I won an award once. I was in 2nd grade. There was a big event, I don’t know how many schools were involved, but it was at least two, counting mine. It was 2nd grade, what do you want from me.

I won an award for spelling.

Those who know me can now stop laughing long enough to breathe. I really did. It was a gold painted plastic trophy, on a fake marble base, that stood at least 5 inches tall. It had a generic plaque without my name on it.

It is the only trophy I have ever gotten, and the only award I have ever actually won. And it taught me something. I never want to win another award.

See I won that award and I haven’t been able to spell since! I mean, it’s just bad luck. I am convinced if I win an award for something I will lose the skill associated with that award. Convinced.

Aeryn Sun tells you all exactly what I think of you today:

I got to the bar a bit early, because I noticed that the outside lights were already on. People were already heading in. How strange. But I’d been gone for two weeks, so maybe everything changed. Stranger things have happened.

I walked in and Moran spotted me. Which is when the trouble began.

“Where have you been? It’s been so long.” she said.

“Two weeks,” I protested.

“Still, you just go and leave me alone and…”

“Can you find forgiveness?”

“Maybe.”

“Then let the healing begin!”

We had a lot of long talks last night. It’s funny, when she was the waitress she was always running around the place so much we got to talk in short bursts. Now that she’s behind the bar we end up having actual conversations a lot more.

So we talked. And talked. About her English class, her school in general, her summer travel plans, my summer plans, some strange-ass ex of hers, you know - life. Agnes was working, too, and there ya go. No real funny stories from the first part of last night.

Later on though we had some guidos come by. They were … well they were, weren’t they? “Yo, just gimmie what’s on tap,” one of them asks. Moran pointed out they had no taps. “Oh,” he says looking confused. She points to the beer selection above the register and he looked at it like … like Non trying to make heat vision work:

They get a beer and talk to these Guidettes they were with. Everyone there is happy, if confused. Until one of the girls decides to step outside.

“Excuse me,” I hear from behind me, “this says use other door but the other door doesn’t work either.” There are, of course, two doors. One is locked the other is the only way in or out of the bar. She is, therefore, now trying to tell me that we are all locked in. Hmm.

“Just … just push?” I offer, turning to watch. So she pushes. And turns to look at me with hopelessness in her eyes. “Just give it a big sharp push, go for it. Just push the hell out of it, sometimes it sticks.” She looks doubtful, but eyes the door with steely menace. And pushes the door hard. A bit too hard. And almost fell face first out of the place. Woops.

But overall, it was a nice quiet night full of conversation and beer and music. Which tends to be a recipe for win.

Sometimes I like to do the hand jive while listening to The Doors. Just because.

When I do, though, I specifically picture myself dressed like Travolta.

Yup. Sick.

So it’s 4:45am and I can’t sleep and I’m feverish and sneezing constantly and I want hashbrowns and eggs and orange juice. I am in no way tired and I have a feeling this weekend will be an interesting blur.

So the other day I posted the ABCs of Your Mom, a 26 line long set of your mom jokes, type of thing. Because who doesn’t like a good “Your Mom” joke?

Your mom likes them, she likes everyone.

Anyway.

So I get home and see I have email. From my mother. Asking if the column was “meant for her.” And suddenly I found myself trying to explain “Your Mom” jokes to, well, my mom.

So there ya go.

It’s a funny thing. I hear guys, boys mostly, taunt and yell at each other all the time: “Fag!” “Hahaha! that’s so gay, yo!” “Aw man who the fuck wants to be so gay?” And I have to laugh. They are, they think, proving their manliness. They’re proving how strong, how confident and able they are. They strut and they pose, like wild monkeys, to prove to each other that they are all Alpha Males. They’re very very proud of themselves for fitting a mold they have decided they should fit like a snug glove.

Of course they ignore that molds don’t exist, unless you mean the green, fuzzy kind that lives in the back of the fridge. What they enforce, by mistake / ignorance / bigotry / confusion is limitations. They want to be manly men, and for them that means a very slim spectrum of behavior. Go outside of that range and everything falls apart for them.

It’s scary in the wilderness, or so they seem to think. The unknown is scary and it leads to uncomfortable places. They’re convinced of this, listening to tales at the campfire of their lives, and never daring to just walk beyond the firelight to see what the reality of it all is.

You want to be a badass? You want to be strong, fierce, powerful and capable? You want to exude that and have people know, when you walk into a room, that you are perfectly capable of dealing with life, in whatever form it may take - from throwing a punch to taking a drink to talking to people and having a good time?

Yul Brynner was a badass. Go watch Magnificent Seven or West World for example. There was one badass motherfucker. Brynner walked across a dry, dusty street, wearing all black, and managed to make you understand that while he could kill you without thinking hard about it, he could also pour you a drink. He was a man’s man. An action star, a hero commanding a huge screen presence. And he did musicals. He could sing, and he could dance and twirl with the best of them. Brynner knew something:

Limitations do not serve you well.

Selecting a small slice of gender identity for yourself is doing yourself a disservice. So you say you are “100% male”, and that’s great. I guess. But what does it mean? Do you have to make moaning noises if someone wants you to watch a “chick flick”? Are you supposed to hate pink, Hello Kitty and ponies? Are you supposed to shun fruit cocktails that are fancy, tall and refreshing?

Because in that case, and I say this from the heart, fuck off.

I’ve been in a lot of fights. I’ve had my share of hard times, drunk my drinks and smoked a goodly amount of fine cigars. I’ve learned that when I want to back down out of fear I should always push forward, smartly. I’ve faced down a lot of my own fears and come out standing. I’m not afraid to live life, enjoy the fuck out of it, and go back for more the very next day.

I also love musicals, ponies, rainbows, John Hughes films (Some Kind of Wonderful, I don’t just mean The Breakfast Club) and Gregory Hines movies (White Knights is just divine).

I see no disconnect there. Stopping and saying that I have to be one thing or the other in order to fit some faked up definition of a gender role is patently silly What do I have to gain by it? Limiting myself, denying myself things I enjoy? For what? So I can sit with other blind, narrow boxes on a shelf somewhere and rot?

Or I can admit that gender identity isn’t caused by physical sex, and isn’t sexual identity either. It is its own thing and needs to be respected as such. And then I can be who and what I want.

Because every badass I have ever known, ever seen, and ever heard of, is comfortable with themselves first (Bruce Lee was a cha-cha champion, don’t forget). It’s like a friend of mine said: “It’s a pre req.” And let me tell you something: She’s a badass. As manly as anyone I know, by the traditional standards. You want her at your back in a fight, and you would turn to her when the shit goes sideways. She’s also as girly as she feels like being. Because none of those labels truly matter.

Until we all understand that we simply can’t get anywhere useful.

Who are you, today?

Spent the day writing and watching things. Now gonna relax and have dinner with a friend. That’s about it.

Pull the Internets finger.

Sitting here at my desk, music playing and all is right with the world. Then the explosions started. Took a quarter of a second to remember it’s 4th of July weekend and that the random fireworks outside will get more and more annoying.

But for a second there I totally wanted to open my window and scream “Damn kids, get off my lawn!”

I need a shotgun and rocking chair so I can go sit outside.