Monday, December 11, 2000

“Help” desk

Trained monkey ISP phone person: May I help you?

Brad: I hope so. For the past 24 hours, I haven't been able to send or receive e-mail, nor to access my webspace through FTP. Now, it appears that I can't access the Internet at all through my dial-up connection. What's going on?

Monkey: We're experiencing a service disruption.

Brad: Any idea when that'll be cleared up?

Monkey: No.

Brad: So what's causing the "service disruption"?

Monkey: Sir, it's rather technic—

Brad: Try me.

Monkey: Well, basically, we've lost our backbone. Do you know what that means?

Brad: Of course. Same thing happened with my last three boyfriends when I said I wanted a commitment.

Friday, December 08, 2000

It’d be a hit, I tells ya!

I wish I was a nightclub impressario. I have an idea for a revue titled "Ain't Politics a Drag?!" It would feature Al Gore, George W. Bush and Ralph Nader (remember him?) performing in drag.

Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to present the imprecise song stylings of...Miss Butterfly Ballote, Marge N. O'Vera, and Willa D'Peeple. I'm picturing an evening of classic disco chart hits, such as "Enough is Enough (No More Tears)".

Thursday, December 07, 2000

Words matter

Hollywood makes me proud to be an American. More and more, Washington DC doesn't.

It used to be that the glittering majesty and ceremony of the city on a hill enticed me. I would visit our nation's capital city at least once or twice each year, usually to protest some thing or the other, but also to soak up the energetic atmosphere of the seat of democracy. I was inspired by the Jefferson memorial. I was moved by the sprawling fields of stone at Arlington Cemetary. I was fascinated by every last detail on view in the Smithsonian museums. I distinctly recall standing on a street corner as a high school junior in the heart of the District, hundreds upon hundreds of people passing by with each signal change, and wondering at the throbbing pace of the place where our laws were made and meted out.

Somewhere along the way, though, probably very shortly after Bill Clinton stopped running for president and became president, the city and what it stood for lost its lustre. It stopped speaking to me. Literally.

All of this occurred to me last week while I was watching an episode of The West Wing, a NBC television program about the dramatic doings in a fictional White House. I came late to this show, didn't watch a single episode in its first season, and have only now made it a weekly habit. That's surprising, really, since other fictional representations of the Presidency and the White House are staples on my video shelf: Dave, Air Force One, The American President.

It's a great show -- not particularly soaring drama, but the words! The passion behind the true beliefs and the rhetoric of the faux-prez portrayed by Martin Sheen and his staff, the cadence of their compassion and conviction sorted out in speeches the like of which most of the American people have not heard in this generation outside the realm of fiction.

I am highly susceptible to a persuasive speech, a well-made point and well-wrought turn of phrase. Alone among contemporary orators, I would follow Mario Cuomo and Ann Richards anywhere and do anything they asked of me on the strength of their communications skills alone, their ability to touch a place of passion, pique and promise in me. Mario could advocate baby-eating, Ann could step up and say we should all wear purple smocks with yellow spots and I would do it unquestioningly, because they could make it sound so damned appealing a prospect.

George Bush can't do that. Neither can Al Gore. Aaron Sorkin can.

Sorkin 2004? I am so there.

Tuesday, December 05, 2000

General Tomfoolery

There was a commercial on TV last night for "Flonase". There's a product with a name that actually sounds like what it does: flow nase. An onomatopoetic drug is kind of cool.

The funny thing about the commercial, though, was that it featured a lab-coated gentleman extolling the virtues of the medication. Instead of the usual small type at the bottom of the screen explaining that, although this gentleman was not a real doctor but was, in fact, an actor portraying the surveyed recommendations of dozens of doctors, there it was in large, bright white letters by his head: "DOCTOR DRAMATIZATION."

I assume he practices at Reenactment General.

Monday, December 04, 2000

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Gym Bunny 1: You're a freak.

Gym Bunny 2: You're a loser.

GB1: Wuss.

GB2: Lowlife.

GB1: Slut!

GB2: Whore!

GB1: You shallow jerk!

GB2: You...you...

GB1: Well?

GB2: You...MAN!

GB1: Hey. Take that back!

Friday, December 01, 2000

Do what you can

Today is World AIDS Day. Around the globe, communities of faith, family, affinity and circumstance are coming together to remember, enlighten and educate themselves about HIV and AIDS.

AIDS is not over. The poor do not have dependable access to information about protecting themselves from infection, nor are they able to receive the latest, life-sustaining therapies. The young believe that they are invincible, stronger than the virus, immune. The rich and powerful believe their money and position will protect them.

Eleven days ago, one of the smartest and wealthiest men I know told me over dinner that he had tested positive for HIV. I sometimes wonder if there is any hope for us, as a race, when even the good and supposedly strong stay silent and ignorant of the world around them. It makes me sad sometimes. It makes me angry too. It makes me want to work for change.

I do what I can. Please: do what you can.

Monday, November 27, 2000

No “Sir”

For just a few days around each of my recent birthdays, I'm just a bit touchy about the aging process. I'm not ordinarily at all hung up on my age, nor do I think myself particularly old or even mature. However, I still get itchy around birthdays. It is in this spirit, therefore, that I make the following request of all waiters, shop clerks, doormen, taxi drivers, interns, bartenders and other fetching young men whose path I may cross in the two weeks or so to come:

"I know you are simply attempting to do your job and conduct yourself professionally and with due deference to our respective status as customer and servant. But...please do not call me "Sir" unless and until we are engaged in an act of sexual congress and I have specifically asked you to do so. Thank you."

Wednesday, November 22, 2000

Pass it down

My mother used to watch me as a child tearing around the house, chasing the cat or playing Cowboys 'n' Indians, darting in and out of furniture and china cabinets at breakneck speed. "That boy," she would say, "is an accident going somewhere to happen."

Which, today, is what I often say about my penis.

Tuesday, November 21, 2000

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Jeff: So how old are you going to be, anyway?

Brad: I'm still in the neighborhood of 30.

Jeff: And it used to be such a nice neighborhood. What happened?

Brad: I'm not sure. I suppose what I really need is for a gay man or two to move in, rehab and raise the property values.

Monday, November 20, 2000

It’s a fact

If you want to guarantee that it will rain, wash your car and park it outside. If you want to guarantee that you will unexpectedly "get lucky" on Saturday night, have asparagus with dinner. You men know what I'm talking about.

Friday, November 17, 2000

Signs Your Romantic Brunch Date (And, By Inference, Your Relationship) Is Not Going Well

• He brings a newspaper to read.


• It's USA Today.


• It still takes him two hours to read it, not including the Money section, which he puts aside.


• He fails to notice when you gently kiss his neck while the waitress isn't looking.


• He also fails to notice when you use your English muffins as Mickey Mouse ears, singing, "M-I-C...See you in Hell, you disinterested bitch."


• He remains oblivious when you leave, taking his car keys but leaving the unpaid check.

Thursday, November 16, 2000

Cinematic

I often think that the best way to live one's life is to think cinematically, to picture oneself as the lead player in a movie and to strive to make every moment worthy of inclusion in the compelling pre-release trailer.

Today, for example, was rather boring until I decided to spend my lunch hour battling an intergalactic fighting force, bent on enslaving the human population of Earth, by sneaking aboard their mothership and activating the self-destruct device.

Wednesday, November 15, 2000

In which my body conspires against me…

I am fairly certain that my brain is attempting to convince my body it has superpowers it does not actually possess.

This morning, I rolled out of bed and groggily tried to walk right through my closed bedroom door, apparently believing that I could pass unhindered through solid objects. Late for work and nursing a bruised noggin, I attempted to make a 20 minute journey in approximately five minutes, subsequently disabused of the notion I was faster than a speeding bullet by the long arm (and prolific ticket pad) of the law. Upon arriving at my office, still a bit woozy and having not yet had my first dose of sweet, sweet caffeine, I prepared to sit at my desk and missed the chair by a good two feet, thus proving that the law of gravity does, in fact, apply to me.

I'm pretty sure this is a calculated campaign of revenge on the part of my brain to retaliate for that time a few years ago when it was duped by my heart into believing I could make Jason love me simply because I wanted it so badly.

Friday, November 10, 2000

Moms say the darnedest things

I suffer from this weird form of celebrity dyslexia. I mean, I can never remember which one is Dylan McDermott and which is Dermot Mulroney. Lately, I've become confused during discussions of Lucy Liu and Lisa Ling. I actually have to stop and think when the subject turns to assassins and remember whether James Earl Jones or James Earl Ray is the bad guy.

I think perhaps it's genetic. I recall watching a variety show on television with my mother a few years ago when a middling ventriloquist act was featured. Mom turned to me and said, "Well, that was okay, but they're no Waylon Jennings and Madam."

Thursday, November 09, 2000

Our emerging democracy

OK, I'm really just thinking out loud here, fascinated as I am with the on-going news coverage of the still-pending presidential election. They're recounting the votes in Florida, the linchpin state in the electoral morass that will decide who won and who didn't win, so all of the Democrats and the Republicans are watching that process pretty closely. The GOP sent former Secretary of State James Baker down south to watch Hollerith cards; the Dems chose another former Secretary of State, Warren Christopher, to be their watchdog. I caught a few minutes of President Carter on C-SPAN, urging the nation to be calm and let the process play out and, quelle surprise, the Rev. Jesse Jackson is decrying the disenfranchisement of West Palm Beach citizens into any microphone that gets within 20 paces.

So it occurred to me: These are all the same folks we send into other countries to monitor their elections, presuming that newcomers to the democracy game might not be playing it on the up and up. We've got a lot of smug superiority going on here in America -- and, it must be said, over 200 years of hard-gained experience -- and we figure we can teach the world a thing or two about carrying on a fair election.

Wouldn't it be interesting and a bit ironic if the world decided to return the compliment? After all, our neighbors to the north, south, east and west have almost as much invested in the outcome of our elections as we American citizens do. How would we react if the government of, say, Yugoslavia decided to send over some "observers" and parked 'em down in Dade County, just to make sure our math is right? Do you suppose President Clinton would indignantly refuse if the Canadian prime minister suggested a neutral third-party might be better suited to police the polls now that things are getting sketchy?

I'm certainly not suggesting that we're on the verge of revolution or even constitutional crisis, and I'm pretty damned sure it will take more than a few missing ballots before the military revolts and tanks surround Blair House demanding the immediate egress of Al and Tipper. Still, we exert a lot of time, money and manpower making sure that emerging democracies are staying within the lines. If I were the leader of one of those countries whose ballot boxes we'd been backing, I'd certainly give some thought to sending an envoy or two to check in on the most powerful nation on Earth. Wouldn't you?

Besides, when you think about the whole of human history and the rise of democracy among nations in particular, we upstart Americans are still "emerging" too.

Wednesday, November 08, 2000

What the hell was that?!

Watching the election returns last night was like the last episode of Survivor, the Super Bowl, the Olympics and the Academy Awards (wherein the speculation about the Electoral College replaced dish about Cher's outfit) combined. Fortunately, I chose to view the televised election coverage while getting hammered with a few dozen homosexuals at a local watering hole.

(Watching television in a gay bar makes just about any program vastly more entertaining. Except Veronica's Closet. Nothing could help that godforesaken piece of crap.)

Tuesday, November 07, 2000

Priorities

Although I have already made plans to spend Thanksgiving weekend and, coincidentally, my birthday, quietly at home with my mother, The Twins and The Actor are conspiring to drag me along with them to the White Party. I have explained to them that, although the prospect of celebrating my 11,277th day on earth surrounded by thousands of tanned and taut party boys fighting fatigue and 'roid rage is somewhat appealing, mom and I already have reservations for holiday dinner and shows in Branson and, if time permits, a healthy dose of outlet mall shopping.

"Ah," says Twin A. "So you're willing to forego the White Party for a White Sale?"

I suppose I am. Whether that's a sign of encroaching maturity or stupidity, I have no idea.

Monday, November 06, 2000

The greatest gift of all

I just want to make one thing absolutely clear right up front: I really thought he was 18.

At least, that's what I thought after my heart stopped skipping beats when I spotted him on the other side of the room. I mean, that's what I thought in between thinking "Gosh, he's been staring at me for a long time," and thinking "Which stars are appropriate to thank when an attractive and intelligent teenager asks you out for coffee?".

I really, really believed he was 18. Just barely, but still.

I continued to cling to this belief right up until the moment many, many hours later as he pulled the covers close around both of us, flashed a toothy grin and turned so the candlelight illuminated his flawless olive skin and deep, dark eyes, bright with youth, and casually mentioned that his birthday was tomorrow and would I like to see a movie with him to celebrate.

"Sure," I said. "Actually, my birthday is in a couple of weeks, too."

"How old are you going to be?" I had been dreading this question, not because I feel older and infirm but because I am fairly certain they still teach math in high school and 32 minus 18 is 14 and I'd just rather not think that I'm currently exchanging postcoital pillow talk with someone almost half my age. I told him anyway.

"Really?" he said. There followed what felt like a two-hour pause in the conversation. He's not 18 at all, I thought. Dear God, I'm going to jail, aren't I? My mind catapulted across possibilities, doing subtractions and long division to plumb the severity of my presumed pederasty.

"You're two years older than me?" he said incredulously. "All this time I had figured you were younger than me."

Another two-hour pause, observed because I'm struck dumb and moon-eyed by this revelation and by the knowledge that this young man -- this 30-year-old young man -- will spend a short time with me and then go home and not pass this way again for some time. He's attractive, intelligent and charming enough to say I seemed younger than he, even if he didn't really believe that at all. A few weeks early, it's the nicest birthday gift I expect to receive.

Wednesday, October 25, 2000

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Jeff: I'm calling it a night. There's a chat room somewhere with my name on it.

The Giant Queen: I'll never understand what you get out of that computer sex.

Jeff: I'll never understand why you insist on going out in polyester blends.

The Giant Queen: Well, have fun typing with one hand.

Jeff: You really shouldn't scoff. It's just harmless fun. Consider it safe sex.

The Giant Queen: I can't imagine how you manage to get off in a chat room.

Jeff: Ask Brad.

The Giant Queen: Don't tell me you...

Brad: Well, I used to.

Jeff: Why did you quit?

Brad: I got hooked on email nitrate.

Tuesday, October 24, 2000

Ba-dum-bump!

There's a store at the mall where shoppers can construct their own custom Teddy bear. By the door, there's a sign giving instructions for the process that says, "Choose me, stuff me, stitch me, fluff me, dress me, name me, take me home."

Which is, coincidentally, one of my favorite pick-up lines.

Monday, October 23, 2000

What to wear?!

I am suffering through my annual bout of Hallowe'en costume anxiety, a malady familiar to any chronically procrastinating homo. With less than a week remaining before the first masked party of the season, I'm having serious reservations about my ability to pull together an appropriately creative outfit.

I had originally planned a fairly simple -- and in retrospect, pedestrian -- get-up, but last week I had an incredible inspiration for something sublime and witty. Unfortunately, this unquestionably brilliant outfit would require a talented seamstress and at least a month of needlework, so that's right out. I have a second, "safety" costume in mind, one that I can probably pull off in the time alloted, but to truly do it well I really should spend more time on the execution.

I love costumes that are topical and clever. In 1998, my ex-boyfriend and his current boyfriend went as the McGwire Sisters. The Mark McGwire Sisters, in Cardinal pinstripe dresses with matching handbags and underdressed bodysuits bulging in all the right places. In years past, it has required only browsing through a few vintage clothing stores and perusing back issues of Entertainment Weekly for me to come up with a costume that's both urbane and timely.

Last year, for example, I discovered a priest's clerical collar and vest at Hullabaloo, and accessorized it with a hockey goalie's mask to become "Jason Priestly". (Think about it. I'll wait. Get it? Good.) Two years ago, I went as The Village People -- all of them -- with a pastiche of their outfits (jeans, leather jacket and harness, war paint) and a collection of hats (which I swapped throughout the night) including an Indian headdress, hard hat and policeman's cap clipped to my tool belt.

I was discussing my dilemma this weekend with a friend. "What's the scariest thing you can think of?" she asked.

"President George W. Bush," I said, "but I don't think folks would get it if I showed up in just a dark suit and red tie."

"Maybe you could drag an electric chair around with you," she replied. "Put a 'Don't Mess With Texas' bumpersticker on it."

And yes, that's the leading suggestion on my list right now. The clock is ticking toward Saturday night, the first party of the season.

Friday, October 20, 2000

From the Management

AND WE'RE BACK: All of our Internet connections have been restored, home and work computers repaired and FTP access regained to the perky little server that hosts this website. Just in time, too, since after two weeks things were beginning to get a bit stale around these parts. But don't you think we've been resting on our duffs! No, sir! When we weren't busy talking about ourself in the third person, we were still lovingly crafting daily content for you, even if you couldn't read it. Pour yourself a tall glass or cup of your beverage of choice, settle back and enjoy two weeks worth of The Daily Brad. It may not be fresh, but it's just as tasty as the day it was made. (Regular updates resume on Monday.)

Thursday, October 19, 2000

Damon’s fourth birthday

Diana and I are at the Galleria, shopping for my nephew Damon's fourth birthday present.

Damon isn't my real nephew. I'm just his adopted Uncle Brad. His father, Terry, was overseas during the last months of Diana's pregnancy, so I was her backup and was even at the hospital holding her hand when the little squirt was born. Terry and Diana and I have been friends for years, and I was enormously pleased a few months after Damon's birth when we got together for dinner and they fell right into calling me Uncle Brad.

"We don't have much family," Diana explained. "And we think it's important for Damon to have a strong male figure in his life, other than his father, of course."

"Oh," I said, "like Uncle Charley on My Three Sons."

"Actually," Terry said, "we were thinking more like Uncle Arthur on Bewitched."

So after I extracted a promise from them that I wouldn't have to be the one who explained the birds and the bees to Damon when his blushing mother and stammering father retreated, I consented to apply my considerable avuncular charm to the task. Mainly, this has meant that I'm expected to be an inexhaustable source of sweets and treats for the kid.

I've always made it a tradition to give a book of poetry or short stories when a friend or family member has a baby. I think it's important that children be read stories aloud by their parents and I figure a nice hardbound book, inscribed with their birthdate and a cheery, optimistic message from a friend will be a lifelong keepsake. For Damon, I selected a Shel Silverstein collection and -- to tweak Terry and Di just a bit for the Uncle Arthur remark -- I threw in a copy of Heather Has Two Mommies.

Since then, I've been more or less put in charge of Damon's diversity education, and his parents usually don't bat an eye when I exercise a little creativity in my means and methods. (Diana did, however, draw the line when I took to using the diminuitive "Dame" as a nickname for the child.) Last year, they didn't balk when I presented Damon with a Billy doll instead of a G.I. Joe.

Anyway, Damon has become something of a Toy Story fanatic. He requests the original Disney movie played so often that he's already worn out one videotape copy, and Diana plans to pick up the newly-released sequel for his main gift this year. I suggest we stop by the Disney Store so I can find something suitable to accompany it.

Di is across the store checking out fabulously overpriced Tigger jumpsuits, so I'm practically skipping with glee when I reach her with what I consider the perfect gift from Uncle Brad clutched in my hands. She looks at the box, then at my grinning face, then at the package again, and then back at me. She's barely suppressing the giggles as she shakes her head. "He really likes Buzz Lightyear better," she says. "But if you're a very good boy, maybe Terry and I will get this for you at Christmas."

Dejected but hopeful, I wander back to the toy department and return the "Giant Talking Woody" to its place on the shelf.

Wednesday, October 18, 2000

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Brad: This place is dead. Where is everybody?

Rob: It's early yet.

The Giant Queen: It's nearly 11 o'clock. When is it fashionable for people to show up at bars these days? Last call?

Rob: We could go somewhere else. It's Saturday night. There's bound to be a crowd somewhere.

Brad: Well if there's no one here at The Complex, where are all of the drunken, dancing, desperate men of St. Louis?

The Giant Queen: Usually Rob's bedroom, but that's not until at least 2:30.

Tuesday, October 17, 2000

So long, Mel

It is one thing to watch television coverage of a tragic plane crash when the victims are nameless strangers or inaccessible celebrities. Geographic distance begets an emotional remove and you can compartmentalize your grief by assuring yourself that "these things happen."

It is quite another to watch the same information-free news updates when the tragic plane crash happens near your home and the victims include a long-time family friend who also happens to be the governor of your state.

It is another thing still to know that your and a few of your friends were among the last to see the man alive. None of these things, however, is at all pleasant.