THE GREAT GADFLY:

Oh, The Treats



I'd probably be a lot more seasonally affected right now if last week hadn't brought substantial sound+vision love by way of the nice men in the big brown UPS trucks, namely in the forms of a delicious new David Bowie two-DVD video anthology and Prince's surprisingly brilliant, first-ever official live album (did I say "album"? my face is red - "three disc box set" - I stand corrected).

Winter doldrums ain't a pretty thing, but when yer two all-time toppermost-of-the-poppermost rave fave androgo-rawkers crank out such gorgeous mind-fattening pop candy, I can't be as down in the mouth as the sour chemicals in my body are telling me I'm supposed to be. You go contemplate the meaninglessness of life - I'ma go get my Purple Paisley Space Oddity on, mmkay?

AudioVisual candy aside, I suppose it doesn't hurt to come home from a three-day familial holiday visit in the Land That Time Forgot to find a notice in the mail informing me of my completely-forgotten participation in a profit-sharing program at an old job, and the minor-yet-whoopworthy buttload of money said profit-sharing program has accrued in the years since I had forgotten about it. In the Monopoly Board of my life, I've somehow gone from pulling my pants pockets inside out to landing on Community Chest and winning second place in a beauty contest!

AND I got a 2002 best-of compilation CD from Tuffy! Talk about reasons to be thankful!

I might also be a bit on the perky side of the winter wonderland this year because during my visit home for Turkey Day, I made a cathartic confession to my mother. Yes, it's true - after a long time of doubting, redoubting, mentally browbeating myself and more than a few dollops of dreary denial, I finally done did it - I sucked it up, put on the brave face, bit the bullet and came out to dear old mum: I told her I don't like living in the midwest and want to move back to New York.

What did you THINK I meant? Oh, the GAY thing? Ugh. That happened almost a decade ago - and it was SHE who dragged MY wimp ass out of the closet by non-chalantly asking, out of thin air, "so are you gay or what?"

Compared to my empassioned confession of midwest dysphoria last week, the whole coming-out-as-homo thing was a relative non-issue. I mean, my mom's born and bred in the midwest. This is IT for her. She dallied with the avant garde, the depeche mode, the allure of the coastal cutting edge, but ultimately got tired of keeping up and figured it was just easier to watch "Friends" reruns and read Vanity Fair. Hey, right on. I guess. She's worked for the State of Indiana for almost as long as I've been alive, gone through thick and thin, and has wholeheartedly accepted smalltown life and all the provincial values that kind of environment implies. In The Land That Time Forgot, there is a Mayberry theme restaurant. 'Nuff said?

For years, I couldn't accept this aspect of my hippie mom. You don't go from Alice Cooper concerts to wearing novelty sweaters. You don't go from speeding down country roads blasting "More Than A Feeling" (on, hello, 8-TRACK) to ordering brooches from QVC. This week, I dunno, I accepted the fact that this person was gone and replaced by someone who was embracing something quieter, something gentler, something, yeah, old-ladyish and midwestern to its very cinnamon-scented core. Maybe what was so hard for me to accept was the idea that this could one day happen to me. Apples falling from trees, man. I'm one moderately-seductive Precious Moments figurine away from a life of peachy quaintitude. It could happen. Oh shit, it could happen...bottom line, I guess, is that it ain't happening YET.

Anyway, back to mom and the locational reality chat. We're also talking about someone who's deathly averse to change. Every time I make a decision to move - even if it's to a new apartment across town - it's a major upheaval in my mother's world. Change is the enemy to her. When I was younger, it was easy to roll my eyes, sigh, and tell her to deal with it. Now, as mom's health worsens, I have to consider the consequences of my actions and decisions in a way that wasn't necessary before, when I was young and pissing off the parental was part of the contract of being a kid. I'm sliding into a period of life where the child starts to become the guardian, and without the help of siblings or a father, well, the spotlight's on me, really, isn't it?

Just call me Saffie Monsoon. Hell, even SHE had the luxury of passing dear old Mum off on Patsy Stone. Maybe if I could find a toxic, Botox-injected, glamourous wraith of a drug-addled, razor-toothed raptor to become my mom's new best friend, all my problems would be solved. Wonder what Liza's up to right now?

Anyway. So, without putting a lot of pressure on dear old mom, during my recent visit home I pretty much made a statement of "going, going, gone" about my tenure as a midwesterner. I basically laid it out like this - unless ma's health is THAT bad (in which case, moving to The Land That Time Forgot might become a frightening necessity for me), then I'm outta here next year. Back to Neeyawk. And even if I make the trek back to the Big Crapple, we're going to map out a monthly visit schedule to the Land That Time Forgot so I can at least drop in and change lightbulbs, do laundry, schlep groceries, and all that able-bodied young buck stuff that most of us hale and harty types take for granted.

It was a good talk. It was a good visit. I feel like I did right by my maternal unit in what's increasingly becoming a terrible time of need for her, and I also did right by myself by putting the reality of my life on the table with the one person in my world who, above all else, will always stand in a powerfully righteous judgment of everything I do. Eeeg, that was a creepy sentence, but it's true. Hey - you try being the only-child Tommy to your mom's single-parent Alice and you'll know what I mean. When your entire immediate family consists of one person, that one person's opinion carries an indescribable amount of weight. Of course, that weighty opinion could be entirely uninformed and just plain WRONG, but I've found that as I get older, it's increasingly important to do the work to figure out and explain WHY those opinions are wrong (if indeed they are) and present my argument in a way that's non-threatening, loving and, ultimately, honest to myself.

So. I'm not packing my bags just yet. I'm going to hold true to my original self-contract, which was to keep jobhunting in Shitcago through the holidays, get through the new year, and then take inventory of where I am, where I want to be, and where I need to be. Then I will move - or not move - appropriately. Staying in this city is not out of the question. A good salary and comfy benefits carry a lot of influence. Unfortunately, I'm convinced those aren't the kinds of luxuries that exist for me here.

My Thanksgiving coming-out to Mom - that the option of moving back to NYC was indeed very real and probable, and that I wanted proper caretaking of her to be a factor in whatever decision I make - well, it was fantastically cathartic and liberating and productive. It was a step forward.

And with everything to which I have to look forward - all the creative endeavors scratching at the screen doors of my periphery, all the friends and family keeping the homefires burning for me out east, all the moral support and care packages and mix tapes dropping through the mailbox and the telephone line, all the super-cool deluxe music hitting my doorstep and dismissing me from dreary reality for a few hours now and then, all the surprise nest eggs popping up outta nowhere - well, just knowing that despite the harshness I've encountered in Chicago, despite the string of drama and ick that defined my first year back in the midwest, despite the indifference and ineptitude of this city's "professional" environment, despite the heartbreaking reactionary drug-addled mainstream-corporate-culture-bullshit addicted Chicago queer "community" (yeah, I know the same could be said of NYC or anywhere else, but really, I shit you not - come hang out in Boystown for a week or two, my pomo homo hipster friends - it's a cultural Three Mile Island), despite all the less-than-perfect and more-than-disheartening things that the midwest has come to represent for me in the past two years, the one gift that has materialized in the past week and the one sword that has been placed in my pale, dry-skinned little paw to fend off all the blue meanies of the midwest is this: The Gift Of Possibilities.

In one conversation with my mom, I figured out a lot of possibilities about how to go about getting out of the locational rut I'm in, and at the same time feeling good about taking care of a sick parent. Logistics were discussed, difficult topics were breached, acceptance was communicated. Right on.

If I had a beret, dammit, I'd go outside and throw it in the air. And I bet you it would freeze in mid-air. For Christ's sake, I'm gonna make it after all, ya hear?

And as if I hadn't enjoyed enough treats in the past week, I have a day of snowfall and a night of hardcore head-kicking Alias action to which I can look forward.

Who said giving thanks was for turkeys?




2003-10-14 - Last Haiku
2003-10-09 - Don't Cry Out Loud
2003-10-09 - Sit Down, You're Making Me Nervous
2003-10-08 - I'm Sure Miss Thing, I'm Sure
2003-10-07 - Carbonated Water, Caramel Color, Aspartame

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