href="http://tabletalk.salon.com/webx?14@@.eeaa3d2/10">House and Garden
Anne Threston - 10:13 am PDT - May 10, 2000 - #11 of 32

While it wasn't the most expensive meal I ever had, it was pretty spendy for a lunch. It was at the Hotel Olden, in Gstaad, I dined with my cousin, and we ate like queens.
Lobster biqsue that was absolute essense of lobster, concentrated, blended with the fabu local cream, quite possibly from a relative of one of the cows that chased us into town. Then we had venison, tiny little medallions napped with a wonderful brown sauce, served over spaetzel.
As soon as we finshed our venison, the waiter refilled our plates, which was a bit of an issue, since there was a lot of lunch left. However, the dog at the next table liked venison, and helped us clean our plates. (Another thing I like about Europe - the vastly civilized attitude towards pets)
There were sorbets of raspberry and lemon, with some sort of alcohol added, a salad of mixed greens, some cheese, and a wonderful apple tart for dessert.
All of this was washed down with a couple bottles of the local fruit of the grape, plus a fair amount of cognac. The bill was over $200 US, and I'll be damned if I remember a bit of the drive home.

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Politics
Paul Johnson - 02:24 pm PST - May 1, 2000 - #6210 of 6541

As for the March, it's a different world than in 1993, with Clinton just elected. There's not the same sense of urgency as it was when AIDS research was underfunded and Clinton had just gotten the right hook over gays in the military. Right now it's a moment of hope (Vermont) and trepidation (Prop. 22) for the future at least for me and my friends.
We hope for a cure for AIDS, we hope for job protection, we hope to one day get married. Who knows how many people showed up (but it was a hell of a lot more than 200,000, I've covered enough rallies in my day to be able to judge a crowd) but I would have been empowered with 50,000 people or five strangers willing to admit gay is good. It was certainly an overwhelming white crowd. It's quite possible the speakers were more diverse than the audience. I know where I can find my fellow brothers, it's still not easy to be black and gay (and if I read another story in the Washington Post about how unradical it is to be gay, I'll send him to live in the rough side of Yonkers New York and see how it feels like to be called a fag every day on your way to work), many, many gay rights groups from the progressives to the conversatives and all the way back round, have trouble reaching across the racial divide. Usually you guys say something that just pisses us off. Like the anti-affirmative action wing of the gay journalist association, which comes to my mind immediately.
I can just say this, for a weekend, DC was a gay metropolis and every passing boy and girl held the prospect of liberation for love and happiness yes of course but also for freedom. With all of our voices we will tear down the walls and cielings that hold us back. And it's an empowering thought. Look at us, we're so everyday and outrageous, smart and dumb, musclebound and tubby, they can't stop us forever.
Even the men and women who stayed home and fumed was a sign of progress because 20 years ago there were no cranky men and women complaining about the lack of open process and kvetching about the Human Rights Campaign and it's marketing-oriented approach to gay rights. It's a different world. Somehow you all have to make some sort of peace with the HRC. Lobbyists of all stripes leave a bad taste in our mouth, but they are on our side, right?
I just feel for the boys I couldn't convince to come, because they were still afraid to be out. I wanted to hold their hand (okay one boy in particular but so what) on the Washington Mall and let them know it's okay, no one will hurt you, no one will call you a fag. We are a force to be reckoned with. I would have said that to him even a million people just showed up or just one boy.

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href="http://tabletalk.salon.com/webx?14@@.ee8efe5/622">Books
Carrie Pruett - 08:24 pm PST - Apr 24, 2000 - #623 of 624

When I was a freshman at the University of Virginia, Tom Clancy gave a talk that was widely attended and managed to turn a significant portion of the student body off his works for life. I had read a few of his books and had gotten the impression that, while he was strongly pro-military, he wasn't especially right-wing socially. Oops! The talk was thoroughly political, including some strong anti-gay-rights statements, and he was generally arrogant Then when he went over the time limit (because he kept talking about himself endlessly), he said he had to leave and couldn't sign any books - which was a big reason that a lot of people had come.
The same year at school, Dave Barry was totally the opposite experience. His talk was very funny - though it sounded rehearsed, since I imagine he does this kind of thing a lot. When I was getting my book signed, I asked him to make it out in the name of my then-boyfriend, who couldn't come to the talk. A guy from my dorm who was standing by asked "Ooh, who's that?" I said my boyfriend, and the guy and Dave made little "Oooh-oooh" sounds together. It was very cute.
Only other author I've seen give a reading was Peter Matthiesen. I had never read his books, but was captivated by him at the reading. The book was "Killing Mr. Watson" - later when I tried to read it on my own, it just didn't have the same effect and I gave up. But he was cool to see in person; he has a great voice.

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href="http://tabletalk.salon.com/webx?13@@.eea98c2/184">Mothers Who Think
Frarochvia - 06:08 pm PST - Apr 18, 2000 - #185 of 271

If you've never been systemically raped again and again and again by someone who says he loves you and cares for you and takes you out places and and even brings you roses, you don't know what you're talking about.
You don't understand how it feels to have mixed feelings day in and day out. You don't understand how hope surges in you when he suggests going out and doing something fun. You don't understand how it feels to find yourself in the same position again and again at night, when you're saying no, no, leave me alone, and to feel him go ahead anyway. You don't know how it feels to have a friendship with this person on one level, to have been friends with him for years. To even in some ways want to maintain this friendship somehow. And to fight with him all the time about the sex and to not simply understand.... or even tell yourself... that it never was an issue about how often. It never was an issue of how clean the place was. It was an issue of this person claiming he loved you hurting you and ignoring you and taking from you. Raping you again and again to the point you didn't see it anymore.
The human body has a great capacity for enduring a lot under duress. Don't dare ever blame the victim. Don't tell her she's not really a victim. Don't tell her she hasn't done enough. Don't tell her she was stupid. She feels horrible enough as it is.

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href="http://tabletalk.salon.com/webx?14@@.ee8caa1/483">House and Garden
Noel Vera - 06:04 pm PST - Apr 8, 2000 - #484 of 510

"spiced with theft and danger. "
The only way to eat luxury foods.
General Santos in southern Philippines is the tuna canning center of the country, maybe the region; you can believe it that they have all-you-can eat, unbelievably fresh sashimi there (love sashimi; the texture, color and bouquet of that red, red flesh is so redolent of something I love to eat almost as much, if not more...)
Anyways, there's a restaurant here in Manila almost as good; they're called GenSan, after the town, and their specialty is grilled jaw of tuna.
Our table ordered one, and the waiter deliverd a smoking, blackened hunk of charchaol about a foot and a half long by a foot wide. We cracked the charred exterior, and inside was pounds of hot and steaming tuna flesh; dipped in a soy, chili, and vinegar sauce, it was incredible.
And it got better. You have to poke around and inside the pockets and corners of the tuna jaw; that's where the best parts are. Chewy yet tender ligaments; dark, buttery-soft bits of meat; crisp and fatty fishskin, almost like pork rinds in taste and richness...
A cup of pickled mangoes and a bottle of beer, and ho boy...

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href="http://tabletalk.salon.com/webx?14@@.eea0c1b/2319"> Writing
Kevin Williams - 12:59 pm PST - Apr 6, 2000 - #2320 of 2325

It is precisely "oxygen-starved/icy death" that seems such a fiction on a good spring day. When the wind hits you and you turn toward it, sensing warmth... that's when you know winter's on its slouching way out.
This weekend, providing I can finish up some work that has moved from dead-line to rotting putrification-line, I will have to mow the grass. This is incredible for upstate New York. I am used to wearing a winter coat until early May, to seeing my breath in the air each Easter. Now in the hills I look over through the office window, there is that bright, rust haze which is the blur of early buds on the trees, before they've greened. It is maybe my favorite natural color, all promise.
Last fall, Ken summed up a feeling about the season: "You blew it." Spring? Spring says, "There's life in you, yet."
Enjoy, all.

The Gifted Vs. The World

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Books
Abigail Quart - 10:44 am PST - Mar 26, 2000 - #519 of 527

Joe Papp is the man who escorted a group of theater technicians thru the Astor Place Library, dangerous at that moment because it was being renovated, and pointed to various holes in the ground saying, "That will be a theater, and THAT will be a theater ..." and it came true. That was the first time I ever saw him. It's now called The Joseph Papp Public Theater, but I knew it as the Public. He founded the New York Shakespeare Festival, and there's hardly an actor or technician in the Greater Metropolitan Area who hasn't drawn a check from him at sometime or other. In its heyday, the NYSF filled the building across the street from the Public with fully-staffed carpentry, electric, and costume shops.
It was Joe Papp who gave people their first real impression of Andre Braugher, Meryl Streep, Nathan Lane, Raul Julia, and so many more.
And it was Joe who insisted that Shakespeare in the Park be free. He wouldn't even allow a quarter to be charged. People would pack baskets with food and wine, games and radios, and line up on the playing fields outside the theatre for a day in the sun, waiting for ticket distribution.
I'm remembering the smell of cedar when the wood planking of the Delacorte was wet. Always be sure to bring a big poncho in case of rain, and it made a good picnic blanket too. And the audience would sit and wait for the stage to be mopped, so the show could go on. They would wait and wait, hoping it wouldn't be cancelled.
I'm remembering Stacy Keach as Hamlet when the skies opened up on his line, "Come let us go in." He turned to the audience and said, "Come, let us ALL go in."
And the second New York blackout that occurred in the middle of Ellen Greene's rendition of "Pirate Jenny" in Three Penny Opera. She kept singing. They could hear her without the mikes. And it gave us time to search for candles and flashlights so we could safely lead the audience outside the Delacorte and out of Central Park. But first we ran up to Belevedere Castle, that stands like a permanent set piece above the theater, to see how far the blackout went, and watched the lights blinking on and off at Roosevelt Hospital as they tried to start their emergency generators. Then, after getting everybody out, we walked, in a great big group, all the way back downtown, passing thru blacked-out Times Square singing "Give My Regards to Broadway."

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href="http://tabletalk.salon.com/webx?14@@.eea0c1b/2210">Writing
Marney X - 09:55 pm PST - Mar 14, 2000 - #2211 of 2218

A length of cloth cut from a bolt of navy-blue wool
A length of satin for the lining
7 buttons
Thread
A new bobbin
A pattern
Pinking shears

"Will there be anything else?" the clerk inquired.
"No. This should be perfect," she said.

She cut and laid out the pieces of the coat-to-be.
Marked, pinned, and pressed the seams.
Basted.
Double-checked.
Filled the bobbin and threaded the eye of the needle.

Presser foot down , she leaned her right thigh into the lever that drove the Singer's needle on its methodical journey, up and down, up and down , over the material's highway.
There was a particular sound a sewing machine made as needle and fabric intertwined .
I remember.
You'd know it if you heard it.

Lovingly, she turned each corner and smoothed away the folds and creases. Lapels, pockets, inseams, pleats and a band-- held in place by two buttons-- that would be the detail for the coat's back.
5 buttons down the front to keep her treasure warm.

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href="http://tabletalk.salon.com/webx?13@@.eea6eca/223">Private Life
Keith Richards - 12:45 pm PST - Mar 3, 2000 - #224 of 278 (# 44 of 47)

Okay. Time for my next dog story. Skeeter the Keeshound.
On night as I am closing out the store at around 9:15pm, I hear a gutwrenching cry from the kennels where the new arrivals get put before they go on the sales floor.
The dogs are usually bred in the midwest and flown into the Maryland area and then trucked to our store. It was summer and hot. They don't give the animals enough water sometimes. Big problem in the summer. Sometimes the flight and shipping can take 24 hours.
I walk over to the kennel where the Keeshound is, henceforth to be known as "skeeter", to find him balancing on his nose, mouth agape, tongue hanging out of his mouth. I touch him and he falls over, bonk. Unconscious. Shit. It is after 9:30 at this point. If I leave him here he is dead. I gotta sleep at night, I can't just leave the little guy. The closest emergency hospital is 30 minutes away and I have no car. DAMMIT. I call my girlfriend and tell her to get down here as fast as she can. She takes one look at limp little Skeeter and starts tearing up. I tell her he is not dead. YET. We gotta move fast. We hop in the car and scoot.
We get to the emergency vet clinic around 10:00. Just as I am walking through the reception area, he looses control of his bowels all over me. SIGH.
The other patients owners ask what is going on. I tell them I work for Docktor Pet Center and.......groans of disapproval fill the room! "C'mon people gimme a break", I said, "you see me here trying to save the lil pups life, can I have some love here?" They let me go first.
Turns out the little guy is so dehydrated that he is in a diabetic coma. They pump him full if fluids through an IV. Nothing. No response. They give me a bag of fluids and tell me that there is nothing to do but give him more fluids and watch him. They can do nothing else for me as I can't afford to have them keep him overnight.
So much for a quiet evening at home.
I call my roommate. "Dude. I need you to clean and sanitize the kitchen counter. And buy lots of beer. I got a dog in a coma that we are going to have to try and keep alive."
"DOG?!?!? COMA?!?", luckily my roomate also worked at a pet store and was aware that this shit happens. He sets up shop for me.
I get to my apartment and not only has he set up shop and purchased a CASE of Molson Golden, he has told my friends and I walk into a concerned animal lovers party!
Unfortunately, Skeeter is doing no better. I tell my roommate and friends the story so far. The girls are weepy. I tell them that we very well could lose the little guy tonight, do not get your hopes up.
You shoulda seen the kitchen. IV bag hanging from the top of the kitchen cabinet door. Comatose puppy on the counter. Poor dude.
Finally, after giving him his last shot of subcutaneous fluids, I lay him down on some clean newspaper. It was 4:00 AM. I could do nothing more. I went to sleep on the couch, hoping he would at least still be alive when I woke up.
5:15 AM I hear the sound of rustling newspaper! He is awake, he can't lift his head or anything, but he is blinking his eyes and licking his lips. Thinking I am out of the woods, I decide to forgo extra sleep and keep him active. It works. 9:00 AM he is still weak, but I lay him on the back seat of my girlfriends car and head to work.
He is back in a coma by the time I get there. Shit. At this point, I have to much emotional energy wrapped up in Skeeter. I stay in the back until he comes out of his second coma at around 11:30.
Two weeks later, after I decide to take him under my personal care, he goes out for sale. I inform my staff that he is NOT to be sold to anyone without them being approved by his dad, ME. At this point he is convinced that I am his owner. He follows me around the salesfloor and sits by my desk when I am doing paperwork.
Luckily, one of my employees girlfriends purchased the dog. As she knew his history, she didn't think it was right to change his name. He was TEETERING on the edge of death, hence the name SKEETER, because it rhymed.
The last time I saw Skeeter he was about 1 1/2. He came running down the aisle and just started jumping up and down. He got so excited that he peed on the floor! The owner said, "he doesn't get so excited that his pisses on himself for anybody but you Keith, and I don't know why."
I do.

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href="http://tabletalk.salonmagazine.com/webx?14@@.eea336e/3645">Politics
hamp simmons - 10:00 pm PST - Feb 28, 2000 - #3646 of 3657

Speaking of frat boys, I have a great story that is totally off thread, but I'm going to tell it anyway. When I was in college, my boyfriend was in Kappa Sigma Fraternity at another school. He left his Kappa Sig jersey in my laundry basket after one of his week end visits and for several months after that I slept in it. (Actually, I often wonder what happened to it, since I don't recall tossing it out. Hmm......interesting sidethought, but.....)
So, one night, three friends and I pulled an all nighter studying for a poli-sci test and I put on the jersey at some point and wore it the rest of the night. That morning, we all three staggered over to the poli-sci test and then staggerered to the cafeteria for lunch. As on many campuses, each frat had a table. The Kappa Sigs had the one right next to the door and as I approached, (unmindful of the fact that I was still in my KS jersey) they all looked up and started to greet me.....until they saw who it was: Centenary's only out homo.
By the time I had gotten to the end of the lunch line, the entire cafeteria was abuzz over the fact that the only known fag on campus was wearing a KS football jersey. Already, sides had been taken, the TKE's thought it was funny, the KA's were offended (I had crashed Old South in drag with my Mammy the year before), the Theta Chi's were confused (as usual), the Chi Omega's were conflicted, half of them dating Kappa Sigs, and the Betas simply looked down their noses at any activity that did not merit attention from girls of their social standing. The president of Chi O came over and joined me at lunch in solidarity. Several of the major freak druggie boys also came over to sit with me since they thought the whole thing was a great hoot. I was mystified that wearing a football jersey could honestly become one of the most controversial things I had ever done.
Finally, I took my tray to the dishwasher and began my exit from the cafeteria. None of my staunch allies had the balls to walk out with me but since balls has never been something I lacked, I walked as casually as possible toward the door. Two Kappa Sigs intercepted me, the President and the Secretary, two of the sexiest boys on campus, and the taller one said, "We couldn't help but notice your jersey, would you mind telling us exactly where you got it?"
I smiled, very sweetly and told the truth: "My boyfriend spent the night and left it." Their jaws dropped open and they seemed to have nothing else to say, so I walked between them and on to the door.
They rushed back to their table, the entire fraternity huddled and then in unison, they all looked at me, then around the table at one other. For weeks, a pledge was stationed in front of my apartment to watch for the errant KS member who was visiting my den of inequity.
It soon became one of the biggest jokes on campus and I was named the Sweetheart of Kappa Sig by the campus paper. Unfortunately, the Sigs never developed a sense of humor and out and out refused to put my pic on their page in the yearbook. They never discovered who my boyfriend was and rumours continued until my graduation as to who the owner of my Kappa Sig football jersey might be. Of course, after getting so much attention for my choice of wardrobe, I began to wear it at least once a week, just to keep their anxiety levels up. For the next three years, I would don my jersey, wander the campus and smile and wave at cute Kappa Sig boys and smile suggestively as they blushed.

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Mothers Who Think
Kym S - 06:23 pm PST - Feb 24, 2000 - #26 of 26

I read a quote that went something like "to have a child is to forever after know what it is like to have your heart go walking around outside your body"
That about sums it up for me.
I worry about losing my children. I mean like they wander off, or are kidnapped. I see someone like the mother of that boy kidnapped at age 11 and now missing ten years - never knowing what happened to her child. Was he scared? Did he suffer? Knowing that all those happy photos, and memories, and milestones led up to that awful moment when he was snatched away. Oh God I just get so upset even thinking of it. Or how did John Walsh not just kill himself? I mean how do people survive it. I honestly think that would be the WORST - not knowing.
I realize that household and auto accidents are far more realistic to fear - but for me even the one or two times my son was "missing" for just a few seconds was enough to make me think I would never, ever survive not knowing where he was for any length of time.
I used to be able to see news stories about tragedies and harm to children and think "oh well that is sooo sad" and I did feel it, but then I moved on. Now I can almost not bear to even hear such things. They haunt me for too long. I worry about the parents, how they are doing, what they are feeling, how they could possibly survive the loss.
I have turned into this spaz that tells my husband I MUST die before he and the children. I do not in any way, shape, or form wish to outlive any of them.
I swear I am generally a laid back, calm, happy person. However, as the first message says - I feel so vulnerable when it comes to my children. I don't think I could survive harm to them. I just couldn't.

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Home and Away Dave F - 03:11 pm PST - Jan 25, 2000 - #44 of 46

About fifteen years ago, I had to go to a rural part of Oklahoma for a business trip. I flew into Oklahoma City, rented a car, and started driving, on Interstates and main roads.

My first intimation of weirdness came when I stopped somewhere to use the bathroom and grab a burger and fries. When I returned to the car, someone had gone to great pains to hawk up a huge wad of phlegm, and spit it on the side window.

A bit later, when I stopped for gas, I realized the reason. I returned to the car from getting a coke, and the pump jockey says:

"Hey, mister, that's some license plate you got thar."

"Huh?", I say. "It's a rental car."

"Oh. Well, if'n I wuz you, I'd turn right around and go back and get another car."

"Why."

"Well, hail, don't chew know nothin? That there's the mark of the Devil, raht out of Revelation."

The license plate began with 666.

Great Books for Girls

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href="http://tabletalk.salon.com/webx?14@@.eea6462/16">Home and Away
Thompson Robert - 08:35am Jan 13, 2000 PST (# 17 of 50)

I've had my fill of his elitist and pompous thinking, as well as his
"righter-than-thou" way of expressing himself. Arguing with him is pointless,
as he is, of course, always right. --LaDeeVah

One my most favorite meals for breakfast is Creamed Chipped Beef on Toast,
otherwise known as SOS, short for Shit on a Shingle. I tunrned my wife onto it
and she loves it.

Living down South for a few years I grew really fond of Sausage biscuitwith
gravy, which of course is similar to SOS, and grits. Again, I introduced this to my
wife to these items and she is now a convert. However, being Asian she'll do
some sacrilegious things to grits like adding sweet Indonesian soy sauce or maple
syrup. I'm also fond of fried catfish for breakfast.

Returning to my native Philadelphia I can again enjoy Scrapple for breakfast.
Scrapple is pork scraps mixed with corn meal. It's somewhat similar to sausage.
Slice it thin and fry it. Mmmmmmmmmm.

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href="http://tabletalk.salon.com/webx?13@@.eea5e8e/21">Books
brendan_nelson - 10:52pm Dec 31, 1999 PST (# 22 of 188)

Groundhog Day is quite interesting in that, while it plays with
time as its central theme, time actually seems to be coercing the
weatherman into paying more attention to space, namely the small
town around him.

For the weatherman, we presume that usually time will rescue him
from these "small hick towns"; he will be able to arrive, do his
job, and leave. Time prevents space from getting to him. Yet on
Groundhog Day, time goes into a loop, hence (more or less) freezing
his movements through space.

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Mothers Who Think
Claire Callahan Goodman - 08:53am Dec 14, 1999 PST (# 83 of 90)

I think the "relaxing" idea is just one of those 20-20 hindsight revelations that many couples (or observers) have when a couple who has not been able to conceive suddenly gets lucky. As I have said above, there are all sorts of reasons why a couple could go months or years without conceiving and then suddenly have it happen, because of the nature of their fertility impairment. I like to use the word "impairment" because almost nobody out there is completely "infertile", but many people have one or more impairments which make them effectively infertile as a couple. A man is completely infertile if he cannot make sperm, and a woman is completely infertile if she has no ovaries, but in the absence of these conditions, biology and medical science can go a very long way towards making biological parents out of the rest of us! And with sperm and egg donation, and surrogacy, even those who are completely infertile can become biological and/or birth parents. Adoption is also the right choice for many of us.

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Hometown
Vinca Minor - 07:46pm Dec 5, 1999 PST (# 44 of 47)

The most appealing items of local news I can think of are actually fairly old, but charming. The flap over the newly elected sheriff who hired his minister, at county expense, and paid him $25K for two weeks' work as a "consultant" to see that the sheriff's department was run according to Christian principles, which apparently consisted of firing anyone who had voted against the new sheriff in the election, was officially declared closed by the single local newspaper after the sheriff paid it a visit and threatened to close it down.

I was also proud to stand behind another trucker in the checkout line at a newsstand where a tabloid magazine trumpeted, "Lesbian Lovers Just Out of Jail Murder Nude Drunken Dwarf". "Geez", he shook his head, "Who believes this stuff anyway?" I was able to tell him that that happy little event had taken place in our very town, several years before. It was actually even spicier than that, but you know how tabloids soft pedal things.

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Social Issues
Hedda Mothballs - 10:37am Dec 2, 1999 PST (# 36 of 38)

Why gentrification sucks by Hedda Mothballs.

As a resident of Washington, DC the gentrification that I have witnessed has affected me on several different levels.

1) I moved into an "up and coming" neighborhood nearly 2 years ago. To me this meant the area was diverse culturally and ethnically yet was still affordable.

2) As a young white lesbian-- who makes a livable wage at her non-profit job-- I wasn't the only one who wanted to live in an affordable diverse neighborhood. The cultural diversity is evidinced by the neighborhood restaurants: Mexican, Ethiopian, Brazilian, Cuban, Thai, West African, Carribean, Japanese, and Italian to name just a few.

3) Due to gentrification, the population of immigrants that made the neighborhood so unique are being pushed out into more impoverished areas. They are being ritually sublimated all over the city, except for areas where rich white folks are still afraid to tread.

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Books
Mary Elsisi - 01:53pm Nov 21, 1999 PST (# 45 of 45)

I read "Oliver Twist" when I was nine. I remember being really disturbed by the murder of Nancy and the death of Bill Sykes. The pathetic and horrible end of Bill Sykes' little dog was the worst of all, though. Dickens is sometimes dismissed as a creator of caricatures instead of three dimensional characters, but his "flat" characters, for me at least, are among the most unforgetable people I've ever encountered in literature. They have the force of charactors from fairytales. I think this is why I was able to enjoy Dickens at such a young age.

Memorable Movie Moments from 1999

Movies
Chris Jarmick - 09:21pm Nov 22, 1999 PST (# 11 of 40)

It's not a new movie but it's the first time most people in the U.S. saw it. The incredible fireworks/love/waterski scene from Lovers on the Bridge

Malkovich Malkovich Malkovich

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Social Issues
George Dallah - 09:59pm Nov 18, 1999 PST (# 378 of 385)

I remember being "different" for just about as long as I remember. I guess reflecting back on some of the dreams that I still remember at a VERY young age (involving men with hairy chests...which remain to this day, my weakness), I knew that I was not as perhaps some wanted me to be.

Several years ago, we got out the old super 8 movies and when I saw myself riding my first horse and clowning for the camera, I thought to myself "God, could I have been any more obvious?" Well, I suppose if I'd been riding side-saddle, that would have been more obvious.

I told NO one during my childhood years, prefering to just push it back. Even when I was a teenager I kept it to myself. Chasing after women who had no interest in my (who could blame them?) and even dating a few. Didn't seem to fool the tough guys in high school. Strange how in a home economics class full of guys, that there would be a pecking order. Guess who was the one picked on. That's right. Me. The only guy in the class that was friends with the 2 females in the class.

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