The other night I was walking to church . . .

. . . from Harper Square. (For the uninitiated, this is an open pedestrian walkway/shopping complex in Hyde Park.) I had just eaten dinner with a friend at the Dixie Kitchen and (swear) Bait Shop. My arms were full of packages I'd received from my family via UPS to open up on Christmas Day. My pace was leisurely because I was uncharacteristically running on time, even early, for my choir rehearsal. There was nothing particularly remarkable about this evening, except for this: I was smiling.

I was smiling walking down Harper Ave., still smiling as I turned to walk west along Hyde Park Blvd., and then even as I walked north along Blackstone Ave. I was smiling.

Something changed on Thursday. I don't know what or how or why, but I don't care. It's a good change, and I'll tell you why.

A few months back, when the weather was a bit warmer, I was walking along Ellis Ave. from the zebrafish facility back to my lab. The temperature was pleasant and the sky overcast just enough to allow sun through the clouds without blinding not wearing sunglasses. All in all, it was a perfectly lovely moment in time. I was in a relatively good place with work, I was dating a perfectly nice boy and I was feeling in pretty good health.

Then a voice cried out, "Why you look so upset?" The disembodied voice soon revealed its corporeal form in a (seemingly) homeless man. I could only guess his age as "old" given his weathered face, although I know that living in desperate situations without access to adequate nutrition and healthcare can prematurely age a person. I think a more accurate description would be "older than I".

"If I was as young as you," the man continued, "I sure wouldn't walk around looking so upset."

Wow.

Do I really walk around looking upset? I guess I actually do, or at least I did that day. Shortly after that happened, things got a little rocky with work and in my dating life, as happens. But I let it get me down, and I couldn't shake that guy's voice in my head, "Why you look so upset?"

The sad truth was, I didn't know why, and I still don't.

It would be a lie to say that I've obsessed about this event every day since it happened. But I have been in a funk for a while now, and it's worried me a lot. But something wonderful happened on Thursday. I was walking down the street and smiling, and I wasn't even trying. I didn't consciously say, "Dammit, you're going to smile and have a good time whether you want to or not!" It just happened, and it's happened every day since. It won't be permanent, I know, but I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts. It is precious to me because it's a reminder that in life all things pass, both the good things and the bad. It seems sometimes like there are a lot more of the bad things, but I think that's not really true for most of us. I know upon rational examination that it's not true for me.

So today, on Christmas Day, I'm going to keep smiling. I kept smiling when I opened my "mystery" package from my mother, and it was two seasons of Golden Girls on DVD -- that I already own. I kept smiling when I opened the gift from my friend Kim, a beautiful martini glass-shaped Christmas ornament that was in about four pieces. I kept smiling when I discovered my cat would only play with his expensive new mechanized mouse toy when the motor was turned off, making it about $18 more expensive than it needed to be.

I am going to keep smiling because I have a wonderful family who are enjoying Christmas lunch right now, as I type this, in North Carolina. I can't be with them this year, for the first time in my entire life. But they're all safe and healthy and beautiful. I'm smiling because my friend Elizabeth called me today and I haven't talked to her since last Christmas.

And I'm going to smile because this happened on Christmas Eve many, many years ago:

In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled. This was the first enrollment, when Quirin'i-us was governor of Syria. And all went to be enrolled, each to his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the city of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be enrolled with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. And while they were there, the time came for her to be delivered. And she gave birth to her first-born son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. And in that region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with fear. And the angel said to them, "Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which will come to all the people; for to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger." And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among men with whom he is pleased!"

Best wishes for a Merry Christmas!

So Much to Say

It's been a really long time since I've posted anything on here. There are a lot of reasons for my incommunicado state, but one is of ultimate importance.

I'm not ready to share what's going on in my life with the world right now.

Nothing earth-shattering has happened. No one has died, there's been no significant illness, and I'm still employed. And it's certainly not the case that I haven't had anything to write about. Lots of things have happened that are worthy of blog entries -- relationships, football, the start of basketball, the firing of Chuck Amato -- but I'm just not ready to share my thoughts about them. I'm a little too wrapped up in my own issues right now to produce anything thoughtful and worthy of purview by others. I hope that will change in the near future.

Football Season So Far

So far, it's not been a banner season for any of my teams.

The good news for the NC State Wolfpack football team is their ACC record (1-0) and their record against ranked teams (1-0). Any scientist worth her salt will tell you, however, that an n of 1 is meaningless. The big picture for my Pack is their overall record (2-2) and their record against Division I-AA teams (1-2).

I was willing to chalk up our loss to the University of Akron Zips -- and doesn't it just make it that much worse when you lose to a team called the "Zips"? -- to random chance. I could even go so far as to call it a necessary balance to the karmic scales from my freshman year. In that year, one of the best Wolfpack football years in recent memory, we went 9-3 and earned a berth in the Peach Bowl. We unfortunately lost to East Carolina University in an embarrassing 4th quarter debacle, but during that season we had some incredible wins. One of those was against the Thundering Herd of Marshall. After an onside kick, a controversial call went our way and we salvaged our season from the ignominy of losing to a I-AA team. (Marshall didn't return to I-A status until 1997.) Maybe our loss to Akron was written in the stars.

But the very next week we lost to Central Michigan by 20 points. Now we'd lost two games to I-AA teams. Two! It was just more than I could bear. Unable to win against these "easy" opponents, I held out little hope for a win against our next opponent -- the 20th ranked, Division I-A Boston College Eagles. Worse, it would be a conference loss since BC joined the ACC a couple of seasons back.

My cell phone is supposed to receive a text message with the final score after every NC State football game, but for some reason I didn't receive one last night. I honestly figured it was just God's way of sparing my feelings. So last night, having returned home from a lovely date, I braced myself and checked what I presumed would be the lopsided score against BC.

To say I was shocked that we beat BC 17-15 is quite an understatement. Then I found out that we won playing a redshirt sophomore quarterback. Holy Shit, what does that say about our recruiting? And that's not to take one iota of credit away from Daniel Evans. From the reports I've read online, he did a helluva job.

I think maybe the football players have decided they don't want Chuck Amato to be without a job. If they can continue to amaze us on the gridiron like they did yesterday in the next few weeks when we face other tough opponents, like Florida State and Wake Forest, then Chuck may be able to stay in Raleigh. If he loses the Carolina game, though, I think his days might be numbered.

And what can I say about my Titans? Frankly, nothing good. Despite a good passing game today, they still lost to the Miami Dolphins. In week 1 they lost to the Jets, and last week they lost to the Chargers. Now I know how all those Tennessee Vols fans feel when they see Peyton Manning and the Colts beat the Titans -- I hate to see the Titans lose to the Chargers, but at least that puts a win in Phil Rivers's cap.

I worry about my Titans, but I will stand by them through thick and thin! Hell, I've been an NC State fan all my life, so I defy the very concept of a fairweather fan.

Win or lose, football season is really just a dalliance to keep me distracted until the important stuff starts -- basketball season! So I'll just keep ducking and clenching my gut until the roundball starts in a couple of months.

Ahh, youth

I decided to take the 173 Lakeview Express bus into the Michigan Avenue shopping district this evening after I finished at the lab. The bus was only about one-third full, almost evenly divided between solo travelers and others voyaging uptown in small groups.

Next to me was a group of guys, UC undergrads. I couldn't help but overhear most of their conversation as we traveled from the Reynolds Club to Michigan Avenue. It was not dissimilar to conversations I had when I was their age, with my friends, green behind the ears in our first year of college. I had to bite my tongue to keep from answering some questions that came up in their banter.

"Where is the theater district?" (Dearborn, near Washington)

"There's a movie theater near the campus, right?" (Depends on your definition of near.)

"Who's the guy who they think wrote all of Shakespeare's plays?" (Christopher Marlowe - couldn't remember that one until I passed by Marlowe at Chicago and Michigan.)

It can become really easy to wax nostalgic about your own college experience when you work on a university campus and find yourself interacting with, or even just passively observing, undergraduates. When I see these kids, and hear them talking and telling their stories, I am so happy for them and hope that they know what an incredible time this is in their lives.

But I don't for one minute hope to go back and relive those days.

As wonderful as college was, part of its charm and allure is its transience. In the early nineties I prayed to get from assignment to assignment. I spent barely a moment thinking about the future because I didn't have the time to spend on such a seemingly inconsequential task. Now I'm living in that future. A small sliver of it is the present, but most if it is now the past, yesterday just as sealed and unrecoverable as my first day of freshman year.

Truth be told, back then, when I was so focused on getting through the day, I never knew it could be this exciting living in the now. Sure, there are good days and bad, but I've accomplished so much I wanted to do. I cautiously feel sometimes that I can actually sit back and enjoy what life has brought, all the gifts I've been given.

Sometimes I even look forward to what surprises will unfold next.

Just a Few Observations

In the course of a week I pass by a lot of people. If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say I don't pay any particular attention to upwards of 75% of the people around me. The other 25% catch my attention for different reasons. I hardly ever pass by a cute guy without giving at least a sideways glance. Sometimes I'll see a particularly lovely woman and give her a good looking up and down.

Then there's that other 10% whom I must resist walking up to and offering a bit of advice. I resist because, frankly, it's just rude to approach perfect strangers and critique them. God knows I wouldn't want others to come up to me and offer me pointers on my hair or wardrobe on the occasional day when I'm not quite up to my best.

But some things are just too egregious not to elicit comment. These are the best gems.

1. A toupee is rarely a good idea. A mullet is rarely a good idea. A mullet toupee? You do the math.
(Seen on a UofC facilities worker.)

2. Capri pants are a bad idea for about 65% of women and, really, 100% of men. Why any man would purposely roll up the hems of his jeans to make them into ersatz denim capri pants I will never understand, even if he does have nice calves.
(Seen on a cute-ish guy with nice calves on the #55 bus.)

3. Ripped jeans are in. Tight jeans are in. Tight jeans with rips along the panty line are not in, nor should they ever be.
(Seen on a girl crossing the street in front of me outside my building.)

Saving our Souls

I was standing in the bathroom of my house in Nashville, drying my hair -- oh, how long it's been since my hair has been so long that I had to blow it dry! I was listening to a horrible morning show on the radio, broadcast over the only station that the cheap radio I kept in the bathroom could receive clearly.

I was running uncharacteristically early that day. It was a Tuesday morning, and that meant lab meeting at nine o'clock -- sharp. I was only two or three days back into town, having returned from a trip to North Carolina. I had gone to my ten year high school reunion, and driven with my mother and younger niece to visit my father's sister in upstate New York.

The voice of one of the morning personalities emanating from the radio became different, more urgent. He said that a plane had collided with the World Trade Center building in New York. With each passing moment he shared more details, almost as soon as he got them, or so it seemed. Then, silence.

Turn off the radio, he said. Get to a television set or, failing that, turn the radio to a news station.

I ran into the living room and turned on the television. And I saw smoke billowing out of one of the World Trade Center buildings. I awoke my roommate whose bedroom door adjoined the living room. I grabbed my cell phone and called my friend Joel who, as far as I knew, was still in New York City and working downtown. I couldn't reach him and grew a bit panicked. About the time the plane hit the second tower, Joel called my cell phone. He had left the city a couple of weeks prior and returned to North Carolina; in our traveling about we had not kept up with each other in the previous few weeks. Reassured in the knowledge that no one I knew was anywhere near the scene of the tragedy occurring before my eyes, before the eyes of the nation and of the world, I forced myself to continue getting ready to leave for work.

During the drive to the lab I listened to the local NPR station, and heard about what happened at the Pentagon. At work we had our lab meeting, but none of us could focus on the task at hand. My boss assured us that there was nothing we could do, that we should get done what needed to get done that day and try not to think about the horror unfolding in the northeast. All day we tried to reach news websites -- CNN, the New York Times page, MSNBC -- all to no avail. We kept NPR playing all day, hoping to learn how this had happened, and who was taking responsibility, who would feel the full brute strength of a wronged United States of America marching in to avenge her innocent dead.

Ironically I had been in New York City over the Independence Day holiday just a few weeks prior. I had tickets to go to the observation deck at the World Trade Center, but decided not to go because of limited time. It will be there the next time I visit, I had reassured myself.

Since September 11, 2001, I have visited the site where the towers stood. I saw the movie World Trade Center on Labor Day, and was surprised that I was able to hold my emotions in check during and after the film -- just reading the review of United 93 in the New York Times a few monts earlier caused me to well up. I thought maybe, just maybe, I was emotionally ready to put this horrible event behind me. But I was wrong.

I have cried more times today than I can count -- during the singing of the national anthem this morning at the ceremonies at Ground Zero; as Dateline NBC was talking to survivors of United flight 93; as widows and widowers were speaking of their deceased spouses this morning.

But I know that my sadness now comes not only from the devastating tragedy of 9/11, but also from how badly President Bush and his administration have responded to 9/11, and how they have nearly exhausted every shred of goodwill and solidarity other nations expressed in the aftermath of the terror attacks. The President and his aides espouse the view that we must make America safer, and that secret CIA prisons, "alternative questioning methods" and the war in Iraq are all means towards that end.

Must making America safer necessarily require us, as a nation, to lose our souls?

Do we have to destroy everything that America stands for to keep Americans safe?

I pray not. Otherwise the nearly 3000 people who died that day, and the more than 2000 soldiers who have died in Iraq and Afghanistan, have all died in vain.

Viva la Trio!

Yesterday was the first public recital given by Trio, and I'm pleased to say it went off quite successfully! The performance was well received, and we even got enough of a free-will offering to pay our accompanist's fee. There was a bit left over to pay for part of the other incidentals (programs, food for reception, etc.) but we didn't quite break even.

The money is really beside the point, and I must say we were grateful to receive even enough to pay our accompanist! This recital was first and foremost our first opportunity to present ourselves to an audience, and that is such an important thing for a performer to do. A singer can hone and refine her product as much as she wants in the setting of a rehearsal, but until the singer actually puts herself "out there" for others to experience she isn't really making art. In the privacy of your own studio or rehearsal space "Sempre Libera" may as well be solfege.

The completion of this recital also marks the passing of one major stressor in my life. As lovely as it was performing yesterday, it has been a big drain on me learning music, memorizing passages, coordinating schedules, getting programs printed, etc., etc., ad nauseum. We don't have any more gigs scheduled right now, although one is pending for December or February. That gives me at least three months to return to my primary stressor in life, the transgenic (technically, conditional knockout) mouse I'm generating in the lab.

So Shoe Me

new_shoes
Originally uploaded by ho73classic@sbcglobal.net.

As of Friday morning, I was 1/2 a pound under my intermittent goal weight. This meant I had to do something to reward myself that was completely non-food related. (It's self-defeating to reward progress on a diet with food.)

I had thought of, and dismissed, several ideas for my treat over the months I've been working towards this goal. So I was a bit disappointed that, having met this goal, I didn't have anything in mind to celebrate this milestone.

As I was getting ready yesterday morning, selecting the appropriate ensemble best to complement my new (properly fitting) jeans, I realized that I didn't have any shoes that went well with them.

What an epiphany!

It became my mission last night to buy some cute, dress up/dress down black slides. And I even knew where I wanted to buy them: Nordstrom.

I also decided to be a satisficer, not a maximizer for this purchase. I set a price point in my head, decided on a basic style, and determined that I would buy the first pair that met my criteria.

I went to one other store first, just because I like doing business at that store and wanted to give them an opportunity to make me a sale. They had nothing that I really liked that wasn't well out of my price range, so I strolled down Michigan Ave, turned west at Ohio and walked to Nordstrom.

The first two sales people just made some very generic attempts to help. The third salesperson actually engaged me when I stopped at a pair of shoes that, while lovely, were out of my price range. When I told him I was interested in something similar at a slightly lower price, he showed me about 10 pairs of shoes.

I settled on these beauties. They were not the cheapest. They were not even on sale. But they looked -- and felt -- fabulous.

I also shopped at H&M for the first time. I am pleased to admit that I can actually wear their shirts -- not the slim fit, mind you, but still.

As I was browsing, I began to sense that I am a bit too old and, frankly, not quite gay enough to be in that store. That is, until a musclebound threesome (conservatively) in their 40s strolled past me, toting all sorts of T-shirts and other garments clearly too young for them to wear. It made me feel a little better. But I did pick up a couple of faboo shirts -- and for cheap!! (buy one, get one free on discounted merchandise) -- and I'm very excited to assemble the new look.

New Things to See

I've been on a quest to lose weight since March 2005. Since then, I've lost about 80 pounds and, as of today, about 10 inches off of my waist.

But until this week, I still felt like a fat person.

My perception of my own body is so skewed that I have a hard time focusing on the aspects of my body that have improved, and still primarily see the imperfections.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm by no means svelte, and I do have several pounds to go. However, in the past week I've really started to notice some positive changes in my body. Last night I was having my hair cut, and sat in front of a full length mirror for about half an hour. While sitting there, staring at myself in the mirror, I noticed how much definition I'm getting in my neck. I also noticed how powerful my forearms are starting to look. There are veins and sinews visible that previously were hidden. The other morning I was stretching while standing in front of the bathroom mirror, and I noticed that I have nooks and crevices in places where I haven't previously, as pretty much all the natural concavities of my body were covered in fat.

It's a pretty great feeling, seeing these changes. It's really reinvigorated me, and so did fitting into a pair of jeans tonight smaller than I've worn since I was in middle school. I'm about 34 pounds away from my goal weight, and I hope to be there by March -- the two year point. God willing and if the creek don't rise, I'll be looking for some new clothes in spring.

The beginning of the end

When the first of August came, people mumbled, "Is today the first day of August? Gosh, I can't believe it's August already!" As the month progressed, the stirrings changed to, "August is just flying by so quickly!" Today, I received a Pottery Barn catalog in my mailbox.

The fall catalog.

It's official. Summer is so close to being over it might as well be the second runner up on American Idol.

I mourn the passing of summer here like I never have before because it means that winter is unpleasantly near. And winter in this city is just almost unbearable.

So soon the steady stream of hot, shirtless men running along Lake Shore Drive will slow to a trickle, and eventually dry up altogether. The plumes of water shooting majestically from Buckingham Fountain will cease, the speed limit will decrease along LSD, and the heat lamps in the CTA train stations will come to life at the press of a button.

On the bright side, I won't have to worry about dealing with the steet cleaners any more. At least not until April.

Weekend in the Country

I got back to town yesterday afternoon, having spent the remainder of the weekend in Saugatuck, MI. Saugatuck is a little community on the banks of the Kalamazoo Harbor. Chamber Choir goes there (nearly) every summer to do a short concert on Saturday evening, and then sings at the Douglas United Church of Christ during their Sunday morning service.

Having never been to Saugatuck before, I was a little apprehensive about going there because it is a popular destination for gay men. For better or for worse, that distinction often carries with it a certain image, of sleek clubs nestled in amongst trendy stores with muscled pretty boys walking along the sidewalks casting disdainful glances at anyone who dares walk the streets who isn't toned and young.

I am pleased to admit that I couldn't have had a more inaccurate picture of this community. Indeed I was impressed with the homey feel of the town. It's a quaint little waterfront village that is replete with shops designed to attract tourists with refined tastes. Although there was no lack of gay men and lesbians in the town, most of the people I saw were young or middle-aged married couples who were enjoying tooling around in cute convertibles, an escape from their more hectic workaday lives in the larger towns and cities I imagine they live in when not strolling the sidewalks of Saugatuck.

It's a little late in the season for this year, but I do think I'll keep Saugatuck on my list of potential weekend vacation spots for next summer. I wouldn't mind escaping from the big city myself.

To the Victor Goes the Soy Latte

At long last, my targeting vector is finished!

(Well, okay, it's finished pending results of sequencing, but still, it looks good so far!!)

You may be asking yourself, "Waterlily," -- you call yourself that sometimes -- you say, "Waterlily, just what is a targeting vector, and why should I care?

In a nutshell, a targeting vector is a large piece of DNA used to alter the genome of a mouse embryo through a process called homologous recombination. You can peruse this listing in Wikipedia for more information.

Once I saw the results of my restriction enzyme analysis I decided that a victory soy latte was in order! Thus, on my way to drop off my precious DNA at the sequencing core I stopped by the coffee shop at the UC Divinity School and grabbed a $1.25 soy latte (their happy hour special -- reduced price lattes!)

Seeing as I wanted to have this construct finished at the latest by the end of June, I'm both overjoyed finally to have it and disappointed that it took so long. However, seeing as it took me only four months to make my targeting vector using recombineering, and more traditional methods can take a year or more, I think I'm still ahead of the game!

The hard work of screening ES cells is yet to come, but I'm just glad I've (almost) finally gotten to this point!

Phishing with Better Bait

Dear senders of phishing email:

I have a business proposal for you. You see, like everyone else with an email address, I get a wompload of spam emails, including my fair share of phishing emails. With the certainty of gravity, taxes and death, all phishing emails that I receive share a common flaw. They contain atrocious grammatical, typographical and vocabulary mistakes.

There's an old addage in the world of fishing that says if you want to catch better fish, you have to use better bait. Let me assure you that the following "phishing" email is not good bait.

This actually arrived in my email inbox a few days ago:

Dear Western Union Clients :

We are sorry for invoice. we had some errors in our data , Please update your profile .

You can access your profile at
https://wumt.westernunion.com/asp/regLogin.asp/..

For help please contact Western Union Customer Service immediately

by email at customerservice@westernunion.com  or call us at 1-877-989-3268 .

 

Thank you for using westernunion.com!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My proposal for you, oh purveyors of internet criminal activity, is to serve you as a consultant -- a grammatical consultant. I am eminently qualified. For one, English is my native tongue, something I'm guessing most of you who send these emails cannot claim. Second, I am known amongst my friends and colleagues as the drama grammar queen. I wield my red pen with wrath and vigor!

Still not sold? As proof of my savvy, notice the improved phishing email posted below:

Dear Western Union Client:

We have recently discovered some errors in our database. To ensure the accuracy of our records, we request that you update your profile by clicking on this link.

If you require further help, please contact Western Union Customer Service by email at customerservice@westernunion.com  or by calling 1-877-989-3268. 

We apologize for any inconvenience, and thank you for using westernunion.com!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notice that the email is addressed to only one "client," not multiple "clients," adding that personal touch. Additionally, I removed the awkward space separating the word "clients" from the semicolon. Also, I reduced the font size of the salutation, making the overall letter look more professional.

I have made several changes in grammar and style throughout, including apologizing for "inconvenience" rather than "invoice." Also, it's a big no-no to put the fake web address you've made up and registered with an registrar in a foreign country with no extradition treaty with the United States in the actual email! This is truly a "rookie move." Notice that I have replaced the fakey-fakey web address with a simple link without any overt identification.

Now, this email, I think you will agree, is just begging to bilk some folks out of their hard-earned cash!

Serious inquiries only. I work on retainer and commission, United States currency only.
*DISCLAIMER: A special room in Hell is reserved for people who knowingly and willingly send out spam emails. The room reserved for those who send phishing emails is even smaller, more dank and will be subjected to even more broadcasts of the 700 Club in perpetuity.

Quote of the Day

Heard on a local report during Morning Edition:

"Please bury me in Cook County, so I can continue to vote."

Precious, precious indeed.

Racism of Indifference

I went to the grocery store late Thursday night after callback auditions for Chamber Choir to buy a few final items for a dinner party I hosted Friday. Having only a few items in my basket, I decided to use the self-checkout.

As I was waiting for a register to open up, a little boy came up to me and asked me for money to buy some cupcakes. As I am usually averse to giving people money on the street, and as I needed every ounce of cash I had on me, I told him I didn't have anything to give him. When I turned around, I noticed another boy, somewhat older than the first, but still a kid, had gone up to the register to my immediate left. Thinking he was with the girl currently occupying that register, I didn't say anything. I realized quickly that they weren't together, and got a little annoyed at having let this person jump me in line.

Maybe a minute later, the next register opened up. However, before I could move my cart to it, another kid walked up to it, actually walking around my cart. I was tempted to get in front of the kid and let him know that he had jumped me in line -- a fact of which I am sure he was well aware -- and reclaim my proper place at the register. Instead, however, I just walked to the next self-checkout lane and found an available register.

As I was scanning my purchases, I saw that all three of these kids -- the one who asked me for money, and the two who jumped me in line -- were together. I thought to myself at first, these kids are probably hungry, and probably lack any sort of significant parental supervision to be out this late at the grocery store asking folks for money to buy cupcakes. So what they jumped me in line?

But then a more sobering realization came to me. I believe at least part of the reason that I didn't confront either of these kids is because they happened to be African-American, and I allowed that to intimidate me. Essentially, I expected less from these kids because of their race.

Now, don't get me wrong. I normally avoid confrontation, because rarely do I get any satisfaction from taking on people exhibiting rude behavior in public. And despite what many who know me might think, I don't enjoy acting like everyone's mother. But I have a bad suspicion that had these kids been white, and certainly had they been white females, I would have said something to them.

I don't pretend that I don't have any racist tendencies. It's hard to grow up in this society and not learn prejudices against those who are of a different race. But I think I usually do a pretty good job quelling any racist thoughts or ideas I have. I recognize that as a caucasian person of the male persuasion I am afforded a good number of advantages not offered to others because of their race or gender. As an out gay man I do have some understanding of prejudice, but I must admit I rarely encounter discrimination on a personal level.

It bothers me, though, when I allow my own prejudice to bubble to the surface like that. And I don't really believe that these kids being rude had anything to do with their race, other than contributing to what I perceived as their disadvantaged status. The question becomes, what can I learn from this experience, and what can I do better to cope with my own biases?

I guess the first thing to do is to give up and just be everyone's mother. So stop slouching! And did you finish your homework yet? No? Then stop reading this blog right this minute and go do it!

I said now!

Dubious Honor

I recently received a phone message from Jackie Davidson on behalf of Congressman Tom Reynolds, chair of the National Republican Congressional Committee. Apparently, they had selected moi to receive their National Leadership Award, and needed to speak to me right away concerning a press release they wanted to send out, no doubt to let the local community know about my prestigious award.

Curiosity got the best of me, and I had to give them a call.

When I called them this morning, I didn't speak to Jackie, but instead conversed with one of her colleagues. Before giving my name, I asked the representative how the organization got the information to decide who should receive these "awards." I wondered whether they got my name off the ACLU membership list, or the HRC membership roll.

The representative told me that she couldn't tell me how I was selected for the award without learning my name, so I reluctantly gave it to her. (They knew it anyway; they'd said my full name on the answering machine message.) When I told the representative my name, she sprang to life, feigning recognition ("Oh, yes, hi!" was her response -- apparently the list of finalists is short indeed). She let me know that business leaders in Illinois had been selected based on their contributions to the local economy.

Apparently, my shopping habits have gotten me into trouble again.

She went on to tell me that the organization was hoping I would attend the next presidential dinner when Bushie next comes to the area, and started to play me a message from Congressman Reynolds himself. At this point, my rational mind took the reins away from my curious mind and cut the representative short. I informed her that I had never voted for a Republican candidate (I know you're shocked) and likely never would. Without animus I asked her to remove my phone number from her records. She cheerfully agreed to do so, and thanked me for calling in so that they could better decide what to do next. (Umm, that would be never call me again in hopes of getting my support for the Republican Beast.)

I'm guessing my status as an important businessman has something to do with the WHOIS registry for my website. I get all kinds of crap for health insurance, business credit cards, etc. I guess marketers are desperate enough for business that they'll send out crap to anyone with the $10 (or less) required to register a domain name. The Republican party, given the latest poll numbers, must be equally desperate.

Parting Thoughts on the Gay Games

The Seventh Gay Games wrapped up this past Saturday. My buddy Matt got tickets for the closing ceremonies and called me late that morning to see if I wanted to go with him, so we took the train up to Wrigley Field on Saturday afternoon to watch the spectacle. It's a delicious irony that I had worn my White Sox T-shirt to work that morning, and thus got to wear it to Wrigley Field for my first visit to that heralded baseball park.

The closing ceremonies started late -- it largely was run with, for and by gay men, after all -- but the wait was worth the payoff. I felt a little old because the only musical act of whom I had ever heard was Cyndi Lauper, who sang (duh) "True Colors". Among the many performers I didn't know was the duo Jason and deMarco. Their performance was very nice, although for the life of me I couldn't tell if the blonde (whom I know now is Jason) was a gay man or a lesbian -- fault my distance from the stage and Jason's really high singing voice.

There was a fun performance by Chicago's ROTC -- Righteously Outrageous Twirling Corps. If, like me, you've never seen them before, think about the "camp" soldiers skit from Monty Python and you'd be pretty close. The other very enjoyable performance came from the DC Cowboys. These boys are just delicious, and did a lovely sendup of Brokeback Mountain (it was not nearly so tired as it sounds).

I must admit that I was a bit disdainful about the Gay Games, figuring that they were as much about socialization as about athletic endeavor. However, in meeting a few of the athletes and visitors in town for the festivities, and having attended the closing ceremony, I find that I've changed my mind. Now I regret that I didn't attend any of the games, even though some events were hosted at the Ratner Center at the U of C.

The Gay Games were, I believe, a boon for Chicago. Hearing Mayor Daley speak so graciously and movingly about this city's gay and lesbian population, and about how this city welcomes its gay and lesbian citizens and visitors, was quite profound.

And besides, the locker room at the Ratner Center has never smelled better.

Mulan

I had problems with my UPS (not the package delivery service, rather the device which assures continuous, uninterrupted power to my computer) which required me to unplug all non-essential peripherals. Sadly, this list included my wireless router. Because surge-protected outlets provide less protection than battery-backup outlets, I tried to avoid using my desktop for extended periods of time, such as would be required for blog entries.

I've had a lot I've wanted to write about, since there have been such nasty things going on in the world. Given that I have only limited time right now -- specifically, 10 minutes while I'm waiting for a centrifuge to spin down a DNA pellet -- I'm going to skip all the important stuff and give a brief shout-out to a new bistro in my 'hood.

The BF and I went to Mulan last week. Located on the upper level of the East Gate, part of the Chinatown Square shopping complex, Mulan is a swanky Asian/French fusion restaurant that focuses on reinventing and uplifting the concept of "surf and turf." All of their dishes pair a land animal or waterfowl with a complementary seafood, in most cases shellfish.

The BF and I started our meal with a cup of the tomato and Kobe beef broth soup that contained mushrooms and circular pieces of whitefish. It was flavorful, though a bit acidic for my taste. This was followed by grilled elk with lightly fried, delicately breaded scallops and deep-fried lotus root with a carrot-miso sauce. I thought the elk was flavorful, though the meat was a bit tougher than I would like. This may be particular to the animal; my only other experience with game meat was a delicious, tender venison I had at Erwin - An American Cafe in Lakeview a few weeks ago. The elk paired well with the sweet scallops, and the carrot-miso sauce was fresh but not overpowering. The BF had lamb chops served with a shrimp bun. The chops were tasty and prepared medium per his specification. We finished our meal by splitting a piece of flourless chocolate cake which was tasty but not especially noteworthy.

In a nutshell, the entrees were fantastic; the soup okay and the dessert good but not great. The service was attentive and knowledgeable. Entrees ranged from $19 to about $32. Mulan is BYOB; I don't know if they charge a corkage fee or not.

The next time you find yourself in Chinatown or the South Loop and you're looking for something a little different to try, I highly encourage you to check out Mulan!

Challenges

I love God, because She is so deliciously sneaky.

I was listening to Morning Edition on NPR a couple of weeks ago, as I do most mornings while getting ready for work. On the previous day, in a state of mental and emotional fatigue I had thought it best to give up the fight to keep the Episcopal Church in the Anglican Communion. As I was stepping into the shower, I heard the Morning Edition anchor introduce an interview with Jerry Falwell. Great, I thought, just what I need to hear -- an interview with perhaps the most repulsive Christian minister I know.

As part of the story, NPR interviewed Mel White, the founder of Soulforce. Mel White was a confidant of Jerry Falwell's, and the ghostwriter of Falwell's autobiography. Mel White eventually came out as a gay man and founded Soulforce to work for the full inclusion of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender persons in the Christian church. When not leading spiritual protests around the country, he lives in Lynchburg and regularly attends services at the Thomas Road Baptist Church, which Falwell founded and still leads.
Whenever the sermon/rhetoric turns homophobic, Mel White stands up in silent protest of the denigration heaped upon his GLBT brothers and sisters.

When I thought about Mel White, I realized I was being a great big wuss.

The whole GLBT issue isn't going away because the GLBT community in the Episcopal Church isn't going away. I have to remember that God has a plan -- undoubtedly part of His plan was my hearing that interview. Wrangling with the global Anglican Communion is also part of that plan. In all of this brouhaha, it is important to remember that the ultimate goal is not -- and must never be -- the unity of the Anglican Communion. Instead the ultimate goal must always be proclaiming the gospel and pursuing justice for all of God's people.

Unmoved

I'm sitting here listening to Presiding Bishop the Most Rev'd. Frank Griswold being interviewed by Terry Gross on her program Fresh Air. I have probably never heard the Presiding Bishop speak for so long a time. I realize suddenly that he sounds a lot like The Rev'd. Fred (Mr.) Rogers, and that's both comforting and creepy.

While listening to Bishop Griswold's interview, I've also been reading the latest letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury. I must say, I first became aware of this latest missive while reading an article in the New York Times yesterday about the desire of some dioceses in the Episcopal Church to be placed into a separate province that will be armored with gay bishop, woman deacon/priest/bishop deflective plating.

(Oh my God, she's asking him about his freakin' vestments. Terry, is this the best your researchers and interns could come up with??)

Having read Cantuar's letter I'm completely unconvinced that there is anything to be gained by fighting the global church regarding the issue of ordaining gay and lesbian persons to the episcopate. The letter is perhaps the most equivocating, placating, ingratiating thing I've read in the aftermath of GC 2003 and GC 2006. Basically the Most Rev'd. Williams reminds everyone that gay and lesbian people are to be protected from bigotry and given the same legal rights as others -- something some of his brother bishops and primates have actively campaigned against. He then goes on to say that only a small minority of Christians believe that gay and lesbian persons' relationships should be honored or celebrated, implying therefore that the majority will and not justice should rule the day on matters of this sort. He then says that we aren't the Roman Catholic Church (and thank God someone told us!), only to follow this point with an expression of eagerness to explore the model of Catholic hierarchy and a hopefulness that we might learn something from this ecclesiastical/political model.

I guess I'm just weak, but I'm just not willing to fight this fight any more. It's only been a week since the passage of B033 and, frankly, I'm exhausted. It takes a lot of energy constantly to defend one's validity as a member of the body of Christ. No matter how many calls are made to recognize the value of gay and lesbian persons within the church and their role in the life of ministry, so long as those pleas are followed by a call for their exclusion from ordained ministry or full sacramental blessing, these exhortations will ring hollow. Loving the sinner but detesting the sin is a sanctimonious affront perpetrated by a majority class that would rather forget their own sins and concentrate on the supposed sins of another group, especially a sin they feel they themselves are incapable of committing.

So, to all the churches of the Anglican Communion for whom my "manner of life presents a challenge," I say God bless you, and let's move on. My world won't end if my bishop isn't invited to Lambeth two years from now, and Christ will be no less present in our church, or my heart, if the invitations from Cantuar don't arrive.

To all the dioceses and churches in the Episcopal Church who, because of a gay bishop who exercises no authority over you or a presiding bishop-elect whose Wolffian ducts degenerated during embryonic development or both, feel as though you must leave the bounds of the Episcopal Church and become constituent members of the Anglican Church of Nigeria, then I say go with God. If you are tired of fighting, then I can say with abiding empathy I wish you joy and peace. And love.

Because, after all, isn't it often said that if you love something, or someone, you have to let them go?

A New Perspective

My rector, who is technically on sabbatical, offered a prayer today for the gay men and lesbians who have been singled out by Resolution B033. As he is technically on sabbatical, he offered this prayer during the Prayers of the People. During the announcements, he walked to the ambo and, after introducing himself as the rector and explaining why he was not wearing clericals, he gave a short talk on Resolution B033. In addition to explaining what the resolution said, and noting that our bishop stood in support of a statement of conscience opposing the resolution, our rector gave us some very interesting details concerning the passage of this resolution. These are facts of which I was not previously aware. What he said is largely substantiated by this news release.

The House of Deputies had considered a resolution with the same wording as B033, and rejected it. In his desperation to get something passed to appease the global church, Presiding Bishop the Most Rev'd. Frank Griswold implored the HoD to pass a quickly assembled resolution, B033. Several bishops, including Presiding Bishop-elect the Rt. Rev'd. Katharine Jefferts Schori, spoke in favor of passing this resoultion in the House of Bishops, and Bishop Jefferts Schori went so far as to speak to the HoD regarding passage of this resolution.

There's just one little problem though -- the HoD had to suspend its own rules even to consider this resolution. Once a resolution has been voted on by the HoD, it cannot be considered again during convention. Since the wording of B033 was exactly the same as parts of A161, this was essentially an end-run around the legislative equivalent of double jeopardy.

Rather than get even more upset about the injustice that this resolution embodies in light of this new information, I'm trying to take comfort in the words of the Rt. Rev'd. Gene Robinson as conveyed to us today by my rector. To paraphrase, Bishop Robinson said that we must trust that the Holy Spirit is still working in the church, even when the votes don't go our way. Despite our failure to understand how God is advancing the cause of justice through this action of General Convention, He is still our salvation.

Unfortunately, no matter how hard I try, I can't fully take comfort in that idea.

In passing B033, the Episcopal Church has said that injustice is not too high a price to pay to maintain unity with the Anglican Communion. As I see it, there's only one thing more important than maintaining unity with the Anglican Communion. That one thing is my dignity as a Christian, and the dignity of every other baptized Christian -- gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or straight. Whenever we place the well-being of the institution above the value of the baptized members of the body of Christ, we practice idolatry. As I recall from Exodus, that's a pretty big sin.

Complacency

Moving to the Diocese of Chicago has obviously made me complacent about the state of affairs in the Episcopal Church.

You see, for eight years I lived in the Diocese of Tennessee, a bastion of conservative parishioners led by a conservative bishop who recruited syncophant conservative priests to toe the party line. Gay clergy? Forget it. Gay parishioners were barely tolerated, and in at least one parish were actually asked to leave. I attended one diocesan convention as an alternate delegate and left in disgust as the convention voted down a resolution acknowledging and affirming the national church's position that gay men and lesbians were to be included in all aspects of lay ministry within the church.

Then I moved to Chicago. I found a church that not only embraced gay people in lay ministry, but also in ordained ministry. A few months after moving here, I met a man whose own bishop had abandoned him in the midst of his path towards ordination because it was no longer prudent for a bishop in this man's diocese to sponsor an openly gay man aspiring to the diaconate. The bishop of Chicago stepped in and sponsored this man. I have since learned that this diocese has been a haven for gay men and lesbians who are called to be ordained but face hostility in their home dioceses because of their orientation.

In my joy at having found a place within the church where my sexuality was so less important that my spirituality, I allowed myself to blindsided by yesterday's passage at General Convention of an incredibly homophobic resolution that actually makes me a second-class citizen in the Episcopal Church.

Resolution B033, adopted by both the House of Bishops and House of Deputies, reads as follows:

Resolved, the House of Deputies concurring, that the 75th General Convention receive and embrace The Windsor Report's invitation to engage in a process of healing and reconcilation; and be it further

Resolved, that this Convention therefore call upon Standing Committees and bishops with jurisdiction to exercise restraint by not consenting to the consecration of any candidate to the episcopate whose manner of life presents a challenge to the wider church and will lead to further strains on communion.

The dignity and episcopal gifts of gay men, lesbians and bisexuals -- and presumably transgender persons -- have been cast aside in the name of maintaining unity with the global Anglican Communion. As if that weren't bad enough, this lousy resolution was even endorsed by the Rt. Rev'd. Geralyn Wolf of Rhode Island, a woman whom I truly admire. The only moment of beauty and grace that I found in this whole debacle was an impassioned plea from the Rev'd. Ruth Meyers broadcast on NPR this morning. The Rev'd. Meyers stated, tearfully, that she could not sacrifice her gay and lesbian colleagues on the altar of Anglican unity. As I listened to her voice breaking, I began to cry. Reading more about the resolution today I just got more and more depressed.

But something wonderful happened tonight. I had dinner with several friends from church. We talked a bit about General Convention, and the absurdity of some of the arguments made against electing a woman as presiding bishop. (Our personal favorite? That it would strain our ecumenical ties with the Vatican. Because we were on such solid ground before the election of the Rt. Rev'd. Jefferts Schorri.) Then on the way to my car, I ran into a couple from church who were returning home from a shopping trip. We chatted about choir, and moving, and renovating a new home.

As Ken and Sara walked towards their apartment from the sidewalk, and I continued down the street to my car, I realized that this is the church. These people with whom I worship every week, with whom I sing every Sunday, with whom I have dinner every few weeks -- they are the church I care about. The fact that I'm gay makes no more difference to them than being Southern or having brown eyes. It is because of them, and not because of Bishop Gerry Wolf or Bishop Bertram Herlong or the Rev'd Canon Kendall Harmon, that I am a member of the Episcopal Church. Even more important than this, through baptism I am a very member incorporate in the mystical body and blood of Jesus Christ. That cannot and will not ever change, no matter how many overwrought conservative pundits declare that the Episcopal Church is being dragged into the fiery gates of Hell by a stampede of homosexuals.

Unfortunately, I feel as though a response to this action by the General Convention is in order. I don't know what that response should be, but I will be prayerfully considering it over the next several days.

Of Zebrafish and Episcopacy

I got home from the zebrafish meeting late last night, exhausted from three days of nearly continuous science. All in all it was a fantastic meeting. Several people came up to my really pathetic poster and offered advice about how to improve my techniques and agreed to provide me with reagents that would be helpful for my studies. I also had several "Aha!" moments in the last couple of days' sessions. This week I'm going to work through the experiments I thought of to see what still seems like a good idea in the harsh light of day.

When I awoke this morning, I turned on the news and was overjoyed to discover that during our closing sessions at the fish meeting yesterday, the House of Bishops was electing the first woman primate in the Anglican Communion. Yes, our new Presiding Bishop will be the Most Reverend ma'am, thank you very much! Despite the groans of despair and continuing bitching about schism, I think this is a wonderful day for the Church. I hope that Presiding Bishop-elect Jefferts Schori enjoys a fruitful and felicitous term as Presiding Bishop. Seeing as she's only 52-years-old, she'll be a relatively young 61 when her term is complete, meaning she'll have the opportunity to remain active in ministry after she has stepped down as primate. Of course, her age and relative lack of experience -- she was ordained only 12 years ago, and consecrated bishop in 2001 -- are being used against her by the conservatives who probably just wet themselves when her election by the House of Bishops was announced. Her rapid ascent to the top of the church hierarchy speaks to her strengths and smarts, I would say. The conservatives don't want to come out and say that she shouldn't be PB because she doesn't have a penis, but that's basically what they believe.

I think that she may show in the next nine years that she has bigger balls than any of the lunkhead "traditionalists." And praise be to Jesus for that!

Zebrafish, Day 1

I'm safely ensconced in my hotel room having survived the first full day of the 7th Annual Conference on Zebrafish Development and Genetics. The meeting started yesterday with two hours of talks in the evening, including the key note address.

Today was a marathon -- we started at 8:30 and went until 10:00 (that's a.m. to p.m. in case you're wondering.) I had to bail around 9:15 because my back is still recovering from the 3 hour drive to Madison from Chicago. I'm lying on my tummy while typing this, trying to stretch my intervertebral discs anteriorly and thereby reduce the pressure on my dorsal nerve roots. Most of the talks I went to today were good, some really good, others not so hot. I'm learning a lot about techniques in zebrafish, but I have yet to see something that gives me an "Aha!" moment where I get a new idea of how to tackle my own project. It will probably happen -- it does at most meetings I attend.

This is a big meeting to break in to, and I feel a little isolated because I'm the only person from my own lab here and I know so few people in the community. I haven't been able to attend either of the poster preview sessions where folks can mingle with beer in their hands, so that's hindered my ability to mingle. I'm hoping tomorrow night my back will be healed enough to allow me to stay until after 10:00 pm. But I'm not going to push it -- 13.5 hours of meeting is plenty enough, thanks.

I'm going to run and check the news about today's General Convention news. I'm a little worried about some of the resolutions, but I have faith that the Holy Spirit will prevail!

Now back to the back, and hopefully soon to blissful repose.

All the News That's Fit to Stank

Every once in a while, when riding the El, I will see discarded newspapers lying in empty seats. If I happen not to have a copy of the paper with me, nor anything else to read, I will sometimes pick up these discarded papers and read them. Once I've reached my destination, I will usually toss these newspapers into the recycling bin conveniently found at most El stations.

I don't do this anymore. And I never will again. Here's why.

The other night I was riding the Red Line northbound from the Garfield stop after leaving work. The train was mostly empty. I sat in a seat across the aisle from a rather unkempt man, whom I assumed was probably a homeless person. In the seat in front of him there was a copy of that day's New York Times. The man picked up the front section of the paper and began to read. So far, so good, right?

Unfortunately this rather pedantical story takes a turn towards the disgusting right about now. You see, having decided that he had fully satiated his appetite for news articles, op-ed pieces and advertisements, this man began to rub the newspaper all over his face and head, and along the lengths of his exposed arms.

Yes, dear readers, this man seemed to have been bathing himself with the newspaper.

Even more alarming is that, once finished with his newsprint ablutions, this man folded the paper back up and returned it to the seat from which he had taken it only moments before.

Now I know some folks think that the Times is not the best paper in the world. Mostly these are people who are lining up to buy copies of Ann Coulter's latest book. I'm sure these people think this too generous a fate for a copy of the Times, and that those of us who read the Times should worry less about the human crud wiped on the pages as the liberal crap printed thereupon.

That idiocy aside, I think that my pat response of "Ewww!" is appropriate and reasonable.

Therefore I shall not in the future be perusing any copies of any materials left on the train. No newspapers, no pamphlets, not even a business card.

Hold That Thought

I read two disturbing articles in the New York Times today. The first was really a blurb, not a full article, but it was a story with which I was already familiar because it's happening close to home. The school board in Libertyville, a suburb north of the city, has decided that students participating in extracurricular activities will be required to sign a statement agreeing that postings online describing or documenting inappropriate or illegal behavior are grounds for disciplinary action by the school.

This, folks, is chilling.

As a participant in the blogosphere, I harbor no illusions that the content of this blog, my own personal site, or my U Chicago site are either private or not subject to scrutiny. Any ideas, thoughts or claims I post on any of these sites I am willing to defend. I recognize that each site has a purpose and may be read by different groups of people. That's why I don't disclose everything about myself here or anywhere else in cyberspace. What's more, all three sites are governed by some sort of user agreement and/or terms of service contract (here's the one for Blogger, the service that maintains this site) that stipulates what materials may and may not be included in these sites. And if I'm stupid enough to post pictures of myself participating in illegal activities on the internet for all the world to see, then I shouldn't be surprised if the police track me down and charge me with a crime. It shouldn't make a difference that I put evidence on the web, as opposed to showing a picture to friends or buying a half-page ad in the paper and publishing the picture therein.

The issue in Libertyville, thus, is not that students -- or anyone else for that matter -- should be immune from having their web postings used against them. The problem is that it's not the school's place to impose authority over these kids other than during the time they're on school grounds or participating in school-related activities. If a group of kids in Libertyville has a keg party and posts pics for all the world to see on their MySpace page, then they're a bunch of dumb-asses and they deserve to get caught. But not by the school, only by their parents or (if the cops there are really that bored) by the police. When teachers and administrators complain that they spend too much time disciplining children on the one hand, and school boards purposefully seek out methods that would extend the reach of the school's jurisdiction to discipline students on the other, I wonder what the true motivation of these educational bureaucrats really is.

The second, equally troubling issue is who gets to decide what is inappropriate? The definition of "inappropriate" could be so broadly interpreted as to condemn students for perfectly legal behaviors that the school system, other parents or peers might find objectionable. How does this affect minority and disaffected students in the system? Will GLBT students be disciplined for discussing their sexual orientation online if others find that "inappropriate"? What about students who post political ideas online that might offend others? While in the school building or participating in school activities, the school should restrict what students say so as to promote a healthy, functioning learning environment. However, off school grounds students should be allowed to participate in whatever sort of social and political discourse they wish. Only their parents should be allowed to decide what sort of limits are placed on the media they use to espouse their views.

The other piece that caused me great distress this morning concerns a proposal by the ACLU to restrict the speech of its board members.

Let me say that again so it can sink in. The American Civil Liberties Union, proud defender of every American's first amendment right to free speech, is seeking to institute a policy whereby it restricts the free speech of its board members if they happen to disagree with the leaders or policies of the organization.

To be fair, I believe the policy says that board members shouldn't publicly criticize the policies or administration, but that's pretty well just semantics. Disagreement with policy is, in effect, criticism of that policy. Policy is an extension of the sitting administration. Thus, you disagree with policy, you're criticizing policy and the staff.

What has happened to the ACLU? The representatives from the organization -- of which, in the interest of full disclosure, I am a card-carrying member -- defend the policy by saying that rancor among the board and the leadership, including director Anthony Romero, hurts the organization's fund-raising efforts.

So let me just get this straight. The organization that I feel is the first and best line of defense against the continued erosion of our personal liberties in the name of fueling the corporate machine is sacrificing its own principles at the altar of the Almighty Dollar?

I sincerely hope that the additional thirty pieces of silver that the ACLU raises is indeed worth sacrificing the very freedom that lies at the core of its mission. It's a bit like The Gift of the Magi, only without the nobility of the sacrifice.

Anonymous in the Big City

While living in Nashville, a city of approximately half a million people, I discovered an unpleasant fact. A disconcertingly large number of gay men in Nashville know each other, often because they had at one time dated each other. This pseudo-incestuous existence was made all the more unsettling by the relative paucity of available, decent gay men that I found in Nashville. Thus it seemed that by dating any gay man in Nashville, you were in effect dating every gay man in Nashville.

I attributed this humongous circle-jerk to the fact that Nashville was a fairly conservative city, and many gay men were not comfortable being "out." This meant that many gay men existed in a subculture, meeting other men almost exclusively at bars and online. Many gay men did not -- or could not -- reveal their orientation to their colleagues and families. Finding someone to date in this sea of dysfunction was quite challenging. One rarely had the luxury of quibbling over minor details such as, "Have you dated any of my ex-boyfriends?"

Chicago is a beacon of liberalism compared to Nashville. Although I'm sure there are many gay men in this city who must live in the closet, most of the gay men I've met are out and proud, unconcerned with who knows the true nature of their relationships with boyfriends and partners. Plus Chicago is home to nearly 3 million people, nearly six times as big as Nashville. Surely, I figured, the overall larger population of gay men in this city, coupled with the relative openness of the city towards gay people, would mean that I no longer had to worry about everyone I dated knowing or having dated each other.

Oh, how wrong and naïve I was.

I found out last night that Matt, the man I'm dating, knows the last guy I went out with. I've dated all of three men in this city, literally making the odds that any two know each other a million-to-one. Oh, to have this kind of luck with the Illinois Lottery!

Last night's unsettling realization is not too terribly upsetting -- Matt was a little put off that I had dated this person, but greatly reassured by my entirely truthful assertions that Matt is in every regard superior to the other guy. Yet again, this other guy continues to live up to the appelation by which I often refer to him.

That would be "Dodged Bullet."

Tales of Public Transit

An organization called AutoVantage recently released a report listing the cities with the rudest and nicest drivers in the United States. They listed Nashville as having among the nicest drivers in the country, which tells me that this survey is completely inaccurate. Having lived in Nashville for 8 years, I learned that Nashvillians are among the nicest people you can meet on the sidewalks, but among the most ornery people you could run into on the highways and byways.

Since I don't drive much nowadays, instead taking public transit, I don't have to deal with rude drivers as often as I did in Nashville. However, public transit has its share of rudeness, and I've experienced or heard about three particular tales of rudeness just this week.

On Monday I got on board the #55 bus to get from the Garfield train station to the UofC. As the bus was a bit crowded, I made my way to the back and found a seat on the bench along the back wall of the bus. I was reading my paper, trying to ignore all around me as is the norm on the bus and train.

I heard a voice say, "250." I ignored this voice, because, well, I'm on the bus and I don't engage the crazies. Unfortunately, I was jarred by someone kicking my foot. I looked up to see an unkempt middle-aged man looking at me. He said to me, "What are you, about 250?" I assume he was referring to my weight. I looked back at him and said, "That's really none of your goddamned business," and returned to my paper, trying not to look as flustered as I was. Perhaps I should have retorted, "What are you, about 75, 76? Oh, I'm trying to guess your IQ." My friend Joel says I should have said "No, around the world is $50 and a blow job is $25, just like downtown." However, had this man then produced either $25 or $50 I would have been forced to use the closest emergency exit and hurl myself out of the moving bus. I think it was easier just to sit there and ignore him.

My friend Joel was accosted by a Jesus freak in New York. A guy sat across from him on the 7 train and seemed to be checking him out. Intrigued, Joel made brief eye contact and thought he was initiating some harmless flirting. When the train cleared out a bit, this guy sat down next to Joel and said, "By the way you were looking at me, I'm afraid you haven't accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior, and I'm worried about your mortal soul." When J.F. asked Joel if he talked to God everyday, Joel's response was typically priceless: "Yes, I do, and He asked me to tell you to stop calling Him, because he just doesn't think it's going to work out between the two of you. Now I suggest you get up and get the Hell away from me."

Not 20 minutes after hearing this story, I was sitting on a Red Line train heading south to my apartment from Lakeview. Just south of the Washington St. station, a dude was asking passengers if they had three singles for $3.00 in change. Two girls on the train decided first to give the guy the third degree about his motivation for asking for singles. Then they decided to accost him, asking if he had any heroin or crack.

Wow, people. What's the deal? Let's just all try and get along, shall we? You people are giving public transit a bad name. And that's quite a feat.

Announcing . . .

. . . the launch of my new website!

Take a moment to check out A Tenor for Hire!

Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Tell anyone who's willing to pay money for a singer!!

Inspired

I was perusing one of my favorite websites today and ran across this gem. It's just too funny not to share.

Anatomy of a Long Day of Science

7:05 am: Leave apartment, having awoken at 5:45 am.

7:37 am: Arrive in lab. Check experiment. See didn't work.

8:03 am: Count injected zebrafish embryos. See experiment didn't work. Begin cursing.

8:50 am: Go to gym. Shower. Feel happy once again.

10:05 am: Return to lab. Remake reagent to redo experiment that didn't work (see 7:37 am). Realize that Eric Whitacre CD has arrived from Amazon.com. Rip CD using iTunes. Happiness reigns.

11:43 am: Remember noon seminar. Realize this will delay remaking reagent. Curse some more. Walk to noon seminar for one hour presentation.

1:00 pm: Sit in seminar room waiting for talk to end at 1:00 as scheduled.

1:10 pm: Talk scheduled to end at 1:00 actually ends.

1:18 pm: Return to lab, reinvigorated to do science and talking about weird mouse described in talk that ended at 1:10.

1:22 pm: Purify reagent from first reaction, prepare for second reaction.

1:36 pm: Get interrupted, screw up second reaction. Curse some more.

2:01 pm: Try to recover screwed up reaction. Screw it up again. Cursing ad libitum.

3:04 pm: Finally recover screwed up reaction. Now nearly three hours behind schedule.

4:35 pm: Add final enzyme to reaction. During 1 hour incubation, walk to coffee shop and get coffee to stay awake for next 5 hours.

6:07 pm: Run reaction out on gel as first step in purification.

7:02 pm: Purify reaction from gel. Take spec reading. Reading falls below linear range of assay, indicating shitty recovery. Begin to re-evaluate having chosen a career in science.

7:03 pm: Take another spec reading with increased sample input. Receive acceptable (although shitty) reading.

7:15 pm: Set up new reaction with new reagent. Prepare to relax for an hour.

7:16 pm: Remember that fish must be crossed for experiment tomorrow morning.

7:17 pm: Walk to fish facility. Pull out tank marked to have 8 fish, contains only 3, all females, greatly diminishing probability of successful mating. Begin drinking.

7:26 pm: Drain hip flask. Buzzed, decide to steal 3 males from another tank. Set up crosses. Walk Stagger back to lab.

7:55 pm: Sit and wait another 20 minutes to do next step in experiment.

8:15 pm: Transform reaction into competent DH5α E. coli. Wait 20 minutes, then 10 minutes, then 30 minutes for reaction steps.

9:18 pm: Transfer bacteria to selection medium. Place in incubator. Walk to bus.

9:45 pm: Bus finally arrives, ride to train station.

10:09 pm: Train finally arrives, ride to the Cermak/Chinatown stop.

10:24 pm: Enter apartment. Feed cat. Eat dinner.

11:18 pm: Collapse into bed. Set alarm back to 5:30 am. Pray that Tuesday will be better than Monday. Accept that it won't be. Fall asleep bitter.

My Faith Story, Part III

In the spring of 1994 I finally came to terms with the fact that I was gay. I had suspected as much for a few years, had endured a couple of hopeless relationships with women, and finally accepted that my feelings towards other men were more than just a fascination or a curiosity. The first place I went after coming to this realization was my father's grave. I lay on the ground above my father's interred body and cried, asking for his help and forgiveness. The next place I went for comfort was the church. Unfortunately it was locked -- literally. I went to two different churches near the NC State campus, hoping to find a clergy person to speak with. Instead all I found were empty buildings devoid of anyone willing to listen to my story of confusion and pain.

Over the next year I came out to my close friends and eventually my mother. It would be another ten years before I told anyone else in my family that I was gay. Cowardly though this may be, I figured that being unmarried at 31 and not having brought a girlfriend to a family function since I was 20 might have clued some of my more astute family members in to my "orientation."

In those ten years, I also grappled with what it meant to be gay and a Christian. I spent a lot of time soul-searching, trying to figure out if it could ever be acceptable to engage in sexual acts with other men and still be counted among the righteous. The de jure attitude of mainstream Christian churches was that sex was a gift from God reserved for married people. The de facto situation, however, was that lots of Christians engaged in sex outside of marriage. I figured this meant either that this particular tenet of Christianity wasn't all that important, or that there were a whole wompload of hypocrites running around. Turns out I was probably right on both counts. But that didn't change the fact that, by acknowledging my sexual orientation, I was putting myself in a position to question and perhaps defy one of the central tenets of Christianity with which I had always agreed. I don't mean to say that I always lived up to the expectation of chastity outside of marriage, but I did acknowledge that such behavior was sinful and to be avoided.

Gay men could not marry per se in any mainstream Christian church of which I was aware, at least not 12 years ago when these events in my life were occurring. Even today the list of churches that officially sanction gay marriage is indeed quite small. Could there be a loophole? Could I possibly still find salvation if I reserved myself for a "life partner"? Would God acknowledge such a situation as on par with marriage?

This moral conundrum kept me out of the church for nearly two years after I came out. I was afraid of God, afraid of His judgment, afraid of the judgment of His ministers on this earth. The easiest way to deal with this fear was to avoid it, which I thought meant avoiding church. After all, that's where God lives, right? It turns out God has a way of leaving His house, wandering down the street and catching up to you as you walk down the block minding your own business. Like Noah before me, I would soon learn that fleeing God's calling is about as futile as ice skating uphill.

How quickly time flies . . .

I am amazed at how long it has been since I've put up a new post! The nearly two weeks intervening this post and my previous one were filled with Holy Week happenings and out-of-town visitors, so I have had precious little time to sit down and write. My absence from the blogosphere has not been due to a want for topics. I've had so many ideas for things to write. Since the main reason I keep this blog is to force myself to write more coherently, I've really been doing myself a disservice by failing to keep it better updated. This fails to mention the impact on you, the literally ones of readers who peruse these pages de temps en temps.

I promise, I will prattle on more in the near future. Look for the conclusion of the My Faith Story series, and some interesting insights into just exactly what I do all day at my lab bench. And no, order things from Amazon.com isn't at the top of the list.

I think maybe it's number 17.

Best Fortune Cookie Fortune. Ever.

I'm sure many of you are aware of, and perhaps have participated in, the tradition of cracking open a fortune cookie, removing the tiny slip of paper from inside and reading it to your friends, adding the words "in bed" to the end of whatever sophism or clairvoyant message is printed on the paper. (There's even a web site that will do this for you.) The following is the fortune I shared with my friends and colleagues at lunch today:

A package of value will soon arrive. In bed.

If anyone needs me, I'll be at home, waiting. In bed.

My Faith Story, Part II

I entered college in August of 1991.

Hold on a minute, I need to recover from that.

Where were we? Oh, yes: college, August, 1991. My college choir director put me in contact with the music director at First Presbyterian Church in Raleigh who hired me as his tenor section leader. For the next nine months I went to church every Sunday morning, dutifully sang the music placed in front of me, and felt absolutely no connection to the church or God. It was a gig, it paid, that was it.

I had a conversion experience one morning in the shower. I remember distinctly hearing the voice of God that morning. What God said I don't recall; I don't even remember if it happened during my freshman or sophomore year. I just remember being very afraid. If I knew then what I know now about mental disorders I would instantly have assumed I was experiencing a positive affectual symptom of schizophrenia. My fear subsided quickly and was replaced by a feeling of longing. I couldn't say, however, just what I was longing for.

My conversion experience wasn't enough to put me back on the path to faith. Something much more dramatic had to happen in my life to capture my attention and point me towards God.

My father had been diagnosed with emphysema a year before I entered college. His illness had helped me decide to go to college fairly close to home -- the NC State campus is about an hour and a half from my family's home. I anticipated that one day the phone would ring and I would be informed that I needed to come home quickly. When that day came, I didn't want to be dependent on airline schedules; I wanted to know I could hop in my car and make it home quickly.

The phone call I awaited with dread came on October 6, 1992. My father had been taken to the hospital after collapsing in his bedroom. I wanted to come home immediately but my mother told me not to worry, that things would be okay and that I should stay and finish my midterm exams. Fall Break was only three days away, and I'd be home then. Two days later, I could the situation was going from bad to worse and my sister encouraged me to drive home. When my mother didn't object, I knew things were much worse than I had been led to believe.

I limped west on Highway 70, afraid to take my car on the interstate. I remember praying, "God, if it's time for him to die and for his misery to be over, then I am at peace with that. Just please let me get home to see him before he dies." My "Check Engine" light came on, as it was wont to do in those days, but I got home in just about two hours. I dropped off my bags at the house, called my mother in the hospital room to see if there was anything she wanted. (I remember taking up Oreos; I don't recall if they were for her or for me.) I got to the hospital at around 3:00 on the afternoon of October 8, 1992.

My father died at approximately 6:00 that night.

I had requested something of God, and He delivered. In retrospect, I think that's a lousy reason for going back to church. Theologically it seems almost heretical to follow the teachings of Christ only because He has done me a favor (other than the favor of crucifying Himself for my sins, but that was a favor for everyone, not just for me).

In the aftermath of my father's death my yearning for God became more acute. I sought to learn more about the Presbyterian Church since that was where I was spending most of my Sunday mornings. Unfortunately, I didn't get much past the whole Predestination thing. In fact, my last Sunday singing at that church featured a sermon defending that most Calvinist of beliefs. I took it as a sign that it was time for me to move on.

I didn't find a church home the rest of the time I was in college, though in honesty I didn't really try. My longing for God waned over time, but I had permanently regained something in that conversion experience and the death of my father -- I had regained my faith. I no longer considered myself an atheist. I identified as a Christian because that was what I knew how to be. Christianity is a credal religion, and I'm not sure I could have stood up and honestly claimed to believe the tenets of the Nicene and Apostles' Creeds. (To this day bits of both give me pause.)

When my father died two months short of my nineteenth birthday I was put back on the road of faith and restarted my journey towards God in earnest. Two years hence I would seek out both God and my father at a time in my life when I felt no one on Earth could understand my pain, and nothing corporeal could heal my spirit.

My Faith Story, Part I

I attended a wonderful program at my parish last night that featured the Rev'd. Jim Adams, founding director of The Center for Progressive Christianity. Father Adams spoke for a couple of hours on what it is to be a progressive Christian, and how we have largely abdicated our claim to the truths of the Bible to the Christian Right. Among the points discussed last night, the one that struck me as being most accurate and most worrisome was the notion that many of the people in the pews of Progressive Christian churches. such as my church, cannot readily articulate why it is that they choose to be Christian, and why they choose to go to church. In contrast, it was said, people going to Fundamentalist/Evangelical churches, especially of the "mega-church" variety, can often tick off a list of reasons they follow Christianity and why they attend their particular church. In short, Progressive Christians are either uncomfortable or unfamiliar with the idea of sharing their faith stories.

The only way I know to begin to change that is by sharing my faith story in this forum, where literally fives of people may read it.

I was baptized into the Body of Christ as a young child. I was old enough to remember bits of the ceremony -- the chill of the water, the white cloth used to mop the Holy Water from my newly Christened head, the anxiety of my parents -- but not old enough to remember exactly when this occured, neither the date nor my age nor even the season. The baptism took place at Friedens Lutheran Church in Gibsonville, NC, the church in which I grew up.

As a child, I don't remember particularly liking or disliking church. Much like school, it was a regular activity in which I had to participate. As with school, I figured at some point that if I had to be there I might as well put my best foot forward and get as much out of the experience as I could. In church I sang in the children's choir and served as an acolyte. In my church the acolyte's sole job was to light and extinguish the altar candles, as opposed to acolyting in the Episcopal Church which is much more involved and choreographed.

The normal "path" for children in the Lutheran Church, at least when I was a child in the Lutheran Church, was to start catechism at around 6th grade, join the youth group, and eventually make a mature statement of faith, a process known as confirmation. At about the time in my life that this would have occurred, my parents separated. My mother, sister and I moved too far away from Friedens to make it practical to continue attending services there. We talked for a couple of years about finding a Lutheran Church near our new home. We never went, even once.

I found myself drawn towards atheism as a teenager. I can't remember when I first heard the word, but I remember that I was shocked to learn such a belief system -- that is, the absence of a belief system -- existed. It seemed instantly comforting and familiar. Corporate worship was a distant memory by this time, and my only connection with Christianity was Christmas and Easter presents. Most years I was shocked when Easter Sunday arrived and the presents showed up on the couch.

In high school my atheism was prominent. During my sophomore year my English teacher did a unit on the Bible as literature. Days before our exam, and only as an afterthought, she polled the class to see if we were familiar with certain passages from the Bible not covered specifically during our classroom sessions or assigned as homework. She assumed we would have learned about these passages in Sunday School. There were three of us in the class who didn't know these unassigned texts. My teacher seemed genuinely shocked, and my classmates were quite obviously surprised to learn that there were non-churchgoers among them.

You see, in the South, after someone asks you who you are and where you're from, the next question is always, "Where do you go to church?" Usually, what is meant is, "Which Baptist Church do you go to?" There are plenty of folks in the South who don't understand that the Catholic Church is a Christian organization. I'm not lying.

I remember getting into arguments with people I sang with in high school over my lack of faith. A big part of that was my own damned fault -- I once spoke ill of Christianity, although I think I actually expressed disdain over all organized religion. One boy, a minister's son, said that he just wanted to hit me until I converted. That's the most warped example of Evangelism I've ever run across, even to this day. Another boy I sang with, whom I admired because of his beautiful tenor voice, argued vociferously with me over the concept of evolution. He asked me, "So you're telling me that if I put a fish in a pond for a million years it'll become a person?" My response was, "No, it'll become a very dead fish." Creationism arguments are rarely more poignant or insightful than this.

The summer after I graduated from high school I was hired by my high school choir director's wife to be a paid singer at the Presbyterian Church in downtown Greensboro. I dutifully showed up each Sunday, put on the itchy polyester choir robe and sang whatever music was put in front of me. I felt no connection to the music -- I sang sacred texts a lot during high school and assigned them no more significance than musical settings of texts from Shakespeare or John Donne. When the service was over I hung up my robe, got in my car and went home.

When I entered college in the fall of 1991 I was still an avowed atheist. I also considered myself to be heterosexual. By the time I graduated in the winter of 1994 I had rediscovered my identity in the Body of Christ, and understood that I was something I feared being all my life -- gay. Perhaps no other revelation about myself was more important in guiding me down the path towards faith, although it was a tragedy in my life that really caused me to start on that path in the first place. In my next entry, I'll talk about what happened in college that changed my life.

Best Day Ever

Topsy-turvy was the order of the day. Several fantastic bits of news and events were tempered by one incredibly tragic story.

At church this morning I found out that my buddy Matt was finally released from the hospital. As I was leaving church I peeked in at the folks attending the 11:15, and saw that Matt had actually made it to church! I stayed through the service just so I could speak with him and tell him how excited I was to see him outside of a hospital room.

I was also gratified to learn that there is hope for the next generation. Admonishing one of the members of our treble choir, our choir director warned a young woman that she would wind up singing like Britney Spears if she didn't adjust her posture. A young boy, about ten years old, raised his hand and asked, very simply,

"Who's Britney Spears?"

Alleluias were widely exclaimed, Lent be damned.

Sadly there was a bit of terrible news that overshadowed these bits of good news. One of our parishioners lost her nephew and niece in a house fire, and another nephew is in critical condition in the burn unit.

Today humor and continuing life were intertwined with tragedy.

This is life, kids.

Corporal Acts of Mercy

Here's a quick quiz . . .

Do you know what the corporal acts of mercy are, and have you ever performed any of them?

The corporal acts of mercy are directives to Christians pertaining to living out the Gospel of Jesus Christ through performing kindnesses to the needy in our midst. The specific acts are the following:

1. Feed the hungry.
2. Give drink to the thirsty.
3. Clothe the naked.
4. Shelter the homeless.
5. Minister to the sick.
6. Visit the imprisoned.
7. Bury the dead.

As for the second part of the question, well, only you can know the answer to that.

I was struck recently by the starkly different examples of living out the gospel presented by two prominent Roman Catholics, Roger Cardinal Mahoney of Los Angeles and Thomas S. Monaghan, founder of Domino's Pizza and supporter of right-wing politics and politicos.

In a recent address to parishioners, Cardinal Mahoney assailed H.R. 4437. The Border Protection, Antiterrorism, and Illegal Immigration Control Act would not only cruelly curtail immigrants' rights in this country but would also criminalize activities of charitable organizations that provide meals and shelter to needy persons who happen to be illegal immigrants.

A bedrock of living out the gospel is to minister to anyone in need, regardless of their immigration status. I have heard many fundamental Christians stomp their feet and complain that their right to freedom of religious expression is being abridged by laws preventing them from discriminating against gay men/lesbians/bisexuals/transgendered persons (in their language, "ho-mo-sex-shuls" and "queers") or forcing them to fill the legally obtained prescriptions of women obtained from licensed physicians. Curious that these same folks are deafeningly silent now that a law would particulary and directly discriminate against Christian religious expression.

Jesus tells us that the greatest commandments are to love the Lord our God with all our heart, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. In fact, we are actually called to love our neighbors in the same way that we love God. Believe it or not, there is no biblical injunction commanding us to deny housing and employment rights to GLBT persons, nor is there an order telling us not to sell birth control pills to women.

That brings me to the topic of how dear old Tommy Monaghan is living out his baptismal covenant. He has decided to focus on #4 above -- sheltering the homeless -- by building expensive shelter for upper middle-class families who are seeking to live a purely Catholic existence in sunny Florida. Mr. Monaghan is building a Catholic community and university, both called Ave Maria. His utopian village will be centered around a Catholic university, a very large Catholic church, and what is purported to be the largest crucifix in the world.

Oh, did I mention that the town won't stock condoms or birth control pills in the drug stores, will disallow X-rated television stations and pornography will not be sold anywhere in the community?

Admittedly the last few interdictions, if not exactly laudatory, may not seem worthy of disdain. But let's get real, folks. Denying people access to birth control is ridiculous and, frankly, dangerous. (Anyone ever heard of Griswold v. Connecticut?) If this municipality can disallow pornography, then disallowing anything deemed unseemly when viewed through the lens of strict Catholic teachings -- gay and lesbian literature, feminist writings, perspectives from other religions and sects -- is likely to follow.

This is censorship, plain and simple. It is decidedly un-American, and should make anyone who cherishes the First Amendment shudder.

Cardinal Mahoney called on his clerics to defy H.R. 4437 should it become law (note -- it has passed the House and is headed for the Senate). His actions make me proud to be a Christian. Monaghan's ridiculous real estate development initiative disguised as an act of religious piety ("I believe all of history is just one big battle between good and evil. I don't want to be on the sidelines," Monaghan, who sold Domino's Pizza in 1998 to devote himself to doing good works, said in a recent Newsweek interview. -- from CNN.com) makes me proud to continue boycotting Domino's Pizza.