I thought about some bizarre things as I did the 3-mile loop around Lake Johnson this evening, one of which led to somewhat of a self-revelation. These thoughts are no in chronological order. The last one contains the revelation.
I passed two people who were speaking Chinese, and I could have sworn the lady said the word Moo Goo Gai Pan in the middle of a sentence.
My first thought was, “How racist of me.”
My second thought was, “Well, it is dinner time, and it is possible that they were discussing dinner, and it is possible they were going to get take-out on the way home.” Isn’t it?
I wondered if the height of the pitch of a fart is at all proportionally related to the tightness of an anus.
That is to say, would someone with a really tight asshole fart at a higher pitch than someone who routinely gives themselves prostate massages?
I saw one shoe, which looked brand new, of a pair of 
on the ground by itself, next to a bench and under a mounted trash can, and had these thoughts in rapid succession:
- Who wears that kind of shoe to walk around a lake?
- Maybe it was in their backpack, and it accidentally fell out.
- Someone was thoughtful and didn’t put it in the trash can, but right under it.
- Where’s the person to whom it belongs?
- I wonder if the foot that was in it is somewhere in that overgrown area over there.
- Notice everything about it in case it ends up being the missing piece to solving a murder. Unless that’s the material on the inside bottom of the shoe, it has an insert in it that has a blue, green, and white plaid pattern to it.
I thought about how gay people, through their entire life, translate movie and book scenes, words to songs, and ads – to make them relevant. Day in. Day out. Ad nauseum.
For instance, when I see this ad:
I have to translate this to, “Okay, they are going to teach me to be a great dancer so that I can pick up sexy men.”
In the movies, or a book, I have to think when the guy gets the girl, “That’s the equivalent of the feeling I’d get if I got the guy.”
And in songs, when Alan Jackson sings, “Kiss an angel good morning, and love her like the devil when she gets back home,” I have to think, “… and love him like the devil when he gets back home.”
While thinking about this, something occurred to me that I’d never really thought about before. All of my life, I have always preferred female singers, always, and have often wondered why. Perhaps it’s because when I sing the lyrics that a female singer sings, especially in a love song, I don’t have to translate them.
This is the beauty of attending films at the NCGLFF each August — because in those movies the guys do get the guys, and the gals the gals. No translation required.
It’s also the beauty of reading gay magazines, where I see translation-free ads like this:
As I pulled into my parking spot at home today, I could see a package-delivery notice taped to my door. Fed ex.
Could it be?
I checked the “From” field on the notice.
Could it be?
“PC Spec,” it said.
Could it be?
Then I noticed, “We LEFT your shipment at: Ms. Hunter, Neighbor, 4327.”
I was at her door faster than you could say, “Watch out for the spider webs between your houses,” just-a-knocking.
When she opened the door, I said, “Ms. Hunter? I understand you have a package of mine.”
“Why, yes I do.”
IT IS!
Now I just need someone who already has an iPod to take about a half-hour to “jump start” me with it. I hate the time it takes to learn new technology. I’m far too impatient for it.
Any takers?