Rent

I despise the musical Rent.  I understand as we have celebrated the twentieth anniversary of this award winning show, it’s a part of our LGBTQ tapestry. Even more than that, it is a true representation of life in one’s twenties. Attempting to discover how to become comfortable in one’s own skin. But is it? I too was in my twenties, shocking I know. There is an age of discovery when you are out on your own, finding a place to stay warm. How to function in a society that does not care. Rent is a mirror held up to America to force everyone to see HIV. To see true loneliness, helplines, and inner strength. How in modern times the simple act of paying rent was the pure definition fighting to find a place in this world. But is it? The opening number of Rent is a declaration of how regardless of how society defines them, they’re not gonna pay, they’re not gonna pay last year’s rent; this year’s rent; next year’s rent.

Now, I understand this declaration. I do. I was out on my own in the middle of high school. Attempting to get up and go to high school while living in a flop-house filled up with homeless homosexuals. Hiding stolen jars of peanut butter under my bed so I could have dinner. My twenties would see me in a series of run-down scary-ass apartments. Progressively getting better as my jobs paid more and my education progressed.  Slowly working my way through my twenties. Avoiding, unbelievably, the HIV virus, and the rats that lived in the apartment dumpsters. There is one thing I did do differently…

I paid my fucking rent.

There is one thing that always struck me as odd while attempting to find make a home for myself in my twenties. Moving from place to place. These scary ass apartments had one thing in common. They were filled with people that did not know how place their garbage into the dumpster. Bags of trash would always find their way next too, adjacent, but not into the trash cans. As I left my twenties and moved into my thirties, I also left the type of apartments that white people point to and make cases for Urban Renewal. Yet, even as my monthly rent skyrocketed, there were still those bags of garbage that don’t make it into the trash cans. It just goes to show that every social-economic class has its inconsiderate A-holes.  From paying rent in can goods to a possible pedophile named Rick, to automatic bank transfers for $2000.00, some declarations in our twenties do not change society.

Now I live in an apartment that overlooks a golf course. A statement that cannot be conveyed without coming off like you are attempting to sound pretentious. So, yes. Golf course on one side, but turn to your left and you will see the city’s loudest commuter train link. Down the block you see the low-income housing. Where all leases include the legal statement, “you must install a dinette set and console television upon your balcony.” We have a pocket of luxury, and we are allowed to enjoy it for the monthly price of a new Honda Prelude in 1978. Yet, still that stack of crud sit next to dumpsters. Last week a fully decorated Christmas tree, sat next to a happy (if not befuzzled) snowperson. A true Christmas in July. My roommate taking beaming selfies with each exciting pile of shit then sending them to our management company.

I guess I am viewing the musical Rent through the eyes of someone in their mid-forties. I still feel it is trite and sensationalist. Yet, if I squint I can see the twenty year old terrified that a virus was stalking me, and how I stepped over bags of trash next to dumpster as I left for yet another waitering job. Not knowing if I was going to make next month’s rent. Some things, even if you perform a song about them, do not change.

 

Bad Meowance

For many extenuating circumstances I have an office with a private bathroom. At work. I mean, I also have aprivate bathroom at home; but, that’s more common. At work, I understand how this is an uncommon luxury that I am afforded. Every day I am thankful for this. Having my own bathroom in my own office. To celebrate this I spend a lot of time in my private bathroom. Some of my blog posts… may… or may not be written whilst enjoying this luxury.

During this time, I like to sing. By this I mean, since I’m alone on my own time, and there is all the tile around the acoustics are amazing. So why not sing? Well, there is anendless amount or reasons NOT to sing. My song book is limited, along with my talent. The only song I really know is Lady GaGa’s Bad Romance. It is not because I particularly enjoy Lady GaGa; in fact I can’t stand her. The only reason why I sing Bad Romance is thanks to my Ex. Yes, it was a “bad romance” but, mostly because upon the release of this song, he spend countless hours attempting to teach himself the tune on our living room piano. For hours at a time…. Hours upon hours.

 I don’t know the words to this song any more than anyone knows the words to The Battle Hymn of The Republic.This doesn’t bother, nor stop me as I prefer to meow. Like a cat. Not sure how the choice was made. Like the meowing is more musical or fitting to the song than say…. barking, or hooting like an owl. Sitting in my bathroom. Meowing.Bad Romance. At full volume.

This morning, the person who has the office next door, asked a concerning question in our Morning Meeting. “Is there a cat in the office?” the replies around the table were a conclusive “No,why?” She continued that she distinctively heard a cat crying for help. “Like it was trapped somewhere.” I wanted to probe with questions like “Did it sound in tune?” “Did this meowing sound like a pop tune you enjoy?” But, I remained silent.

The office staff is now on the lookout for a trapped cat. Possibly dying by its death rattle. But, definitely in need of serious help.  

Hockey Star turned Cop Finds a Yellow Lab

I am being haunted by mybad choices.

In the timeframe ofterminating my last relationship and my current dating my boyfriend status Imade some really bad choices. You can see this reflected in my lack of bloggingas well. It was a time of re-thinking and reflection of what made Steve, Steve.During this time I was also doing traveling for work, and I needed some-sort ofcomfort. Now, a more exotic man would have turned to drinking. Or, maybe aninvestment of a tattoo. As many people have demonstrated in life, getting inkinjected into their skin is a perfect way to come to terms with change in theirlives. If I would have been more cleaver, I would have inked a dragon onto my bulgingupper arm. Instead, it turned to something much worse and self-destructive.

Audiobooks.

Okay, not just yourstandard audiobooks; Gay. Romance. It pains me to even admit it here, but yes.I was addicted to Audible.com and their painfully wide selection of gay romancenovelas. I can’t really remember much about this time span. It was thankfully short-lived.I also cannot re-tell any plots, other than that they were painfully formulaic.It would typically be a straight identifying hockey player who owned a farm,or maybe a cop who had his wife die. Sometimes it would be a ranch owner, maybea ranch owning cop that played hockey in college. In these stories there was alsowas a buddy; maybe they played together on the college team, or went throughthe academy together. The buddy was always heterosexual identifying as well. Longstory short (pun intended) never knew…. feelings…. explore… implied betrayal…. reconciliation….adopting a stray yellow lab (so fake, like a yellow lab would ever be a stray) andthen the most perfect Christmas would happen. Anyway, these books taught me to loveagain. Blah.blah.blah.

I have recovered from mydays of dark habits. And have gone on to become a functioning member of society. But, it seems my choices will never befree of me. As I skim through my Audible account I am constantly reminded. See,with an Audible account you can delete books from your phone, or table, butthey will never be truly gone. They are always list under “Your Account Books”The only way to destroy any trace is to delete my account and start over. But,this means I will delete many good books. To remove The Truth as He Knows It I must also delete all of my AldousHuxley.

I would have kept this myprivate shame. But, then I borrowed my Boyfriends car. Well, he was out of townand I was driving it to get detailed. I synced by phone via Bluetooth to listento some tunes while driving. This meant that when he returned and wehopped into his car, months later. My phone somehow usurpted his phone. Myphone did not start playing Rammstein, no.  It decided to play chapter twelve of The Heart as He Hears It. A touchingscene of Chad coming to terms that a hockey player/cop can really love his bestfriend on many levels including a level based upon anal.

I have not heard the endof it. A constant reminder of how I have gay romance at my fingertips is fed to me on a daily dose from many friends.  It may have been easier if I hadjust covered my arms with ubiquitous and played-out tribal tattoos.

 

 

Pulling a Differential

Last week I went with Becca, and the Boyfriend, Naveen, to get mani-pedis in beautiful downtown Boulder, Colorado.  This is a standing appointment we have as friends on a semi-monthly basis. As this time it was in Becca's town of Boulder we ate Indian and wandered over to the nail salon. Now, when we do this Becca gets her toes and hands done, Naveen gets a pedi and polish, and I get just a pedi. Every appointment I see the ritual play out. Becca and Naveen approach the polish wall and debate the best and cutest colors for their soon to be pampered fingers and toes. And every time I decline to join the fun.

 It is not that I am against men having polish, I am just against me having polish. Take yesterday as an example, in the gym’s locker room. Bright orange polished toes popped out of a work sock and my first thought was, “Really?” a grown man with painted toe nails. Not that I am attaching any feminine verses masculine traits. I do not believe that a painted nail is a feminine and should not be associated with manly-men. I just about standing out. Being a peafowl at my age. Twenty years ago I would do anything to make my uniqueness stand out. Bottles of Sun-in Hair Lightener Spray came to their end in my hands. But, now I content with eight versions of the same grey tee-shirt folded neatly in my dresser drawer. So it still shocks me daily since our last trip to mani-pediland. Yeah, know… since the bright orange toes are mine.

I tell the lucky people in the public realm that are exposed to my Safety-orange toes that I am just waiting for the polish to grow out. Like the polish was against my will. Like I was held down by mob of Vietnamese nail techs. When I was in the junkyard… pulling a rear differential from a ’73 Torino.  “They came out of nowhere and softened my cuticles and applied two gel coats before I could fight them off!” But, now that I think about it, Neither Becca, nor Naveen even mentioned me getting polish. I guess I wanted to be adorable.