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.