If It Walks Like a Duck...

Today, CNN gave me more insight into my own sexual orientation than I have garnered from the last ten years of living as a violently self-aware gay man/boy/child/what have you. Thanks to a recent study performed by some big school (and sharply refuted by the U of Nebraska...shocker), we now know that there is a direct tie-in between the way a gay man's hair whorls (yes, it's a word) and the way a heterosexual man's hair. As it turns out, 25 percent of gay men (myself included) have hair that whorls (it even feels weird to spell) counter-clockwise, whereas only ten percent of heterosexual men's hair whorls (ahhhhh) counter-clockwise. These are hard, scientific numbers people...virtually irrefutable.

The argument is that, because my hair whorls counter-clockwise, like so many other gay men, it must be something that I was born into. I was destined not only to be gay, but also to have a counter-clockwise hair pattern. This pattern is built into my DNA. The two are connected and, without one, the other is much less likely to exist. Of course, no self-respecting republican is ever going to tolerate the idea that gay men are, in fact, born that way and cannot change (or decide to change). No, no. Sex is biological and, as such, so is sexuality? How preposterous.

This, apparently, goes for republican researchers (practically an oxymoron), as well. The U Nebraska professor argued that, much in the same way we choose to be gay, we are simply more likely to wear our hair in such a fashion that would cause it to whorl counter-clockwise. Now, I'm not sure, but I have had three different hairstyles in the entirety of my life (excluding the thankfully short-lived rat tail): the "surfer cut" -- it was the only thing my Italian barber knew in English...think long on top, short on the sides; a buzz cut --in large part responsible for my no longer looking like an awkward ten year old; and the curly jew-esque mop I wore when most of you met me -- for this one, I apologize.

The point is that none of these haircuts involved me making any attempt at maintaining, let alone forcing my hair to whorl. This argument is like saying that toilets flush in the opposite direction in the southern hemisphere because the toilet decided it to be so. Nay, perhaps it is the porcelain on which we can place the blame...or the flush mechanism, tampered with by a pesky (probably gay) toilet designer, intent on making excreting homosexuals more at ease -- you know how we freak out when the toilet whirls in a different direction than the whorl of our hair. We just need organization and symmetry.

My point is this: who gives a shit? Toilets spin in the opposite direction as ours in the southern hemisphere, and the occasional gay person's hair spins, pardon, whorls in a counter-clockwise manner. Here's some hardcore, factual proof that being gay is not a choice: under no circumstance, ever, would I have decided to alienate myself from a huge chunk of the population. I would never have chosen to live this alternative lifestyle (god I hate that word). As much as I am now fully comfortable in my own skin, at least for the most part, I still think that if I could I would go back in time, talk to myself and say, "You're facing a big decision. Do you really want to be gay?" I would’ve talked myself out of it. After all, it’s not exactly an impulse buy. The thing is that I never had such an internal debate. I was gay, am gay, and will always be gay....no matter how I wear my hair.

Another fantastic finding in this CNN article was that most people can determine another's sexual orientation based on the way that they walk. To prove this, they place four videos online with the heading, "Can you tell?" It then gave a brief explanation of gaydar, the miraculous thing that, like a counter-clockwise hair whorl, only a select few (once again, myself included) seem to possess. Watching the videos, you see four individuals walking in the dark with red lights scattered about their limbs.

The first is obviously a lesbian woman. I guessed it the second the video began. First of all, the way she person carried herself -- shoulders hunched, arms too far out to the sides -- made it apparent. According to the article, what seals the deal is the movement of her knees, which, like those of a straight male (video 4), are spread apart. To picture this, imagine the shape of a diamond stretching from the crotch to the feet and fit that between the legs. This, apparently, is the lesbian/straight guy walk. Who knew?

Unsurprisingly, gay men walk in a very similar manner to that of a straight female -- knees tucked like a virginal nun. Rather than a diamond, place nothing between the gay man's/straight woman's legs...no air or anything. If their legs were a catholic school dance, a chaperon would ask for the two legs to "make room for the holy spirit."

In a true, gay, narcissistic, hair-whorling fashion, I immediately watched myself walk in a full-length mirror. Thankfully, I don't suffer from virginal nun walk, nor do I stalk. Then again, I'm extremely duck-footed and, as the title of this entry says, if it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, and wears its hair like a duck, there is a good chance it's a duck.

Quack.

Chantix is Making Me Weak....

As many of you know, I started taking Chantix, a prescription drug to aid in quitting smoking, last Monday. So far it is working great, but there have been, of course, some side effects. These include an inability to fall asleep, regardless of how drunk or stoned, a constant need to be doing something, anything, which may explain the recent surge in blogging, and, a side effect not listed on the box, strong changes to my typically bitter emotional nature. That is not to say that I am no longer bitter...far from it. I think that in the long run, Chantix will actually make me more bitter, but that is only because it has managed to open my inner-self to random, shameful, overly-sentimental feelings that are beyond my control.

While nothing has actually changed in my life, I do feel different. I am no longer as able to withhold my comments as well, often leading me to utter whatever thought pops into my mind. Given I have spent a lifetime developing a dense speech filter to keep me from offending or creeping out everyone that I meet, this may not be a good thing. Sure, I haven't yet said anything that would cause me to hole up in my room, too ashamed to see the light of day or the disappointed looks on my friend's faces, I can feel it coming.

This recent personal revelation regarding the drug's side effects came from an incident this morning in the poster shop where, bored as usual, I could not have been prepared for the coming event.

I fell in love at first sight.

Pardon me. I have to go throw up somewhere. No really. I think I might actually vomit. That's because, along with a Brita-esque speech filter, I have developed strong aversions to seemingly typical sentimentalities of the greater society. I don't believe in love at first sight, nor would I ever believe that the person I met this morning is he who I am meant to be with forever, or even at all. In fact, I think people that talk about love at first sight are blind and stupid, willing to follow their partner down whatever road to unhappiness they choose. No, no. I am far too pragmatic for that.

But the thought is still there. I mean, how often are you at work when a beautiful, masculine being walks in and compliments your taste in music. Given that the typical patron of this shop has not a clue what I am usually playing, the fact that he, whose name I still don't know, did know was remarkable. More than music taste, however, was his casual and flirtatious manner, the exact type I go for. As most of you have seen, I will normally develop strong crushes on those people who appear to be flirting, give every indication of interest, and then flake out right at the end. Whether this illustrates my inability to unearth flirtation in conversation or the same blindness that leads people to rash decisions and unhappiness, I don't know. I'd imagine it is a mix of both. What I do know was he was flirting. It was made apparent by his friends' giggling and shady mutterings in the rear corner of the shop. They knew, and so did I.

Regardless of whether or not he was flirting, I am most disturbed by this situation. I have always flirted with people at work, given the fact I've worked retail since I was but a wee boy. It's part of the job. However, I have never thought about one of these casual flirtations longer than a few minutes after the fact, but will instead revert right back to thinking that I, once again, had passed up a prime opportunity, letting the memory of that person fade out forever. As I've said, this usually takes only a few minutes. I don't like to harp on things.

Quick break....someone just came in and asked me if we had any holocaust posters. What? Like, 24x36 prints of Jews in ovens? Is that what you want, you fucking sicko? Who knew Mel Gibson had relatives in the area? Maybe they live next to Whoopi...

Sadly, this man of my dreams, with his "just out of bed" tousled hair and five o'clock shadow, had to leave...something about getting on the road. While I thought about it, I determined that it would be too strange (and probably against company policy) for me to ask him for his number. He left, saying he'd back in a few days "for that poster," with a sly grin that Chantix manipulated into an overt misinterpretation, "for you."

This nameless man's friends walked him to his car and then returned to my shop. They, after all, had posters of bad bands to buy, making me grateful that his and my conversation had begun focused on good music.

....quick break.....holocaust kid is back. What a fucking weirdo....

Now, I am left to wonder what could have, should have, would have happened if I had just spoken up and asked for the number. Maybe he will come back. Maybe.... Until then, I guess I will just have to deal with the onslaught of emotionally instability brought on by this horrific medication. At least my loveless life will be a few years longer...

Pondering My Return to Bassoon.....

Much to my surprise, I received today an IM from a composer in the music school, asking if I would like to teach a master class for young, aspiring High School bassoonists. Oh, the little faggots! (Haha, you think I am being mean to gays, but I'm actually just playing on the German word for bassoon...I know, I'm too clever) Unsure how to answer, I asked how much it paid and, upon his response of, "I'm betting quite a bit," I agreed to have him hand my information off to the proper administrators.

But what, exactly, am I to do at this master class? I mean, I have been to more than my fair share and know pretty much the ins and outs of the program, but how I am supposed to teach them about an instrument I very rarely touch any more? More so, how am I supposed to inspire them?

Of course, this opportunity ties directly into my position as a bored poster shop employee. Having yet failed to resolve my issues with the corporate office, I am as unsatisfied a poster-hawker as possible. In fact, I'd be willing to say that I am as unsatisfied with the poster shop as I have been with my dealings in the music school, which are in great part responsible for my distaste of bassoon. Let's just say that both have similar sized administrations and both operate on such an uncontrollably bureaucratic level that getting anything done is impossible.

I guess I just have to look at these two situations as being remarkably similar and try to learn from each. My newfound knowledge of soul-selling, born of both this poster shop and my all-too-long tenure as a student phoner, plays into both. Once again, I am in desperate need of money (and housing, which is beside the point, but I figured I'd slip it in, hoping that someone will respond and be able to give a place to live next month....please). This financial desperation has proven itself capable in the past of destroying my sense of conscience. I will gladly solicit donations while you try and eat your dinner, another factor in the breakdown of the American nuclear family we all hold so dear. I will merrily convince you that the heinous bag you hold in your hand is stylish, if only to make my daily sales goals. Hell, I put up with every last bit of you administrative crap (until I find a new job/scholarship). I'll even take advantage of high school students. I will somehow convince them I am an authority on bassoon and that I know what is best for their playing.

Then again, it's not like this is the first time I have done this. I have taught master classes in the past, and love teaching private lessons. Surely I should continue on with these, given the fact I, for the most part, enjoy them. I know that am gonna do it and, for the mast part, I'd say I am excited/nervous about doing it. I just have to pray that this, in no way, makes me want to start playing bassoon again. As I desperately attempt to narrow down my life choices and filter out all the potential bad ones, I cannot afford to once again rationalize to the point that I believe music to be a suitable career. Then I'd just be screwed.

Pisces Rising!

Today, once again, I have been fortunate enough to make a new townie friend, Starlight. Starlight is a thirty-something man who, thanks to the 80s, appears to be around the age of 50. His is long, straggly, grayed hair, held back by a rubber band, of which he has several stashed in the pocket of an ancient leather jacket. Starlight, bless his soul, has a big crush on fellow bored poster shop employee, Ally.

So, while enjoying one of my little cigarette breaks, Starlight came and sat next to me and Ally, prodding us for answers about our astrological signs.

"Wait...wait...wait...you're a virgo?" he asked me, stuttering like Ozzy Osbourne. "And what time was dawn the day you were born? Uhh, uhh, uhhhh. OK. What time were you born? Uhhh, uhhh, uhhh. OK. So that means you are a Virgo Pisces Rising."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Uhhh, uhhh, uhhh...that you have two very opposite forces. You're inner and outer selves are conflicted."

Next was Ally, who he incorrectly determined to be a Libra rising, not because he didn't know that she was, in fact, a Virgo rising. Rather, it was because Pisces and Virgo are diametrically opposed to one another. Like Ally, Starlight is a Pisces, but his rising sign is, as he would want Ally's to be, a Libra.

"I guess that's why we connect so well," he slowly managed to spit out. "Even with the bad energies in the air today, your sign and my sign break through them and complement each others."

Soon after, Starlight returned to his discussion on the nature of being able to play the guitar. Only when inspiration strikes him, today in the form of Ally, will he break out his instrument and serenade the Commons with virtually unintelligible music. I am blessed because his favorite spot to play is directly across from the poster shop, within very close proximity of Moonshadows. He is there now, attempting to find inspiration from the "economical" 2 for 1 draft beers.

His explanation of my astrological predicament has led me, as usual to google and wikipedia, where I am attempting to determine for myself my own nature. First, Starlight is correct. I am a Pisces rising and, technically, given the violent nature of Pisces' relationship with Virgo, I should be a basket case. Of course, according to the same website, Starlight should be very successful in love and life. While that may be a bit off, it does hit the nail on the head in certain respects: "You [Pisces Libra Rising] attempt to find inspiration everywhere."

My bet is, Starlight will be pretty damn inspired in about half an hour, for his is inspiration found only in the shadow of the moon.