Something From Nothing

There's nothing like reclaiming the most depressing song I've ever made with a little overdrive. And so I present, Nothing From Something, the "Oasis vs. Opus Dei version".

...now if I could just find those leather pants...

Merry "Rest"mas

Ah, the Christmas season. While this is the first year since I was born that I will not be with my family for Christmas (save for my brother who now lives in Portland), all is not surrendered to longing and loneliness. Already I feel a quiescence that I may not if I was about to pinball through America's airport system, as well as through a labyrinth of friend and family "Hello, how are you?"s. Every year since I've moved to Portland the Christmas season is both too short and too long. I embark home in anticipation of noshing about Mom's cooking, imbibing about friends' deleterious habits, and lounging about Nintendo games and bad movies I've seen sixteen times before. Yet, it never quite happens like that. Even with a ten day sojourn, which I greedily hoarded last year, I still don't get to see everyone and do everything I planned...in South Dakota no less, a place where one wouldn't think there would be too much to do, especially in December. At the same rate, I contemporaneously develop ennui after about five days, feeling like I've slipped behind in my research, music writing, or whatever "n" number of endeavors I entertain. The result is always a pleasant Christmas experience, yet somehow an incomplete experience nonetheless.

Alas, this year is different. I have erected a hideous Christmas "tree" in my apartment that is decorated with fallout from a recent holiday party; I have plastic-wrapped Christmas treats slowly evaporating their Mom-made savory in my barren refrigerator; I have USPS-delivered presents littered about my wooden floor; and the only frost on my window sills is that from my humble sigh hoping for snow. Yes, maudlin, but not melancholy. I'm truly excited for a "Portland Christmas" this year if for nothing else, for its simplicity. I'll be relaxed, playing guitar, actually reading something that is not a scientific journal article, and slowly sipping tepid totties among the winter aire. This Christmas will most certainly be a "holiday" in every right.

As for specifics, my brother and I have modest plans, including a "South Dakota Christmas Eve" with other SD transplants, as well as a Christmas morning feast (and probably binge) at a good friend's house. After that, we may just park my Saudi-powered sleigh and walk about Portland's living room in Pioneer Square -- which I should add is aptly equipped with a forty foot decorated Douglas Fir. Yes, I will be "home" for Christmas after all. In this regard, I realize I now have two homes: one in South Dakota that my family and friends built, and one right here in Portland that I'm currently building. So there is really no need for longing after all. Many people on our lonely planet live and die without a single home, while I have the luxury of two. And that is certainly a gift worth unwrapping.

(...yeah...maybe that was a little cheesy. sorry.)

Heterosexonomics

No, I’m not gay. Really. No really, I’m just not. Even though I may be an iconoclastic challenge to our culture’s rigid stereotypical social corrals, that doesn’t equate to “therefore I must be gay”. Importantly, I have absolutely no problem with homosexuality. In fact, sometimes I wish I was gay so at least I’d be able to appease the social anxiety and downright threats I seem to pose to the general populace; plus, I evidently would have no shortage of dates if I was gay. But alas, just as I’m not Yugoslavian or Muslim, I’m not gay. Yup, I know, unbelievable:

I notice when a guy purchases new boots that compliment his aesthetic: gay! I bought my last pair of jeans because I liked the unique, coruscating sheen of the fabric weave: gay! I use articulate vocabulary in bars: gay! I’m not interested in the untouchably hot girl at the bar because she’s actually an idiot: gay! But I do think that the guy talking to that untouchably hot girl has nice eyes: gay! I don’t want to go home with the girl grabbing my arm and practically licking my ear because she’s drunk and gross: gay! I don’t gaze at flat-screened athletics flickering above the bar while I’m in the middle of a conversation: gay! I notice when a girl comes back from the bathroom wearing new lipstick that accentuates her hair color: gay! I’m sensitive and write songs about my feelings: gay! I enjoy refining my palate with 72% cacao dark chocolate, French-pressed Panama Estate Stumptown coffee, and microbrewed India Pale Ales with moderate I.B.U.s: gay! I critique my palate with qualifiers like “72%,” “Panama Estate,” and “I.B.U.s”: gay! My apartment has more candles than light bulbs: gay! The light bulbs I do use in my apartment are C7 bulbs with installed dimmer control: gay! My haircut is “artsy,” I get my haircut in the Pearl District, and my haircut LOOKS like I smear a tablespoon of product through it (even though I don’t use any): gay! I am secure about my identity, including all of the above mentioned traits, and continue to walk about my life with an unapologetic gait: gay!

But alas, I’m exclusively sexually attracted to women: NOT gay! Clearly this is an issue that has been simmering deep within the cauldron of my psyche for some time. At first it was flattering since most gay men (yes, I’m being a tad stereotypically here) are rumored to be the quintessential desired “man” by many women: well-dressed, sensitive, and secure (see above!). But when women themselves are confused about my sexual preference, I’m left with surmounting frustration. Some have argued that I ask for it by being the way that I am. Yes, my “problem” would immediately end with a buzz cut, a basketball jersey, some shitty hip-hop music in my iPod, and adding the word “tits” to my social vernacular. But that is the same obtuse logic that would suggest reducing racism by asking Spanish-speaking people to...stop being so Mexican. Hence, my knack for being tagged as gay lies with our xenophobic culture, not with me. And, interestingly, the culpable may not be solely heterosexual men, but also the women that submit to chauvinism and insipid personalities. To be completely phlegmatic, there is a microeconomic sexual analogy where price and quality are determined by supply (men) and demand (women) in this case -- and I think it’s about time the market advantage is leveraged towards the demand.

All too often I see “Dude” play the dating game like he plays his fantasy football league to ‘win” the girl. But what shocks me is how often the girl metaphorically shrugs and follows suit, thereby reinforcing the “supply” status quo. His identity is manifested through a projected image of her, not his own projection, which is likely so absconded that he wouldn’t recognize it if it was a ticker tape along the bottom of his flat-screened facade. But to be fair, she probably wouldn’t recognize her own beautiful projection because she’s never been invited for a viewing. And so we are left with two insecure cyclones vortexing into one perfect storm of social stagnancy, all the while relegating me as the “gay” satellite to capture images from afar.

I understand and appreciate that there is a plethora of interesting, engaging, and attractive women that object to such linear economics -- many of which I have as friends; and I’m not boasting that I’m some investment boon either, as I have plenty of my own insecurities and undesirable traits like everyone else. But when I get passed as gay by men (which is an interesting topic all in its own) and women greater than 50% of the time, and I’m not gay, then there is clearly a problem with our culture’s expectation of what defines a heterosexual man.

The real issue, I think, is confidence. I can’t speak much for gay men (since I’m not one), but I can imagine that it takes a great deal of confidence to be publicly gay in our society, even in Portland, Oregon 2007 A.D. The personal, familial, and social scrutiny, ridicule, and risk accompanying gay expression demands admirable commitments to self confidence. Musing upon this point, I can’t recall meeting many flaky, disingenuous gay guys. While I’ve met plenty of ridiculous and annoying gay guys, at least they’re usually unapologetic and sincere about their attitudes, no matter how undesirable. This certainly isn’t to suggest that any actions are excusable as long as they’re genuine, I just wouldn’t place insecurity at the top of the character traits for outwardly gay men, whereas i hesitate to do the same for the greater heterosexual male population.

I’ve had 27 years to refine my personality into the eccentric, neurotic, but hopefully charming anomaly it is today. Paging back through my rather dense volume of life chronicles, my personal traits listed above have been conspiring since my childhood in -- important to mention -- South Dakota. I started greasing my hair into strange shapes in first grade; I gave up all forms of sugar when I was eight years old because it was “bad” for me; I fashioned Airwalk shoes and Goodwill shopping at the age of eleven; I was a vegan in high school (again, in South Dakota); I decorated our house for Christmas one year by plastering abstract shapes of lights about the outside siding instead of tracing the gutter and window lines; I chose to bring Guiness to college parties because, unlike Bud Light, it actually tastes good (not common in 1998, let alone South Dakota); I still tell my best friend, Josh, that I love him because I do; and so on... I don’t deserve accolades for these things, rather, I’m simply illustrating that I’ve always been one to require adept security among a hostile environment, and that this sense of security may be what is unfortunately confused as “gay”. Sure, I may be emotionally volatile, self-centered, and needy at times, but I’m comfortable in my neutral shroud of negatives and positives. ...Therefore, I’m clearly gay? I think this is absurd, as would most people that take the time to ponder these circumstances. Yet, I continuously -- and I do mean continuously -- am assumed gay, when I am not. Consequently, my frustration has peaked. And so I propose a challenge to our current economic recession: “demand,” get with it! Seriously. If there is one thing the “supply” certainly deserves to be insecure about, it’s their worth without demand.