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.

So, in Mexico, children celebrate Easter by smashing Cascarones (confetti-filled dyed eggs) over each other’s head. Why? Well, according to Wikipedia, having an egg broken over your head brings good luck, but really, it’s just a shit ton of fun. Now I need to wrangle some people to smash.

Watch in HQ :]

I think an update on my mumsy is appropriate. Where we last left off dear reader, the Dragon Lady and I weren’t on the greatest terms. Well, I don’t know who the fuck spiked her morning tea, but when I came home for winter break, she was a completely different person. We had one heated discussion on the situation, and left it at that. In one fell swoop I had my car, credit card, and most importanty mother back. It was amazing. Of course now she owns my life because she took control of my credit card bill, which means my soul is forever hers. Greaaat. But other than that tiny detail, relations with my mumsy are well.

Thankfully, that means my mother has resumed her … quirky phone calls. See mumsy has the amazing knack for calling me at six in the morning on the few precious days I get to sleep in. It’s like…her talent. I don’t know. And if I don’t answer the phone, her immediate reaction is, “Why didn’t you answer? What are you doing? Why aren’t you up? What time did you go to sleep? Are you on drugs? Having unprotected sex? Ay, Dios Mio. Didn’t I raise you better than that! You’re in college to learn, not to fuck around.” I’m 99% certiain she’s joking, but you never know. Anyway, I say that thankfully these calls have returned because she says some of the craziest shit during our “special” phone calls. For instance, she told me that my father plans to marry the desperate hag he calls a girlfriend. Seriously, this woman has to work her way up to skank. Ugh. Anyway. She’s telling me all about how my father is in the same exact position he was in 20 years ago, and  how he hasn’t changed, and this new bimbo is making the same mistakes mumsy did. It’s all so sad. And then she goes, “I mean I’m sure she thinks she loves him, but she’ll learn.” And it was in that moment that I was like, My mom’s the shit. Go mom.

Haha. This is why I love Postcards From Yo Momma. Maybe I should submit it.

I like analogies. If you’re good at them [and so few people are] chances are I’ll like you. the Mistress is pretty good at them, one of the many reasons that I enjoy her ever-increasing company. Sadly, many people really suck at them, I mean … wait, what was the original point of this post?

Oh, yeah! Christmas! The other day I was talking to her about how I really don’t like Christmas anymore. The holiday itself. I enjoy Christmas music, buying and wrapping presents, decorating and baking, but when it comes to the day itself I am inevitably disappointed. I can’t help it. Whether it’s the family yelling at each other like common inmates (though, I earnestly believe inmates may be better behaved than the Mykal Bloom family) or not talking to each other and gossiping acidly behind each others’ backs, holidays aren’t usually a happy time. Which makes me think, how many of those fondly-regarded Christmases of my youth actually sucked monkey balls, and I just didn’t know it? How many brutal family arguments did I miss because I was so engrossed in my Power Rangers action figures? (Rita <33).

So, now that I’m older, I’ve just come to not anticipate Christmas. Of course I buy presents. Jesus knows I’m always prowling for any excuse to recklessly throw cash away. And yes, I blare my Mariah Carey “Merry Christmas” album, and I absolutely lurve to bake Christmas cookies, but Christmas just isn’t . . . exciting anymore. Perhaps it’s just another depressing reality of getting older, but in all honesty, I’d rather have the music and cookies and skip the holiday itself.

And when explaining all of this to the dear mistress, she retorted curtly, “Dude, you like Christmas. That’s like saying, ‘Oh, I like to suck dick, and I like it up the ass, but I’m not gay.’ No, fuck that, you like Christmas”

If only that were the case.

Regular readers know that I’m currently entrenched in a cold war with the Dragon Lady. (sometimes referred to as my mother) She sent me this particularly nasty email, deploring me for how unappreciative I am and how she no longer feels the need to help me (mainly financially, but in other means of support as well I suppose). I canned my initial reaction – anger – and I’ve been pretty good with not sending her emails along the lines of, “Hey Bitch, Drop Dead.” Despite the fact that deep down I probably do miss her, overall I kinda want to punch her in the face. The past few days she’s taken to calling me as if nothing has changed, and I’m like, “…the fuck?! I don’t want to talk to you. For all I care, we could never talk again, I’d be OK with that. Stop talking to me.” She’s like, “Yeah, work blah blah blah. And your father, blah blah blah.” And she expects me to be sympathetic? Like, bitch, you send me this email that basically says in your eyes my life has amounted to EPIC FAIL, and now you want to be all Lorelai Gilmore about it? Think NOT.

So this morning she called yet again, letting me know that my Godson had been born. (Yay!) And she started going off about how she has strep, and my brother stubbed his toe, and how my father won’t help. Usually I’m on her side when it comes to these things, but considering that I now rely on my father for transportation to and from home, I cant’ really fault the man for saying, “Fuck you.” If anything, I’m jealous I don’t have the balls to do the same. During our conversation, at least nine times, I had the overwhelming urge to snap at her, to tell her I didn’t care, to tell her my father has the right idea, to tell her that I hate her and I want my car back. But I didn’t. I bit my tongue. And I am so proud of myself.

Let’s stop for a moment, because at this point, I’m sure at least one of you is appalled at how I can treat my mother with such abject hatred. But really, I learned it from her. If it’s one thing my mother is the best at, it’s turning so wholly on friends and family. Hell, look at the way she treats her own son. So, no, I don’t feel bad about the things I say or the way I feel. Eye for an eye, and whatnot. Please save your bullshit on how an eye for eye leaves the whole world blind.

kthanks.

When I was growing up, my Mom was my world. My dad wasn’t around much. My brother is eight years younger than me. So for a long time, it was just me and her. My strongest memories of her, though, are the bad ones. I don’t know why. You know, every birthday and Christmas, she would take me aside, just before the presents and threaten me: “I don’t care if you get a present you already have or if you don’t like it. You say thank you. We can return it later. So help me God, if you don’t say thank you, I will take back all of your presents.” And then she gave me this look that said “I am not fucking around.”

My mom, the Dragon Lady* as I’ve called her for so many years, isn’t speaking to me presently. I am not 100% sure why. Words were exchanged between her and I. “Ungrateful” was thrown around a lot. I blame Oprah. See, Oprah, in her laughable attempt at seeming human, decide to forgo her usual “Favorite Things” show (in which she rains gifts upon an unsuspecting audience) and instead blabbered on about making scrapbooks, and sharing memories. Blah blah blah. As “compensation” I guess you could say, she offered a free down loadable CD on her website. My mother, ever the Oprah zealot, was quick to down load and wanted to burn the songs to a CD. Not quite knowing how to go about that, she woke me from my (semi-drunken) sleep and asked (very nicely, but loudly) for me to help her. She had Christmas music playing in the back. As I groggily answered her questions about file names and folders, I heard that Mariah’s classic” All I Want for Christmas is You” started to play. I quietly sang along, as images of the Boy popped in and out of my mind. It was quite nice; Imagining spending a holiday with him. Le sigh. But my small daydream was interrupted by my mother’s question, “Do I want to make an audio CD or a data CD?”

I mean, really? I thought that was obvious. S0, I, very rudely I do admit, told her that she wanted to make an audio CD, wasn’t that obvious that she wanted to make an audio CD? God. I was mad at her, mad at her for breaking my fantasy. Silly, I know. But when all you have are those fantasies, you learn to cherish them. I didn’t apologize. I couldnt’ swallow my pride. This was Thanksgiving morning. The tension never let up and spread through my family during dinner. She had divided us, with her talk of ungratefulness and disresepct. Her sisters, quick to agree, had tunred on us, the children. And Thanksgiving was horrible. Not one person was speaking to everyone. If that makes sense. This carried over into Friday. But finally, my Mother and I talked. I apologized. All seemed right with the world. We went to Sam’s. She brought me back to school, bought me groceries.

Then, on Monday morning she sends me this horrible email about how ungrateful I am and how she won’t let me ruin her life anymore. I have my suspicions about why she sent me this email, but I can’t be sure. So, she told me she wasn’t goimg to help me anyore. Financially, emotionally, nothing. She would provide a roof and her (small) part of my tuition. That was it. No other money, no car, no rides home from the train station (therein cutting off my ability to come home as much as I like). I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to yell, I wanted to cry**, I wanted to hurt her, but I wanted to ask her why? I didn’t understand it. The severity of her punishment, the loss I felt. Not for my possesions, not for the money, for my mom. I feel like I lost my mom. And that rejection hurts more than any man. the Boy could tell me a thousand times he hates me (God! I cringe at the thought) and it wouldn’t hurt as much losing my mom this way. I lost her as my friend.

And it’s all my fault.

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*This nickname started in true adoration and teasing. It seems all too true these days, though.
** I don’t cry. At least not in real life. I’ll sob for Meredith Grey, but the Bestie could die and I wouldn’t shed one tear. I’m just weird.