Shovel It

This past week has been the mid-semester break at Big Midwestern University. Because classes started so early, our half-way point came well before the end of February. At least they have the good sense not to call it a “Spring Break.” We had two snow storms within that period.

Snow has certainly lost its charm since the last time that I lived in the Midwest (in grad school). Perhaps a significant part of that disenchantment comes from the fact that I now have to shovel all this crap out of the way if I want to get out of my garage. I am starting to run out of places to stick all that snow. It is piled up along my fence and I can’t imagine the mess it will make when it starts to melt.

The other day, while I was out huffing and puffing with my trusty shovel, I wondered what it would be like if we depended upon our nation’s politicians to do such a basic task. How would they grapple with being responsible for shoveling their own driveway clear in Midwestern Funky Town?

George W. Bush: Snow hates America’s freedom. That’s why I ordered the military to shovel snow, not in Midwestern Funky Town, but Arizona instead.

Condoleezza Rice: Despite having a memo delivered to me entitled “Five Inches of Snow Imminent,” there was no way real way that we could have predicted this snow fall. It’s all the previous administration’s fault.

Barack Obama: I have zero experience shoveling snow. In fact, I was raised in Hawai'i. Still, I am sure that if we all have hope, the snow will magically melt all on its own. Aren't I charming?

Dick Cheney: I will do nothing about the actual snow, but I have already asked Google maps to remove it from satellite images so the enemy won’t know that it exists.



Bob Gates, Secretary of Defense: A surge in personnel will surely contain our snow problem – We just need to be patient and not expect the snow to be removed until next August.

Lou Dobbs: It was probably Mexican immigrants who sneaked into this country illegally so that they could deposit that snow in front of middle-class Americans' doors.

Bill Clinton: I did not have sexual relations with that snow. Well, it depends on your definition of "snow."

Former Attorney General Alberto Gonzales: I don’t recall there being any snow.



Current Attorney General Michael Mukasey: It only qualifies as snow if it happens in front of my house. Otherwise, I can’t comment on whether it is shovelable or not.

Ben Bernanke, Chairman of the Federal Reserve: The best way to combat that snow is to lower interests rates yet again. I mean, it's not like flooding the market with money is going to create inflation or anything.

John McCain: I applaud the Bush administration for all their hard work in shoveling snow in the past. The U.S. is more snow-free today than at any time in its history. You can expect the exact same type of snow removal service from me. By the way, have I ever mentioned that I was once a prisoner of war?



Hillary Clinton: Ignore the fact that I have done nothing to combat our nation's snow problem in the eight years that I have been in the Senate. If elected president, I would be ready on day-one to shovel that snow. In fact, I will be remembered as the snow-removing president.

Mitt Romney: When I ran for governor of Massachusetts, I said that I was in favor of shoveling snow. Now, though, my political views have evolved and I am fully opposed to the forcible removal of snow.

Exxon: Hey, if we keep up with all that gas guzzling and ignore global warming, nobody will have to worry about snow ever again. It's win-win.



The Nation’s News Media: Snow? Sorry, we can’t be bothered. Brittany Spears just showed up at a 7-11. We really need to devote 24-hour coverage to whether or not she purchased a Slurpee^©.

Bill Richardson: I am the only one who has the resume and experience to shovel that snow. Why didn’t anybody ever notice me? What the hell is wrong with this country?

Mike Huckabee: I believe it's a lot easier to shovel the snow than it would be to change the word of the living God. And that's what we need to do -- to shovel the snow so it's in God's standards rather than try to change God's standards so it lines up with some contemporary view. Praise Jesus.

Laura Bush: Look at the bozo that I chose to marry. Do you really think that I am smart enough to operate a shovel? Or even spell “shovel?”



Ralph Nader: It’s corporate interests that are keeping that snow from being shoveled. I will make sure that I am photographed in front of the unshoveled snow, condemn it loudly, and then leave you to deal with the mess.

Joe Solmonese, Director of HRC: If we get 1/8 of the snow cleared and nobody beats us to death with the shovel, I consider that a historic victory for the GLB community. Transgender people can shovel their own damn snow.

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.

For the Birds

I have arrived. The conference went well, as did my individual paper presentation (I think). The conference also created the opportunity to meet StinkyLuLu. As it turns out, he lives within a mile of my parents’ house. We also attended the same highschool (though at different times). Small blogosphere, eh?

Alas, TenuredRadical eluded me. For some reason, the American Studies meeting doesn’t have a central message center. In contrast, the American Historical Association transitioned from a bulletin board to a conference-based e-mail system. It makes it a lot easier to connect with people. Take note, ASA.

Since I was only in town for a brief jaunt, I didn’t get to see much of the city. The little I did see, though, reminded me that I missed being in a more urban venue.

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful to be at Big Midwestern University. Midwestern Funky Town also has a great deal to offer. Indeed, it is the funkiest of all the midwestern funky towns. Still, it is a town. As it turns out, size does matter.

Or maybe I am growing more concerned that the number-one recreational activity of the queer community in MFT seems to involve camping. I don’t mean “camping” in the fun Paul-Lynde sort of way, either. No, not camping that involves ironic quips about popular culture or the tragically ludicrous. I mean camping with a tent, sleeping bag, dirt, cold, and all that nature has to offer. Let me tell you, I am not that type of gay.



The number-two favored activity among gay MFT's seems to be canoeing. Don't these people spend any time drinking?

I understand the appeal of camping and other outdoor activities in the same theoretical way that I understand the appeal of sports. These things must be great for those who enjoy it. I don’t in anyway begrudge them their fun. For me, though, I can’t think of anything less that I would want to do than sleeping outdoors. I hated it when my father dragged me away to the mountains when I was a child. I imagine with 99 percent certainty that I would hate it as an adult.

Perhaps I also find the notion of camping in the Midwest even more perplexing. Maybe I am just too much of New-Mexico son, but why would one camp where there are no mountains? Rather than a rigorous hike up a steep incline to find a fabulous vista, aren’t you just basically sleeping outdoors? Your view is of . . . trees? I have those in my backyard and I don’t even have to open the door to see them (Thank you glass – another invention of nature-avoiding humans).

What I dislike about gay campers, though, is that they are always trying to change my mind. “Come on, GayProf,” they say, “You’ll looooove it once you are out there! Think of it as returning to nature.”

If nature was so great, why did we decide to build houses in the first place? I side with the homo-sapiens who first said, “You know what? This nature stuff sucks. The hell with it. I am inventing a roof.”

I don’t understand the inclination of some people who try to convince me that I don’t know what I like and don’t like. It’s not as if I am resisting sampling the thirty-second flavor down at the local Baskin Robbins. If it was something that I had never tried, I could see their point. I have, however, been camping in my life and I know what it involves: the aforementioned dirt, cold, hard ground, lack of showers and general absence of hygiene.





Why, then, do people persist after I tell them that camping is not my scene? I don’t try to convince them that they really hate camping. When somebody tells me that they are spending the weekend camping, I don’t respond with, “Wow – You are going to have a lousy time! If you have enjoyed camping up to this point, you have just gone with the wrong attitude or the wrong people! If you stay home with me, I’ll show you why that activity that you think you like is not at all what you really like doing.” I just don’t do that. Why do they believe that they can change my mind?

Camping is like some type of cult around here. If you don’t camp, you aren’t one of the chosen people. Maybe that was one reason I felt more at home in Boston. For most of the queer folk that I met in Boston, “roughing it” meant that they couldn’t get a cottage with a third bedroom in Provincetown.

Camping (or my dislike thereof) wouldn’t necessarily be a problem in MFT except that it narrows an already extremely tiny gay dating pool. Actually, it’s not really a pool. It’s more of a small pond – in the middle of a drought – with a serious algae problem.

Don’t get me wrong – It’s not that I don’t appreciate natural beauty. I love our nation’s forests – especially when they have been turned into Danish-modern furniture (It’s a joke – Please don’t send me environmental hate mail).



Nature for me, though, is something that you enjoy from a distance. Sure, I get enthralled by the spectacular sights that are devoid of humankind. Mountains, in particular, impress me. Oceans are grand. When I was in grad school, I also spent a couple of different afternoons at the dunes of one of the great lakes (which really was, as the name promised, a great lake).

Couldn’t we just see do those sorts of things in a day hike? Do we need to take up residence to enjoy nature? My feeling has always been that we could just do a quick walkabout and return in time for cocktail hour. Or, better yet, can’t we just skip the hike altogether and enjoy the view of the mountains from the bar patio?

What I need are the gays who are less into nature and more into . . . well, apparently, alcoholism. Yeah, yeah, don’t bother telling me that you can drink while camping. It goes without saying that I would need to drink because I was camping.

**Le Sigh**

Such thoughts make me think that I’ll be alone forever in MFT. Or maybe I am just regretting that I didn’t spend more time chatting up the hunky guy who sat next to me on the plane ride home. He had a whole Anderson-Cooper vibe working for him. I bet he hadn’t been camping a day in his whole life. Better luck next time, I suppose.

Memento Mori

My friends, this is the end. The weekend holiday marks the end of summer and GayProf’s return to the classroom. I have got to earn those coins. Don’t worry, though, GayProf still has some tricks up his sleeve for the future.

Since I knew that I will soon be swamped with meetings, students, grading, preparing lectures, etc., etc., I wanted to get my little cottage in as good a state as possible before the semester starts. This involved purchasing and repotting a number of new houseplants (ones that Cat will not torture and make beg for their lives (the list of those varieties is quite small)). I also gave the place a good cleaning.

As we know, GayProf likes living in older places. Indeed, with one exception, every apartment or house where I have lived in my adult life was built before 1940 (The one exception was a temporary apartment selected because of other circumstances). Indeed, there seems to be a theme in my life as I also surround myself with material things created between 1900 and 1940 (dishes, furniture, etc.). My research projects usually focus on the period before 1940. Even my iTunes has a significant chunk of disc space devoted to music from this period.

It all makes one ponder if I was reincarnated. Maybe I lived some tragic, but very glamorous, life between 1900 and 1940. Perhaps that will manifest itself today. Maybe you will see GayProf wandering the streets in a grey wool suit muttering, “There is something I must do, there is something I must do.” Do fish me out of the bay when I fall into it.

The thing about reincarnation, though, is that everybody believes their former life was quite romantic. People imagine themselves as long lost knights or ladies of the manner. I can’t even tell you how many former Ladies-in-Waiting to Cleopatra I have met. Statistically, though, most people who were reincarnated would have had to have been serfs. You were more likely to have been the shlep who polished King Arthur’s Round Table than to have had a seat at it. Peasants had no armor and no pretty clothes. They just toiled hard in the soil and then dropped dead somewhere around the age of 30. Just once I want somebody who believes in reincarnation to claim that their former life was dreary, but unremarkable.

Whatever the reason, I seem to bristle at living someplace newer than 1940 (and downright cringe at living anywhere built between 1970 and 1989). My vision of hell would be an apartment built somewhere around 1975 with faux Tudor windows and orange counters. Hell isn't other people -- It's bad architecture and poor lighting.

Luckily, I have been very happy with my 1940 rental in Midwestern Funky Town. Indeed, my little cottage has been one of the best parts of moving here.



Living in older dwellings, though, sometimes requires one to take their [current] life in their hands. While it has actually been renovated fairly recently, my house still has some quirks that come with age. I have been struck by how many things are around that will potentially lead to my untimely demise. These include:

** A garbage disposal that sounds like it is grinding something metal. I have searched for something inside of it (including an unwise mission of shoving my hand around inside). Nothing has been found thus far. Yet, periodically, it jams after sounding like I had tossed an aluminum TaB can inside of it. One day that mysterious piece of metal is going to fly out, impale me, and I will die.


** Older houses also usually have mature trees. In the case of my little cottage, there is a great Maple tree in the front lawn. I like the tree a great deal and appreciate its soothing shade. After all the rain a few weeks ago, however, I was certain that the tree was starting to lean towards the house. It will likely collapse and crash into my bedroom, killing me instantly. Or perhaps they only moved the tombstones and not the bodies when they built the house. Thus, the tree will come to life on a stormy night and just snatch me from my bed. Either way, I am certain that the tree will cause me to die.

** The house has a central fuse box. Until I moved into my cottage, I literally didn’t know any house still had a fuse box. I thought every dwelling in the U.S. had been switched to circuit breakers. How does one actually change a fuse? I am uncertain about the steps required for that. What does make me certain, though, is that my first attempt will result in me electrocuting myself and I will die.

** That fuse box is located in the basement. I will likely fall down the stairs and break my neck. That's not at all the house's fault. I am just clumsy. Even before being electrocuted, I will likely take a misstep and die.

** Speaking of being electrocuted, for mysterious reasons the electrical plug for the washing machine is positioned directly above the wash sink (where the washer also drains). Modern houses can’t put an electrical outlet within several feet of a water source. Back in the day, though, they apparently thought it was just dandy to shove an electrical cord directly in the path of running water. This struck me as a very bad hazard. It was made worse by the fact that the electrical cord from the washer didn’t even reach the plug. Thus, I had to add a power strip which I then balanced on a cardboard box to keep it off the floor. That box probably already saved my life as the washing hoses started leaking shortly after I moved into the house, covering the floor in water. That was lucky. At some point, though, I am certain that I will enter a flooded laundry room with a free flowing, though Downey^© fresh, electrical current. One step in and I will die.

** Then there is electric mower that I bought. Granted, this has nothing to do with the age of the house. I wanted to select the mower option that was better for the environment. In Texas, the grass was simply too thick to even contemplate an electric mower. Here in the Midwest, though, the grass is delicate enough to consider buying a mower that doesn’t belt out a ton of pollution (Note: Electric mowers are better than gas mowers, this does not mean they are good for the environment). Nobody told me what a pain in the ass it is to drag around a giant electric cord as one mows. I am certain I will be careless, run over it, electrocute myself, and die.

** Perhaps I felt so inclined to think about the environment because my neighborhood seems disproportionately populated with Priuses (Prius? Priui?). Several times I have been out walking in the neighborhood and barely been aware that they were even there as they were in “quiet/recharge mode.” It is likely that one day I won’t be being attention and will be run over and die.

** Of course, I cared not at all about the environment when I discovered the nest of bees between the siding of the house. In that case, I called for an exterminator to slather the grounds and structures with profoundly toxic chemicals. Though the bees are dying, I am sure that the chemicals have also given me cancer and I will soon die. If not, I will be attacked by drug-resistant killer bees and die.

At least the advantage of renting is that my estate would not be not responsible for the repairs that would come about after my death. So, I can mostly sit back and enjoy the house. Besides, there is always the next life. Maybe I will come back as a pretty, pretty princess . . .

Mind Over Matter

I have returned from my first official function of the new academic year. It signals that classes resume in only another week.

I am actually eager for classes to start to give me a change. For many reasons, a malaise has settled upon my little cottage over the past few days.

Giving your emotions names in other languages always makes them seem a bit more interesting, don’t you think? Malaise sounds more regal, for instance, than the colloquial English “down in the dumps.” Using words in other languages implies that your feelings are profound enough to transcend linguistic barriers.

Then again, malaise also makes me think of Jimmy Carter (who, for the record, never actually used the word in the "malaise" speech). This makes me think of the gross Reagan presidency and they way that he told Americans it was okay to hate again. This just adds to the malaise.

There is something about the last days of summer that always seem kind of sad. It is the in-between time of summer and autumn. All of the trees and plants seem exhausted after giving their all. Yet, they are not quite ready to explode into the oranges and reds that mark their descent into winter sleep.

School children look unusually somber upon the realization that the good times have come to an end (Parents, on the other hand, look quite cheerful). University students start pouring into the town and I am confronted by countless tearful scenes of parents saying goodbye to their children (which is bitter sweet).

This time of year always also makes me miss New Mexico. It has been soooo long since I have lived there during the fall, but it was my favorite time of year. The god-forsaken heat will usually start to break. Then the air is filled with the aromas of various supermarkets roasting the green chile harvest. I am quite nostalgic about New Mexico.



Sigh – Then again, GayProf is nostalgic about everything. I yearn for the bygone times of this morning’s coffee. That was great and will never be again. . .

Or maybe my mood is a little out whack because I finally dragged my lazy carcass to a new gym. It took me a while to decide on a new fitness location in Midwestern Funky Town. After surveying a variety of sources, I determined that I would go private to avoid running into students at the university facilities. Sometimes it’s good to have a clear divide between work and private life.

Going back to the gym, though, reminds me of my love/hate relationship with the whole thing. Clearly, given the amount that I talk (and blog) about hating the gym, it is not one of my favorite activities. Yet, given the amount of time I spend there, clearly I must get something out of it.

I figure that it is a constant battle between mind and body. Or I have split personality. Whatever. Either way, this is pretty much how I imagine it going:

Mind: Ugh – I need to be sure that I don’t balloon up to five hundred pounds.

Body: Wouldn’t you rather rest and relax?

Mind: No, we need to keep up the hard work. My goals at the gym are modest. I just want to stay fuckable.

Body: Ugh – That joke again? Aren’t you tired of it? And didn’t you steal it from some other gay writer anyway?

Mind: Probably. Now, lift!

Body: You know – I could easily process a pint of ice cream instead.

Mind: Yeah – Process it straight into fat.

Body: It will be a cold winter. You'll want that fat come January.

Mind: January will be even colder if I am not fuckable.

Body: Yeah – Need I remind you of the singular gay bar in town? Your choices for warmth are either let me get fat or buy a space heater.

Mind: There’s always Decaying Midwestern Urban Center.

Body: Aren’t you supposed to be working on the Never Ending Project of Doom?

Mind: Quiet, you.

Body: You should be sitting at the computer right now. Not making me lift this shit.

Mind: Lifting that shit is supposed to relieve the stress about the Never Ending Project of Doom.

Body: Who told you that fairy tale?

Mind: It’s all about you releasing endorphins.

Body: Oh.My.God. You are going to exhaust me to the point where I am forced to drug myself to ease the pain???

Mind: It’s healthy.

Body: It’s sick. Let’s fry up some sopapillas instead!

Mind: Hey – Didn’t you used to be able to life ten pounds more than this just last month?

Body: Didn’t you used to read three books a week in grad school?

Mind: Touché.

Body: This new ab machine always gives me a wedgie. You suck for bringing us here.

Mind: I thought a key benefit of boxer briefs was the avoidance of the wedgies.

Body. Yeah, there’s a real worthy inner dialog to be having. Wedgies suck – Let’s cruise by Dairy Queen, pretend like it’s somebody’s birthday, and buy an ice cream cake.

Mind: If you work through this set, maybe I will.

Body: You lie. Why do you lie??

Mind: At least we had a month off from the gym. It should make everything seem new and interesting again.

Body: Or old and still heavy. Wouldn’t you rather be having a Cape Cod right now?

Mind: Yes – Damn it! When will I find a gym with a bar?

Body: There's vodka in the freezer at home . . .

Mind: This will add years to my life.

Body: Years spent toiling.

Mind: You’ll thank me when we are eighty.

Body: Eighty??? That’s, like, forever from now. You plan to live that long??? No way, man. I am blowing out our heart at age 55.

Mind: Eighty won't feel old if we keep exercising. Our quality of life will be great.

Body: Look, man, out of the two of us, it's not going to be me who gives out first anyway.

Mind: What do you mean?

Body: I am not the one having imaginary conversations between two parts of himself. I am not sayin’, I am just sayin’.

Advice Nobody Needs

I have more or less settled into Midwestern Funky Town. My cottage is now presentable to the public. The boxes that needed to be unpacked have been unpacked. The remainder are stacked in the guest room, which is currently closed on the GayProf house tour.

Of course, the cottage seems a bit empty. Though I had the perfect amount of furniture for my Boston studio, a whole house (even a relatively small one) requires a bit more. Yet, I am really resistant about buying more stuff. I fear that I will be like a goldfish and simply keep expanding until I fill my current living space. Though unlikely, I subconsciously (or perhaps consciously) want to be ready to move back to a metro studio at a moment’s notice.

In the meantime, I am slowly learning the way things work in MFT. This weekend, I ventured out to the only gay bar (Yeah, we are all surprised that there is only one). While it was nice (everything in MFT is unusual in its niceness), I came to the conclusion that I will need to explore nearby Decaying Midwestern Urban Center for a wider queer community.

Then there is always Toronto, a mere four or five hours away. All of that, though, will have to wait until I finally finish the Never Ending Research Project of Doom.

Being settled, though, brings about the specter of the coming semester. This will be the first time that I have taught in over a year and half.

I actually enjoy teaching, which is good. It is a vital part of my job. Still, if I won the lotto, all you would see is an empty podium with pile of grade sheets for the students to fill in themselves and a brochure for San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Since that hasn't happened, I have been revising my syllabi and thinking about teaching. A couple weeks ago, Tenured Radical published her tips for new teachers. Given that most of this blog is a form of plagiarism, I figured that I would do likewise. Even if you aren’t a professor, it can give you a window into the whole career.

1. Students are not going to remember 90 percent of what you tell them five years from now. Sure, there will be a couple in your classes who find the topic so engrossing that they will keep studious notes. As a professor, you will affect their lives forever and be one of the most important people who shaped their adult thinking.

If you are lucky, that is maybe one student per semester. The majority of your students are just there to earn some credit hours and do what is required of them.

Don’t feel frustrated. I know that I was the same with many of my undergraduate classes. A few professors that I had still influence the way that I think today. When I look at my undergraduate transcript, however, there are other courses listed that I have no memory of ever attending. I couldn’t tell you if the professor was a man or woman, much less any of the content (Did I really take a class entitled “Nonverbal Communication?” Huh – I wonder what that involved . . .)

If you have a big point to make with your course, repeat it over and over again. It increases your odds that something will stick in that ten percent that they will actually retain.

2. You will give students wrong information at some point in your teaching career. Maybe you will muddle the date of Queen Isabella’s arrival at Granada or forget what the U.S. Constitution said about noble titles. At some point, though, you are going to say the wrong thing. None of us are perfect. Well, okay, GayProf is perfect. So, I should say none of you people are perfect.

Hey, don’t sweat it. During the next class session, just correct yourself. Far from sacrificing your authority, students like to know that their professors are [sort of] human. Besides, a couple little errors here and there don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Why? See Number One.

3. Teaching is a political act. Be honest with yourself and your students. By political act, I don’t mean that David Horowitz is actually right and we are all trying to secretly turn our students into ultra liberals. We don’t have that power. Why? See Number One.

On the other hand, we are approaching the topic with a certain perspective and asking students to engage with us. We disrupt the status quo just by presenting new knowledge. We also have the authority to ask students to try out different ideas or concepts.

All we can do, though, is ask. It’s up to them to decide what to do with the material that we present to them.

I have known several professors who think that their goal in teaching is to “trick” students into accepting either a left or a right political position. They create elaborate schemes and pretend to take an ambiguous position on important issues as some sort of twisted Socratic method. Fuck that shit.

Students aren’t lab rats and they aren’t there to take part in professors’ mind games. Be honest and candid with your students. They are smart enough to make up their own minds. Even if they aren’t smart enough, they will still make up their minds anyway, so you might as well keep your own ethics intact.

If you are a gay professor, say so. If you are lefty, say so. If you are a feminist, say so. If you are a right-wing Nazi, say so. Does it influence or change the material that you are presenting? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Regardless, it does a world of good for everybody to be open about their perspectives. Universities are supposed to be the place for an honest exchange of ideas.

The best teaching comes in the form of conversation. It’s really hard, though, to talk with somebody who keeps lying about what they really think.

4. Learn to accept that you are going to have students that you like more than others. Don’t get me wrong. Your goal in the classroom is not to create a cult of personality around yourself with a few chosen followers. That is why you have a blog.

In any class, though, there is going to be a small number of students who are just a bit more engaged and a bit more interested in the topic. They will make you happy teaching, so don’t feel guilty if you find yourself a little more interested in grading their papers than the other students. These might be the couple of students where Number One does not apply (but probably not).

5. Learn to accept that you are going to have students who you just don’t like at all. Maybe they show up late all the time. Maybe they turn in their assignments having done them in crayon. Maybe you just don’t like their shoes. I don’t know. Whatever the case, there are going to be a few students who rub you the wrong way.

During those times, it’s important to take a zen approach. Like a medical doctor healing an ornery patient, so also you must remember that your goal is to educate (not befriend). Take them as they present themselves and remain professional. Strive for fairness. It’s never worth fighting with a student. Remember Number One.

6. Learn to accept that you are going to find a few students physically attractive. Oh, yeah – GayProf isn’t afraid to say it. If you are teaching at most universities, you are dealing with a population of young people between 18 and 21. Anybody who tells you that they don’t find somebody in that group attractive is a liar. Our society values youth and beauty. You are not the exception. Get over it. It doesn’t make you lecherous or evil. It makes you normal – Well, as normal as any professor really is.

Of course, it goes without saying that you never, ever act on such an observation. That would make you lecherous and evil. You will not only lose your job, but also probably give your student another reason not to trust. Besides, long after the affair is over, Number One will still apply to that student.

7. Teaching won’t get you tenure. Sorry, kiddies, teaching isn’t the name of the game at universities or even “teaching” colleges. Only one thing gets you tenure: research. The quantity and quality of that research will vary depending on your university, but they are always going to want it.

As young, idealistic professors, our temptation is to be the best professors we can be. Plus, teaching is much, much easier than research. These two things often result in us slavishly devoting all of our time to our students. It’s a struggle to realize that you can be a pretty darn good teacher and not spend all of your time focused on it.

Yeah, yeah – Tenure and Promotion committees will spend five (Maybe even ten!) minutes paying lip service to teaching. If you regularly burn your students with cigarettes, it might even cost you tenure. Nobody, though, is going to be promoted based on being a stellar teacher. Likewise, if you have a complete research package, nobody is going to be denied tenure based on a so-so teaching record. That’s just reality.

So, when senior colleagues come to talk to you about the importance of teaching (and they are probably the ones who barely got tenure based on their thin research record), be polite. Know the score, though. Teaching.Doesn’t.Get.You.Tenure. Budget your time with that knowledge.

Look at it from the perspective of the universities. Published research will last forever. They can go to a library and hold it in their little hands. More importantly, they can see the name of your university published on the byline. In contrast, what will your students remember? See Number One.

8. Teaching will always be there. No matter how fantastic we are as scholars, we are almost always going to return to the classroom. It is what pays our bills. So, I don’t understand people who don’t seek out research opportunities (or even turn down those presented to them) because they can't bare the thought of being away from the classroom for a semester.

Some people have asked, “But, GayProf, haven’t you missed your students? Don’t you need that regular engagement?” Sure, I have missed students. You know, though, I have some pretty smart friends with whom I can talk. Besides, teaching will always be there. New students will always be enrolled. Any young professor has potentially thirty years worth of classroom time. If I can take time to do research, I am taking it. I will also actively seek out opportunities, like fellowships. Why? See Number Seven.

9. Grading sucks. I remember the first class that I taught, I found the notion of grading exciting. It seemed like an adventure to really find out how each student came to terms with Chicano history. That wore off with a quickness.

The engaged students’ papers are fun to read. After you finish grading both of them, though, you are often left with a pile of poorly typed essays that were written within the past twenty-four hours. If the students’ didn’t enjoy writing them, you can bet that you aren’t going to enjoy reading them (This is also why coming up with creative assignments is really important. You and they will be happier if you ask them to engage both sides of their brain from time to time).

One of my former colleagues had a theory that our entire salaries were based exclusively on the act of grading. Pretty much everything else we would do for free.

After spending hours reading, correcting, and commenting on those papers (because you are an ethical professor, after all), you will feel kinda depressed. Reviewing Number One only makes this feeling worse.

10. Remember to enjoy teaching. Sure, this list sounds a bit cynical. In truth, though, teaching is a great deal of fun. You have the opportunity to talk with a whole group of people about the thing that you have devoted your professional life doing. For those three hours each week, you get to encourage students to think about their world in new ways. You also get to learn from their perspectives. Some of your students will even be smarter than you (Smartness, to my mind, is not measured by the amount of knowledge one has (You will always know more (I hope)). Instead, smartness is measured by one’s ability to think creatively. Let me tell you, I have had some students who were a whole hell of a lot smarter than me.

Personally, I think of teaching as being as close to hosting a late-night talk show as I will ever get. Enjoy the opportunities – Seek out the challenges – Don’t neglect your research. Teaching.Doesn't.Get.You.Tenure. (It was worth repeating).

Remember, though, don’t take yourself too seriously in the classroom. In the end, it’s all about Number One.

Because Nobody Asked

After an absurd level of paperwork and forms, I finally succeeded in changing my car's registration and my license from Texas. Gee, it only took me four hours of standing in line.

I am still in low-key mode after the move. This is time where I am learning how Midwestern Funky Town works. Many people have complained about the streets being confusing in MFT, but after Boston it seems downright straightforward. Plus, I have determined that I could (if needed) basically walk everywhere in MFT.

Most importantly, though, I found that my local market sells TaB by the case. I have not actually seen the case o’ TaB before moving to MFT. Usually I always had to buy it in six-packs. To be honest, I figured the FDA wanted to limit the amount of toxins yummy goodness that any single individual could purchase.



With all the plugging I do for the product on this blog, you would think that Coca Cola would hook me up with some TaB swag. Maybe some of those “hour-glass” tumblers? Or they could just pay for my chemo for TaB-related cancer.

Since I am still on low-key mode, I am going to refrain again from a more lengthy entry. Instead, I’ll answer a question meme that I found at UnCool.

1. What Do You Say Most When You’re Trying Not To Swear?

Fuck (I am not good at censoring myself).

2. Do You Own An iPod?

Yes, though it is getting old. It was one of the first “minis.” I couldn't even contemplate the gym without one.

3. Which Person(s) In Your Top Friends Do You Talk To The Most?

Um – I am not sure that I organize my friends into a hierarchy that would suggest a select “Top.” Does this mean that others have people whom they consider “Loser Friends?”

Whatever the case, right now I probably talk with one of my sisters most often.

4. What Time Is Your Alarm Clock Set To?

It goes off at eight o’clock. As you can tell, going back to teaching in the fall is going to be tough for me.

5. Do You Want To Fall In Love?

Yes, of course. Do people actually answer “No?” What do they say? “No, man – I want my life to be an emotional void. That’s cool with me.”

In terms of falling in love, though, I would like to have more sense about it than my previous ventures. No cowards -- No liars -- No zombies.

6. Do You Wear Flip-Flops When It’s Cold?

I never wear Flip-Flops – ever. Indeed, I would probably go barefoot first.

7. Would You Rather Take The Picture Or Be In The Picture?

I would like to take the picture with my super archaic 35mm SLR camera. Why go digital when, in just three short weeks, you can have prints from actual film?

Still, I also like pictures of myself. Mostly, though, I want editorial control over all the pictures of me that exist in the world.

8. What Was The Last Movie You Watched?

Probably that was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. It has been a very Harry Potter summer for GayProf.

As an aside, Daniel Radcliff certainly turned into quite the looker. Just in time for him to be legal, too!

9. Do Any Of Your Friends Have Children?

Yes.

10. Has Anyone Ever Called You Lazy?

My father always called me lazy when I was growing up.

11. Do You Ever Take Medication To Help You Fall Asleep?

I do when I really need sleep and am too stressed out to fall asleep. Most of the time, though, I avoid over-the-counter sleep aides. They leave me feeling really groggy the next day (and Tylenol PM seems to dehydrate me for whatever reason).

12. What CD Is Currently In Your CD Player?

Scissor Sisters’ self-titled debut album.

13. Do You Prefer Regular Or Chocolate Milk?

I only use milk in cereal or for cooking. Most times I buy 2%.

14. Has Anyone Told You A Secret This Week?

Nope. Do you have one to share?

15. When Was The Last Time You Had Starbucks?

Hmmm – It has been sometime. I almost always make my coffee in the morning at my house. When I was in Texas last month, I think that I stopped by a Starbucks for a Mocha.

16. Can You Whistle?

Sure, I know how to whistle. You just put your lips together and blow.



17. Do You Have A Trampoline In Your Back Yard?

Who wrote this meme? Clearly not the gays.

No -- I avoid eyesores in my garden. Trampolines only belong in sex dungeons.

18. Do You Think People Talk About You Behind Your Back?

Only the tabloids.

19. Did You Watch Cartoons As A Child?

Oh, goddess, yes! I was recently really excited to find the almost totally forgotten 1980s Zorro cartoon on DVD.



20. What Movie Do You Know Every Line To?

It’s been a bit of time, but I could probably mouth all the words to Star Trek II, III, IV, and VI ("Ship -- Out of danger?"). The same with Star Wars IV and V .

21. What Is The Last Thing You Purchased?

A parking permit for my new job ($500! They are mighty proud of their parking spaces at Big Midwestern University.)

22. Is There Anything Wrong With Girls Kissing Girls?

How could something so right be wrong? Indeed, I think that there should be more same-sex kissing across the nation.

23. Do You Own Any Band T-Shirts?

No, but I do own a Mr. Clean t-shirt.



24. What Is Your Favorite Salad Dressing?

Though it means losing blog readers, I really like Ranch. Most often, though, I just eat salad dry (to avoid extra calories and fat).

25. Is anyone in love with you?

Not to my knowledge.

26. Do You Do Your Own Dishes?

Despite my Dish Mania, doing dishes is my least favorite chore. Everything goes in the dishwasher. EVERYTHING.

27. Ever Cry In Public?

I can’t think of the last time that this occurred. I cry very rarely overall. Still, if I need to cry, being in public wouldn’t stop me.

28. Do You Like Anyone?

Just in general? Or like – like? Or like as in "tolerate"? Is this a question about being a misanthrope? I am confused.

29. Are You Currently Wanting Any Piercings Or Tattoo?

I go back and forth on the tattoo thing. If I were to get one, I know what and where. Still, it all just seems too permanent for me.

Piercings are a turn-off for me (not a judging thing – they just don’t turn my personal crank). Since you have to dress like what you want to sleep with, I have no plans for piercing.

30. Who Was The Last Person To Make You Mad?

My movers.

31. Would You Ever Date Anyone Covered In Tattoos?

What are the images in the tattoos?

32. What Did You Do Before This?

I was working on the never ending research project of doom. Then I answered a couple of e-mails.

33. When Was The Last Time You Slept On The Floor?

That would have been last Saturday before my furniture arrived (See #30).

34. How Many Hours Of Sleep Do You Need To Function?

After careful self-evaluation, I truly need eight hours. If given the opportunity, I will take more. When I have less, though, I will not quite process information right. If I go for two or more days with less than eight hours, it is almost guaranteed that I will get a cold.

35. Do You Eat Breakfast Daily?

Mom always said it was the most important meal of the day.



36. Are Your Days Full And Fast Paced?

They are full, but not fast paced at the moment.

37. What are you doing right now?

I am taking a shortcut to write a blog entry.

38. Do you use sarcasm?

Only as a pedagogical tool.

39. Have You Ever Been In A Fight?

Yes, but not since middle school.

40. Are You Picky About Spelling And Grammar?

No. I can’t spell to save my life. When I grade my students’ papers, I do make many comments on grammar, but it does not affect their grades. I am more concerned about content and the quality of their thinking (but to make that thinking clear often requires good grammar).

41. Have You Ever Been To Six Flags?

No, and I have no plans. Didn't some poor girl just lose her legs on a Six Flags roller coaster?

42. Have You Ever Gotten Beat up?

Yes, but not since middle school (see #39).

43. Do You Get Along Better With The Same Sex Or The Opposite?

I don’t think there is a clear divide. As long as they worship me, I really don’t care about their gender.

44. Do you like mustard?

Yes - Dijon, in particular.

45. Do You Sleep On Your Side, Stomach, Or Back?

I sleep on my side or stomach. Before falling asleep, though, I toss and turn a lot. It takes me a good hour before I fall asleep. Perhaps I should rethink #11.

46. Do You Watch The News?

Yes, on occasion I watch the news, but most of the network news is crap today. I depend more on the internet and the New York Times (when I have the time to read it).

47. How Did You Get Three Of Your Scars?

Have I stumbled into the movie Jaws? I am not sure that I even have three scars. There is one on my forehead from the previously discussed childhood hairstyling accident. The only other one that I know about is a minor scar on my penis (It’s true!), but that, my friends, is a tragic tale for a different day.

Starting Over. . . Again

Rain finally came to Midwestern Funky Town. Since moving here last week, it has been ungodly hot. It was more Midwestern Melting Town than Midwestern Funky Town. Let me tell you, I didn’t move to a place where the state flower is an icicle just so that I could spend my days sweating.

If I am talking about the weather, that also means that not much is really happening in my life. Sure, I am super busy. Boxes are being unpacked, organizing is being done, and work on the never-ending-research-project of doom is proceeding. None of that, though, makes particularly scintillating blog reading. It’s not as if I am going to discover a hunky naked man in one of those boxes. Nor is it likely that we would then have hot, hot monkey sex upon that discovery. After all, I have all my hunky naked men shipped via UPS.

So, given that I don’t have enough energy/ambition to create a coherent post, I will cobble together an entry from several thoughts that I have had over the past week:

*Starting over seems like a slow process. One also has to get acclimated, clean, connect utilities, and update all those online profiles. These things take even more time when there is only one of you in the move. After all, there are certain contents in a household that remain the same whether there are one, two, or four individuals in the unit. Everybody needs cookware. Everybody needs towels, etc. When there is only one of you, it takes that much longer to unpack all of that crap.

*Starting over also requires a lot of emotional energy. No matter the circumstances, there is something viscerally unsettling about suddenly living in a new place. Still, if Jesus has the power to rise up from the dead and take to the sky, then so do I.

*In all of my unpacking, I have concluded that I own way too many books and way too many dishes. At least I can justify the former (somewhat) by the fact that I am a professor. The latter, though, is seriously out of control. I am volunteering myself to the American Psychological Association as a case study to update the DSM with a new diagnosis of "Dish Mania." Why – WHY – do I need four sets of dishes? Three of those sets are seventy years old – the other forty years old. Why? Why? Why?

Do I seriously think that Fergie and her posse are going to drop by at any moment and will require massive catering? And, let’s be honest, if Fergie and her posse did drop by, I would use paper plates. This whole dish thing is out of hand. I need help.



*Unpacking those dishes was slowed by placing shelf-liner in all of my new cabinets. To be honest, I have never really seen the purpose of shelf-liner. Before she left, though, my sister and I went shopping for household items needed in a new place. When I informed her that I didn’t really plan to line my shelves, she looked horrified. As a result, I dutifully bought several rolls of the stuff. Seriously, though, why do I need this? Does it protect the dishes from the shelves? Does it protect the shelves from the dishes? Why is there such an antagonistic relationship between the two that they need a neutral zone of paper?

*Beyond unpacking, watching ancient t.v. shows, and starring blindly at a text that needs revising, I have also poked around the town a bit. Yesterday, I went out to search for a birthday gift for my other sister (Yes, there is another). She is a Leo (which fits her perfectly).

I decided that the funky downtown of Midwestern Funky Town would be an ideal place to find a funky gift.While wandering around, I discovered that every shop, regardless of its actual contents, was a “gallery.” If there was a 7-11, it would have been renamed the “Big Gulp and Slurpee^© Gallery.”

It seems to me if you are selling a vinyl LP that has been melted into a chip and dip bowl, you have forfeited your option of claiming “gallery” status. Don't get me wrong. I understand the quaint appeal of the item, but it's not really a "gallery piece."

Trust me, they weren’t selling this item with a sense of Andy-Warhol irony either. Midwestern Funky Town is not that funky – yet.

*I am in a major hurry to get the Texas license plates off of my car. I don’t want anybody in Midwestern Funky Town mistaking my unfortunate tags with an endorsement of that state’s atrocious politics.

*When I get those new plates (Monday – probably), I want the traditional blue plates of my new state. I hate all of these novelty plates that every state keeps issuing. What is with pasting lighthouses, sunsets, or boats all over vehicle tags? It’s a means of identification not an ad for freshness.

Yeah, I know a lot of these plates represent a minor donation to some worthy cause. This leads to its own absurdities, though. Like the idiot who drives a giant pickup truck but has the nerve to buy a “wildlife” plate. Clearly he reasons that forking over an extra ten bucks a year is going to undo the eco-damage of his four-miles-per gallon gas milage. It’s a little like Dick Cheney suddenly sporting a peace button on his lapel. Sure, the message is great, but it’s a little hollow when it’s resting on somebody slightly to the right of Kaiser Wilhelm.



*Meeting my new colleagues at Big Midwestern University certainly contrasts with my first weeks in Texas those many years ago. It’s great to have so many people interested in the history of race, gender, and sexuality all in one place. They seem happy to have added me to the faculty and have really gone out of their way to make me feel welcome.

I can’t say that this will last my entire time in MFT, but it sure is different than my Texas institution already. During my first week in Texas, in contrast, several senior colleagues came by my office to inform me that a) They didn’t want to hire anybody in Latino studies but were overruled by higher ups b) they didn’t think that Latino Studies was a legitimate historical discipline (too regional, don’t you know?) c) they really, really didn’t think that sexuality studies was a legitimate field of inquiry (too “trendy”) and d) they hoped that I didn’t take any of that personally, but thought I “should know.” Still.Not.Over.It.

*Before leaving Boston, I finished reading the latest Harry Potter book. There are some things to say about it, but I will wait to write about it until it is out of date no longer topical won’t be a source of spoilers for those who haven’t finished. What I can say is that it was an adequate book that answered most of the questions raised by the other books. Overall, though, it took a bit of the magic out of the series for me (especially the dreadful last chapter). I suppose, though, she didn’t write it for me.

*Moving still sucks.

Which Life Is He On?

I am now officially a resident of Midwestern Funky Town. I really hope that I am content to spend the rest of my days in my new little cottage, because the thought of moving again makes me want to take my own life.

Granted, this move was not nearly as traumatic as the move from Texas to Boston. For starters, my sister came to accompany me on the trip. Also, paying people to move your crap saves on a lot of backache.

Movers, I found, come with their own hassles. GayProf is not somebody who loses his temper easily. True, true, I can get mighty angry. Usually, though, I am more of a “slow-burn” type of guy. Indeed, I couldn’t even think of the last time that I yelled at anybody. My best guess is that it was Liar Ex (Who Should Have Been Yelled at Much More Because of All the Lies that He Told) a couple years ago.

Imagine my surprise when, at nine in the morning, I found myself in a yelling match with my “moving team leader” over the third delay in delivery. Actually, it wasn’t so much the delay that set me over the edge. In truth, the actual delivery time from Boston to MFT was pretty swift. Rather, I lost my shit after their latest delay when the team leader tried to claim that he had originally promised his new [late] time in the first place and was, therefore, not at all late (Somehow forgetting our previously missed appointments and the promise (PROMISE) that they would be there at this new time. I can deal with being late, but I can’t deal with a denial of a promise. Plus, moving just stretches me beyond my normal zen limits.

In short, I probably followed very few of Tenured Radical’s Patented Tips for a Healthy and Successful Move^©. Why do we never learn from those who have the experience?

Now that I am in MFT, I have not had many opportunities to avail myself of its funkiness. On her last night in town, my sister and I ate at the local Ethiopian restaurant. Beyond that, my life has been devoted to unpacking and pensively waiting for my internet connection. No matter how many times I twitch my nose, the boxes don’t open themselves in order to allow all of my belongings to escape into their respective cupboards and shelves. Maybe I just need the right incantation... Untill then, I am just unwrapping. It’s like Christmas – Only there aren’t any surprises and I already owned everything. Maybe Uncle Arthur will pop up in my oven to break the monotony. . .



Many of you have inquired about Cat. Alas, if his master dislikes moving, Cat loathes it with every fiber in his tiny little being. He probably also despised his master for having misplaced the kitty tranquilizers.

We had not left Boston when the distinct smell of Cat scat made the car rotten (Dr. Seuss has nothing on me!). Well, I can at least count my blessings that he didn’t shit on me as he did last time.

Despite that inauspicious start, he settled down considerably by the second day. Indeed, he became so quiet during the second day that I began to wonder if he had suffered a heart attack and died somewhere along the journey.

What does one do if their pet dies on the road? Do you try to find a kitty crematorium and have them mail you the remains? Do you pack the body in dry ice? Do you stop at the next historic marker and make a hasty grave? These options all seemed like a fairly ignoble end for poor Cat.

Finally, when we crossed through yet another toll booth, Cat roused himself enough to register his ongoing complaint about his predicament. It was a relief to know that he had not yet shuffled off this mortal coil.

Now that we are in the new digs, Cat seems to be having a ball. After a year in a studio apartment, he seems almost drunk to run across the house (Yes, it as pictured in the previous post).

With all of my worry about Cat, I began to consider if, indeed, I have become "CrazyCatProf.” I go back and forth on this. In the end, I decided that I would let the readers of CoG decide. Here, ladies and gentleman of the jury, is the evidence:

CrazyCatProf: I have made special trips to the grocery store just because Cat was out of snacks. He wasn’t out of FOOD, just snacks.

Not CrazyCatProf: Once Cat does ascend to the great scratching post in the sky, I have no intention of replacing him with another cat. Don’t get me wrong – I love Cat and hope he has a long life. I am not keeping a death watch on him. It’s just that, once he is gone, I think that I will have accomplished all that can be fulfilled with feline ownership. In the future, I will adopt another dog (but probably only after I retire).

CrazyCatProf: I know the exact type of ball that Cat will play with and which types of balls/toys bore him.

Not CrazyCatProf: I rarely toss that ball around with him. I expect Cat to be self-entertaining.

CrazyCatProf: I keep a statue of St. Francis around that I consider his.



NotCrazyCatProf: I also happen to think it is a cool statue and would own it anyway.

CrazyCatProf: When I travel, I have much angst about Cat’s safety and comfort.

Not CrazyCatProf: Though he has a name, I rarely use it. He is most often referred to as “Cat.” For example, “Get out of my way, Cat.”

CrazyCatProf: Though my own meager belongings are quite trashed at this point, I left behind Cat’s scratching post so that I could buy him a new one. Indeed, it is the only piece of “furniture” that was left behind so that it could replaced with a better one.

Not CrazyCatProf: Though the sitting part is clearly too small for Cat, I opted for a new scratching post that was 75 percent off at the local pet store. They had the exact one that he had before, but that was full price. Given it is just some carpet and twine stapled to a bunch of plywood, I will always go for the bargain.

CrazyCatProf: I was relieved that Cat didn’t seem to mind the much smaller seating section on his new post (Though he does look a bit squashed).

Not CrazyCatProf: I consider scratching posts an investment to keep my furniture from being destroyed by a bored Cat.

Not CrazyCatProf: If Cat is sleeping on a piece of furniture that I want to use, I will wake him up and toss him off (I have seen other people make other arrangements for themselves rather than disturb their sleeping animals).

CrazyCatProf: I am not impressed when dates try to ingratiated themselves with me by paying attention to my cat. It just annoys us both. Tell me: What cat, anywhere on this planet, enjoys a stranger picking them up and getting in their face? None.

Not CrazyCatProf: I have no trouble locking cat in another room for hours if I have a date (with food and water). Indeed, Cat knows not to whine or meow under such circumstances because I will not let him out (Consistency is the key!).

Not CrazyCatProf: I consider forcing any animal to wear little sweaters and outfits inhumane. Even this one:



Not CrazyCatProf: I have considered shaving my Cat to avoid having to deal with his fur everywhere.

CrazyCatProf: I would consider letting somebody else adopt Cat a betrayal of the trust he placed in me.

Not CrazyCatProf: I know that Cat does not really have human notions of "trust."

CrazyCatProf: Cat clearly prefers my company over all other humans on the planet.

Not CrazyCatProf: Given my many experiences with Cat shitting on everything, he will no longer have the pillow insert for his carrier ever again. From now on, Cat only travels in or on things that can be easily hosed down and disinfected. Screw his comfort.

CrazyCatProf: I have just devoted a blog entry to my Cat.

Won't You Take Me to [Midwestern] Funky Town?

Here we go again, Kiddies. GayProf is starting his life over . . . again. All my library books have been returned. My internet connection will end at midnight. My goodbyes have been said. The movers are coming to pack and haul away my meager positions in Boston. I will leave tomorrow to set up residence in Midwestern Funky Town.

Leaving Boston makes me incredibly sad. I loved this city. I also met many cool people. The goddess truly protected me by giving me a chance to escape Texas after the worst year of my short existence.

Everything about this city made me feel like I was home. Alas, I am so sentimental that I will even miss the MBTA.

Sometimes, though, it is no use liking or disliking change in our lives. Rather, it’s better to just go with the course that appears before us.

Don’t get me wrong. Midwestern Funky Town will certainly be a cool place to live in its own right. Compared with Texas, it is Xanadu. Big Midwestern University is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better job that I go to, than I have ever known.

Plus, I look forward to living in the little cottage that I rented. For almost the same rent as my studio apartment in Boston, I am getting a whole house in MFT. It will be great to have a kitchen where the appliances aren’t the size of an Easy-Bake Oven. I will also have distinct rooms that can be labeled “bedroom” and “living room.” Though the landlord had wanted to rip out the woodburning stove for insurance purposes, I eventually convinced them to leave it. It should be cozy, but still a palace compared to my more recent abode.



Most importantly, though, I needed to make sure that I wrote this entry for July so that I didn’t break my streak of 9's. With the odd exception of February, CoG had nine entries every month this year. I did not plan this at all. Actually, I only noticed it relatively recently (about the time VUBOQ also pointed it out to me). So, if I didn’t plan it, why did I always turn out with nine entries per month?

Well, I had one theory that involved a future me, who is trapped in a temporal loop, sending back messages to the present me in order to prevent a future disaster. Yet, I can only receive those messages as a subliminal thought. That might be unlikely, though.

Whatever the case, here are some things that I have learned about the number nine:

Many Buddhist rituals require nine monks.

Ancient Egyptian belief focused on nine major gods and goddesses.

Nine is not the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.

Nine out of ten are the number of times that the Orange Line was delayed when I needed to use it.

The Bible has nine chapters in the Book of Amos.

Cloud Nine, from what I understand, is supposed to be quite nice.

Mayan religion proclaimed that there were nine levels to the underworld. The ninth was a place of extreme darkness and suffering.

The villainous character Giganta first appeared in issue number 9 of the original Wonder Woman comic.



Many people consider the Nine of Wands card as a warning to proceed carefully when it is dealt from a Tarot deck.

When GayProf was nine years old, he joined the Cub Scouts.

In the year 9 A.D., Ovid was banished to Tomis.

There are nine planets in our solar system (Well, only eight now if you accept that Pluto has been downgraded).

New York’s Ninth Avenue runs 45 blocks before turning into Columbus Avenue.

The Searchers had a number one song entitled “Love Potion Number 9" in 1965.

Sagittarius is the ninth sign of the Zodiac (I know almost nobody born under Sagittarius except my father).

Dante described nine circles of hell in The Divine Comedy.