What's With the Lisp?

I’m probably setting myself up for a lot of hate mail with this next blog, but this is a question that’s literally been bugging me for years and I’d like to at least throw it out there.

Now, anybody who knows me well enough will tell you that I’m not much of a gay advocate.

Do I hate gays? No.
Am I homophobic? No.
Do I have an opinion about homosexuality? Definitely.

It will be all I can do to stop myself from listing all of the reasons I have for standing against gay marriage, but I really will try to refrain because that’s not the point of this blog. Invariably, some gay advocate will mock the sanctity of heterosexual marriage by invoking the Britney Spears example, so I’ll quickly say the following:

Every God-created thing that exists on this planet has the potential to be abused by stupid people. Whether it’s marriage, sex, food, water or whatever, humans have the potential to ruin good things if they’re not cautious. That’s life.... and that's another blog for another day.

For the past couple of years now, I’ve dared to ask the questions that the majority of Americans eschew when it comes to homosexuality. Let’s take my most recent adventure as an illustration.

Three guys are walking up Tremont Street in Boston, just past the Red Hat bar. I’m walking behind them en route to the Kinsale restaurant to meet my wife for dinner. These guys are just shootin’ the sh*t about their regular mundane jobs and all of a sudden, my gay-dar starts beeping. I don’t know these guys from a hole in the wall, so why do I get the strong suspicion that they’re gay?

Undaunted, I tapped one of them on the shoulder to get his attention. He turned to face me and here’s what I said:

“Excuse me. You don’t have to answer this question if you don’t want to, but I was wondering if you three guys are gay or straight?”

One of the guys giggled incredulously, one just kinda looked at me as if I’d just eaten a worm and the third guy said, “Well, not that it’s any of your business, but we’re all gay.”

I said, “Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.” and that was the end of the conversation.

So, how did I know they were gay? They weren’t dressed flamboyantly, yet clothing was a factor. They didn’t have hair down to their asses, yet hairstyle was a factor. And they weren’t discussing gay topics, yet their speech gave them away instantly.

Here’s how I figured the not-so-mysterious mystery out:

CLOTHING: No, they weren’t wearing long, glittery robes with neon lights flashing the words, "Mrs. Pitt" and no, they weren’t wearing ass-less chaps, high heels, tummy shirts or anything of that sort. In fact, they were dressed very well; as if they'd just walked out of the f**king Abercrombie & Fitch Fall catalog. Simply put, the Queer Eye dudes might be snappy dressers, but normal heterosexual guys tend to relax what little fashion sense they might have. They don’t care about matching shoe color with hair color or what color shirt goes well with their eyes. With some dudes, just getting them to wear clean underwear and socks is an accomplishment.

Point of Fact: We of the "woman-banging" variety don’t generally tuck in our shirts, wear stylish shoes or don suit jackets unless we’re waiting to get into a nightclub to go chick-hunting.

These three dudes were walking up Tremont Street with style and panache… on a Wednesday evening.

HAIR: This was another indicator. All three of these guys had slick hairdos, glistening with gel. Now, unless they were just coming from a Blaine Hair Salon photoshoot, there’d be no real reason to be looking like that. Most women seem to prefer a clean-cut guy with hair that isn’t sticky or crunchy, partly because they can run their fingers through the man’s hair and partly because it isn’t 1986.

VOICE: This is the part that bugs me the most. Why is it that so many gay men speak with a lisp? I used to think it was a stereotype against dudes who were a little light in the loafers, but as I’ve observed time and time and time again, the gay lisp isn’t a rare phenomenon. It’s hard to describe to someone who’s never heard it. I can’t really call it effeminate because even women don’t sound like this. I’d love to do a survey of 1,000 men who have these lisps and find out what percentage of these men suffer from a legitimate speech impediment and how many of them are just plain gay.

But aside from lisping, there’s a certain way that many gay men speak that’s, well…. just not very manly. I’m inclined to say that it takes a deliberate effort to speak in this fluffy way; almost as a verbal badge of honor for the ones who just accept their gayness and don’t make any apologies for it. Maybe I’m wrong and if I am, feel free to speak out, but I truly don’t believe that guys are born with this manner of speech. And before I get pelted with bitch slaps, let me just say that I’m perfectly aware that there are plenty of gay guys out there who look, act and sound just like regular guys. I’m not talking about these guys. I’m talking about the ones who sound like that gay Mexican dude from “The Birdcage.” I’m talking about those guys in the movie “The Rules of Attraction” who rush their gay friend to the ER. That whole limp-wristed, lispy sub-culture of guys who, through their speech, lets the world know that they’d rather get a lap dance from Jesse Metcalfe than Eva Longoria.

My point is that, if you believe you’re gay and there’s no other way for you, that’s one thing. Wear fashionable clothes if you want. Grease up your head to the point where you can slide it through a keyhole if it makes you happy. But for goodness sake, lose the f**king lisp, will ya? Yeah, it makes you sound gay, and that’s probably the whole point, but it also makes you sound really f**king stupid. So, butch it up a little, huh? Seriously.

Gender Roles & Hardwood Floors

Lemme tell ya, it’s been an interesting few days over at the Vituperator household.

During my wife’s pregnancy, Milena developed this fierce nesting instinct. This instinct, for a person who is immaculately clean like my wife, usually translates to home improvement tasks, both big and small. Small tasks can be defined as keeping the rooms clean, making sure glasses of soda, water, cyanide, etc, are kept on coasters and making sure that dirty laundry goes into the proper receptacles.

Larger home improvement tasks would include painting the baby’s room, acquiring and moving the armoire to the baby’s room, assembling the crib, clearing the tree debris from our backyard and, most recently, installing hardwood floors where, for decades, there’d been wall-to-wall carpeting. Now, even if Milena hadn’t been pregnant during all these fun times, she’d still pitch these assignments over to me because, in her mind, this is guy stuff.

Let me give you a little background before I jump into my floor story.

My wife was born in Brazil, so while the Women’s Lib movement was gaining momentum in the states, Brazil pretty much stuck to old school, stereotypical gender roles. Women stayed home, cooked, cleaned, did laundry, dishes, raised kids, etc. Men worked, did yard work, repaired some stuff, hammered other stuff and either watched or played soccer all weekend long.

Now, before Milena married me, I shouldered the responsibility for doing everything in my house because, well, I lived alone. I did my own dishes, my own laundry, my own cooking, yadda, yadda, yadda. But, I did them MY way… and it was a way that suited me just fine. So yeah, maybe I’d wash the dishes, but wouldn’t always put them away. After all, taking a clean plate from the dishwasher when I was ready to eat seemed to work just fine for me.

When I washed and dried my clothes, I didn’t always fold them neatly and put them in the dresser drawers. Oftentimes, a clean shirt would only leave the “clean clothes” hamper when I was ready to wear it. Hell, I was lucky if I remembered to clean out the filter in the dryer half the time. And usually by the time I did remember to do it, I wasn't just pulling off lint - I was damn near pulling off a quilt.

Suffice it to say, my neat-freak wife freaked when she saw how I was living. The house was always a mess, but hey, at least I knew where everything was. So, upon marrying me and moving in, her first order of business was to do the unthinkable.

She started cleaning the house! (pause for horrified gasps of sheer terror).

All kidding aside, this was both good and bad for me. Good because clean is always a good thing. Bad because the days of easily locating my sh*t were long gone. Of course, Milena’s way is the better way, but it’s quite an adjustment for a slob like myself, even now. Maybe I’ll write a “Packrat Reform” blog in the future, but for now, I'll stick to floors.

Know this about me - I'm a guy, but I’m not exactly a Tim Allen/Bob Vila/XYY Supermale type of guy. Sure, I dig stuff like electronics, lifting weights, watching movies and football games in Hi-Def and going to sporting events, but when it comes to plumbing, carpentry, electrical work and other such manly endeavors, I am shamefully ignorant. Lucky for me, I happen to have a Tim Vila-type buddy named Joe.

Joe is the kind of guy that sets records for shortest amount of time needed to offend somebody. He uses foul language, hurls random insults, uses horrible names for people, yet just might wind up hating you forever if you piss him off even once. But in his defense, Joe is an extremely hard-working man, a devoted father and a selfless giver. He helps others whenever he can without asking for anything in return and he’s deceptively intelligent.

Furthermore, he’s the epitome of a man’s man. He’s a highly skilled mechanic by profession, but he also paints, does floors, saws wood, chops down trees, grills food, etc. He’s not a jack of ALL trades, but he comes pretty darn close. So, when Milena mentioned wanting to do hardwood flooring, he volunteered his services.

Obviously, the first step was to rid ourselves of these dirty, dusty, stank-ass carpets. Luckily for me, I still had the dumpster in my front yard that I rented after Joe helped me chop down a tree in my backyard, so I knew it’d come in handy for carpet disposal, too. Now, up until just over a week ago, if you entered my house, you’d see a very old and very stained blue carpet which covered the entire living room as well as the bathroom hallway. In the next room, there was this even filthier and rattier beige carpet which ended at the kitchen and, from what I could smell, seemed to have soaked in and preserved cat piss from like 1986.

So, one fine day, we uncovered a corner of the blue rug, expecting to see carnage and devastation. I was planning on buying a few hundred square feet of oak flooring, so the condition of whatever was underneath wasn’t a HUGE concern to me just because I figured we'd be covering it up anyway. However, we were very surprised to see that the floor just beneath the carpet was already in pretty decent shape. Granted, it was riddled with staples, carpet grippers and parts of the under padding, but it looked salvageable.

In the euphoria of having saved over a thousand dollars, we set a date of November 11th to start the heavy work, which would entail sanding, staining and polyurethaning (…yeah, I know it’s not a real word – shut up). My tasks, however, started in the previous week.

My first job was to pull out the staples from the living and dining rooms. As far as I could tell, whoever put these staples down to begin with either had a staple fetish or a seizure, so I had my work cut out for me.

After that, I needed to remove the carpet grippers, which if you’ve never seen any, look like long yardsticks (nailed into the floor) that have sharp brads sticking up to, you know, grip the carpet and stuff. A crowbar and hammer did the job quite nicely, albeit loudly.

Then, once the staples and carpet grippers were history, I had to try and scrape off as many of the patches of padding that were stuck to the floor as I could. So, by the time the eleventh rolled around, the floor was ready for some manly devastation.

Joe and I started our morning by hitting the Home Depot closest to his house to get some supplies as well as to rent this heavy floor sander. Since Joe had all of the experience in this field and I had none, he took it upon himself to do the sanding, staining and preserving. The sanding machine was pretty cool and seemed to work and sound a lot like a jackhammer, so naturally, I wanted to have a crack at it. Sadly, my diffidence kicked in a bit and, feeling like a dweeb for wanting to ask, I just kept my mouth shut and did the boring clean-up tasks, as well as some spot sanding where the rented sander couldn’t reach.

So, after staining, the last thing that needed to get done was to apply two coats of polyurethane. I did thorough sweeps of both floors and gave them the damp mop treatment before Joe started in with the polyurethane to minify bumps in the finish. It's been a waiting game ever since (each coat needs at least a full day to adequately dry).

So, for several days now, Milena and I have been staying at Joe’s house because trying to live in that house with those strong-ass fumes would have all but killed us and probably harmed the baby as well. Tonight’s the night, though! Tonight, we return to the house to check out the final product and try to get back into our regular routine. Tonight, we slowly start moving furniture back into the two rooms, since most of our crap had to be shoved into the kitchen before we could begin.

We may get a good night’s sleep in a familiar bed, but as they say, there’s no rest for the wicked. After all, we have a ceiling to paint, cabinets to fix, a kitchen floor to tile, a roof to reshingle, world peace to achieve… and the list goes on and on and on.

The Spectrum of Airline Intelligence

Personally, I find the varying levels of intelligence found in airports to be truly amazing. Think about how intelligent aircraft pilots have to be, then think about the dudes that clean the airport bathrooms. I mean, sure, you’d find this intelligence spectrum in pretty much any company, but my recent airline debacle “inspired” the rantings you're about to read.

I actually think that getting several tons of humanity and machinery to remain airborne for any length of time is just short of miraculous. I only wish that some of the intelligence needed to make the magic happen could trickle down to some of the other hosers I had to deal with last month. I don’t know if I can use the name of the airline that pissed me off so much, so let’s just say it rhymes with Famerican Meirlines (or F-Me for short).

Now, this is a story that I could easily drag on for ages, so I’ll try and just give you the highlights.

I had tickets to fly from Boston to JFK Airport in New York, then from New York to São Paulo, Brazil. The sole purpose of this particular trip was to attend a visa interview with my parents-in-law to try to smooth the way so that the interviewer wouldn’t hesitate in granting them their visas. Now, based on my previous experience with F-Me, I decided to have the flight booked two days earlier than the interview just in case somebody f**ked something up.

Strong winds and the late arrival of the flight crew in New York caused the first delay, but the F-Me rep with whom I spoke assured me that I’d still be able to make my connection flight. Fair enough. We finally boarded the plane, but couldn’t get clearance to takeoff for about a half an hour. Now the clock’s ticking, so I just hope against hope that when I get to JFK, the transition to my next flight will be a smooth one.

Upon arrival at JFK, the F-Me employee at the end of the ramp told me where I needed to go. Now, it’d be one thing if I didn’t speak the English language and couldn’t figure out which end was up, but my English is better than okay and I still wound up missing my flight.

How?

Well, one person told me to go to Baggage Claim A, yet there was nobody there. A woman working nearby Baggage Claim A directed me to a floor where F-Me agents would supposedly be standing by, ready to help. Naturally, this meant that, when I got there, I saw plenty of EMPTY F-Me booths, yet not a soul ready to help anybody do jack sh*t about anything.

It's amazing how, even though flights seem to arrive at all hours of every day and every night at this airport, the F-Me employees have a funny way of disappearing when people like myself need them the most. And I love how nobody has a clue about anything in these airports. Unlike F-Me clerks, the janitorial staffers seem to be everywhere, which is great if I ever have a question about the best cleaning agents to use for my bathroom or if I want to brush up on my Spanish. However, when answering basic airline-related questions, they’re (not surprisingly) sorely inept.

In a now desperate panic, I literally ran from floor to floor and, though every floor came equipped with F-Me stations, nobody was working in any of them and all of the lights were turned off. After a good cardio workout which involved me running like a decapitated chicken all over JFK, I finally managed to find an F-Me agent who, after having to wait several minutes, shook her head in disbelief.

Apparently, several of us from this ill-fated flight had been misdirected to the wrong section of the airport (no sh*t).

“Fine, just tell the flight to hold on, direct me to where I need to go and I’ll run to get there… again!”

Stupid me, I figured that the head shake that this F-Me agent gave me (complete with exasperated sigh and eye roll) meant that, though an incompetent fool was responsible for starting my journey to futility, Miss Head-Shaker was 100% competent and fully up to the task of righting the wrongs and getting my tired ass on the right plane.

What she actually did was direct me to take an AirTrain to a particular section of the airport, speak to one of the F-Me agents on the other side and get a boarding pass. I went there as directed, caught the AirTrain (which took forever to show up), then eventually encountered another F-Me clerk who not only didn’t know what flight I was trying to connect to, but told me that any flights they might have had going to São Paulo have long since left and if I wanted to get to Brazil before Christmas, I’d need to go to a Chilean airline, fly first to Santiago f**king Chile, and then catch a connection flight to Brazil.

The funny thing was that, as weird as that seemed, I didn’t even give a sh*t. She could have told me that I needed to take a shuttle bus to the center of the earth, hop on a flying unicorn and soar just over a rainbow near the crescent moon and I’d have done it if it meant getting me on the correct damn plane.

So, off I went, again running like a frickin’ idiot, until I arrived at the "correct" gate for this Lan Chile airline or whatever the hell it was called. Between pants of exhaustion and exasperation, I summarized my reason for being there and awaited nods of assurance and maybe even a “right this way, sir.” What I actually GOT were blank stares by two ass-clowns who looked like they wouldn’t be able to walk ten feet without either falling down or getting tarred and feathered along the way.

Naturally, I’m desperate for somebody who knows something about anything at this point. So, Clown #1 speaks into his walkie-talkie with his all-too-evident look of bewilderment and, after several more minutes of tense waiting, I get directed back to the same damn F-Me clerk who told me to go to this ass-backwards Chilean airline desk in the first place!

I sh*t you not - it was well past one in the morning by the time I finally found somebody who could sort this huge mess out. And of course, the F-Me agent who “helped” me was snippy and sarcastic as all hell because she had to deal with about twelve other people who were given the same bullsh*t instructions that did nothing but cause us grief and allow us to miss the flight to Brazil.

The best she could do was to book me on another flight from JFK to Miami which was literally gonna be leaving in a few hours. From there, I’d have to take one more flight from Miami to Brazil using a Brazil-based airline called Tam. Well, when you're out of options, you take what you can get... and that was the best I was gonna get out of these brain surgeons, so I took it.

In a final stroke of pure genius, I was given a hotel voucher for the Ramada Inn, along with breakfast and dinner vouchers. Okay folks, it’s past one o’clock in the morning, my flight to Miami leaves in fewer than five hours... and you got me a hotel room with breakfast and dinner? Well, that’s just terrific… IF I WERE STAYING IN NEW YORK!

The truly funny part was that the F-Me lady saw no flaws in her logic at all. She thought that giving me a free breakfast and dinner (…in a situation where I’d be airborne two hours before I would have even qualified for the breakfast) was just a golden stroke of brilliance. All I could think at this point was, "Somebody needs to tell this lady that when she uses a Q-Tip, she's supposed to STOP pushing when she feels resistance."

I did take advantage of the hotel, though - partly because it was like five minutes away, partly because I figured a shower would loosen me up a bit, and partly because I didn't feel like sitting on the floor and staring at all of the closed food kiosks for four and a half hours.

If not for my foresight in booking two days before the interview, I’d have surely missed it. Instead, I got to São Paulo the night before and managed to get a fairly decent night’s sleep before that next morning’s interview.

I’m just thankful that these clueless F-Me clerks aren’t the ones building or flying the aircraft, otherwise I’d be paying a LOT more attention to the pre-flight “in case of emergency” instructions that most everybody ritualistically ignores.

Nuts Over My New Bike

Some wondered whether I was having a sort of third-life crisis. No, I didn't buy a motorcycle, but you're on the right train of thought.

I bought a bicycle; something that I literally haven't had since I was like twelve years old.

My rationale? Well, it wasn't to recapture my youth if that's what you're thinking (I gave up on that a while ago). It was, in my mind, a practical purchase; a way to cut commuting costs to and from work.

You see, I currently work in an office in Cambridge and the quickest way to get there (that doesn't involve driving) is for me to walk 22 minutes from my house to the bus station, take a 25 minute bus ride to Harvard Station, then hop on the Red Line en route to the Kendall Square T stop. From there, it's another ten minute walk before I reach the office. On average, my commute is about an hour; usually more.

But time isn't the only factor to consider. I'm also thinking about my wallet. Currently, it costs 90¢ to ride the bus and another $1.25 to take the train. That's $2.15 to go from my house to work – one way. So, we're looking at $4.30 per day for a round trip. There are five weekdays in a work week, so $4.30 times five equals $21.50. There are, on average, four weeks to any given month, so by now, we're looking at a minimum cost of $86/month for my commute.

Fortunately, I can get a T-Pass for $71.00 which saves me $15.00 (roughly three “free” days) and my company will then go 50/50 with me thereafter, so when all is said and done, my total cost for a monthly pass is actually only $35.50/month. Not bad, but doing this commute with a bicycle is not only FREE, but it's actually faster!

The sh*tty part of my master money-saving slash exercise plan is that winter is fast approaching, which means snow, ice, slush and all kinds of crap in which one can not safely ride a bike. However, the total costs that I will incur by taking the bus/train route won't exceed the cost of a Combo Bus/Train pass unless I pay regular price for over eight days.

Now, my wife said that when she first moved to Massachusetts, she bought a bike, used it for one week, then wound up giving it to some kid because apparently, she wasn't the bike-ridin' type, so I can only assume that she thought I'd lose interest about as quickly.

Well, on Sunday, October 15th, I bought my very own bike, knowing pretty much nothing about what's good or what sucks. My buddy John, who actually IS quite knowledgeable about bikes, feared that I may have picked out a lemon, so when he asked about it, I e-mailed him a few snapshots. To my great relief, his response was that I'd lucked into picking out a great commuter bike. It's a "black chrome" Trek 7.3FX with a total of what I believe are twenty-four speeds (three on the left, eight on the right). John said that my bike is tough and fast and that he was actually a bit jealous, which reassured me that I hadn't thrown away good money.

Like I briefly mentioned, a perk that I found to be even cooler than commuting for free was that I was now getting to work faster! On my very first outing, I timed myself and even with my geriatric riding (I was a bit freaked out to be sharing the road with cars while I'm bombing down roads on something that I hadn't ridden in almost a score), I managed to make it from home to work in 48 minutes! In just this short interval between the time I bought the bike until today, I've already cut my commute to about 35 minutes, give or take. But it definitely takes a toll on me.

It quickly occurred to me that one thing I did NOT miss about bike-riding was the pain. Like I said, I ain't twelve years old anymore. I'm a thirty-something… and thirty-somethings feel the pain. By the time I got to work those first couple of days, my quads felt like hot pipes, my ass felt like it'd been pummeled with a baseball bat and I was almost certain that I'd never be able to father children again. About a half hour and four cups of ice water into that very first day, my lower back ached and my legs were stiff as boards. Yet, I felt fulfilled; like I had accomplished something and really done something good for my health for a change.

Plus, I actually have more energy when I bike in because my blood is pumping faster. I’m still a bit apprehensive at times, though. Aside from what few riding skills I may now possess, you never know what kinds of idiots you’ll encounter on the road. Some drivers (particularly taxis) will think little of sideswiping your ass if you dare take up too much road. One fool had me so close to the curb that I actually scraped the pedal against it just to avoid him.

I’ve also gained a newer appreciation for smooth roads because, let’s face it, not all roads are created equal. Some of the divots in the roads I’ve traveled are enough to really rattle all hell out of your spine if you don’t see them in time to avoid them. Plus, I’ve also learned where all of the “heartbreak hills” are in my travels. My ride home is quite the b*tch for this very reason. My trips home are fine until I hit Belmont. Then, it’s either shift down to first, pedal for ages and huff/puff my way up the hill or just say “f**k this” and walk the damn thing up.

Overall however, biking to and from work has actually been a lot of fun. I mean, yeah, riding in the rain is unnerving and I won’t even attempt it when the heavy snow hits, but I’m having fun and getting some exercise, so it can’t be all bad.

So, if I can just get my wedding tackle and the bones in my ass to stop hating me, I just might wind up making this new activity of mine a permanent lifestyle change.