I have a bubble umbrella. It is big and clear and I love it.

The first time I saw a bubble umbrella I was nine years old and it was being wielded with incredible finesse and class by a hooker on Halsted Street in Chicago . I was immediately taken by it; It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It made such a statement. LOOK AT ME. I AM FIGHTING THE RAIN WITH STYLE AND ELEGANCE. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized a clear bubble umbrella was not the accoutrement of a classy lady. But I digress.

It was only a few weeks ago that I had taken shelter from an unrelenting rain in my local Urban Outfitters – a place  so wholly unlike any other store in that  I can blow my entire paycheck without quite realizing it along the way. At the Apple store? Shit, I know my paycheck is gone. Target? Most definitely. Williams-Sonoma? It’s as if my paycheck never existed. (Why yes, I did pay $8 for a stainless steel pastry scraper. And yes, it is as pointless a product as it sounds.) But everything at Urban Outfitters is always on sale, and yet I somehow still manage to spend like $140 every time I’m in there. On what? Things like bubble umbrellas, of course!

So, I’m perusing my local UO, and behind the register’s little counter area is a stash of bubble umbrellas. I ask if they’re on sale, and needlessly ask the cost. (I would have bought one had it been $430. See above) For $18 this little piece of style, elegance, and trashy hookerdom could be mine! By now, I’ve already accepted that bubble umbrellas are indeed a classless affair. Which is why I tell my friend Janel that owning one constitutes prostitution. But, again, I digress.

$18  and a one fulfilled childhood dream later,  I embarked on campus shielded from the cool rain under my precious bubble. Now, I’ve never been accused of being a small person. I am, in many respects, a big boy. I’ve never had a big (ha, wordplay!) problem with my size, but when a big, loud, gay man starts carrying a clear plastic bubble umbrella, you start to illicit some looks. Not that I mind. The bubble umbrella joins a tiny top hat, a checkered pink scarf, and knee-high Chuck Taylor boots in my ridiculous props collection. (Sidenote: Props = Accessories)

Like my other props, my bubble umbrella tends to make an announcement other than LOOK AT ME. I AM FIGHTING THE RAIN WITH STYLE AND ELEGANCE. No, it announces something along the lines of: LOOK AT THIS GIGANTIC RAGING HOMOSEXUAL. Not that I have a problem with that. If I did, I probably wouldn’t have bought a god damned bubble umbrella. Now, associating material objects with identity is a subject for an entirely different time, so we’ll talk more on that later.

I’m going to come back to the bubble umbrella in a moment but let’s take a moment to talk about my employment situation. At any given time, I have at least two jobs – usually three and sometimes four. During the school year I work as a Resident Advisor, caring for and nurturing fifty-your new college freshman and molding them into respectable, responsible young men.

ROFL LOL YEAH RIGHT

Mostly, I make sure they don’t choke on their own vomit after a particularly potent bender. This job takes care of my housing and the small stipend I receive covers what few bills I have. I have another job with a campus college, working in a technology office troubleshooting computers and peripherals for faculty, staff, and students. It’s a job that provides me with money to buy things like alcohol, props, and bubble umbrellas. I love my job there, because we are laid back and are generally “cool” with each other. Though it isn’t as honky-dory, open-arms, yay-omg-social-justice as my job with housing (and really, no job ever will be) I never have to feel like I need to tone down my appearance or altar who I am as a person to “fit in” or “be accepted” there. My knee-high boots do garner some looks from the faculty, but I always feel comfortable there. Even though I work with and interact with a number of area residents, who have been incorrectly and unfairly labeled ignorant townies by campus elitists.

That being said, I recently started a new job that differs greatly in tone. I decided to stay in Urbana-Champaign for a number of reasons, most of them very, very stupid, but I’ve still enjoyed my time here thus far. Anyway, I found myself working part-time at my technology job, with not enough cash to cover my luxurious lifestyle (i.e. brand name cheese and air conditioning). I searched out another job, and landed one with our campus’ central technology office essentially doing the same thing I do at the campus college just on a broader scale. The people that work there can be categorized into two groups:

1. Pasty pale geeks. Very stereotypical when thinking of a computer nerds.

2. Douchey white guys that happen to know a thing or two about computers.

That’s it. There is no one else that works there. (Well, except for Alpha Gay. A gay boy who introduced himself to me as “the only gay guy working here.” I told him that was no longer the case and he scoffed. Thus his nickname: Alpha Gay) These two groups even sit divisively. I straddle the middle with the token Asian.

My point is that this place doesn’t feel very inclusive. Everyone is white. I’m the only person of color, and had Alpha Gay not introduced himself as such I would have assumed I was the only Queer person there as well. Alpha Gay dresses, talks, and acts like any typical frat boy crooked hat and all. But again, not feeling the inclusivity. I don’t think I would wear my knee-high boots, or rock the little top hat. Mostly because I think it would illicit a negative reaction from my coworkers. I think I would make them uncomfortable. Which is why when campus was struck with heavy rainfall the other day, I opted for my plain ol’ blue vinyl umbrella. Sure, it got the job done and I stayed dry, but it felt very un-Mykal. Un-me.

And it got me thinking. Why did I take that umbrella? I like the bubble umbrella so much better. Am I, on some level, closeting myself? Can an umbrella do that? Is that umbrella part of my identity? Am I over-thinking everything?

I don’t have the answers to most (shit, any) of those questions. But, the next time it rains, I’ve decided to take my bubble umbrella.

I take a lot of shit for being a Mariah Carey fan. (A lamb, if you will. See #4)

Perhaps it isn’t the fact that I’m a fan so much as it is the degree to which I express my fanaticism. Which is rather ridiculous, I do admit. At any given hour you can hear her glorious golden-throated voice pumping from my speakers. And I defend her. Endlessly. Shamelessly. Unwaveringly. I defend her marriage to Nick Cannon. Her waning voice. Her over-the-top diva antics…

…Glitter.

I defend her, because Mariah Carey is synonymous with my identity as a gay man.

Yes, she’s a singer. An amazing singer. The most number-one singles of any solo artist. The Beatles have a mere two more number-one singles. She’ll shatter that someday. I love her for her talent, but I love her for so much more.

I was six. Too young to know what it meant to be gay. I was wearing this really big t-shirt with a faded Taz. The crazy Tasmanian devil from Loony Tunes. I used to sleep in it. Underneath, I donned a pair of bright purple briefs. My grandmother gave them to me. They came in a package with identical blue, red, and green colored briefs. It was right before Halloween and Mariah had just come out with “Fantasy.” Her seminal hit, as far as I’m concerned. At six years old, I had no idea what the fuck she was singing about but you better believe that I belted my little heart out. “It’s just a SAAAAAWEEET SWEET FANTASY BABY!”

I was dancing up and down on my mother’s bed. The one she occasionally shared with my sometimes present, sometimes drug-dealing father. Mariah was on the radio for the umpteenth time that day and there I was, singing my chunky six year old brown ass off. As I jumped and sang, my father walked in on me. Even now, I try to understand how that moment must have registered in his mind. Here was his little boy, dancing to Mariah Carey, wearing purple underwear and a t-shirt as a dress. Maybe my flamboyant existence threatened his masculinity. Maybe I should have been watching the baseball game. Maybe.

He didn’t say anything to me. He never says anything to me. He’s a very passive, hands-off, type of father. He instead started talking shit about me to my mother. Something he still does to this day.

Fucker.

He asked why she put me in sissy clothes. And why she let me prance around.

She told him to shut the fuck up and that was the end of that.

No dramatic blow-up. No fight. No big speeches about how I needed to be a real boy. None of that.

But I never forgot about this encounter. It’s etched in my brain and as much as I’d love for it to go away, it doesn’t.

I don’t know if it was in that moment, or some time later, but somewhere along the way I decided that if being a “regualr boy” meant I couldn’t listen to Mariah Carey and dance around in purple underwear I didn’t want to be a regular boy. That life sounded shitty. Where was the fun in that?

And ever since then, it’s been me and Mariah.

This isn’t a story I share with a lot of people, because I don’t like to qualify my identity as a gay man. I’m gay because I was born that way. I popped out of the womb crying for dick. Not milk. I don’t like to say, “I’m gay because my father didn’t love me.” No. I’m gay because I’m gay just like I’m brown, right-handed, and tall. It’s just the way it is.

I got a little carried away from my original intention, which was to tell you all about my latest Mariah experience. I seen her, for the fifth time, in concert at the Chicago Theatre. I’ve seen her in three arena shows and at a outdoor music festival, so this was . . . different. This was the first time seeing here where I was old enough to pay my own way and actually decide where I’d like to sit.

Last time I saw Mariah, I went with my then-boyfriend who tolerated Mariah for me. Before that I’d always been with family. I didn’t want to go with a friend who wasn’t a fan because they…wouldn’t understand. I really didn’t want to go alone, but I wasn’t afraid to do so. So, when it came down to it, I was either going to find a friend a friend and sit in the seventh row, or go by myself and sit in the first row.

My best friend, Marissa, had never been to a concert. She loved Mariah in a normal, not-Lamb, sort of way. Plus, she had never been to a concert. Period. It was done. Me + Marissa + Mariah = Heaven.

And Mariah was heaven. Her voice was as strong as I’d ever heard it. She fucked up on a high note during “Emotions” but I was floored that she even performed that song, as the last time I’d heard it live was ten years ago. It was amazing. She did My All and brought me as close to tears as I get these days.

More interestingly, though, were the people I noticed.

The over-glossed, over-coiffed, over-whored white bitch that literally applied makeup for forty-five minutes. Despite the fact that she showed up to the show with makeup already on.

The old queers! Mariah pulls an eclectic crowd and it always warms my heart to see old queer folks in committed, successful relationships.

A mother and her gay son, who couldn’t even be bothered to dress up and showed up in flip-flops and douchey hoodie. (Needless to say, I was salivating). It reminded me of when my mother would take me to these concerts.

And lastly, and most poignant and touching was the pair sitting next to me. It was a father and his flamboyant son. The boy couldn’t have been more excited. He spent the whole night screaming his undying love for Mimi, and his father happily indulged him. When Mariah asked where the single ladies were, the boy screamed and threw his hands up, and his father laughed along. I was so taken aback. Left so utterly speechless. Here was a father who loved his son enough to TAKE him to the gayest concert of the year and enjoy it with him.

I couldn’t even sing along with the radio.

I wish I could figure out exactly what is I want. Or how I feel. Or what the fuck is going on with me, that’s causing this wretched feeling. I keep asking myself, in a perfect world, how would things be? What exactly is it that I want? And I have no clue.

This space isn’t private enough for me to detail exactly why I’m all confused and shit – but I suspect a large part of it is just me acting stupid.

We’ll see.

I spent this past weekend, indulging my id and spending away my “hard-earned” cash. Come to think of it, I spent a lot of time inside of stores, but I didn’t spend anything. That’s the problem being “big and tall” – you’re severely limited in what you can wear and where you can shop. But I try. I compensate by (probably over) layering and wearing accessories like outlandish scarves and ridiculous sunglasses. Wait. Why did I start talking about shopping? I don’t know. Anyway. OMG I have two pairs of chucks on the way. This pair. And  this pair. I’m ridiculously excited.

Anwyay back to my point. Besides spending a heinous amount of time …. spending. I also saw two movies. Zombieland and Paranormal Activity. Zombieland was hilarious. Top 25 movies of all time, easily. And Paranormal Activity enters the Top 7. Seriously. It was ridiculously scary. My friend drove me home and I wouldn’t go in the house alone. I had to call another friend and she came in with me. You can add doors to the long list of things that frighten me. Seriously. In a theater of 200, there wasn’t one person that wasn’t screaming at the end of that movie. I’m getting scared just thikning about it now. I can’t dwell on it because I won’t go to sleep tonight if I do. Suffice it to say that if you love scary (and not in your face, Saw kind of scary, but honest to goodness creepy) then you will love Paranormal Activity.

I shop because I love scarves.

I shop because I love sunglasses.

I shop because I love shoes.

I shop because I love colors.

I shop because I love patterns

I shop because I love myself.

I shop because I want to forget.

I shop because I need to forget.

Need to forget that you’ll never return my affections.

Never return my longing gazes.

Never return my feelings.

My emotions

My desires

Desires to touch

To laugh

To play

To hold

To commit

Commit to you the way I commit to True Blood every Sunday

Commit to something other than a cigarette or a shot of Jose

I shop because it feels the empty

The empty feeling of knowing you’ll never propose to me at a Mariah Carey concert

I shop because I can

I shop because I can now and when I was growing up if I wasn’t on clearance it didn’t come home

I shop because debt somehow proves I’ve made something of myself

I shop because I need to prove something to myself

I shop because I love myself

I shop

I shop

I shop because I love scarves and sunglasses and shoes and myself.

I shop because even though it won’t heal the wound, it’ll cover it and make it look pretty.

(I’m not poetic. I’m not insightful. I’m not deep. I’m not any of those things. This was written in exactly 74 seconds and it probably shows.)

<3

True Blood Scoring Sheet: -1 Maryann’s gone. I loved her. -1 Sookie. In general. -1 No explanation for the Queen selling V. -1 Bill. In general. +1 Queenie all on top of Eric. -1 Not enough Eric. -1 Predictable cliffhanger ending. -1 Eggs. In general. -1 Tara’s slow devolution into this weak, sad thing. -1 Did it just occur to Sam to turn into a Bull?! -2 All it took was a horn through the heart to kill Maryann!?!?!

I think the title says it all.

This is something I do on my facebook every week, and thought it’d be good to transition over.

+1 Pam
+1 Vampire Queen
+1 Shirtless Bill

-1 Sookie’s weird pseudoseduction/rape
-1 Eric’s pseudopedophilia
-1 Not enough Eric

And when did that mug learn to fly?

Tonight’s episode was a wash, in my opinion. This has been my problem with the last few episodes, they’re all building up to the big ending and it’s getting on my nerves. Nothing’s happening in the meanwhile.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

So, a few weeks ago I began my first internship. Truthishly (hopefully you’ve seen the Family Guy episode where this word originated, otherwise I just look like an illiterate idiot – which I’m not, I promise.) I’ve never been an intern, so I had absoltely no idea what to expect. Would I be getting coffee all day? Expected to contribute in meetings and generate new ideas? I guess I’ve seen one too many movies with interns to hold any sort of stable concept of what one should do. As it turns out, I’ve landed somewhere in the middle. I work for a television station in Chicago (the Nation’s third-largest market, I’ve been told repeatedly) for both Programming and Promotions. On most days. I’m fiddling with schedules and listings, poring over ratings and making sure we haven’t violated some horrifically-complicated syndication contract.  I’ve never been asked to fetch coffee (or file anything, praise Jesus), no one has ever given me his/her lunch order, everyone’s remembered my name, and no one’s referred to me as “the intern.” I’m simply Mykal, which is always nice.

Sadly, because I work in television, THE ECONOMY is an overbearing presence in my office. One of my favorite co-workers was recently laid off. (Not to mention, I now complete most of her duties). A slew of people in the newsroom and production were recently laid-off, as well; The office’s already-low morale has dropped even further. What I’m told was once a lively and bustling little community of co-workers is kind of dreary and quiet. My manager has taken an instant liking to me, and she shares with me the sordid office gossip that you just know a dramawhore such as myself lives off of. So that’s an obvious plus. Mostly, though, I enjoy being able to walk in the studio whenever I please, take a gander at the newsroom, take a gawk and whomever’s appearing on the news that morning. The perks, while they may seem small to you, send me into a tiny fit of excitement. Mainly because it makes me feel special.

Coupled with this most pleasant job, is a job that pays in cash money, as opposed to academic credit hours. For the third consecutive summer, I find myself empoyed by the Goodwill. It isn’t that I hate my job, or anything. I just don’t enjoy going. The customers are rude. Management displays heinous and blatant favoritism – which usually isn’t a problem, except one assistant manager doesn’t like me. 90% of my co-workers are apathetic and I end up working harder to balance them out. It’s just a shitty place to be employed. I think I applied at every retailer in my area, and NO ONE called me back. Asshelmets. I guess I should be glad to have a job, right? I guess.