doubting thom

As I alluded in the previous entry, I’m visiting my folks this weekend in smalltown Appalachia. I love my family, and I enjoy spending time with them, but I’ve already been involved in one unwise political discussion with my sister (hint: she doesn’t allow anyone to listen to the Dixie Chicks in her presence); just missed seeing my mom’s cousin, up from Georgia with her 17-year-old son and the 14-year-old girl he just got pregnant; and am about to head over to the “Camp” on the river where my mom for some reason is planning a family cookout–for the whole family, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc.–this weekend (my sister, noting that we’ll be eating “fatted calf,” suggests that my presence here is reason for the cookout, though the truth is that the whole family gets together at least once weekly, though not usually with this kind of fanfare or preparation). I’ll provide any gory details, and possibly some pictures, later this weekend or upon my return.

Besides the liberal mindset of my friends, and food that doesn’t include grease as a primary ingredient, what I most miss this weekend is broadband. My folks can’t get DSL where they live, and they’re only able to average about 28.8kpbs on their AOL dial-up.

(To be fair, some of the extended family are Democrats and dislike/mistrust Bush almost as much as I, and they’re all–Democrats and Republicans alike–extremely accepting of my homosexuality. So it’s not precisely Deliverance, though impromptu bluegrass or gospel singing at family cookouts has not been unheard of.)

Yesterday, while getting ready for my trip home to visit my family for a long weekend, I heard a feature on NPR about the 1963 original prototype for G.I. Joe being auctioned, with an expectation that he might fetch as much as $600,000. Later news articles report that bids for the 40-year-old didn’t even reach the $250,000 reserve price, so poor Joe remains alone. I know just how he feels.

I was also reminded of the G.I. Joe I’d owned as a kid, and his own identity crisis. Already a burgeoning liberal–and with my gay genes clearly already activated–I had decided that Joe was a pacifist, and I removed all his military drag and threw it away. I then took some of my sister’s Ken doll’s pants, cutting them down into short shorts–for which I later blamed our younger cousin–that the shirtless Joe adopted as his ubiquitous costume.

The AWOL Joe and his new buddy Ken also spent many hours tooling around our basement in Barbie’s dream car, which the apparently bi-curious Ken borrowed without permission–along with some Bob Mackie gowns–from his anorexic girlfriend.

Monday evening Rebel Cutie and I went to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at DC’s annual “Screen on the Green.” I even got to break in my picnic backpack as we broke out some hummus, couscous, cheese, fruit and my signature curried tuna salad.

When we first met up on the steps of the National Gallery just past 6:30, the Mall didn’t seem too crowded, but a steady stream of arrivals by nightfall saw blankets covering nearly every square inch of grass at least as far back as 7th Street, and a fair amount of dusty footpath as well.

After our picnic supper, while waiting for dusk to fall and the film to begin, we pulled out some mail-order furniture catalogs and oohed and aahed over gorgeous wood and leather furnishings, like the fabulous queer boys we are.

The movie outside–on what turned out to be a pleasantly cool and clear summer evening, with a beautiful near-full moon rising over the edge of the Mall–was a wonderful experience. It was only very slightly marred by the mildly tipsy group two blankets behind us who decided to talk back to the screen, chat on their cellphones, and debate with others around them their right to be as obnoxious as they wished. Over the course of the film, they did quiet down to the point that it became easier to ignore them and focus on the film.

I hadn’t been to Screen on the Green in several years, and I’m really glad that Jeff suggested it, giving me the opportunity to enjoy a classic film with him–and several thousand of my fellow Metro DC residents. Next week, The Postman Always Rings Twice.

From an online article entitled “Gray hair and age”:

The first onset of gray hair and the speed at which people go gray varies considerably from person to person. Most people actually start going gray in their late 20s but they don’t notice it immediately. Premature graying is defined as gray hair onset before late teens for Caucasians and before age 30 in Africans and Asians, or alternatively 50% or more gray scalp hair before age 50. Very occasionally, a few gray hairs can develop in children as young as 8 years and yet it indicates nothing other than an early onset of the gray hair that we all develop with increasing age. Typical gray hair first develops at age 34.2 +/- 9.6 years in Caucasians while for Black people the average age of onset is 43.9 +/-10.3 years (Keogh 1965). As a rough guide, 50% of the population in the US and Europe have 50% gray hair by age 50.

The most common areas on the scalp in which to first see gray hair development are above the ears and/or at the temples. This first gray hair may spread around the sides and to the crown with time. Gray hair development in the beard and mustache may also start quite early, while gray hair on the chest and pubic region generally only occurs some years after onset of gray hair on the scalp.

I just found my first gray chest hair.

I don’t know why this disturbs and distresses me in a way that the gray at my temples and liberally salting my goatee has not.

But it does.

Saturday at lunch at R.T.’s in Alexandria, Peg and I ran into my friend David, a fellow squaredancer, friend of Dorothy and resident of my condo building, having lunch there with a friend of his down from Philadelphia. David asked about my Saab, having seen my friend’s SUV in my parking space and my car parked on the street the past few weeks. I explained the problems I’d been having, and his friend volunteered that he’d recently bought a used Saab and it already was in the garage with problems. I noted that I was planning to replace it, and I mentioned first the Mini, which got the more usual very positive reaction, and then the Prius, about which he also was very excited. So there was no clear vote from David one way or the other.

On the way home, Peg and I stopped by the BMW dealer on Jefferson Davis Highway, and there was a Mini parked there. We got out and looked at it again, and she still thinks it’s ugly. I still love the look and styling, but more and more the lack of trunk space bothers me, and I’m also realizing that the appeal of the Mini for me is very much just stylistic; buying a Mini would be like dating a cool and very good-looking but somewhat vapid and high-maintenance indie rock musician, probably sleeping with your friends behind your back. The Prius, on the other hand, strikes me as a geeky, pro-choice Berkeley grad and Naderite, dependable, smart and attentive, and cool and attractive in a more personal offbeat way, despite or perhaps even because of his funky clothes and hairstyle.

Twenty years ago, I dated that musician; these days, I’d take the Berkeley grad hands down. So the Prius is looking more and more like the smarter–or at least more adult–choice, and I’m feeling more and more solidly in the Prius camp. We did swing by the Toyota dealer just next to the BMW lot immediately after; the outside sales staff rushed us when we stepped out of the SUV, but when I told them I was looking for information on the 2004 Prius, they all shrugged their shoulders and passed me off to the receptionist. The staff inside only took my name and email address and said they’d let me know, probably in September, when they had more information about the new Prius.

The remaining drawback to the Prius is that I’m having less success in coming up with a witty personalized plate. The only thing that the name evokes is Priapus, and anything in that vein would be swiftly denied by the Virginia Department of Transportation.

So, currently the tally (expressed or assumed on my part) is:

1. Jeff: Mini (because he, carless, wants to be chauffeured in it)
2. Nicole: Mini
3. Waldo (colleague): Mini (because he wants a sporty car, but with a wife and kid now he feels he has to go the more practical route, and will drive vicariously through me)

1. Gene: Prius (because Mac users are always evangelizing something)
2. Katie (boss): Prius (because she wants one of her own, given that Virginia law currently allows single-passenger hybrid cars to be treated as the equivalent of HOV for the purpose of using HOV lanes during rush hour, and that she has more than an hour-and-a-half commute otherwise)
3. Peg: Prius (she’s involved with recycling and waste management professionally, and very green personally)
4. Randy: Prius (another Prius evangelist: check out his Prius blog)

They’re practically neck in neck. Anyone else care to add a vote as to which new car Thom should buy?

It’s been a very full weekend. After a Cajun lunch on Saturday of alligator stew, she-crab soup, and crawfish and shrimp beignets, Peg and I drove out through Fauquier County to the Skyline Drive, entering at Thornton Gap and then driving the 30-some miles north to the Front Royal entrance, stopping along the way at various overlooks but braving the clouds of bugs for only a short hike. I took a few pictures, and was particularly pleased with the closeup of the thistle. We saw a turkey sitting on an overlook wall and later, while on our brief walk, came across a doe and her two spotted fawns; I had my camera in my bag at that point, and got it out in time only to catch the two fawns just disappearing into the woods.

From Front Royal we drove back to Arlington for dinner at Aladdin’s Eatery, and then headed home to watch The Manchurian Candidate on DVD; I’d not seen this Cold War classic before. Angela Lansbury, a favorite anyway, made a deliciously evil villain. I don’t understand why Janet Leigh got a starring credit while Ms. Lansbury was listed only as co-starring; the latter’s role seemed both larger and more pivotal.

After a late start this morning, we enjoyed a wonderful dim sum at Fortune Restaurant at Seven Corners, and then took the train downtown to see the Korean War Memorial. Afterwards, we walked the Mall (way too many cute shirtless men out today; I have got a bad case of spring fever), stopped by the fountain in the sculpture garden across the street from the National Gallery to rest a spell and dip our hands, and then spent an hour with the impressionists of the National Gallery before making our way back to Arlington for margaritas and Tex-Mex, and then home to watch the end of The Manchurian Candidate and all of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, which Peg hadn’t yet seen.

Now Peg’s in bed, and I’m preparing to go to sleep myself. I’ll head into work in the morning, but come back home to pick her up and drive her back to Union Station for her 11:00 train back to New Haven before returning to work for the rest of the day. It’s been wonderful, albeit exhausting, to have her here.

And now I’ve also got the past three days of unwatched TiVo recordings to try to catch up on before heading down to see my folks this coming Friday (assuming my boss will let me take the day off; she’s waffling a little depending on whether the spate of office moves ends up really taking place this week); and tonight (Monday night) already is scheduled for taking in Screen on the Green with Jeff. I need a studly husband cum fellow couch potato so I can have someone to cuddle up with–besides Alex, furry and sweet though he may be–while vegging out with all this TiVo bounty.

Peg and I went back to Aladdin’s Eatery for dinner last night–Walid was there, but wasn’t serving our section–and I realized that what I’d taken for potential flirtation on his part at lunch on Thursday was likely nothing more than a cultural artifact. Our waiter last night was nearly as attentive, minus the shoulder touching, largely ignoring Peg in favor of me as he took our order, asked if things were well, and left the check. It wasn’t until he was bringing her credit card slip back that he apparently realized that she, the woman at the table, had paid for the meal, at which point he finally did smile at her and wish her a pleasant evening; Peg was betting up until that moment that he would bring the receipt back to me instead.

So, it probably was the same cultural chauvinism that had Walid ignoring my two female colleagues at the table at lunch the other day in favor of me, rather than his having fallen madly in love with me in the face of my charm and good looks.

My friend Peg arrived today from Connecticut to spend the weekend with me. Having met through squaredancing, Peg and I used to see each other at squaredance events several times a year, back when I was still actively dancing. Now that I’ve largely given up the activity, and especially since I’ve been unable to attend convention the past two years, I only saw her once in 2001, once in 2002, and now once this year.

She took the train down, and I left work early to pick her up at Union Station at 2:30. We decided we would go to the Friday night contra dance at Glen Echo Park, so we had an early dinner of tapas in Shirlington, came back and changed clothes, and then headed out to Maryland for the dance.

Historically, the weekly contra dances (along with the weekly waltzes, swing and other dance evenings) were held in the Spanish Ballroom; as it is currently being renovated, however, the dances have been held for more than a year in the outdoor bumper car pavilion. The Ballroom is preferred, though it’s largely just an emotional preference as the Ballroom is neither air-conditioned or heated, which makes summer dances in the Ballroom miserably hot while winter dances start out painfully cold, though by the time you’ve danced a couple of sets you’ve warmed up enough to start stripping off layers of clothing.

Tonight was simultaneously fun and torturous. My body is particularly bad at regulating its temperature; my normal body temperature stays about two degrees below the norm of 98.6°F, and I tend to get overheated very quickly and easily, even when being very careful to keep myself hydrated. I very rarely sweat at all. Tonight, though, I became soaking wet and miserable, and was feeling almost dizzy and sick; I think the moisture was less my own sweat, though, then just condensation from the high humidity in the air as well as the couple hundred other bodies in the relatively small–albeit outside–space.

This really frustrates me. I love contra dancing, but I’m only able to do maybe every other or even every third set at summer dances because of the overheating; this same sensitivity to heat used to be very embarrassing on summer bicycle trips, when I would almost invariably be the first to end up retching from overexertion. I know I’m not in the best shape I could be, but I’m certain I’m in no worse shape than the majority of those who come to dance, a fair percentage of whom are half again my age and/or body weight, yet they seem to be able to dance set after set–and contra dances are long and very physically engaging–in the heat and humidity without being affected as badly. In airconditioning, I’m able to dance for hours on end without needing to stop; in college I won a dance marathon, and when I was most enthusiastic about squaredancing even as recently as five years ago would dance ten or more hours a day at convention, and then two-step and waltz for a couple more hours at night. Even now, though, two hours after coming home from the dance, and showering, I still feel flushed and overly warm.

Anyway, I’m not sure why this ended up being a diatribe against outside or uncooled indoor summer activities; I really intended just to write about how nice it is to have Peg here for the weekend, and to note that my posting may be light again this weekend while I’m entertaining a houseguest.

Tomorrow we’re going to look at MINI Coopers. Peg already thinks it’s an ugly car, though, and she’s the first of my friends to push the Prius over the MINI, the rest wanting me to get the “funky” car, so they can have a ride in it. I am starting to think that the Prius by far makes the most sense, though, and the 2004 model due out in October even looks a little sexier in addition to being technologically more advanced, even more fuel-efficient and with lower emissions than the current Prius model. Yes, I must confess that a part of me gets off on the “coolness” quotient of a car, though I’m probably more attracted in the end to quirkiness or cool technology rather than just another pretty face, which is why I was a Saturn and Saab owner; Saturns and Saabs, in their ways and in their time, defined quirky and unique. So maybe I’ll just try to be one of the first on my block to have the new, eminently quirky, techy and exceedingly green–if not altogether hip–2004 Toyota Prius. I just hope my Saab’s engine holds out until then.

One of my colleagues was back in the office today after two weeks away (during which she successfully defended her doctoral dissertation, with distinction), and our boss offered to treat the two of us to lunch, to talk about some upcoming changes in the office as we prepare to welcome two more people the end of the month.

We went to a wonderful Lebanese-American restaurant in Shirlington–Aladdin’s Eatery–which I’d never really noticed before, despite frequent meals at other Shirlington eateries in the same pedestrian mall. My entree was a charbroiled tuna salad in a pita, which I expected to be only a half a pita, which I would have found reasonable for its price of $5-6. What they brought out was a whole pita nearly as big as my head, filled with greens and practically a dinner-sized portion of tuna (admittedly, the tuna was a little on the overdone and dry side, but the meal was fine even before you take into account how reasonably priced it was). I eventually ended up bringing more than half of it back with me, to take home for dinner.

Our server was a very cute young man of Middle Eastern appearance, named Walid, who seemed very attentive to me, even personally guiding me over to the dessert tray to check out their incredible range of cheesecakes when he could easily have just pointed it out fifteen feet away and in direct line of sight. Throughout the meal, I assumed all of this attention was just the mark of a good server who was hoping for a solid tip. Even after my boss picked up the check, though, Walid continued to be particularly attentive to me, even resting his hand briefly on my shoulder as he brought back my wrapped salad, and then looking directly at me as he said “I hope to see you back again soon” (damn English and its gender- and number-neutral second person pronouns!). As we left, I turned back and caught his eye as he was watching us leave, and we both smiled broadly. My assumption with waitstaff usually is not that that kind of attention means I’m being cruised–I tend to be pretty dense about whether or not someone is cruising me even in less ambiguous circumstances–but that they’re just diligent about providing good service, but in this case I’m not so sure. And I definitely do want to go back.

Cute funny guy Stephen Lynch is returning to the Birchmere the end of September.

And the terrific Irish band Gaelic Storm (the Titanic steerage band) will be performing there just four days earlier. You just gotta love a band whose featured sales item on their web site is not a t-shirt but a hip flask:

Gaelic Storm is proud to present these classy personal flasks. The band does NOT recommend that you buy these and fill them with several ounces of your favorite fine whiskey (We do NOT suggest either Bushmills or MacCallan 12 year old). Gaelic Storm also recommends NOT tucking them discreetly in a hip pocket or purse and NOT bringing them to our concerts. We strongly suggest NOT sipping from them frequently during the show and NOT passing them around for the enjoyment of your friends. We especially insist that you DON’T pass them up on stage to share thirsty band members. Really. Don’t. Don’t ever. Honest.

I guess I know what I’ll be doing at least two nights in September. And what I’ll be drinking.