"¿Cómo se dice?" and the Secret to Gay Sex, Part I

As I've described before on this blog, I spend at least five days a week, if not more, with a small and delightful group of Asian people.  They are each wonderfully gifted, driven musicians, and I am so pleased to call them my friends.  One of my dear little friends is a girl from China named Miranda.  She spent her first year of college taking an intensive collection of English-as-a-Second-Language (ESL) courses.  She writes beautifully, but her conversational language skills suffer from a very thick Chinese accent.  While her practice of the English language has sometimes been a stumbling block to her communication skills, she is the first to tease about the language "barrier" which has elicited some very funny moments in our friendship.

A fairly recent episode follows.  Just a few details to remember, dear Reader:  1) Miranda is currently attending graduate school in Ohio as a master's piano student with Italian wonder-pianist, Antonio Pompa-Baldi.  2) Miranda loves Mozart (so her compliment really meant very much to me).  3) Miranda was visiting Utah (her self-proclaimed adopted home) on break from school when this happened.

I was practicing a Mozart sonata (K. 333, for anyone who might be interested) for an upcoming performance when the practice room door opened.

"Neeeeeeeeeee-c!  Yoo prae Moh-tsah vihdy soh-gooh!  He can be yo hooss-banh!" Miranda wailed in her cheery way.  "Bach? He be my fee-oh-say, but you ken meh-dee Moh-tsah.  He be soh-gooh foh yoo."

"Oh, Miranda!" I replied,  "I don't know if I want to marry Mozart, but I'll keep playing him.  How are you?!  How is graduate school?"

"Eez soh-gooh!  Eez so hard.  Too much pieces to prae aur time."

"I'm so glad to hear that it's good.  I imagine it's difficult, but worth it.  How are you studies with Pompa-Baldi going?"

"He eez soh gooh.  Make mos bee-yoo-ti-fur pianissimos.  His Engrish berry bad, though.  Too much Itarian accent."

"So, between your Chinese accent and his Italian accent, how do you communicate in lessons?"

Miranda giggled, "Wear, he rissen to me prae, and he smire oh he frahn and he prae foh me, den I prae again."

"Wow," I said. "I guess if that works..."

"Eez soh gooh."

Miranda and I caught up a little bit.  She giggled and blushed a bit when I commented on her fabulous clothes and her uber-trendy haircut.  I asked her about her boyfriend (who stayed in UT) and if she'd seen him yet.  And, as we were discussing boys, she asked a question I couldn't quite decipher on the first--or even second or third--hearing.

The Bookend Brothers Bond Over Those Fabulous Beekman Boys

OR HOW ANIMAL HUSBANDRY GOT ITS GAY ON

Just a few days ago, Gavin and I were lounging on the sofas in front of the flat screen downstairs. Having wrestled the remote from him after suggesting he was in dire need of a hot shower (he smelled like the dairy farm where he works), I flipped through the channels, trying to find an episode of Dr. Who or something else of equal "interesting" or "intellectually expansive" factors. It was a Saturday afternoon and not much was garnering my attention. I passed over the SciFi and Spike channels and began the fascinating journey through The Discovery Channel, The Learning Channel and --that sometimes frightening place on the wavelength which reminds me why I'm glad I grew up human -- Animal Planet.

Nothing was catching my eye, and I was about ready to give the remote back to Gav; however, as we passed through more nature documentaries than Jane Goodall could dream of, I saw it as I almost skimmed over Planet Green -- one of those words that enraptures all gays -- that divine and flashy adjective: FABULOUS!!!

Gavin groaned, "Mom and I saw a commercial about this. It's some new show about gay farmers."

I grinned.  "Let's see what this about," I teased as I put the remote down and settled into a pile of embroidered pillows.

Gavin rolled his eyes, but then he got comfortable, too. I think he was, perhaps, intrigued by the premise of a couple of queers prancing about a gorgeous farm and, although he'll never admit this, I think (and I would have never imagined it) he's kind of started to like watching some of my shows with me.  What Not to Wear.  Chelsea Lately.  Glee.  He always, always, always pulls up an armchair when I'm watching those McKinley High kids overexert their ice-pack-me-right-after-this-take-is-finished vocal chords on Hulu.  I've even found Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson's Journey duet (among others) on iTunes.  I haven't bought any of the albums.

So.  Anyway.  We're watching and the gents are introducing themselves.  Brent's the former VP of Martha Stewart's something and Josh used to be a drag-queen.  This could get a little uncomfortable for Gav, I thought.  Maybe I really should find something else to watch.  And then, the moment for which no one would have been prepared:  we meet Farmer Jo, a bald, hefty, rural upstate New Yorker.  He has been hired on as the gentlemen farmers' goatkeeper.  He's talking about how if it weren't for Brent and Josh and the Beekman farm, he'd have lost the goats and how much he loves his animals and he starts crying!!!  I looked over at Gavin.  He looked at me.  We burst out laughing and watched the next three episodes of The Fabulous Beekman Boys, giggling together for another 90 minutes.   



The New York Times may not agree, but I kind of know that shows are brilliant when Gavin and I -- from two completely different molds -- can bond over watching them.  The fact that Gavin, in his muck boots and manure suit, and I, in my skinny jeans and hair paste, can sit and see facets of ourselves and each other in this stupid reality television show; the fact that we can giggle about how we do or don't fit into the stereotypes of cowboy or farmer or sensitive or gay man; or the fact that we can discuss our experience with having used or being the target of derogations like redneck and fag after watching this particular TV show is really incredible.

Who knew the gays and the rural backwater boys could enjoy the same thing so much?

Young Women Lessons, or How I Bawled Out a Bunch of Pre-Teens

Sam and I decided we'd go to an improv show a few Friday nights ago. It was going to be the show's 6th or 7th anniversary show, so we thought we'd better get there early to save a spot in the line. We thought right. Excitement pulsed through the line as we anticipated the show. The line snaked through a large room and people started crowding into each other as the room in which we were standing filled with sweaty, excited people. We are not going to lose our place, I thought. "Sam," I said (loud enough for the people in front of, beside and behind us could hear) "make sure you stay right behind our neighbors." He looked around, his eyes widened and gave me a look that read You're crazy if you think we're going to be in the same place when they open the doors, but nodded his head.

People rushed the door as soon as the ticket office lights were lit, and all seemed lost. I watched as the young men ahead of us speed-walked toward the ticket line, their smokey-eyed dates in grip and dragging behind them. I pulled some cash out of my wallet as we maneuvered through the throng, readying myself to make the ticket transaction as efficiently and quickly as possible--I really wanted to get to a good seat. We maneuvered through the throng of people and pretty much maintained our spot in line. It'll be fine, I thought. We're still pretty close to the front of the line. There aren't too many people who've butted in front of us. We'll get good seats. And then, I looked to my right. A group of about six pre-teen girls meandered and shuffled next to us, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I wasn't sure where they had come from, but I knew they weren't anywhere near us in the earlier line. I got a little bitchy.

"Hey! You girls!" I pointed in their direction and shouted, relishing how quickly their quick-texting fingers stopped all movement, their mouths gaping from shock as I bawled them out. "What? You think that just because you're shorter than most of us your mom can drive you here five minutes before the show and you can sneak in here and butt in line in front of us when we've been waiting for a half an hour? Or more?!? I did not see you there five minutes ago. Not cool, ladies."

I'm not sure what scared them more, the fact that I'd called them on their complete disregard of ticket-line etiquette, or that I was a 25-year-old man yelling in registers that were higher than their 12- to 13-year old voices. They didn't move, except to look at one girl (I'm assuming their queen bee: their alpha female: that girl in every group of junior high girlfriends who intimidates the others with her hair, her clothes or her newly budded boobs and thus has the power to command, coerce, and connive against the others) and silently ask, Shit. What do we do now? Twilight didn't prepare us for this!!! I smirked at them and turned back around to talk with a chuckling Sam.

"Oh, Nic," he laughed, "I think you scared those poor girls more than you intended."

"Good," I retorted, "Maybe they'll learn their lesson."

I turned around to see their huddling shoulders. They looked a little more than intimidated, and I started to feel a bit bad about my outburst. "Ok girls, so here's the life lesson to be gleaned from tonight's run-in with me." They looked at me, horrified at what else I might do or say at their pride's expense. "You never, never, never cut in line in front of a gay boy, ok? We will call you on it every time. We're just that way."

They only responded with a few slight nods of their heads. I looked down at their young, awkward little selves. The make-up was a bit too brightly applied; the hair was in need of a bit more coiffing and smoothing; the clothes were a study in badly matched cuts and colors. I felt sad for them, but I knew there was hope. "Oh, and when you grow up and go to college, you'll love the gays: We'll help you pick out great shoes and clothes; we'll discuss whether or not your new haircut is right for you; and we'll always talk with you about the stupid boy problems you'll run into. You'll see: we're indispensable, even if we do call you out when you cut in line."

Their eyes lit up at my mention of "boy problems". They all circled around their queen bee and started up a chorus. "Oh! Oh! She's having boy troubles right now." "Help her! Help her!" "Tell us what to do to get him back!"

We were next in line to buy tickets. I turned around, cash in hand, and left them to figure out their own solution for their broken-hearted alpha. Sorry girls, I thought. You're not gonna get that lesson until you learn you don't cut in line.