and satire behind it, but then again, they're not exactly the MGM are they?
But wait, that is what gay men are like, I know one, is what you're saying to yourself. No, you don't. Stop it. First of all, Tom Ford doesn't count because you don't know him and because...he's just not going to count for this exercise. And secondly, the one gay friend you are thinking about is a mess. Just because he wears a bowtie and screams "girrrrrlfriend!" and snaps as he dresses you in a tacky satin dress does not make him anything more than a mess (equivalent to that dress he said you looked fierce in).
Tony and I were having this discussion recently over some Two Buck Chuck and sushi during happy hour (see what I mean? At least its wine though, which gives us extra points toward that MGM). The media has made a horribly inaccurate misrepresentation of the gay man. Thanks to what we see on the silver screen and the small screen, we think that gay men are these everything-aficionados who can tell you where the best arugula is found in all of LA's farmer's markets whilst running to the gym (literally, running to the gym). I hate to burst society's bubble, but...where's a needle when you need one?
Don't get me wrong, I would love if we were all Tom Fords. But quite frankly, there's more gays out there whose behavior is more on par with Lindsay Lohan (drug addicted party animals with no aspiration) or the Kardashians (perpetual live-at-homers- using their parents money to strive for the middle). Tom Ford is the exception, not the rule (WWTFD?). I have no idea why there aren't more of him, I don't make the gays, I just write about them.
Perhaps you actually have to want to be that cultured. You have to want to be able to walk into a room and have a conversation on a variety of topics, you have to like wine or some type of well drink (with only one mix-in, usually not sweet), you have to want to look age appropriate and not like a 35 year old teenager or a middle aged 22 year old. You have to want to have that corner office as opposed to the tallest go-go box or nicest fitting room.
I'd say its part of growing up, but there are just as many uncultured breeders out there as there are gays. So what makes some grow up to be refined, cultured and powerful and others to be Andy Dick? Maybe there should be a charm school (like they did for young girls, and let's face it, gays are pretty much young girls at heart anyway) that can school you and teach you how to act civilized and properly. Classes can range from how to speak proper English, to dressing appropriate for your age, to current events discussion(no TMZ allowed).
Let's be optimistic though, people evolve and as a species we are supposed to get better. Perhaps, we are on the verge of a transformation into more Tom Fords, maybe gays are the new wine, we get better with age, like women (see, there's the female comparison again, bring on the queer theorists!).
I should probably prepare for the backlash of gays that are going to read this and not understand the humor and satire behind it, but then again, they're not exactly the MGM are they?
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
For those who watch The Real Housewives of New York, I'm having a Ramona Singer moment. I'm all about renewal. Yes, renewal. Well, a sort of renewal. More of a patch up. I'm learning, especially as I get older that certain things you have to eventually confront and put behind you. Obtain closure. I am the first person to admit that I may not have always done the right thing, I have for sure strayed onto the path of not-so-righteousness, but always going back to where I should be and doing what I should be doing.
Anywho, so this year I've been trying to make amends with people I may have wronged, or betrayed, or simply fucked over. You'd think that someone coming up to you and letting you know they're sorry for something that happened would be a nice gesture right? And you'd feel great knowing that person genuinely regretted their actions (of over five years ago by the way) and wanted to make amends right? Too bad my attempts at a peace offering were met with bags of dog shit thrown back at me.
Perhaps I had too large of expectations. You see, because in my mind, when someone tells you they're sorry for something, you accept it and move on. I was never asking to become best friends and starting calling every five minutes to discuss outfits for bar hopping that weekend, but I was certainly not expecting to be ignored. Needless to say, after a few extremely unsuccessful attempts at building upon an off-white past towards a better and brighter future, your confidence that people still like you begins to fade faster than Lohan's chances of recovery.
It makes it worse when you run in such close circles that the inevitability of running into any of these people is higher than certain. One gentleman I tried to patch things up with was the recipient of two messages and came within 4 feet of me at a bar and acted as though I was invisible. It's ironic, because I didn't even really do anything that bad to him, but that's besides the point. He wasn't that good of a friend to begin with. I'll spare the grueling details of the other cases of Padilla-Ravega v. The People Who Shall Not Spit Upon Him Should He Be on Fire.
I did get one genuine (hopefully genuine, hell, after so many doors slammed in my face, one can get a bit skeptical) understanding response. That one might mean the most of all, considering it came from a very dear friend (we were at one point, before I made sure we were not friends anymore). A few close friends have reminded me that the important thing is that I am maturing and learning to attempt to patch things up and move on, regardless of the receptiveness of the recipient. However, me being...well, me, I have the most difficult time with that. I'm getting better with it though. My desire to track down these people, ambush them, and shake them at the shoulders while yelling "I said sorry! What kind of person does not accept an apology that's five years in the making?! What kind of person are you? Who doesn't like apologies?! Everyone likes them! It's the remorseful equivalent of I love you," has drastically decreased.
It does make me feel a little better knowing that I am mature enough to rise up and try to fix things with people and they're too immature to even say "Apology accepted. We're still not friends though," because I'd be okay with that. So in a way, its almost like a backhanded compliment to myself. A silver lining is sometimes a bit more difficult to find in some situations. Perhaps this is it. My confidence just got a bit renewed, and to that I owe the people I have wronged who did not want to accept my apology. And that could possibly be the nicest thing they could have done for me.
Anywho, so this year I've been trying to make amends with people I may have wronged, or betrayed, or simply fucked over. You'd think that someone coming up to you and letting you know they're sorry for something that happened would be a nice gesture right? And you'd feel great knowing that person genuinely regretted their actions (of over five years ago by the way) and wanted to make amends right? Too bad my attempts at a peace offering were met with bags of dog shit thrown back at me.
Perhaps I had too large of expectations. You see, because in my mind, when someone tells you they're sorry for something, you accept it and move on. I was never asking to become best friends and starting calling every five minutes to discuss outfits for bar hopping that weekend, but I was certainly not expecting to be ignored. Needless to say, after a few extremely unsuccessful attempts at building upon an off-white past towards a better and brighter future, your confidence that people still like you begins to fade faster than Lohan's chances of recovery.
It makes it worse when you run in such close circles that the inevitability of running into any of these people is higher than certain. One gentleman I tried to patch things up with was the recipient of two messages and came within 4 feet of me at a bar and acted as though I was invisible. It's ironic, because I didn't even really do anything that bad to him, but that's besides the point. He wasn't that good of a friend to begin with. I'll spare the grueling details of the other cases of Padilla-Ravega v. The People Who Shall Not Spit Upon Him Should He Be on Fire.
I did get one genuine (hopefully genuine, hell, after so many doors slammed in my face, one can get a bit skeptical) understanding response. That one might mean the most of all, considering it came from a very dear friend (we were at one point, before I made sure we were not friends anymore). A few close friends have reminded me that the important thing is that I am maturing and learning to attempt to patch things up and move on, regardless of the receptiveness of the recipient. However, me being...well, me, I have the most difficult time with that. I'm getting better with it though. My desire to track down these people, ambush them, and shake them at the shoulders while yelling "I said sorry! What kind of person does not accept an apology that's five years in the making?! What kind of person are you? Who doesn't like apologies?! Everyone likes them! It's the remorseful equivalent of I love you," has drastically decreased.
It does make me feel a little better knowing that I am mature enough to rise up and try to fix things with people and they're too immature to even say "Apology accepted. We're still not friends though," because I'd be okay with that. So in a way, its almost like a backhanded compliment to myself. A silver lining is sometimes a bit more difficult to find in some situations. Perhaps this is it. My confidence just got a bit renewed, and to that I owe the people I have wronged who did not want to accept my apology. And that could possibly be the nicest thing they could have done for me.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
When I Grow Up
My poor parents. I don’t feel that any more attention would’ve helped me as a child. Believe me, I had a lot. More than most kids. Trust me, there was a good 20 minutes devoted to my daily activities at dinner. Retrospectively, I don’t think that an eight year olds daily routine will take 20 minutes. I managed to stretch them out and provide details, everything from what my friend told me at recess to what I traded for my chips at lunch.
If you met me as a child, you would have thought I had neglectful parents. I acted as though I was never paid attention to. Anyone willing to talk to me was going to get an earful, the thoughts on life from the perspective of an eight year old. I craved attention, some would argue that I still do, some would argue that it naturally comes to me. We’ll let people think what they like, as long as they’re thinking about me, I don’t really care.
At holidays I would act out scenes from movies as entertainment for my cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends. My award winning reenactment was from Gone with the Wind. My mother wouldn’t let me use a potato to emphasize my displeasure with Yankees in Tara as Scarlet O’Hara did. I also used to act as an on the spot news reporter at every Christmas and Thanksgiving. I was adorable with my little suit and coke bottle glasses asking people their thoughts on the food, people, and their resolutions. I lived for school plays and musicals, I wasn’t often cast as lead, but sometimes the best talents are often overlooked, Madonna was not cast as Frida Kahlo despite her persistent auditions. In 4th grade, my teacher said I was going to play the part of an, “intelligent, snooty professor,” and that it would “be perfect,” for me.
With such a desire for attention and the ability to make up lines (or lies) that sounded believable, I knew Hollywood was my destiny. I desperately wanted to be a child actor. Each movie I saw in theaters that had a child star in it disgusted me. That should be me up there is what I would think. Every time I heard a radio advertisement for open castings and William Morris open calls I would run up to my parents and beg and plead and get on my knees asking them to take me. I was often met with, “What? No. No. I’m not taking you to no god dog audition. They’re going to make us sign you up for classes and pay them all kinds of money. And money doesn’t grow on trees son. And no no no, mijo, no uh uh. Nothing is free, uh uh. Stop, get up, go rake the leaves.” I was crushed. I knew that when I was famous and they made a movie about my life, this would be a pivotal scene.
I used to have fantasies as I raked the leaves and did my chores that a limousine would pull up to our half cul-de-sac and a handsome Hollywood agent would step out and say the words, “Derek, we know you’re talented, we’re going to take you away from all of this and you’re going to be a big star.” I drop the rake and run up to this agent in my tattered clothes and bandanna (in my fantasy I was dressed like an extra from Slumdog Millionaire even though we were upper middle class), and throw my arms around the suit and weep tears of joy as I thanked him for rescuing me.
I might have wound up on Dancing with the Stars or Celebrity Rehab had I become a child star. Or I could have been a Drew Barrymore, to hell and back kind of child star. Or even better, a Brooke Shields! A child actress turned teen model turned pop star date to the Grammys turned America’s Sweetheart. But I laugh too much, and that would limit the roles I could have taken. But I’ll never know. In my next life, I’d like to come back as a child star. I should start planning my dramatic techniques.
If you met me as a child, you would have thought I had neglectful parents. I acted as though I was never paid attention to. Anyone willing to talk to me was going to get an earful, the thoughts on life from the perspective of an eight year old. I craved attention, some would argue that I still do, some would argue that it naturally comes to me. We’ll let people think what they like, as long as they’re thinking about me, I don’t really care.
At holidays I would act out scenes from movies as entertainment for my cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends. My award winning reenactment was from Gone with the Wind. My mother wouldn’t let me use a potato to emphasize my displeasure with Yankees in Tara as Scarlet O’Hara did. I also used to act as an on the spot news reporter at every Christmas and Thanksgiving. I was adorable with my little suit and coke bottle glasses asking people their thoughts on the food, people, and their resolutions. I lived for school plays and musicals, I wasn’t often cast as lead, but sometimes the best talents are often overlooked, Madonna was not cast as Frida Kahlo despite her persistent auditions. In 4th grade, my teacher said I was going to play the part of an, “intelligent, snooty professor,” and that it would “be perfect,” for me.
With such a desire for attention and the ability to make up lines (or lies) that sounded believable, I knew Hollywood was my destiny. I desperately wanted to be a child actor. Each movie I saw in theaters that had a child star in it disgusted me. That should be me up there is what I would think. Every time I heard a radio advertisement for open castings and William Morris open calls I would run up to my parents and beg and plead and get on my knees asking them to take me. I was often met with, “What? No. No. I’m not taking you to no god dog audition. They’re going to make us sign you up for classes and pay them all kinds of money. And money doesn’t grow on trees son. And no no no, mijo, no uh uh. Nothing is free, uh uh. Stop, get up, go rake the leaves.” I was crushed. I knew that when I was famous and they made a movie about my life, this would be a pivotal scene.
I used to have fantasies as I raked the leaves and did my chores that a limousine would pull up to our half cul-de-sac and a handsome Hollywood agent would step out and say the words, “Derek, we know you’re talented, we’re going to take you away from all of this and you’re going to be a big star.” I drop the rake and run up to this agent in my tattered clothes and bandanna (in my fantasy I was dressed like an extra from Slumdog Millionaire even though we were upper middle class), and throw my arms around the suit and weep tears of joy as I thanked him for rescuing me.
I might have wound up on Dancing with the Stars or Celebrity Rehab had I become a child star. Or I could have been a Drew Barrymore, to hell and back kind of child star. Or even better, a Brooke Shields! A child actress turned teen model turned pop star date to the Grammys turned America’s Sweetheart. But I laugh too much, and that would limit the roles I could have taken. But I’ll never know. In my next life, I’d like to come back as a child star. I should start planning my dramatic techniques.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Livin' On a Prayer
Kids are very smart. Well most kids. Okay, some kids. I was a very smart child. Gifted you could say. Some would call me a prodigy. I knew my colors by the age of two and could read at an advanced level at the age of four. One of the reasons I learned so fast was because I used to follow along with my father's reading passages in church. Cradle catholic is how I would say I was raised, best intentions from my parents. And bless their hearts, my parents are amazingly progressive people with huge hearts, but I think even as a child I knew their intentions were not for me.
Since I learned to read in church I used to get bored reading the handouts and biblical passages. I would get jealous of the other kids who brought in their leisure books and used to wish that I could read them instead. It used to annoy me that Jesus couldn't marry or date for that matter, and why the prodigal son was such a big deal. I mean, he blew away his fortune and the hard working brother was met with hostility? Not to mention the lack of dinosaurs in the Bible. Smart kid, remember?
I got the basics. Be nice to people, don't kill, don't steal, don't say God's name in vain (I don't know any Catholic that follows that one), etc. I liked the be nice to people part and not killing. The rest irked me and confused me.
As I grew older, my mind battled more with the church's "teachings." I really didn't think not going to church or wanting my best friend's new truck was sending me in a hand basket to hell. And I really didn't think that rape victims should be stoned, or touching the skin of a dead pig makes someone unclean, or that planting different crops side by side should result in a painful death.
Eventually, I started my own little battles. Perhaps my favorite was the time I wore a shirt to church that had a guy on it with his ears plugged with the words, "not listening," on it. I really liked that shirt, my mother wished I had worn a jacket that Sunday.
Maybe it was when I sang "Give It To You" by Jordan Knight at a True Love Waits (meaning, save yourself for marriage) mixer. They ended up cutting my song short and the youth council director was shaking her head at me in an angry fury as I took my bow. It could have been the True Love Waits blessing I walked out of right before the prayer began. It was hardly a walk of shame in my eyes; going from one of the front pews up the aisle past all those not-going-to-last virgins.
I'm not really sure of the exact moment I decided to leave the church. I'm sure it was somewhere between the time that they were still the welcoming home of pedophiles, oops I mean priests, and stripping away the rights of gays and lesbians. I still go with my parents only on Easter and Christmas, you know with all the other real Catholics (Mom and Dad go weekly for the record). I get some of my best naps there. It's where I learned to read. And I love to read. And church is where the greatest work of fiction is: The Bible.
Since I learned to read in church I used to get bored reading the handouts and biblical passages. I would get jealous of the other kids who brought in their leisure books and used to wish that I could read them instead. It used to annoy me that Jesus couldn't marry or date for that matter, and why the prodigal son was such a big deal. I mean, he blew away his fortune and the hard working brother was met with hostility? Not to mention the lack of dinosaurs in the Bible. Smart kid, remember?
I got the basics. Be nice to people, don't kill, don't steal, don't say God's name in vain (I don't know any Catholic that follows that one), etc. I liked the be nice to people part and not killing. The rest irked me and confused me.
As I grew older, my mind battled more with the church's "teachings." I really didn't think not going to church or wanting my best friend's new truck was sending me in a hand basket to hell. And I really didn't think that rape victims should be stoned, or touching the skin of a dead pig makes someone unclean, or that planting different crops side by side should result in a painful death.
Eventually, I started my own little battles. Perhaps my favorite was the time I wore a shirt to church that had a guy on it with his ears plugged with the words, "not listening," on it. I really liked that shirt, my mother wished I had worn a jacket that Sunday.
Maybe it was when I sang "Give It To You" by Jordan Knight at a True Love Waits (meaning, save yourself for marriage) mixer. They ended up cutting my song short and the youth council director was shaking her head at me in an angry fury as I took my bow. It could have been the True Love Waits blessing I walked out of right before the prayer began. It was hardly a walk of shame in my eyes; going from one of the front pews up the aisle past all those not-going-to-last virgins.
I'm not really sure of the exact moment I decided to leave the church. I'm sure it was somewhere between the time that they were still the welcoming home of pedophiles, oops I mean priests, and stripping away the rights of gays and lesbians. I still go with my parents only on Easter and Christmas, you know with all the other real Catholics (Mom and Dad go weekly for the record). I get some of my best naps there. It's where I learned to read. And I love to read. And church is where the greatest work of fiction is: The Bible.
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