Author: Jefe

Or,

“I had a hat attack in my ca on the way ta tha pak”

This baseball post season has been an interesting journey for me. As a devout believer in the Church of Baseball, I have watched many converts to my religion follow two teams into the playoffs for the most absurd of reasons. For a while, every person I talked to was pulling for the Cubs and the Red Sox. They all wanted to see them play each other in the World Series. They all wanted these teams to do something neither of them has been able to do in generations. Mind you, very few of these people are day to day baseball fans. Very few of these people start thinking in January, “man only a few more weeks ’till pitchers and catchers.” Most of them wouldn’t even know what that phrase means. They understand the pageantry of my religion in the post season, but they have not suffered and rejoiced at the scores on a daily basis all summer. They haven’t watched their two teams for 162 games, one floundering lost in the wilderness as if all the front office decisions are being made by a crazed orangutan with a ouiji board and a magic Eightball, the other doggedly trying to keep pace in one of the closest pennant races in years with a badly rearranged rotation due to injury, only to fold like a lawn chair in the last week of the season. It was heartbreaking, as religion often is. It was inspiring at times as well, as religion should be. And then, all of a sudden, I was surrounded by these new acolytes to my church, singing the praises of teams that they have never followed, and hoping that one or the other or both would pull off the seemingly impossible. Very few of them could understand the argument that I spend 162 games a year rooting AGAINST the Cubs, and that pity for them for being perennial also-rans doesn’t suddenly reverse my loyalty or faith.

Everyone wanted the Cubs and Red Sox to win because they haven’t been able to win before. Now, lets explore a very important dogmatic tenet of my religion. The teams that go to the World Series are the two teams who WIN. Losing for, like, eighty years does not buy you a spot in the games biggest event. Sympathy doesn’t earn you a trip to the Fall Classic. These teams aren’t getting screwed by their own fans, and they are neither jinxed nor, Babe forbid, “Cursed”. They just aren’t as good as the other guys. Their managers made bad decisions, their arms and bats and brains were just that much less than their opponents. It is the basis of the entire religion, you wanna go to the World Series? Win ball games.

Sadly, the other deep problem with my religion overcame those young acolytes new found euphoria. Money, personified most accurately by George Steinbrenner, has led some within the religion astray in the most evil of ways, like the scourge of fundamentalism perverting the rather beautiful Islamic world. The Yankees, proudly flaunting their perversion, have once again bought their way into the World Series, guaranteeing that they can win ball games not on heart and brains and talent alone, but on the strength of their checkbook as well. In a World Series that the new acolytes will ignore as they shake their heads with futile discussions of “The Curse” and “The Fan”, Evil again will raise its ugly head and try to dominate the sport. I fear for my religions very existence, and have but one thing to say.

Go Fish.

or

My Halloween costume changes by the hour.

I just got done seeing Once Upon a Time in Mexico. That movie is fuckin’ nuts, review will be up soon.

And I think now I have to be Johnny Depp for Halloween. He is the best part of like the last 5 movies I have seen, or something like that. What a bad ass.

So, how am I gonna fake the hair? Thoughts?

Or

Maybe there is hope for us after all.

Who knew all I had to do was beg, and the Nigerian stoning sentence got overturned?

Or

Some people don’t listen too well

I just got done reading about the fact that a Stoning sentence for Nigerian mom raises global issues. Here’s the issue it raises with me.

While God was telling you that women weren’t allowed to have sex out side of marriage, DIDN’T HE BOTHER TO FUCKING TELL YOU THAT IT’S NOT OK TO FUCKING THROW ROCKS AT PEOPLE UNTIL THEY ARE FUCKING DEAD!!!!! I try to be very tolerant of other religions and beliefs, and my own are formed on both a basis of teachings as a child and experience as an adult, but come on. Somewhere somebody’s God, in whatever form, has got to be reminding us that we need to stop killing each other just because we can.

I know not many people read this, but I have to say something.

Please. Please. I’m begging you.

Don’t do this.

Or,

Who am I?

Well, we did it again. 20X2 ver 3.5 went off great. Big Thanks go out to all who attended and all who helped out, we could never have dome it without you guys, and we love you all. Kevin and I have often said that the event is really about the people who speak, not about us, and we believe it more every time we do it.

Thing is, this time, it was a least a little about me. I was “Speaker number 1!”. For posterity, here’s a bit of what I had to say.

At City Lights, Monday Morning

a poem by Jeffrey Rider

Who am I?

I ask myself this as I

sit at a window

In what is, to me

A Holy Place.

I can feel tears inside my face.

As I sit at this small black table

Surrounded by books and shelves of books

A man in a blue shirt ascends

He does not disturb my search

My questioning.

A yellow strip of plastic

like police tape, flutters

It cares not who I am.

Now blue shirt crouches

near my thought.

He disturbs my search for self

but only briefly.

He is not offensive, just too close.

He retreats, and I ask again,

Who am I?

Like the Ghosts of the Gods

of this Holy Place,

Fluttering around my ears,

Capering in and out of

Thick yellow unevenly cut pages?

Do I aspire to

their divinity?

That was the goal.

but is it in me?

is it innate?

is it real?

Am I waiting for it to emerge

Or do I seek out who I am

by writing?

At times, I feel I have

given up

sold out

sold myself short.

But as I sit,

writing

warmed by the sun through

the window

of this Holy Place

Where I returned by train

by foot

by memory

by instinct

I read and write and ask

Who am I?

Why is my name Jeffrey,

or Jeff

or Jefe?

Why?

That’s why.

or

The Man Comes Around.

…….And I heard a voice from amongst the beasts……And I looked and I beheld a pale horse and the man that sat on him was dressed as a Highwayman, though he was from hat to boot tip the whole in Black, and the name that sat on him was Cash, and wisdom followed with him……And he said unto me, unto all, “There’s a man comin’ round, takin’ names. And he knows who to free, and who to blame. Everybody will be treated just the same. There’ll be a Golden Ladder, hangin’ down, When the Man Comes Around. Fear not the rider or the pale horse when they come for you. Fear not the place whence you will be taken, for there is happiness there, not strife. Know when you get there that the guy you are goin’ to see is good, that his bounty overflows all you can imagine. Know that he is accepting of you, despite any acts of yours, save one. Know that he wants us all to get what he’s sayin’, people, and that he sends lots of people to say it lots of different ways. He sent me to sing my whole life, and I did, until the end. He sent us to create, to share, not to fight amongst ourselves. He cries out to you, Don’t Take your Guns to Town. Don’t wield them in my name. He says, learn to love in my name, in any form, not because you were told to , but because you feel it, brother. Put away your guns and your swords, respect each others life and each others ways. Gather together and sing songs, read poems, worship that which moves you, accept each other. Know that though I claimed to have shot a man in Reno, I have not fallen into a Ring of Fire. I no longer Hurt. I tried to sing and bring joy, and knowledge of pain and love and lust and things of man that He has given us, and those things will save you.” ……..And the Pale Horse turned, and the Man in Black rode on, though his words echoed in ears of all who heard his whiskey soaked voice……and he returned to the midst of the Beasts and smote them all with the might of his guitar and of his voice. Just to watch them Die.

Or,

All dressed up in gayface.

I can’t understand why more people don’t find Queer Eye offensive. I have many gay friends, and so far none of them have openly voiced an opinion of this thing one way or the other. Most of the straight folks I know think the show is a riot. I understand that it may represent a step forward for the community by helping establish gay culture as apart of overall American culture and not a closeted or in some way deviant life style. But frankly, the insinuation that as a straight man I don’t know how to dress my self is a little insulting. I look good, most of the time, and I loves me the women. I have known gay men in the past who couldn’t dress themselves without their mammas, though I admit most of my gay friends now have a pretty good fashion sense. Except Brad, but he’s funny, so he gets off clean. Love Brad to death, but he looks like the gay man’s Dave Attell. Also, I get a little miffed by the women I meet who think things like, “Wow that is a great suit you’re wearing, Jeff. I bet your boyfriend thinks you look great in it.” I don’t begrudge anyone their sexual preference as long as what you like to fuck isn’t a child or someone that doesn’t want to be fucked. Go nuts, all of you, really, I don’t mind. But please don’t make unreasonable assumptions about me because the five funny guys on TV teach you that only gay men know how to properly iron their own clothes.

So far, the only guy out there that I can find who thinks, like I do, that if the show were called “Black eye for the White guy” that suddenly everyone would get why it’s really a bit degrading is openly gay Massachusetts Rep. Barney Frank, who said (quoted from Newsweek), “The notion that gay men have a superior fashion sense is not true, and it’s damaging…..It’s perfectly possible to enjoy that show and say, ‘Look at those clever homosexuals – what they do with hair!’ And not support gays at all.”

Or,

Magnolia Brewery Kolsch kicks ass.

Walked down to Union Square, people watching and city watching. Finally decided to stop walking and took the bus down to Haight Street. I always get off buses too early. Walked right past Janet’s old house. Went to a Too Trendy vintage clothing store, then a Too Vinyl used record store (man, do I need a turntable) and finally into one of my favorite brewpubs, Magnolia. Hadn’t been there in 4 years,. Last time I was here, I traded one of my Hub City Brewery T-shirts to a guy who I was told was one of their “best” regulars for a beer and a Magnolia brewery T-shirt. I was a little disappointed not to find that guy sitting at the bar when I got there. Wild Bill would have been there, if the brewpubs and the situation were reversed. The bartender chick was cute though, and my dogs were barking, so it was a great place to stop and take a rest.

Or,

God it’s good to be on vacation

I boarded the train for San Francisco with a bit of a hangover. The wedding party for Andrew and my cousin Julia was a wonderful time. I danced with my cousins, tow of them in red, one in white and spectacular on her big day. I drank and made new friends, renewed old ones, again gave my speech to my family about preservation and salvation of our bond. It is now up top me to follow through with this. After, I talked long with Jim about mistakes of the past, and my hope for a new future. Talked with many about quilts.

So, today, I set off on my new vacation adventure. San Francisco awaits, like hipster Mecca. I hope to find cool music shops, vintage clothing stores, cheesy presents to bring back home, good Chinese food. Later I will try to connect with Kevin and Min Jung.

Min Jung, by the way, throws the best Porn and Pizza party that I have ever beento. Since it was the only one have ever been to, this wasn’t so hard, but I doubt it could be topped even if I were long experienced. Upon viewing my first gay porn video, which was described to me as only mildly hardcore, I have become very aware of one indisputable fact.

I AM NOT GAY.

Saw Ernie, Saw Tartac, saw people who remembered or knew by reputation 20X2. All in all, I had a great time. Here’s hoping my day in the city will be equally great.

Or

A little bird told me

In the Midst of Julia and Andrew’s wedding something remarkable happened. During the exchange of vows, taken with hands clasped before family and friends, taken at the foot of a beautiful waterfall, taken under a beautiful blue sky, we all got a bit of a sign.

A bird, bright blue with a steel grey breast, alighted atop the falls. It cried out, neither menacing nor sorrowful, but announcing.

“Here I am! I have arrived!”

It was neither defiant nor jubilant, bet present nonetheless. Important. The bright blue bird was quickly joined by another, also blue but less so, the first one’s mate. It seemed as though he had called to her, beckoning her to join him. “Look, my love, here are two others. Joining together, doing as we have done. ” Satisfied that things were as they should be, they skittered off up into the rolling stream, away up the hill, flapping and splashing about in the water, picking bits of food, jumping about, almost dancing. They didn’t stay to see the end of the ceremony, they didn’t see the kiss that we saw. Perhaps they knew their time together is limited, as is all of ours, and wanted to spend all of it that they had together. They flew away, blue specks in a blue sky, confident that the union occurring below them would run its own course, happily up the hill and into the blue sky, happy, at its own pace.