Dear Mr. PIEFOLK,
We don't know one another but I'm also a baker. Bisexual. Cis-Male. Living in the mid-western state of Oklahoma. That's as much as I'm willing to narrow it down. But, I've been a long time reader and my friend mentioned you used to write advice letters. She's an improv teacher who used to know, and respect you in NYC.
I know you're in LA now, but what about some advice?
See, my problem is, I think my straight, white, cis-het boss is hitting on me? He's so homophobic and will make comments like, be a little less gay, or turn down that Gaga and turn up the baseball game, or sometimes he just tells me the customers like me but please be less gay.
He says it to my face. Customers like me a little gay, not a lot.
On top of that he's constantly putting his hands on my waist or grabbing my thighs with both hands when he stoops down below the baking table to get a pan, or a mixer, or a spatula.
Help me out? I like this guy, and he's fair, but I don't like being told "how gay" to be at work, or being touched like that, especially when such touching is followed up with weird jokes like "haha you're lucky it's not after five - I don't know what I'd do if I had a drink or two in me!"
How can I be the right amount of gay, and how do I keep this job, with a handsy-yet-nice boss?
If you can't answer, I understand. You're busy. But may I say? The writing has always been good, but lately, you're exceptional Mr. PIEFOLK. I only hope you're being nice to Mr. Michael.
Love for you, Brother - you can edit this if you need to!
Best,
Hands-free device
I Love Me event, 2018
Dear HFD,
I’m simultaneously bored and mortified for you. How boring your boss can’t keep his hands to himself. How boring he’s using his “straight privilege” against you in such an unacceptable way.
I almost didn’t use this letter, or answer it at all. I get so much email like this. But something struck me, here. Are you an out bisexual? And, are you out to your boss? If yes, you have lots of options. You can tell him to stop. You can quit. You can hire a lawyer to ask him for a settlement, if you feel he’s violating labor laws (he is).
But, what do you want from this? What’s the easiest, least stressful thing to do? I think the answer lies somewhere in-between quitting and just letting him do whatever he wants. I think you should confront him, and be firm. Talk to him face to face and tell him, no, I don’t like how you treat me and no, I don’t think it’s professional. Be sure to bring up the touching and how awkward it is to have anyone of any sexuality or gender or race – exploit the employer/employee labor contract. Say what’s not acceptable, and tell him you’ll give him a few weeks to think about it and adjust.
After a few weeks, if you think you can tolerate the new version of him, then mention how much better he’s behaving. If you think he needs improvement, you can point that out too – just always frame it as “us working together better” rather than “here’s a list of my unreasonable demands.” You get the nuance? It’s the same list, is what I’m saying.
If, however, after the period of adjustment is up, and you still feel unacceptable behavior is happening, explain you need a leave of absence to contemplate other options. If he fires you, you have a strong lawsuit claim, in most states.
Last pieces of advice? Grow a thick skin. Don’t take any shit. Keep your side of the street clean.
I hope this helps you, and that you stay happy in your situation. Believe me, it’s easier than running after a settlement that may never materialize. Don’t forget, he can liquidate his LLC and sell the equipment/lease at any moment, and not ask you permission or even tell you, until you show up to work in an empty building. What I’m saying is, ask for a reasonable settlement/renegotiation, and you might get it.
Love you, and next time send photos of pie, or noods (photos of noodles, that is).
The song posted at the bottom of this entry was born in 2008, in Brooklyn, just before I met my brother for a long work/vacation. Hamburg, Germany! He was on an Academic conference for Computational Linguistics, and I brought my baritone ukulele so I could write a bit. He was out of the apartment most days, so I had time. I was still drinking then, and we went out and caroused the nights away at bars in the vicinity. Mostly gay bars, but some stuff all over the city, depending on which direction the evening took us.
We saw the Rothko exhibit touring Hamburg at the time on that trip. Scotty isn’t much for modern art, but I remembered – Vonnegut was extremely close with quite a few of the guys from the abstract expressionist movement, and Bluebeard is one of the few books I’ve ever managed to get through four or five times. It’s about art, and love, and the forms it can take – romantic or otherwise. Family and chosen family.
About how life expands and contracts – about the trauma of living through WWII – about the bombing of Dresden. Ideas, big and small. Synchronicity. People finding one another, finding joy – even through the process of sifting through body parts in the smoking char of a razed battlefield. Even over years, over decades.
It’s a story of self-actualization.
And so on…
Matty boy, Matty boy, Matty boy
Vonnegut’s Bluebeard references an old legend. A rich man is rumored to be a pirate. He’s upper-strata wealthy. One percent, one might say these days… The type of guy who could live in a castle, but also perhaps might need to go out to sea for long stretches.
Bluebeard falls in love, and a young woman is swept off her feet, dazzled by the legend of the rumored pirate king. Very quickly the two wed, and she moves into his cliffside fortress.
“You may have access to any room in the castle,” her husband tells her on their wedding night, “but you may never enter the chamber attached to the far end of the cellar.”
The woman doesn’t think much about swearing such an oath. What could be so alluring about the cellar, anyway,? She shrugs – men must have their secrets, she reasons, and starts to unpack silks, linens, lace from the oaken dowry her merchant father managed to scrape together.
The story is told in pieces, in circles, like all good epic tales.
Eventually, the wife realizes she doesn’t care where the money comes from. It’s okay if he has foreign business in far off lands, or is a cutthroat pirate, marauder of the high seas. We all have blood on our hands, she thinks to herself one day, when she watches her red-faced maid kill a chicken for dinner.
Still, sometimes she makes the trip to town for fabrics or sewing notions. Invariably, she hears whispers… other rumors muttered under the breath of the townsfolk.
Bluebeard’s first five wives had all died mysteriously, and hushed tales of her husband’s brutality toward his business rivals seeped into her carefree days in town, at the tailor, waiting for the cobbler, enjoying a lunch of kidney pie at the clapboard inn and tavern.
I have to know, she says to herself.
She watches, waits, observes. Finally figures out which key on the big jangling ring opens the antechamber. This happens over years and years. Her husband goes away. Soon after, she insists she needs the butler’s master key ring, then disappears.
Starting in the attic, she moves down toward the basement, mentally memorizing each key, scratching it off the list in her mind. Intermittently, her husband comes back from conquests, mergers. His wealth is growing still more vast, and the jewels, the satins, ivory combs he bestows upon her make her flush with vanity.
Soon enough, though, he”s off on another adventure. She’s left alone with a growing trove of treasures, and a burning need to find out the looming secret tucked away in the cellar, far beneath her quarters. She feels conflicted, sitting inside her warm chamber, fondling the iron circle, counting keys, checking them off one by one in her memory.
She knows her husband’s wrath can be severe, and is terrified he might get angry, divorce her, cast her out. Still, she’s driven by the rumors, the curiosity… Why won’t he talk about his first four wives?
Julia Whitehouse always looks good naked.
Seasons pass. They grow closer. She can’t bear children but it doesn’t seem to bother him. They laugh by fires, playing chess, sipping port long into the night. But, he’s gone for long stretches at a time, and the isolation of the castle overwhelms her thoughts. The staff is strident and formal, and while they can be friendly at times, she’s painfully lonely.
And yes, she’s curious. That’s not a crime. People always want to think it a fatal sin, a woman’s curiosity – she thinks to herself. She smiles when she whispers, hell, even Eve was cast out of the Garden for wanting to make applesauce. People have vicious double standards. Even good, kind people.
Anyway. Finally, she makes it down to the cellar. Her husband arrives home from a trip, showers her with kisses and jewels, gets his key ring back from the stone-faced butler, and they have wine- well into the evening, chatting, playing chess, making love. She falls asleep in his arms, and he starts to snore, which wakes her up, and she realizes his key-ring is on the nightstand.
Finally! She creeps out of bed, grabs the key ring ever so slowly. Silently, like she’s practiced.
She creeps down, alone to the cellar, groping around silent, still. She’s terrified, but she’s making no sounds. She’s memorized the shape and sizes of the keys over the years. Moving with stealth and slow determination, she approaches the door – the one area of the house forbidden to her. Even as she finally finds the right fit, and it slides slowly into the lock, she’s sighs relief. Finally. She’s going to solve this mystery and climb back in bed with her loving husband.
Maybe I don’t even need to know the answer to this question, she says to herself. Maybe there’s no why? Maybe why is a useful question, but there’s never really a concrete answer? Maybe, she thinks, I can love him through anything? Even as she enters the dark chamber, as she smells an old rot.
She lights a torch, skirts the edge of the room, counterclockwise. She sees enough to know. The bodies. The bones. The jewels, dresses, letters – some ripped up, strewn, confetti-style on top of headless torsos.
I can love him through this, she says to herself. I know now – he truly loves me. He truly loved them all. The last thing she sees is a shadow in the door, before she drops the torch and the flame dies forever.
She can barely breathe. Her heart throbs in her throat, choking her thoughts. Her ears pound with thrum.
And so on…
Which is all to say, my brother and I wandered around the Rothko exhibit, because he was very nice about not making the entire ten days about his academic schedule, about going to straight bars, about anything more than a chance to reconnect with one another, far from the small St. Louis suburb where we were both born.
I sang the germ, the genesis, the egg of this song to him, loudly, late at night, after we went out drinking and celebrating his latest academic triumph. I don’t know what it had to do with. He’s a computational linguist, and he didn’t seem to need me to hear him present at the actual conference. He said I would be bored and wouldn’t understand all the acronyms and lingo. I was curious, but I didn’t need all the answers. Brothers don’t need to explain things to each other immediately.
It goes in circles, over years. The conversation stays open.
But in Bluebeard, Vonnegut mentions Rothko, or a character very similar to him. Scotty wasn’t too keen on the exhibit but he wandered around, patient with his little brother. I was insanely curious, and made sure to notice the dates.
Its all just rectangles and squares, Scotty said.
Yeah, but there’s an evolution, I countered back.
Yeah, but isn’t it… the same?
No.
How so?
Well, notice how the shapes get cleaner? Notice how the process, the brush strokes, the scope, size, rich luxury – all of it grows and grows over the years?
Sort of… say more?
It gets richer over the years.
Oh, so you mean he can afford more paint?
Sure, but the art gets richer. Bigger canvasses.
And a bigger studio!
And has richer clients?
Exactly! And then…
And then, what?
By this time Scotty and I were at the end of the visit. He reads the last plaque on the last painting. About Rothko’s suicide.
“Rothko’s depression and seclusion were exacerbated by his drinking. In 1970, Rothko committed suicide by a combination of overdose on barbiturates and a major cut to an artery in his right arm with a razor blade. He left no suicide note.”
In final fit of irony, Rothko died just before the final completion of a massive collection of work he called “the chapel.” He had turned his massive studio into a cathedral to color, texture, light. Inspiration.
And so on…
Sandwiched in between two classics. One Folksy, one Fancy
I kept thinking about Vonnegut and Rothko for years after that. I still think about the two men, sometimes. Drawing parallels late at night, when I’m trying to put my mind to bed.
He was best friends with Vonnegut.
They were in the bombing of Dresden together.
They helped each other get rich and famous, and stayed close, even as their family structures got complicated, even as they both abused alcohol, capitulated to despair, became lapdogs to the terror lurking forever, behind their eyes, when they came home from the war. The helpless disgust they both felt, picking through body parts in the quiet aftermath of the bombing of Dresden.
They did everything they could for one another, but they couldn’t process each other’s trauma. Nobody can do that but you.
They were like brothers to one another. They made it through the challenges, helped one another on the journey of life. Through joy, fear, overwhelming suffering. Births and deaths, cycles and circles, and I’m sure they both drank way too much. It’s well documented by the two men themselves and those who could bear to be around them.
I met Vonnegut once when I was in college. He was touring with William Styron and Joseph Heller. Scotty wasn’t with me when I got to meet him. I shook his hand, and tried not to gush like the 20 year old child/fan boy I absolutely was at the time.
And so on…
Literally daydreaming about parrots constantly. Scott is pinching me and can’t get me to stop thinking about these two lovely birds.
This song used to be called Wait. It was about being ready for a big career break and still having to wait your turn.
Eventually, it evolved into a musical theater song I was writing for Thin Skin Jonny. I wanted to make the boys who started my band with me famous. I was writing a musical for all the people who treated me like a brother over the years.
The end of act one was “Wake Up, Thomas.”
This is the circumstance – Micky sings to his lover who is dying of AIDS. He sings about a lost generation, about assisted suicide, about a quiet pain the Boomers and Gen X homosexuals endured as our chosen brothers died all around us.
The song may evolve yet again. I haven’t decided yet.
Please enjoy!
And so on…
Getting better at technology as we go! Whoopsie poops!
“The people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them. And if you, as you say, are moved only by their color relationships, then you miss the point.” – Mark Rothko
Breaking the Silence Awards recognizes corporations and leaders who use their platform of influence to advocate for Sexual & Domestic Abuse awareness. Since the inception, the I Love Me Foundation has provided supportive services through legal referral assistance, advocate support, financial aid, employment referral and housing assistance to over 1,500 youth, young adults, sex workers, and those in the under-served communities.
Yes, that’s Kelly Osbourne and Robert Harrell – get excited! But also, please keep your cool. It’s Los Angeles and chill is what we do best, even in the heat of the day. Make no mistake…
The day wasn’t without its lively moments. Yes, we talked about abuse, survival, disenfranchised communities – all things liberals love to talk about! We also had a blast. It was a celebration of #MeToo, #TimesUp, and the transgender communities and communities of color that support their struggle.
It was about female empowerment, humanity, and rejoicing in our ability to tell the truth, so that when the artifice falls away, and we take the narrative back from our abusers, we reveal a truer version of ourselves, which is a boon to our loved ones, to the communities that support us. It was a celebration.
Robert spoke with a tremble in his voice, but a power in his spirit – about how inspired he is with his mother. About how 90% of rapes aren’t reported the first time. How, when he came to her as a boy with his story of abuse, she believed him the first time. He honored her with the Purple Heart Award, and she beamed! She was so proud of her son! He was so proud of her! It was quite amazing to watch.
I teared up, myself, during this part. Something about him emphasizing the first time struck me as incredibly powerful. I certainly wish, when I came forward with my own abuse story, people would have believed me the first time. He made an important point – we have got to retrain ourselves as a society, to stop doing the abuser’s work for them. To stop minimizing, to stop shoving people into “victim” boxes, when what they are doing is actually heroic.
“We must remain vigilant and unified…” -Karina Samala
I was impressed with the desserts. The food was all fantastic, and Chaz Dean was the main sponsor. He looked sleek and stylish and his table was extremely well groomed – don’t worry.
Alexander from West Hollywood Gateway, with Desireé, and my date, Steven Reigns.
Steven was named Poet Laureate of West Hollywood. It’s true! Okay, I’ll stop bragging about Steven. I was flattered he asked me. It felt like getting asked to prom. I spent last week walking on a cloud!
“We have just scratched the surface of what’s happening… They have turned #MeToo into a weapon when it’s really a tool… to talk about sexual abuse, harassment, sexual assault. Even saying ‘Me, too’ is an emotional trial, and we are leaving them alone, to raise their hands alone. We will NOT let [the abusers and Republican pundits] turn it into a weapon. It’s a tool. It is not only for women. The future is NOT just female. My daughter answers to they/them pronouns. The future can not be just female because it leaves transgender folks out.” – Tarana Burke, founder of #MeToo
Steven doesn’t know we are on a date but we totally are…
“I am a survivor of both domestic violence and sexual violence. The situation puts you behind enemy lines… [After breaking the silence] I lived an episode of Black Mirror for an entire year. There were friends that turned out not to be friends. There were enemies that turned out not to be enemies. When you say that you demand to be treated like a human being, there are people who come out of the woodwork to insist that you’re not…” – Terry CruiseI was grateful, but my absolute favorite part of the day was watching 80 year old California Representative, Congresswoman Maxine Waters speak with the exuberance and stamina of a much younger person. She speaks with the clear, strong voice of someone who knows she is exactly where the universe wants her to be, because, in part, she bent the universe to her will, by climbing over, tunneling under, or going around any walls her opponents put in her path.
We were lucky enough to walk the five flights of stairs right behind Maxine. We weren’t too thrilled with the no-elevator-situation, but Maxine didn’t care. She may have mentioned getting some exercise in, but she was unflappable and determined, and by the time we reached the top floor we were all joking about what an incredible photo-op it would be, if next time the Congresswoman jet-packed in with Elon Musk. She has a sense of humor, but by the end of her speech, she made a metaphor about how, if she could take the stairs in life, the rest of us could, too. It’s fifteen minutes long, but she doesn’t stop to rest, and she doesn’t let up on the abusers. She is determined to see abusers like Brett Kavanaugh prosecuted for their crimes, and she is still determined to see the impeachment of this illegitimate, corrupt, racist dog-whistle blowing Presidential administration. She, among all politicians, is the only one who makes me want to stay and fight, and not emigrate to Europe. I can’t help it, there’s a 14 year old gay boy inside me that just loves her. She can do no wrong, in my eyes.
I’m incredibly grateful for the day, and for the reminder that yes, I love me.
Me: I’m sorry about that. Did you see August Osage County? What did you think?
Him: Seriously, are you Bisexual?
Me: I keep thinking if I hadn’t seen the Broadway play, I might have really liked the movie. I liked it quite a bit, actually, but I might have been blown away if I hadn’t watched the Broadway show twice.
Him: Don’t change the subject! Stop it.
Me: Julia Roberts really blew the doors off the hinges. It’s worth seeing just for that.
Him: I didn’t see it yet, okay?
Me: Okay. No spoilers, then.
Him: I’m asking you a question, and you’re avoiding it.
Me: I don’t see why I owe you the information. It’s just information, after all.
Him: I read your site for years. I’m extremely curious. What happened? It seems like you’ve made a 180, and I don’t know what to make of all of it. It seems…
Me: Don’t trail off. How does it seem?
Him: Hypocritical. It seems hypocritical. Sorry.
(There is a long pause. I sit on a bench at the bus stop.)
Him: You waiting for a bus now?
Me: Only if it’s an express bus to Canada.
Him: What does that mean?
Me: I dunno. It’s about half a joke. I’ll let you know when/if there’s a punch line.
Him: Hey. I’m sorry I called you a hypocrite – just how I see it.
Me: Ha. Then you’re not really sorry! You’re frustrated about quite a few things, and I’d suspect the root of it has very, very little to do with me.
Him: You can’t just… You can’t write about the gay community for years, and talk openly about being a poly-amorous homosexual – you can’t run some sort of online ‘brotherhood of man’ pie cult for the gays, and then just get married to a woman. Just, poof, you’re married and normal again. Just like that.
Me: Can’t I? Why can’t I? Why can’t I marry whomever I want? Isn’t that the underlined point behind the Marriage Equality movement?
Him: Don’t you feel you owe people like me an explanation?
Me: Why?
Him: Because I am one of your readers. Because I’m your audience.
(There is a long pause.)
Me: Well… thank you. I’m flattered you’re reading, that you’re still reading, and that you took the time to contact me. All of these things are incredibly flattering, and part of me agrees with you. A huge part of me thinks I owe it to you to tell you exactly how my sex life is structured, what it means to be LGBTQ in a traditional marriage structure, and send you home with a slice of pie and a warm feeling of hope for tomorrow.
Him: That’s what I’d like, yes.
Me: Then again, I’ve read quite a few books on writing, and while authors agree it is important to have an audience, they seem to also agree that catering things to your audience leads to atrophy in a major way. Bill Cosby said something like, I don’t know what the formula for success is, but I know the formula for failure is trying to please everyone.
Him: Teach me, oh wise one.
Me: I’m not getting paid to teach you, or, for that matter, to tell you how to live your life, or to tell you how I live mine.
Him: Okay, I’ll admit – it’s none of my business.
Me: Thank you.
Him: But I’m CURIOUS.
Me: Yes. You’re curious. That’s exactly right. You expect me to tell you intimate details of my personal life to you, the way I would to my therapist, because you read my site for a while and you feel somehow entitled to missing information. But you’re just an audience member. You’re just tuning in. You don’t know me and you have no real right to my inner physical, emotional, or intellectual life, beyond what I publish on my site, which by the way you read for free – so I owe you even less.
Him: People are going to want to know! You wrote about your sex life for years!
Me: No. Incorrect. I did not.
Him: Yes you DID. You’re being a hypocrite!
Me: Actually, I wrote about awkward dates, urban alienation, and my disappointment in a community full of brilliant, motivated, socially broken people. I almost never mentioned who I was having sex with.
Him: Come off it. You were sleeping with all those boys who made pie with you.
Me: Incorrect. Those were models, or friends, or people who contacted me online who wanted to help. It was very rare I slept with the people on my site.
Him: What?
Me: The “Awkward Dates” happen with people I don’t sleep with. That is the whole point: Here’s how NOT to sleep with me. The irony is, it’s pretty easy to sleep with me, if you’re cute and sweet, but most gay people have no interest in being kind, gentle, or generous of spirit – at least the ones who live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn don’t. They think they don’t have to, and in some sense, they’re correct. Someone will stomach their painfully underdeveloped, spoiled, sour personalities. But that someone isn’t me…
Him: Still seems hypocritical to me.
Me: You’ve now called me a hypocrite three times.
Him: So?
Me: So take a deep breath.
Him: Why?
Me: I’m about to tell you what I think about you.
(Pause. He looks concerned. I take a deep breath and count to ten.)
Him: A walk? That sounds so weird and creepy, in the middle of the night.
Me: Is it? I just don’t really want to go drink right now. I’m trying to shed the winter layer.
Him: But isn’t a bar… Safer, somehow?
Me: We can stick to Colorado – it’s well lit. I’ll try to resist the urge to take you to a park and chop you into small pieces.
Him: That’s what I meant when I said weird and creepy!
Me: Let’s operate off the assumption neither of us is a murderous sociopath?
Him: You don’t seem like a sociopath to me.
Me: Thanks, man! I like your attitude!
(We walk for a while, chatting. I find out things about him. He’s in medical school. He’s into extreme sports, hiking, and surfing. He seems nice enough, and he’s no dummy. He’s read most of Kurt Vonnegut, so he gets points.)
Him: So, I guess you’re wondering why I’ve contacted you?
Me: I guess I am, now that you mention.
Him: I wanted to ask you a question. Do you mind if I ask a personal question?
Me: No, I guess not, as long as you don’t mind not getting a full answer, depending on the question.
Him: Haha, fair. Fair enough.
Me: What’s the question?
Him: Well, I have a few questions. Firstly, are you bi-sexual? I read your site for a long time and I always assumed you were gay, but now you’re married to a woman, and what’s the deal? Is she a lesbian? Does she need a green card, or whatever?
Me: Oh wow. I thought personal question meant something like ‘boxers or briefs?’
Him: No. You clearly wear briefs. I’ve seen your Instagram.
Me: Fair enough.
Him: Are you bisexual?
Me: Let me ask you a question. I’ll answer yours, but let me do the rudest thing and follow up a question with another question. Does it matter?
Him: What?
Me: Does it matter? The difference between me being Gay or Bi? Or even straight?
Him: What do you mean? Of course it matters. Of course .
Me: How so?
(There is a pause. He looks confused.)
Him: Do you realize, I’ve read you for years?
Me: No, I usually go into these meetings pretty blind. When I meet with people it’s much more likely they’ve lurked or stalked me, whereas I might only have a brief email and a fuzzy photo to go on.
Him: But how can you do this? You talked about Gay dating, alienation and minority rights for years. How do you just get to marry a woman and continue on like nothing happened?
Me: Because nothing happened. I got married. It was pretty important to me, in the scope of my life, but in the grand scheme of human events, it’s not even a blip on the radar. It’s just a marriage. Most people do it at least once.
Him: But why a woman? Are you Bisexual?
Me: Again, I don’t see how that matters. It’s clear that I’m definitely a member of the LGBTQ community. Right? And, consider this: you haven’t told me your sexuality, yet you seem to think it’s fine to pry about mine and my wife’s?
Him: I’m Bi.
Me: Okay, good. I’m Queer.
Him: What does that mean? In what sense?
Me: It means I am as Gay as Kurt Cobain.
Him: What about your wife?
Me: She’s whatever she is.
Him: Stop. This is frustrating.
Me: This is nobody’s business. One of the perks of marriage is people stop prying about who does what, when, with whom, and how.
Him: But I’m curious!
Me: Well, that’s flattering. Are you openly Bi?
Him: What?
Me: Do people know you’re Bisexual?
Him: Some people do.
Me: Your family?
Him: No. My brother knows, I think, but by and large, no.
Me: Your work friends?
Him: No. I don’t want them thinking I’m weird, or off.
Me: Your friends from school?
Him: No.
Me: So, pretty much, just the people you have sex with.
Him: You make it sound sad.
Me: No, you make it sound sad. You’re the one who made those choices.
Him: It’s just what happened. I’m a victim of circumstance.
Me: You’re what? 28? 27?
Him: I’m 30 this year.
Me: Okay, well, welcome to the club. I’m going to say something, and I hope you don’t get offended.
Him: Are you going to call me a Jerk?
Me: I don’t do that anymore, Jerk. Just kidding. No, just this: There’s no such thing as a victim of circumstance. Not really. I believe life is a series of choices. It’s in the art of choosing we discover what kind of man or woman we become. If you don’t like your circumstances you have a right to make a different choice. It might be more difficult to make a courageous choice. It might, in fact, be stupid to make a courageous choice. It might make your life more of a struggle to make an honest choice, or to have enough integrity to look your family in the eye and say, here’s what I am – here’s how I was born and here’s the way things are for me. I’m sorry you feel differently about how I should live my life, but then again, my life is the only thing that is arguably entirely mine – and I’m the one who has to live it.
Him: What’s that have to do with the way the world is?
Me: To say you’re a victim of circumstance is a bit misleading when you’re the one creating your own reality.
Him: That’s arrogant. That’s incredibly arrogant, and I knew you’d say something like that. I knew you’d come up with a way to make me being down low about my sexuality my fault. My sexuality doesn’t define who I am anymore than my liking baseball defines who I am. Why do I have to make a huge issue of who I’m sleeping with? Doesn’t my mother deserve a good birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving without me ruining everything by talking about sex with dudes? Why are people so obsessed with where I’m putting my penis? It’s nobody’s business.
Me: And yet, you’re so very obsessed with where I’m putting mine.
(There is a long pause. He starts to speak, then stops, then looks confused.)
Here’s an article I wrote a while back for Thought Catalog. It was a response to a critical New York Times piece on The Irony Generation, whatever that is.
I guess I’m part of the irony generation.
That feels weird to say. I’ve never admitted that I was a hipster before. So many other hipsters are so much more ‘hipster’ than I am. They’re the ones described in news articles — with the mustaches, and the ill-fitting shorts, the home-brewing, trombone playing, annoying uber Williamsburg attitudes. I’m not like those hipsters (those hipsters are actually quite rare), but I am a hipster. And until recently I didn’t even realize that I was one, or wanted to be one.
But I am. And I think — sarcasm aside — I might be proud.
My hipsterism is what you might consider mild. Yes, I do teach improv comedy and comment on the internet for a living. No, I don’t buy Applewood Smoked Bacon over Oscar Mayer bacon. But only because I’m poor. I have a pretty good idea that locally raised Applewood Smoked Bacon might actually kick the ass of Oscar Mayer Bacon every single day of the week. But, like I said, I’m poor. So Oscar Mayer it is! Did I say Oscar Mayer? I meant off-brand supermarket bacon! Actually any cheap protein, I’ll take. Did I mention I was poor?
Shit. I’m off topic, and getting ironic. Fucking hipsters. Okay, so:
I keep a narcissistic blog where I harvest my own awkwardness. I do not write for the New York Times, a publication that jumped on the lets-kick-hipsters-in-the-nuts bandwagon about 10 days ago. I wish I wrote for them, but I don’t. The world isn’t clamoring for my opinion, so I turn inward for inspiration. I have found that if I speak to my own self-consciousness on my blog I gain readers. I also gain attention and gain opportunity. Those are important things for a fledgling writer. It’s a powerful moment for me to realize that I can build my own audience.
But I am also a hipster, I suppose. And that’s where the problem is, right?
People are annoyed with hipsters. Because we’re so inauthentic? Ironic? Disaffected? I disagree, but you’re entitled to your outsider’s opinion. I mean, hate sells papers, or gets internet traffic, after all.
But I will say this: Deal with it.
I’m not saying this to be glib, or to ironically detach from the social phenomenon. Quite the opposite, actually. I just mean that you have to deal with it. It’s a part of a society you helped create. You can write articles about how it’s annoying for a while, and they’ll sell (whatever that means in the digital age), but eventually you’re going to have to deal with it — in a real, sincere, unironic way. Hipsters aren’t going anywhere. So, you can write hipster-hating blog entries, newspaper articles, tumblr posts all you want. We’re a social phenomenon. A very weak, very flabby, very nerd-atrophied social phenomenon. And we’re not going anywhere.
But hey –
What if it’s better to examine the cause, than naively complain about the symptom?
What if… just follow me on this for a sec — I’m stoned — What if we actually dared to ask the pertinent question? What caused the Irony Generation in the first place? I think I know the precocious, adorable, twee answer to that question: The 90’s. The 80’s. The 70’s. And every social movement before that.
It’s been heavily debated whether irony is the disease, or the symptom. I think it’s neither, but if we’re going to classify an entire generation into such a simple this-or-that metaphor, I’d have to go with symptom. I think that’s an important distinction, too. Irony isn’t the infection. The digital age is the infection. Globalization is the infection. Outsourcing of American jobs is the infection. Hipster irony is the symptom of those things, manifested in the fabric of pop culture. If you’re going to hate on something for making the world ironic, hate on NAFTA, or Facebook, or the Bravo channel. Hipsters are just a sign of the times. The youth movement is just a reflection of generations before it.
And that’s the thing. Hipsterism is just a reaction to political and economic phenomenons that predated it. The internet, a terrible economy, a culture obsessed with pseudo-reality. Everyone’s expected to run PR on their own lives. It’s easy to point the finger at the manifestation of that — an irony clad 22-year-old on an old-fashioned bike, on his way to marching band practice — but by and large it’s my guess that it’s not that generation pulling the strings. What’s responsible for this?
A few things that I can think of.
A bad economy, for one. It seems we all agreed that globalizing was the best idea for the world in the 90’s. Bill Clinton signed NAFTA and we were all going to run dot coms instead of working at factories. That was fine for about seven to twelve years, until people realized that getting a lot of attention online doesn’t mean an income stream, and that even getting that attention was difficult. Meanwhile, the idea of a union job, or even a corporate one where you could work 20 years then retire has all but dried up.
The hipster generation was financially screwed by the generation that preceded it — our parents’ generation — the same generation that left us home alone after school, and taught us that if we want dinner, we better research good food and make it ourselves. God forbid, though, we respond to a terrible economy in a resourceful way! Don’t start an Etsy, or a locavore butcher shop, or teach improv comedy for a living. Society will call you a hipster! Well, what if I’m just making a living? Is it then okay for me to wear a Diff’rent Strokes T-shirt? Or does that mean I’ve glibly checked out of society?
Social media has made everyone feel both hyperconnected and desperate that they’re missing something. That’s stressful, especially for those who grew up with rotary phones. Could your hatred of hipsters just be a manifestation of you yourself feeling out of touch? Or, perhaps you’re just hating what people have always hated in any social movement? Perhaps you just hate posers. Even that is misguided, though.
Every social movement has posers. In fact, the bulk of any social movement is a bunch of posers. I’m thinking of the people who participated in the Summer of Love, who then became disco dancers seven years later. The people who did cocaine in the 80s and were the first wave of yuppies to hit the urban landscape. I’m thinking of my parents’ generation, and how they changed with the times. Thank goodness they were posers, too. Can you imagine what would have happened if they’d all joined communes? If they never got over doing Angel Dust? Awful. But they changed with the times, as we all are forced to do.
Every social movement also has an older generation, or even members of the same generation looking on and scratching their heads — saying to themselves, kids today. From the beatniks to the American Apparel kids, the hipster types have always been hated. But that’s okay — because part of the mantle of being a hipster is to be hated by some. What is putting on a beret, or a pair of bell-bottom jeans, or a trucker hat, if not a statement of one’s own individuality? To me, it’s an announcement to the world that you’re willing to try being a free-thinker. That you realize you’ve inherited a broken society, but that you’re looking for creative ways to help fix it, or at least fix yourself in the context of that society. Does that make you a parasite? I don’t think it does. Does it make you sarcastic? Again, I don’t think so.
Am I missing something important, here? To say that we should ‘learn to live without irony’ is glib. It’s sarcastic. And it’s unrealistic. It’s a phenomenon created by the older generation. We didn’t create the internet, or reality television, or the economic crisis caused by globalization. We’re just trying to navigate the mess you created. Sorry if my thick glasses frames are annoying you in the process. I thought they were cute when I bought them and I can’t afford new ones. Did I mention that I’m poor? Seriously. Feed me.
And amidst all the muck being slung against the irony generation one important thing is being forgotten. They’re not doing too shabby. I’m thinking of relevant artists, like Wes Anderson, Sufjan Stevens, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Ryan Gosling. These guys are all sincere, and they’re all linked with the term ‘hipster’ quite easily on a Google search. Or let’s look at the more sarcastic side of things — Andy Samberg , Donald Glover, Kristen Schaal, Aubrey Plaza. Are these not brilliant voices that are helping to shape the ethos of a generation? Can you not see the authenticity underneath their adorable fashion choices?
Irony is neither good nor bad. Just as sincerity is neither good nor bad. It’s just a mode of communication. Neither is more effective. It is extremely rare for people to be fully ironic, just as it’s extremely rare for people to be fully sincere. Irony is merely a symptom of a generation that I happen to be a part of. And no. I won’t apologize for that. Why should I? This is human evolution, and every generation has it’s growing pains. And most importantly — every generation is shaped by the one that came before it. Deal with it.
Yes. Irony is the ethos of the current generation. But rather than teach people how to live without it, I say you’re smarter to teach people how to live with it. It’s not going anywhere. To categorically complain about irony is myopic. It misses the point. There are different types of irony. There’s sarcasm, and then there’s the simple beauty of something being surprising or funny for the opposite reason it’s supposed to be. Have we become so annoyed at society at large that we actually get angry when people without pants start getting on the subway car? Can we look at the authentic emotional intent behind what a flashmob is? Must we run to our ivory tower and type out an article criticizing a movement that simply tried to put a smile on our faces?
Yes, there’s an ugly side to irony. Think of the significance of a 37-year-old man wearing a Diff’rent Strokes t-shirt. Consider — Diff’rent Strokes was supposed to be groundbreaking, in that it was supposed to show us that whites and blacks can all live together as a family. Consider where we are now. Half the country can’t stand the idea of a black president. There’s an irony there, but it’s not an irony my generation created, by any means.
I say, lets enjoy our subway ride. If people start walking on with no pants, we can get through it. Maybe they’re not making fun of us. Perhaps they’re just orchestrating a poetic moment? This generation isn’t without its problems, but every so often it surprises me. Every so often I think, hey, these kids are on to something. Every so often I even get inspired to be part of it. And that’s not ironic. That’s sincere.
This blog post gives an introduction to the “rice queen” term and identity, which is used predominantly to describe white gay men who are primarily attracted to Asian men. The blog post outlines a conversation that Michael Martin has with an older fellow, and illuminates the problematic that exists in the fetishization that is inherent with the “rice queen” moniker. The fellow that Michael converses with frequently reduces entire national and racialized identities into a few characteristics, and denies the complexities that these folks have as human beings. Additionally, Michael Martin comments on the imperial aspects of what many “rice queens” do: travel to Asia in search of cheap sex workers.
In this blog post, Michael does nothing to combat the overt racism that his conversation partner is spewing, but rather voices his discomfort with the rampant racism being perpetuated in the conversation. Though the blog post breaches the “rice queen” topic and label, Michael does not begin to implicate his admitted dominant attraction to Asian men in this system. He seeks not to deconstruct his own location in a racial hierarchy and the imbalance of power in his own relationships with Asian men, but merely frames the fellow whom he is having the conversation with as the evil person, and upholds himself as the one that recognizes and stands against racism.
This blog post speaks to the fetishization of coloured and racialized bodies, which, while deemed disgusting, undesirable and ugly by dominant white society, is also positioned as being for the purpose of white sexual consumption when it is so desired.
Anonymous
Hi. Thanks for writing. “We” who? Are you the Borg or something? Also, why would you refer to me in the third person? Creepy. Okay:
I don’t think it’s my job to combat racism in America, but I do write about things that happen to me. Conversations I have, etc.
I’m not responsible for racism in the gay community, or in the world at large. I have a blog that is well attended, and I do my best to remind gay people to play nice with each other. Ultimately, however, the blog is just my outlet to process my own feelings of alienation. I’m a member of an oppressed minority who has not yet garnered its civil rights. Let me say that again. Gay people have not yet garnered legal equality in the United States. That makes us (and trans, or gender queer people) the bottom rung of the civil rights ladder. If I feel like processing an awkward, but polite conversation I had with an older person from a more racist generation – that’s what I’ll do. And I’ll do it online to call attention to the issue.
I am not ‘required’ to start a shouting match with an old gay man who just wants to cuddle with someone on a Friday night. I have respect for people, even racist people. If anything, I’m interested in hearing his perspective, because it’s so foreign to me. It makes me feel good that society might be slightly different now than when he was my age.
I’m not interested in ‘getting my head in the right place,’ if that means people from one oppressed minority are attacking people from another oppressed minority. I don’t quite think I deserve a kick in the nuts for talking about racial politics on my blog. I think calling attention to the issue is valuable for its own sake, and I won’t change my format or apologize.
People seem to be uncomfortable that I’m eroticizing Asian men on my blog. Too bad. It’s about time we as a society started looking at Asian men as sex symbols. There are very few Asian male sex symbols in the media today, though things are slowly changing. I don’t think I’m helping make great strides in racial politics, but then again I’m just a comic. I say what’s on my mind and some people listen. I’m grateful, and on a good day, humble.
I do think it would be useful if you folks went after straight white people, instead of a working class gay guy, but that’s your prerogative. Enjoy complaining to your friends about my blog, and as always, thanks for reading!
I’m the guy from Duke University/UCB that you talked to on Friday at the Blue Boar. Since talking to you I’ve followed your advice by not fucking anybody in the comedy world and so far it’s going great. It was fun hearing gossip and an honest perspective about UCB, and I’d love to pick your brain again about how one goes about turning comedy and song writing into a career.
Rick
Hey Rick,
It was fun talking to you, too.
So, yeah, don’t fuck any comics. I’ve watched a few of my friends date themselves out of career options when relationships with other comics go bad. One friend in particular springs to mind. She’d had so many failed relationships with UCB comics that there were few teams at the NYC theater who would have her perform with them. Politics, politics… She’s still successful in her own right, but for my money I’d do it differently.
Aside from that, my only other advice is keep going. And, don’t just improvise. Write jokes. Write sketches. Write pilots and spec scripts. You never know when you’ll meet the person who can put your script in the right hands. Also, just keep writing and performing as much as possible. That sounds cliche but it’s true. Keep at it.
I hope this helps, and please invite me to your shows?
Michael
Dear Michael,
You may not remember, but about two and a half years ago, I wrote you about being in the closet at the Naval Academy. I just wanted to say thank you so much for the advice you gave me to stick it out. Soon after you posted your response, I started to come out and the response was mixed but mostly good. My last two years at school were much better since I wasn’t worried about people finding out about my sexuality and I actually found a great group of friends who were either out or in the process of coming out. This past May, my boyfriend and I graduated from Annapolis and started our careers as officers. I am so glad that I decided to stay and just wanted to again say thanks for helping me make that decision.
Sincerely,
Brad
Thanks, Brad.
It isn’t very frequent I get a follow up from one of my advice letters, and it’s nice to know I didn’t steer you in a disastrous direction. You and your boyfriend sound totally adorable and everyone in the world must be jealous when you two arrive at a military function in dress uniforms, holding hands. In fact, I’m picturing that right now, and I’m wondering if you two would like to come photograph for the blog in uniform?
Thanks for coming out of the closet. It’s important we stay visible, since the world needs positive gay role models. You boys are an inspiration.
Lately I have really come to terms with who I am as a person. I’m often wondering about my personal life. I have been single for 8 years, which is a blessing because it has allowed me to enjoy the finer things in life. But at the same time, I often wonder why do a lot of gay males put such an heavy emphasis on having an relationship? Why do they insist on having a companion at such an young age when that phase is meant to experience a lot of things. I just don’t understand how it can be so complicated but yet so simple. I don’t want a relationship but I do want companionship.
I’m an African American male who happens to be attracted to Caucasians males but I often find most of them sexualize the African American community, how can I approach a guy without them sexualizing me or the parts that I have? I’m an old soul, and I do believe in the whole courting process hence dinner, flowers, movies and the whole nine yard but most of them don’t want to engage in that, they want to get down to the nitty and gritty part of the bedroom which is okay – but I do want to be able to enjoy their company.. How can I do that without giving the aura of wanting a relationship when I just want to be able to enjoy their company on a simplistic level.
Thanks,
Confused African American
Dear CAA,
Thanks for writing. This is a very complicated issue. Most gay men are emotionally stunted, buddy. They don’t get to express their sexuality, usually, until college age, and even then the rest of society asks gay men to submerge themselves into a hetero-normative paradigm. Boys aren’t allowed to walk down the street holding hands. People say you can in New York, but I’d like to see you try it in The Bronx, or Bushwick after dark.
Most straight people have been conditioned from a very early age to fear and mistrust homosexuals. Yes, things are changing, but as you well know from being African American – change is hard earned and you have to quietly insist on your dignity your entire life. Or fight for it, in certain circumstances.
The side effect, I think, is a certain feeling you get when you’re a gay man. The world hates you and wishes you would go away, so how do you even have a relationship? Then again, we are all raised to idolize the traditional heterosexual family structure and we want it all. House, kids, picket fence, houseboy(s). However, most of us have been pressured by our families to change who we are fundamentally, or at least be sensible enough to constantly hide our sexuality – when the rest of the world gets to broadcast their love all over the place. We have to walk around feeling like we don’t deserve the simple things straight people take for granted.
Maybe it’s just a man thing. I’ve heard women complain that all men are desperately lonely, and terrified of commitment. Well, gay men certainly are, and so we usually go for sex instead of a date. Call it modern, convenient, fun, decadent – it’s been my experience that most guys want to have sex, and not stick around to play video games.
Which is weird, because getting a beej while you play video games is probably the best thing going.
You might be casting mixed signals, being a good date but not being a relationship type. You might experiment with the idea of hanging out with a good friend, non-sexually, and hooking up with a handsome stranger from the internet later that evening. There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s also nothing wrong with going on a date when you’re pretty sure you don’t want a relationship. Dating is fun, and leads to STDs. Why wouldn’t you?
I will, however, balk at the idea that you just ‘happen’ to be attracted to Caucasians, while they all want you for your big black parts. You asked how to get people to stop sexualizing you? You can’t. Just enjoy it. People like what they like. It’s just as racist for you to only sleep with white boys, as it is for them to only want a black lovers – which is to say – not at all racist. People have preferences, and it’s not just racial. Sometimes it’s cultural, or class based, or sometimes you want mint tea and there’s none left and you drink chamomile. Delicious yellow chamomile.
However, if you do go on a date and the dude won’t stop mentioning your race in an unfunny, annoying way? Don’t reward him by having sex with him. Don’t do it. You’re not doing well for yourself or the world by rewarding the type of behavior you disdain. It sounds like you’re an old-fashioned guy who likes to take things slow. It sounds like you have a healthy sex drive. You’re part of two oppressed minority groups. I’d say, take the best of life and leave the rest. Focusing on the negative makes a negative life, and you’ve probably had a long haul to get where you are. Let yourself enjoy.
I guess I mean this: Bring flowers, go to dinner, hold hands – and go out there and get some pretty white tail. You earned it.
