Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 24

Post the Forty-Second: Peruvian Food

Gig Harbor is not particularly known for its diversity, Gentle Reader. It was therefore with pleasant surprise that I discovered the new Peruvian place nestled right in its heart. Well, I’m never as happy as I am when I’m eating something I can’t pronounce, so obviously I had to give A Taste Of Peru  a try.

Naturally, since I tend to take lunch a little later than most, they weren’t terribly busy. The lovely young lady working the front was terribly friendly; she asked if I’d ever had Peruvian before – and of course, I hadn’t. Wait – this sounds like a perfect situation for The List!

The Task: Let a Waiter/Waitress Select My Entire Meal

The Execution: I was really inclined to try the Adobo, but the darling dark-eyed girl steered me away from it – “You could get that if you wanted to – and it’s good! – but if it’s your first time eating Peruvian, and you really want to get a feel for the flavors, you should try Arroz Chaufa.” And so I took her recommendation. While my food was cooking, she brought me out a sample of the adobo anyway, just so that I could try it – and it was damned good.

Arroz Chaufa, as I later learned, is “Peruvian style chicken fried rice with green onions, bell peppers, eggs, and mushrooms. Topped with sesame seeds.” At the time, I didn’t have the slightest idea what I’d be getting. When she asked me if I’d like hot sauce, I made a noncommittal gesture – apparently the sauce is made entirely from vegetables, in house, and is a sort of delicious orange purée. In fact, everything was delicious, and affordable, and all the members of the staff that I met were courteous – no, genuinely friendly.

The Verdict: Yes, yes, yes! The results were stunning; the seriously kind and friendly young lady was more than happy to choose my meal for me, and everything was delicious. I would say that asking the waitstaff to decide what you’re having works best at non-peak hours – that is, when they’re not in the middle of a rush – but if you like to be surprised? Absolutely do this.

Also, if you’re in Gig Harbor or passing through, I heartily recommend Taste of Peru. For real. Dude. And they’re not even paying me to say this. 

Tagged: Letting the Waitstaff Select Your Meal, New Experiences, Peruvian Food, The List, Trying New Things

Poetic Interlude LIV

Another guest post from my deceased father, Gentle Reader. Happy Sunday!

Hope
 
The earth and hope
can be frozen, for a time,
But they are not dead.
 
When the season is right,
The earth will flourish,
And hope will thaw.
Tagged: Guest Post, James Yoder, Poetic Interludes, Poetry

Post the Forty-First: In Which I Ask A Stranger On A Date

Gentle Reader, do you recall how I recently held a going-away party for my abruptly postponed Grand Tour of Europe?

I mentioned that there was a surprise guest appearance from a friend I haven’t seen since I was twelve; I had thought she had committed suicide years ago. Until she got in touch with me a few months ago*! She was at the party, and she had brought a friend of hers to serve as Designated Driver.  I was thrilled to see her, but I didn’t get to spend much time with her or her friend – I had to keep circulating, as one does at these things.

At Bar Time, I had the leisure to chat, a little, with them, and to see how adorable my friend’s companion was. It’s just as well, because if I had noticed earlier, I would have spent the entire evening chatting him up and neglecting my guests, which isn’t the best behavior for a host†. There was brief talk of meeting for brunch the next day, but I caught a lift home rather than staying at a friend’s place. I distinctly remember cursing the timing of meeting this guy right before I was due to leave the country, and then promptly thought no more about him, because holy shit did some things come tumbling apart in rapid succession.

Suddenly, I was staying in the country. Suddenly, I was at liberty to maybe pursue this fella. So I did what any enterprising young man would do.

I internet-stalked him. Obviously.

And then I sent him a friend-request on Facebook, so that we could get to know one another.

We began talking every day – and dear lord, the boy’s a wonderful conversationalist. I found myself fancying him more and more, but we’d only met in person the once. Which brings us to -

The Task: Ask a stranger on a date, and follow through.

The Execution: I asked him to coffee, over Facebook, because both of us were being goaded by our mutual friend. “If I leave it to the two of you, neither of you is going to get around to asking.” Well, I really wanted to ask, I just didn’t want to rush anything – but really, that’s all the excuse I needed.

The Fella and I kept talking, and there was some adorable social-media flirting – things like him granting me three questions because he’s been reading my blog and therefore knows a lot more about me than I know about him, and then me directing him to look at the twitter sidebar as long as he’s on the blog.

“Wait – so it’s officially a date?”

“Well, only if you want it to be.‡”

So it was officially a date.  We met for coffee; it was predictably a little awkward – I mean, dates are always awkward, but when two very shy boys meet for coffee for the first time, the awkwardness compounds into a special new dimension of awkward. Luckily, it was the beautiful giggling-and-bashfully-looking-away kind, and the ice was quickly broken.

We wandered around the St. Helens district of Tacoma, and the rain got increasingly heavier; we retreated to his car. And that is all you need to know about  that. 

We’re both looking forward to doing it again soon.

The Verdict: Okay, I know I’m a little late to the whole asking-strangers-on-dates thing that the entire rest of the world is so keen on.  This was wonderful, and I would totally do it again. Except that the Fella isn’t a stranger anymore. Hmmm. At any rate, this list item gets five stars.

UPDATE: So this afternoon the Fella totally took me out at the last minute. That’s right; when this post debuted, I was with the boy in question. How’s that for timing? (I REALLY LIKE THIS DUDE, Y’ALL.)

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*See? Facebook isn’t entirely a waste of time! We never would have found each other again without it!

† I know this from experience.

‡ Paraphrased. I’m trying really hard to write this and still protect his privacy. It’s still early days, and I don’t want to jinx things by talking too much about him or moving too fast, but I really like this guy, y’all.

Tagged: Dating, I really like this dude y'all, Internet Stalking, New Experiences, Riding In Cars With Boys, Romance, Tacoma Washington, The List, The Mix

Post the Fortieth: Debauchery and Hair Dye

Oh my stars, Gentle Reader. Just… oh, my stars. This last weekend was intense, and long, and amazing, and I didn’t even attend all of the planned events.

It was glorious.

Thursday last, I met Ms. Capere in Tacoma; we were riding up to stay at Mr. Darling’s for a few days, with a full dance card scheduled, so to speak. Thursday’s festivities were sort of ’80′s glam and sex-positive/gothy, respectively. Having thinned my wardrobe down to a bare minimum in preparation for my trip that hasn’t happened, I was absolutely certain that I’d need to go shopping.

The three of us scoured the Hill, looking for things that would help transform each of us into Boy George, or Divine, or other… personalities of that kidney.

Now, Darling’s worked with hair and makeup for years, at times professionally, and since I wasn’t flying to Europe on Saturday, and since we were going to a bunch of events, and since I’d never done it before, I asked him to dye my hair for the occasion. ( So:

The Task: Have Darling Dye My Hair

The Execution: I wasn’t sure what color to go with – I was thinking black, because in my mind I am gaunt and pale and lithe. Darling, being a little more practical (and a little more objective) suggested Egyptian Plum, a box dye my mother had once used – a purple in certain lights, but a socially-acceptable red in others.

The Verdict: It looks killer rad. See?

Okay, I know the lighting/my camera are shit, but compare the color to my beard. See?

Alors.)

Though running late, we dressed in our new finery – Darling in a studded, tied crop-top, daisy dukes, a full beard, and eyelashes from hither to yon – Capere with HUGE hair and half the extensions in Darling’s Weave Crate, fishnets and corset, and other assorted gothery – myself in sparkly silver snakeskin tights, feathered earrings and hairpiece, and a vintage Ladies Auxilliary t-shirt; all three with big eyes.

We headed to the first club, and made excellent decisions all evening. 

No, really, we did. And that’s all you need to know.

Despite some unpleasantness that ensued, everything was wonderful and I really love these two. This weekend is just what I needed. Thanks, kids.

Tagged: Darling and Capere, Excellent Decisions, Makeovers, Queer Spaces, Seattle, The List, The Mercury

Poetic Interlude LIII

Champagne, Silk, Steel

My cufflinks clink against the glass
Filled with gas-station champagne.
It’s Californian, and regrettably cheap.
 
You asked to come by, tonight.
I knew what I must do, how
I must comport myself.
 
There is a rhythm to these things;
And you know how I like to
Observe the proprieties.
 
I knew, when you asked to come,
I’d cast you aside, a ring into the sea.
I’d be wed to the loss of you,
Wake up with your lack each morning.
 
You, of course, didn’t react.
 
I, of course, will never move on -
I shall dwell in a memory of something that never happened,
Wearing a suit bought for our unplanned wedding,
Praising you, to a congregation of cats,
A sad person, in silk, and champagne.
 
I drain each bottle, glass by glass,
And, from out the East, drain sun after sun.
Song after song enters the star that was my soul,
And, for love of you,
I go nova.
 
I can’t, for the life of me, tell
If the tears or the champagne are staining the silk.
I can’t, for the life of me, tell
If it’s my love for you, or the lack of you,
That gently lifts me to a cabinet of pistols -
 
-to view them, of course.
The ammunition’s in quite another room, my sweet.
 
Regardless, when I think of you,
I remember champagne on silk,
And the taste of blued steel.
 
 
There are times, my love, when I wonder,
If I had never met you, how young I would have died,
And if you had never met me, how
You would have ever survived.
 
The pregnant moon has come and gone, now.
She came, yawned once, and returned to her bed.
I must make do
With the friendship of the fountain,
Tinkling at dawn.
I can learn from her;
She always cries.
 
I grow weary of mourning, each morning,
But what else is to be done?
Even if things had gone according to plan,
I never would have been your bride.
What use is my story?
There are nine billion beside -
Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Tyler J. Yoder

Post the Thirty-Ninth: In Which There Is A Hate Crime

It was the last week of my junior year in high school, Gentle Reader; I was desperately jealous of my best friend and better-looking rival, Darling. Not only did he always get the cute boys (who I could thereafter never consider for a moment because I “didn’t want his cast-offs”) but he had just been punched in the face for bringing a boy as his date to a dance.

He was justly proud for standing up for our people, and – oh, I was livid. It’s not as though I wasn’t just as flamboyant, I remember thinking – it just wasn’t fair.

Exhibit A

We were on the cusp of a golden, magical, summer, I was the most out and proud that I would be for years. Damn it, I wanted to be a victim of violence, to be baptized in blood, to join my fellow queers  in resisting the hatred we were constantly exposed to. I wanted to be the victim of a hate crime, probably because I had a victim mentality and thought suffering=superiority.  I was just seventeen.

Also, seriously, I had a huge inferiority thing about Darling – he came out first, he lost weight first,  he started driving and joined queer youth groups (that I never joined because I didn’t want to “poach on his territory”), he was much less awkward with the flirting and the sexing – I adopted a prim-elderly-aunt persona to distinguish myself*.

I needn’t have worried that my hate crime would never arrive, though, even if it wasn’t quite as dramatic.

My first car, Prudence, was a 1986 Chevy Blazer that I’d inherited from my folks. The driver’s door wouldn’t open, and the back window had to be open to prevent a dramatic rattling (that we attributed to McCourt O’Leary, the tap-dancing leprechaun). I would always park dear Prue off-campus, below the school. You know, beyond the reach of security.

I’m sure you can see where this is going. The slurs of “FAG!” and “COCKSUCKER!” and all that rubbish painted all over the car weren’t even particularly shocking. The slashing of all four tires was. In fact, it was shocking enough that school officials called my parents before I’d even heard what was going on.

Click the pic for photo credits

I’m sure you can imagine my incandescent mother bursting like fury into the school – an offended dowager has nothing on her. She stormed into the school offices, demanding justice; the principal sent a tepid announcement over the airwaves:

“Tyler Yoder, please come to the Principal’s office”

So I did.

There was a baffled apology from the school, with vague assurances that they’d beef up security the next year; not much else could be done.

Until the culprits confessed a few weeks later, on the last day of school. I got a poorly spelled letter on juvenile-detention-stationary from a pregnant girl, and her boyfriend.

It was clearly written because they were made to write it, but it was a start†.

*********

*I still have to shake this persona entirely off, my dears.

†Seriously insincere, you know. Honestly, in the end I felt very sorry for the pair – they clearly didn’t last, and they were not in a very good situation. Still. I didn’t even really know them, so taking out their frustration on me is baffling. Hooray!

Tagged: Family Stories That Are Completely True, Hate crimes, Jealousy, LGBT, LGBT hate crimes, Pregnant Teen Crime, QUILTBAG, Teenage Drama

Post the Thirty-Eighth: Rod McClanahan

Gentle Reader, if you hadn’t heard, Europe’s off, and I don’t want to talk about it. Not an April Fool’s gag; just a quick statement to let you know. That out of the way, we can move on to more important things, like the fact that, out of the corner of my eye on an album cover, I mistook Rod Stewart for Rue McClanahan. Yes – I mistook this person:

for this person:

And then I started thinking , as I am apparently no longer going to be blogging about grand European adventures, I need to blog about something I might have stumbled upon something.  So naturally, I spent my morning pouring over photos of Rue McClanahan and Rod Stewart, as well as Rod McClanahan and Rue Stewart. Why?

I really haven’t the foggiest idea. Because it seemed improbable, but would make a TERRIFIC conspiracy if they were actually the same person? Because it isn’t the strangest thing I’ve written about on this blog? Because I don’t want to address the spectre of what the hell I’m supposed to do with myself now that the trip I’ve been planning for the last year and a half has fallen through*?

Probably that last one, although I’m pretty sure there’s something to this nonsense. It seems as likely as all the things that have interfered with my dreams and my happiness at the last minute, after all.

Or I could be deluding myself, much as I deluded myself into thinking that the trip was possible, and living abroad indefinitely as a vagabond writer, an itinerant jack-of-all-trades, was going to happen. Yes, I think that might be precisely how deluded one would have to be to imagine that Rue McClanahan and Rod Stewart were the same person, kids†.

*********

*I’m still rather a bit in shock, because I was supposed to fly out on Saturday. I may be a trifle bitter. Still! I am postponing, not writing it off entirely. I’m plucky and determined, and it’s not the first time I’ve had to overcome adversity or deal with setbacks. Indeed, not.

† Just because some of these photos of Rue seem a little disrespectful, here is one of her when she was young and gorgeous.

Tagged: drama, I am not going to Europe after all Apparently, I Promise I'm not Bitter, Okay I actually Am Bitter, Rod Stewart, Rue McClanahan, Wacky Mashups, Whimsy

Poetic Interlude LII

 

A Soiree
I want to live at a cocktail party,
A perpetual seven o’clock:
Where all of the guests are assembled with care,
Where the sociable socialites flock,
Where wherever you move, within the air
Is sensitive sensible talk!
 
I want to live in the cocktail hour -
A fossilized half past nine!
Where the glasses and ladies sing for years,
And the chatter and laughter chime -
Where nothing is serious; nobody cares,
And we never run out of wine.
 
And there, in the air, is my favourite piece
By Johan Sebastian Bach -
Only on evenings like this do I live!
When I charm, and I sparkle and shock -
Oh, I want to die in that golden night,
That eternal eleven o’clock!
 

This poem, and others like it, are available in Patchwork Narrative, a slim volume of poetry by Tyler J. Yoder.

 
Tagged: Patchwork Narrative, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Tyler J. Yoder, Writing

Post the Thirty-Seventh: Auf Weidersehen, Adieu (Part Two)

We had just entered the Mix, Gentle Reader, to begin the evening’s festivities. Darling and I met Miss Grip with some surprise, as we’d arrived an hour early; when he saw me, Dallas the Liquorsmith began mixing the Bloody Mary he knew I’d want. It had just gone six.

We stepped down to where karaoke would eventually happen, and were absolutely floored when the Spectaculars popped in – as far as I knew, they were in Oregon until the minute they walked in the door. Shortly thereafter, the Colonel arrived. I sat back and watched as people from very different parts of my life showed up; as Darling and I popped out to smoke, a small bubble of hilarity began to form under my lungs, because some of these people were utterly incompatible, but they were all there to see me off – I felt responsible, I felt as though I were about to witness a trainwreck, I felt the need to get rather tight rather quickly.

My fears were groundless, at least as far as I can tell. I had to keep circulating, because of the sheer volume of people there to wish me well. I didn’t get to spend much individual time with any individual, but I kept seeing surprising faces. There was even a very special guest appearance by a friend I hadn’t seen since I was twelve; I had presumed her dead for years.

Eventually, the karaoke host arrived, and it was time for the talent* portion of the evening. Moving my hands like frisco, I stepped out, and the dance had begun.

And that’s when it kicked in, that this trip was for realio and trulio, and that I would very possibly be leaving everything I know in this world behind for years. Probably only months, weeks, but possibly years.

I ordered what was my last drink from the Mix for the forseeable, and caught a lift bedward in the night.

Tagged: Celebrations, Going-Away-Party, Karaoke, Singing Laughing Dancing, The Mix

Post the Thirty-Sixth: So Long, Farewell (Part One)

You may have heard me mention a little jaunt I’m making, Gentle Reader, wherein I’ll be going abroad as long as I can afford it. Don’t worry; I intend to work on the road. Still, I very graciously thought I ought to mark the occasion by throwing a going-away party. My friends very graciously granted me a golden day.

It began with brunch. Darling’s mother picked me up in a red convertible; we met Darling and Ms. Capere in the Harbor, sitting outside on a deck above the water at the charming Net Shed No. 9. My dear old friends were able to find vegan and vegetarian options, respectively; I had a “Free-Ta-Ta” because that dish donates money to cancer research, and my brunch was basically saving the world. There was breakfast champagne, and our waitress put me in touch with some friends of hers in Morocco, who are building houses, in case I make my way to North Africa*.

Darling’s mother departed, and the three of us toddled off for coffee. The coffee shop where we spent our teenage years has a new name, a new proprietor, but the inside’s exactly the same. For old time’s sake, we all three ordered Chai – of course, I had milk, Capere had soy, and Darling had rice. The barista managed to keep it all straight, and we chatted until Capere had to return to her scholarly research.†

We rode into town with her; caught in traffic, we discussed the issues of the day. All three of us angry liberals, we crossly agreed about things, the direction the world’s heading in, social issues. I was glad to see that we’re all in alignment in our passions, still. Capere dropped us off on Sixth Avenue, where we promptly ran into police tape blocking access to several blocks‡.

Darling and I enjoyed a leisurely stroll, wound up in Wright’s Park. It was a golden, lazy, Sunday, and we discussed the strange new paths all our lives seem to be taking. Our little family, still close after all these years, seems to be spreading in all directions; each of us is on the threshold of something new. We’re handling similar situations in similar ways, separate, but together. It’s funny how the world works.

We wandered towards the Mix, where we weren’t due for another several hours. My favorite barman, Dallas, was smoking outside; he greeted us with a smile, said he’d be waiting when we got back. I dutifully bobbed a curtsey to the statue of St. Helen who’s been ensuring I make it home safely for years, then Darling and I went antiquing. He picked up a strand of pearls and a belt-buckle the size of Miami; the shopkeeper threw the belt in for free. Meanwhile, I fell in lust with this:

Readers of the Bloggess will know why.

Back at the bar, we arrived early, so that I could spend some time writing while sipping a Bloody Mary, as I used to when Mimosa Sunday was a regular thing – but lo! Our first guest had arrived before us.

Stay tuned for Part Two, Gentle Reader, which will dutifully air this Thursday!

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* I am replanning my itinerary, because of many, many, reasons. Morocco is a definite possibility at this point.

†Ms. Capere is a sociologist. She is currently wrapped up in a project that involves watching episodes of Duck Dynasty and similar claptrap, but for science.

‡There had been a shooting, early that morning. For details, click here.

 

Tagged: Brunch, Darling and Capere, Giant Metal Chickens, Morocco, Old Friends, Tacoma, The Mix