I'm lovin' it?

I am starting to love my late-night trips to McDonalds. This is quite ironic because I absolutely abhor McDonalds and everything it stands for: grossly inhumane treatment of animals and livestock, the homogenization of indigenous cultures around the globe, the lowering of standards of food quality, and the general generic atmosphere that this evil corporation has inspired. There’s a reason sociologists refer to “The McDonaldsization of America” so often.

That being said, when the sun goes down and I start to come alive, I am drawn to this brightly lit palace of convenience, almost weekly. I have perfectly good hamburgers and buns at home that could be thawed, grilled, and prepared in less time than it would take to drive to the Alcoa McD’s and back. Still, I cannot resist the call of the communal feeding trough.

I think it’s a manifestation of the hunter-gatherer instinct. Cooking is for the women-folk (by “women” I’m speaking of gender, not sex). I’d rather go out and hunt down the wild game and its flamboyant packaging. Even if this means exchanging the money I made by serving people food at another restaurant, it still makes me feel like I’ve earned my keep, my place at the fire. Bringing people food and drink so that they’ll give me money so that I can pay other people to bring me food and drink makes me feel a part of the circle of life in our service-industry American society.

So, late at night, my stomach guides me to the temples of wisdom, and I am grateful. Still, McDonalds sucks, and you shouldn’t eat there.

Relax. Don't think about the way I treat you.

. . . and I hate . . . elevator music

Words of wisdom from the muzak at Aubrey’s in Maryville (where I work):

“Love is stressful, or it’s gay.
Love is trouble, or it’s play,
But it’s heartache either way.”

Well, that just about sums it up, doesn’t it?

Actually, I think love is more like a stomachache, a nauseous, burning sensation throughout the entire body. The body is invaded by a constant vital chill, like nothing else matters, like one’s entire being has been seized by a lightning bolt of terror and ecstasy. Love is something not good for one’s health, with only two possible cures: the obtaining of the object of one’s affection/desire, or, failing that, something to jolt one out of moronic solipsistic fantasy. I spent way too much time in high school waiting for the latter, hopeless in my pursuit of the former. But now I’m beyond that, right? Or maybe what I’m calling “love” would be more aptly dubbed “infatuation,” “perversion,” or “projection.” Hm.

This little masochist is closing up her dress
Yes, it’s official everyone: I no longer entertain any notions that I might be a masochist, in the physical sense or otherwise. I’ll spare you the details of my method of discovery (not nearly as naughty as you’re imagining), but just rest assured that pain fucking hurts, and it’s not for me. I know it’s unavoidable, but, if I can help it, it’s not going to be a part of my social life.

Love is a battlefield
Also, I’ve recently received mind-blowing insights into my whole interpersonal dynamic, and I am starting to understand why I thought I wanted what I thought I wanted. This is all terribly vague, I know, but let me explain it this way: I am very often attracted to things that I have convinced myself I don’t possess. This phenomenon goes beyond sex or romance; its influence ranges from friendships to taste in music to my choices in the consumption of consumer goods. If you can convince me that you have something I don’t intrinsically contain or possess, well then, baby, I want you. This is sick, I know, but it also makes sense in a Darwinian way. We seek out that which will complement us and make us a stronger force against the chaos and unpredictability of the world, “natural” or otherwise.

Well, you know what? Fuck that shit. I may be a primate at heart, but I live indoors with electric heaters, plumbing, and nuclear radiation to heat my food. I can move beyond this “instinct.” Yeah, Freud and Jung both wrote a lot about “self-actualization” and uniting the anima and animus and all of that within oneself. That’s a good idea. But like the Buddha said, (paraphrasing) “Unless you experience what I am telling you, you do not truly know it.” Right on. That’s why revelations like the one I’ve had recently are such blessings. Now I understand what Alanis Morrissette was singing about in “Thank You.”

At the same time, I don’t want to abandon or degrade my feminine side just because I realize how sick it is to seek out my masculine side in others. And I also don’t want to tether back and forth between the two. I don’t want balance; I want synergy, and symbiosis. Does anyone have any advice on how to do this?

Love,
Scott (the blonde one)

Queer, Yet Boring

Here's an essay I wrote a few years ago. It was published in a couple of publications at Maryville College, namely, a queer zine called Outrage, and the campus literary magazine, Impressions. But that is irrelevant . . .

Queer, Yet Boring

I’m bored with being gay. You’d think that as a result of being “queer” my life would be interesting, different, perhaps even unique. This is not so.
I have sex with other men. Occasionally, I fall in love with one of them and have a relationship. Wow. Has your jaw reached the floor yet? Or are you suppressing a yawn? How many of you have sex, fall in love, or have romantic relationships? Do you find these activities fulfilling by themselves? I don’t. I know those gals on Sex in the City are preoccupied with sex, relationships, and men (not to mention clothes), but is this really what we hip young Americans with disposable income should strive for?
Personally, I like music. I’ve decided that music is better than sex. It last longer, it’s easier to obtain, and you can do it while driving. Also, you can make a living off it and not be ashamed to tell your parents. “But wait!” you say, “What about companionship, intimacy, and all those other innate desires that send us to Hallmark stores monthly?” Don’t worry, you can get those through music, too. Ninety-five percent of the friendships that I have made throughout my life have been more the result of similarities in musical taste than similarities in sexuality or even sex itself.
I’m not saying that I don’t admire those who have successful, intimate relationships. I, too, love the warm gooey feeling that love provides. It’s just that I don’t think I’m “queer” because I’m gay. I own over sixty Tori Amos cds; that’s queer. I like pineapple and onions on my pizza; that’s sort of queer. I don’t watch much television; that’s really queer.
The Christian Right, which is neither, thinks that my existence is a threat to their exquisitely artificial construction: (Nuclear) “Family Values.” But, if you think about it, much of my life is spent helping them. I don’t plan on breeding, so their kids can have a better opportunity for that cushy job they so deserve. Or, even better, my nonexistent kid won’t keep theirs from making the baseball team or the cheerleading squad. I guarantee at least one less mouth to feed, one less possible “welfare leech,” and one less opportunity for heathen women to triumph over Christian men by exercising their right to have an abortion. Unless I donate sperm to a lesbian…
Maybe there’s something wrong with me. People tell me I should have more gay friends. Maybe I should make my sexuality the main mark of my identity. I’m sure more people would remember me if I introduced myself as “Sir Scott the Gay” or if I wore silk shirts, had a poodle, and lisped heavily. Maybe I should make destroying the moral fabric of American society the main goal of my life. That might be fun. I think that I was wrong; being gay can be outrageous, maybe even queer.
Sadly though, that kind of life is not for me. I’m too conservative for that, too timid and shy. I’ll just have to stick to sleeping with men.

updates

Hello all,

Well, I'm back, or maybe I should say, "I've arrived." I've decided that I actually do want to keep this blog going. Props to my friend Nathan for inspiring me to chronicle my sundry offerings. For the time being, I will be uploading some old writings and sharing some new ones. I hope to update this site fairly often with all sorts of news and stories, and, of course, it will be as quixotic and episodic as I can make it.

Love Scott (the blonde one)