Stuff That Makes A Gay Heart Weep

THE MEAN GURL CLICK

 
"Stop trying to get me to FollowFriday you, Gretchen; it's not going to happen."

Benjamin Kissell

 

What makes a gay heart weep 5th sense levels of Amanda Seyfried tears [how LAME it is to make Mean Girls jokes?] or Heather Duke-esque crocodile tears [how OLD a Heathers joke makes me?] is realizing that social media is totally High School: Part Deaux.

 

Think about it.

 

I mean it, really.

 

Think about it.

 

When Myspace was trendy [you know, cro magnon days] if you weren't in someone's Top 8, 12 or 64 [they offered so many options to snub] you may as well not even have a page. Of course, the more socially mature folks wouldn't bat an eyelash at this. I? Am so not mature. 

 

I'm a bit neurotic.

 

Example: While standing in line for her 2008 Such a Pretty Fat Tour I caused Jen Lancaster to snort in laughter because the 2 perky girls ahead of me squealed when they realized I was "that BEN" in her Top 8.

 

I wish I'd had the adult sensibility to just let it pass unremarked.

 

I was not.

 

Jen of course signed the book "For Ben, who is totally in my top 8" (with grins plastered on both our faces). 

 

I was in the Cool Kids Club. I was a Heather. I was totally top 8 material.

 

Sweet.

 

Then myspace became the next-big-thing-to-be-passe. [Damn]

 

Enter the era of Facebook supremacy [member since 2004 when it was just for college kids. YO.] and all of the ridiculous keys and styles "inspired" by Myspace over the last 5 years. It's a tad ... well, ridiculous.

 

From their popularity games [I have not/am not/nor will not be interested in Farmvile. Okay? Thanks] to the feeding-into-neuroses "Like" button, "Connections" and "Facebook Recommends" links, Facebook is one giant high school. Complete with populars, geeks and bullies.

 

And bless your heart if you aren't in the right clicque - or the right "click".

 

Top this off with Tumblr [aside from finding some great dirty photos, what's the point?], Google+ [plus what? I wish I could knock it, but I don't know squat about it] and - my major addiction - Twitter, you have a recipe for a truly Mean Gurls Click.

 

"What's your damage Heather?"
"Well, I made a Lindsay Lohan joke last night and lost 400 Twitter-followers."
"Was it in poor taste?" "Uhm, it's Lindsay Lohan."
"Good point."

 

I hate to say it, but, the number of followers (and ratio of followers to following) seems to carry a lot of weight. Again, wish I could say that I have the self-awareness and maturity to declare that this doesn't bother me. I really do.

 

But, apparently - say it with me - I don't.

 

The old I-wasn't-popular-until-Junior-Year-and-was-picked-on-a-LOT-as-a-kid insecurities reared their head recently and I asked my followers to promote me in that atrocious of atrocities: Follow Friday.

 

Tho' the times I've been a Follow Friday recommendation without hounding someone into it? Well, I may've done a victory dance [complete with Madonna-backing-vocals]. Maybe. 

 

Twitter is like that verbal diarrhea you get in school; when every thought comes pouring out of your mouth because the cool kids are paying attention to you. You extoll the virtues of the VERY boring meal you just ate [yawn] or you rant about the merest minutiae of your daily life [guilty].

 

My friend (the beautiful and talented novelist and screenwriter) Caprice Crane pointed out, in a recent conversation we had, that she really only uses Twitter to post observational humor or to make jokes about whatever pop culture headline is ripe for the picking.

 

Translation: she doesn't stoop to the Mean Gurl Click mentality. Caprice has class.

  

Alas, I don't have her self-control or confidence [or looks, wit, breding or ... well, the list can go on for days]. Self-censoring has never been my forte. More than once my best friend has said I need an editor for daily conversations.

 

[Apparently TMI isn't always a great place to take conversations in public. Who knew?] 

 

In fact, more than a few of my tweets have been just-shy of assclap-level Mean Gurl.

 

 

[Think more Winona Ryder in Heathers, less Shannen Doherty]

 

Like high school clicques, it's a game you play (or don't).

 

Play it on your own terms. Be aware that our lives are fodder for pages in a digital Burn Book the Heathers compile.

 

Watch out you don't become one.

 

"Remember that it's totally okay not to be in the popular click online.
And it's okay when your BFF has your ex in his Google+ 'hook-up' circle
... but, FETCH. WILL. NEVER. HAPPEN."

CRINGE AND BARE IT [ALL]

 

Body By Jake ... Ass By Betty Crocker ... Body Image Issues by Our Culture.

 

Benjamin Kissell

 

What makes a gay heart weep like Rick Santorum in a Chocolate Factory [hell, even a Cheesecake Factory, ‘cos you know that closet-queen has some food issues]? Why, it’s realizing that you're sprouting chins like a teenager grows zits.

 

A true cringe-worthy moment.

 

Definitely diet time. And I swear, this has nothing [read: everything] to do with my impending 29th birthday this July and my first trip to the beach since 1996.

 

I promise.

 

Well, I soft-guarantee?

 

The other day I had to buy my first pair of "fat jeans" [size 33] since I successfully took off the weight in 2007. When I couldn't get the size 32s past my thighs [which canNOT stay seperated these days, fyi] I knew it was time.

 

The icing on the cake? Getting a LOVELY post-card from Just For Men with a FREE OFFER to help me get the grey away ... this may have sent me running.

 

Well, jogging.

 

Okay, fast walking.

 

For the first time in almost 2 years, I turned back to exercise. To say that it was a cake walk would be a misnomer [mmmm, cake - can I make it double-fudge with chocolate icing?] but, I strapped on my mp3 player and blasted Madonna's new album, MDNA, and took myself out into the night. 

 

.........................................

 

Seriously, I had quite forgotten how difficult it was to stick to a comprehensive and effective regimen of diet and exercise. The exercise part's not that hard, but the diet? Oh diets, how I want to quit thee.

It's easy to tell yourself “Benjamin, today you are going to eat three sensible medium meals and 2 small snacks; when you get up and go to bed you are going to do your exercises.”, but actually doing that?Bugger.

 

1. Getting out of bed and setting foot outside of my nice warm blankets [one of which is faux beaver fur] is NOT pleasant nor something that I particularly relish. And this? This makes it difficult to do my morning exercises

 

2. Doing morning exercises (usually stretches and mild cardio in my room to Madonna or Cher [remember this is Stuff That Makes a GAY Heart Weep]) is tough when I am curled up underneath the covers wondering how quickly I can throw on house shoes and run into the kitchen for some hot coffee and back into bed where I can nurse it while watching the Today Show [What can I say, that 4th hour? When I get to catch it ... Kathie Lee does love her bottles of 'coffee'] and Lifetime's reruns of The New Adventures of Old Christine.

 

“Y’know, that’s a very good look on you: it’s ‘come hither, 
I’m wearing something under-sized and machine washable in-case I get so plastered I vomit on myself’.”
"Thanks, I got it out of your closet."

 

 

3. The whole eating right thing: eating 3 smaller meals a day and 2 small/sane portion snacks? Let’s just say, that I’m not known for my tendency to eat and nibble throughout the day.

 

I have a tendency to skip [unless chugging a large cup or three of dark, plain black coffee counts as eating] breakfast and then head into work where I will grab a lunch of a Subway “lite” for good measure.  By now, the lovely Arabic girl who works there knows my order by rote; Tuna on flatbread with spinach, green peppers and cucumbers.

 

By the time work is over, and I get home … cooking a lite dinner isn’t exactly what springs to mind, and I just buy some chicken nuggets at McD's.

 

#DietFAIL

 

Okay, I admit it! There is a reason it's called convenience food. Me not standing over a stove making it makes it automatically fantastic to me.

 

4. After letting dinner digest by sitting on my arse working on the computer [answering e-mails, talking on facebook, tweeting and writing], I'm pretty beat. By the time that I'm ready to call it quits, I just wanna crawl back into bed – not get over onto the mat I keep on the floor in the middle of my room for exercising.  But, unless I lose out to my laziness, I drag myself over, put some Madonna on and do my evening toning exercises.

 

Then, drag myself back under my covers and drift off to sleep … only to be awakened by the alarm way too damn early in the morning *le sigh*.

BU-UT, all that whining aside … I do seriously intend on continuing to try to eat healthier, trim down my waistline and lose just a FEW pounds.

 

Because if I lose just a few and tone up, then I will be healthier and have a happier body and body image – though, time, affirmation and self-esteem will be what change the image I really see in the mirror.

 

Of course, if I slim down my waistline AND keep the booty? Well, everybody wins!

 

PASS OVER THE WINE AND GUILT, I'M HUNGRY

 "barukh ata adonai eloheinu melekh ha’olam bore pri hagafen"  Which means Mommy has to let out Daddy's pants after all this Brisket.

 

 

Benjamin Kissell

 

What makes a gay heart weep kosher tears quite like a hilariously bad Seder story?  Well, if you're a Gentile, I guess not much of anything [whoops] but, let's not go there.

 

I'm sure we can all laugh together at the sheer absurdity of my first Seder in college. At the time, I was a student, worked as a caterer and had a budding social life [versus my treasured nights at home with my cats these days].

 

.....

 

Outfitted in low-rise jeans, punk boots, mascara, “Dropkick Murphys” tee and a seriously fierce feaux-hawk I sauntered into the second-floor of our catering offices looking for my sunglasses (left-behind the day before after another mother-of-the-bride-batshit-crazy wedding downtown).

 

The plan was to get together with friends and hit the gay club downtown. On Thursdays it was 80s Retro Night there, hence the pseudo-punk and I was ready to get my drink on and dance to “Like a Prayer” [obligatory song for 80s Retro Night].

 

I didn’t even top the stairs before I heard an overly-enthusiastic … “BENJI!”

Now, when you hear an all-too cheerful exultation of your name [even an annoying nickname] you KNOW something fishy is up.

It was my boss, Pescha, approaching me …

 

“Bubbula, you’re free right now, aren’t you?”

“Uhm … I mean, yes, I'm not running anywhere at the moment; but I really only stopped in to pick up my sunglasses … I, uh, have plans tonight.”

[No, it is NOT apparent that I have an issue saying no to authority figures, is it?]

 

“But, you don’t have plans now?”

“No, not at this exact moment – why?”

 

“Good, because I need help downstairs; the Jewish Student Organization is coming by soon for the Passover Seder. We’re hosting it for the students who can't get home.”

“But-t, I – uh … uh, well – I guess if I don’t stay later than 7?”

Promising that the event would run no later than 6:30 that worked, it left me enough time to get all re-dolled up and to grab my friend Hana and run.

 

Changing into a cobalt dress shirt and black tie, eschewing the black slacks in favor of my jeans (two reasons:

1. none of the black slacks really fit me well, either too-small girls’ pants or the guys’ which were too big

2. the jeans were so tight I'd all-but crisco’d myself to get into them I didn't wanna think of the ordeal to get myself in and out of them in my little cubbyhole of an office).

 

 

And this was the era BEFORE skinny jeans came back ... I was totally ahead of the curve.

 

 

I grabbed a black vest just-in-case.

The Heads of the Jewish Student Organization, a young semi-cute boy and a very attractive young lady – very shiksa in her blonde hair and pale dress –  arrived and helped us lay out the Seder plates and such.

 

By the time sunset neared, the guests had arrived and gathered around 5 properly attired tables.

 

I walked the kosher wine and grape-juice to the various settings and matzo crackers as appetizers and caught at least 3 of the cute boys’ eyes darting both to crotch and ass level [hmm, Jewish AND gay?] as well as catching this REALLY sweet young guy’s eye as I proffered him the water, my crotch apparently just-below shoulder level – he blushed almost as crimson as the wine in front of him.

 

I should’ve really wondered why I was getting this attention, but I didn’t.

 

By the time I had meandered around each table, making sure all of our guests were comfortable and good, and making it back into the ante-room, I was well-aware of more than a few girls and guys outright staring at me.

 

Weird.

 

As soon as the door behind me had closed Pescha was at my side, an embarrassed grin on her suntanned Bubbe face. Hana was doubled over in a giggle-fit.

 

“Benjamin, you CANNOT go back out there like that … you are giving those poor girls [and gay boys] whiplash!”

 

It seems, the tight jeans I'd chosen to attract attention for dancing were doing their job; causing these poor Seder-goers to get whiplash from trying to stare at both my crotch and ass – which were both pronounced in them.

 

My bad. [Or a great date-catching plan - you decide.]

 

Not being able to wear a pair of the black slacks upstairs, I opted the simple-fix; grabbing a black apron and making sure it covered up my crotch and at least minimized my booty’s appearance.

 

After that? The Seder went by quietly and in proper reverence [my bulge/booty causing no more stir … but, at least, I’d like to think that my overt-sexuality had made for some good stories to be told around the next Seder table].

 

Hana and I made our excuses and re-primped and headed out. Of course, after walking the 10 blocks to get to the club from campus, we found that it was one of the arbitrary nights when the bouncer was checking IDs and I was the only 21 yr old in our group. 

 

So, we did what anyone thwarted would do: we ditched the dance-plans and did TGI Friday’s instead. Lame? A little. Fun? Definitely. A very interesting first Passover for me.

 

Moishe led the Jews on Exodus and I? Led my friends to dinner. Not quite the same, but, there you are.

 

FAITH HEEL-ING

 

"I pronounce you healed!!!"
"And I pronounce them heels, dumbass." 

 

Benjamin Kissell

 

Is there anything in the world that will make a gay heart weep mascara tracks of confusion and angst like that age old debate: religion versus sexuality?

 

Well, there’s the whole carbs issue, but that’s an article of a different weight-class. And then there’s the White after Labor Day kerfuffle – but, I call myself Caucasian, so I think I’ve avoided the whole mess.

 

This particular gay heart weeps trenchant tears of misery in sympathy for those who get plunged into the fight: there are seldom any winners in these battles – more often, every one walks away hurt inside.

 

Of course, here’s where a casual observer might assume I’d push my own religious views. But, then the casual observer would be wrong. I mean, how would me preaching be fun/funny/entertaining?

 

Short answer: it wouldn’t be.

 

Long answer: a basic religious rule of mine is “MADONNA. She is/She was/She will be.”

 

 "I treat Madonna like many folks treat Christ."

 

So, there you go.

 

No, the battle of religion versus sexuality [somewhere in Vegas there’s a Prize Fight with this name] has been waged for ages and within almost every religion around the world.

 

That being said, few can boast the “Ex-Gay Movement” quite like Christianity and its branches therein.

 

Normally, I wouldn’t riff on them for this – Hell, if the active continual need to flagellate themselves upon their religion to deny who they are is what gets them up in the morning? I say go for it. For themselves.

 

Do. Not. Push. This. On. Others.

 

Once you force this internal issue on someone else? Nuh-uh.  

 

And when your repressed, self-hating ass pushes this esteem-killing bullshit on ME? Oh honey, no. Just. Plain. No.

 

The game? Is on.

 

……

 

Recently, I was shopping at the mall when I ran into two family acquaintances (not quite friends). For politeness' sake, I'll call them Punch and Judy. Both are active members of the Ex-Gay Movement.

 

Never one to be impolite to my elders - well, to start the impolite, anyways - I smiled, nodded and did my best to roll with their kind-hearted and (to them) well-meaning advice and the convoluted conversation about my family in the early 80s.

 

Punch is a scruffy-looking, sandy-haired, middle-aged woman [note that I didn't throw in the obvious wearing-of-flannel with a mullet, that's a cheap shot, even for me] and contrasts nicely with her friend, Judy.

 

Need I make the obvious statements about Judy being a sweet and soft-spoken, limp-wristed old man? I didn't think so - kinda implied there.

 

Having been approached in college by more Bible-thumping bigots than I can shake a stick at [and more than a few of them tried to shake said stick, if you read between the closeted lines] to "redeem myself" and "Pray the sins of gay away" my hackles rise whenever a conversation takes a turn for the denial-angle.

 

"I was gay in college, Ben," Judy's soft voice cut through the din as I zoned out of the conversation. "But, I found my way through our Lord, Jesus Christ. I know what it is to live with that Evil inside of you." Evil?

 

 

"No, honey - these shoes? Are evil. Positively Pilgrim: blech!"

 

"Causing you to have unnatural  thoughts and desires. It's been a struggle - every day - but, I know with His strength, I persevere daily." Yes, because appealing to the gay Jew to find the strength in Christ to play it straight? Aces tactic.

 

Of course, he was batshit crazy to think I bought a single word of it.

 

Ready to lob a vitriol-fueled foul-mouthed retort right back at this, I made the mistake of looking directly in his withered and kindly face.

 

Shit.

 

All Judy wants is for his struggle to mean something; to know that the pain he inflicts on himself because of dogmatic bigotry is worth it. How could I hate someone who, daily, hates a part of himself?

 

I'm an asshole, but, I'm not that big of one.

 

Usually.

 

Deflated, I threw on my best crow-eating grin and said some of the toughest words that have ever come out of my mouth - "I'm really proud of you, Judy. I know that this is an amazing thing you do."

 

And it is; hating yourself so thoroughly and buying into such claptrap for so much of your life is amazing.

 

And still having a good heart? That is truly stupendous.

 

Of course, I'm still me - genuine Class A Jackass - and I tossed a smart aleck-y "I'll say a prayer for you at Temple with my boyfriend" over my shopping bag.

 

[I seldom go to Temple - twice in 6 years isn't bad, is it? - and been perennially single for the better part of 9 years of dating.]

 

......

"Why do I think I need a faboo pair of 7" heels to feel better?
Oh, wait, because it's WWMD - What Would Madonna Do."

 

Game on, indeed.

 

Ben's Mouth: 1   -    Religious (well-meaning) Fanatics: 1 ... damn tie.

 

And the time my best friend's Grandmother tried to have one of those old-fashioned revivals where I would be "saved"? ...

 

Fanatics: 2

Altoids Expainging The Strength

 

Drinking To Early On St. Patricks Day

By noon you will want to be a St. Patrick's Day Bunny Jim Carrey-Grinch Princess with green finger nails! And no will stop you! Happy St. Paddy's day!

 

 

Unlucky Leprechauns

 

 

Desperate St Patrick's Day T-shirts

 

 

Fashion Accessory Trainwrecks

 

 

 

Breaking Old Habits

 

 

Using Beer Cans For Anything But Drinking

 

 

Scary Ebay Items

Douchebag Memorabilia Sellers

Too bad she didn't stab him the eye with her pen! 

 

 

Misspelled Protest Banners

Their condomnation is our LOL.

 

Cat Sweat Shirts