Bite Me

Last week, my friend A was a dancing zombie in the New York City Halloween parade. Every year a large group of people, all dressed in their zombie finest, re-create the famous monster dance from Michael Jackson’s "Thriller" video. (You can find the dance recreation on YouTube if you’d like to see it.) My friend A loved every minute of performing during the parade and said to me "If you’re free for next year’s parade, you should sign up to do it. It was great!" Hmmmmm. Let’s see: me surrounded by 100 people all dressed up as zombies. I‘ll (shudder) pass.

For almost 30 years, I have had a totally irrational, unexplainable, keep the lights on, hide-under-the-covers fear of zombies. Really, I do.

It started on Martha’s Vineyard in the summer of 1979 when a group of my friends and I went to see the movie "Dawn of the Dead". The audience in the theater was hooting and cheering, clearly loving every moment of the undead chowing down on the living. But while everyone around me called out for some rotting creature to take yet another bite of warm flesh flavored goodness, my seventeen year old self cowered in my seat, praying for the end credits to roll so I could escape outside to the safety of a blissful zombie-free world.

In the 29 years since that summer, my fear of zombies has stayed intact. I cringe at television commercials advertising any soon to be released zombie films and I have multiple issues with overly-realistic looking zombie costumes at Halloween. At times, I feel somewhat like Oz’s Cowardly Lion, repeating over and over again "I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks." Substitute the word "zombies" and that would be me standing there, tail in hand.

Don't ask me why it's zombies that have this effect. I have no idea. I have watched many horror films and not been scared at all. Jason can slash his way through as many horny teenagers he likes each Halloween and that dead girl from "The Ring" can crawl across as many floors as she pleases and I won't bat an eyelash. But bring out one slow-moving, ashen faced zombie with a serious flesh craving and I'm more terrified than a thirtysomething pre-liposuctioned Hollywood starlet facing the paparazzi during bikini season. It may be irrational but zombies, in plain language, scare the crap out of me.

Which brings me to this past Tuesday, Election Day.

While so much of the country was celebrating the victory of now President-Elect Obama, (yours truly included) the news coming out of California was not so jubilant. By a majority vote, gay marriage in that state (and 2 others) has now been banned. It seems unbelievable that in the same year Americans elect our first African-American President, in 3 states they also managed to cast enough votes to deny other Americans the right to marry. America may have finally reached a point where race doesn't matter to the majority of us anymore, but apparently a whole lotta people are still terrified of what some of us do with our genitals.

Exactly what is it about 2 people of the same sex taking a vow to love and cherish that scares so many? Do the supporters of Proposition 8 view a gay couple the same way the characters in that Dawn of the Dead movie viewed the slowly advancing members of the undead? Are we so horrifying for them to behold that just the sight of us in twos make them want to flee faster than Bristol Palin's boyfriend digging his escape tunnel? Is gay marriage the new zombie?

I wish I had some answers here, but there aren't any reasonable explanations when you're talking about irrational fears. The misguided supporters of Proposition 8 seem to believe they are somehow "protecting" marriage, much like people used to believe that they were "protecting" their neighborhoods by trying to keep people of color out. But luckily, times and attitudes change. Sometimes, change doesn't happen as quickly as we would like, but it does happen. The Prop 8 supporters can lock their doors and hide inside, but it's not going to stop progress from banging on that door until it gets to come in.

In January, an African-American will be sworn in as President of the United States. And someday, same sex marriage will be legal everywhere. It's slowly coming our way, one faltering footstep after another. And there's absolutely no reason to be afraid.

Dating Story #6 a/k/a...

The Push/Pull Hug

Up. Down. Left. Right. Over. Under. Good. Bad.

Opposites. According to the dictionary, the definition of opposite is: contrary or radically different in some respect common to both, as in nature, qualities, direction, result, or significance; opposed: opposite sides in a controversy; opposite directions.

Try and imagine two opposite things going on in your mind at the same time. For example, feeling compelled to walk in two different directions simultaneously, like Steve Martin in the movie "All of Me". Your arms and legs would be flailing, you’d be confused and unsure of what direction you were supposed to go while trying your best to appear you had at least some idea of what you were doing. Sarah Palin sitting down for an interview comes to mind, if you need a visual.

Or, think about wanting to both eat and yet not eat, much like a bulimic supermodel sitting at a table eating and then running off to the bathroom to purge. Back and forth, eat, purge, eat, purge. Even if the end result is that you can fit into that bathing suit you last wore when you were 18, I would think it’s all rather exhausting.

OK, now that you have bulimics and Sarah Palin in your head, let’s get to the dating story.

I met H on the 4th floor of the Center. I had just left another unsuccessful speed dating event and literally bumped into him. He was in his early to mid 40’s and cute. Very cute. "Hello" he said awkwardly and I answered, just as awkwardly, "Hello." We chatted as we walked downstairs and continued chatting outside, where H asked if I’d like to have dinner with him sometime. "Sure" I answered. "I’d love to." Unfortunately, no sooner had I answered yes, when H responded with red flag #1. "I wasn’t sure if you were interested." H said. "I really don’t understand this gay stuff."

Note to gay newbies: "I don’t understand this gay stuff" is not something you want to hear from a potential date. It’s akin to being asked over for dinner by a cannibal or having a blind man offer to drive you somewhere. H, as I would learn over a handful of dates as more red flags leapt from his mouth, was the ultimate in opposites: a homophobic homosexual. Yet, ignoring the alarm bells in my head and the quizzical looks from friends, I would end up saying yes to 4 nights out with H.

Apparently, H was working very hard to become more comfortable with his sexuality, but still disapproved of his own life. Being with him was like watching a young child first misbehave and then punish himself by sitting in the corner. If I tried to hold his hand, he’d move a good three feet away. Asking for a kiss was out of the question. I’m sure he would have preferred to have his lips surgically removed before he’d allow them to touch mine.

Ironically, H’s one attempt at a display of affection was what caused me to tell him I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything further. At the end of our last evening, H reached out to give me a hug. "See," he said, "I’m getting better at this." Better, in this case, was a relative term. H’s hug was like no other. He had one hand on my shoulder, lightly pulling me toward him. Meanwhile, his other hand, on my waist, was firmly pushing me away so that no parts of our bodies could actually touch. There are studio apartments with far less space than what we had between us during that embrace.

I didn’t see H again after that awkward hug. H struggled with being gay, even though he had already reached middle age while I often feel I popped out of the womb waving a rainbow flag. And while opposites may indeed attract, sometimes they’re better off simply going in different directions.