Ready, Aim, Fire!

Several months ago, I agreed to help set up a gun safety and product demo for Smith and Wesson, a company that manufactures fire arms among other things in northern Maine.  They are a great company and provide good jobs for Mainers. 

I’ve never really been a fan of guns.  I have never hunted and guns were never a part of my family’s culture when I was growing up.  As a bright eyed uber liberal at Wesleyan University, the basis of the movie PCU which gives you an idea how liberal my college was, I remember trying to bring Sarah Brady to my college campus for a lecture on handgun control. 

But like with many things, we grow older, more tolerant of other views and less judgmental in our political views.  For the last 20 years, I have worked in politics in Maine and have come to see the other side of this issue – shooting and hunting is a part of Maine’s culture just like fishing, boating and hiking.  Over 60,000 households own a gun in Maine’s Second Congressional District.  And these folks take gun safety very seriously. 

Now with all of that said, I didn’t really think I was going to have to participate in this gun demo that we scheduled for this week.  But peer pressure set in, and it was important to our office that I participate. 

Dreary eyed and exhausted after the end of the debt limit debate and final votes, I begrudgingly made my way to the office on Wednesday morning, all the while dreading this activity I had reluctantly agreed to.  I deliberately waited until the end of the 4-hour demo hoping there wouldn’t be a lot of staffers around to watch what I was sure would amount to nothing short of a giant embarrassment. 

Well so much for deliberate planning.  I got lost in the underground parking garage as I trudged over and as if par for the course, I was picked up by one of the maintenance guys in his little buggy and driven to the proper location.  As we whizzed from level G1 to G2 and then back down to G1, I only wished I had giant sunglasses and a head wrap.  I finally arrived in grand style at the Capitol Police Shooting Range in the basement of the Rayburn Office building, and much to my chagrin, it was packed.  “Suck it up,” I sighed to myself and signed in.

After a safety lesson, I donned some earplugs, eye goggles and ear protective wear and headed in through door 1 and then door 2 of the firing range.  When it was my turn, the safety instructor asked if I had ever fired a gun before and was then shocked by answer given the fact I had grown up in Maine.  Hands trembling, I picked up the 9-millimeter handgun and pointed it at the big white T in the target silhouette.  I fired and missed.  I fired again and missed.  The instructor told me to relax and lighten my grip.  “Let the gun do the work,” he said.  Well Bam Bam, the next shot hit the target dead on.  I started laughing with giddy excitement and tried again.  Bam Bam – I hit the target again.  By this point I was trembling so much, I couldn’t have it again if I tried.

Next station – the rifle!  Now this was fun.  The gun was light and had an automatic laser sight, which made hitting your target much easier.  9 out of my 10 shots went where they were supposed to and I exited the firing range proud as pie for my accomplishment.

I probably won’t be purchasing any camouflage gear anytime soon, but I will say it was extremely fun, and I’d probably do it again.  How’s that for stepping outside your comfort zone!

Heat on the Hill

For the last several weeks, against the backdrop of the debt crisis in Washington, I have woken up every morning with a similar thought:  are we there yet?  Every day, friends have asked, “Is there going to be a deal?  When is this going to end?”  And each time, I have answered, “I really don’t know what is going to happen.”

To say that it has been a long slog since July 4^th weekend would be an understatement.  It’s been nearly 100 degrees most days, tensions on the Hill have been high, tempers have been short, and most importantly, my 2 dogs have been on Holiday at the grandparent’s house in Maine, making it extremely lonely here.

Yesterday afternoon, I called my mom to update her on the latest machinations in Washington on the debt crisis and had her put the dogs on the phone.  Hunter intently listened seemingly believing this was some cruel trick all the while knowing I was really 650 miles away.  Alex began wagging his tail in anticipation I would jump out from behind the couch and yell, “Surprise!”  It was a brief moment of joy from an otherwise never ending oppressive combination of exhaustion and exasperation caused by the heat and debt crisis respectively.

So where are we with just 2 days left to the looking deadline of August 2^nd?  News sources report that the GOP is “very close” to a deal with the President, which causes me to have hope but also great trepidation. 

It is mind boggling to me that multi national corporations and the wealthiest Americans who are where they are because of yes hard work, but also the greatness of America, are not being asked to pay their fair share while some have suggested cuts to Social Security and Medicare.  It is mind numbing to me that we are still in Afghanistan at a cost of roughly $190 million U.S. dollars a day but we have allowed this crisis to get to the point where our men and women in uniform wonder if they will get paid next month and veterans come home with untold costs of PTSD and traumatic brain injury.  And it is wildly frustrating knowing that extending the Bush tax cuts last December added over a trillion dollars to our deficit, thereby at least in part, necessitating the raising of the debt limit in the first place.

You know, I agree that Washington needs to get spending in control, but to suggest that cuts alone will solve this problem is naïve at best.  So here’s what I would do to get us to an affirmative answer to the question of “Are we there yet?”

1. Let the Bush tax cuts expire.  The so called job creators (the wealthiest Americans) didn’t create any jobs since these were first enacted in 2001 and later in 2003 – in fact, they eliminated jobs to protect their massive wealth.  Cost:  roughly $1 trillion.

2. End the wars in Afghanistan and bring the troops home from Iraq.  If the Soviet Union couldn’t create stability in Afghanistan with very different rules of engagements, what makes us think we can?  Cost:  roughly $1 trillion.

3. Require the Department of Health and Human Services to negotiate for drug prices in the $500 billion Medicare drug program; something the Veterans Administration already does on behalf of our veterans.  Cost:  Estimated tens of billions in savings

4. Spending cuts that don’t cut benefits to seniors; Social Security or Medicare – after all they worked their whole lives and it’s their money.  Cost:  $1 trillion

5. Eliminate tax breaks for oil corporations and subsidies for ethanol.  After all, oil companies are experiencing record profits and federal law mandates ethanol in gas so these corn growers are guaranteed a market anyway.  Cost:  Roughly $40 billion

That’s how I believe we could at least begin to tackle this problem.  The last time we had a federal surplus, we achieved it through deficit reduction that raised taxes, ghastly I know, and cut spending.  And if memory serves me correctly, the people who saw their taxes go up, experienced a decade of incredible wealth. 

But anyway – back to reality. There’s two days left.  I hope this gets solved soon, and then I look forward to heading home to Maine – the way life should be.  Hunter and Alex are waiting.

Perspective

Several weeks ago, I received an email notice that the LGBT Congressional Staff Association was trying to form a team to compete in the Stonewall Kickball League.  “What could be more fun than a gay kickball league on Sunday evenings?”  I thought.  So I decided to add my name to the roster, paid my $25 fee and eagerly awaited the start of the season.

At 39 years old, I was determined that I still had the juice to play team sports, and nothing seemed more simple, easy and fun than kickball.  Here’s the best part – our team was to be called Pink Gingham, a name thrown out to all of us by the late President of the LGBT CSA Chris Crowe.

Chris, at a mere 29 years old, was to join us on the kickball team but tragically passed away just as the season was to get underway.  While I wasn’t close friends with Chris, I remember giving him an informational interview several years ago when he was trying to find a job on the Hill.  He was remembered by friends for his kindness, wonderful humor, warm personality and dedication to the fight for equality.  At our second kickball game, we all signed a team t-shirt for Chris which was presented to his family at a remembrance ceremony on the Hill. 

The news of Chris’ untimely death was a shock to all of us, and it served as an all too vivid reminder that our time on this earth can be cut short at a moment’s notice.  Perspective.

Kickball turned out to be an activity that I would look forward to each week.  Most importantly, it was a great opportunity to meet new people, many of whom I have probably seen numerous time but never really knew.  Pink Gingham took the field each week with a strong sense of purpose, but never quite seemed to capture a victory.

Channelling the chief of staff in me, I decided to emulate the feared red team known as “Sit on my Base” which would arrive on the field each Sunday night in high heels sporting air horns and vuvuzuelas.  They were obnoxious to be sure, but they were damn good at kickball, and their antics seemed to provide a hearty dose of team spirit and campy theatre.  I traveled out to Virginia and armed myself with whistles, an air horn of our own, pink string in a can, noisemakers and yup, pink lip stick to be used as war paint under our eyes.

I purchased these materials particularly for our match with none other than the “red team” and much to my chagrin, the game was cancelled because of a wet field.  I don’t need to tell you what happens when throngs of gay kickball players show up for games only to find out they have been cancelled, especially when the field is adjacent to Jrs Bar and Grill.  You remember my friend Jr?

The surprise stash of goodies would have to wait until the next week when we would finally face off against Sit on my Base.  When Sunday arrived, the tension in the air was palpable as Pink Gingham and Sit on my Base prepared for battle.  Thinking they would trounce us, they grew nervous when we remained tied at the bottom of the third inning.  We never did win that game, but we learned a thing or two about team spirit and never giving up.

Fast forward to last weekend – an evening of double headers for most teams to make up for the cancellation from weeks ago.  We tied our first game against Ball Busters and then went on to challenge Rogue Ballers.  To say that this team did not like our whistles would be an understatement, but I loved the fact that our loud charades really got under their skin.

And that’s when it happened.  Sometime in the third inning (the details are a little fuzzy), I went up to kick and after blasting it into the field, I began my sprint to first base.  One stride, two stride and then SNAP!  It felt like someone slammed an aluminum baseball bat into my right calf.  Limping in agony, I made it to first base where I was thankfully replaced with a runner.  Stupidly, I finished the game which ended in our first win of the season.  Pink Gingham Pride at last!

On Monday, I would find out that I had likely torn my calf muscle and on Tuesday, it would be confirmed by an orthopedic doctor.  Painful could not describe how my leg was feeling.  I was placed in a pneumatic boot and told I would need to wear it for at least 3 weeks, likely to be followed by a less intrusive special orthopedic shoe.  Dread came over me – no kickball, no gym, no training sessions, no walking to work.  After spending 2 years losing nearly 50 pounds, this was bad news indeed that prompted anger and depression.

On Wednesday evening after dropping off my prescription at CVS, I was walking along the sidewalk when I heard a young voice say, "Excuse me."  I turned to see a young probably around 8 year old girl riding her bike and quickly moved aside to allow her to pass.  As she did, she said to me with the attitude of Wanda Sykes, "Yuht, cuz you wouldn't want me to break your other leg."  Taking a beat to register this sistuation, I finalled responded, "You're rude."  Once she had gotten just far enough away from me, she turned and gave a nasty face.  Reeling, I looked around for parents to scold this young girl, but of course, none were to be found.  Just when I thought she was gone, she came back by on her little back and in a sicky sweet tiny voice said, "Hola," and disappeared out of sight.  I am not sure I have ever been taunted by an 8 year old!

The next morning, I boarded the train at Dupont Circle and immediately noticed a very buff, good-looking guy at the front of my car.  I could only see him front the waist up and he was wearing a muscle shirt which layed bare his giant biceps and numerous tattoos.   He had short cropped black hair and was the focus of many a lady (and well me) on that train.  Once the train had made one stop, he moved from where he was standing and walked down the aisle to take a seat.  And that’s when I saw.

Everything was physically perfect about this young man, except for the fact that he was missing a leg and instead had a prosthetic.  Admittedly, I tried not to stare, but I was shocked because it was not at all what I expected to see when he moved from out behind the first row of seats on the train.  I was sure he would have powerfully built legs to match his arms.

I am guessing that he was either a current member of our Armed Services or one of our proud veterans.  I wanted to go over to him and thank him for his service, but not knowing if this was in fact the case, I remained silent.

I thought a lot about that young man all day and decided that however frustrating my current debilitated state is, no matter how painful it can be, no matter how long it takes to recover, I still have my leg, and I will live to play another kick ball game, walk another mile, train another time. 

Perspective is exactly what we all need every now and again, and kickball gave me a double dose that I will never forget.

Game Changers

They say the early bird catches the worm, and as such, I got up early Friday morning so I could begin the 10 hour drive to Maine at a reasonable time.  By 7:20 am, I was headed out the door of my DC condo to load up the  Jeep which had been parked the night before in an ever so fortuitous spot right next to my building.

As I headed to the Jeep, I quickly realized that this early bird would in fact catch no worms, but rather a fat ‘ol $100 parking ticket instead.  For what you might ask?  For failure to obtain a proper DC parking permit.  I guess all that parking at the Capitol and taking the metro to work had simply delayed the inevitable.  When I return to DC in ten days, I suppose I shall head to the DMV and “obtain a proper DC parking permit.” 

After this most unfortunate mishap, I finished loading up the Jeep, gave the vegetables in my refrigerator to Rachel (the building character), took the dogs for a walk and departed Q Street at 8 am.  I stopped briefly at CVS to pick up a sugar free Red Bull and then we were on our way – earlier than ever before.  I was sure I could make Portland by dinner time!

When traveling, I like to pass the time by making little references on Facebook when I enter a new state, taking great care to tie them all together in some clever theme.  This time, I would do musical numbers!  And for all of you wondering, most Facebook posting takes place at rest areas and toll booths – I simply push send at the appropriate moment - so please keep the don’t text and drive comments to yourself. 

As we drove through the Harbor Tunnel, I posted Good Morning Baltimore as I envisioned myself riding atop a big green dump truck.  

Heading over the Delaware Memorial Bridge into New Jersey, I posted Jersey Boys and tried to imagine the words to a song from a show I have never seen and don’t really care to, but hey, it’s all I could come up with.  It was then time to think about lunch and that meant only one thing – veer off the Jersey Turnpike at Exit 7A for the only Chick Fil A I have been able to find near one of the exits. 

Now I am well aware that the corporate powers to be at Chick Fil A do not share my social or political viewpoints, but neither do Exxon Mobile or Shell, and I still stop there for gas.  My $7 purchase at Chick Fil A a few times a year will certainly never become a game changer so I put it out of mind each time, throw caution to the wind, and have my 1,000 calorie meal of bliss.  This time – meal deal #2 it was – Chick Fil A Deluxe, waffle fries and a diet coke thrown in for good measure.  I also splurged and asked for two special sauce packets.  After checking in at Chick Fil Aon Facebook, I then braced myself for the deluge of nasty responses from my coterie of liberal friends.  Much to my surprise, I only got one and it took almost 5 hours.  It read, “You realize that Chick Fil A has funded ads against the boss, right?  My response?  “I’ve been waiting all day for some stank comment – I like their chicken – period.”

Chicken cutlet slap anyone?

By 11:40 am, we were back on the road grinding toward New York.  Normally these are quiet rides with time to think and regroup after days of stress at the U.S. House.  But this time, Hunter, like a petulant child, decided that Alex was invading his space in the back seat and howled every time it happened, sometimes incessantly.  At one point, I had finally had it, and yelled out, “For the love of Christ, shut up!”  And to no avail, the howling continued, but at least I felt better expressing my displeasure verbally.

Gliding over the George Washington Bridge, which we reached in a record 4.5 hours, I posted, “Remember me to Herald Square” and swiftly continued my way rather smoothly through Manhattan, the Bronk and other outliers of the “City That Never Sleeps.”   Arriving in Connecticut, we hit the first rest stop to allow the dogs to take a potty, stretch and water break, and I headed inside to McDonalds to get a $1 coffee.  While patiently waiting in line, this nasty woman from Ohio blurted out her order when the cashier asked me, “Hi can I help you?’  I politely but sternly informed her that I had been waiting in line as she then proceeded to complain about the line system to me and anyone else who would listen.  I suggested that perhaps she should go back to Ohio.  Oh and the Facebook posting for Connecticut? Nothing clever, just a shoutout to my Jrs’s buddy Jimmy Lee who hails from Connecticut. 

Back on the road after a second $50 gas fillup, we slogged through the two hour stretch that is Connecticut and finally hit Massachusetts.  I quickly posted, “It was the shot heard round the world, it was the start of the Revolution” from School House Rock.  Props to one of my longest running best friends, Miss Irene, for properly identifying its origin.  An hour later, we hit New Hampshire where again I couldn’t think up a musical selection, so I used the old “Live Free or Die” standby. 

And then, like a beacon in the night, the Piscataqua Bridge, which connects Maine and New Hampshire, appeared on the horizon.  Excitement, intertwined with pure exhaustion, surged through my body.  I crossed the green monstrosity of a bridge, and then I saw it – the game changer according Anya Trundy – the new ever so tiny sign attached to the far larger sign welcoming visitors and returning residents alike to Maine – the Way Life Should Be.  The new sign I would later learn had been attached only a few days before by our new Governor, and it read, “Open for Business.”

“Well thank God” I thought.  The economy has been fixed, all Mainers have health care, tax reform has been implemented, and hunger, poverty and homelessness have been eradicated all because of this new sign!  Businesses by the hoards must have flocked to Maine at Lepage’s urging and literally transformed our state’s economy overnight.  “Phew!”  I didn’t realize that one small sign could do so, so much. 

As I made my way through the streets of the Old Port, my home in Portland, Maine, the sun began to set, and the temperature which had been 68 degrees earlier that day quickly plummeted.  I headed to the fourth floor of 99 Silver Street, my Old Port condo, located in an old shoe factory replete with brick walls and exposed beams.  I opened the door to my hermetically sealed room from the past 6 weeks and nestled high upon my armoire next to the tv was the real game changer for my trip home – Ultimate Reds from my dear roommate Charlie, bookended by an Avitar greeting.  There’s nothing like a blast of anti-oxidants coupled with some fresh Maine air to eliminate weeks of accumulated DC stress.

It’s good to be home!  I'll be spending the week looking for game changers.

Poop!

Meet my two dogs:  Alex, a 13 year old lab/beagle mix, and Hunter, a 2 year old beagle/hound mix. 

I got Alex in a parking lot in Fryeburg, Maine, and he was the only blonde haired dog in the litter, the rest being black.  He does have a little black patch of hair on his back though as a shout out to his brethren.  Alex has been everywhere with me:  back and forth between Maine and DC, on a small plane out to North Haven, multiple campaign offices across Maine and every single piece of furniture I own, as evidenced by the trail of hair he leaves behind.  He’s a very mellow dog and permits me to sleep late in the morning.

I stopped at Wagtime here in DC to pick up treats for Alex one evening.  The owner Lisa asked me what kind of dog I had and after telling her, told me I should come out back and see the rescue dogs that needed a home.  I thought no way as I nervously walked into the back room.  Amongst all the yelping and frenetic activity, there was Hunter lying alone on a dog bed looking sad and lost.  Lisa explained that I could take him home for a night or two and that even if I didn’t decide to adopt him, any night outside of the shelter would do him good.   She also explained that Hunter had been rescued from a kill shelter in Virginia which absolutely made my heart break.

So I returned the following Friday and picked up Hunter for a doggy holiday in my Dupont condo with Alex.  Lisa posted a note on Facebook that Hunter was on a sleepover and said, “Be a good boy Hunter.  It’s up to you now.”  Well Hunter behaved perfectly, and he never went back.  Most importantly, he seemed to understand the first and foremost point of going outside for a walk.  I signed the adoption papers a week later, and it was then that Hunter yelled Gotcha! 

Hunter is polar opposite to Alex.  He sleeps right next to my head at night, and he is nervous and hyper.  He can put a flock of seagulls to shame with his high pitched warning howl.  He is starved for attention which admittedly I can’t always provide, but I seek solace in the fact that his life is far better with me than the shelter or the near fate he almost suffered in Virginia.

Lif e with the two dogs has been good except for the pooping.  Yup – I said it here on the blog – the first dirty word so to speak I have used.  While it is significantly better than when Hunter first yelled Gotcha and proved to be completely clueless to the point of going outside, we still have frequent issues with the concept.

Just this week during a 2 day rain a thon, Hunter refused to go to the bathroom outside, far preferring the comfort of a heated home.  If he was human, you know he would have a fur cover on his toilet just to keep his bum warm on the porcelain in winter.  They do work well I must admit because my grandmother used to have one.  Rather than go outside in the rain, Hunter would just look up at me after Alex had already gone 4 times with an expression of, “Are you kidding me?  I am not squatting out here in the rain.”

I love the looks I get when the dogs do in fact decide to poop outside.  One man recently said to me a minute or so after Alex let one rip on a patch of dirt between the sidewalk and the road, "Excuse me sir, can I ask you a question?"  I thought to myself that my answer didn't really matter seeing he had already asked me a question.  "Yes,"  I said.  "Did you pick up after your dog?" he asked.  I stared at him in disbelief and answered, "Um - of course.  Right here in the little red bag in case you missed it."  I love self righteous community policers.  I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, get back in his little yuppy Volvo and drive back to the suburb, but I refrained.

Then there was the woman last week who twisted her face in disgust as Hunter, for once, actually pooped.  I wanted to tell her, "Get a grip lady.  It's poop.  We all do it and just like my dog, I am sure yours stinks too."  Again, I refrained.

Back to the problem at hand.  I have tried everything from quarantining Hunter to the kitchen to only feeding him at night to longer walks.  Nothing seems to work.  Amazingly, Alex has learned how to push his way through closed doors which paves the way for Hunter to leave behind special treats in off limit areas like my bedroom.  Ugh!

But the problem now is I think that Alex has joined in the bad behavior and is content to let me think it is all Hunter.  Whenever I lecture Hunter, which sounds to him like the teacher in a Charlie Brown film, Alex just sits there all patronizing like Lucy and thinks to himself, “Silly Hunter, when will you learn?” 

I am considering putting different food colorings in their food to catch the guilty culprit.  If the poop is blue, it’s Hunter!  If it’s green, then it's Alex!  But if it’s purple, I am not sure what I will do!

I am really hoping that all of this too shall pass.  It’s frustrating, but in the end, all worth it.  Dogs provide you a sense of responsibility and keep you grounded.  They don’t talk back, and they are always glad you’re around.  I don’t consider myself the best pet owner on the planet, but they do help me to maintain a sense of purpose.

Are we there yet?  Hell no!  But like the signs in the Bible that indicate Armageddon, I am convinced that no poop for a month will be a sign that we’re getting close.

1000!

This weekend, Are We There Yet?, received its 1000th view!  Thank you so much for reading and for all the support and words of encouragement many of you have given to me. 

Also, I want to send a special shout out to those of you outside the United States who have tuned in:  China, Russia, Belgium, France, Italy, Canada, Vietnam, United Kingdom, Australia, Singapore and Iran!  I would love for you to leave a post and let me know how you found the blog, a little about yourself and what you thought.  Hey - you might even be featured in a special post!

And by the way, no parking ticket this weekend, and the Jeep is safely parked below ground at the US Capitol!  Have a great week everyone.

I Fought the Law and the Law Won

There isn’t much in common between my life in Washington, DC and my life in Portland, Me, except for the fact that I’m a marked man in both by parking enforcement.  The only difference between the two cities is that in Portland I know them on a first name basis.

“Hey Joe,”  I called.  “You can’t get me today.  I got one of the six residential parking spaces in the Old Port this time (which is a feat unto itself given that hundreds of people live in the Old Port).  Joe just smiled and thought to himself, “Maybe this time but I'll be watching you.”

One evening last year, my mom came to pick me up for dinner and saw Joe writing me a ticket on Milk Street.  She hailed Joe and said, “Is my son getting another ticket?”  Joe laughed as he introduced himself and said, “Tell your son to get down here quick, and he won’t be towed (thereby saving me $75).”  She called, I ran, and Joe thought to himself again, “Silly man - I told you I'd be watching.”

Double tickets!  

Here in DC, I could have bought a parking space with my condo for a mere $55,000 back in 2006 which is almost as much as I originally paid for the Maine pad.  Thinking this was a ridiculous price to pay, I told my realtor to break apart the space from the condo at closing and much to my disbelief, it sold for the $55,000 asking price, and the buyer paid cash!  I thought, “What an idiot!  That’s outrageous.  I’m the smart one!”

Well, the joke was on me apparently because 4 years later and I’ve probably racked up that much in parking tickets.  Hyperbole?  Maybe, but it’s starting to irritate me.

I now find myself in a constant game of cat and mouse seeing if I can stay one step ahead of parking enforcement and keep moving my red jeep to a new highly coveted secret location.  I’ve even been known to get up early just to move it to a new space with a note left behind that reads, “Ha Ha – fooled you again!”

Secret Location!

But alas – they always seem to track me down, and I’m tired of running.  Maybe it would help if I renewed my residential parking permit that expired back in the summer of 2010, but I digress.

So I’m waving the white flag.  I surrender.  Game over!  With what feels like the arrival of spring on this gorgeous DC morning, I’ve decided that on Monday, after one more park, move and hide episode, I am driving my jeep to the Capitol and leaving it there.  I shall join the masses and ride public transport.  I thought of the Ab Fab episode where Edina proclaims to her daughter that anyone can ride public transport to which her daughter curtly replies, “I know – that’s the point.”

Given the fact that the May 8^th Congressional Cemetery 5K is approaching, maybe I’ll even start running, er walking, the roughly 5K to and from work.    Until then, after I finish my coffee this morning, I need to walk the block to where my jeep is parked.  Perhaps I’ll be lucky, and there won’t be a $25 ticket.  Somehow I doubt it, but at least this will be the last one – that is in Washington anyway.  See you in Portland Joe in mid March!

I am sure I will be singing after that visit to Maine - I fought the law and law won!

I Just Need A Little Jo Anne Worley

Saturdays in Washington usually mean one thing, and that’s Showtunes at Jrs!  As someone who loves the theatre but unfortunately can't perform in shows anymore because of my travel schedule between Portland and Washington, this 3 hour weekly romp through musicals of old and new fills a special void for me.  

Showtunes at Jr's

Whenever I go to New York City, I frequent a little basement establishment in the Village called Marie’s Crisis which features a live piano player, singing bar tenders and a jam packed crowd of Broadway hopefuls.  Marie’s Crisis even tops the weekly Jrs show because it’s live.  One of my best friends Chad is on special assignment in New York City and loves Marie’s Crisis as much as I do – well maybe not quite as much but suffice it to say he enjoys it.

Marie's Crisis in NYC

I called Chad this afternoon to see if was enjoying all that the Big Apple has to offer, and I was shocked to hear that after being gone for almost 3 weeks, he hadn’t been to Marie’s Crisis yet, but that it was on his to do list.

Chad and I met through mutual friends several years ago on an outside patio on 17^th Street and despite our respective political views in the nation’s capital mirroring James Carville and Mary Matalin, we’ve been terrific friends ever since.  What I like most about Chad is that we travel really well together and on our sojourns, we always try to get in some sort of musical performance be it a show or singing karaoke into the wee hours of the night.

Chad and I en route to Hawaii

It was during Chad’s first trip to visit me in Maine that he imparted the magic of Jo Anne Worley to me.  With the top of the Jeep down and sunglasses donned, Chad belted at the top of his lungs, “I just need a little Jo Anne Worley,”  en route to Ogunquit for yup, you guessed it, an evening of showtunes at the Front Porch.  Not familiar with Jo Anne Worley, I asked Chad to explain, and his description of Miss Worley went something like this, “You know her Boo.  She’s the warbling singer with the over the top voice from Laugh-In fame.”  It became a trademark saying between us and I would always beg for Chad’s “I just need a little Jo Anne Worley” whenever we traveled after that.

Jo Anne is indeed over the top.  She’s full of life, she’s super funny, she’s got moxie and maybe even a little touch of crazy – the good kind.  That’s why I like her, and that’s how I like my Showtunes – over the top. 

So here’s to you Chad and the city that never sleeps.  You just need a little Jo Anne Worley, and I bet you can find it at Marie’s Crisis.  When I visit in April,  it will be a part of the required itinerary complete with a hot dog from Papaya around 4 am. 

Until then, I will have to settle for my weekly Showtunes fix on 17^th Street.  The magic begins around 5 pm and while you might not see Jo Anne Worley there, you might be lucky enough to hear an impersonation of her from Blaise toward the end of the evening.

Blaise or Jo Anne Worley?

Call On Me

In between rounds at the bi-weekly trivia game at Jr’s, one of my dearest friends, Jim, announced that he needed some new material from ITunes to include in his workout mix.  Rising to the occasion, I grabbed a piece of paper and informed him that I knew the perfect song for his repertoire.  Trying to avoid the spills of lady drinks (aka Rose Kennedys) on the bar, I wrote 5 words on the slip of paper:  Call on Me – Eric Prydz.  Then, we went back to the game and managed to place third after an abysmal start.  Being a school night and all, we called it a night at the conclusion of the game.

The following morning, while having my daily iced coffee, I received the following email (expletives removed) from Jim via Facebook, “So I look in my shirt pocket this morning, and I’m like Omigod, some guy named Eric Prydz said ‘call on me’ but didn’t give me his number.  Then I googled it.  D’OH!”  Nearly spitting out my iced coffee, I doubled over with laughter as it was perhaps the funniest thing I had heard in weeks, especially given the racy video that accompanies the song on You Tube.

But it made me think.  No one actually gives out their phone number anymore.  In fact, no one ever calls anyone anymore.  Tweets, texts, emails – you name it – short quips and status updates have replaced meaningful conversations either face to face or over the phone, and I am as guilty as the next person.  In fact, I would venture to say I have a downright phobia of talking on the phone and have even removed my land line here in DC although I keep the land line in Portland just to remember the good ‘ol days.

Don’t get me wrong; I have a love affair with Facebook, and it’s allowed me to catch up with some old friends which would have otherwise been impossible in the midst of our busy lives.  But have I really started using the “check-in” application on Facebook?  Yup – guilty as charged.  In fact, I get a special thrill about checking in at certain places like the gym and leaving out the frequency of other check-ins like Jr’s thereby confusing people that I lead a super human life committed to healthy living.  Once an intern asked another staffer of mine who Peter’s friend Jr was because she had heard me speak of him often?  The staffer laughed and replied, “Oh that’s just a bar he likes to go.” 

But in between all the electronic check-ins this morrning, I decided to nervously pick up the phone and actually check in with an old friend and colleague whom I haven’t spoken to in over a year.  The conversation actually lasted more than 2 minutes, and we employed the full use of complex sentences complete with proper subject and verb agreement.  In those ten minutes, I learned a lot and even laughed a little.  And amazingly, like riding a bicycle for the first time in years, I remembered how to do it:  communicating in real life and not over an electronic device that relies on satellite signals.

Most importantly, we got to share updates on our dogs that we got together in a parking lot in Fryeburg, Maine 13 years ago this May.  They both have gray hair now, they both move a little slower, they both have had unsightly lumps and bumps that are commonplace for dogs, and they both are a little hard of hearing.  But I learned that my friend’s dog has cancer, and it caused me to think back on all the joy both of our dogs have brought us.  Our two dogs even flew together on a small plane out to the island of North Haven because we had missed the ferry for a staff retreat.  We thought about putting scarfs over their heads and sunglasses on as they deplaned just to invoke a little Jackie O drama, but we didn’t. 

My Older Dog Alex

You never know how long you will have with a beloved pet, but you come to appreciate each moment a little bit more the older they get.  And it’s exactly for learning this kind of information that we should put the blackberry down and pick up the phone once and a while.  We might just have a meaningful human interaction that is actually worthy of a status update or check-in.

Soccer Practice

It was a gorgeous October afternoon in 1989, windy but sun shining bright.  Coach Lofgren began practice by announcing we were going to have an intra team scrimmage rather than doing the normal routine.  Immediately dread came over me because that meant shirts and skins, and I knew I would inevitably be relegated to the skins team.

And sure enough I was.  So wanting to throw up the pizza and salad I’d had for lunch that day in the cafeteria at Biddeford High School, I took off my shirt and skulked to my position on the field as fullback and waited for the ribbing to begin.

Now I should preface this by saying I really enjoyed my teammates and many of us remained close friends during high school.  As such, the teasing was never meant to be mean, and I could occasionally find the humor in it. 

“Hey Chandlah,” yelled one of my teammates from mid field in a classic Maine accent.  “Where did you get your moon tan?  Working at Wellby Super Drug all summer?”  I let out a sigh of relief because at least it wasn’t a fat joke and truth be told, there was in fact not a speck of summer bronze in my skin.  Thinking back, soccer season was the only time of year I even approached being in shape. 

I loved the sport as it was really the only one I ever played.  I’m pretty sure I can thank my dad, who played three sports during high school and college, for instilling in me a love for the game.  Much to his dismay, I never really could dribble a basketball, let alone get it in the hoop.  Maybe that’s why when substitute teaching physical education (yes, it’s true – don’t laugh) at a local junior high school after college, I called “off sides” in a basketball game with eighth grade boys.  Let’s just the say that the male members of the faculty, who heard about my error within minutes of class ending, had a good time at my expense.  In any event, I know my Dad was proud I did play one sport and that I played it pretty well.  I guess that is what being well rounded is all about.

Unfortunately, I took being well rounded to a new level and somehow made eating a part of my curriculum vitae.  Fatty, chub, man boobs, pudgy, - you name it, I’ve heard it all.  And if I didn’t hear it, I had certainly thought it.  Every time I looked in the mirror, I would remember those trips to Sears to the Boys Department in the late 1970s where you had three choices in size – slim, regular and husky.  I was never greedy; I never felt a need for slim, but just once I would have liked to buy a pair of regulars.  But my body didn’t agree, and the pair of huskies and I would go home together, a match made in heaven.

My problem with weight would only grow worse after high school as the dreaded college pounds crept on one by one and I began a lifelong rollercoaster of ups and downs with a new diet around every bend.  Sometimes, I wish I had a do over, that I could go back and  become the athletic, muscular guy I always secretly admired.  But as the song from Rent, one of my favorite musicals of all time, goes, “forget regret or life is yours to miss.”

So in late 2009, after a dreadful annual physical that revealed everything from high blood pressure to dangerously high cholesterol, I decided to do something about it.  I changed my diet, started exercising and even hired a personal trainer.  It felt good going back to my high school reunion last summer having lost almost 50 pounds.  I considered taking off my shirt for the event, but alas, still no tan.

I still have a ways to go to my goal of 155 pounds  – the recommended high end weight for my age and height.  I don’t know if I will get there, but I am actually having fun trying, and I both feel and look healthier.  Maybe the 5K will help me to get there.

One thing I do know though, you can’t stop living just to lose weight.   Maybe that’s why I ordered the lasagna last night at Floriana’s, my favoite local Italian restaurant in DC.  You can’t change the past, only the future.  I am thinking chicken cutlets are in order for dinner tonight and a viewing of Johnny McGovern’s Soccer Practice.

Serendipity

Admittedly, no post was planned for today, but when you are “present in the moment”, you discover things that would otherwise go unnoticed.

At approximately 3:17 pm this afternoon, one of my interns placed a letter on my desk, a letter I would have typically transferred to the circular file.  The letter was dated January, 2011, but because all mail sent to Congressional offices is irradiated at a facility in the Midwest, we receive it about one month later.

The letter was written by Patrick Crowley, Chairman of the Board of the Association for the Preservation of Historic Congressional Cemetery!  One week ago, I didn’t even know the Congressional Cemetery existed and so, to receive a letter from them a mere 4 days after my visit on Sunday was serendipitous indeed.  (See Post from Monday - Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Gay Men’s Chorus Concert)

Before noticing the date at the top, I began to read the letter and secretly hoped that Chairman Crowley had heard of our pilgrimage to this historic site and wanted little ol’ me to become the national spokesperson for their preservation efforts.  Or maybe he would want me to perform a costume karaoke benefit harkening back to my performance days in Portland, Maine!  Could this truly be happening?  Doubtful – so I reached for a chicken cutlet to slap across my face and quickly snapped out of it as the true intent of the letter became clear.

Generically sent to Hill Staffers, it was to announce that this year they would be launching a 5K benefit event called Dead Man’s Run to help restore our country’s first national cemetery as it ascends to the rank of National Historic Landmark.  In short, it was a recruitment effort to register Congressional teams for the run.  Ok – exercise and not singing.  Hmmmm?

The significance of the moment not lost on me, I chatted with others in the office about forming a team and sincere interest ensued. The 5K run is slated for May 8^th.

So here’s the deal.  We’re going to do it!  Let the games begin.  With the nicer weather coming, I’ve been looking for a reason to start training hard again, and this might just be it.  There’s also those  last pounds to lose in the effort to reach the ever elusive goal of 155, which I was sorely reminded of this past weekend as my good friend Gary announced he had in fact reached his goal.  And boy does he look great!  Not that I am competitive or anything.

Maybe the answer to “are we there yet?” begins and ends at Congressional Cemetery, symbolically I hope and not literally.  They say all roads lead to Rome, but for me I am starting to think most roads at least lead somewhere up to Capitol Hill, perhaps more specifically the Congressional Cemetery.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Gay Men's Chorus Concert

Tragedy tomorrow - comedy tonight.

Much to the pleasure of teenage girls and gay men across the country, Glee started back up with a new episode after the Superbowl which can only be described as epic.  Coach Sylvester, in a desperate attempt to erase her boredom with her cheerleading team and spice things up, distributes chicken cutlets for her team to wear as “falsies”.  As the girls complain, Coach Sylvester tells them to slap themselves with a chicken cutlet, perhaps hoping they will somehow snap out of it and see things her way.

Fast forward a week.

My friend Evan and I are on our way to the Gay Mens Chorus’ production of Let’s Hear it for the Boys – A Swinging Tribute to Gays in the Military in celebration of the successful passage of the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell.  Rather than take a cab, we decide to walk on a day that is akin to Pooh’s Blustery Day.  It was roughly 3:30 pm when a funny thing happened on the way to the Gay Men’s Chorus concert.

There – in the middle of the sidewalk on P Street – somewhere between 16^th and 15^th street lay a falsie.  We couldn’t believe our eyes as I snapped a picture and Evan declared, “Alert! Alert!  Drag queen down on P Street.”  I told Evan to slap himself with it in honor of the joyful Glee production from the week before, but he wouldn’t oblige.  I knew it was going to be a good night.

Arriving at the concert after downing a quick slice of Whole Foods Pizza, we noticed a van parked up front with a panoply of liberal bumper stickers; my favorite read “Focus on Your Own Family.”  In we went to the Epiphany Church, ever so appropriately chosen for this concert, where little did I know I would have my own epiphany.

Much to my chagrin, the concert, while excellent in terms of singing quality, thematic structure and fanfare, was not your typical peppy production replete with men dressed as women sporting snappy boas and attempting to walk in high heels.  But rather, it was a historical, somewhat somber, historical romp through the history of gays in the military, albeit with a peppier Second Act which included If You Were Gay from Avenue Q and Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.

During one of the narrated interludes between musical selections, we learned of Leonard Matlovitch, the first person to mount a legal challenge to the military’s policy on gays in the 1970s.  Matlovitch was described as one of the most famous gay icons in the 1970s and graced the cover of Time Magazine for his courageous fight.  It was then that we discovered he was buried in the Congressional Cemetery in Washington with a tombstone that reads, “When I was in the military they gave me a medal for killing two men and a discharge for loving one.”

For the remainder of the concert, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Matlovitch, and then the real life significance of the repeal bill we had passed in Congress hit me like a ton of bricks.

After the concert, while describing the evenings to our friend Blaise, we quickly agreed that a sojourn to the Congressional Cemetery was in order, marking the first adventure in the journey to get “there”.  Blaise, known for his penchanche for creativity, announced, “We shall bring flowers.”  We agreed to meet at 1 pm the following day with a promise to dine afterwards on Barracks Row – a fitting conclusion to our military adventure.

Because of uncooperative behavior from my younger dog Hunter, I was of course running late the following afternoon.  I picked up Blaise, Evan and Orlando around 1:10 pm and sure enough, Blaise did not disappoint as he carried a dozen red roses which matched his pink shirt and cranberry Converse sneakers.  God love him!

We then set out to find the Matlovitch gravesite in the Congressional Cemetery which is located at 1801 E Street, SE Washington, DC.  The weather, which was supposed to be 50 degrees and sunny, was instead overcast and breezy, a perfect match for the mood of our visit.  We arrived at the cemetery and began looking for the landmark.  Unfortunately, we hadn’t done the proper research to know exactly where it was located.  I had wrongly assumed it would be a small cemetery, but instead we were greeted by a sprawling land mass of American history which housed the final resting places of famous individuals like former Speaker Tip O’Neill, Edgar Hoover, Congressman Tom Lantos, the only Holocaust survivor ever elected to Congress, among others.

Blaise asked,” What does the tombstone look like?” while the ever industrious and inquisitive Evan searched wildly on his IPhone for clues that would guide us to our destination.  Harkening back to my mother’s answer for the “Are we there yet?” question, I assured everyone that we would know it when we saw it.

After walking through the cemetery for nearly an hour, we began to approach our original starting point but armed with the new clue that Matlovitch was located in the same row as Edgar Hoover whose grave was surrounded by an iron fence.  Just as Orlando pointed to a plot surrounded by just such a fence (which turned out not to be the correct one but pretty close), I proclaimed, “I see it, I see it.  It’s right over there.”

Like giddy children at the sound of the ice cream truck’s impending arrival, we scampered to the site, amazed to find several other gay soldiers buried in the immediate vicinity.  As a silence overcame us, Blaise descended upon the plot and arranged the flowers at the base of the headstone and concluded with a flourish of water from a spray bottle to give the roses an extra glisten for the camera.  The unfortunate lack of sunlight didn’t allow the so called glisten to be captured on film, but trust me that it encapsulated the full drama of our visit.

Satisfied with finding our little bit of history, we ventured off to Barracks Row and ate typical American fare at Molly Malone’s.  Orlando ate lobster macaroni and cheese which he lamented did not include a slice of bread to mop up the creamy cheese at the bottom of the bowl.  Evan chose the veggie burger which he enthusiastically announced was the best veggie burger ever as he attempted to decipher its unique ingredients that made it taste so damn good.  Blaise and I opted for the Black and Blue Burger which we both agreed was excellent.  Oh, and I can’t forget, the poutine-esque French fry dish we all shared as an appetizer was salty, but intense!  I highly recommend a visit to Molly’s.

We all agreed that our visit to the Congressional cemetery was excellent as we reflected on the end of an era – passage of the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, the first stand alone gay rights legislation ever passed by the United States Congress and done so with bi-partisan support!

As we waved goodbye to Molly Malone’s, we passed the entrance to the Marine Barracks, and I thought to myself, “Soon gay soldiers will be able to serve with the same integrity and freedom they swear to uphold when they enter the Armed Services.”

So - are we there yet?  To be sure, the answer is no.  But I would be remiss if I didn’t note just how we far we have come and the lightning speed with which we are headed to full equality.  Blaise, who very much remembers the story of Matlovitch as it unfolded in real time in the 1970s and 1980s, often comments that he never though he’d see some of the changes he’s seen in his lifetime, and that now they are happening much quicker than he ever expected.

Until we get there, perhaps all of us should slap ourselves with a chicken cutlet and snap out of it.  Let us focus on our own families and help our nation to fulfill the promise enshrined in our Pledge – With Liberty and Justice for ALL.