I remember Mapa...but Mapa don't remember me

We had a surreal experience yesterday. Robert and I met up with a couple we befriended on our Atlantis cruise, Jeff and Marty. Like Robert, Jeff is Filipino. Like me, Marty is a big white guy who is also named Marty. It turns out we have a lot of other things in common. Par exemple, we are both fans of Alec Mapa. If you don't know who he is, you're watching the wrong television shows. With a touch of irony, he describes himself on his MySpace page thusly: "I'M A GLAMOROUS AND EXCITING TELEVISION STAR." But only a touch, because he is indeed a glamorous and exciting television star to some of us.

I first saw Alec in his one-man show, I Remember Mapa, in San Francisco, several years ago. Then, a couple of years ago, we met him at an event in San Francisco for GAPA, a gay Asian group. At that event, I stood behind him in a buffet line and gushed how I enjoy reading his column in The Advocate. And since I've been dabbling in stand-up comedy and Alec is one of the best gay comedians out there, I've been following his career more closely.

So, back to the surreality. With another couple (Edgar and Mark, also a Filipino+white guy gay pair), we drove up to Muir Woods for a hike. As we were walking among the redwoods, I brought up Alec Mapa to Marty and found out he was also a fan. The reason Alec was on my mind was we just saw Dreamgirls the night before, and one of the reasons I wanted to see it was because I'd just read Alec's review of the movie on his MySpace page. And there was another reason I'll get to in a second.

Not five minutes later, Marty and I see coming down the trail none other than Alec Mapa. We both immediately recognize him. When Alec sees us (two big white guys, both with Filipino partners trailing behind) looking at him, he looks like he just saw two grizzly bears in the trail, and he's not sure what to do. OK, for bears, do you stay still, or do you raise your hands and try to look big, or do you turn around and run like hell?

He opts to continue walking down the path toward us and to be gracious to what I'm sure he immediately estimated as adoring rice queens. Marty told him he was a fan of his comedy. Someone asked if we could take a picture with him. He obliged. As we posed together, I again gushed that we met him at GAPA and that I'm his MySpace friend. In fact, he's in my top four.

Wow, how sad I am, that one of my four best friends is someone I don't really know. And with that, I refrain from telling him that I was just talking about him five minutes ago with Marty and Mark. And I refrain from telling him that I actually had a dream about him just two nights ago, after I had read his Dreamgirls review. And I refrain from telling him that in said dream, we were totally, um, enjoying each other's company, let's say. Hey, I know he and I are both partnered, but I can't control my dreams! Besides, I think Robert was in the dream anyway and he was totally OK with it. I can't remember the details. We're deep in the woods, so I rightfully figured Alec did not need to know all of this at this particular moment.

As he left, I blurted out my last inane comment of the day, "See you with the housewives!" Desperate Housewives, that is. Funny that I should drop the "desperate" since that's pretty much how I was coming across.

Happy New Year.

I never inhaled...really!

You're not going to believe this about me. You may have known that I'm a square, but you won't believe the extent of my squareness. Here it is. I have never shot heroin. OK, that's probably fairly believable. I have never snorted cocaine or smoked crack. OK, still believable. I have never done E, or K, or any of the other letters of the alphabet. Getting harder? Speaking of harder, I've never even done Viagra. But here it is: I have never smoked pot.

Really. In high school, while you were going through your rebellious stage, I was actually at home reading Moby Dick. And I was kind of a dick about it too. People would just stop telling me stuff because I was so judgmental. A classmate would say, "Yeah, me and Freddie got stoned on Saturday and listened to Pink Floyd." And I'd tell him gloomily, "Only dopes use dope." It's amazing I had any friends at all.

Eventually, I just went so long holding out, never trying pot, that I felt like I had a streak going. Like a kid who keeps a wad of bubble gum going for five years, I just couldn't bring myself to break my streak. College came and went. No pot for me. My denial of marijuana had become something of an obsession. I just couldn't give it up. It was almost like an addiction. I was addicted to not smoking pot.

And then, somewhere deep in the back of my head, I was thinking about my future. You never know. Maybe someday, I might want to run for president of the United States of America. And if I smoked pot, forget about it. Then Bill Clinton came along. And proved my point. If not for the fortunate fact that he never inhaled, he would have lost his chance to be president.

And then came Bush. The guy not only inhaled, he snorted, he shot up, he freebased--he did it all. And then he nearly earned enough votes to be elected president.

So the presidential ambition isn't keeping me from smoking pot anymore. Plus, I actually don't think I've got much of a chance at becoming president...now that this Barack Obama guy is in the picture. Fuckin' pothead.

But after all this time, I can't just unceremoniously go smoke a joint now. I'm not in my youthful indiscretion phase. And I'm so naïve, I don't know where to get it. I don't know how to roll a joint. I'm so naïve, I was the last guy in the world to know what 420 meant. I kept seeing it in people's online profiles: 420 friendly. I thought that was an area code.

There's this store nearby called 420 Lifestyles. I presume it's a head shop, of course. Again, I'm so naïve, I didn't know what a head shop was until recently. Being gay, I thought it was something entirely different.

I figure they name this shop 420 Lifestyles to obscure the fact that they're selling marijuana paraphernalia. Like the police don't know what 420 means. I think this theory was developed by someone whose been smoking a lot of weed. Sorry guys, our law enforcement agencies are not filled with people as dense as I am on these things. (Oh lookie, they sell bubble blowing pipes!)

So, now, with my presidential ambitions behind me, there's really nothing keeping me from trying it, but there's never been the right moment. Subconsciously I've been waiting for someone to award me some sort of prize for holding out this long. Like Willy Wonka at the end of the movie-not the new one with creepy Johnny Depp channeling Michael Jackson, but the old one with creepy Gene Wilder--when he gives Charlie the keys to the chocolate factory. "You did it, Charlie! I knew you could do it!" After being such a good boy for so long, he's awarded the ability to gorge on candy the rest of his life. I would need a moment like that. Like losing your virginity, you want it to be special.

If I'm at a party where someone is smoking pot, I never feel it's the right time or place. But I am curious to feel that sensation. "Whoa, do you smell that? Someone's smoking one of those funny cigarettes." I sniff deeply, thinking I could get a contact high without ever touching a joint to my lips. "Oh, there they are, on the patio. Hi guys! Whatcha' doing?" I say, because I'm a dweeb. Sure enough, one of them will offer me a puff, and I get all nervous, like I'm suddenly in an after school special. "No thanks. Nope. Never smoke. Thanks though. You go ahead. I'm not judging," I over explain. But I'm sucking in air like I just finished running a 10K. Pretty soon I feel lightheaded and tell everyone I think I'm getting stoned from the secondary smoke, until I realize that I've merely hyperventilated.

Yes, even wunderkind, Barack Obama, smoked pot. Al Gore admits he smoked in his day. As did John Denver, Jennifer Aniston, Bob "Gilligan" Denver, and New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg.

Now I'm having this nightmare where I'm at a party and Barack Obama, Al Gore and Jennifer Aniston are all out on the patio toking up, and they're offering me a puff. Al Gore's saying, "Really Marty, you need to loosen up." But I just say no. And then John Denver and Gilligan stumble in, munching on a jumbo sized bag of Doritos and laughing hysterically about their realization they have the same last name but aren't really related. And I'm thinking, wait, you guys are dead! Then I wake up and feel the munchies for no logical reason.

So if you're at an Eric Clapton concert and you see someone sniffing around like a bloodhound, have pity. Come on over and say hi. Even if you're high. I'm not judging.

My Spanish lesson

Hey, I'm learning Spanish! It's muy coolo!

A Taste of Hong Kong

Robert and I just returned from a vacation to the Philippines. On our way, we had a layover in Hong Kong and opted to take a later flight so we could go into the city for some shopping and sightseeing.

That sounded like a good plan, but we should have thought about how we’d look and feel after a 14-hour flight from San Francisco. My five o’clock shadow was by then a five-a.m.-the-next-day shadow. We didn’t think to pack an extra set of clothes in our carry-on bags. In fact, we were both wearing the long-sleeved shirts we needed when we left the relatively chilly Bay Area.

Eating in Hong Kong is always a treat, so our first order of business was to find a good dim-sum restaurant. When we passed by “Very Good Restaurant,” we figured we’d hit pay dirt. Eschewing “Pretty Good Restaurant” and sneering at “Somewhat Overrated Restaurant,” we walked right in and were shown a table.

We assumed that a restaurant with such an appropriate choice of an English name would have a waiter or two that spoke some English. Wrong. We’d hoped to see carts of dim-sum so we could point to our choices, but instead, we were given a menu without a word of English and no pictures. After about 10 minutes, a waitress finally figured out Robert wasn’t Chinese (and neither was I) and brought us a photo album with a few of their most popular selections and we were able to order one of each. We filled our tummies for about $14 US.

Rather than taking the underground, we decided to walk a few blocks down Nathan Road to the Ladies Market. Wow. Kowloon has a huge Chinatown! It goes on for blocks and blocks.

Now, I don’t watch any of the CSI shows, but through a little sleuthing, I had a hunch that there may just be some questionable items on sale at this market. We were barraged with offers for phony Rolexes, Louis Vuitton bags, Diesel and Hilfiger clothing and pirated DVDs. I don't know if it was scruples or the fact that none of the clothing was even close to my size, but I passed.

After just a few vendor stalls, the merchandise began repeating itself. We began to feel we’d passed through a worm hole into a new circular dimension like in the old cartoons where Yogi and Boo-Boo are running from the ranger and the background images repeat every two seconds.

If you show any interest in a product whatsoever, the merchants hound you relentlessly. We checked out a bamboo place mat and chopstick set and the vendor wouldn’t let us leave. Now, we fancy ourselves pretty good at bargaining and stayed firm on a final price and left the stall no less than three times. She kept chasing us down like a dog that keeps dropping the slobbery tennis ball at your feet until we finally bought the damn thing. We said “thank you” at the close of the deal and she angrily snapped, “Don’t thank me. You cheap. You bad luck.” So, we clearly got screwed.

After our shopping, all we wanted was a shower and a nap, so we found what appeared to be a clean, upscale spa nearby. After a dip in the hot tub, Robert took a nap while I opted for a 90-minute massage.

The massage itself was less relaxing than, say, barbaric. In my mind I was kicking myself for not taking the time to learn a few simple phrases such as "I think you've snapped another rib," or "You've nearly severed my spinal chord, you sadistic brute!" My masseuse only knew about seven English words. When she said, "I am toilet," I understood she was merely indicating she needed to visit the restroom. When she repeatedly told me "You beautiful," I knew she was just repeating the adjective numerous Western tourists had used to describe her. And angling for a big tip.

And then, toward the end of my allotted massage time, my masseuse begins to offer me what I'll call the "Would you like fries with that?" sales pitch. So it finally dawns on me that I'm being massaged by a Chinese prostitute. I begin to think it may have been foolish to disrobe and stash my passport, cash and credit cards in a locker that looks no more secure than the one at my gym where I'm constantly admonished to leave valuables at home. Why would I assume that legitimate commerce had established a foothold just meters away from the market that was hocking Air Bud 6 DVDs, a movie which hasn't even been filmed yet.

Now, I'm not being judgmental or prudish. There's quite a fine line between rubbing one body part for pleasure and rubbing another for quite a lot of pleasure. I just could not imagine how I would explain to Robert that I needed him to spot me HK$200 (about $28) for an extra service from a masseuse who looks way too much like my sister. Just leaving without any internal bleeding was a happy enough ending for me.

I repeatedly said "No thank you." Like the chopstick vendor, she just wouldn't let go. Figuratively. Eventually, she switched to negotiating her tip. As awkward as it was to negotiate a tip during the actual massage, her lack of English vocabulary now gave me an upper hand. I just repeated "Huh? Sorry, I don't understand," until she gave up.

Anybody have a traveler's Cantonese phrase book I can borrow for our next visit?

Clark misses the runoff by 49 votes

While the result was disappointing, it was an honor to volunteer for Clark Williams in his race for San Jose City Council. Working on the campaign was at times inspiring, tiring, frustrating, and eye-opening.

District 6 council seat race is set

FINAL TALLIES MAKE RUNOFF OFFICIAL

By Connie Skipitares

Mercury News

The Santa Clara County Registrar of Voters has released its final election night tally, making it official -- non-profit executive director Steve Tedesco will go up against environmental software executive Pierluigi Oliverio in a March runoff for San Jose's District 6 city council seat.

Oliverio on Nov. 7 garnered 6,984 votes, about 30.57 percent of the vote, and not enough to avoid a runoff for the seat that covers the Rose Garden, Willow Glen and a small part of downtown.

Tedesco had been in second place all along, collecting about 21 percent of the vote, followed closely by social worker Clark Williams. The final tally showed Tedesco edged out Williams by 49 votes. Some 22,848 votes were cast for six candidates in the District 6 race.

Outgoing District 6 Councilman Ken Yeager had endorsed Williams. Yeager won a seat on the Santa Clara County Board of Supervisors in June, creating a vacancy for the District 6 seat.

Trading Places

My sweetie sent me this today (My reaction below):

A man was sick and tired of going to work every day while his wife stayed home.

He wanted her to see what he went through so he prayed:

"Dear Lord: I go to work every day and put in 8 hours while my wife merely stays at home. I want her to know what I go through, so please allow her body to switch with mine for a day. Amen."

God, in his infinite wisdom, granted the man's wish.

The next morning, sure enough, the man awoke as a woman.

He arose, cooked breakfast for his mate, awakened the kids, set out their school clothes, fed them breakfast, packed their lunches, drove them to school, came home and picked up the dry cleaning, took it to the cleaners and stopped at the bank to make a deposit, went grocery shopping, then drove home to put away the groceries, paid the bills and balanced the checkbook. He cleaned the cat's litter box and bathed the dog. Then it was already 1 P.M. and he hurried to make the beds, do the laundry, vacuum, dust, and sweep and mop the kitchen floor.

Ran to the school to pick up the kids and got into an argument with them on the way home. Set out milk and cookies and got the kids organized to do their homework, then set up the ironing board and watched TV while he did the ironing.

At 4:30 he began peeling potatoes and washing vegetables for salad, breaded the pork chops and snapped fresh beans for supper.

After supper, he cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, folded laundry, bathed the kids, and put them to bed.

At 9 P.M. he was exhausted and, though his daily chores weren't finished, he went to bed where he was expected to make love, which he managed to get through without complaint.

The next morning, he awoke and immediately knelt by the bed and said: Lord , I don't know what I was thinking. I was so wrong to envy my wife's being able to stay home all day. Please, oh please, let us trade back."

The Lord, in his infinite wisdom, replied: "My son, I feel you have learned your lesson and I will be happy to change things back to the way they were. You'll just have to wait nine months, though. You got pregnant last night."


My reaction:
Funny, but I think Mrs. Cleaver is dead. It's 2006. Let the kids take the bus. Schools have cheap hot lunches—use them. No one should have to stop at the bank these days. If you’re grocery shopping every day, you need a larger refrigerator. If you’re doing dry cleaning every day, you need a larger laundry basket. If you’re dusting daily, someone needs to see a dermatologist. Get a kitty door and let the cat poop outside. Kill the dog. Kids make their own beds...or they don't—life goes on. Shut their bedroom door. Buy a Roomba. I never met a kid who couldn’t raid the kitchen him/herself for cookies and milk.

My Graduation Show and Chicago!

Today was my graduation show from my comedy class with San Francisco Comedy College. Seventeen of my closest friends and family showed up at Rooster T. Feathers to cheer me on--thank you all!

The show went great, I must say. I remembered everything I wanted to say, except for one thing. When I was mimicking my right-wing friend's Bill O'Reilly action figure, I think I forgot to say, "We've all heard quite enough about your dead son, Mrs. Sheehan." But no harm done.

After the show, we rushed off to see Chicago, the band, in concert. We had invited our friend, David. He wasn't quite sure what to expect. He was disappointed to learn that Renee Zellweger would not be in the production.

We enjoyed ourselves at the concert, but I must say, Chicago isn't the same without Peter Cetera. There's a youngish stand-in singer for his signature songs. He does a fine job, but you just know that if Cetera ever offered to come back to the band, the newbie would be out like yesterday's dryer lint.

But Cetera's not coming back, and I think I know why. This is the first rock concert I've been to where there's a trombonist on stage the entire time and playing in nearly every song. At other rock concerts, maybe you see a trombone on one song, sort of as a fluke. I vaguely remember a trombone riff during a Guns and Roses concert. I'm not sure.

Now, I used to play trombone when I was a kid, so I like the instrument. I was impressed with the trombone guy's mad skills. But let's be honest, nothing screams 1970's leisure suit, dentist office waiting room Muzak like trombone accompaniment. So, until this trombonist takes a hike, Peter Cetera is likely to stay away.

The partially original Chicago opted to regale us with a few too many songs from their newest album. Um, yeah, you know what, Chicago? Didn't come to hear any of your new crap. Give me the classics. You've got about a dozen greatest hits albums. Hey, I know. Lose the warm up band, and you all can play your groovy new material at the beginning of the show while most of us are still finding a parking space and buying an outrageously priced pint of pale ale.

Saturday, in the park, I think it was the Fourth of July.

Technorati tags: O'Reilly, Comedy, Chicago, Cetera

JonBenet Ramsey Suspect

I swear that's the same pencil-necked dude I saw working at Geek Squad in San Jose. They should look into that.

His mugshot with the Boulder County Sheriff's Department was just released. You have to love their up-lighting effect to make the suspect look as creepy as possible. Nice job! "Enjoy your chardonnay on the plane ride, Mr. Kerr? Good. Smile!" Time magazine won't even have to Photoshop it! Maybe they can add an audio clip to it with a sinister laugh--"Huah, huah, huah!"

You think you're some sort of comedian?

I took the leap. A crazy, nutty leap. For the past few weeks, I've been a fully matriculated student of the San Francisco Comedy College. Having fulfilled all of the admissions requirements--the check cleared--I began learning the art and science of funny under the tutelage of longtime comedian Kurtis Matthews, in July.

And now, I'm preparing for my graduation show at Rooster T. Feathers at 156 W. El Camino Real in Sunnyvale on Saturday, Sept. 2 at 4 p.m. I'll be one of about a dozen graduates, each given seven minutes to perform. I've learned that I get a lot more laughs when there are actually other people in the room, so I encourage my friends to show up and plan to have a good time.

What's my act about? Well, I can only tell you what it's not about. You can rest assured there'll be no watermelon smashing, no Jack Nicholson impressions, no confetti throwing and most importantly, no trans fats.

That's my time. You've been a great audience. Tip the wait staff, and drive safely.

Where the heck have I been?

My apologies, dear readers. I have been busy helping a close friend, Clark Williams, with his campaign for San Jose City Council. Clark is going to be a hard-working, effective, ethical representative for the neighborhoods of his district. Until election day on Nov. 7, I probably won't have much time to write here. If you would like to help Clark's campaign in any way, please let me know.

Hop on the "Mel Gibson's an Ass" Bandwagon!

Here, let me give you a hand. Just push that clarinet player over a bit. Welcome to the bandwagon! It's about time you realized Mel Gibson is an obnoxious, bigoted ass and unworthy of your entertainment dollar.

I've known that since 1992. Here's why (and I apologize that quoting Mel Gibson will result in the most profane language that has ever appeared in this blog):

In 1992, Gibson was interviewed by the Spanish newspaper, El Pais.

Asked about the stereotype that actors are usually gay, Gibson stood up, grasped his buttocks, and declared, "This is only for taking a shit...They [gays] take it up the ass." He then asserted his heterosexuality in a curiously defensive tone. "Do I look like a homosexual?" he demanded of the reporter. "Do I talk like them? Do I move like them?"

I may be the only guy you know who never saw Braveheart, The Man Without a Face, or What Women Want. I never saw the last two Lethal Weapon movies. Passion of the Christ? Need you even ask?

That's because, unlike this recent anti-Semitic incident, Gibson did not apologize, did not claim it was "the booze talking," and did not appeal to the gay community for help. He did not ask to meet with leaders of the gay community with whom he "can have a one-on-one discussion to discern the appropriate path for healing."

If this is the end of Mel Gibson's career, that's a good thing. That his blatant anti-gay remarks 14 years ago weren't enough to do the job is a real shame.

Camping it up in Russian River

This weekend, we went camping in Guerneville with some good friends. Now, I do like camping. I'm not one of these wusses that needs running water and electricity to survive through the weekend. My favorite kind of trip is isolation camping--—hiking into the woods far enough that there'’s not only no other humans with you, but there'’s no sign that any other human has been there before. You pack everything in that you need, and you pack it all out save what you buried in a hole a few dozen yards from your tent.

The trip we experienced had all the discomforts of camping without any of the joys of getting away from it all. Isolation was not the name of the game. Our tent was situated approximately 8 inches away from one of several tents belonging to a four-family contingent from an unidentified eastern European country. About a dozen children ran amok all day long. I now know what it would be like to be held captive for two days at the Moscow Chuck E. Cheeslowski. We didn'’t share a common tongue, except for the universal language of the plaintive scream. Imagine all the guests at your average Circus Circus hotel separated not by two layers of drywall but by a thin layer of nylon fabric.

A bathroom with indoor plumbing was located 200 yards away, while we had two Porto-potties 50 yards from our campsite. Apparently, portable toilets have a capacity equal to what 12 families (including four of eastern European descent) can produce in 36 hours. Tragically, we were there for 48 hours.

Somehow, the children actually slept through most of the night--—perhaps their parents spiked their sippy cups with Stoli--but the adults jabbered into the night. I kept dreaming over and over that I was an extra in a sequel to The Hunt for Red October. But then, I kept dreaming of going to the bathroom. When going to the bathroom involves squirming out of a sleeping bag, rolling off the air mattress (inevitably waking up your boyfriend), feeling around for a flashlight, unzipping the tent, only to stumble through a makeshift Chechnyan village to get to a maxed-out fiberglass shitter, one tries his hardest to sleep through the night even with a full bladder.

So, I kept dreaming about peeing, over and over again. I dreamt this morning that I was back in high school and could barely make it to the bathroom and then I was having a terrible time aiming for the urinal. Fortunately, I woke up before I started dreaming about sitting in a warm hot tub.

This was all particularly disappointing because we had believed we were staying at a gay camping resort. That'’s what The Willows used to be, but now has, as the owner told us upon check in, a very diverse crowd. It'’s a sad thing that they've gone mainstream. It was equally distressing to see that the once-famous Fife's Resort had become a shadow of its formal self, now catering to an upscale clientele, its legendary T-parties a faint memory. To give you an idea of how it would feel, imagine that you took a family trip to Disneyland, only to find out that it had been bought out by Wal-Mart. You go in and you're greeted by an old man in mouse ears huffing "Welcome to the happiest retail space on Earth!" Your kid groans when you insist on braving the line for the "Haunted Housewares" ride.

Outside of the "accommodations," we had a great time. Our friend Keith whipped up a gourmet dinner of capellini with prawns sauteed in a garlic lime sauce. Jack brought homemade cheesecake. We saw one of the comedians from our Atlantis cruise, Shann Carr, perform on Saturday night at Triple R Resort. We bypassed the $10 cover charge without even realizing it. On Sunday, we canoed up the Russian River with a picnic lunch, followed by some fun in the pool at the Triple R. One of our other companions, Greg, helped us appreciate all the birds (and bats) in the area--—ospreys, sparrows, blue jays, killdeers, turkey vultures, herons, king fishers and a bunch of others I can'’t remember.

Guerneville, as a well-known gay getaway, still has its appeal. But The Willows campsites are for the birds.

San Francisco Gay Pride Recap

We started out the day with a marvelous brunch with friends who live in a beautiful house with great views of downtown San Francisco.

The company and food were fabulous which saved us from (1) actually bothering to go to the parade and (2) having to eat overpriced booth food.

Yes, we travelled all that way to the City and didn't even go watch the parade. We decided that the parade is merely the route most people take to get to the festival. We did have it on the television while we ate quiche and drank mimosas. Or maybe it was a re-run of last year's parade. It's hard to tell.

We did head down to the festival after the brunch. As expected, everything was pretty much set up exactly how we left it last year and the year before.

Without any expectations of a memorable moment, I actually had one. NFL football player, Esera Tuaolo, belted out a beautiful song at the Asian/Pacific Islander stage. And then, Robert and I caught him as he was leaving to take this photograph.

Esera is an inspiration. After a successful football career, he came out of the closet and he's been a vocal advocate for equality since then. He and his partner have two adopted children. Their family is so adorable. I even joined Esera's fan club, so I was very pleased to get the chance to meet him today.

To San Francisco Gay Pride We Will Go

Once again we are going to San Francisco Pride. I've probably been to Pride 10 times out of the 15 years I've been out. I should be invigorated and inspired to join hundreds of thousands of people to celebrate our freedom and rally for equality, but I find myself dreading it.

We're going to a brunch at our friends' house (the good part) and then heading to the parade and festival (the part I'm dreading). After waiting in a 20-minute line to pee in a Fiberglas hut, eating a $6 teriyaki chicken thigh on a stick, I'll shoulder through a boisterous crowd of hundreds of thousands for several hours, returning home exhausted and sunburnt, leaving any feelings of invigoration and inspiration way back on Market Street. Staying home, working the Sunday Times crossword sounds much more appealing.

Not all "the gays" go to San Francisco Pride every year. Someone has got to keep the rest of the Bay Area fabulous today. Contrary to popular belief, it's not an obligatory annual pilgrimage. No one's taking attendance, anyway, so they can't confiscate anyone's gay card for missing the event.

I'm one of those people who tries to keep expectations low, so if we see something truly fascinating, it'll be doubly rewarding. If, as I suspect, the parade and festival will be surprisingly similar to every other San Francisco gay pride parade I've been to, I won't be terribly disappointed.

Last year, we made the effort to squeeze ourselves over to the main stage to see one of the headliners. A free concert with a band I've heard of is kind of a treat. But now I can't even remember what band it was, but I do remember that they only played two songs I'd ever heard of, and the acoustics at the Civic Center were atrocious. At least it was something to look forward to.

I checked the billing to see what I could anticipate for tomorrow. Well, it's slim pickings. Danny Glover is one of the bigger names. He'll be on the main stage, but I have no idea what kind of act he has. Will he narrate a documentary film?

Jennifer Beals is one of the grand marshals, but unless she gets out of her convertible and pulls me over the barrier to teach me how to flashdance, I can't get myself excited about that.

Other grand marshals include a friend, Robert Bernardo, announced as "the first openly-gay Jewish, Filipino commissioner in the City of South San Francisco." Really? The first? Well, it's about bloody time. Thank you, Robert, for breaking down the walls for all the rest of the openly-gay, Jewish Filipinos aspiring to serve as commissioner in the City of South San Francisco.

We'll go around the festival and probably run into some old friends we haven't seen since, well, we bumped into them at last year's festival.

There. I think I've sufficiently lowered my expectations.

A Triumph at Bay to Breakers

I have neglected to write about our experience running in the Bay to Breakers in May. If you haven't heard of it, Bay to Breakers is a quintessential San Francisco institution, a 7.46 mile race from the Embarcadero to Ocean Beach.

The race is famous for the centipede teams and outrageous costumes (and lack thereof). I think I saw about three dozen naked runners. Fortunately, the majority of them were in pretty good shape. The most surreal moment of the day came right at the beginning of the race when I saw a naked guy with a disposable camera taking pictures of other people.

If you know me well, you may have heard me say that I run "only when chased." Running hurts. That high feeling runners describe? That's never happened to me. In high school, when the football coach made us all run one mile after a long, hot practice, I finished dead last.

When I exercise, I typically need to have the duration and intensity of the regimen imposed upon me to some degree. That is, I'll walk 30 minutes on the stair climber because I only have to make the decision once, as I enter my preferred program. I can finish an hour long yoga class, because once I've started, I feel committed to finishing.

Running outside or on a track is a different story. I am constantly fighting the urge to stop. Every step is a new decision. While some people hum or breath to the rhythm of their pace, I am chanting, "I must stop. I must stop. I must stop." And I usually do.

But for some reason, I got motivated to train for this race. After two three-mile runs in the hills at Stanford, I felt I could actually run the majority of the 12 kilometers. As it turned out, I ran most of it, and only walked when pains started shooting through my knees.

Another tradition, for some unknown reason, is to throw corn tortillas at the beginning of the race. As we made our way to the starting line, we walked on top of a huge blanket of corn tortillas. Quirky, but a clear falling hazard.

After the grueling Hayes Street hill, the rest of the race is a steady decline which works for me. Once we entered Golden Gate Park, every crappy garage band in the greater Bay Area had set up a street performance every few hundred yards. The urge to get out of earshot provided a good motivation to keep on running, but I don't think that was their intention.


To motivate myself, I tried to keep up with an Austin Powers guy (one of three I spotted). I figured I should at least be able to beat a guy in a crushed velvet leisure suit. And then I determined that I would not be outpaced by a guy who was pulling two kids in a Radio Flyer wagon. Later, I set my eyes on the red-pajama-clad Thing One and Thing Two (and a superfluous Thing Three and Thing Four). To my delight, I beat all four of those little house-trashing creeps.

My time was 1 hour, 30 minutes, exactly. It may not sound impressive that I finished in 13418th place, but that doesn't account for the fact that we didn't cross the starting line until 25 minutes into the race. To put it another way, about 47,000 people finished behind me, and that ain't bad.

The trippy part was watching a replay of the race on television later and seeing the Kenyan guy who won. While he finished in under 35 minutes, he and I were in the same race. We ran the exact same course. You don't get that in any other sport. I can't plop down 25 bucks and play in a baseball game with the New York Yankees or race a car with an Andretti.

After the race, a number of people were promoting future runs. I actually feel like I want to do this again. Yesterday, I just bought some better running shoes. Am I a convert? I don't know about that. But next year, I want to beat that Harry Potter and all those Elvises.

The U.S. military still thinks gays are crazy

The Associated Press reported today that a Pentagon document classifies homosexuality as a mental disorder, decades after mental health experts abandoned that position. While the rest of us have moved on to debates about gay marriage, the Defense Department still thinks we're sick in the head.

Next, they'll discover a document that reveals that the Pentagon believes that masturbation causes blindness, that Milli Vanilli sang their own songs, and that drinking Pepsi after eating Pop Rocks will make your stomach explode.

I was never in the military, but after talking to a few people who have served and after watching the HBO special, Baghdad E.R., it's beyond me how this old chestnut (as Dick Cheney called the military ban in 1991) survives. When you see doctors, nurses, and orderlies working in the green zone hospital, you can see that it's a job, albeit a very dangerous and stressful one. It's a workplace, and I can't understand why anyone would care if there was an out gay man or lesbian working there.

Dear ol' Dad

Hey Pop,

One time, when I was about 12, I got so mad at you I swore that I would never, ever speak to you again. It had something to do with a sibling squabble where you, rather uncharacteristically, blamed me without due process. As has been evident, my pledge didn't last long, and I've got to tell you, I don't regret that a bit.

You know the quote from Mark Twain: "When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years."

Well, I never thought you were ignorant, but it did take me awhile to realize how fortunate I am to have such a stand up guy for a father. I've been thinking about some of those things you have done that annually put you in the running for a "World's Best Dad" trophy. Like when you came to Dad's Day at my nursery school (I love that picture of me cutting our pancakes while you looked on, sitting in a chair intended for a four year old). And when you carved my pinewood derby race car when I was a Cub Scout, guaranteeing victory in the competition and my first trophy. And all the family camping trips we went on. And all the goofy jokes you told us. And all the fishing lures you tied for me, knowing they'd soon be stuck to a log a the bottom of the lake. And when you took me hiking to Horseshoe Lake, just the two of us. And when you chaperoned my junior high school Valentine's Day dance and performed fake wedding ceremonies. Though you made me cringe, my friends always thought you were so cool. And when you took me to see The Blue Lagoon, my first rated R movie. And when you helped me with my physics project which involved dropping a bowling ball and a softball at precisely the same time to see which falls faster. And for coming to all of my football games, band and choir concerts, school plays, speghetti feeds and talent shows. And the way you accepted me when I came out and how you've welcomed each of my partners into our family.

And a thousand other things you did to make me into the person I am today. But for the record, my brother had no right to change that channel. I was watching that.

Happy Father's Day.

Hometown Buffet of the Seas

One of the reasons I had never gone on a big cruise before is the very fact that people rave about all the food. Some boast that they will order two entrees at a time, or if all the desserts look good, they'll order all of them.

Here on land, buffets are bad news for me. I'm so cheap, I feel like I have to get my money's worth. And if there's something really tasty looking, I have the urge to try it. My best strategy is to stay away completely. Once last year, a gourmand friend invited us to celebrate his birthday at the Super Buffet. I showed up to greet the celebrant, but immediately left without eating.

But once we decided to take the Atlantis cruise, I resolved that I would enjoy myself, try to get some exercise, and make healthier choices.

We did okay. It could have been worse. We did make it to the gym, but when we realized there was no buffet line in there, it lost it's luster.

We discovered the "Aquaspa Cafe" that served healthy, light entrees and desserts. One late afternoon, we enjoyed a couple of these entree plates and a healthy dessert or two. We found that these plates served as a delightful appetizer to preface our five course meal at the main restaurant.

By about Wednesday, I started to ask myself whose idea it was to pack all these tight jeans that barely fit me before the cruise. I feared that by the end of the week, I'd be wearing my gym sweatpants to the buffet line. My stomach seemed to be expanding to the size of a Mylar balloon. Five course dinners no longer left me feeling bloated. By midnight, we had enough room to stop by the late night buffet. I had completely reverted to old eating habits.

It was with great trepidation that I stepped on the scale when we got back at home (on an empty stomach and bladder, stark naked, of course) to assess the damages. To my delight, I hadn't gained any weight.

Which left me thinking, if I can eat like that and not gain weight, why have I been denying myself five course dinners and chocolaty desserts?

But alas, I have to factor in the fact that on the ship, we were on the go all day long and went to at least six dance parties. We canoed and went on a couple of nature walks. That's quite a bit more active than my typical routine of sitting on my rear for nine hours a day in front of a computer screen.

As soon as we boarded, we even signed up for a yoga class scheduled for Saturday morning at 9 a.m. It sounded like a good idea at the time. After dancing 'til dawn on Friday night (We're not as wild as that sounds--sunrise was at 2:30 a.m.), we ended up waking up at 11:30. Even if we hadn't lost an hour from moving back to Pacific Daylight Time, we never had a chance.

Float plane adventure in Juneau

We were in Juneau at the dock getting ready to board a sea plane and this guy from our ship said, "The air here is so much thinner than back home in Texas. We're from Dallas where it's only about 500 feet above sea level. Here, it's like 5000 feet."

Yes, he really said that.

We're in Alaska, but I think most people have no idea where that is. I think most people on this ship think Alaska is a big island down and just to the left of California and bordered by a thick red line. And that Hawaii lies right beside it, which begs the question, why don't we just take the ship for a little day trip to Waikiki and get some mai tais. Goodness, it's only a half an inch away. Well, I'll tell you why we can't do that. It's because of that red line.

There was a straight couple getting on our plane with us. They were from another cruise ship. They were telling us that the weather for them has been terrific. I asked them if they've been having all of their T-dances on the pool deck, but she didn't quite understand the concept. She said her ship is mostly older folks and that she is old enough to be my mother. She thought I was young. Let's just bask in that for a moment, shall we?

We got in the plane and the pilot was pretty casual. He said one of the passengers could sit in the co-pilot's seat. I was not comforted by this. This ship has people on it who think the sea plane is taking off from 5000 feet above sea level. I do not want them to be my co-pilot.

The pilot quickly went through some safety precautions, told us where the exits were and, importantly, where the barf bags are. Another passenger asked if we were supposed to turn off our cell phones. He said, "Sure." Sure. Hmm. What does that mean? He asked again: "So we're supposed to turn them off?" "Sure." OK, then. I guess I'll turn it off. I don't want my cell phone to trip up that altimeter into saying we're at 5000 feet above sea level. We've got that guy from Dallas for that.

We're back!

Our Alaska adventure was grand. I'll post some photos and musings in installments to avoid overwhelming you and me.

The highlight of the cruise was flying over the Juneau snow field and some glaciers. Here are a few of those photos:

Going up to Alaska

In an unusual move, I've been packing for a trip a full 18 hours before the departure time. That's only because we're leaving for Vancouver tomorrow right after work. On Sunday, we'll be aboard the Celebrity Infinity for a cruise to Alaska. A gay cruise, no less.

The cruise company announced that there will be a special guest on board. We've made some guesses: Megan Mullally (promoting her new talk show), Margaret Cho (because she's a party animal), or Sean Hayes (has nothing better to do; vying for permanent gig in cabaret lounge).

As we're packing, we're watching these young whippersnappers in the National Spelling Bee. I've concluded that I'd only be a decent speller in Hawaii. And that there are quite a few words out there I've never heard. And that advanced spelling is a fairly useless skill. Perhaps, I'm suffering from weltschmerz. I suppose there ought to be a least a few living humans able to spell these words.

Sorry, loyal blog readers, for such a lapse in entries. I've been busy, and my laptop had a major malfunction. I have a little bit of advice for my friends: back up your hard disk. Recovering data from a hard drive is expensive. Now I've got a fancy new external hard disk to sync to.

And more good news. My laptop, which used to take at least five minutes to boot, now is ready to roll in about one minute.

Grizabella and her pet guardians/owners

The Santa Clara County Board of Supervisors passed an ordinance last week calling for the word "guardian" to be added to any reference to pet owner in county documents.

I protest. I am not my cat's guardian. I am her 24-hour on-call masseur.

Grizabella knows all she has to do is meow and nudge my arm with her wet nose to get the massage machine to kick in. Sometimes, I think that's the only reason she sticks around.

And that we feed her, groom her and clean up her litter. And serve as a heating pad in the winter. She's got a good thing going here.

Last night she was particularly lovey-dovey, still high from playing with a new catnip toy Robert got for her. If she were a drinker, I think she'd be one of those affectionate "I love you man!" kind of drunks.

Next week is Be Kind to Animals Week, but I doubt our little princess will notice the difference.

Curb my enthusiasm

Isn't this just lovely? Not the Japanese maple, silly. The curb! We're finally done painting the fire lane. When I volunteered to check into the cost of having someone come out to repaint our townhouse complex curbs, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. And I was getting into it myself. I could have gone with the painting company that wanted something like $1,500 to paint a couple of hundred feet of curb, but instead, I volunteered to do it myself, thinking it might be fun way to spend a pleasant Saturday morning. Oh, and I volunteered Robert to help.

Our complex has just 12 units, so when things have to get done, one of us has to step up and coordinate. Normally, it involves calling a company out to take care of the job--cleaning the gutters, repairing a fence, hiring a new landscaper. Rarely does anyone actually do the work themselves. I figure that such a visible job as painting these curbs and saving my neighbors some dough would score me at least two years until it's my turn to take on another project.

Having inherited a bit of my dad's perfectionism, I decided to scrape off as much of the old paint as possible. This, I found, was most effectively done by hand with a metal scraping tool and a wire brush. Once I started, I couldn't stop. Well, I could stop. I got tired frequently and stopped. It rained for 40 days and 40 nights and I stopped. But I couldn't stop what I had started and admit that I had made this harder than it needed to be.

Neighbors walked by and saw me hunched over, scraping, dripping with sweat and proposed various methods that might be easier. One neighbor brought his electric sander out and tried it out on about 50 feet of curb. While a few flakes flung off, I'd describe it as more of a buffing than paint removal. At best, he created smooth, shiny, flaking paint. I thanked him for his contribution to the job, and later scraped his section again when he wasn't looking. Another neighbor pitched in, using a razor blade. His method was fairly effective, but after about two hours, he remembered he had somewhere to go.

The job was left half done for weeks because it rained nearly every day in April. If we had hired a company to do it, no doubt my neighbors would have been up in arms to see scraped curbs left unpainted for weeks. Yesterday, I had the day off, so I put in another four hours and today we finished the job. I have a whole new appreciation for the term "curb appeal."

I've been noticing how poorly maintained many fire lane curbs are. Even in our local swanky mall, the curbs are blackened with tire marks, chipped and flaky. The required 3-inch-high markings of "FIRE LANE" and "NO PARKING" in white lettering which are to be placed at intervals of no less than 50 feet are faded and illegible.

Last night, I dreamt of paint scraping. Paint was flaking off in large strips. I peeled and peeled until an entire wall of paint came off in one piece, giving me the kind of pleasure one gets in peeling an orange and ending up with one solitary piece of orange peel. You don't get pleasure from that? Oh. Maybe it's just me.

While I scraped, I tried to remember the last time I'd really had a hard day of back-breaking work. We don't have much of a backyard and what we have is really Robert's baby. It's been awhile. A masseuse recently commented on how smooth my feet and hands are, completely free of calluses. I recall as a kid that hands like that would be hidden in one's pocket for fear of being ridiculed by classmates who were up with the cows every day. I took pride in having summer jobs that gave me blisters, a farmer's tan, and a reason to wear cowboy boots without looking like a poser. Those days are long gone. I have a masseuse, for Pete's sake.

I also thought about going down to the local Home Depot and hiring one of the dozens of day workers who loiter in the parking lot, waiting for a job. I probably could have had the job done in one day. Unlike me, whoever I had hired probably would not have taken 30 minute breaks every 45 minutes. I'd probably have to pay less than $100. What a strange world we have created where I can pay a guy $100 to work under the hot sun for hours, while I made more than that sitting in a climate-controlled conference room on Thursday afternoon for a quarterly business review meeting where my primary responsibility was to sit and listen.

And I thought about the people who think that it is those willing workers outside of Home Depot who are ruining our economy. And all the people--including me--who take for granted all the hard working immigrants who mow our lawns, clean our dishes, mop our floors and paint our fire lane curbs. We have forgotten how hard a hard day's work really is, if we ever knew at all.

This most recent wave of anti-immigrant sentiment seems to have popped up out of nowhere. All of the sudden, "illegal immigration" has lurched into the top position of social concerns. With the president's ratings down and the Republicans fearing they'll lose one of the three branches of government they dominate, they're pulling out all the stops to create another wedge issue. No surprise. It's worked for them before (Look for the anti-gay marriage amendment to rear its ugly head again soon in a big way).

On May 1, an unknown number of immigrants are planning to skip work to protest proposed federal immigration policies. One of our local business owners is worried that he'll be left bussing tables at his restaurant, A.P. Stump's Chop House in San Jose. In the Mercury News, Mr. Stump said, "I told them I'd terminate them. If they strike, they'll shut me down. I'm loyal to them, giving them two weeks off if they have a baby or something, and that's not showing loyalty if I've got $30,000 in lost business.''

Wow. Two weeks off if they have a baby or something. What a prince. Never mind that the Family and Medical Leave Act requires larger employers to give 12 weeks of unpaid leave for having a baby or something. And how's their medical plan, Mr. Stump? They do get dental and vision, don't they? Do you contribute to their 401(K)? I didn't think so. But you are loyal, not firing them for having a baby and all.

While I plan to be at work on Monday, I'm glad I spend my day off doing some hard work, reminding myself how it is mostly luck that I have the opportunity to choose whether I ever want to work that hard again. Most of the people who will skip work on Monday are doing the best they can with the cards that they've been dealt. While I cringe at the way our economy exploits them, I am awfully glad they are here. In a couple of years, the curb is going to been to be painted again.

Tony Snow was not Bush's first choice

Tony Snow from Fox News will soon take the place of Scott McClellan as the White House press secretary. Snow was not the president’s first choice however. Three other candidates turned down the offer.

The president’s top choice was the silver-tongued, former spokeswoman for the Bartlet Administration, CJ Cregg. When informed that Ms. Cregg is a fictional character on the television show The West Wing, the president was undeterred: “Living in a fictional world for nearly eight years can only be an asset to Ms. Cregg in this position.” After considering the offer, the character responded that she would turn down the offer to spend more time with her fake boyfriend from Thirtysomething.

Second on the list was perky, former Survivor contestant, Elisabeth Hasselbeck, who now sits on the sofa at The View. Turning down the offer, she said she would find the position stifling. “I prefer to keep doing what I’m doing, robotically echoing right-wing talking points every morning here on The View. Many more people listen to our ‘Hot Topics’ chats than ever watch those stale White House briefings."

“Plus,” she said, “We just lost Meredith to The Today Show. If were to leave, Ms. Walters would get really mad, and you don’t want to make Ms. Walters mad.”

Next on the list was Teller, the speechless half of the duo Penn & Teller. The Mute Community praised the offer as an encouraging gesture of inclusion. Teller had no comment on the job offer. Upon hearing of Teller’s non-reaction, the president offered to triple the salary. “He’s our man!”

An Epitaph for George W. Bush

First the peaceniks said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a peacenik.

Then the liberals said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a liberal.

Then the international community said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was an American.

Then the traditional conservatives said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a traditional conservative.

Then the families of fallen soldiers said I was wrong, and I did not listen because there are no soldiers in my family.

Then the soldiers themselves said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a soldier.

Then the centrists said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a centrist.

Then the generals said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a general.

Eventually, there was no one left to tell me I was right but myself.


-------------------------
"Unsuccessful in every effort to find a plausible pretext to attack Iraq, Bush has now conveniently redefined terrorism, and thus his next target, by alleging that selected nations produce 'weapons of mass destruction.' "
--Act Now to Stop War & Erase Racism (A.N.S.W.E.R.) in March, 2002.

"There is clearly a threat from Iraq, and there is clearly a danger, but the Administration has not made a convincing case that we face such an imminent threat to our national security that a unilateral, pre-emptive American strike and an immediate war are necessary. Nor has the Administration laid out the cost in blood and treasure of this operation."
--Senator Ted Kennedy, September, 27 2002.

"A military attack on Iraq is obviously criminal; completely inconsistent with urgent needs of the Peoples of the United Nations; unjustifiable on any legal or moral ground; irrational in light of the known facts; out of proportion to other existing threats of war and violence; and a dangerous adventure risking continuing conflict throughout the region and far beyond for years to come."
--Former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark in a letter to the United Nations on Sept. 20, 2002.

"France will vote 'no' because she considers tonight that there is no reason to wage a war to reach the goal we set ourselves, that is the disarmament of Iraq."
--French President Jacque Chirac, March 10, 2003.

"The price of U.S. occupation of Iraq, the price of U.S. empire in the Muslim world, is terror. The Islamic terrorists of 9/11 were over here because we were over there. We were attacked by suicide bombers in New York for the same reason that our Marines were attacked by a suicide bomber in Beirut. We took sides in a religious civil war, their war, and they want us out of that war. The fifteen hijackers from Saudi Arabia did not fly into the World Trade Center to protest the Bill of Rights. They want us off sacred Saudi soil and out of the Middle East. Is there anything over there--oil, bases, empire--worth risking an atomic bomb on U.S. soil?"
--Patrick Buchanan in Where the Right Went Wrong, Sept. 1, 2004.

“The reasons for war were wrong. They were lies. There were no WMDs. Al Qaeda was not there. And it was evident we couldn’t force democracy on people by force of arms.”
--Mike Hoffman, of Iraq Veterans Against the War, as quoted in Mother Jones, Oct. 11, 2004.

"We are losing our best and our brightest in a country that we are destroying, that was no threat to the United States of America. Iraq was and still is no danger to our safety and security, or to our way of life. The weapons of mass destruction and mass deception reside in this town: they are the neocons who pull the strings and the members of Congress who have loosened the purse strings with reckless abandon and have practically given George and company a blank check to run our country into monetary and moral bankruptcy."
--Cindy Sheehan, Sept. 15, 2005

"The argument for going to war with Iraq was based on intelligence that we now know was inaccurate. The information the American people were hearing from the president -- and that I was being given by our intelligence community -- wasn't the whole story. Had I known this at the time, I never would have voted for this war."
--Senator John Edwards, Nov. 13, 2005 in The Washington Post.
"I now regret that I did not more openly challenge those who were determined to invade a country whose actions were peripheral to the real threat--Al-Qaeda."
--Lieut. General Greg Newbold in Newsweek, April 17, 2006.

"...In the lead-up to the Iraq war and its later conduct, I saw, at a minimum, true dereliction, negligence and irresponsibility; at worst, lying, incompetence and corruption.
--Gen. Tony Zinni, former commander in chief of United States Central Command in The Battle For Peace.

What’s not to like about Senator Russ Feingold?

Like most Americans, I hadn’t given much thought to Wisconsin Senator Russ Feingold. After he was first out of the gate to censure the president, he caught my attention—not because that was such a bold move, but because so few Democratic leaders joined his effort. I can’t fathom voting for a presidential candidate that wouldn’t support censuring Bush for ordering illegal wiretaps. Then on April 4, he came out in favor of marriage equality for gay and lesbian couples.

Who is this guy? A Democrat with conviction and the guts? That sounds like just what we’ve been looking for. A Democrat who doesn’t have the albatross of supporting the Iraq war before he opposed it hanging around his neck. A Democrat who didn’t have to write an op-ed piece to say that he was wrong to support the war on Iraq, because he wasn’t wrong. Hillary Clinton, Joe Lieberman, Tom Daschle, John Kerry and John Edwards were wrong, but Feingold was right all along. We ought to reward that kind of wisdom and discernment.

John Kerry must cry himself to sleep that he wasn’t the one who spoke these words in October 2002:

We are about to make one of the weightiest decisions of our time within a context of confused justifications and vague proposals. We are urged, Mr. President, to get on board and bring the American people with us, but we don't know where the ship is sailing.

Feingold spends a lot of time listening to Wisconsinites on the issues. He’s held nearly 1,000 “listening sessions.” With all that listening, he may be more in tune with Americans than all those Democratic senators who let him hang out to dry on the censure resolution would have us believe.

Here are some other reasons to like this guy:

1. After we got into the mess in Iraq, Feingold was the first Senator to call for a flexible timetable to get our military out of Iraq, a notion that has been building steam.
2. He’s long supported the Employment Non-Discrimination Act, which will finally prohibit discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity. Believe it or not, it’s still legal to discriminate against gays and lesbians in employment in 34 states.
3. My man Feingold helped balance the budget in the 90’s and now fights for a return to a budget discipline.
4. Feingold has fought for increased funding to combat AIDS, tuberculosis and malaria around the world.
5. What little the U.S. has done to address the genocide in Sudan has been largely due to Senator Feingold’s initiative.
6. Feingold cast the Senate's lone vote against the USA Patriot Act. Many of the concerns he had about infringing on precious liberties are now widely shared. Again, the man had the guts to go against the tide, standing on principle, even when it was unpopular at the time. He’s consistently ahead of the curve.

Bonuses:

• Good hair
• Good teeth
• Doesn’t scream at rallies

And now a reality check.

Reasons our sorry electorate won’t elect Senator Russ Feingold in 2008:

• He opposed the USA Patriot ACT.
• He’s a Rhodes Scholar and Harvard-educated lawyer.
• He opposes the death penalty.
• He’s been divorced—twice.
• He’s not Christian.
  

In God Many Of Us Trust

Sure, it sounds innocuous enough. A plaque, funded entirely from donations, is placed at the Hawthorne, California city hall to commemorate the 50th anniversary of our nation's motto. How could anyone object?

Our national motto, though adopted only 50 years ago, has been printed on various U.S. coins since 1866. This motto is inscribed prominently on the dais of the U.S. House of Representatives. A simple resolution and a plaque sounds like a great way to commemorate an event of historical significance. It's a no brainer, right?

That motto, which you'll find now on every U.S. coin in your pocket, every bill in your wallet, is "In God We Trust." Those five words are so ubiquitous, they could hardly offend. To no surprise, the city council of Hawthorne, home of The Beach Boys, passed the resolution unanimously.

Examine the history of the motto may give one pause. Take 2006 and subtract 50 years and you can guess what was going on when Congress and Eisenhower decided to make "In God We Trust" the national motto. In the midst of the McCarthy communist witch hunt, atheism was equated with communism. That was the same decade "under God" was added to the Pledge of Allegiance and "so help me God" was tacked onto oaths of office.

Our original motto, E Pluribus Unum, is still on the Great Seal of the United States. That motto communicates unity--Out of many, one--and was chosen by Thomas Jefferson, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin. Remember that next time you hear a justification of the encroachment of religion in government with the claim that our forefathers would want it that way. Joseph McCarthy and Roy Cohn are not our nation's forefathers.

No, our forefathers did not put "In God We Trust" on our coins. The idea resulted from a request from Baptist minister Mark R. Watkinson, who in 1861 wrote to the Secretary of the Treasury to suggest that a religious motto be put on coins to "relieve us from the ignominy of heathenism." From the beginning, the motto had a clear religious meaning and purpose. Are you concerned yet?

Certainly, the fine members of the Hawthorne City Council aren't part of a vast conspiracy to theocratize our nation. Or, are they? The American Family Association is behind a campaign to get "In God We Trust" posters in every school as "a reminder of the historical centrality of God in the life of our republic." Yes, the AFA. The same AFA that rails against gay rights and boycotts Target for greeting shoppers with "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Now are you bothered?

Posters promoting religion in public schools is one thing, but how did this campaign jump to the Hawthorne City Council? For that, give credit to religious conservative Bakersfield Councilwoman, Jacquie Sullivan. It was Sullivan, founder of "In God We Trust America" who sent an e-mail to every city clerk in California about her goal to exhibit the motto in city buildings all over California. In the newspaper, The Record, she's said "God has always had an important place in our country. We are basically a country of believers, and this is something that's good for the future of our country."

Yes, basically a country of believers...except for those who aren't.

The idea for the motto originated during the Civil War with Baptist minister Mark R. Watkinson, who wrote to U.S. Secretary of the Treasury Salmon P. Chase on Nov. 13, 1861, suggesting the religious motto. Watkinson argued that a religious phrase on coins would "relieve us from the ignominy of heathenism."

The motto has passed legal muster because it does not promote a particular religion. But it does promote religion. With federal funding for faith-based service providers, "intelligent design" lessons in biology classes and a thousand other examples of the promotion of religion in the public square, we've lost the notion that the First Amendment protects Americans right to not express a religion.

It's not just the fact that not everyone believes in God. A lot of people may believe in a divine force behind the universe without believing that we all should "trust" that force to guide our puny lives. If President Bush hadn't trusted that God was guiding him, maybe he wouldn't have been so cocksure about invading Iraq. If he trusted in reason, maybe he wouldn't have stalled progress on stem cell research. If our fearless leader trusted in science more than a belief that the end times are near, maybe he would take global warming seriously.

We atheists and agnostics are not a popular bunch. Never mind the Buddhists, Hindus and various others whose ideas of deity do not fit the Judeo-Christian mold. But we have one of our founding fathers on our side. James Madison championed the separation church and state and warned of the tyranny of the majority oppressing the rights of minorities. The father of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights is with me on this. If Madison were sitting on the Hawthorne City Council, the Honorable Councilwoman Ginny Lambert's resolution would have had at least one quite eloquent dissenter.

"The purpose of separation of church and state is to keep forever from these shores the ceaseless strife that has soaked the soil of Europe with blood for centuries."

And,

"I believe there are more instances of the abridgement of freedom of the people by gradual and silent encroachments by those in power than by violent and sudden usurpations."

Be bothered.

My Chevy Tahoe Ad

Lots of folks are having a ball creating their own Chevy Tahoe ad. As part of a promotion with The Apprentice, you (yes, you!) can create your own Chevy Tahoe ad using a collection of video clips. The fun part is you can add your own snarky text.

Well, I don't think my entry is in the running.

SoCo and WaMu? WhaTheHe!

Giving yourself a hip nickname and hoping it catches on strikes me as a desperate act. What would you think if I went around calling myself Flash or El Guapo? When people started calling Ben Affleck BenLo and Bennifer, it was cute. If he had started calling himself BenLo, that would have been sort of sad.

These things are supposed happen organically. Only after "FedEx" had become a common verb did Federal Express change its name. Sure, KFC was eager to drop "fried" from its name, but everyone called it that by the time they changed their logo. Target has enough dignity not to play along with the French pronunciation (Tar-zhay) despite its popular usage.

So I reject Southern Comfort's attempt to re-brand itself as SoCo. I suppose they think drunks are struggling with the two extra syllables and they are losing market share to Jim Beam. Or maybe they're trying to make inroads in Yankee states. Did they even stop to check what soco means in Portuguese? (I did. It means punch as in blow, jab).

Their new ad must have aired six times during last week's SNL re-run. Ah, there's another one. We all call it SNL, but NBC generally uses the full name. Can you imagine? "L, from New York, it's SN!"

Even more hokey, Washington Mutual Bank now wants us to call it WaMu. Its new headquarters in Seattle is called the WaMu Center. As hip and now as WaMu might sound (see San Francisco's SoMa and New York City's SoHo), I'm not moving my accounts there.
I'll stick with BofA. And that's not "Bee of Aye" like most people call Bank of America. I pronounce it "BOE-FA." And if that catches on, I won't even mind if the bank starts using it too.

Newsflash: Live-in Nanny Was a Man

The Today Show covered a story yesterday about a kidnapping in Tennessee. Erika Sadowski was arrested on Saturday after she was found with the two children, 15 hours after they were reported missing. Sadowski has lived with the family for the last five years, caring for the children.

About 800,000 children are reported missing in the United States every year. So why would The Today Show find this so newsworthy? The story is not newsworthy, but it is sensational. Ms. Sadowski, it turns out, is biologically male, but has lived as a woman for the past 20 years, which was news to the children's mother.

Like their staple scare stories about the next epidemic or unsafe cars, NBC seemed to be sending out a public service warning that she-males may be walking among us where we least suspect it. Watch out!

Unfortunately, making fun of transgender people is still fair game on network news, Felicity Huffman's Transamerica notwithstanding. The report likened Sadowski to Mrs. Doubtfire, showing clips from the 1993 comedy which has Robin Williams dressing in drag to land a nanny job caring for his own children. The local sheriff quipped, "Let's just say Robin Williams had a much better makeup artist."

The look on Katie Couric's face after the story finished seemed to say, "Screw this garbage. CBS Evening News, here I come." I may be giving her too much credit, but I just want to believe that she was disgusted at the insensitivity of the story.

The Knoxville NBC station seems to have zero understanding of transgender issues. "Edward Sadowski was arrested in Dyersburg over the weekend and was listed as Erika Sadowski at the time," the station reports, even though Sadowski legally changed her name to Erika 20 years ago. There's no evidence that Sadowski was out to deceive anyone or that she lived as a woman just to get a babysitting job. She's a transsexual, not a transvestite.

The Associated Press apparently has yet to distribute its new edition of the AP Stylebook to its own journalists. The 2006 edition has this new entry:

transgender Use the pronoun preferred by the individuals who have acquired the physical characteristics of the opposite sex or present themselves in a way that does not correspond with their sex at birth. If there preference is not expressed, use the pronoun consistent with the way the individuals live publicly.

Yet the AP story published in the Knoxville News Sentinel included this: "Sadowski apparently changed his name sometime around 1986 after being discharged from the U.S. Air Force after a 20-year career, according to a background check."

When someone is arrested for a heinous crime or discovered doing something stupid, few people rush to defend them against ridicule. There are a lot of idiots who are playing for my team that I would just as soon trade to other side. I could do without any association with conservative White House "reporter" and gay prostitute Jeff Gannon. Matt Lauer would have had to call him a limp-wristed sissy to get a rise from the gay community. Serial killers like Andrew Cunanan and "Monster" Aileen Wuornos did nothing to advance gay and lesbian acceptance. Maybe this is why I have yet to find any response to the Sadowski story from the transgender community.

Without defending the alleged crime, why is it so scandalous that Sadowski was not born a woman? The implication seems to be twofold: that transsexuals are unfit to care for children and that transsexuals are obligated to disclose their gender history lest they be deemed deceitful.

It's too bad so few people will ever see Transamerica. In it, Felicity Huffman's character, Bree, makes the point that, "Just because a person doesn't go around blabbing her entire biological history doesn't make her a liar." Throughout the film, we understand that Bree is just trying to live her life with dignity and authenticity.

Though it's none of anyone's business, Sadowski apparently has not undergone sexual reassignment surgery, though through hormone therapy, she has some feminine characteristics. Prison guards discovered this during a strip search. Given that she's been working as a nanny, I would conclude that she has never had the money to complete a gender reassignment surgery.

Nevertheless, she clearly identifies as a woman. The media should respect how she identifies her gender and leave the sensationalism to Jerry Springer. NBC owes the transgender community an apology.

Denial denied

It's over. I can't fake it any longer. I'm amazed that I've been able to keep myself in the dark as long as I have. My ability to deny the obvious was stunning. The facts were right there blaring their ugly truth right at me.

Here's the ugly truth: my favorite burrito at ¡Una Más!, the Gallito, is killing me softly. Focusing on the tasty grilled chicken breast and the fresh tomato salsa, I had convinced myself that this little piece of heaven was an acceptable part of a healthy diet. Never mind the huge flour tortilla, the handful of jack cheese and the half-cup of guacamole.

Hey, it's not McDonalds or Taco Bell. Now that's junk food, I reasoned. There's no drive thru at ¡Una Más! No plastic toys to lure children. No meal deals or super-sizes. I perceive ¡Una Más! as wholesome, fresh, quasi-Mexican food.

The thing is I've been going down to my local ¡Una Más! Mexican Grill about once a week before heading to the gym where, as it turns out, I'm only burning enough calories to cover the first three bites of my precious Gallito.

After looking at the nutritional information, I found out that all this time I'd have been better off skipping the gym entirely and grabbing an 8-piece Chicken Tender from the BK.

As it turns out, if I'd chosen TWO cheeseburgers from In-N-Out Burgers, I'd still consume fewer calories. I could have the six-piece boneless spicy chicken wings from KFC and have fewer grams of fat.

990 calories.

Just under 1000, as if the restaurant cut ten calories in an attempt to enable my denial even further. No, the party is over. My Gallito is packing 60 grams of fat! More than the huge Costco muffins I've been avoiding for years. More than three slices of the Pizza Hut Meat Lovers pizza.

I know--everthing in moderation. But, the only way my Gallito can fit into a balance diet is if I take up marathon running or bulimia. That ain't going to happen.

Adios, dear, dear Gallito. I'll miss you.

More Abu Ghraib Atrocities Revealed

Yesterday, Salon.com posted the most complete yet of photos and videos documenting abuses at the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq. Along with the now-familiar images are dozens of newly released ones taken over just a few weeks in 2003, illustrating just how sadistic conditions were. Salon.com concludes that the only thing unique about this collection may be that a trail of photographic evidence exists.

After they followed the trail of an odd liquid seeping under the locked door of a shower room, Corporal Charles Graner and Spc. Sabrina Harman found recently deceased Iraqi detainee, Manadel al-Jamadi, who died during a CIA interrogation hours before. Forget claims that these photos were used to intimidate other prisoners--these sick puppies snapped 30 photos of the dead guy on ice.

Their weirdness tends to obscure the disturbing questions about the prisoner's death. In the morning, the CIA stuck an IV in the corpse and wheeled him out to avoid calling the attention of Iraqi detainees and guards. As Salon.com reports, no one at the CIA has been prosecuted, even though al-Jamadi's death was ruled a homicide. Furthermore, to date no high-level U.S. officials have been brought to justice in a court of law for what went on at Abu Ghraib.

Just three days after her necrophilial photo session, Spc. Harman was forcing naked prisoners to form human pyramids. She only got a six month prison sentence while the infamous Pfc. Lynndie England got three years for her thumbs-up antics.

Meanwhile, Condoleezza Rice praised the budding democracy of Indonesia on Tuesday for its new commitment to human rights and stated, "Great democracies, like Indonesia and like the United States, cannot turn a blind eye to those who still live under oppression." I wonder how that talking point plays in Darfur and Chad these days given our country's tepid response to the genocide there.

The U.S. has a long way to go before regaining the moral authority to point out the human rights abuses of others. With an administration that refuses to rule out torture, that long journey isn't likely to begin any time soon.

Da Vinci Code: Truth or Fiction?

If you're confused, just ask the Catholic League.

On Monday, the arch-conservative Catholic League, placed an ad in the New York Times, urging Ron Howard to put a disclaimer at the beginning of The Da Vinci Code noting that the movie is a fictional account. As a reward, the organization's far-right president, William A. Donohue got to appear on the Today Show on Wednesday.

After Donohue appeared on the Today Show last November and claimed that the Catholic Church's pedophilia problem could be resolved by routing out all the gay priests, I was surprised he'd get another invitation. I would have thought Mr. Donohue would be relegated to Fox News and The 700 Club where inflammatory, malicious rhetoric has found a cozy home.

For the movie's producers, the Times ad is nothing less than great publicity. Hell, Sony Pictures might just slap a "Coming This May" banner on top and run the ad a few more times themselves. Keep talking, Mr. Donohue, and we might be looking at a record opening weekend.

I read The Da Vinci Code just recently. I found it fascinating that there were many more than four gospels, more than four accounts of the life of Jesus. Mortal human beings ultimately decided which ones would make it into the New Testament. The novel says that some of those gospels portrayed Jesus as a wise, noble, but mortal man.

I don't know how much of Dan Brown's story is true--the fictional narrative is interspersed with some measure of historic truth--but it did inspire me to learn more about the historical Jesus and the early Church, beyond what has ended up in the Bible. Alas, the juicy proposition that Jesus and Mary Magdalene had a thing going on doesn't seem to hold water.

Donohue's gripe is that fable is mixed in with story lines that could be confused as fact. I understand his concern. Donohue is correct that "the consequences are real" when people are led to believe that a fable is incontrovertible fact. Indeed, graveyards around the world are filled with the fallen victims of zealotry rooted in fable. It follows that Donohue would agree that the Book of Genesis warrants a similar disclaimer, knowing all we know now.

The missing disclaimer may be why a majority of Americans believe that "God created man exactly how the Bible describes it" according to a Gallup report released Wednesday. How this majority explains away dinosaurs, carbon dating and fossil records is beyond me. Evolution needs its own set of evangelists. But those of us in the minority have better things to do with our time than to argue with people who start and end every philosophical argument with "I believe it because the Bible says it's so."

The pollster concludes that "several characteristics correlate with belief in the biblical explanation for the origin of humans. Those with lower levels of education, those who attend church regularly, those who are 65 and older, and those who identify with the Republican Party are more likely to believe that God created humans 'as is,' than are those who do not share these characteristics."

I have no doubt that humans have evolved, but it looks like the process has come to an abrupt halt.