January 5, 2009

Wasilla, WV

My New Year's resolution is to speak in a slight British accent all year. I intend to blurt out "bollocks" and "rubbish" whenever I can.

People think that Madonna is faking her British accent. But I don't. I think it's natural to start speaking the same way others do if you spend a lot of time with them.

This happens to me when I visit relatives in West Virginia. I adopt a slight hillbilly accent through osmosis. As hard as I try, I caint help but speak lock them. The only difference is that I stop talking like that when I return to DC in the comfort of my Jew friends.

The day after Thanksgiving I put that accent to good use as I made my pilgrimage back to the Hills of West Virginia to say goodbye to my grandmother.

My sister had flown in from the Netherlands and took the second leg of her flight with me. The last correspondence we had before meeting was an email she sent telling me to consider moving because she fears "something awful is going to happen in DC soon." She wrote, "Have you thought about living in Boston?" I did not write her back. I'm used to this.

My cousin picked us up at the Charleston airport late Friday night and drove us to a town called Welch. It's a beautiful, old mining town situated in the mountains of Southern West Virginia. Sadly it's completely abandoned, the result of another economic downturn decades ago. Well, mostly abandoned -- a hospital is still there. My cousin warned us, "The hospital is not a nice place. It should be condemned." Sure enough, once we got inside, it reminded me of the hospital Michael Myers terrorized in Halloween II. Lovely. Hardly a soul in the building, which is exactly why my grandmother's children kept her there. The doctors would be very attentive to her every need.

We met my parents there, and they walked us to the ICU where my grandmother was resting, if you want to call it that. It was an unfortunate sight. She was just a shell of the woman I remembered.

Immediately my sister went up to her, rubbed her head, and started telling her (in a full-on Minnie Pearl accent) how much she loved her and described some of her favorite memories they shared. She was crying, of course. Then she motioned for me to come over. Oh, lawd.

My grandmother's eyes were closed, her mouth wide open, her face colorless and gaunt. A tracheotomy tube was the only thing still attached to sustain her life; morphine and Valium drips were actively numbing any pain.

My parents stood at her feet watching me. I put my hand on her cheek, leaned in and identified myself.

We've always called our grandmothers "Mommaw," but spelled it Mama. I think it's a Southern thing.

I didn't know what to say. I was pretty sure "Hey grandma, how's it going?!? would not have been appropriate. So I said, "Mommaw, it's TJ. I love you." I was kinda hoping she would hear my voice and it would turn into a Robert DeNiro/Awakenings moment. She would open her eyes, smile and open her arms to me. Then Charlie Gibson would feature me as the Person of the Week on ABC News. But that didn't happen. Dammit.

My sister nudged me, "Tell her about your favorite things you used to do together." I was like, this is no time to be bossy. But my parents were watching, so I obliged.

I held her hand and quietly spoke, "I know I was your favorite, Mommaw. Thank you for that." I winked back at my sister, then continued, "I loved staying at your place on weekends when I was growing up. We had some good times, playing Scrabble, watching The Golden Girls, drinking hot tea and eating that big biscuits and gravy breakfast you would always cook for me. You always let me sleep in on Sundays so I could miss church, all bundled up in those blankets you knitted. And how you forced me to drive your car into the city once I got my learner's permit, even though I was scared to death. I just want you to know how special those times were to me."

It's true. That's what gay boys did on their weekends. While everyone else in high school was hormonal and exploring their sexuality through dating, we were suppressing ours, and instead, spending quality time drinking hot tea with our grandmothers. I don't regret it.

We spent a few more minutes with her and returned to the waiting room, where only my family was present. It was now well after midnight. Everyone in that room was emotionally exhausted.

We stayed for a couple more hours, until my mom urged me and my sister to leave for the night. I felt bad leaving. My mom is usually a rock, but this time was different. My grandmother was old, but her rapid decline was unexpected. My parents had just moved to Tennessee so they could spend more time together. This was not how it was supposed to happen.

I went in to see her one last time.

Her vital signs were still holding. The doctors were surprised at how long she held on. I knew she would be furious to know we were seeing her like this. I kissed her forehead and whispered to her that it would be okay if she let go.

I'm not convinced that she heard anything I said, but the nurse insisted that hearing is the last to go.

I woke up around 8:00 that morning when I heard my parents come in the door. I went into the living room and saw my mother's face. She walked up to me, put her arms around me and sobbed. She didn't have to say anything.

The one beautiful thing about small, small, small, small towns is how the community responds to a death of one of their own. I have never seen such an outpouring of love and support that was given to the family members. So. much. food!

My grandmother had moved back to West Virginia in 1987 as a single woman, twice divorced. She found love again almost immediately. She married a widower and remained with him until she died. They were best friends. Me and my sister held it together pretty well until he would break down in front of us. It's weird how the death of someone can provide proof of just how much they really meant to someone else. Sometimes it's surprising.

We spent the remainder of our trip prepping for the funeral. My mom and her siblings weren't in any condition to pick out a dress or photos or a casket. So I assisted with the photos and...casket. I was surprised to see how many photos my grandmother had kept that I had never seen.

The dress my grandmother was to be buried in was brought to the funeral home so we could do a casket color comparison. Almost immediately, a number of relatives fell in love with a pink casket. Um, no. I found a more neutral taupe casket to be more pleasing to the eye. I held up my grandmother's dress next to my casket choice and did my best Carson Kressley, "See how lovely thissss one goes with the red tones in her dressssss?" They responded, "I reckon TJ has found the right one!" My work here is done.

Although the circumstances were dreary, it was really nice to spend some one-on-one time with my sister. Since we're both hitched, and she has three kids, those days are few and far between. We actually get along quite well even though we are polar opposites. I'm Snow Miser; she's Heat Miser, if Heat Miser were obsessed with the End of Days, which, maybe, he is.

But if she brings up the End of Days to me at some point this year, I intend to say forcefully and enthusiastically: "Rubbish!"

Posted by durban bud at 3:29 PM | Comments (14)

December 30, 2008

Hermaphrodite

My blog is "quite gender-neutral" according to this site. I respect all of the sexes, apparently. Most don't. Pity.

Via Matty

Posted by durban bud at 9:00 PM | Comments (11)

December 21, 2008

Murder Was The Case That They Gave Me

What better way to celebrate the holidays than by spending the last two weeks on a jury for a murder trial. Merry Christmas -- you're going to prison for life!!!

It was my first time serving as a juror. I received a jury summons a few years ago. When the judge interviewed me for that gig, which involved marijuana charges, and I told him I thought pot should be legalized, he said, "Okay, thank you -- you may leave the building."

No such luck this time. I didn't have a good enough excuse to be dismissed, apparently. God knows I tried.

After dismissing a couple hundred potential jurors following the interviews with the judge, they had the remaining tools each take a seat in the jury box of the courtroom. The lawyers looked us over, pointed, whispered amongst themselves and asked certain people to move. It was musical chairs -- with profiling! For me, it brought back uncomfortable memories of 8th grade gym class. If I don't get picked, does that mean I still suck?

They finally settled on fourteen of us -- twelve deliberating jurors and two alternates. We would not know who the alternates were until the end of the trial. I was hoping I was an alternate. It would have been a wonderful learning experience to witness a real-life criminal trial without having to be the one who decides the future of someone's life and the effects it would have on all of the family members.

I was Juror #12.

I won't get into specifics of the case -- for, um, safety reasons -- but it involved the execution-style shooting of a 30-year-old woman in 2007. Her much younger boyfriend was charged with the murder. The victim's two sons, both under 10, discovered their mother's body when they got home from school.

There was barely a mention of the murder in the press. These events are so common in certain DC neighborhoods that sadly no one gives a shit. I found one teeny-tiny paragraph in the Washington Post and the Washington Times about it. That's it. There was never any follow-up that someone had been arrested in the case.

The victim lived in her mother's house. The mother had five children -- four sons, one daughter. Three of her sons were in jail at the time of the murder; the other son was retarded and usually found roaming the streets; and her only daughter was now dead. There was no mention of the father.

Trying to prosecute these cases is nearly impossible in DC. No one wants to talk. The witnesses that do come forward are unreliable and full of baggage, and the police are so bogged down with similar crimes to investigate that the small amount of evidence they do collect is often shoddy and weak.

But we tried our damnedest to make sense of the evidence we did have in order to do the right thing.

Our deliberations lasted longer than the trial. We talked in circles for five exhausting days around a conference table in a room without any color or originality. I told the court clerk that she should consider hiring Candice Olsen for a jury room makeover. Surely her redesign would inspire jurors to let go of their biases and focus on the facts without resorting to stubborn douchebaggery. I recommended applying a green apple hue to the walls in the interim.

At times it got heated. I was only told to pipe down twice by the jury foreman. I was also rudely shushed by a young, sexually frustrated, closeted lesbian during one of my thought-provoking diatribes. The nerve. You never shush a gay man in his thirties when he's on an oratorical roll, especially if you don't want him to call attention to your Mom Jeans and visible facial hair when you snarl. It's vulgar and insulting to the tireless work of Mr. Harvey Milk on our behalf.

Rather than deploying the popular and sassy four-snaps-Z all up in her face, I instead gave her my death stare of pity. Our closeted brothers and sisters are wound tighter than most and often project their own self-hatred on us when we least expect it. But we do not react in anger. We treat them with kid gloves and stare them down until they know that we know that they know better. She never shushed me again. One love, sister.

It was rewarding to spend so much time with a diverse group of people from this city -- young, old, black, white, Asian, rich, poor, hetero, homo -- people who live close to me, but people I probably would not go to Bear Happy Hour with -- though that would surely be entertaining.

Naturally I bonded with the Jewish girl. Love her. We're Facebook friends now. BFFs fer life! We discovered we both belong to the same gym. She said, "It seems like 90% of the men at that gym are gay." I'm like, "I KNOW -- ugh." Then she asked, "Wait -- are you gay?" And I was all, "Gross. I like voluptuous tits, thank you."

The first vote we took was 7-5 in one direction. The next day it was 10-2 in the other. And it stayed that way for the next three days. There were two people on each side who absolutely refused to consider how others could hold a differing opinion based on the evidence. Each time we gave a note to the judge telling him that we were deadlocked, he called us into the courtroom, read our note aloud, and told us to go back to the dreary room and keep trying.

But in the afternoon on the fifth day, after delivering yet another note, he finally declared a mistrial. The judge couldn't have been more gracious and respectful throughout the entire ordeal. The DC government gets a lot of flack for its shitty treatment towards its residents, but the whole staff I dealt with at DC Superior Court was nothing but professional and pleasant. Even the workers at the court cafeteria -- a Firehook bakery -- were warm and friendly. My favorite was an old black woman who always finished my transaction with, "Thank you, baby. You have a blessed day." I will now, sugar!

It sucks to spend so much time trying to come to a unanimous decision only to deliver no remedy to the situation. But we gave it our all and none of us felt like we compromised our integrity at the end. I was also pleased that I could now use the term HUNG JURY when discussing my participation in this process with my immature, horny friends. HUNG JURY HUNG JURY HUNG JURY. Now grow up.

A number of us stayed in the jury room after the judge's final decision so we could talk to the lawyers on both sides. We had so many unanswered questions. We especially wanted to hear what evidence was kept away from us.

It's amazing what kinds of things were ruled inadmissible. Kinda sad, actually. We told both sides what worked and what didn't. Initially the prosecutor didn't think there was a point to try the case again, but after speaking with us, I believe there is a good chance he will. The defendant remains in jail until January. If the prosecutor decides to try the case again, he will remain there.

The victim's brothers are now all out of jail. According to the prosecutor if the defendant is released, there is a good chance he will become the decedent. It's a sorry situation all around.

Neither side had much support in the courtroom audience during the trial, only a handful of family and friends showed up. At times, the seats were completely bare.

The saddest thing is we probably spent more time thinking about these two people than anyone has ever done in their entire lives.

Posted by durban bud at 2:45 PM | Comments (19)

December 11, 2008

Who's That Girl?

ANYWAY...

Any idea who this is? I'm sure someone will figure it out, but if not I'll drop a clue later.

Update: This is so sad. Here's a hint:

Update II: Gooster gets it right! It's the bee girl from the Blind Melon video. Here she is now.

Update III: I've changed the title of this post and added an appropriate photo to make it more relevant.

Posted by durban bud at 5:59 PM | Comments (18)

December 10, 2008

Someone

"How hands-on are you as a father?"

Ricky Martin:

"I don't have a nanny. I'm doing this on my own because I don't want to miss a moment. I have a personal assistant who helps me, someone who takes care of me while I'm taking care of them, but I'm the one who changes the diapers, the one that feeds them, the one that bathes them, the one that puts them to sleep. For any parent, the first couple of months tend to get a little bit intense."

MmmHmm.

Posted by durban bud at 11:00 AM | Comments (8)

December 8, 2008

The Audacity of Hope

This music video is making the rounds for its sheer audacity. There is so much going on here: Lord of the Rings, C.S. Lewis, the rock group Europe, overkill, Dungeons & Dragons, a lot of time, Michael Bolton, disposable income, good vs. evil, heterosexuality, Fabio, cheese, Jackie Collins, brilliance, hope, etc.

It must be watched to be believed. Someone should do their thesis on all the meanings inferred from these four minutes.

Posted by durban bud at 9:34 AM | Comments (7)

November 28, 2008

The Hills

Rob and I had a quiet, unplanned Thanksgiving here in DC. It was nice, actually. We were supposed to head to my parents' new home in Tennessee for the holiday. But my grandmother has spent the last month in a hospital in West Virginia and is not doing well. My parents are there now; my sister is flying in from the Netherlands; I'm meeting her at the airport, and we're flying into West Virginia this evening. From there, we'll drive into the hills of WV where there is no cell phone reception (or teeth). "Bring a suit," my mom says.

I haven't been back there in almost 8 years. The last time I was there was for my other grandmother's funeral. I was a pallbearer. She was buried on a hill. Have you ever carried a casket up a hill that looks like this? Try it. It's fun.

This will be the first time in decades that our family has assembled with just the four of us. It's like I'm eleven all over again! Given the logistics and timing, we decided it best to forgo bringing the rest of our families.

It will be sad, of course. One of the primary motives for my parents' move to Tennessee was to be closer to her mother. But my grandmother is 83. That's a long life. And for that, we're all thankful.

We still had a nice, SMALLER, traditional dinner. Earlier in the day, we took in a showing of Milk. Great movie. Better than I expected. I almost cried but remembered that I am straight-acting, so I just swallowed really hard.

I'll try to take some photos of the Wasilla of West Virginia while I'm there. It's truly unlike any place you have seen before.

Posted by durban bud at 1:28 PM | Comments (17)

November 25, 2008

Franklin Mint Barack Obama Coins

A friend of mine asked me if I was renting out my home during Barack Obama's inauguration. I was like, "No." She was all, "Well you should consider it. I put an ad on Craigslist and scored over $3,000 for 5 days."

Wh-wh-what? Really? And she has a one bedroom in Columbia Heights. Surely, given the proximity, a two-bedroom in Dupont Circle would fetch more, no?!? We could stay at another friend's place for a few days if we can score, oh, say, $10,000. I would even put some lube, condoms and poppers on the bedside table (master bedroom-only). I would have one of my lawyer friends put together a contract to protect against vandalism and theft.

I realize a few out-of-town friends are planning on crashing at my place during that time but that was before I saw dollar signs in my future -----> $$$$$$$$$OBAMA$$$$$$$$$.

As long as they abide by my city rules they are welcome to stay here.

Yes? No? Is anyone else renting out their place???

Posted by durban bud at 12:36 PM | Comments (16)

November 19, 2008

Upgrade!

After three years I have finally upgraded the software on this site. Hopefully that will help cut down on the mountains of spam I'm pounded with daily. There's also some cool new features I may add, or not, once I figure out how they work. So far everything seems to be working properly but do let me know if you notice any problems.

I also tried upgrading to the recent Activism 4.0 freeware application through a link that some formerly complacent hippie sent me on Facebook. His subject line read "WE CAN'T DEPEND ON ANY OF TEH GAY ORGS TO DO ANYTHING RIGHT! DOWNLOAD THIS NOW! WONDERGAYS, ACTIVATE!"

I was like, okay, that sounds good. But as I read more and more customer reviews about Activism 4.0, I decided to hold off until the first patch is released. Hopefully that will address most of those annoying, bitchy bugs people have already discovered. No doubt Andrew Sullivan is diligently working in his underground laboratory on the Activism 4.0 Service Pack 2. Surely he knows exactly what to tweak in order to make the software run more efficiently.

I anxiously await!

Posted by durban bud at 2:42 PM | Comments (4)