"I'm No Peach!"

A Curious Peach?

One of the wonderful things about having a blog here at Typepad is that I can see how some of you arrive at my site. That's right...I can see that you use Yahoo to search for "Gay toilet sperm." Ya know, that really is beautiful imagery. I could paint a picture. Someone who is struggling with his sexuality probably "let loose" in the toilet and wanted to know if it survived. Buddy, it was dead as soon as it hit the air. Another search that caused an eyebrow to raise was, "Oprah and Gayle King Lesbian Lovers." Not because I believe it, but because that person clearly needs to catch up with current rumors and gossip...you know...like Tom Cruise and Rob Thomas are gay lovers. That's much more 2005. I also found another ExistenceMedia out there...which I am not happy about (I had mine first and the bitches better understand that). But, perhaps the most interesting search however was done yesterday with these key words:

"Brian...Is...Gay."

I re-read it just to make sure I was reading it right.

"Brian...Is...Gay." 

Each time it seemed to get bigger and bigger...(not that I'm complaining)

"Brian...Is...Gay."

It wasn't even a question. It was just a statement. "Brian...Is...Gay."

I know what it feels like to be outed, but I've never been "Yahoo'd." Well, maybe in the dark, under the sheets, but never on the computer. It could have been a friend that simply was trying to find their way to my site by typing in the obvious or it could have been someone looking for a "Brian" who they were questioning. It's a big gay world out there with lots of Brian's. Regardless, when you see your name being searched for in cyberspace, it's kind of like being caught naked by a peeping tom. It can even be related to the feeling an exhibitionist receives from his voyuer...from what I've heard. Paranoia definitely set in as my eyes began to shift to each window.

But if I am bestowed a moment to brag, I would just like for this to be Exhibit A in the ongoing debate of how gay I can be. Someone out there did have to guess! Someone out there wasn't exactly sure! Someone out there didn't feel the doors open with the gay breeze! And maybe, just maybe...someone was curious enough to sample a fresh, vibrant, hot, steamy peach.

To all the naysayers out there, go on...laugh it up! Spit out your drinks as you read this. But I know I have at least one straight "bone" in my body...and it's ready for my cobbler.

I've Hit Peach Bottom.

I visited the Golden Arches today...yes...THOSE "golden arches." It's been quite some time since I made love to a McDonald's cheeseburger, but I did it. I did it, and I did it without protection...I "bare-Mac'd" and I am ashamed. I don't know what's wrong with me, but the protection in which I speak of is the will power to say "No!" And it's not just cheeseburgers, it's everything in the grocery aisle. Lately, I've been all over the glazed doughnuts, finishing off bags of chips, inhaling any type of Root Beer, and having nightly three-somes with Ben & Jerry. The "chocolate-chip cookie dough" is sooooo orgasmic. It doesn't help that Coldstone Creamery also offers this combination...but in a "multiple orgasmic" version...with a waffle cone dish. Bitches.

The end result?

                        "20.6% Body Fat" ...and rising.

Yes, you heard me correctly. 20.6%. Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of muscle mass so I don't appear fat at all, but wasn't the idea to go in the opposite direction from last month's revelation? I really AM the "gay" Oprah! I'm publically struggling with my weight. Where's Bob Greene?

If that wasn't bad enough, I've also been dealing with a leg injury. It's really nothing new. In 2004 during a festive Mardi Gras weekend at one of Portland's "gay hot-spots," I was whacked Nancy Kerrigan style in the back of the knee. I use the term "gay hot-spots" loosely as they are clearly trashy, seedy, little establishments where everyone knows your name and the names of the many guys you've slept with. Anyway, while I never did find my Tonya Harding, and though I recovered without surgery, the wrong move on my feet can cause an injury. Friday morning...I did just that. While performing "jump squats" at the gym, I landed on my left foot the wrong way and pop-goes -the-knee. It is believed my "miniscus" is damaged. So, with a knee brace and crutches until a orthopedic specialist can examine me...this peach, is out of commission.

Wow, increasing body fat and a leg injury...sounds like I've become a male version of Britney Spears. Maybe now I will have a "prophecy" and in two weeks, be a pregnant peach. I'll keep you posted.

David Douglas High Reunite!

As I searched through files of previously written stories, I came across a review I had written for my high school "ten year reunion." Since they do nothing but sit in my email, I thought it might be fun to revisit the memories that were shared just two years ago.  Who knows, some of my readers may be preparing to "re-unite" this summer with their high school memories

Time. There is never enough of it. Throughout our lives we are challenged to meet deadlines in and out of the office. A report on marketing trends, an exam for your college history class, or a looming household remodeling project all are based on our efficient use of time. But through the course of it all, just when we thought that we were defeating the time continuum, the universe reminds us of our existence with the announcement of the dreaded high school reunion.

Yes, the high school reunion. Nothing could remind us more that time has pressed the fast forward button, than the sight of fading hairlines, beer belly's, and single mom's with children approaching their "teens" at a time when you are finally out of yours. Prior to this life changing event, questions flood your mind such as who ended up successful, which high school sweethearts were suckers and actually tied the marital knot, who still looks the same, who aged a little too much, who will be fabulous, and of course, who really was a homo in high school! Chances are that would only be me, but I had to go and at least inquire. While I hesitated about attending, I found a date, coordinated my outfit with his (which were the high school colors of red and gray) and off to the ball we went. I wasn't lucky enough to be wearing glass slippers or arrive in a transformed pumpkin, but a gay man's Jetta and a fabulous pair of Kenneth Cole shoes got the job done. I suppose you could call my date an urban rendition of the classic Prince Charming, but for the most part, he was more like my Fairy Godmother.

On our way to the "ball" I was somewhat nervous. I had brought along one of my year books to show my date, Scott Weimer, who he would have the potential opportunity of meeting. First of all, the hair on the females in 1993...I don't even need to say it. Bigger was apparently better even when you look like a frightened cockatoo. What was with the high bangs? Should we even discuss my picture? While it's not the worst, the slicking back of the hair with Paul Mitchell hair gel (remember, this was 1993...pomade wasn't as common) didn't help my "baby face" look much like a Senior.

In high school I was always the shy guy. Since I hadn't yet discovered the joy in building muscle, I was as skinny as a salamandar. Though I was in theater for three of my four years at David Douglas High, I never felt completely comfortable outside of the theater. People made me nervous. I can remember Bobby Vaughn, a typical jock, calling me a faggot during my freshman year, and I never really felt at ease. I had a very masculine woman for a PE teacher and even she made me nervous. Jane Miller. So lesbian, isn't it? She was straight out of Disney's 1960's version of "The Parent Trap" starring Hayley Mills. One look at her and you could easily imagine her standing in front of your cabin, clipboard and whistle in hand. And when she shouted, "Hit the showers"...the smell of chlorine mixed with the aroma of dirty socks, danced in my head. In short, she was the woman you didn't want to notice that you were last to be picked for the dodge ball teams.

The event began at 5:00pm. In honor of all gay men past, present and future, we arrived on time at 7:00pm. Scott was cool and at ease. I can remember my heart racing as I signed the guest book. These were people I had not seen in ten years! Behind the glass doors I could see people laughing and socializing with one another. I saw hands holding glasses of wine and smiles that were lighting up the room. Amazing. It was not at all what I expected. I have known people who have talked so negatively about high school reunions. They believe that somehow reunions are a venue for people to show off. It wasn't Romy and Michelle's at all! Hollywood can make things so unreal. I was expecting the cliques of our high school days gone by, but everyone was mingling. As we walked through the doors, "Gosh, how am I going to fit in?", was the question that was engulfing my mind.

Throughout the evening I was greeted with great enthusiasm. Most of them were girls, but hey, I'm gay! We feed off one another. It's the bond. Just ask Margaret Cho. They trust me to tell them they look fabulous. Even if they are trying to socialize while holding a barbecued rib overloaded in sauce. Someone needed to consult the resident homo before putting that sticky situation on the menu. Never serve something messy like that at a social gathering. Meanwhile, I think I opened doors for a few closeted "fruit flies." Bzzz...bzzz. Who knew they had it in them? Everywhere I walked I was approached by someone. It was odd to me to have people who I never associated with in high school come up and have a full conversation of interest. They actually knew my name. It was a definite reminder that in high school our hormones are out of control and although we think we know it all, our brains are the size of a pea.

As the night ended I wondered about my existence. As a gay man you continually find yourself coming out over and over again to gain acceptance. Whether it is our family, friends, or even other gay men, there is always that fear of being judged. I went into this event thinking somehow I had to win people over by having an amazing job or some other type of materialistic idea. I thought that I had not accomplished the things one associates with success. I have not completed my degree, I am not married, I haven't traveled the world or created the next technological craze, and I don't have any children. What I learned was those materialistic things didn't matter as most people were in the very same place as I was. Some of them just had children and a spouse. Once the question of "What are you doing now?" had been answered, a smile appeared and conversation of memories we had of one another grasped our attention.

For me, that I was remembered as a human being, as the boy who let the girls from the track team come over and raid his Pop-Tarts after school, was what was important. Those memories provided the validation of who I was, who I am and who I will be. And that is something everyone needs to continue on.... in their Existence.

"There's Just No Time To Bitch Lately" - The Bitch List

Sorry it's been so long, but I returned to school for the summer at  Portland State University. While the rest of you are off taking vacations to sunny surfs, bustling cities and tropical paradises, my ass is parked behind the walls of a classroom learning the language of the new majority, Spanish. But we will save all of that personal information for when I give a damn and don't feel the need to "bitch." Did you know there isn't a Spanish way of saying, "I'm no Peach?" It doesn't exist.

"Que quieres hacer?"

That's easy.

I want to bitch...what else would I want to do?

1.) It seems that Oprah Winfrey is at the top of my "Bitch List" again after being turned away from the luxury store, Hermes, in Paris on June 14. (I think this is her third time on my list.)

Now before someone feels the need to lecture my ass for picking on the Queen-Of-All-Media, let's look at more facts.

Oprah apparently arrived a few minutes after the store closing time of 6:30pm to purchase a watch for Tina Turner, whom she was having dinner with that evening. According to sources, Oprah was turned away by the clerk and then by the manager. In their apology, Hermes states that the store was closed for a "private" public relations event and that they regret not being able to give Oprah the service they give to all of their clients around the world.

Sounds good to me, but that wasn't the end. A spokeswoman for Harpo has stated that Oprah plans on discussing her "crash" moment when the show returns for the fall season. For those of you who need a hint in diversity education, "Crash" is a film that deals with race relations and a "crash moment" is a moment in which someone feels discriminated against based on their skin color. In addition, Oprah's longtime friend Gayle King has added, "Oprah describes it herself as one of the most humiliating moments of her life."

So with that knowledge in mind may I simply say...Excuse me? You are turned away from a store, something that happens to any other average American when they arrive at a store near closing, and it's now ...discrimination? It's humiliating? I am aware of her status in society, after all I helped her get there for the last twenty years by being a supportive fan, but how is being treated like anyone else, humiliating? How is that discrimination? Why does she just assume everything is racially motivated? In support of the "little" people (those of us in retail), when it's time to close, girl, it's time to close. The only "race" it's about is the race to get my ass home!

I'm willing to bet that she was also miffed because she wasn't recognized as "Oprah Winfrey" but c'mon...have you seen her without make-up? I know I wouldn't have recognized her. Would she be singing the same tune if it happened to someone else? I bet not. So, since her "Executive Offices" didn't return my phone call, I have a message for Oprah in cyberspace:

Oprah,for real! Your bias is showing daily as you get more and more out of touch with the average American. You are complaining that you were "humiliated" because you weren't allowed special access to a store that retails $6,000.00 handbags for crying out loud! How in touch with your audience are you?

Even though she may shit on a golden toilet, her shit smells exactly like mine...

...minus the dash of Origins "A Perfect World White Body Cream" (her favorite fragrance).

2.) Why do we care so much about the lives of celebrities? Actually, since most of my "Bitch List" is based in popular culture, perhaps I should rephrase the question and ask, "Why do we care about the private, romantic, relationships celebrities are involved in?" Whether it's Tom and Katie, Brad and Angelina, Jennifer and Ben (as in Garner), Britney and Kevin...we are obsessed with watching and reading about these over-hyped courtships.

So...with that said, my "bitch" isn't with the celebrity in this case, but with the media. Let's take the Brad and Angelina scenario. What kills me about this latest media buzz is that the media makes a ton of assumptions. We haven't even heard Pitt or Jolie declare they are a couple, but the media already has! And here's a clue to the media from an average citizen... these assumptions... they aren't even exciting!

They report every little thing they hear as if it's a headline maker...

"Jolie says she did not have sex with Pitt."

Well that's too bad. I was hoping to read about their hot passionate sex. You know...things like, how's Brad's body? Did she love the feel of it? Was it good? Does he know what he's doing? Is he rough? How big is he? And by that, I'm not talking height and weight ladies...(wink, wink).

... "but like...how do we even know they are a couple?"

People Magazine recently ran an article with the headline..."People Magazine Scores Pitt, Jolie Photos." OK...so? You snagged pictures of Brad racing around Angelina's adopted son, Maddox, shirtless... on a dirt bike. BIG DEAL...or more appropriately for my style..."BFD." To get in on the action, Comcast displayed a news story with the tag line, "Days after being busted on vacation with rumored boyfriend Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie jets to Ethiopia to adopt a baby girl."

OH-MY-MADONNA...so busted. I don't know media...sounds like they really are getting married! Maybe it's a ploy. You all better get your asses in gear!

For-The-Love-Of-God.

While they could be the happy couple, for all we know, the man is gay and she is simply his "fag hag"..."fruit fly" ...or whatever else we are calling "them" these days. Hell, it's worked for Tom Cruise all of these years. However, the peach in me says, "Shame on the media" and... it's really none of our fucking business.

3.) Aren't we all just a little tired of Britney Spears? Why doesn't she understand that? It's bad enough that we had to deal with her chaos on her UPN Reality Show, "Chaotic" (trust me, I wasn't one of her ten viewers), but I really ...and I mean really...wasn't prepared to see her pregnant ass in a new video singing lullaby's to her unborn child. What...first she imitated Madonna and now she's doing Celine? WHO IS THIS GIRL?

Accroding to Britters, her new song, "Someday (I Will Understand)" was a "prophecy." Excuse me while I laugh. The Pop-Tart claims that she wrote the song two weeks before she knew she was pregnant. In fact, because she's so intelligent, here's her quote...and I recommend reading it in "Valley Girl" style...just because I'm mean and bitchy...and not a peach...

"It's kind of like a prophecy."`

Wait...did she just use the word, "prophecy?" Was this like the word of the day? I didn't know she knew such big words. Sorry to interrupt...continue please...from the top...5, 6, 7, 8...

"It's kind of like a prophecy. Everyone in general should voice their wishes more, because I think the more you throw it out to the universe, if you're in the right space and place in your life, it's weird how the universe gives it back to you."

Hey Britney, yeah... isn't it weird that like..when you have a penis inserted into a vagina...and like little sperm travel up to penetrate the egg...a baby is created? Maybe I should do as you suggest, oh-wise-rep-of-WT, and voice my wishes more...you know...kind of like, "I wish Britney Spears would go into retirement and stay there...permanently."

But you know I would buy her next album. Otherwise I wouldn't have anything to bitch about.

4.) Why I am giving any coverage to these people is beyond me.

It would appear that the "Crack is Whack" couple...that would be Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston...have a reality show titled, "Being Bobby Brown."

I can't even comment. For once the peach is silent. By watching this show, you couldn't endorse a far more fucked up example of a family.

It's so sad to see a once reigning "diva" lose so much control.

5.) Public urination. I've discussed it before in my previous blog. To refresh your memory, I was using the gym shower, when a man took the stall next to mine and began to pee. Yes, there is a "ditch" in which he provided his urine sample, but as I saw the water below my feet turn to yellow, I thought, "Couldn't we get to know one another first?" and..."Thank God for flip flops!"

So, that was public urination scenario numero uno.

I can understand that a great many American's pee in the shower. Some people just can't help themselves when the warm water hits. However, peeing in my parking lot while I am sitting in my car on the phone, is a little more disturbing and unfortunately is my basis for public urination scenario numero dos.

You got it sweetcakes. As I sat in my car one sunny June day chit chatting with Breken on my celly, I began to notice the figure of a stubby man approach my side of the parking lot. For those of you who do not keep in touch with me on a regular basis...my car is my phone booth since I do not receive quality reception in my "historic" building. Anyway, as I sat there chatting, I began to say to Breken things like ...

"Umm..Breken...there is a man coming up to my car."

"Oh my god...he's going to pee. Oh my god, he's taking out his penis."

I began to honk my horn at the man as he sprayed the parking lot like he was watering a rose garden. He began to sway back and forth...as if he had to cover the entire area. In a tribute to Charlotte York, I began to slap the horn on my steering wheel.

"No.....noooooooooo...what are you doing....you can't do that. Get out of here! You nasty, nasty man!"

Yeah...and apparently I live at the "address of distinction" in Portland.

I realize the man is homeless, but for real...do it on the street and not in my parking lot! It was as if he did it intentionally.  The most disgusting thing was... is that he faced me. He faced me with that dreadful crusty penis which appeared to be eroded from uncleanliness.

Maybe I should have offered to give him a bath, but all I could think of was..."Where's my camera?"

Make it a "peach" of day.