I totally trust/Googled you:

HAS GOOD OLD FASHIONED TRUST IN RELATIONSHIPS CRASHED AND BURNED ON THE INFORMATION SUPERHIGHWAY?

AN EDITORIAL SPEC ON TRUST IN RELATIONSHIPS

True or False?

In regards to, the Facebook phenomenon...  Do you find yourself using the social media Tyrannosaurs Rex to...

Aggressively stalk ex|current|soon to be boyfriends...

...after midnight...

Whilst chain smoking [and you don't smoke]...

Simultaneously emptying an entire pint of Chucky Monkey on a  Friday night, after being stood up.  Then you rewatch The Craft three times; your face mirroring the insanity of famed Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction...

"I will not be ignored, Dan," you mutter, your eyes dilating into laser focused|psychologically not so sexy crossed beams, as you flutter through photos of your crush at work|new mate|ex-dog having loads of Facebook fun...

Without you?

Status Update:  The social media cauldron has bubbled. Am I boiling over?

With every click|SLAP|POW of the Jerry|mouse, the personal green eyed monster with you grows stronger [This is a special part of your enamoring, multifaceted personality usually kept straight-jacketed up American Horror Story Asylum style unleashed only for the special, exhilarating moments like public parking lot male head bashing followed by late night emasculating text messages lacking the integration of the practical five minute rule]...

TAINTED 

Memoir Excerpt

Every three months, I showed up at the doctor's office for my regular HIC test.  Dr. Bubbles always looked at me as if he was saying, "You're back so soon?"

See, I was a little OCD when it came to HIV because I was ADHD when it came to finding a working rubber.  I would get tested routinely, whether I had anal intercourse or not.  I feared those three letters more than anything else.  Perhaps if was because at church on Christmas Eve, my great aunt Fiona equated being gay to dying of AIDS.  Happy Hanukkah! 

So, I would slink down on the doctor's table as the heavyset nurse drew my blood, feeling like a  total slut.

Time and time again, Dr. Bubbles would enter the room and say, "Robert you tested positive for--" and end the sentence with the name of a disease I told myself I would never get.  Chlamydia. Syphilis.  Gonorrhea.

Then one day my cell phone rang...

ACTOR AS STORYTELLER:

Using Hip Hop to Inspire Artistic Impulse

Excerpt of a Research/Critical Ethnography Project

Abstract:

I examined the question: Can Hip Hop music and dance be inspiring to drama students in unlocking their artistic impulses as storytellers? Using Spike Lee’s film Do The Right Thing as inspiration, I began by researching the fundamentals of Hip Hop dance and interviewed a professional Hip Hop dancer and Sherene Schostak, M.A., a dance instructor, Jungian analyst, and published author, on the subject of infusing Hip Hop dance into a drama classroom.  I collaborated with Ms. Schostak to integrate The Authentic Dance Workshop into my drama classroom. Using my Introduction to Theater section at Pace University to collect data, I created a specific unit plan, examining Hip Hop music, dance and film. I focused on the journey of a cross-section of the class.  Through the study of specific rubrics, student interviews/essays, and videotape of classroom lessons, I found that infusing Hip Hop into an acting classroom not only inspires some students to have confidence in their artistic impulses to create powerful stories, but it builds a classroom community based on trust and respect.

Introduction:

The rationale behind my Teacher Research/Critical Ethnography Inquiry Project was inspired by a childhood curiosity and a current struggle I face as a drama teacher.  When I was an adolescent, I caught an interview with Rosie Perez on Arsenio Hall.  She was chatting about her work as a choreographer on In Living Color and mention was made of her role in Spike Lee’s powerhouse culture drama, Do The Right Thing.  They showed a small clip from the film. I was intrigued and I made my mother rent the movie for me at Blockbuster. I put the movie in the VCR and within the first few minutes was totally engrossed by this in-your-face dance solo, performed by Perez. I found myself re-watching the introduction over and over, the words of the song, “Fight the Power,” echoing in my brain.  The intensity of Perez’s eyes, her lips, her hips, her thrusts, punched through my soul and I felt weak, as though I had crawled out of a boxing ring. Ironically, this scene is really the only part of the movie that truly stayed with me.  It left an impact on me as an artist and human being.  With no dialogue, this scene spoke volumes through only dance and music. 

As a drama teacher, I am constantly struggling with what will inspire my students to break out of their shells and tell dramatic stories.  Pace University is a school that prides itself on the diversity of the student body. The diversity of my class has forced me to think about my curriculum and how best I can serve my students.  In Roc the Mic Right: The Language of Hip Hop Culture, H. Samy Alim states that “educational institutions have been attempting to gentrify and remove Black Language from its speakers…most Blacks in the US since integration can testify that they have experienced teachers’ attempts to eradicate their language and linguistic practices in favor of the adoption of White cultural and linguistic norms” (54). I had to ask myself as a drama teacher: How can I integrate Black Language into a drama classroom? Then, it came to me, when reading an interview Alim had with JT the Bigga Figga. JT said, “The rappers are the number one teachers. The rappers have more influence over the people, really, than the teachers, preachers, politicians, the presidents, the mayors…” (45).  The idea for a Hip Hop Unit Plan flashed in my mind, as I began to hear the aggressive rap of “Fight the Power” accompanying the visual images of Rosie Perez aggressively expressing herself through movement in Do The Right Thing. 

It is through the merging of a childhood curiosity and my present day struggle as a teacher that I realized my research question. If I were so inspired as an artist by the use of dance and music in Lee’s Do the Right Thing, would my present day students be inspired as well? Furthermore, can Hip Hop dance and music be used as a tool to engage students in unlocking their artistic impulses, while becoming powerful storytellers?

 

Tic Toc

an excerpt from the manuscript

The Piano Wire Man

“I need all new clothes,” I said sheepishly to my mother as I jumped into the car. The Volvo sped out of the school parking lot and my mother looked at me with concern.

I don’t remember exactly what I said to her. 

I don’t remember if I told her what really happened on my first day at this new school, in this new town.  I don’t remember if I told her about the taunting, or the name calling, or the tears, or the wanting to shed my skin, or wanting to die, or of wanting to blow up and kill every child at Northside Elementary School for making this day one that I would never forget. 

This day ruined me. 

I don’t remember if I told my mother any of this. 

All I remember is the vibration of the car riding on the pavement and the safety of feeling my mother driving next to me. 

“God, I don’t want to go to school tomorrow,” I repeated over and over again in my head. “I don’t want to go to school tomorrow.”

     I don’t remember exactly what I said to my mother, but whatever I did say prompted her to not drive straight home.  The car stopped in a parking space in front of Gold’s Department Store.  The sign had sweeping modern letters—modern for 1970’s standards, which is probably the last time this store had a renovation.  The dilapidated department store was housed in the Historic Square of Georgetown, Texas, complete with a picturesque county court house topped with a clock tower.  I swear to God I remember seeing tumble weeds breeze across the sidewalks. 

“Why the fuck did Dad make us move here?” I thought, climbing out of the car.

As we opened the main glass doors, a warm rush of air clouded my face. 

I inhaled. 

It smelled old. 

Damp. 

Wet. 

My stomach sank. 

I wanted to puke. 

My head pounded. 

I gripped my mother’s hand tighter.

     Shopping with my mother used to be the joy of my young life.  Honestly, I often felt bad for my father. He would come into my bedroom early on a Saturday morning, offering me an afternoon of golf with the ole man.  He had even purchased a small set of golf clubs with a matching bag years earlier.  Needless to say, those clubs sat nearly unused in the garage collecting many years’ worth of dust.  But with the option of heading to the golf course with Dad or an afternoon of shopping at Ridgemar Mall with the possible addition of an afternoon showing of Beaches or Big Business staring Bette Midler at the multiplex with Mom—I almost always chose the latter, hands down.

I mean car rides out to the manicured course with Dad always included those incredibly uncomfortable, unglamorous conversations that usually started with statements like, “So your getting older now, huh, Bob?  You growing hair on your balls yet?”

Horrifying! 

I can almost still feel my face burning with embarrassment.  Gotta love my ole man.  He was desperately trying to forge some kind of relationship with his son, who would rather play his version of Ms. America with his sister’s Barbie than participate in team sports where he avoided any contact with flying balls. 

It’s funny what a young gay man avoids during his youth and then flocks to as he gets older, cruising the streets and bars of Manhattan Island.

     The fluorescent lights of the mall filled my young body with excitement.  Mom and I would travel through the racks of perfectly hanging clothes with the precision of an Olympic Ice Skating Doubles Team.  This was my true sport.  Finding 12 outfits with matching socks and two pairs of diverse, yet practical shoes for school was my sport.  Mom let me try on each outfit by myself in the dressing room and then I would model everything for her.  She would usually give me the nod, mirroring the approval of Anna Wintour , which meant I would be wearing that outfit next Monday to school—or maybe Tuesday?  

I loved color. 

Pink.

Orange.

Lilac.

Baby Blue.

Lime green.

Color.

Bright-popping-Wizard-of-Oz-Techno-Color. 

Suspenders.

Bow ties.

Boat shoes.

Ralph Lauren socks.

Sweaters.

Cardigans.

Guess Jeans.

Short shorts. 

I loved a layered look. 

Upon checking out, the beeping of the cash register gun scanning all of my items shot up my blood pressure. 

Was I sweating? 

Could we afford all of this? 

We always could.  My mother pulled the plastic out of her khaki, leather wallet. Swipe.

Approved. 

Now for the best part—the bagging. 

Perfectly folded.

Tissue Paper. 

Ultimate freedom as I walked out of the Junior Department at Dillard’s, feeling like a man in control of my destiny.  Years later I would find out that indeed we couldn’t afford all of this.  Apparently my parents almost divorced because of the fact that my mother had wracked up nearly 60,000 dollars in credit card debt from 1987-1988.  I got a sort of sick satisfaction that this had a lot to do with my shopping expeditions. 

Mom really loves me. 

She knows me. 

She gets me. 

     But it was all different now. 

Now, as we stood in the entrance of Gold’s Department Store, I was feeling different.  Less excitement and more panic.  Yes, I was here on a mission to buy clothes, but it was for an entirely different reason.  When I awoke earlier that morning preparing for my first day at a new school, in a new town, I had no idea how the destiny of my day would play out. 

I chose a perfect outfit. 

A hot pink Ralph Lauren polo, with the collar popped. 

Super cute Z Cavaricci jean shorts that had the perfect inseam.

They exposed just enough little boy thigh. 

A Cole Haan tan belt with gold clasp. 

Matching Ralph Lauren hot pink socks and super white K-Swiss sneakers.  I was obsessed with the silver buckles that the laces looped through, and I didn’t care that the silver clashed with my belt buckle. 

I thought it was eclectic. 

I had my morning ritual down to a science.

Shower:

12 minutes. 

Hair:

18 minutes. 

For the hair I had to utilize my mother’s blow dryer.  I was obsessed with Jonathan from Who’s The Boss.  He sported the most perfect wedge hair cut.  My mother wouldn’t let me get highlights, which put us at odds for years, but lemon juice and Sun-In from the drug store worked quite nicely.  My hair was sun kissed and glowing.  After a solid 18 minutes of blow-drying, I would have the most perfect dippity-do-swoop in the front, which was held in place by the most perfect amount of White Rain hairspray from my mom’s medicine cabinet.  I knew I had used the perfect amount when I would begin coughing and wheezing like a smoker with emphysema.  One final pat and pick and my masterpiece was complete. 

Perfect outfit—

check. 

Hair—

check. 

I just needed to grab my bag, which was a super cute green, military over-the-shoulder from Banana Republic.  I thought it was so genius how the bullet compartments held pencils so perfectly.  Had I known what would be my future at my new school that day, I would have substituted real bullets for the pencils and packed a handgun in my lunch bag rather than a ham sandwich.

     The secretary led me down the hallway toward what would become my dreaded homeroom for the remaining six weeks of school.  It was a warm, Spring Texas day and I could feel my palms beginning to sweat as I focused on the patterned clicking the dumpy heals of the seasonal-sweater-wearing secretary made against the old checkered linoleum floor.  We stopped in front of Mrs. Ryster’s door. 

I inhaled. 

The door opened. 

Mrs. Ryster seemed pleasant enough as she motioned for me to enter into the classroom.  She put her hand on my shoulder and the room fell silent.

All I could hear was the ticking of the clock.

Tic toc.

Tic toc.

“Class, we have a new student.”

Tic toc. 

“This is Bobby.” 

Tic toc.

I looked out over the sea of faces glaring back at me. 

Then it started.

The whispering.

The snickering.

The questions that continued throughout the day.

“Bobby? Is that a girl’s name?”

Tic toc. 

“Is that a boy or a girl?”

Tic toc.

“Nice hot pink shirt.”

Tic Toc.

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

Tic toc.

“Sissy.”

Tic toc.

“Are you gay?”

Tic Toc.

“Fag.” 

Where the fuck am I?

Are these really sixth graders or have I been sent to some sort of backwoods-inbred-white-trash prison by mistake?

Tic Toc. 

By lunchtime I was knee deep in a solid, screaming panic attack and requested to be sent to the nurse.

Tic Toc.

I couldn’t quite articulate what was wrong with me.  I found it amazing how teachers could be so oblivious to the torture I was being subjected to. 

These fucking kids are animals. 

What kind of town is this? 

Is this really happening? 

Tic Toc.

While munching on a saltine in the nurse’s office, which was the remedy for any ailment, including excessive bullying, my brain worked in overdrive, trying to come up with a plan of attack.  I flicked the crumbs off of my hot pink Ralph Lauren polo. 

I stared at the pink. 

Tic toc.

Suddenly I was full of rage. 

I wanted to rip this goddamn shirt off my lanky back. 

“Its all your fault Ralph!!!!!!” 

As I walked back to homeroom, my dippity-do was losing steam, color was fading from my eyes, but I had a plan.

Tic toc. 

I knew what I had to do. 

Relief warmed over me as the bell screeched through the school and the torture of that day was over.

     Standing in the entrance of Gold’s Department Store, I pushed my nausea aside and made my way to the boy’s department. 

What does a boy wear? 

I began filling my Mom’s arms with t-shirts with stupid logos, wind shorts, sport socks, Nike sneakers, sweat pants, sweat shorts, nothing flashy, only primary colors—actually lets stay away from red—actually no color—maybe just navy blue and black and grey. Baseball hats—I need baseball hats. 

I decided not to try anything on. 

I was depressed. 

I tried not to cry as we checked out. 

The car ride home was silent save for the steady vibration of the wheels of the Volvo gliding on the winding country roads.  As we parked into the garage, I ran from the car and into the house heading straight for the shower.  The White Rain slid from my hair as the water jetted onto my collapsed head.  As water seeped into my eyes, I stared at the drain, visualizing the old me being sucked down into the depths of the sewer along with my dirty body water. 

I mused.

What kind of name is Bobby anyway? 

Who calls their son Bobby?

     At dinner, I made the announcement.  “I’m changing my name.  I want to go by Robert from now on.” 

The family looked at me.

Pause.

Then they went right on with their chewing, like grazing cows, as though nothing was said. 

Robert is definitely a boy’s name. 

I want no confusion. 

Bobby is gone. 

Down into the sewer. 

He is safe down there. 

He is comforted by the sludge and the darkness. 

He will wait. 

Until when, I don’t know. 

That Thursday the garbage men had some extra bags to pick up in the Palmer’s trashcans.  Buried deep under the bottles and cans, were two bags filled with Technicolor.  Bobby would need clothes in the sewer and Robert had no need for them anymore.

mass trans

AN EDITORIAL SPEC ON PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION

Although the terms mass transit and public transportation are seemingly both speeding toward the same ultimate destination on time and with no lay-overs in Scranton, the terminology could not be more distinctive that Steve Martin and John Candy's characters in Planes, Trains and Automobiles.  City officials often promote both pieces of oddly interchangeable lexicon as vastly improving the landscape of cities by way of economy and the environment, while offering society the modern advances of ease and convenience:  leaving the global foot printing Firestone tires of the gas guzzling SUV parked in the garage|park 'N ride.  The wave of the future, as Howard Hughes would say, over and over as his fingernails grew longer and longer.

But looking at the language through a sociological lens with a dash of hierarchical class structure and demographic disparaging to taste, the terms usually produce vastly different effects in the hearts and minds of the modern  population.

Sort of like the difference between drinking a can of ice cold Diet Dr. Pepper on a hot day with Kathleen Turner's legato vocals vibrating through your ear canal or drinking a can of ice cold Diet Dr. Pepper on a hot day with two cigarette butts floating inside and Kathleen Turner's current mug one inch from your own...

Host

Flash Fiction

“Listen Travis, if you don’t like someone you meet online, just be honest and say thanks for playing!  Then, slam the door in their face, and they’ll get the hint. You, my friend, are too nice. These guys know the rules,” Janice said, slyly.

Travis just nodded, sipping his happy hour Heineken, trying hard to relax. The thumping house music at Pieces on Christopher Street had already managed to give him a splitting headache, and as he nervously scanned the crowd, he knew that tonight, like every other night, he’d be going home alone. At twenty-five, Travis’s dating life was basically non-existent heading full speed toward complete oblivion.

     “Get one of those gay apps and find yourself some boys.  You ain’t getting any younger.  And Grandma’s tired of you bringing Janice to all the family reunions,” Travis’s mother said the next week while shoving an Apple bag at his chest. Inside the box was an iPhone.  Not only did Travis not have Facebook, but, up until this very moment, he still used his Motorola flip-phone circa 2005.

     In his wildest dreams, Travis never thought he would actually ever WOOF at a man online.  He yearned for a real life connection, but could it be possible that Apple was onto something…

     What am I looking for, Travis thought, staring at the iPhone screen.

     Was he looking for right now? 

     Later? 

     Did he want to host? 

     Travel? 

     Travel where?

     Want to party? 

     What the hell did PNP mean?  

     Masculine for Masculine? 

     No fems. 

     Am I fem?

     POZ?

     BB?

     Undetectable? 

     Gay shorthand was baffling!  As he browsed all of the profiles on Manhunt.com, Adam4Adam, Scruff, and Grindr, he wondered what he could possibly see in these hard-bodied-headless-figures roaming the Internet super highway with their penises proudly exposed?

      Travis didn’t know the rules, but he took his Grandmother’s advice and signed up for them all. Soon, he got his first smile, then wink, then woof.  It felt surprisingly good. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad, he thought as he made the first of many first dates with the headless men of the gay inter-web.

     The men came in droves, like Travis had a sign on his back that spelled: fresh meat.

     Oh boy, did they come…

     One eyed Monsters.

     Mr. Bad Breath.

     Mr. Man Boobs.

     Tweaker Man.

     Micropenis Man.

     It was after one of those regretful-if-you-ever-bring-it-up-I’ll-murder-you first dates, that Travis found himself out on the streets riding his bike. As a child, Travis preferred to be alone on his bike, riding through streets of Bay Ridge into Park Slope, staring at the twinkling lights of Manhattan Island, which silently beckoned him from across the East River.  It was in that spot that he began envisioning his future boyfriend.  He actually had fantasies of meeting a guy at Vacation Bible School.  Hopefully someone with a spiritual side, he fantasized, perhaps a bible-beating-alter-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold.  In his present reality, it seemed like every man in his gay-friendly non-denominational church was well over 50, straight, married and/or sang really, really badly in the choir.

As he stared out at the skyline of Manhattan, it seemed to hold less promise than it had before. He deliberated if New York City was really the ideal place for him.  Travis had spent his entire life in the concrete jungle.  Maybe it was time for this gay Christian to move.  Maybe… the Bible Belt? Travis wondered if the den of iniquity that is NYC could offer him what he truly needed. And at that moment it was an honest man’s hand interlaced into his own.

The cool spring air collided with his face as he rounded the corner of Broadway and Houston.  iPOD blasting, he didn’t even see the other bike darting right in front of him—

SMASH!

SLAM! 

Travis flew from the bike and skidded down Broadway.  The rider of the other bicycle was somewhere on Houston Street tangled in the greasy chain.  As Travis dusted himself off, he searched for the culprit causing him to almost catapult to his death. 

     “You know, you really can’t be riding your bike the wrong way on a…”

     But his angry voice trailed off as he noticed that the other biker was most definitely a very attractive man.  A man in a pink polo, covered with just a little splatter of blood from a shallow head wound.  Travis immediately rushed over and knelt above the injured angel.  Their eyes met.  For a small second they both forgot about their pain and just stared.

     This is for you Grandma, Travis thought, taking a breath.

     “You know, my apartment is just around the corner.  I have a first aid kit.  We really need to clean you up,” Travis blurted out.

     It was definitely time to host.

     “Um, sure.  Okay.  Which way?”

     Travis pointed to the left and grabbed the injured stranger’s arm and helped him to step up the curb and onto the sidewalk. 

     As they hobbled down West Houston Street, dragging two mangled bikes behind them, Travis asked his new friend, “What’s your name?”

     “Benji,” he said, and smiled. 

The next couple minutes were silent.  But it was an easy silence.  Travis loved those moments in life where people didn’t feel the need to pepper the air with idle chitchat.

     “Well this is me…” he said pointing to the small stoop going up to a modest prewar.  “After you…” he said unlocking the door.

     One exhilarating hour later, Travis exhaled after about forty-seven and a-half minutes of some of the best sex he’d ever had. Well, it was the only sex he had ever had.  Could it be possible?  All that wasted time online and then WAM a bike accident sparks a love connection only Chuck Woolery could understand.

     Benji rolled over and put his head on Travis’s chest.

     “Can I ask you something Benji?”

     “Sure, Travis, anything.”

     “Um, you never went to Vacation Bible School, did you?”

     Benji smiled, nodding his head.

     And, at that moment, they both felt found.