Green with Envy

In fourth grade I was reprimanded for pinching Jonathan Palmer's bottom on St. Pattie's Day. Even worse, he was indeed wearing green. Beyond that, I've never cared much for St. Patrick or his high falootin' day. How do you invest oneself when the most important aspect of this weird little festif is the dressing in green.

Perhaps my nonchalance finds root because the fourth graders at Cherokee Elementary didn't comprehend the serious social and religious issues of this second tier holiday. For us, driving away snakes, eating nothing but potatoes and catching Lucky to get his charms weren't big signifiers on the list of what makes a mediocre holiday (Arbor Day, President's Day, Labor Day) an outstanding holiday (Christmas, Halloween, Easter). I just realized outstanding holidays don't need the word "day" in their title. Hmmm...

Perhaps we were too hyped up on green frosting from the cafeteria's delicious selection of shamrock shaped sugar cookies; so freakin' juiced our tiny rural minds couldn't grasp the importance of this emerald robed saint of Ireland running away snakes.

Which I absolutely must comment on. Look at him! What a diva! I could NOT imagine myself out there in the dirt chasing snakes wearing a white silk gown with a jade poncho and a golden underdress, not to mention all those layered scarves, faggy yellow shoes and that giant hat! Saint Patrick had some serious fashion chutzpah. I find myself a little jealous of his costume. I'll add that to my long list of sins.

Well, no worries. It would be hard enough promenading down the Gay Pride Parade wearing all that junk. Just imagine chasing snakes down fifth avenue too. Not that I haven't pursued my fair number of "anacondas" during that joyous day. Gay Pride, there's another outstanding holiday that doesn't rely on the word "day". Pass me the Irish whiskey. I'm on to something here.

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm not Catholic. Surprise. I'm quite pagan. And although St. Pattie apparently massacred pagans and druids and the Scottish in his religious quest against the snakes, I still find myself dutifully dressed in a green striped button down, olive silk tie and fuzzy, shamrock socks. Faith and begora, how queer!

Perhaps the easiest lesson the little fourth graders at Cherokee Elementary could have learned is whilst religions may fade into mythology, fashion is forever, baby. And St. Patty you better work while chasing those snakes!

Whine Wine

I swayed as I walked from my favorite Upper West Side wine bar, Bouquet. An early evening tasting party of Australian reds had left me as wasted as a wallabee. I was sashaying down the avenue humming Men At Work when my gay sixth sense began to buzz.

Something wasn’t right!

I found myself standing in front of a massive glass window showcasing a floor of designer sofas and couches. My drunken eyes trailed over the rich fabrics and plush materials when, with a gasp, I saw an upturned wine glass laying on a caramel colored leather settee. It’s blood red contents spilled from the glass and rested in a puddle across the beautiful chair.

Without hesitation I turned and ran around the corner towards the door of the furniture store. I had to let the owners know what some foolish, wine-swilling, sofa shopping buffoon had done to their showroom.

I threw the doors open and lunged at the counter. The owner, an Indian man in his fifties, looked up at me startled.

“Your chair! In the back! Hurry. Someone has spilled red wine on it!!” I pointed my hand towards the rear of the store and motioned to a sales girl to go look.

The look on the man’s face was equal parts sympathy and amusement. He moved his eyes away from mine and faced the blond salesgirl who began smirking and covered her mouth with her hand.

“What?” I was confused. “You need to clean up the wine. I’m serious. Someone totally spilled wine on your…”

Frustrated, I began to search the room for answers as to why they weren’t rushing back to clean up the mess. There were no customers around. They weren’t busy. My eyes trailed away from the cash register and towards the other chairs and sofas at the front of the store.

On one white, snowy loveseat a plastic coffee mug was over turned, plastic brown coffee spilled harmlessly onto the pallid fabric. Next to it a fake glass of coca-cola laid on its side with plastic ice cubes and soda pop covering a lemon yellow hassock.

My tipsy brain took a little time to process the beverage betrayal I was witnessing, but once it settled in I felt myself blush the color of the spilled fake red wine in the back of the store.

I looked up to the store owner and the sales girl and they both burst out into hysterical laughter as I realized my blunder. They bid me an overly enthusiastic “Thank you”, and I left the store humbled at simply trying to save their sofa.

The fake Merlot mocked me as I trudged past the showroom window.

Holy Rugby!

rugb The ball was out! I peeled off of the forwards and cut into the opposing team’s offense. The competitor ahead of me saw my barreling approach and feebly pitched the ball to his teammate, who ran past his poor throw, leaving the exposed ball floating in the air. It was a dandelion seed floating on the gentle October breeze.

Everything around me slowed into one timeless moment, an open expanse ahead, the rival team away from me. The ball begged to be plucked out of the air and carried down the pitch for a scoring try.

I imagined myself stealing the ball. Thundering down the field like a thoroughbred. Placing the ball in scoring territory, the entire game would stop and my teammates would flood onto the field. Cheering, they’d hoist me up onto their shoulders and I’d…

The ball fell to the ground. My legs gave out before I could catch it. I punctuated my lack of athleticism with a loud, “FUCK!” Was I truly that upset at my abilities? Or was I just being an attention whore for those on the sidelines? I cringe to admit it was a little of both. I continued to act like a pouting ninny, punching the field and at intermitted periods grunting like a baboon.

SINNER, REPENT THY SINS!

Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself. Every new relationship has a “getting to know you” period. I’m growing more accustomed to playing rugby. I’m also getting to know the follow-up rituals of a rugby match.

Following every game a boisterous drink up occurs in which the rival teams come together to sing bawdy songs and celebrate an afternoon of broken noses and sweaty man on man action. One such song, “Jesus Can’t Play Rugby”, is a particular favorite of mine. Everyone croons reasons why Jesus can’t play rugby (bloody thorns, heavy cross, etc). I stayed up late Friday night scribbling possible lyrics into my little blue notebook. Should your Jesus-ology be found pleasing then you are cheered to the heavens. Should you get booed, well…

CRUCIFIXION!

Due to our gay team’s triumphant win (Blue You Rock!), champagne was in abundance. After chugging a half bottle of bubbly, I stepped forward and offered my fantastic verse!

“Jesus can’t play rugby cause hippies don’t have health insurance!”

It certainly seemed like a good idea at the time. And I committed to that sucker as too! Sadly, it was either a stinky verse or I shouted over someone else’s singing. Either way I was punished.

The blurry faces around me resounded with a chorus of boos and burly men barking “Shoot the boot! Shoot the boot!” Usually a failed rugger is forced to guzzle from a stinky rugby cleat. In my case it was a cherry red fireman’s helmet. Pushed forward, I guzzled a fizzy fusion of bubbly champagne, black ale and light beer, half of which soaked my polyester leisure jacket the other half-liter soaked my gullet. I don’t remember much following.

“Don’t shpeak to me. I’m invishible.”

Apparently this was my new verse the entire ride home as concerned mates checked on my wellbeing. I intently concentrated on the back of my eyelids. A stop at a gas station resulted in a much needed Mary Kate (outside the bus thank you.) And more vomiting occurred at the rugby president’s swanky Chelsea apartment where the entire team, sans moi, engaged in more libations.

RESURRECTION!

Unconscious, I awoke from the dead to the “Hedwig” soundtrack for a bizarre little musical revue in front of my mates, before passing out again after vomiting one final time (inside the lavatory thank you…I think.)

Sunday morning after leaving a charitable person’s futon (Gox is gaseous oxygen FYI) I limped down the street. My hangover was a crown of thorns. I slumped into a train seat and grimaced as Saturday’s flashbacks mocked me.

Unfocused aggression, lack of technical skills, delusions of grandeur, growing team mentality, desired invishibility, showtunes; my cross feels heavier and heavier the more I analyze. Finding balance in any competitive sport is hard enough, but in gay rugby the stakes feel so much higher when I drag all my Luis Vuitton baggage onto the pitch. I brutally tackle a giant straight man and I giggle to myself, “Could I have played high school football instead of joining the drama club?”

Jesus Christ Superstar becomes the star quarterback until that next ball slips through my hands. But this time there’s no “Fuck!”, no pouting, ok maybe another Jesus lyric, but definitely no more cherry red fire helmets! All that’s left is a calm resolution to do better, plus all this damn running has made my calves look fabulous.

Praise Him!