don't. fag. out.

A funny thing happened the other day when I was doing a full day of workshops for high schoolers here on Long Island.  In all honesty, funny things happen almost every single time I do workshops for high schoolers.  Without fail, one of those kids says something hilarious, and it becomes a struggle for me to acknowledge the hilarity and keep it serious enough to be able to finish with some sense of dignity and respect.

For example, (and maybe my favorite crazy moment of them all) I was at the same high school a day earlier when I began as I always do by explaining the rules.  One of the rules is for the students to feel comfortable to ask whatever questions they want to.  We do this because it's a safe space, and it's not that often that gay people come to class talking about what it's like to be gay, so they should take advantage of it.  As you can imagine, from the more fearless and ignorant youngsters, this can open a can of worms.  In most cases, they ask really great questions about my family's thoughts, stereotypes, and the like.  Except this one kid.  After I stated that rule, his hand instantly shot up and he goes "Does it make you gay if you like ONE Lady Gaga song?"

The class erupted into laughter.  I did, too.  I quickly replied "Of course not!"  He turned around to his classmates and exclaimed "See!? I told you!"  It was clear that this had been an ongoing conversation amongst him and his other classmates.  It was really hard for me to get back on track from that, because that kid instantly became my favorite and I had to try to avoid giving him thumbs up and high fives every time I made eye contact with him.

Another favorite moment came the following day, when I was observing one of our interns as he did two of his first workshops.  I sat quietly in the back, which is very difficult for me to do because I like to be the star, and there came a time when I was mentioned.  The class turned around to acknowledge me, and one of the loudmouths (there's always one - sometimes two) asked, before our intern could continue, if I was also gay.  I said "Yes, I'm super gay."

"See, now I would have never thought that," the kid replied.

Quickly, our intern regained their attention and continued the workshop while I sat there flabbergasted.  How did he not know I was gay?  And why did it feel like the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me?

First of all, I was wearing what is perhaps one of the gayest outfits I own.  I call it my "geek chic" outfit, which makes me one of the gayest people on Long Island by default.  Gingham shirt, skinny tie, tight jeans, hello?

After the initial shock had subsided, I thought to myself, well, if he had just heard me talk, his doubts would have been erased.  And then I started feeling all gross and conflicted inside about why this comment affected me so much and why I felt so proud as I relayed the story to my co-workers.

I've been told that I was flaming, or flamboyant, only a handful of times in my life - even though I can be flamboyant at the drop of a bedazzled hat.  Usually, if something excites me, or if music is playing, it's a dead giveaway.  Other times, I think I've been perceived as pretty middle-of-the-queer-road.  There have been times, like when I walked downstairs in my favorite purple shorts from H&M, when my little brother couldn't contain his shock and had to say "Wow.  You're really gay."  As if he hadn't known it before, in the days of my Spice Girls obsession, or when I would play with dolls while he played with trucks.  Or, and perhaps in the most obvious and embarrassing of super gay displays, was when my ex-boyfriend and I borrowed some of his KY jelly (he is a paraplegic and uses it to catheter himself) and forgot to return it in the morning... much to his grossed-out dismay.

I get told that I'm soooooo gay a lot more now, it seems.  Ever since I became shamelessly in love with Madonna and Gaga, it's harder and harder to hide my sheer excitement about everything they do.  Which, apparently, makes me flamboyant.  So, maybe I lied to the kid about liking a Gaga song.  Maybe he is super gay.

There are obviously some problems here.

1. What does gay look like?  Not me, apparently.  Unless I'm wearing purple shorts.  One of the whole points of the workshop is to list the stereotypes about gay people and then show how they can be refuted, and also to drive home the point that you never really know if someone's gay unless they tell you they're gay.  Whatever else they say, or act like, or look like, is bullshit unless they've confirmed to you that they're gay.
2. What's wrong with being super gay?  Nothing!  Unless, of course, someone wants to kill you for it.  Still - ridiculous, because where does the distinction come in?  Is there a continuum of flamboyancy (I think I just made that up and I think I like it)?  And let's just say that there is - what good does it do to make these observations, and more importantly, share them with people?  To me, it seems like a more acceptable way of insulting someone.  "You're flaming," isn't really said with much hatred usually (at least not when said to me) but more as an observation... which brings me to my next question:
3. Why is our world so fucked up that I can't be who I am and not feel bad about it?  
4. Or, conversely, why is our world so fucked up that I can't hear "I didn't know you were gay" and not feel good about it?
5. Or, perhaps more appropriately, am I the one who's fucked up?

I'd say I am a little fucked up when it comes to interpreting people's infrequent Wes-as-hetero-perceptions as compliments.  I'd also say that I'm fucked up because how could you not be in this ridiculous culture?  It's very clear that to be more masculine is to be more appealing.  Why do I see so many gay men in search of "straight-acting" guys?  First, we were inundated (and still are) with media images of gay men in the vein of the Queer Eye guys.  Now, slowly, gay men on all sides of the flamboyancy spectrum (Copyright 2010 by Wes) are filling up various media outlets.  But the masculine ones always seem more attractive and appealing.  The flamboyant ones are there for the laughs.

This little battle is always waging inside of me, and most often reveals itself when I'm dating.  I could really give a shit if one of my friends thinks I'm super gay.  But, if I'm dating a new guy, you can bet your Russian prostitute I'm not going to do the Lady Gaga "Bad Romance" dance in front of him until I know I've got him for good.  And even then, it will most likely be toned down (see also: not as good).  This is because I'm often guilty of being attracted to the more masculine guys (though that's more of a trend rather than a rule) and the fear of being found out can inhibit me.  Luckily, I have buckets of charm and a strong jawline to catapult me back into the manly arms of my lovers.  But, the fear is still there.

If there's one thing I regret about the whole situation, it's not that I felt good when the kid said that to me.  I did feel good, but then I realized how stupid it was to feel good about something like that.  I imagine part of me will always feel good whenever someone comments on my non-gay qualities with surprise.  What I regret is not taking that moment to expose it for what it really was in front of an entire class of high schoolers: fucking bullshit.  That statements like that serve no purpose.  In fact, statements like that dumb us down and insult our ability to understand differences in each other.  It simplifies everything by just going on our outward appearance - or our "gayer" qualities.

Another of my favorite lines from that workshop is, after we've discussed stereotypes, I say: "I'm not going to be the 1,000th person to tell you stereotypes are wrong.  We all stereotype, all the time.  The point is to realize it for what it is, and move beyond it."

Because the only way you know if someone is really gay or not is not by looking at them, or how many Lady Gaga songs they like, or how purple their shorts are.  It's if they tell you.  And in this crazy mess of a culture, you should be honored if someone feels like they can tell you that.

Just look at all the madness it brings with it.

when capitalism hogs suffering's spotlight

Disaster in Haiti

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friendship never ends

The Spice Girls lied and friendships died.  I can see it on a protest poster already.

The Spice Girls, in the height of their glory, once served as a shining rainbow beacon of hope for a little dainty boy in the suburbs of North Carolina.  That dainty boy was me.  I was devoted to them.  Was.  Who the fuck am I kidding?  I still am.  They were my first gay boy love.  I sat (see also: jumped) in the seventh row of their 2007 reunion tour.  Seriously, though.  Back in 6th grade, my first ever screen name was Spiceboy35.  I pretended to be one of their backup dancers in AOL Chatrooms.  My wall was a shrine to Scary and Ginger.  I literally broke the seat in the movie theater waiting for "Spice World" to come on because I was bouncing so furiously in anticipation.

But they lied to me.  They told me on their debut single, that we could "make it last forever; friendship never ends."  They were wrong!  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Of course, this isn't exactly something I'm just now figuring out.  I started discovering the careful deception they employed with "Wannabe" a while ago.  In high school, as friendships changed weekly, I still mostly believed in the Spice Girls mantra - I just thought that the friendships that ended weren't "true" friendships.  So, I revised the lyric on behalf of the Spice Girls (they were broken up at the time - so much for friendship never ending) to "true friendship never ends."

This new, revised motto helped me make sense of the friendships that I lost.  Those friendships, which succumbed to lack of communication, distance, more popular people, people who weren't gay and going to hell and the like, were never true blue friendships.  They were friendships of utility.  I served a need for them, or they served a need for me and it was over.  Still, in my mind, not the kind of stable, long-lasting friendships I had found in people like Mike, a friend I consider to be the real deal (who I bonded with over our love of the Spice Girls, amongst other things).  And that was okay - they weren't the kind of friends the Spice Girls were singing about.

As I grew up and my unhealthy obsession with the Spice Girls reached a more healthy equilibrium that I may very well be destroying with the very existence of this entry, my thoughts on friendship have grown.  This became clear to me with a lesson I learned, painfully, on New Year's Eve.

One of my longest-running friends came, along with a group of girls, to visit me for NYE in the big city. My very first one, and a dream come true, to be totally honest.  I've dreamt of spending a New Years in New York since I saw my first ball drop (hehe).  We have been close, at times closer than others, since high school.  As time has progressed and we've both been on our respective paths, it's become clear to me that they're not the same path.  We've never really been on the same path, actually, but we were always united by a sick sense of humor, a love of torturing the other, and quite honestly, through nights of crying and lamenting about ex-boyfriends and girlfriends.  Our friendship reached its pinnacle when we were both head over heels in crazy, codependent love with other people and engaged in self-destructive behavior.  And as we've both struggled to leave that foolish behavior behind, we've had varying degrees of success.

Meanwhile, because of what we've been through, I've been labeled as "The Best Friend."  This label is damning.  And I won't say I'm not guilty of labeling certain friends as "best" ones and others as "people I hit up for money" and others as "last resorts."  Who doesn't?  It wasn't until this wonderful New Year's Eve that I realized how fucking crazy that is.

On New Year's Eve, our friendship kind of exploded.  The worst part is, I had a feeling.  And not in the Black Eyed Peas sort of way.  More in the "I know this is going to end badly, and I should end it before it gets there" way.  But, I didn't.  Because I was supposed to be "The Best Friend."  And because the Spice Girls told me that friendship never ends, and I would end up being the asshole who made that truth a lie.

You see, I knew we couldn't remain friends forever.  As time progressed, I found myself less and less interested in those phone calls where we confided about relationships gone wrong, I found myself less patient giving advice that had been given hundreds of times before.  I just observed that things were going differently for the two of us, and the things that I once loved about our friendship, I now found tiring.

It's not an easy observation to make, nor is it a fun conclusion to come to.  I understand it's hard not to take personally, when the fact of the matter is her personality and my personality don't get along anymore.  And this is where I start realizing how foolish it is to place the label of "BFF" on anyone or anything.  As if Paris Hilton having a TV show about it wasn't a big enough red flag.  The more dependency you place on your friends, the more you expect from them, and the more you live in what your friendship was, the more hurt you're going to be when it ends.  All of those things are actually surefire ways to end a friendship.

And here's the kicker: they do end.  That's okay.  Life-changing revelation alert: people come in to your lives and they also leave at some point.  Does it make the time and the memories you had with them any less special, any less fun, any less meaningful and life-changing?  No.  I've come to find that the friendships with the most lasting impressions, that carry the most meaning, are the ones that don't subscribe to ridiculous Spice Girls songs.

If there's one thing I regret about the entire situation and the way our friendship ended (it did end, by the way - badly), it's that in all the years of friendship, I never found a way to explain this to her without creating what seemed to be a deeply offended, earth-shattering reaction.  There would be times when I would try to broach the subject or anything serious, really, about the nature of our friendship and how it would inevitably end, and instead of carrying on that conversation in a mature way, it would immediately escalate to "but you're supposed to be my best friend!" or, even worse, "you want me to die, don't you?"  When I look at these ridiculous statements now, I'm shocked that I was able to overlook the drama and insecurity of it all for so long.

But that's what we do, sometimes, as friends.  We put up with the utter insanity of keeping friendships because amazing girl groups like the Spice Girls tell us that we're assholes if we don't.  Isn't it better to let go of something with integirty than to continue it halfheartedly or even worse, with no real concern for the other?

The nature of friendship and what I seek in friends has drastically changed for me in the past couple of years.  I don't seek or keep friends anymore that I depend on, that I expect things from, or that I can't live in the present with.  The friendships that I want now are the ones that do nothing for me but enrich life.  Whether or not they'll enrich my life or I'll enrich theirs for the rest of it is unimportant to me now, and I'm confident that it doesn't detract from the meaning of our friendship.  Sometimes the best thing we can do is say "Goodbye."

Even the Spice Girls, those lying tramps, know that.

a step in the veggie direction

The web address of this blog suggests that it was supposed to not only be a chronicle of my growth over time, but also of committing myself to writing regularly - both things that before 2009, I hadn't been very steady at.  I grappled with the title(s) of this blog - what is in the address bar and the title bar -  because to be honest, I think titling a blog makes it even more self-important.  And you should know, I'm very aware that having a blog is self-important.

But there are times that I'm really glad I have this virtual space to write things on an open forum in which I give people the option to care.  Like the times when something really important comes along, and rather than going and blabbing about it to all of my friends, I can blab about it to my blog and not feel as self-important as I would in reality.  Because a blog is self-important, so it's more okay to blab about shit I care about that others may or may not care about.  So, I guess it just reduces my guilt of starring in "The Wes Show" 24/7.

2 weeks ago, I made a decision to stop eating animals.  To some, this might not be a BFD (big fuckin' deal).  To others, it might be a RBFD (really big fuckin' deal).  To even more others, it's probably NABFD (not a big fuckin' deal).  To me, I almost put it up there with when I came out of the closet.  That's how good I feel about it, that's how shell-shocked I am, that's how much I want to scream and star in a pride parade of some sort.  It's important to say - I don't feel good about it because it makes me better than animal-eaters, just as I don't think I'm better than closeted-homos.  I feel good about it because I feel like I'm doing the right thing.  I feel like my conscience is more in line with compassion and sensitivity, two qualities that I try to hold myself to.

One of my most favorite authors in the whole wide world, Jonathan Safran Foer, who wrote Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, one of my most favorite books in the whole wide world, has written a new book called Eating Animals.  I walked by it one day in a Barnes & Noble and judged it by its cover.  Its cover is pretty awesome:

When I noticed the author, I got very excited.  I would have bought it instantly, probably because I would follow Mr. Safran Foer to the ends of the earth just to hear the way he constructs sentences and ideas.  Unfortunately, I couldn't because I was really broke.  The venti Starbucks in my right hand helped me to realize why.

So, as with most things, I went home and put it into my Excel file of wish list items for birthdays and holidays.  (Yeah, I said it.)  And then I heard about Natalie Portman writing an op-ed championing the book and the author, and I think I probably had something close to an orgasm.  One of my favorite actresses, and someone who I have a shit-ton of respect for championing one of my favorite authors, and someone who I have a shit-ton of respect for?  This was gon' be good.

Christmas came along, and I was pleased to find in the fury of wrapping paper being ripped to shreds: the book.  After the excitement of Christmas morning died down and I had taken my 3 hour nap, I began reading the book.  And I didn't stop until I was finished.  I had to pick my jaw up off the floor around 5 times (each of which I bunny-eared the pages which caused this reaction).  In some instances, I was shocked at the reality of a situation I hadn't thought twice about, and other times, I was shocked at my unwillingness to ever consider this reality.

Instead, I had always dismissed, dismissed, dismissed.  I knew that "animals" are pumped with a disgusting amount of hormones and antibiotics that are making girls in the 3rd grade start menstruating and boys hit puberty in the crib.  I knew that "animals" were more than likely kept in really hideous conditions on farms.  I even knew, somewhere inside of me, that it was wrong to eat animals.  I just never thought about it.

What I didn't know is that these "animals" don't really seem like animals at all to me.  I use quotations for a reason, because I see the ones we eat more as freakish science experiments on how fast man can speed up nature's process to make an animal reach its prime for slaughtering.  What I didn't know was that factory farming is more of a contribution to global warming and ecological destruction than the United States' transportation emissions - in fact, it is the highest contributor.  What I didn't know was that I actually could stop eating animals.

Once I stopped knowing and actually thought about it, I had a few reactions:

1. I realized I had been making excuses.  And, when I finally challenged the validity of my rationalizations, and questioned them until I backed myself into a wall and realized I couldn't answer with any other justification, I knew I was wrong.
2. I was disappointed in myself.  Becoming vegetarian (which is a distinction I'll make below) was something I always, always admired in other people but for some reason (see: number 1) I never thought I could do.  Once I did, I felt like I had let an integral part of my nature - being sensitive - fall by the wayside for a long time.
3. I was eating animals.  Duh.  But really - we've become so accustomed to saying we eat "meat." Meat is just a clever form of doublespeak that is the much nicer way of saying what we're really eating, which is the carcasses and body parts of animals.  To show you how awesome doublespeak really is, it's a key factor in why I try more often to say "I don't eat animals" or "I don't eat meat," rather than "I'm a vegetarian."  Because it seems as though, in some instances, "vegetarian" has a stigma, one of which I want to avoid because it oversimplifies what I really am doing, even though they mean the same exact thing. Crosseyed yet?
4. I wanted to tell everyone I know.  

But I didn't.  This blog is the first time I've explained my decision and also the closest I've come to appealing to others to do the same.  I now realize how seriously our culture takes eating animals, and how personal it is to some people.  I saw it in the disappointment in my father's face when the first family meal I had and I declined meat, saying I wasn't interested in eating it anymore.  And then the next morning, when he childishly offered me bacon and I had to say "I don't appreciate that."

It's almost like I was denying him.  I was like "hold up, doesn't that mean there's just more bacon for you?  Why you trippin', Pops!?"  (I'm "urban" with my family.)  He just became deflated.  My mom, who in earlier years would have reacted similarly, seems to have more of an acceptance for differences now - maybe even a quiet appreciation.  What I soon began to realize is that when you admit to being vegetarian, or not eating animals, people can get very defensive.  They instantly, and perhaps thanks to the aggressiveness of PETA, get their claws out like they're ready to fight and defend their right to eat animals as if it were a debate about gun control.  I loves my gun. Loveess my gun.

I don't even know if I have to make this connection for you, but I will anyway: Why is the need to defend so strong?  Is there a chance that there is perhaps, the slightest, smallest indication that we're doing something we shouldn't be doing, so we pull out all our best arguments to get them off our back?

First of all, I will never be that vegetarian.  As I said, this blog will be as close as I come to making appeals to people.  I have maintained for quite some time now that people should be able to live with the utmost freedom to make the choices they want to make, and in a resounding majority of cases, those decisions do not affect me.  The ones that do, you can expect there to be something said.  Your animal eating, while it does affect all of us rather indirectly, is not worth me trying to convince you.  You should be able to enjoy your steak, your fried chicken, and your double doubles because lord knows I did and I really, really want some now.

I just can't anymore.  Not in good conscience.  This question has been posed to me before, and again, I never really thought about it before, I just knew the answer.  "Would you eat your dog, or your cat?"  My answer has always been (for dogs) not in a million years; (for cats) maybe because I hate them.  I would never eat a pet.  And then I asked myself would I eat a pig.  The answer was yes.

What makes the pig different from the dog?  When I thought about it, I mean really thought about it, there was nothing.  (By the way - when I say really thought about it - what I mean is I did the whole annoying toddler thing/philosophy thing where you keep asking questions until you expose the ridiculousness of "reality," or what we've created as norms.)  We could live in a society that raised dogs purely for slaughter and have pigs as domesticated pets.  The point is, my parents made me a vegetarian - not Jonathan Safran Foer.

My parents taught me to love our dog and to treat it as a member of the family.  My dog is an animal.  A pig is an animal.  A cow is an animal.  A chicken is an animal.  A salmon is a fish, which is an animal.  I think.  Human beings are animals.  Why and how do we draw distinctions and place importance on one animal over another?  What rubric is used in this determination, and who made it?  Furthermore, what good does it really do us to create a hierarchy of animals to determine which are most edible (disposable) and which are not?  I believe in "the food chain," but I believe in it more as a "scientific observation/rationalization for animal eating."

Human beings, point blank, do not need to eat animals to survive in the world.  We simply don't.  (Protein comes from things other than animals.)  I would never in a million years eat my dogs Abbey, or Deacon, because I have the capacity for compassion for these animals - why can't I offer that same compassion to other animals, even if I've never met them?  I'm glad my parents taught me to love dogs, and by extension, all animals.  They gave me the compassion to do what I know is right for me to do.

Now, it's time for the distinctions.  Just because you eat animals does not mean that you lack compassion or that you're a prick.  Nor does it mean I have more compassion than you.  Believe me when I say I have no interest in judging the decisions of others.  As admitted earlier, it's my blog, and I share things that I feel are important.  If it changes your mind, I'm fairly sure it wasn't me or my words who actually did it, but I'm happy to take all the credit.  Ultimately, it's you.  It comes down to the life you want to lead, the choices you want to make, all of which we can assume are steps in your personal search for happiness.  And that's what I want you to be - happy.  I want everyone to be happy.  I want us all to sing happy songs and dance happily to happy music and be so happy we poop sparkly rainbows.  Scratch that - I want us all to be so happy that we never have to poop.  Unless pooping makes you happy.  Gross. Happy happy happy.  And whatever makes you happy - as long as you're not killing someone (a human being - kill animals if you want to, whatevs) - I'm happy, too.

On my own little personal journey (let's be real: it's The Wes Show), I've found that not eating animals makes me happier.  It just feels right, and it's a challenge.  At this point in my life, I accept challenges and I actually get very excited about them.  I even popped a hard-on just thinking about how I'm going to make dinner tonight without an animal on my plate!

That's the point.  Not the erection.  This is a journey.  And I haven't always been so willing to accept things that would challenge me or prove to be extremely difficult on my journey.  I was often more interested in not thinking, in just getting fun where I could find it.  To steal a line from my personal God, Madonna, "and now, I find I've changed my mind."  And on this journey towards my own form of happiness, I'm making steps in the right direction.