I Go to the Mall

Thanks to all of you who have either commented or e-mailed me directly wondering if this post was eerily prophetic. Your concern was very sweet. Where would I be without you?

Fortunately, my silence has not been the result of major calamity. I had been meaning to write a follow up entry to my last one. Somehow, though, time always ran out on me. Days slip by quickly when you're faced with a ridiculously full schedule.

On top of that, my body seems to be responding to the cold-winter conditions of Midwestern Funky Town by going into semi-hibernation. While I have always enjoyed my daily sleep, I find myself going to bed early so that I can have solid ten-hour blocks of snoozing. It feels like I submit to a little mini-coma each night.

Perhaps it also has to do with the fact that the six week period between December 31 and February 14 (more or less) is always the worst time of year for me. Usually these are the weeks when I am the most busy and the least happy. This year was certainly not any different.

I wish that I could say that my temporary absence resulted in my finding ultimate Truth and/or my inner light. Alas, I had only two mild conclusions recently. First, I really need more Walter Benjamin for the Never Ending Research Project of Doom. This either means more reading or breaking out the Ouija board and attempting to contact his un-dead spirit. Either way, it’s best that we don’t talk about that part.

My other conclusion is that I am easily manipulated by techno-babble and aggressive sales people. This comes as a bit of surprise given how critical that I am of the media, advertising, academics, and all other forms of discussion. Put me in a mall with somebody working for commission, however, and I am easily moved.

Over the past few years that I have spent at the gym, I have come to recognize the importance of a quality running shoe. Shoes, like tires, are not a purchase where one cuts corners. If you go for the "bargain" in either, expect a blowout.

Given that I refuse to use any other cardio equipment beyond the treadmill, I need to keep replacing my shoes regularly to ensure that I have ample cushioning. Over the past couple of weeks, the telltale signs started showing up that I needed to get myself to the mall. When my knee joints begin to sound like snapping mousetraps as I walk, we know that I need some new shoes.

Before going to the mall, I had already decided to simply replicate the purchase of my last pair of shoes. After all, they had served me well and I put tons of miles on them before they finally gave out. Such noble plans often fail.

The sales associate at the athletic store wasn’t prepared to let me walk out with last year’s model. “Ack, you are still using the ASICS 2110 model? How have you managed?” she asked in feigned horror, “I mean, I could sell that to you again, but there have been some significant changes in runner’s technology since last year.” I liked how she made “technology” to be a possessive of “runner.” Not only is it technology for jogging, but it belongs to runners uniquely.

At first, I held strong and asked her to see if they still had the 2110 model. With a little bit of time, though, I fell to her message. Clearly, what I really needed was the ASICS 2130. See? It’s a whole 20 higher than the 2110!



“The 2130,” she explained, “has a Space Trusstic System™ that creates a pocket between the Trusstic device and the midsole.” Without that system, I could face midsole deformation and loose my foot function. That’s not what I want, is it? To have deformed, functionless midsoles? If I bought the 2110 again, I might as well nail my foot to a piece of plywood and call that a shoe.

The only thing that seems to have really changed between the 2110 and the 2130 is the color, but I was convinced. Such capitulation, however, did not mean that my erstwhile sales associate felt that she had completed her task. No, no.

Had I thought seriously about the quality of my insoles? The 2130 was a good shoe, but those ASICS people cut corners on their insoles. Before my eyes, she disemboweled the 2130 to reveal the “flimsy and inadequate foam insole that they dared to put in such a great shoe.”

In the end, I walked out with shoes $30 more expensive than I planned on spending. Don’t say that GayProf isn’t doing his part for the nation’s economy.

P.S. This is entry 300 at CoG -- Please fawn appropriately.

Alone and Dead

Classes resume tomorrow at Big Midwestern University. I am having a hard time coming to terms with this ridiculously short winter break. Most of my peeps who work at other universities don’t go back to work until after Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Even my nephew’s public school starts later than we do.

Nobody has really offered a satisfactory explanation about why we must return so early. All they promise is that I will be grateful when the semester ends in April. That seems like cold comfort. I am exhausted now. My current fantasy-life focuses on sleeping for a week (Maybe I have mono?). Alas, I have to earn those coins. Back to the classroom for GayProf.

Perhaps one of the reasons that the university is going back so early is because they figure there is little else to do in Midwestern Funky Town in the middle of winter. Well, we have nothing else to do except shovel snow. Let me tell you, that shoveling shit is for the birds.

I lived in the Midwest for six years in grad school, so this isn’t exactly my first time at the Ewing Bar-B-Que (so to speak). During those years, however, I lived in an apartment. This meant that somebody else always shoveled the snow out of my way. When they didn’t, I could curse them out. Now, when it snows, I just curse. On New Year’s Day, I awoke and opened my rear window to see this:



Oh, my fate is a cruel one. Why – WHY – does my driveway need to be so long? At least Bourbon keeps me warm.

Of course, the snow isn’t just hard on my aching back and little stick arms. Just as when I lived in Boston, the snow kills my interest in having any type of social life. It takes forever for me to lace and unlace my winter boots. They are such a hassle to take on and off that they work better than a chastity belt. Given that I live somewhere where the state flower is an icicle, this means I am in for some quiet introspection over the next few months.

All of it contributes to making this my least favorite part of the year. Faithful readers of CoG know that we consider the period between New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day the dreaded and bleak void time.

Seemingly I am not alone in my estimation of this time of year. Over the past couple of weeks, two friends of mine had almost identical conversations with me. They don’t know each other (in fact, they live in different parts of the nation). Yet, they both expressed the same measure of forlornness.

My friend in New Mexico felt that his life was passing him by and wondered aloud if he would ever find a permanent boyfriend. When I pressed him about his reasons for why he wanted a boyfriend, he expressed his fear of dying alone. Or, more accurately, he fears that his death will occur without notice.



This was repeated with a friend in MFT only a week later. They both speculated that, if they died tomorrow, it would take weeks for anyone to find their body. This struck me as an odd reason to want a boyfriend.

True, I have sometimes had similar macabre thoughts. Anyone who lives alone surely speculates about how long it would take before somebody noticed their absence. We all shudder at the notion that our untimely demise will only be discovered because some neighbor complained of the “smell.” Nobody wants to be that story on the 5 o’clock news.

When such irrational thoughts take hold of me, I say to myself, “Get a hold of yourself and think positive thoughts. You won’t mind if nobody finds your body. You’ll be dead.”

When they doesn't work, I turn to my other reason for not worrying. Deep in my heart, I know that there is one special person in my life who I can count on coming to my house almost instantly if I disappear: My bartender.

Let’s be honest, my disappearance would greatly impact his child’s college fund. My drinking is his kid’s future. Nothing is going to keep him from those tips. Shoot – He would use the jaws of life to save me.



All the same, I have never considered the fear of having an undiscovered lifeless body the primary reason to find a boyfriend. My friends are relatively young men. One of them is my age exactly. This means he is very, very, very young. As far as I know, they are both pretty darn healthy. If they get into a relationship now, that little deathwatch of theirs could take several decades. It seems like they are kinda fast-forwarding to the end. What will they do in the meantime? Are they just imagining the boyfriend will enter their house, light a candle, and sit at their bedside until their time has come?

Okay, I understand their basic sentiment of feeling lonely. Still, it is odd to think that we want relationships for the worst times in our lives. When was the last time you heard somebody say, “I really want a romantic partner because my life is going so fantastic that I want to share that with somebody else? I am just having way too much fun for one person. I need to spread these good times around with somebody else.”

I never hear that. Actually, I often hear the opposite. “Boyfriend? No way, man, my life is too good right now. Relationships will just screw it up. Crap – Even saying the word ‘relationship’ probably jinxed me. I better go and have some anonymous sex just in case.”

Saying that they want somebody who will tend to their deathbed also sounds like they expect a lot of work from that boyfriend. 'Cuz you know it isn’t just watching them die that they want, either. They are going to expect you to call their family and work with the funeral home to give you a decent burial, too. It wouldn’t surprise me if they asked to proofread the many drafts of your eulogy before they kicked the bucket. Heck, you're going to have to fill the next forty years doing something.

All that death talk sounded too much like a job. Do they want a boyfriend or a live-in nurse? At least a registered nurse can legally give you drugs.

If you really want a boyfriend to do work, why not make it something that you can enjoy while you are alive? Forget the deathbed scenes and shoot for something that will make the here and now more tolerable. “Gee, I really want to put up some drywall in my basement and turn it into a t.v. room,” I’d like to hear, “Better get a general-contractor as boyfriend by this weekend if that is going to happen in time for the Project Runway finale. Oh, shoot, I also wanted to install that new sound system and needed a boyfriend who worked at the Best Buy. Looks like I am in the market for a menage a trois.” At least at the end of that relationship you wouldn’t end up in a pine box.

Queen of the Sea

I depart Boston again for another Midwestern locale. Like last week, I will be presenting my research in my own on-the-road version of Spectacular, Spectacular.

Among other things, these trips are useful because they tell me that there is interest in my research. When working in solitary conditions, I can lose sight of that fact. Moreover, I am reminded that there are lots of funky, cool, interesting places in the upper Midwest (except in Indiana – which is a dead zone). The upper Midwest is often overlooked, I think.

In the meantime, I have [reluctantly] upgraded to the new blogger. The changes are subtle, but disorienting. Let's stick together in this -- Nobody gets left behind.

Thanks for the good wishes, whether written or thought, about my January suckitude. I chatted with a wise and sassy friend who helped me get level-headed. In fact, while stress abounds, there are many good things at play right now. It helps to be reminded – but January still sucks.

My last post, however, made me think of other childhood elements that have influenced my adult thinking about the universe. One good thing about [lay] Catholics is that they can hold multiple conceptions about how the cosmos works, some even contradictory, all at the same time. Curanderas coexist along side priests without a great deal of debate (much to the chagrin of priests).

Other good things about Catholics? Did I mention the drinking already? Oh, I did. Well, you know, I really wouldn’t drink at all -- It’s just that I can’t figure out any other way to get the vodka into my blood stream.

Anyway, astrology came to my mind as an influential guide to the universe during my childhood. Like Catholicism, the Zodiac attempts to explain the relationship between individual free-will and destiny in daily life. Within my family, we learned as much about the Zodiac as catechism. Actually, I might have learned more about the Zodiac because it just wasn’t as boring to learn. The Zodiac required less route memorization.

Keep in mind that I am not saying that my family was Nancy-Reagan crazy over astrology. Nobody in my household based career decisions or the fate of nation-states on star charts. If we had our finger on a nuclear arsenal, the sun’s relative position to Virgo probably would not have influenced the decision whether to launch – probably.

Still, we did learn a great deal about the meanings of each Sun Sign. Over time, I have also noticed some trends in the people that I meet based on those signs. Virgo, the Virgin, for instance is often into some darn kinky shit. Unlike their namesake, every Virgo I have ever known really likes the sex – and likes it in as many inventive ways as they can find. Pieces always seem like they have conflicting impulses within themselves, but are also kind hearted. Taurus folk are self-centered, gluttonous, liars (who tell many lies). Okay, that last one might just be based on a sample of one.

“What’s your sign?” I hear you asking, “We must know so that we will arrange to only give birth under that special, sacred, chosen sign.” What? Okay, fine, maybe the last bit is really just my advice to you rather than what you are actually saying.

I am Cancer, the Crab. As a stand-up comic once noted, mine is the only zodiac sign named for two diseases.



Being an inquisitive youth, I learned as much as I could about Cancerian’s basic characteristics. In many ways, I fit the crab shell pretty darn snugly.

What are the basic characteristics of Cancer that I learned to accept as truth in young days? Have you have gone for a walk along the beach? Then you pretty much know what life with Cancer will be like.

We are hard on the outside, but soft and squishy on the inside. As a people, we prefer not to be boiled alive and served with butter. I am not sayin', I am just sayin'. Go kill a bull instead.

Cancers rarely walk in a straight line. Rather, everything is approached at side-angles. If threatened or in fear of losing something, however, suddenly a straight-line appears the shortest distance.

Those claws aren’t just for show. Anything crabs deem worthy of holding in the first place will not be let go of easily. To put a positive spin on that, Cancers are loyal and tenacious. The less rosy image makes Cancers out to be a bit clingy. As a matter of fact, crabs would rather have a claw cut off than let go of things [and people] close to us. If we do lose a claw, it’s a deep wound. We retreat into the water, not to be seen on dry land for months. Eventually, however, we grow our claws back and then clinch again, just as adherently.

Astrologers often say that Cancers’ moods shift according to the changing tide and moon, their planet. What they really mean is that Cancers are one of the moodiest of signs.

Crabs also horde beyond reason. Go into a Cancer house and you will likely find soup cans stored under the bed, “Just in case.” You might ask, in case of what? That’s a foolish question. You never know when the next great soup shortage might occur.

Something else about those crabs? They’re crabby. Personally, I resist the term, mostly because it makes me feel bad. Gravitas, after all, sounds so much more refined. Truth be told, though, Cancers can be darn right crabby, especially if they spent the whole day avoiding the net that would lead them to the boiling pot.

Revenge is not Cancer's usual response. If harmed, retreat is the crab's first instinct. If pushed to extremes, however, only Scorpio rivals the fierceness with which Cancer will retaliate.



Every Cancer, gay or straight, male or female, loves their shell. By shell, I really mean their home. Travel is enjoyable, but only if Cancers know there is a haven that awaits their return. Don’t believe me? Next time you meet a Cancer, of any stripe, ask them about their home. They will have a lot to tell you about it. If they love it, they will tell you all the details of how they found it, what changes they made, and their favorite parts about it. If they, however, hate their current residence or trouble is brewing at home, they will suddenly look like you just stuck them in an eye with a stick.

Cancers also remember almost everything that you tell them. Did you have a conversation with a Cancer about which person to invite as your prom date in high school? Don’t remember? Cancer does. Cancers keep all those detail on neat index cards in their little shell, ready for easy access.

So, those are the basic crabby qualities that I always knew. It does beg the question, though, am I like Cancer because of strange and mysterious powers within the cosmos? Or because I learned that’s what I should be like since birth? The Zodiac does nothing to solve the nature verses nurture debate.