Thursday, March 08, 2001

Gone South

The Daily Brad is on vacation while we head down to Austin, Texas for the South by Southwest Interactive Festival. It promises to be a fun, informative week -- filled with panel discussions, parties and opportunities to connect with friends old and new. Updates resume here on Thursday, March 15. In the meantime, why not take the opportunity to sample of some of the delectible dishes o' fabulousness served up by our friends listed in the column on the left. You'll leave satisfied, that we guarantee.

Wednesday, March 07, 2001

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Brad: Here's your water.

Julian: Thanks.

Brad: What's that you're taking?

Julian: I don't know.

Brad: You don't know?!

Julian: I found them in Jeff's rucksack while he was in the shower. I figure they're probably mood-altering and, frankly, any one's better than the bitchy one I'm in now.

Tuesday, March 06, 2001

Alpha Male: D

Dust: I live in the dustiest house in the world. Don't get me wrong; I'm ordinarily a pretty tidy guy, but dust sneaks up on me. I'll wipe down the headboard of my bed (or, as I like to refer to it, the "entertainment center") on Sunday and somehow, by Wednesday, there's a eighth-inch thick layer of fine dust built up. I'm told that most household dust comes from cast-off skin cells. If that's the case, I could probably assemble a few extra clones if I had enough glue.

I've tried everything short of hermetically sealing the house. I particularly notice dust building up on the TV screens and computer monitors, but it's not uncommon for me to pick up change off the dresser I dusted as recently as a week ago and find pristine circles where my pennies were.

A couple of years ago, I went out to a nightclub on a weeknight, a rare occurence at the time. I was thinking I looked pretty smart: black trousers, tight black sweater (back when I could wear tight clothing without hyperventilating), kicky black boots. However, what I didn't know was that the nightclub was sponsoring a "White Night", apparently something they'd be advertising for some time. Somehow I'd missed that detail. So I walk in the door, pay my cover and look up from my wallet to realize that everyone in the bar is decked out in white t-shirts, sailor pants, ball caps, the works. Except me.

There have been many occasions at bars, discos, circuit parties and, particularly, gymnasia, on which I have felt like the odd man out but seldom moreso than this night. Still, I was resolved to have a good time in dark clothing. Hey, this was a gay crowd, right? They can appreciate diversity. I ordered a drink and tucked myself into a corner to survey the crowd.

I stood there for half an hour, maybe 45 minutes, fielding all sorts of strange stares from the passing pretties. I assumed it was simply because I was dressed to look like Johnny Cash after he'd been deflated for easy storage. Finally, a friend I'd spotted across the bar came over and pointed out, through her giggles, that I was standing beneath a blacklight. Billions of miniscule dust motes which were invisible at home covered my outfit, making me look like the Tegrin poster child.

I downed my drink, walked out the door and headed home, wondering idly if the "boy in the bubble" ever got laid.

Monday, March 05, 2001

Embarrassing Photographs of Brad on Official Documents

FIFTH IN A SERIES. COLLECT THE WHOLE SET. TRADE THEM WITH YOUR FRIENDS!



I'm pretty ambivalent about this picture. It's not bad, and it's certainly not good, but it bears enough resemblance to me to satisfy law enforcement officers and nightclub bouncers and that's pretty much all I ask of it.

This is my current driver's license and, for those of you who've been reading for a while, you'll notice a 20-pound weight gain. I remember exactly when that happened: it was about five hours after my 30th birthday. My mother always told me my body would go to seed when I turned 30. I didn't realize she meant that day.

Missouri licenses have gotten all fancy these days, with that screened color picture of the Capitol Building in the background. I assume that's some sort of anti-forgery measure but considering how much this scan looks exactly like the card in my wallet, I'm not sure how it works. I shall leave it to more intrepid petty crooks than me to figure out.

Friday, March 02, 2001

Alpha Male: C

Caffeine: My personal slogan should probably be, "Mountain Dew: It's not just for breakfast anymore." When I started my job at The Rep, one of the first campaigns I undertook was to replace Pepsi with Mountain Dew in the vending machine so I wouldn't have to continue shlepping cases of it to the office and stocking the limited fridge space.

I drink a lot of soda. Tea, too. Coffee sometimes, and frankly the opening of a Starbucks near my office has done a lot to aggravate that habit. My lifestyle depends on never permitting too much blood in my caffeinestream.

A few years ago, I was driving to Washington DC and, passing through Ohio late at night, I spotted a billboard for a new product being test-marketed in the area: Caffeine-Free Mountain Dew. I nearly veered off the road. Why?! What possible appeal could such a product have to a mass audience? It's not as though I drink that stuff for the taste, although, as lemon-flavored sodas go, it's the least offensive of the breed. Since I have not seen it on my local grocer's shelves, I can only assume the test-marketing was a failure. Rightfully so.

Thursday, March 01, 2001

Alpha Male: B

Boots: I don't spend a lot of money on clothing. I just don't. I've never been a label-hound, and it irks me to pay more than $40 for damn near anything: jeans, dress trousers, shirts, sweaters. But I will eat egg noodles for a month and pay hundreds of dollars for a nice pair of boots. That said, it's not as though I'm the Imelda Marcos of the cowboy set. Right now, I own only four pair: some solid brown leather shit-kickers I bought in Nashville almost a decade ago, some slick Tony Lama snakeskins, a pair of dressy black leathers and the practically-mandatory Timberland hikers.

Wednesday, February 28, 2001

Alpha Male: A

Today begins a new semi-regular feature here at The Daily Brad, something I like to call Alpha Male. Twenty-six letters, twenty-six days, only five minutes allowed, no editing, to write about something from my life that starts with the letter du jour. Hey, I'm part of the Sesame Street generation! You expected Proust, maybe? So, let's start at the very beginning...

Anheuser-Busch: I make a concerted effort to support the home team with my purchases: I fly TWA, I rent cars from Enterprise, and I drink Bud Light. It's not the best beer in the world, but it's brewed in my backyard and I feel a sense of loyalty to one of the few remaining major companies headquartered in my hometown. I often joke that I drink A-B beer out of fear, since I live practically in the shadow of the brewery and I'm afraid they'll load up a trebuchet and hurl a Clydesdale at me if I don't.

This fealty to Anheuser-Busch follows me out of town; I'm usually reluctant to try to local liquor, with a few notable exceptions. Kansas City has Boulevard, a nice collection of boutique brews and, of course, there's Shiner Bock whenever I'm in Texas. It's not that I don't like other beers or that I don't appreciate something more robust (in other words, I don't fear Fosters). It's simply convenient and safe, and my beer consumption is probably one of the few areas of my life where those are the watchwords of my creed. I've proudly ordered A-B beers from Los Angeles to London, and I've never been disappointed.

But I won't drink Tequiza, and I don't care if a thousand horses rain down upon me for saying so. That Lemon Pledge-flavored piss is just nasty.

Tuesday, February 27, 2001

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Brad: What are you giving up for Lent?

Chuck: I'm not telling you.

Brad: Is that because if you tell me, it won't come true? I'm just not clear on the dogma.

Monday, February 26, 2001

Embarrassing Photographs of Brad on Official Documents

FOURTH IN A SERIES. COLLECT THE WHOLE SET. TRADE THEM WITH YOUR FRIENDS!



I don't deserve this gym. Actually, I suppose it's a health club, but either way, I don't deserve it. The locker room is nicer than my house. The equipment is gleaming...in fact, everything gleams, including my trainer. I pay an obscene amount of money monthly for the privilege of using this gym -- which includes all the towels I can use, free use of the adjacent spa and all I can stand of something called "spinning," which bears a striking resemblance to what we used to call riding a stationary bike.

But as little as I deserve such a fine place to sweat three or four times a week, I deserve this photo on my membership card even less. My hair looks like I walked into Custom Cuts, only to be greeted by the receptionist with "Good afternoon, Mr. Munster!" My mouth appears to be roughly the size of Rhode Island. And my eyes? That's my French Stewart impression.

Pretty good, eh?

Next week: Dramatic license.

Thursday, February 22, 2001

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Brad: I haven't seen you in ages.

Dan: I know. I get that way when I first start dating someone. I just don't come out to the bars.

Brad: You're dating someone?

Dan: Yeah, Kelly. He's right over there. (points)

Brad: You're dating Kelly?!

Dan: Yeah. Two weeks now.

Brad: So, by now, you've realized he's insane?

Dan: What makes you say he's insane?

Brad: Propriety. "Insane" is more polite than "fucking loon."

Dan: He's...not insane. He just...well, he marches to the beat of a different drummer, I'll give you that.

Brad: Different drummer? Danny, he's got enough different personalities to hold a whole DCI competition in his head.

Wednesday, February 21, 2001

What dreams may come

The other night, I dreamed a Lifetime Movie of the Week. In the dream, I fell in love with this absolutely gorgeous, whip-smart guy. We hit it off from the moment we met, made amazing whoopie and planned to spend the rest of our lives together. Everything was jake until he introduced me to his mother.

His mother was, apparently, my father's fiancee.

There followed a lot of soul searching and sneaking around to be together -- more fabulous whoopie -- and, finally, wracked with guilt about the not-quite-incest-but-just-plain-weird nature of our relationship, the decision for the good of the family to be just friends (well, and step-brothers).

There was a surprise waiting for us in the final act, though. Our respective parents decided that, although they were very fond of each other, their children's happiness was more important to both of them, so they would not marry and we could be together, weirdness-free.

I know that nothing in this dream is true, because I'm certain if ever a movie is made of my life, my father will not be played by John Ritter, nor could I possibly fall for any off-spring of Shelley Long.

Tuesday, February 20, 2001

The new social scene

The Home Depot on a Friday night is essentially just one disco ball and a few designer drugs away from being the hottest nightclub in St. Louis. Actually, the latter isn't really necessary if you just hang out in the industrial solvents aisle and inhale deeply. The sharp spiral into a K-hole can't be nearly as exciting as asphyxiation from benzene fumes.

I'm here to find lightbulbs, actually a particular type of halogen lamp that apparently isn't manufactured any longer, meaning sooner rather than later I'll have to replace the fixtures on my desks at both the office and home unless I can find a source. Still, this store is a boundless source of diversion.

First, of course, there are the men. The place is crawling with daddy types, particularly young daddy types -- the most appealing sort to me -- with toddlers and trim wives in tow. There's a Marlboro man in the lumber department wearing a tool belt and a Richmond Heights police officer in full uniform, meaning we're just a leather queen and an indian brave short of a The Village People reunion. Something about the alchemy of testosterone, sawdust and 17 display kitchens makes this a homo paradise, at least from a scenic design point of view. Hello, Central Casting? Get me manliness! Perfect!

The most surreal aspect, however, are the PA announcements. I've scarcely been in the store half a minute before I hear, "Mr. Powertool, aisle seven. Mr. Powertool, aisle seven." Naturally, I'm curious, but before I can make my way to the designated location, another announcement summons, "Lubricant consultant, aisle 12. We need a lubricant consultant, please, aisle 12."

I did what any healthy, self-respecting gay man would do, of course. I burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

And then I made my way to aisle 12. I could hardly deny my fellow shoppers my expertise in the area.

Monday, February 19, 2001

Embarrassing Photographs of Brad on Official Documents

THIRD IN A SERIES. COLLECT THE WHOLE SET. TRADE THEM WITH YOUR FRIENDS!



Would you let this man into your country? This is my second passport. My first contained a photograph bespeaking international savvy, the glamour of worldly sophistication. (OK, actually all it bespoke was "Hi, I'm a 16 year old geek headed for France," but at least it was a decent picture.) This, on the other hand, bears a photo which practically shouts, "I'd check my luggage for explosives and drugs if I were you!"

When a planned trip to London rolled around and I couldn't locate my passport, I had to replace it quickly. This photo was taken in a AAA office just 10 minutes from my office at the television station where I was working in January 1997. The day I went to have it made -- having calculated that it was the last possible opportunity to do so and still secure my papers in time -- it took me just under an hour and a half to get there, owing to the blizzard-like conditions. I'd called before I left to insure the office was open, but I was frankly surprised to find it still was when I arrived.

The harrowing journey to get the photo snapped may account in part for my appearance, but to this day, I still expect to be asked to check the bags under my eyes at customs. And that great nimbus of hair? What the hell is up with that?

Next week: They call him Gym Jones.

Friday, February 16, 2001

Creative Ways to Meet New People

SECOND IN A SERIES

When visiting the homes of friends and/or tricks, press the Redial button on their phone and chat with whoever answers.

This is, admittedly, a method which will generate more misses than hits, but as a testament to its usefulness, I will disclose that this is how I met Norman, who has become one of my closest chums. It is also, obliquely, how I began to suspect that my boyfriend at the time was fooling around with Norman. We still laugh about that. Well, at least I do.

Thursday, February 15, 2001

Ghost stories

My house seems to have become home to a new poltergeist and, as usual, I attract the benign, weird ones. (This is true of my life in the physical realm as well.)

A few years ago, shortly after my friend Bill and I had moved into the city, I was unpacking boxes on the third floor of our turn-of-the-century arts-and-crafts style house. I had just finished with one of the many cartons labelled "Miscellaneous" and decided to dash downstairs for a cold drink. Walking through the dining room where, a few minutes earlier Bill had been hanging an enormous mirror over the fireplace, I stopped abruptly in my tracks. There was a football on the dining room table.

I called to Bill in the kitchen and he joined me in the dining room. "Look at that," I said, pointing to the pigskin. "Isn't that odd? That's my football."

"You own a football?" Bill said. "That is odd."

After I punched him in the arm, I explained that what truly made the football's presence in the dining room extraordinary was that, just a few minutes earlier, I had unpacked the same football and placed it on the top shelf of a closet on the third floor. I had then placed several other items on the shelf in front of it. I had closed the closet door. And I had come downstairs to find the football in the middle of the dining room table.

Neither Bill nor I are particularly inclined to believe in spirits, but neither could we come up with a plausible explanation for how or why sporting goods were mysteriously moving around our house. A few weeks later, after a party, a cobalt blue glass water pitcher disappeared from the kitchen, only to rematerialize two nights later in the second floor bathtub. Still later, Bill came home from work one day to discover that the bedspread from his bed now adorned the bed in the guest room and vice versa.

Events like these became commonplace in our house; every few weeks, something would disappear and show up again in the most unlikely place. We ceased to be at all freaked out by these translocations and, instead, speculated that our house ghost's afterlife must have been as singularly boring as our own miserable social lives such that he or she resorted to rearranging our belongings for entertainment.

After a couple of years, Bill got married and moved to Ohio, we sold the house and I moved in with a friend on the other side of the park in a house that seemed to be free of whimsical spirits. There were demons in the house, it's true, but that had everything to do with my roommate's emotional state and nothing at all to do with the paranormal.

Fast forward seven years to two weeks ago Monday. A bottle of cocktail onions appeared in my refrigerator.

Because I am usually too lazy to garnish my Bloody Mary with a celery stalk, it has been established that neither my housemate nor I drink anything to which it is necessary to add vegetables. The origin of the bottle of cocktail onions confounded us both. Last night, having been confronted with the mysterious condiment for the past fortnight, I threw the bottle in the trash.

This morning on my way out the door, I went to the fridge to get a can of Mountain Dew or, as I call it, the breakfast of champions. You can probably guess what was sitting on the very top shelf. The onions are back. And so, it would seem, is my old playmate from the world beyond, and these days he wants a martini after a workout on the dining room gridiron. I have no idea where my football is right now, but I expect it to show up any day now.

Wednesday, February 14, 2001

Says I

Plato said, "Love is a grave mental disease."

Woody Allen said, "The difference between sex and love is that sex relieves tension and love causes it."

I say, "My name is Brad. I am healthy, single, only slightly cynical and inexplicably available. I enjoy dinner and the theatre, am not afraid of subtitled films, and believe that a kiss isn't a kiss unless you have difficultly standing for a few moments when it's through. I am also prone to Platonic mental disease and Woody tension."

Tuesday, February 13, 2001

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Tim: Where have you been?

Brad: In the can. Some guy was showing me his Prince Albert.

Tim: (pause, staring)

Brad: What?

Tim: Give me your keys. When you pass up a line like that, you're too drunk to drive.

Monday, February 12, 2001

Embarrassing Photographs of Brad on Official Documents

SECOND IN A SERIES. COLLECT THE WHOLE SET. TRADE THEM WITH YOUR FRIENDS!



This is my recently expired driver's license, the last Missouri license I actually had to wait to receive. Up until a couple of years ago, you visited the Department of Revenue, completed your paperwork, they snapped a picture and put a temporary extension sticker on your current license. Then, about two weeks later, you received your new license in the mail. I always greeted that envelope with the same sort of vague dread I reserved for off-season letters from the IRS, because while I knew the photo would be wretched, the degree of its awfulness was always a surprise. These days, you get your new license 1-2-3 easy-peasy; they just take the picture and it's automagically transferred to your new permit. If it's a particularly slow day at the office, they'll even allow you a second chance.

This one was, by far, the best license picture ever taken of me, which isn't saying a great deal. It was a relief to retire finally the Brad-with-a-mullet look that resulted from the rubber band binding my ponytail busting minutes before the preceding license photo was taken, but what the hell is going on with my neck? It's like eight feet long! Ah, weight: 115 pounds, how I miss ye.

Next week: Would you let this man into your country?

Friday, February 09, 2001

Taking the cure

For the past week, I've been plagued by a sore throat and have, most days, been on the brink of losing my voice completely. Various friends and co-workers have encouraged me to drink hot water with lemon juice, herbal tea or an assortment of other fluidic cures. Last night at dinner, an acquaintance of mine who is also a local food critic prescribed her favorite remedy: very dry champagne mixed with orange juice. I awoke this morning in full voice and without any pain or tenderness in my throat.

I hate being sick, but I love any illness that can be cured with mimosas.

Thursday, February 08, 2001

As if…

It is 65 degrees today and sunny. The same teenagers passing my office window today in t-shirts and running shorts were yesterday clad in sweaters and corduroy trousers and heavy down jackets. This afternoon, at lunch, I will spread a blanket across dead brown grass under a bare tree and read from a novel while eating a sandwich and marveling at the fact that tomorrow's weather forecast calls for a high of 17 degrees with an 80 percent chance of freezing rain.

That is one of the many joys of living in mid-Missouri, the delightfully predictable unpredictability of the winter weather. Today, it is spring and the air is full of possibility. Tomorrow, it will be winter again and we can settle in to heed the groundhog's edict. For 24 hours, though, I can pretend that the world is new and romance is in the air and today will be the day he will call and forgive me and want to share my life again.

Wednesday, February 07, 2001

Doctor, doctor

A few weeks ago, I had to have a complete physical, the prerequisite for a new insurance carrier to take on my policy. This matter forced my hand, as I had not selected a new primary care physician when my former doctor retired from his practice. For expediency's sake, the first doctor I selected performed the examination. I figured it was as good a way as any to get to know each other...he my health, me his manner.

At one point in the proceedings, The Prospective Personal Doc asked me a barrage of intimate personal questions: Did I engage in oral sex? Anal sex? Traumatic sex?

I had to have that last one explained to me, since I wasn't aware there was any other kind.

Tuesday, February 06, 2001

A random excerpt from the personal journal of an anonymous author, circa 1996

Recently, I've had the feeling that my life is governed by some sort of universal constant, akin to the Laws of Thermodynamics or matter conservation or, at the very least, momentum. One tragedy or back-formed bad emotion replaces whichever one I've managed to exorcise in the course of each day. Enemies and ill feelings, real or imagined, spring up with frightening regularity, and I wonder if I will every be truly happy again. Then I wonder if I was ever truly happy at all to begin with.

Monday, February 05, 2001

A reflection on Saturday’s date

Once you get to the bottom of the barrel, you realize the barrel may not have been all that deep to begin with.

Friday, February 02, 2001

The holistic view

Brian turned 23 years old last week, and I ran into him toasting the occasion with friends at The Loading Zone. I've been seeing Brian more often these days; coincidence or fate has brought me into the company of the young man who calls himself "my biggest fan" more and more frequently for some reason. It's hard to think of Brian has being a man, grown up and even mature, since my overriding memory of him is as a gangly teenager asking me if I wanted fries with my order.

But then I see him out like last week, in a business suit and tie, and Brian looks like a man. In his "casual drag," -- a t-shirt pulled tight across his chest, jeans or shorts and a baseball cap, usually worn backwards (and he's somehow able to make that work) -- he looks the world and all like a little boy. Last night, at the gym, we finished our cardio training at nearly the same time and, naked beside me in the shower...well, there was no question: he looked very much like a man again.

Thursday, February 01, 2001

There are phases

"You seem to be wearing a ball cap an awful lot lately," I said to Scott as I slid into the booth and picked up the menu, a superfluous act considering I always order the same omelette at the Majestic.

"I'm losing my hair," he said glumly.

"You're not losing your hair," I said.

Scott's countenance brightened. "You don't think so?"

"Of course not," Jeff chimed in. "You've already lost your hair."

"I have 'male-pattern baldness,'" Scott retorted.

"And clearly, the pattern you've selected is plaid," Jeff said.

"Look," I said, "it's not that bad, really. You can take some consolation in the fact you'll pretty soon have that sexy Captain Jean-Luc Picard thing going for you."

Scott groaned and added another sugar packet to his coffee. "Great. Just great."

"It's the next logical step," Jeff said.

"There are steps?!"

"Of course," I said, catching Janet's eye and, through a pattern of non-verbal communication established after a decade of brunches, ordering a Greek omelette with home fries. "You only recently made the move from Ron Howard to Scott Hamilton. At this point, you have the option of embracing the inevitable or going all Ted Danson on us. The next phase, and frankly the most dignified, is Patrick Stewart."

Scott sighed and stared into his mug. After a long silence, he turned to Jeff. "Go on," he said. "You know you want to say it."

Jeff grinned and gestured toward our increasingly chrome-domed friend with his thumb and forefinger. "Make it so!" he said, as the Bloody Marys arrived right on cue.