Hello gentle Americans.  I have gnats in my kitchen.  You know, those little flying bugs the size of dust specs, which swarm around garbage, usually of a rotting nature.  Now you are probably wondering, “Hedda what the hell do you have in your kitchen that could be rotting?  A dead body under the skink perhaps?”  Sadly, nothing so dramatic or villainous.  When I was on the road my roommate was taking care of the apartment, for which I am very grateful, though he left some uneaten food in the garbage can.  Usually it would go out within in a day or so, but he recently acquired a boyfriend and was spending most of his nights with him, so the garbage in the can sat undisturbed for over a week.  If anyone has a problem with the theory evolution, ape turning into man, just leave your garbage unattended and see new life form before your eyes-garbage turns into gnats.  Where the hell they come from I have no idea, but boy do they linger; they are like the bed bugs of the air.

My kitchen is not spotless, but it is very clean, I do not leave any food refuse about and I wash my dishes every night, but they are still skittishly flying in the air, like a drunken man trying to walk a straight line.  I feel like King Kong on top of the Empire State Building, trying to swat away the enemy airplanes, with every little snap of a gnat between my palms a feeling of satisfaction rises in my being, but that feeling of satisfaction soon leaves me when another one seems to appear out of nowhere, crushing my spirit once again   I tried to take the Buddhist approach, of just letting them be, that every life has meaning, but I still kill them.  Though I do feel badly afterwards. Sometimes.

Having these winged pests leaves me with a sense of shame, especially when someone comes over to visit; as they are sitting in my kitchen, they’ll say with a judgmental tone, “You have gnats.”  Like I didn’t notice.  Sort of reminds me when I get called a fag when I am walking down the street.  There I am in a blazing green dress, blondish green hair blowing in the air, 4-inch heels, and some rude boys yell out, “Heh, look it’s a drag queen.  You’re man! Fag!”  Jeez, tell me something I don’t know; I am already aware that I am drag queen and that I am a fag, and I very aware that I have gnats.  Instead of commenting on the obvious tell me the fuck how to get rid of them!  My kitchen has the equivalent of crabs and they don’t make Kitchen Quell Lotion to get rid of them.

“If you feel so shameful Hedda, then why the hell are you telling us you have gnats in the first place?”  Because I am damn tired of the shame.  I have had shame run it’s cooked course throughout every aspect of my life and I just want to say enough! My sex life, relationships, my identity, the fact that I have not read many of the great American Novels, that sometimes when I masturbate, and right after I cum, I have this sinking feeling that I am going to Hell. Shame has tainted me and I refused to add gnat shame to my endless lists of shames.

But in the meantime I have come to accept these black floating little specs as part of the landscape of my kitchen, praying that one day I will wake up and they will be magically gone, freeing me from their bondage and giving my kitchen back to me and my lifeless appliances.

Stay fresh,

x

Hello gentle Americans.  I am home, alone on a Friday night.  Well that is not entirely true, I have my cat Titty next to me and The Golden Girls on the TV.  These are my usual companions these days.

I have this crazy desire lately of swooping into a gay bar, music blaring in the background, men swirling about in varying degrees of inebriation, heading over to bar, pounding my fist on top of wood, sticky from years of spilt booze, and saying, “Diet Coke, no ice.”  It is with those words I snap out of my fantasy and the deadening reality hits me; what is a guy going to do in bar with just a diet coke under his belt?  I don’t drink and I have not for several years now.

There have been many positive things that have come into my life since I put down that dry martini, but there are times, like tonight, when I want to go into a gay bar and have a drink and pick up a guy and go home and fuck, like gay men have been doing for centuries.  Simple and plain as that, I just want to fuck. And I must say it was easier with a few drinks under my sequined belt, because when you are the only one not drinking, you sort of feel like an alien that has been plopped down into this strange world, a strange world where they are all speaking a different language, one that you don’t understand.  My level of discomfort watching people get looser and looser as the night goes on, as each diet coke I consume makes me more rigid and slightly agitated from all the caffeine, is visibly noticeable to the naked eye.  People bumping into you as their liquor falls on your shoe is more acceptable when you are spilling swill along with the rest of them, but when you are totally aware of everything it becomes a nightmare.  So, “if you can’t beat them join them”,  the old adage goes, not in this case. So I choose to remove myself completely from the situation, which explains why I am home nibbling on dry Cheerios, watching the Golden Girls and petting my cat.

Don’t get me wrong, this holy trinity has brought me much comfort over the last few years and I can’t remember a night when I have not fallen asleep without the Golden Girls on in the background, unless of course I am traveling and their stations are different or there is no TV.  It has dawned on me to buy the boxed set of the Golden Girls on DVD so I can take my sleeping companions with me anywhere and watch them on my computer, but I am not ready to make that commitment to them yet.  I have commitment issues, which amazes me that I have been able to not drink for three plus years, it is the longest thing I have ever done consistently, besides breathe.

Wow, I am not even 40 yet and 4 old ladies are now my sleeping companions. Oh well it could be worse, I could be shit faced lying in a pool of my own vomit, with a strange man walking out of my apartment with my flat screen TV.  Jeez that little scenario made me moist like a Little Debbie Snack Treat, which pretty much tells you where my head is- in a very bad neighborhood, with burning buildings and couple of crazed dogs picking through the garbage cans. Though I must say writing these little blogs brings me great comfort.  I could be out there on the town carousing, or on stage in a glittery gown spewing out one-liners, but I am here now in the comfort of my home, safely tucked away from the rest of the world.

That still does not solve my immediate problem of me wanting the company of another man.  Sounds funny writing that, the company of another man. Sort of sounds like I want a man to come over to sit with me, watch TV, nibble on some dry crackers and share a few funny anecdotes about our days activities.  What I really should have said was: I would like to be naked with another man in a primal way, ape like, swinging from vines, with big bananas in our hands; that kind of nakedness.  But one thing I know for certain is that these primal feelings will soon pass as the credits roll on one episode of the Golden Girls and the theme song for the next one begins. And as this visual Valium takes hold and my eyes begin to close I can’t think of a better place to be in the entire world, than on this couch with my cat Titty.

Stay fresh,

X