MARRIED TO GAY MARRIAGE


I'm not gay. I've pondered the thought though. Is that for me? Is that me? I don't think it is but that momentary trial is more than most straight guys would admit to doing. Even beginning an article of this nature with the opening "I'm not gay" is both a little homophobic and a little gay. Only a gay man would start an article with the statement "I'm not gay." Right?

These stereotypes and constant conspiracy theories pervade our bifurcated society. There is a divide between those who believe gay-dom (gay marriage, casual hook-ups, random appearances on BRAVO) is a sin and those who choose to put more focus and attention on their own insignificant and sexually confused lives.

Kinsey says we're all a little gay which explains the success of SUDDENLY SUSAN. These days everyone's bi from the girls in your dorm to twelve-year-olds who watch NEXT all day and throw rainbow parties all night. If Hillary runs for President, I won't be surprised when her people set up a triple-kiss photo shoot with Britney and Madonna. That'll definitely get people to the polls.

Back to the point. There is a strong contingent in American society which rejects the notion of gay marriage so much so that they want to pass a constitutional amendment preserving the union as guy/girl only. I think this is bullshit. Scientifically, we as a people agree that homosexuality is not a choice made on your sixteenth birthday, but a biological certainty like eye color and tit size. Should we pass a constitutional amendment that says women with size C tits cannot marry men with uni-brows and widow's peaks. Mendel would shit his plant pollinating ass. Somehow the more technologically advanced we become, the stupider we act. Now, more than ever, we know that homosexuality is not an active choice made to "ruin" nuclear families and spread communicable diseases. It's an alternative way of life controlled by genetics.

Somehow, we still cannot get over the thousand-year-old gay riddle but AMAZINGLY in our gay-bashing society, women can have abortions, guys can pay for sex (What happens on the corner of Crenshaw and Washington, stays on the corner of Crenshaw and Washington), and weed can be used for medicinal purposes (But don't even thinking about sucking that dick). "Not in my back yard. No seriously, can you just go somewhere else. I'm gay too, but this is my back yard man. C'mon. Aw jeez. Just mow the lawn when you’re done. HEY! That's not what I meant."

I guess the burning question in my mind is "What do you conservative right-wingers gain from suppressing gay marriage." I saw a picture in the paper showing the Louisiana legislature right after they passed a ban or at least thwarted an attempt to legalize gay marriage. Two lawmakers were high-fiving each other. Two lawmakers who are assumedly raging heterosexuals. HOORAY!!! We stopped other people from being happy! We passed a fucking Jim Crow law. Get off your high horse with your close-minded constituency and stand up for the American citizens you are trying to disenfranchise.

For God's sake the world is over-heating, our weapons stand ready to annihilate the entire planetary population, and millions die every day from poverty and disease. But you know what? Please, waste your legislative time and energy on keeping gays down. I think that's a great choice to make.

THE SUICIDES ARE NOT MY FAULT


I can’t keep blaming myself for what happens in Romeo and Juliet. It’s a fictitious stage play that I cannot control. It has remained intact for hundreds of years. It is a tragedy, and there’s nothing I can do about it. But. But…

Dammit, Tybalt. Everyone knows your temper will get you in trouble. Why can’t you and Mercutio just go to the blacksmith and design a rapier together or something?

And the Friar. Don’t get me started on the motherfucking Friar. You married those star-struck, star-crossed, starry-eyed kids. How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to be a man of God. Dammit, Friar if you’re going to send a message to someone, you gotta ask for a FedEx return receipt. That’s just good business practice. But then again, you work for yourself, don’t you Friar. So I doubt you’re gonna Friar fire yourself.

But the Apothecary. What are you doing giving drugs to children?? Juliet begged. I know. But- But—it’s just not right. She and Romeo would have been so happy together. They would have founded a non-profit organization to help starving Montagues and Capulets across the globe (planet not theatre).

And Romeo. Romeo. Where for art, thou Romeo? Why do you take the easy way out? The love of your life is dead (seemingly). Anyone could take their own life. But you, Romeo, you could devote your life to a better understanding of paralyzing drugs and a more reliable courier system. It’s what Juliet would have wanted.

Juliet. I know you’re scared and I know you’re pregnant. I can read between the lines. I know you have twins on the way and the last thing you need is another suitor. I know the father isn’t Romeo. It’s Othello—that rat bastard. I know you’re actually a lesbian, Juliet. I saw the photos of you at that rally. And….I know you’re H.I.V. positive, Juliet. I infer what Shakes is getting at, and it all just makes me sadder for the ending.

I know it’s not my fault, but every time I read the story I can’t help but think that maybe if I intervened, maybe, just maybe I could save their lives. But I never intervene. I respect the independent nature of a “published play.” I cannot “change” the ending. Or make the tale “happy.” So I’m forced to live the life I can control and make my own Happy Endings.

STILLS FROM NEW SHORT FILM!

HERE'S THE SHORT FILM

DARDENNE'S UCB LEVEL 2 SHOW

(I'm in the orange)

PART ONE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPG_AYbfUGg&search=ucb

PART TWOhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qTFxxAtwU88&search=ucb

How to Befriend a Celebrity?


First of all this is not about name dropping. So I delivered a package to Minnie Driver's house in the Hills and rubbed elbows with Charlton Heston at a brunch. I don't boast about seeing Robert Downey Jr. on the boardwalk in Venice or running into Dustin Hoffman in an underground parking structure on Rodeo Drive. These aren't things I giddily post on the web to prove how well I'm doing in Hollywood. These are just cold, hard facts of my existence in the City of Angels. SO. Since I've proved myself as a celeb-magnet, I've got some advice if you wanna get down with the celebrities.

First, DO NOT recognize them. I know this seems impossible to do when you see Michael Richards walking down the street and all you want to do is yell "Kramer!!! Open this door in a funny way!!" However, this is the kiss of death in the celeb-meeting world. Pretend you are immune to the billions of dollars of advertising for their latest movie. You don't know and you don't care. I cannot stress this point enough. Should you engage with the obligatory, "I'm such a fan of your work on Smallville," you are guaranteed nothing more than a polite smile and a fleeting whiff of expensive cologne as your heart throb walks away.

HOWEVER, should you approach with a, and I know this is gonna sound crass, but, "This heat is really getting to my balls." Said casually like a good-ole-boy who's a-little-inappropriate-but-visiting-from-Delaware-so-who-gives-a-shit kinda way, you're in. By expressing discomfort with the temperature and quality management of your testicles, you shift focus off the celebrity's testicles (which are perennially under the microscope) and instead focus the limelight on your own embarrassing malfunctions. For the celeb with body issues, this deflection is like a cold glass of lemonade on a warm day with two ball ice cubes.

I can just see Russell Crowe responding to this statement. "Well mate. Maybe you should hit the head and give the twins a wipe or two." Now you've got him! He's jumping on your playful banter and instead of avoiding your fanatical stares across the room, he's actually waiting for your witty response. OK, focus. It is important you maintain your casual demeanor. No need to claw for a napkin-autograph or your camera phone. Rather, act as if you are talking to an old friend from high school. "It's my fault for wearing these goddamn boxer briefs. I never anticipate for the lack of air flow." Crowe chuckles at this quip much like he chuckles in minute forty seven of GLADIATOR. You notice this, but again do not acknowledge. Your predilection for roman gladiator films should never enter the otherwise healthy and developing repartee.


Now's a good time to acknowledge the obvious. If he is a famous face, say--Tom Hanks circa 1999--you've gotta recognize him at sometime. Surely you don't want to be branded the kind of person who is completely oblivious to pop culture. But always, always you need tact. Ask a casual question about some insider issue which shows not only are you familiar with their work, but you've been familiar this whole time; you've just been playing it super-cool. "I heard your son is gonna be in a movie with Jack Black." Nice. Concise. Playful yet respectful. Knowledgeable but not creepy. That's called the Orange County Special.

Now you guys have shared a moment. A real human interaction with a larger-than-life personality. But his limo’s waiting. Good luck with that perspiration he says. You awkwardly laugh too much at this parting quip. “Haha, nice talking to you.” And here’s the moment of truth. Do or die. Separating the men from the boys. Mano y mano. You say, “Shit. I think my ride left me. I’m sorry (to the celebrity) but could I borrow your phone for a second. Please. My hotel’s in Santa Monica.” Well what kind of a warm-blooded actor isn’t going to help you, the crazy Delaware guy, get back the Best Western? He hands over the Razor without thinking. Quickly you dial your own phone number. (Make sure your cell is on silent) Then when it starts to ring, hang up and look off down the street. Give the phone back and say, “I see them!” Jog away down the street and when you check your phone you have their cell phone number!!

You plan to prank call day and night with your friends, but then you realize they were actually pretty nice to you. You were conniving and manipulative and you stole their number but they were just happy to interact with someone on a human level. You name drop the story like crazy, but you don’t prank call because you finally met a celebrity, and found out he was just like you.

A GIRL ONCE SAID TO ME…


A girl once said to me when hooking up, “Oh my God, you have two balls.” Uh, yeah of course I do. But it got me thinking. What was she expecting? An empty sac with a post-it note that says, “Gotcha!” “Out to lunch!” “Back in Five!” Or a towering container of bouncy balls like at Rite Aid. The ones your Mom doesn’t want you to play with. But, then I got scared because I thought maybe there was an episode of Sex and the City that I didn’t see. The sluts are straddling a round table loudly discussing the spectrum of sexual dysfunction and the one from Mannequin says more balls are in. Overnight thirteen-year-old teeny boppers in Wichita are disappointed when their boyfriends only have the normal two testicles. They search far and wide for these elusive “super sacs.” Maybe that’s what happened too me. I was hooking up with a gypsy hobo riding the rails in search of a baker’s dozen.

A girl once said to me, “I had to go to therapy because of you.” I know you think I probably dated this girl for a long time all the while mentally and physically abusing her. That seems proportional for therapy. NO. I fingerbanged this girl ONCE in 10th grade. Once. If one fingerbang pushes you over the edge to therapy my guess is you’re not too stable from the start. What if I fingerbanged thousands of women into therapy throughout my life? Every town I was in; every country I visited. I left a wake of sexually satisfied but mentally unstable women. What if there were specific groups devoted to John Dardenne Fingerbang Survival Therapy or maybe Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome? Either way I guarantee no consensual hand-job ever sent a guy to therapy. That’s for damn sure.

A girl once said to me, “I slept with Jay from Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back,” as we were driving to hook up. Ohhh, what better an aphrodisiac than to regale me with the promiscuous, heroin-addicted movie stars you’ve slept with. That really gets me going. Tell me more. Who else have you screwed? Why does my crotch already itch? But I took it like man and acted unfazed. Really? You fucked Jason Mewes? Is that so? The guy known for talking about licking random girls’ pussies and the catch phrase “Snoogans?” The guy I used to laugh at and enjoy but now I’m going to vicariously screw? Cool.

I guess the point is that sometimes girls say weird stuff. And we can all laugh about it. Snoogans.

THE RANDOMIZER

All the times I got laid it was luck. I'm not a player. I know not this "game" you speak of. I only know luck. Let me explain. Statistically speaking, there is always a chance you could get laid. Driving to work, jogging in the park, or even going to Starbucks could be the perfect decision at the perfect moment which results in some skin to skin tango time. Male/female, gay/straight these are merely classifications. I speak for all peoples of the world, no matter their sexual orientation or anatomical consistency. We're all in the sexual line of fire, always.

So....how do we do it? How do we increase our chances? Well. That's the thing. I get the sense that a longer lifespan and increased public outings are the only empirical way to raise our numbers above the sexual Mason-Dixon line. Another, less astute writer might make a joke here about Dixon sounding like dick, but I'm not that kind of writer. I'm the kind of writer who addresses making that joke and then takes the high road. But don't get me started on the cable provider Cox. I got pages and pages on that shit. Knock, knock. Who's there? Cox. HAHAHAHA. Goldmine.

What I'm saying is I'm immature. Really immature. Maybe I'm even immature for writing this article. Maybe a mature writer would just come to grips with his own love life (or lack thereof) and not stoop to such low lengths as to write a cathartic article attempting to make universal his own problem. But low and behold, here I am. Typing on a computer usually reserved for high-speed pornography. Attempting to resolve my own inadequacies through the intellectual stimulation of others. Maybe this article is just a cry for help. Maybe if no one likes it or reads it I'll cut off my Mason Dixon (you know you love it) and just live without Cox. Maybe it'll make me a better person. Instead of esoterically ranting on coitus, maybe I'll channel this energy towards cancer research and poverty eradication. Maybe I'll solve the world's oil crisis. All I had to do was stop thinking about sex for a few seconds and it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks covered in complex algorithms of ethanol conversion charts. Maybe. Or maybe this is the curse of man. OUR MOST HARD-WIRED INSTINCT IS TO REPRODUCE. Every second that I don't reproduce, my world shrinks a little. The sun isn't as bright and the sky isn't so blue. Every second without sex is a failure. Plain and simple. I have a single job given to me by Mother Nature. I interned in the womb for nine months then I got promoted to an entry level crib position. And for the first seventeen years of my life I couldn't do my job worth shit.

But finally it happened. One day. Out of the blue. Woke up like any other day. Treated everyone the same. Didn't use a pick-up line or anything. Just, I don't know...dumb luck. So what? Since then I've tried to respect women. Tried to do everything right, but i guess that's the point. If I’m gonna get laid, it's probably not in my control. I'm just a pinball bouncing around racking up a few points here and there but invariably slipping between the stoppers and falling through the cracks. Ce la vie.

THE HOLLYWOOD SCRIPT PARADOX

Freeze motherfucker! Drop the gun, and let her go. She's got nothing to do with this. We need back up. Ten/four, this is Hodgekins. We got a 314 with a hostage. Send in the intern.

This is what Hollywood does. As an intern, your job is to read scripts and decide if they are worth a shit. This is undeniably the single hardest decision in the entire motion picture industry.....and it’s given to an intern.

Why give the all-important first wave of script reading to the lowest people on the totem pole?

The logic is that fresh-faced interns have a finger on the pulse of America's youth. They will spot a GARDEN STATE or a DUMB AND DUMBER before even the most seasoned reader because they exist within the counter-cultural milieu which brands movies hot or not. They understand the lexicon of the 21st century and they can immediately identify with characters who reflect the disillusionment of their society. OR, MAYBE...no one else wants to write coverage.

No one else wants to claw through hundred of pages of bad jokes and cliffhanger endings only to summarize the story into a half-hearted synopsis of important plot beats, and then in the notorious comments section, give his or her unadulterated opinion of the story and the writer.

It sounds easy, but no matter how many scripts Robert Towne has written, his newest incarnation will inevitably land in front of some no-nothing USC film dropout who's never seen CHINATOWN and doesn't even believe he deserves a general.

This is the peril of Hollywood script reading. Most of the people with the power to put your script in the hands of a producer would rather promote their own ability at make-shift script analysis and structural critique than help a starving writer. They rip apart your labor of love with a few swift keystrokes. Bad dialogue. Lame comedy. Stock story. No one’s gonna buy your script with those kind of notes.


"So how was that script?" your boss quips as he rolls four calls and cuts off the pinky finger of an intern who passed on CRASH. Sir, honestly, who's to say how it really is. It might be the best script I've ever read, but no one wants to see another fucking movie about a date doctor who can't find love. However, instead of loudly and offensively bashing the script like an ex-girlfriend who slept with your best friend, you freeze up like the unpaid novice you are with big dreams and nervous ticks.

"Uh, well it's about a guy who's haunted by this mistress--like WHAT LIES BENEATH but with a twist of FATAL ATTRACTION. Is it any good? Uh. Well, kinda. But. I guess its average or I mean. It’s good, but not great."

Suddenly, amidst your babbling, you realize it doesn't matter what you say. Good. Bad. These are relative terms. All you need to do is say something with conviction and profanity. Then you are promoted.

How was that script from CAA?! "A fucking piece of shit." I see. Why don't you go get a permanent parking pass. I think you're our next executive. Come right this fucking way.

Hallelujah. Praise Hollywood. My dreams are coming true. Every script I read.......fucking amateurs, goddamn Robert McKee, plot-point-two, cookie-cutter screenplays. Get me some Fox Searchlight/Focus Feature dirty ass indie shit I can show to my jaded studio executive.

Three years ago, I wish I could grab that BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN script collecting dust on the shelf, and set up high profile pitches around town where I pretend to be Spielberg's nephew who just took a short to Cannes. I could say "this script is a fucking goldmine." They love that. Or maybe, "I see this film as more than a blockbuster movie, it's a cultural experience."

I might even steal lines from FIELD OF DREAMS. "Gentlemen, if you release this film, people will come. Oh yes. People will come. They'll drive to the theatre not even sure what they'll see. A large marquee of two gay cowboys catches their eye. They'll pass over the money without even thinking. For it is money they have, but mid-century clandestine homosexuality they seek. Oh, people will come, Ray. They will most definitely come." Fade to black.

EX-GIRLFRIENDS AND BROCCOLI



Everyone hates these things if questioned. It's their defacto answer like when someone asks you your taste in music and you say "I listen to everything but country." But what's so bad about them? One's a slimy foul tasting waste of space and the other is a vegetable. I know what you're thinking. Tell me more. Give me more caddy musings on life and love filled with clever misdirection and jokey jokes. Well here goes nothing.

We hate ex's because they don't love us anymore. We hate broccoli because its green and freakish-looking. We hate ex's because they slept with our friends. We hate broccoli because our parents want us to eat it. We hate ex's because they lied to us. We hate broccoli because it smells funny. We hate ex's because they're happier than we are. We hate broccoli because we can't leave the table until we finish it.

We hate both because they are unavoidable in life. Guaranteed I will run into Patricia or Zoe or Broccoli again. They haunt me everywhere. No matter where I go, who I date, what I eat, I will inevitably cross paths with them again. Maybe at a Bistro in Paris. I'm enjoying a cafe ole when I see some mustached Frenchman nibbling on organic broccoli while he fingers my old lady with the other hand. I spill some steaming-hot coffee on my crotch as I marvel at this sight. This dude is single handedly--check that--double fistedly juggling my two biggest dislikes---AT ONCE. Surely he must be my arch-nemesis put on this earth to thwart my dreams and shit on my life. Damn you anonymous Franco fingerbanger with a healthy diet. You'll never defeat me!!

I think mostly we hate both because both are something good that we see as bad. Broccoli is great for the body and a past lover surely had selling points, but somehow we've managed to convince ourselves that these things are the biggest bains of our existence (sans French nemeses).

We give them mythical status in our heads. Broccoli becomes representative of all things foreign and unknown and the parental pressure to consume it only reinforces a spiteful adolescent resentment towards the sprouted veggie. But without broccoli, where would we be? It exists as a trite cultural extreme. People can sleep easier knowing that they have the ability to choose what food they like and don't like. Without broccoli, the entire web of interdependent produce might collapse (much to the joy of cauliflower).

What I'm saying is that the building blocks of society are these polarized extremes. Everybody hates broccoli; everybody loves pizza. Of course this is not true. There are probably a couple hundred people who not only LOVE broccoli, but also hate pizza and probably own many country albums. However, these people represent the extreme minority. The majority of Americans and most likely the majority of Earthlings loathe broccoli and that ignorant perspective comforts them in times of loneliness.

Conversely, we choose to bash our old significant others because, like broccoli, they exist as caricatures in our lives. Somehow they affected us both positively and then negatively and to resolve that in our minds, we build them up as bitches and assholes. We fill them with hot air so we can pop them and hear the explosion. When we realize it's over, we use their caricature to fill the void their real presence left. Maybe it's not healthy. Maybe it's not right, but it's how we do it.

I guess they're not so dissimilar: Broccoli and Ex-girlfriends.

Maybe I should forgive broccoli.

WOMB RAIDER

For Cathy

(Published in the Fall, 2002 issue of “A Moment in Time” Catholic High Writers Club Literary Magazine)


Throughout history man has fought great adversity in his life. I have had my fair share of rough times, but from the struggles one amazing story has emerged. My story is similar to a fine wine in that it has beautifully aged with time. It is different from fine wine since it lacks alcohol.

I would like to relate the most arduous chapter of my life. What period of development scarred me? Was it adolescence or maybe middle age? NO, it was the traumatic womb. The muscular sac of incomprehensible misery. It is not possible for me to convey the steamy solitude that the empty womb provided. Hey Mom, would it have been so hard to swallow a few toys (preferably a Barbie). I soon found out, however, that the solace I experienced was the least of my problems.

The placenta. Oh, sweet Lord, the placenta. That misshapen, veiny heap really freaked me out. One time I woke up after dozing off against the ovaries and that placenta was staring right at me! I splashed some fluid his way and moved to my dining room (between the cervix and liver). Suddenly, the stomach monster awoke and started to float in my direction. This moment could have been the end of my womb misadventure had I not had the presence to whip my umbilical cord and lash the would-be maternity super-villain. Needless to say, the placenta did not bother me the rest of my tenure in the womb.

Everyday life in the "Slammer," as I like to call it, was not as exciting as the day I conquered my womb-nemesis, but the weather of the womb really got to me. Every single day: hot and humid with 100% chance of precipitation. Mom, get some AC in that womb!

A ceiling fan, a window unit, something. I was burning up in there, didn't you feel me kicking?? How am I expected to lie and wallow in such uncomfortable environment. You’re lucky I stayed for nine months cause there wasn't even a TV, much less 24 hour Womb Service.

All alliteration aside, my mom has got to get some cross-ventilation. Her life-bearing inn could use a sunroof, skylight, alcove, or at least a mirror to open the place up. I was just about to labor to build a tree house near the amniotic sac when I was converted. One day I saw "the light" and was born-again, though I wasn't technically "born" yet (point up for debate). It was a bright, bright light swelling to a diameter of 10 cm (Yes, I had a ruler).

Even though I loathed the nine month hiatus, I feared the unknown light and the rubbery hands that were reaching for me. After many hours of valiant strife, a clever doctor managed to lure me out of the womb with fat-free spam. Once I saw the real world, I knew that detached was the best umbilical lifestyle for me.

People always tell me, "No one can remember life in the womb." I just have to laugh at these people because who are they kidding? Not me. Everyone who has a womb story needs to be heard. Whether it be an itchy umbilical cord, inclement weather, claustrophobia, or a lack of AAA batteries, the world must be informed. Do not be afraid to speak out against the Temple of Womb. Ohh yeah, and, Mom, if you are reading this, could you check and see if I left my Rubik's Cube and Flock of Seagulls cassette in there, Thanks.