Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 33

Post the Hundred and Twenty-Eighth: Absinthe

Shortly before I left for Alaska, Gentle Reader, Miss Ward began diving into the fín-de-siécle demi-monde of the famous absinthe drinkers. She was fascinated by the ritual and mystery, naturally, and the romantic air that surrounds the period. Her enthusiasm kindled a similar interest in me. As it was still illegal in the States, I was surprised and pleased to receive a clandestine package that Christmas, containing a sampler pack of the more popular commercial absinthes. Not knowing any better, I’m sorry to say that I lit it on fire*.

While I was in Alaska, I ordered a very special package of dish soap from Czechoslovakia. I arrived in Washington; that was the same day my grandmother passed away. I was privileged to see her one more time before she passed. A month later, I still hadn’t cried for her. I couldn’t bring myself to the point of crisis, catharsis.

The absinthe arrived.

Miss Ward was visiting from Bellingham, and came over to offer her sympathies. She, Maman, and I sat around with Francois Guy and White Fairy, in smoky, perfumed, candlelight. We began an exquisite corpse†, and this time, we did the ritual right: drops of water, excruciatingly slow, turned the sugar to decanted diamonds plunging into green floral oils waiting below. The truest thing that people say about absinthe is that it opens the senses, sensitivity. In that small circle, I was able to mourn.

A few months later, Miss Ward, her young man at the time, and I joined a secret society devoted to educating people about absinthe, and attended a number of sampling parties. We learned a lot, and made some excellent, deep, friendships. With such love and libations, such clarity, creativity, we truly felt part of the Bohemian world of yore.

*********

*Friends don’t let friends light absinthe on fire. The so-called “Czech Ritual” was invented in the Nineties to sell movies and an inferior minty absinthe called Hills.

†An Exquisite Corpse is a delightful tradition where you write a line or two of a story, then pass it to the next person, who can only see the last sentence you wrote. With the right people, you can come up with some truly beautiful pieces.

Tagged: Absinthe, Clandestine Activities, Exquisite Corpse, Fabulous Parties, Secret Societies

Post the Hundred and Twenty-Seventh: My First Thanksgiving

The first Thanksgiving dinner I hosted, Gentle Reader, not the first one of my life.  It was hosted in the very first house I rented, of course. We had two separate ones – one for my family on Thanksgiving itself, and another, the next day, for Ex-Husband’s family.

I was very excited. I love to entertain, and I love hosting dinner parties. I invited a mix of friends and family: My grandfather, and his girlfriend at the time, Claudine*, my parents, Miss Marshall, Miss Ward and her boyfriend at the time, S, Aunt C. and Uncle L.†, Miss K, Ex-Husband, and I. A nineteen year-old throwing dinner for twelve? What could possibly go wrong?

Well, first of all, I’m not the world’s tidiest person, and I was even worse in those days. In fact, I really only clean if I have company coming over. Having family over? Who I expect to be judging me? Sufficient motive to remove the pile of trash from the kitchen, and to hang drapes in front of the exposed storage closet, and to put throw rugs over the kitchen floor‡. It was a close-run thing.

We had a huge dining table that was lent to us – it was our neighbor’s grandmother’s. Unfortunately, we didn’t have anywhere near enough seating. Luckily, my folks came over early – I suspect they came early so that they could make sure the family wouldn’t be judging them based on my house – and they had found five chairs in a ditch on their way over, and had thought I might like them. You know the backgrounds in school portraits, in the nineties? That, but on velvet. I can’t imagine who would have tossed them into a ditch.

As my mother re-cleaned the house to avoid embarrassment, she happened to spot a painting in the library. The library was just off the kitchen, and the enormous nude on black velvet – another loan from our neighbor – was really the first thing you saw clearly on entering the house.

That, combined with my taxidermied friends – well, Maman thought they might make the relatives uncomfortable. Or judgey.

This was before she spotted the large collection of gay and lesbian literature§.

All hints of anything subversive tidily tucked away, Ex-Husband made my parents cocktails while I busied myself with dinner. The guests began to arrive. First were our friends, and then my relatives started showing up, most of whom Ex-Husband hadn’t met yet. That went well.

The fact that people had to enter through the kitchen – and tended to linger there – got increasingly irritating, as I had to try to cook around them. I was about ready to carve something besides the turkey, and it may have been my own throat, or someone else’s. My dad and  Ex-Husband noticed, and herded everyone into the dining room, out of sight and out of my way.

Did I mention that I worked in a restaurant at the time? As everyone who’s worked in the industry knows, it is essential that the diner can’t see what the hell you’re doing. When my father came back to the kitchen to see if he could help, I asked him to help me transfer the turkey from the roasting pan to the serving dish. Can you guess what happened next, Gentle Reader?

The shaky old man and the clumsy young one dropped the bird. On the unfinished floor. In the exact spot where Trash Mountain had been the day before.

There was gravy everywhere.

Luckily, the ambient music muffled most of my cursing and my dad’s laughter. I scooped the bird up swiftly, plopped it on the platter, and swore my dad to secrecy. He couldn’t stop laughing long enough to promise, so I just took it as read, and sent him out with a couple of side-dishes and excuses. While he stalled for time I cleaned as much of the debris from the breast as possible, then served it with as much grace as I could muster.

Everyone declared my meal delicious, and we were thankful to be in such good company.

*********

*Grandpa’s first girlfriend after Grandma had passed away. Or possibly the second. One of them, anyway.

† The religious ones, if you don’t recall.

‡When we moved in, the kitchen floor was just exposed sub-flooring. I started a project to finish it with reclaimed parquet, and, um, never finished.

§Even though I’d come out years before, and even though they were meeting Ex-Husband, my relatives… didn’t really understand that I was gay. So that’s a thing.

 

Tagged: Entertaining, Ex-Husband, Fabulous Parties, Family Stories That Are Completely True, Holiday, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving dinner

Music Monday: In Old Yellowcake

Gentle Reader, Happy Remembrance Day, first of all, or Veteran’s Day, if you prefer. Never forget the atrocities of world war.

Completely unrelated, but the focus of this post, this song is performed originally by Rasputina, and is intended for dual electric cellos with their band accompanying them. Um. It’s an ambitious piece for me, I feel.

Remember my camera isn’t the greatest, and neither are my abilities, and please enjoy!

Here’s the original:

Tagged: Goth, In Old Yellowcake, Music Monday, Rasputina, Ukulele

Poetic Interlude XXXII

Springtime
 
A single beam through grey sky slips;
An evening brighter than the day,
Which, pendant, softly dripped.
 
Startled, the rebellious ray
Exults in its successful quip:
An evening brighter than the day.
 
The light refracts’ through droplets flipped,
Melting barriers away
Which, pendant, softly dropped.
 
The crystal lance receives its prey:
With solemn majesty equipped,
 An evening brighter than the day.
 
A fragment from the summer, clipped,
Causing April’s tears to fray,
Which, pendant, softly dripped.
 
One moment, eloquently fey,
And grey remorse – for now – is ripped:
An evening brighter than the day
Which, pendant, softly dripped.
Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Tyler J. Yoder, Writing

Post the Hundred and Twenty-Sixth: Tyler Three

I’ve spoken of the Summer of Tylers before, Gentle Reader. There ended up being four Tylers in total – five if you include me. While Tyler Two was my favorite, I actually ended up going on a date with Tyler Three. Well, almost.

I met him at a Mimosa Sunday – a rather special one at that. Miss Ward and her young man were there, about to leave for a year in Australia, as was Miss G.G., who I’ve known since I was nine and hadn’t seen since we were sixteen or so. When the karaoke host called my name, I stood up – and so did a chiseled blonde Adonis, stubble neatly framing his square jaw. My own jaw may have dropped.

Not only was he the most gorgeous creature I’d seen, not only did we share a first (and a middle) name, he seemed interested in me as well. Unfortunately, the bar boor, known for his predatory practices and bad singing, kept cornering him, plying him with Kamikazes. Auntie R, knowing how rare it is for me to meet an amenable young man, ran interference and pulled a few strings, called in a few favors – the bar boor was asked to leave, for at least three months. Victory!

The lot of us traipsed down to the Graffiti Garages, where (until quite recently) one was able to legally spray – the out-of-towners wanted to leave their mark on the city before flying out, you see. Meanwhile, Tyler Three pinned me against some fresh sky-blue paint and took liberties. I still have the cardigan, stained with paint. I was sorry to neglect my long-distance friends, but I was swept up in the moment. Auntie R warned us that the police were about, and they didn’t look favorably on gay P.D.A. As it was time to depart for the night anyway,  we made arrangements to meet the next week for a date.

A few days later, I rode the bus into a dodgy part of town – an area well known for gang fights and drug use. I hadn’t known the area from the address – I recognized it as I rode through. Couldn’t be helped at that point – although I was nervous enough about the date without that on top. I debarked in a shady alley, dressed in my customary attire. Uh-oh.

I called once, twice, thrice – no answer. I was dejected, scared, and alone.  But wait – is that our young paramour, descending the stair? It is indeed.

“Sorry, bro – my girlfriend called in sick to work. She huffed too much, and I gotta take care of her. It’s cool that I can’t bring you up, right? We can do this next week, instead, if you want.”

Oh. Um.

“Sure, man, it’s all good. I’ll see you around,” I lied. It was pretty clear at that point that it wouldn’t have been a date anyway, and I didn’t really need all the drama or moral quandaries such an entanglement would bring.

I walked off into the night to a friend’s apartment, and I never saw Tyler Three again.

Tagged: Dating, Mimosa Sunday, Romantic Entanglements, The Mix, Tylers

Tyler Three

I’ve spoken of the Summer of Tylers before, Gentle Reader. There ended up being four Tylers in total – five if you include me. While Tyler Two was my favorite, I actually ended up going on a date with Tyler Three. Well, almost.

I met him at a Mimosa Sunday – a rather special one at that. Miss Ward and her young man were there, about to leave for a year in Australia, as was Miss G.G., who I’ve known since I was nine and hadn’t seen since we were sixteen or so. When the karaoke host called my name, I stood up – and so did a chiseled blonde Adonis, stubble neatly framing his square jaw. My own jaw may have dropped.

Not only was he the most gorgeous creature I’d seen, not only did we share a first (and a middle) name, he seemed interested in me as well. Unfortunately, the bar boor, known for his predatory practices and bad singing, kept cornering him, plying him with Kamikazes. Auntie R, knowing how rare it is for me to meet an amenable young man, ran interference and pulled a few strings, called in a few favors – the bar boor was asked to leave, for at least three months. Victory!

The lot of us traipsed down to the Graffiti Garages, where (until quite recently) one was able to legally spray – the out-of-towners wanted to leave their mark on the city before flying out, you see. Meanwhile, Tyler Three pinned me against some fresh sky-blue paint and took liberties. I still have the cardigan, stained with paint. I was sorry to neglect my long-distance friends, but I was swept up in the moment. Auntie R warned us that the police were about, and they didn’t look favorably on gay P.D.A. As it was time to depart for the night anyway,  we made arrangements to meet the next week for a date.

A few days later, I rode the bus into a dodgy part of town – an area well known for gang fights and drug use. I hadn’t known the area from the address – I recognized it as I rode through. Couldn’t be helped at that point – although I was nervous enough about the date without that on top. I debarked in a shady alley, dressed in my customary attire. Uh-oh.

I called once, twice, thrice – no answer. I was dejected, scared, and alone.  But wait – is that our young paramour, descending the stair? It is indeed.

“Sorry, bro – my girlfriend called in sick to work. She huffed too much, and I gotta take care of her. It’s cool that I can’t bring you up, right? We can do this next week, instead, if you want.”

Oh. Um.

“Sure, man, it’s all good. I’ll see you around,” I lied. It was pretty clear at that point that it wouldn’t have been a date anyway, and I didn’t really need all the drama or moral quandaries such an entanglement would bring.

I walked off into the night to a friend’s apartment, and I never saw Tyler Three again.

Tagged: Dating, Mimosa Sunday, Romantic Entanglements, The Mix, Tylers

Post the Hundred and Twenty-Fifth: Gender Expression and Friendship

I discuss sexuality and gender expression pretty frequently here, Gentle Reader, because they’re subjects close to my heart. When I came out at 16, I became absurdly feminine – I was campy, I was funny: I made myself into a caricature, a clown, because that’s what the gay role models at the time were. I thought that’s who I had to be, as an out gay man.

I’ve written, as well, about how Ms. Capere’s high school boyfriend, J., became for a time my best friend. In those days, he was decently accepting, open-minded. J. was supremely butch, a wannabe biker/cowboy who loved all things redneck. Under his influence, I learned to fish and shoot; I learned the rudiments of taxidermy; I learned to work on cars. My other friends thought I was faking an entire personality because I was trying as desperately to be manly as I’d tried to be a T. V. Stereotype before. At this point, the truth was more that I was searching for my own identity; I didn’t yet know that I lived somewhere between the two extremes.

I didn’t learn this for a few years. After high school, I continued palling around with J. He got me a job, working with him in construction – concrete, to be specific. In the rural world I was living in, I developed a protective hypermasculine shell; a construction site is no place for sensitivity. In this environment, under J.’s further tutelage, I learned more. Homophobia, sexism, even racism – these became inextricably tied to my ideas of manliness. I deeply regret the person I was at this point in time, and I have no excuse for it.

Eventually I realized how terrible this way of thinking is – and that not only did I not believe the things I’d been saying, those ideas actively disgusted me. As I started taking pride in being gay once more, and started calling J. on his bullshit, for some reason he stopped being so friendly, stopped calling. Once in a while, one of us would call the other – we were still on good terms, decent, but distant.

In the meantime, I continued exploring my identity. I came to stop defining myself by perceived “shoulds”. I didn’t really have anything to replace them with; my thoughts and feelings at the spur of the moment defined me instead. I became my whims, judiciously seasoned with my now passionate notions of right and wrong.

In the meantime, J. had become more insular, more conservative, and I’m sorry to say, more prejudiced. Honestly, I hardly knew the man anymore. The boy who would once don a feather boa in fun with his friends was now actively disgusted at the thought of a man wearing a pink shirt. The concepts of nonstandard gender expression, or alternate sexualities, or equality, threatened the straight white cis man’s dominance, and by extension, him personally.

I know this, because a year ago yesterday he told me so. It was election day; Washington State, where I live, had Marriage Equality on its ballot. He was against it, of course; I asked him how, after knowing and being very close friends with a gay man for many years, he could defend that position. He proceeded in no uncertain terms to tell me that my very existence threatened his children. If gay people could marry, the danger would explode exponentially. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, standing up to a man whose notions had so much sway over me – a man I once called brother – a man whose opinions I could no longer tolerate. We no longer speak.

Tagged: Equality, Gay Lesbian and Bisexual, Gender Expression, Gender Identity, Heteronormativity, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Masculinity

Gender Expression and Friendship

I discuss sexuality and gender expression pretty frequently here, Gentle Reader, because they’re subjects close to my heart. When I came out at 16, I became absurdly feminine – I was campy, I was funny: I made myself into a caricature, a clown, because that’s what the gay role models at the time were. I thought that’s who I had to be, as an out gay man.

I’ve written, as well, about how Ms. Capere’s high school boyfriend, J., became for a time my best friend. In those days, he was decently accepting, open-minded. J. was supremely butch, a wannabe biker/cowboy who loved all things redneck. Under his influence, I learned to fish and shoot; I learned the rudiments of taxidermy; I learned to work on cars. My other friends thought I was faking an entire personality because I was trying as desperately to be manly as I’d tried to be a T. V. Stereotype before. At this point, the truth was more that I was searching for my own identity; I didn’t yet know that I lived somewhere between the two extremes.

I didn’t learn this for a few years. After high school, I continued palling around with J. He got me a job, working with him in construction – concrete, to be specific. In the rural world I was living in, I developed a protective hypermasculine shell; a construction site is no place for sensitivity. In this environment, under J.’s further tutelage, I learned more. Homophobia, sexism, even racism – these became inextricably tied to my ideas of manliness. I deeply regret the person I was at this point in time, and I have no excuse for it.

Eventually I realized how terrible this way of thinking is – and that not only did I not believe the things I’d been saying, those ideas actively disgusted me. As I started taking pride in being gay once more, and started calling J. on his bullshit, for some reason he stopped being so friendly, stopped calling. Once in a while, one of us would call the other – we were still on good terms, decent, but distant.

In the meantime, I continued exploring my identity. I came to stop defining myself by perceived “shoulds”. I didn’t really have anything to replace them with; my thoughts and feelings at the spur of the moment defined me instead. I became my whims, judiciously seasoned with my now passionate notions of right and wrong.

In the meantime, J. had become more insular, more conservative, and I’m sorry to say, more prejudiced. Honestly, I hardly knew the man anymore. The boy who would once don a feather boa in fun with his friends was now actively disgusted at the thought of a man wearing a pink shirt. The concepts of nonstandard gender expression, or alternate sexualities, or equality, threatened the straight white cis man’s dominance, and by extension, him personally.

I know this, because a year ago yesterday he told me so. It was election day; Washington State, where I live, had Marriage Equality on its ballot. He was against it, of course; I asked him how, after knowing and being very close friends with a gay man for many years, he could defend that position. He proceeded in no uncertain terms to tell me that my very existence threatened his children. If gay people could marry, the danger would explode exponentially. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, standing up to a man whose notions had so much sway over me – a man I once called brother – a man whose opinions I could no longer tolerate. We no longer speak.

Tagged: Equality, Gay Lesbian and Bisexual, Gender Expression, Gender Identity, Heteronormativity, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Masculinity

Music Monday: Has Anybody Seen My Gal?

Gentle Reader, I want to apologize. I know things around here have been a little subpar lately; rest assured, I have excellent excuses. I am trying to get Patchwork Narrative into bookstores – by the by, it’s now available from my print-on-demand service, as well as on Amazon.com. I’ve been exhausting myself trying to keep up with my punishing schedule here, my novel, my daily journaling exercise, writing commissions, a few group projects, and a poem a day in lieu of NaNoWriMo.  In short, I’ve been overextending myself on the writing front. My quality and enthusiasm have both suffered as a direct result.

I would like to therefore beg your indulgence, and introduce something new: Music Mondays. As you may recall, I’ve been learning to play the ukulele, and I’m not quite as terrible as I was when I began. For the month of November, each Monday you’ll get a video of myself and my painted uke, Chordelia, playing a new song just for you, as well as a video showing what the song is supposed to sound like. Hopefully, you’ll be entertained, and hopefully, one less real post per week will keep my creative juices from atrophying entirely.

Here’s my rendition of Five Foot Two. Apparently, as soon as I turn the camera on, I stop being able to talk or sing or play, so just bear that in mind.

Now, here’s somebody competent playing it. Enjoy!

Tagged: Chordelia, Not a Real Post, Patchwork Narrative, Ukulele

Announcement: Music Mondays

Gentle Reader, I want to apologize. I know things around here have been a little subpar lately; rest assured, I have excellent excuses. I am trying to get Patchwork Narrative into bookstores – by the by, it’s now available from my print-on-demand service, as well as on Amazon.com. I’ve been exhausting myself trying to keep up with my punishing schedule here, my novel, my daily journaling exercise, writing commissions, a few group projects, and a poem a day in lieu of NaNoWriMo.  In short, I’ve been overextending myself on the writing front. My quality and enthusiasm have both suffered as a direct result.

I would like to therefore beg your indulgence, and introduce something new: Music Mondays. As you may recall, I’ve been learning to play the ukulele, and I’m not quite as terrible as I was when I began. For the month of November, each Monday you’ll get a video of myself and my painted uke, Chordelia, playing a new song just for you, as well as a video showing what the song is supposed to sound like. Hopefully, you’ll be entertained, and hopefully, one less real post per week will keep my creative juices from atrophying entirely.

Here’s my rendition of Five Foot Two. Apparently, as soon as I turn the camera on, I stop being able to talk or sing or play, so just bear that in mind.

Now, here’s somebody competent playing it. Enjoy!

Tagged: Chordelia, Not a Real Post, Patchwork Narrative, Ukulele