Wednesday, Jul. 09, 2003 - 10:52 pm
Um... I'm sorry.
This relationship just isn't working for me.
I'm at www.dailypreciousness.org now. So change that bookmark.
"Here, taste this," I told Tom, the stout little bearded man from Atlanta. "What do you think?"
He took a delicate little sip from the glass. "That's not bad," he declared in a light drawl. "It doesn't leave much of an impression, though."
"Dave, you try it," I insisted.
He took the drink in his sirloin-sized hand.
"Well, it's a little sour," he said, squinting his eyes. It has a bite to it, though, doesn't it?"
I gave Will a try. He kicked it back and smiled -- he was much more enthusiastic.
"Oh, I like it," he grinned, eyes sparkling. "It's refreshing!"
Will was right. It was refreshing -- possibly the most refreshing beverage to hit the bar all summer long. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Yes, there was a bit of sourness to the new cocktail, but it got the job done. No, it wasn't overly sweet. The new drink was agreeable nonetheless.
I had ordered it from the bartender, saying, "I'll have a Sandra Day O'Connor, please," with a note of supreme confidence in my voice… as if there was no way he could not have heard the news.
As if there was no way he could not know the correct metaphorical ingredients to the new cocktail…
The bartender's handsome face reminded me of a book entitled, "The beautiful room is empty." He looked at me quizzically. His carefully groomed sideburns had very little in the space between them. He didn't get the reference.
I gave him the recipe. I didn't bother to clue him in on Lawrence v. Texas or the historic resolution of the Bowers decision. No. I didn't clarify triumphantly that the act of love was now legal. I failed to explain that the ruling is a landmark victory for gay rights, echoing the headline in the Washington Post.
A Sandra Day O'Connor was a drink that I'd ordered earlier that week. I drank it down at a party on D.C.'s first balmy 100-degree day. It was a Wednesday, when I had some salmon and chatted with a friendly guy with sky-blue eyes from Vermont. That guy had impeccable tailoring, for a hetero.
His name was Howard. He and I had a nice chat about civil unions and the rights of same-sex couples that evening, while I sipped on a drink that included pink lemonade and another special ingredient. It seems that Howard had something to do with Vermont's historic civil union decision. 
We chatted about some of the rights and responsibilities that couples deserved to have. It was a great convo. But something was bothering me. Something was eating up on my insides.
…I hadn't named the drink that night. Before long, I was delving into other important issues. Namely, I was too busy discussing the white water affair.
No, not that one -- not everything in DC is political. (Just about 99%)
No, this was the -other- white water affair. This one was a rafting trip with a new acquaintance. It was the gracious Phil Piga, who admitted answering to the nickname "Peegs." I told him I'd consider letting him call me "Braids" if I could call him that. Phil and his wacky heartland humor… I'm sure I'm in for more of it, come September. That's when we're going to brave the bouncy, pulse-quickening, Class Q rapids.
A warm and voluble webmaster, Matt, nibbled on strawberries until our tongues were bright red. The juice stained our fingers, I noticed, as he handed me a copy of his URL. We had discussed the power and the majesty of blogging.
He agreed with me that blogging was the Next Big Thing in web acculturation. With a warm hand, he gently touched my forehead. It took a few seconds to figure out what he was doing.
"Do you know why I like blogging?"
"Tell me!"
"My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts," he exclaimed, reciting the Trek mantra as the unofficial motto of blogging. But our chat was interrupted by a bit of stump speaking. Well, that was okay, I guess. Every good politico has to give a speech. It's like breathing for them. They might choke and turn blue without it.
I enjoyed being there that evening. It was a party in a chic neighborhood just outside of Georgetown. The infamous (and famous) T Todd Elmer had invited me there. "We gotta get there early, Jblend, to stay ahead of the paparazzi -- hello?" he'd reminded me. Yes, indeed, we had gotten there early enough to beat the press.
The mood was festive and light. Todd wasn't the master of ceremonies in any official capacity, but he might have well been. No. Maybe he's more of a social chef. He made sure that everyone was stirred together. When the mixture was smooth, he sprinkled in equal amounts of sweet compliments and salty remarks. Then, for good measure, he added a liberal sprinkle of political commentary.
As an added bonus, he reunited me with Henry T., a warm Louisiana native whom I'd met long ago. Todd re-introduced me to Trip, whose devilish smile and inverted "V" eyebrows gave him the look of an impish elf. Trip, who was not the stripper that I'd seen at Perry's Sunday brunch prayer service and drag show a few days before, was also there.
I explained to him that the stripper wore sparkly sunglasses that protected his identity. "If it was you stripping last Sunday, then your secret's safe with me," I confided to Trip. He winked and nodded, then forced me to elaborate on my naďveté.
"Well, when I first heard about that brunch, I just assumed that it would be a gathering for local drag queens. I thought they'd be sipping coffee out of demitasse cups, gossiping about the other one's wig and adroitly using their grapefruit forks with their big man-hands. I had no idea that it would be a performance. I just thought it was a prayer service and brunch for them," I admitted. "I had no idea there would be music and dancing."
"That's so sweet!," Trip cooed. "You don't see that kind of naďveté very much outside of a preschool," he added, with a wry grin and a wink from those elfin eyes.
I smiled and took a little sip of my lemonade and citrus flavored vodka. Thanks, Sandra!
