Have You Seen This Woman?

Do I believe in Six Degrees of Separation? Testing, testing...1,2...testing, testing:

The night of Brooklyn Pride, Saturday, June 11th, I met a fabulous, stunning, bright and witty young lady while standing in line outside Cattyshack. She (Abby?/Abbie?) and her friend Rebecca (equally lovely) stood behind me and my crew as we held our pee & chatted it up while waiting for access to the hot, new lady spot. I could tell I liked her b/c I immediately slipped into this desperate, funny, charming car salesman rhythm thing I do when I'm nervous. To the untrained eye it's wry and clever, but to anyone who knows me well, it's a warning sign that Shannon has a live wire loose. Anyway, so we're waiting and waiting and talking and laughing and having a gay old time. I said at one point that I was longing for a Sprite, a big one, almost as tall as me. When Abby went in search of bathroom, food or drink (I'm not sure which), she brought me back a Sprite. That was it. I was completely shocked at my good fortune. Funny how life just slips us something fabulous, isn't it?

So, in the club we wander around, Abby and Rebecca doing their thing while me and my posse of non-drinkers did ours. They would check in and let us know where they were throughout the evening. At one point, when I was all a-boogie on the second floor, I asked one of my pals to go get them, the blondies as I'd dubbed them. Why didn't I just go? Umm, hmm, pussy. That's my only explanation. Total pussy. Gladly, tho, the blondies just turned up. So, there's dancing (I got completely soaked, right through my shirt and jeans, not a dry hair on my head) and more hanging out, and as the minutes pass, I get more and more awkward and lame. Being drenched in my own sweat ain't helping either. After a while, I decide I've had enough. Too much excitement for The Shan. Riding bitch on a motorcycle in the parade, copious pit and butt sweat and smart, cute girls is just too much action for me.

Fast forward...I'm giving my farewells and Abby goes to hug me and I push her off and warn her that I'm utterly sweaty. As if she couldn't tell for herself...see how smooth I am! Anyway, she says that she'd like to go to the show I had that week, and I blew her off again and told her to get the info from one of my posse. Before I left I informed a member of said posse that #1 those bitches were not to leave w/out giving us their info, and #2 if anyone hit on Abby, I would rip their breasts off.

Well, dammit, it didn't happen! They left as soon as I did, no info given, nuthin'. Grrrrrrrrrrr! Suckage!

I am ashamed to admit this: I tried Craig's List missed connections. I did. I'm not proud of it, but this whole rigorous honesty process I'm into demmands that I cop to it. And I tried a Friendster search, too, with what little information I did have. Zilch. Nada. So, I am turning to my next option: my blog. Someone's got to read this thing, right? Here's hoping.

How to Help The Shan:

• Do you know a gay chick who lives in Brooklyn named ABBY? ABBIE?
• Does this Abby have a friend, Rebecca, who lives in TriBecca? ('Becca from 'becca, Ha!)
• Is this Abby from Minnesota? We're getting warmer if she is.
• Is this Abby tall with strawberry blondish/light brown hair? Warmer...
• Is this Abby funny and smart and hot?

If you have an Abby that fits this criteria, it is my pleasure to beg of you, please, please direct her to this blog! Take it to the streets, people! Help me! The only other option I have is to hang out at the Cattyshack until I hit paydirt. And I don't feel like spending my rent money on $4 Diet Cokes, you dig? Besides, I am not the barfly I once was.

ABBY, ABBY, Wherefore art thou, ABBY?

Crashed Out Knee, Wounded Pride

• I am listening to Radio Wimbledon via internet radio while at work. My boss is in Hawaii, bless his heart. All week. Yeeeeah. So, from the round of 16 on, I will have uninterrupted access to The Championships. Also, he's got a sweet TV in his office for the "must see" matches. Tennis, at this point in the summer, is more important to me than food, sleep, crack, sex, validation, good company and (possibly) breathing. If you have the chance, head over to www.wimbledon.org and get in on the radio broadcast if for no other reason that to hear the terribly English commentary, which shall certainly include the action verbs, "crashed," "thumped," "wollop," and "in-rushing."
• Went to the orthopedist this morning, one who deals with knees, not just with ankles and feet (thanks for nothing, Dr. Kim). Apparently, my patella is for shit. 8 weeks of physical therapy, 2 to 3 times a week. And I shan't forget to mention the sexy "knee sleeve" that I'll be wearing for the remainder of the summer. Finally, I'll look like the Globetrotter I know myself to be.
• Pride Parade Sunday is anti-climactic as all hell, especially when you're sober. As I calmly stood watching yesterday's floats, drag queens and Gaysians (Gay Asians), I reflected on Prides past, and turned to my best bud and said, "I don't think I ever got butt wasted on a Pride Day." This statement was met by deep, gutteral laughter. "Umm, remember that one with those guys we met at Hell?" I didn't. Well, not until he jogged my memory. This happens to me a lot. I conveniently forget what a soak I was. The particular Pride in question included drinking myself silly at Garage. My girlfriend at the time was smart, and took off once the all too familiar "Shannon the Unruly" began to appear. Indignant and inebriated, I headed off to Hell. Met 2 dudes at Hell and made fast friends. (When wasted I had a gift for immediate bonding. I'd promise you a kidney, or an ovary, in addition to my pledge of eternal loyalty. Come morning, I didn't know or care who the fuck you were. I didn't know who the fuck I was, let alone HOW I got into your bathtub.) My friend and I, along w/ the 2 Hell dudes, tried to "secretly" smoke pot outside the bar. Giving up, we headed to their apartment where we smoked some more. We then headed to the West End/Pier ?? where I struck up a long conversation with a homeless man to whom I felt supremely connected. Want a kidney, sir? And that's the last thing I remember of that year. Odd that I still called it Pride when it was so apprarent that I had NONE.
• I had a great time this year volunteering for Heritage of Pride at their kick-off event, The Rally. I also did 1 show plus 1 sort of show/MC thing for HIVe. And I was up to my elbows in "community" for the first time in my little blond life. What a wonderful opportunity those experiences were! I contributed. I felt useful, involved and invigorated. My funny had focus, and I got to give it away to people with whom I share an identity. Before, I hid my head in the sand. I'd go to a Pride Parade and I read the Advocate, but that's not the same as being proud of my place in the Queer family. This year I discovered that all of my families run on the same basic principle: you get what you give.

It's Alive! It's Alive!

Two things, bitches.

As I re-read yesterday's hostile yet vulnerable posting, I came to realize that I--wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles--have feelings. I've been adept at avoiding them my whole life. I can bury them, run from them, mock them, ignore them or sleep through them. Every once in a while, tho, they perform a sneak attack resulting in stomach cramps and diarrhea. But that's it. So this whole "feeling my feelings" shite is a completely new process. I'm a real boy!

It's Pride Weekend! The Shan is celebrating by sharing her funny. I am performing for HIVentertainment at two of their events. I encourage you to stop by, clap, laugh, drink, donate and not pee in the corner. For more information: http://www.hivenyc.com/

FRIDAY, JUNE 24TH @ HEAVEN (6TH AVE. BTWN. 16TH AND 17TH ST.)

It's a big gay fun house from 6-10 pm. Suggested donation of $3, DJ, prize giveaways, drink specials all night and a 20-25 minute set from your favorite pixie, lesbienne comedienne around 9:15. I plan to rock them like a hurricane and blow the tits off the joint. Bring your kids. They could win a butt plug.

Saturday, June 25th @ O.W. (221 E. 58th St. btwn 2nd & 3rd Ave.)

Is there anything gayer than a gay BBQ? They're grilling meat and sausage and hot dogs from 2-6 p.m. Again, come and get some sizzling meat, sausage and hot dogs. $1,000 worth of Prizes, including iPods! Drink specials, too! With yours truly as Mistress of Ceremonies. Suggested donation of $3. Don't forget the meat, people. Free meat.

See you there.

86th Street Freeze Out

I find that when I am not speaking to someone because I'm royally pissed at them, the part that sucks the most is that they don't even try to reach me. No email, no phone, no carrier pigeon, nothing. Not an apology in sight. This feeds my anger, nourishes it, and allows the petty inner-beast to rest and grow stronger. Now I've gotten more ticked than I was when the stupid-ass-what-the-fuck-lick-my-balls original folly occurred.

My punishment has become my punishment.

Here's just a snippet of how ultra shitty this week has been:

OK, Monday evening I'm hurt and angry. I cry two days in a row. Some of that I am willing to attribute to hormones, maybe 30% maximum. So, yesterday I had to make an emergency appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. I did something to my left knee last week that I had hoped and prayed would mysteriously disappear in much the same way it arrived. At first the pain was wicked. I hobbled up and down stairs. I was up all night b/c of the pain. But the next morning I was fine. Throughout the week, tho, the knee would lock and then unlock. Nothing too horrible, just unpridictable. Susipcious and annoying but nothing to alarm me. The alarm came yesterday (during my Toy Show) and my mother f--in' knee blew up like an air mattress. It hurt from the inside out. So, I call my primary Doc and he gives me two names. I call the first and he doesn't take my insurance. The second one I call has one of those automated answering bitches, "Please listen to the menu of options as they have changed." Changed from what? 'If you're on fire, press 6. It was 4 but we moved it to 6 so the patients who sold their prescriptions on the street in order to pay our bills can get in touch with us and beg for more pills, any pills, that their HMO will cover.'

In my desperation, I call my insurance company for a list of orthopedic providers. I tell them my knee is falling off. They give me about 5 numbers. I call one, it's disconnected. Warning sign. I call another and she can take me, right away, 4pm. Thank Christ. I tell my boss that I have to leave (during the most important week in my industry). I hop in a cab and go uptown to 86th St. $15 fare. I wait for the Doc, and an hour later she walks, I limp, back to the exam room. I go into the "what happened to my body parts" speech, and she is giving me the weirdest looks. But why? I'm not telling her that my third nipple can move. She interrupts me and says, "Did they tell you what kind of doctor I am?" And I said, "Yeah, orthopedic surgeon." And she crashes headlong into my fragile mental state, "I am an orthopedic surgeon, but I only deal with the ankle down." Fucking fanfuckingtastic. She feels so sorry for me that she gets on the phone and tries to find someone who'll see me that day. But it's after 5pm. No dice. I'm so rocked and humiliated and lost that I go out of my way to be totally cool and understanding about this fiasco. I have never said 'Oh don't be sorry' and 'It's no big deal' and 'These things happen' more, and I'd never meant them less.

I left my job, went 63 blocks out of my way, dropped $15 in cash, hobbled in and out of the office and only to turn back, crestfallen, with no idea what was wrong with my knee, and head home to Brooklyn. Ankle and foot surgeon! I mean, fuck me in the goat ass. I turned my phone off as soon as I got home. I hobbled up three flights of stairs, got in bed immediately and closed my eyes. I couldn't end the day fast enough.

Bear Down II

34 days until the Chicago Bears report to training camp.

12 & 13 days until I celebrate the July 4th weekend birthdays of 2 of my best pals.

5 days until the New York City Pride Parade.

3 days until I finish my June "woman's cycle."

0 days until I give a rat's ass about Michael Jackson, Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes, Angelina & Brad?, Paris Hilton and whether or not grapefruit perfume makes a woman SMELL YOUNGER.

Michael Got Off...Why Can't I?

Who says there is no justice? As punishment for blogging, emailing friends and surfing the worldwide web for one piece of Law & Order: SVU fanfiction that I haven't already read while at work, I am here, at the scene of the crimes mentioned above, in the Toy Center building on a gorgeous Saturday morning. Starting this Monday, there is an International licensing show for the entire toy industry. Being an International marketing whore/savant, its essentially my baby. So, I am in here to finish price lists and get the showroom(s) in sparkle condition. When I got this assigment, I was all, "no biggie, whatever, whenever." I should have done my research: I am responsible for more than 20 lines of merchandise which translates into 22 price lists and 17 showrooms. Oops! With all the toy and game samples that have arrived in the past 2 weeks, it appears that I am having a torrid affair with the Fed Ex guy, Syd.

And here I am doing it again. Blogging when I should be working for "the man."

Gay Marriage Is Anarchy, But Banning It Leads to Divorce

I know I said I'd be taking a break, but the quote below landed in my mailbox this morning, and I was compelled to rant.

"U.S. Census figures show that Massachusetts has the lowest divorce rate in the country -- boasting more family stability than any of the 18 states that have adopted constitutional bans on gay marriage. [T]here is no statistical validity to the claim that allowing gays to marry has undermined the institution here." -- From a Boston Globe editorial, May 17.

LATER, AT THE VATICAN...

Monday evening, June 6th, Pope Benedict made his first official pronouncement regarding gay marriage. Suprisingly, he's not so into it. He condemned same-sex unions as fake and expressions of “anarchic freedom” that threatened the future of the family. The Pope, who was elected in April, also condemned divorce, artificial birth control, trial marriages and free-style unions, saying all of these practices were dangerous for the family.

Is he high? Artificial birth control? Most of the birth control used by the breeders is pretty real. That's why it works. And what's with the free-style unions? "Yeah, we're totally faithful to each other. Though every once in a while, we get a little giggy with it. It's like, you know, free-style." Or "Check out my informal union - no hands!"

“Today's various forms of dissolution of marriage, free unions, trial marriages as well as the pseudo-matrimonies between people of the same sex are instead expressions of anarchic freedom which falsely tries to pass itself off as the true liberation of man,” he said, according to Reuters. Dude, I just wanna have a bridal shower and get all the crap I've been giving to my straight friends and family for years! Give me my damn sterling silver salad bowl!

I would like to invite Pope Benedict to my house for dinner. We will engage in polite conversation. I may even wear my First Communion dress, if I can fit it over my gay jugs. Before the arsenic takes effect, I will ask him how his marriage to God is less "fake" than the one I (will) have with my incredibly smart, kind, generous, compassionate and beautiful wife. I will thank him for being the spokesperson of a doctrine that makes me feel unwelcome in the faith and church of my ancestors. That's dangerous to my family, father. Further, the worldwide Catholic family has been repeatedly instructed to look upon me and my kind as sinners who have ditched the flock so they could fornicate with members of the same sex. It's all about the humpin', isn't it? I will also let him know that, miraculously, the Church's myopic, dismissive policies regarding many issues that I feel passionately about (a woman's right to chose, gay marriage, the ordination of female priests, birth control, the idea that a religion other than mine is equally legitimate in the eyes of God) has served only to strengthen my commitment to those issues. And finally, as he gasps for breath, I will tell him how he's unintentionally brought me closer to God. I don't use 3rd party conduits to communicate with God anymore. I don't need a priest to be the middle man. God and I chat directly. And the God of my understanding created and unconditionally loves my liberal, imperfect, gay ass.

Then I will need to figure out what to do with the dead Pope.

I'm Not Trying to Make You Cry. I Can't Help It. I'm Funny and You're Not.

Dearest Fans, Stalkers, Friends, Humiliated Family Members (HI, MOM!) and Cute-Girl-I-Met-at-Catty-Shack-on-Saturday-Whose-Phone-Number-I-Didn't-Get:

I've got a busy mo' fo' week or two coming up and I fear that the blog will suffer. Please be patient with The Shan as she juggles an International Licensing Show with Pride Week.

• I just finished a salad the size of Mahatma Gandhi. I also mention what I eat way too frequently in my blog entries. Why is that? Remind me to ask my shrink or do some spiritual work on that.
• Stop by the Pride Rally in Bryant Park this Sunday. I am volunteering for Heritage of Pride, so come join the soiree and say HI. Praise my altruism or give me a quick massage. I will either be backstage or selling merchandise. And NO! BECAUSE YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY AFFORD THIS JELLY.
• In case you love me as much as I do: I will be performing at THE DUPLEX this evening @ 7 p.m. And tomorrow--6/16-- at 7 p.m. I have a gig (that's comedy lingo for 'show') at Stand Up New York. It's in the W. 70s or something, one of those uptown neighborhoods that give me a nosebleed. And not b/c I snorted rails all day.
• Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care...about time? (I will buy you a six pack of the beverage of your choice if you can name that tune.)
• I went to a panel discussion this week called "Out Loud and Funny" or something like that, and it included several gay comedians. No, I didn't attempt to shoot any of them for their vulgar lifestyle. I was laughing too hard to steady my scope. No use in wasting bullets if you're not gonna hit a queer between the eyes. Anyhow, one of the questions proposed to the panel---which I secretly should have been a part of b/c I am a lot more funny than most of those 'mos, epecially Reno. Sorry Reno, you're not funny. You're just nuts---dealt with the fact that many people consider comedians to be MEAN. And I thought it was a fascinating question, one that I have recently been exploring in depth. Well, that's not entirely true. At first I thought that the stupid, ugly bitches to whom I refused entry into my sorority would ask precisely such a moronic, touchy-feely question. Then I made a snide comment to one of my friends insinuating that lesbians have the worst hair of any minority, sub-group, faction or clan in the history of womynkind. But I digress...When my Red Hot and Popular schedule cools off, expect a blog entry on said topic.

One Night Only...

Me as Kelli's BOB (Babe/B*#tch on Back) at Brooklyn Pride Parade - June 11, 2005

WAR OF THE PRIDES

I'm having a t-shirt made. It will read "I Survived the Puerto Rican Day Parade." Across my street, where, as I've discussed, they shoot episodes of COPS, Tito Puente's greatest hits played from inside a Chevy Caprice all day long. For optimum sound, the doors were open, and that little radio blasted its sub-woofer's heart out from 10 a.m. until 9:30 at night. Ay, Dios Mio!

It's not that I have anything against the Puerto Ricans. Trust me. I'm too big a fan of J-Lo's ass and Ricky Martin's bon bon to be a 'hater.' And I'm pro-Shark, anti-Jet all the way. Bernardo is so hot! Maria should have stuck to her own kind. But I like the occasional quiet Sunday. Yesterday, I desperately needed to rest up after riding with the NYC Sirens Motorcycle Club during the Brooklyn Pride Parade Saturday evening. Being that secure in my lesbian identity is exhausting. Give a 'bo a break, OK? Eleven and a half hours of lyrics I don't understand? I felt as though my pride was being encroached upon. But soon I realized that I was just being exposed to something different. Exposed by force.

Understated presence in my community be damned! My neighbors were nice enough to share their music with me, therefore, I shall share mine with them. PR meet GLBT. Starting next Sunday at 9 am, before I head to my volunteer post at the Pride Rally in Bryant Park, my Kenwood speakers, pressed against my 3 oversized windows, will indoctrinate the residents of 12th St. I'll start with some sweet ERASURE, something like "Oh L'Amour." Then the Divas will reign: all the CHER, KYLIE, DIANA ROSS, MARTHA WASH, SPICE GIRLS (together and solo), BETTE, JUDY, MADONNA and RUPAUL in my arsenal. The lesson plan will also include MELISSA ETHERIDGE, INDIGO GIRLS, RUFUS WAINRIGHT, DAVE KOZ ('koz he's a homo), kd, SLEATER KINNEY, GAY PIMP, LUSCIOUS JACKSON (Kate Schellenbach wears comfy shoes), BITCH & ANIMAL, BARRY MANILOW (d'uh), MELISSA FERRICK, ELTON JOHN, SOPHIE B. HAWKINS (bi - why not?), SCISSOR SISTERS, JIMMY SOMERVILLE, DEE LITE, and the following soundtracks: PRICILLA QUEEN OF THE DESERT, XANADU, MURIEL'S WEDDING, THE WIZARD OF OZ, YENTYL, CATS, A CHORUS LINE, GYPSY, CHESS, EVITA, CHICAGO, THE BOY FROM OZ, DREAMGIRLS and RENT. My toes are twinkling already.

Please feel free to submit additional recommendations. I'd hate to miss anything imperative to the gay music cirriculum.

Madame Smith et Une Rapidement Numeral Deux

I am so excited to see Angelina Jolie in "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" tomorrow that I am sliding out of my chair as I type. She plays a demure wife who, unbenouced to hubby, has an altogether shocking other life as a savvy, deadly assasin. No doubt there will be many action scenes where she's all tough and shooting stuff, intimidating her nemesis like the sexy predator she is. Contrast that with her on screen alter-ego in pearls and Junior League activewear. I've got my fingers crossed for some pearl earrings.

Half of me is hoping she's not wet at any point in the film because if she is, I will definitely pass out and miss the whole damn thing. The other half is fantasizing about the possible origins of the H2O. Will it be a pool? shower? hose? river? exploding steam engine? rain? That's it! I must pray for rain. Not here in NYC where I live, but up on that 70 foot screen in the dream world where I wish I lived. Regardless, I'd best remember to bring my bib or else I'll be the one all wet. Drool.

P.S. - Whoops! I just realized that I am drinking a Jamba Juice smoothy thing while snacking on some granola. The remainder of my afternoon will be spent hovering around a bathroom. My pipes are in for a serious cleansing.

Bancroft, Boobs and Bumbling Over Babes

• Anne Bancroft was 73? Wow. I had no idea. I didn't even know she was sick. When I saw the headline in someone's paper this morning, my heart sunk. Boy, was she a class act. Anne always acted with a capital "A." Some critics are into that, but most aren't. Personally, I really dig that approach to a performance. Faye Dunaway and Al Pacino do it 'til their teeth bleed. Like Bancroft, they embody their characters full throtle and it's captivating. They've got the juice. Never a dull moment when they're on screen. Anne Bancroft, thank you for delivering on camera a line that I could never deliver in life, "Would you like me to seduce you?" You got the guy. I'd get a laugh.
• 85% of the women I rode the F train with this morning had ginormous knockers. Not a little top heavy. More to the effect of mail order bras, bend over and can't get up, way more than a handful, dangerous risk of breast cancer, back problems in a jiffy, woah baby. In any weather, those puppies have to be a nuisance, but in the heat? Ugh. I'd want to buy a bra that'd hold blocks of ice. Mammograms every year, dears. Consider elective surgery, honey. God doth bless, and on ocassion, God over-blesseth.
• Confession: I'm on freindster. Following are the names of people who have sent me messages, who think they'd like to get to know me better - Paul, Hammad, Reuben, Tovanno, Scott and Raj. I am a chick magnet.
• I've aquired a little crush. Oy! It's been a long time since I've been blindsided with a case of the smittens. My knee jerk reaction is usually, "Uh oh." I know, it's miserable. While most romantics think, "Yeah!" or "Can't wait to pursue this," I'm struck with uber-angst. I'm vulnerable, not giddy. I'm distracted, not optimistic. I get gas and lose my appetite. My head shoots up my ass, and my foot's perpetually stuck in my mouth. Not a pretty sight, I tell 'ya. Not at all cool either. I'm just so not good at this part, the chase, the dating. (OFF TOPIC: I'm high quality, sturdy merchandise paired with a ghastly sales pitch. If I were a product, people wouldn't want to buy me b/c my ad campaign blows. But if they did, they'd take me home and soon discover how fabulous I am.) Oh, if only akward encounters marked by stuttering and massive pit stains were sexy! Because there isn't a Smooth With the Ladies bone in my body. Here's how I let you know I LIKE YOU: I don't look you in the eye when we speak. I seem like I could care less, like I'm indifferent. However, I intended to appear breezy and relaxed. Nerves cause my ass to tighten, cheeks clench toward each other until I cannot balance or stay still. I'm tip top when I'm not trying. And with the boys? I can flirt them out of their pants and set a land speed record while doing it! It's fun and it's easy and I don't care about it. But if I actually care, which is the case when flirting with women, I metamorphize into the less than super hero, Goofy Dufus Girl. Mmm hmm. Check please! Here's my room key. You know you want a slice of The Shan. Don't try to resist my utter lack of game. So, I beg of you Rico Suave, L Word Shane, James Bond, Danny Zuko, Fonzie, Pepe le Peu, Keith Patridge, Jake Ryan, Sonny "The Woo Woo Kid" Wisecarver, grant unto me just a grain of your charm, confidence or je ne sais quoi. I'll take anything. All I need is love, but first I need precise, clear-cut directions.

Bear Down

49 days until the Chicago Bears report to training camp.

Flakes a Plenty

I do not have dandruff. I repeat, I do not have dandruff.

My head is peeling from the sunburn I got last weekend. It's NOT dandruff. It could never be dandruff. Anyone who knows me can confirm that I have an amazingly geyser-like oily scalp. Someone could bottle this stuff. It's so oily that if I go 24 hours without a shower, I am then able to grab a comb, run it through my hair and the precise tracks traveled by the comb's teeth are visible from root to end. So, should you run into me in the next couple days, don't go thinking it's dandruff. I burnt my head right where I part my hair. What burns must peel. Therefore, my head is just peeling. You only see peel, NOT DANDRUFF.

For the curious: If you're at all interested in knowing how sunburn on the scalp feels, ask a bald guy. And if he won't tell you, the next time you burn anything, just a little, drag a bristly brush over that throbbing pink skin.

My Country 'Tis What I Say It 'Tis

Following is a snarky essay that I performed last night at Juvie Hall. The show's theme was Patriotism. What I came up with was too much of a think piece with too few crotch jokes. I wanted it to be philosophical stand-up. But I just sat down and kinda read it. Either it went over like a lead balloon or there really were just 12 ppl. there. I hope it’s better suited for blog land...

Patriotism is defined as ‘love of and devotion to one’s country.’ Therefore anyone can be a potential patriot. Foreigners, too. Please note that I will only cover American patriotism. I am not qualified to speak about patriotism outside the United States as I don’t live in, love or give a crap about China, Brazil, Atlantis, Rome, Bjork, the U.S.S.R, French wussy faggots, Spics or black African people.

Pay attention as I disclose my identity and marginalize myself: I have blond hair and blue eyes. I am 5 feet tall or 5 feet near-midget, depending on whether or not you’d like a swift kick in the shins. Now I need to add temperamental, violent and delusional. Then there’s cute, female, homosexual, Irish, Catholic (light with 5 sugars), sports fanatic, trivia whiz, crazy, grounded, obnoxious, humble, opinionated, compassionate, overly emotional, arrogant and lonely. Two more: alcoholic, bed-wetting liberal Democrat. Who doesn’t want to take me home for some sweaty, hot monkey sex?

Those are a lot of different labels, and many of them aren’t necessarily compatible. Fully assembled, they’re paradoxical. So I’ve spent 30 years--and $200 an hour--deconstructing each of them; their virtues, their inspiration, their rules, their limitations and their smell. I mean, c’mon, alcoholics smell. And Irish Catholic alcoholics reek of birth, whiskey, Doritos, wet dog, cigarettes, sex and death. Even God is like, “Ugh, what IS that? I created that? Jesus Christ!”

I’ve discovered that the sole reason my labels get along as well as they do (i.e. Catholic homo) is a result of their complexity and, thankfully, adaptability. That doesn’t mean that they aren’t heartfelt and solid. (Crap! I forgot to mention stubborn!) So, to all these warring lobbies and factions, I toss in this nugget: I consider myself an American patriot. Who’s to say I’m not? The characteristics and principles inherent in the traits I listed may appear contradictory in theory, but in practice, they’re not at all. I wish this country----elephant and ass (donkey is a copout), left and right, the fly-over states and the good ones, the rich and the poor, the ugly and the me, but more importantly the stubborn, ill-advised, narrow minded, Lord-lovin’ President----would work harder to embrace complexity instead of splitting American politics into 2 immovable halves diametrically opposed to the other.

Examples of Paradox in American Patriotism:

• I oppose the war in Iraq, worry about the constitutionality of the Supreme Court and think Paul Revere was probably just drunk AND the 4th of July is my favorite holiday, one I am happy to share with anybody who’d like to join the party… as long as they are able to cite the Gettysburg Address and play that funky music. White boys only. Chicks and coloreds migrate elsewhere. Multi-culti freaks.
  
• I think it’s perfectly alright to burn the American flag. Set that puppy on fire! It’s not ‘a shameful act’, or ‘Wrong’ to do. And if some veterans are offended, they’re mistaken. The duty of the men and women of the armed services who put themselves in harm’s way is to protect and defend the freedoms of speech and expression entitled to every American. AND Flag-burners are just Americans exercising their freedoms. No one said freedom would always be palatable. It’s okay for me to be proud of My America and for you to be proud of Your America. Mine just happens to be a lot more fun and inclusive. Some uber-conservative Americans’ version of the good ole’ U.S.A. gives me angina, but I will celebrate our right to disagree and still manage to co-exist. P.S.—Southerners are dumb and inbred. Strom Thurmond is still alive, partying his gay ass of in Key West, and the religious right secretly worships Britney Spears’ hooters.
  
• I would never buy my kid, the one I'll buy from Romania, a toy gun AND I hope he or she grows to understand the value and truly appreciate the extraordinary role military technology has played throughout history. Guns are deadly, but they sure do come in handy when you’re kicking the pesky Indians on to the Trail of Tears! Good one, Andrew Jackson! You’re totally worthy of the face on the $20. Great hair, too, dude.
  
• Songs that make me cry: Aaron Copeland’s ‘Fanfare for the Common Man,’ John William’s theme for the Olympics, Neil Diamond singing about who’s ‘Coming To America.’ I can’t even keep my act together watching Jimmy Cagney in “Yankee Doodle Dandy!” AND I happen to know all the words to “Fuck the Police,” “For What It’s Worth,” “By the Time I get to Arizona” and “Bitch Betta Have My Money.” I sing along to every track on the “No Nukes” live album. Rage Against the Machine’s entire catalog is sitting comfortably in my CD collection as I speak. Public Enemy and Aaron Copeland on the same shelf, side by side. Ah, I can feel the warmth of my cockles.
  
• Standing up at a ballpark to sing the National Anthem with thousands of strangers gives me T.H.O. AND so does Angie Harmon’s Christian, Republican, hot ass.
  
• I pledge allegiance to 2 flags: one that’s Red White and Blue AND another that’s every color in the rainbow. The parade for the latter kicks ass. Imagine if you will a drag queen made up like Betsy Ross. How about that? She could carry either flag proudly.
  
• Mark Felt, who revealed himself to be the infamous “Deep Throat” is an American patriot. He risked his career to assist Woodward & Bernstein, American patriots in their own right, in cracking the story behind the Watergate break in, thus ensuring its place as the single most influential news item in history. AND It brought about the resignation of the sitting President at the time, forever changed the political climate, and gave birth to the concept of Modern Media.
  
• One more Watergate bit because it’s hot this week: Richard Nixon boldly abused the privileges granted to the Executive branch by the Constitution of the United States. He didn’t want the American people to know how far he’d stepped over the crisp, stark, finite line we call the Law. He was notoriously paranoid, evident when he had his cronies bust into a democratic campaign office because he seriously believed that McGovern could beat him! Nixon immeasurably disgraced the office of the President. AND he was a brilliant, gifted politician with an aptitude for greatness and a fascinating perspective on U.S./foreign relations. He and Kissinger would be on my list of top 10 desired dinner companions, living or dead. I regard Richard Nixon as a tragic figure, a crook, a power-mad conspiracy theorist AND an American patriot. Holy tricky Dick, Batman!
  
• Politicians throw catch phrases around as though they were just dwarf bowling. I frequently hear one side call the other ‘disloyal to this country.’ (Guess who?) You’re in deep shizzite if you dare express an opinion that conflicts with the policies of the current administration. Many have been shut out of the inner circle and dubbed, ‘unpatriotic’ or ‘un-American..’ Yo Rumsy, Condi, Dick, Johnny A. and Dubya, permission to speak freely? Allow me to be frank as I school you: There is no such thing as an un-American American.