Could be a crackhead....Or a thickheaded Christian

A few weekends ago I found myself immersed in the various levels of ugly that made up the crowd at the Baltimore pride parade. My immediate reaction upon arriving at the parking lot where the tailgating was taking place was to drink as quickly and heavily as possible. That was the only way I would be able to survive staring at this type of crowd for an extended period of time without feeling completely offended.

As the music blared and the lesbians grilled, I looked over to see a small child hoisted onto the shoulders of a very drunk mother who happened to be jamming out to 1998 hip hop. I know for certain that I was frightened by my surroundings, so I can only imagine what was going through that poor child's head. Simultaneously, a woman who embodied the very essence of a crackhead was flailing her arms back and forth in an attempt to dance and seduce an adjacent lesbian with a tattoo that read, "God made me pretty". How ironic. I can't help but think God must have been having an off day or got distracted sending Jesus a text message when creating her.

I often times find myself wondering why lesbians are so disheveled. Strangely enough, all of my lesbian friends actually happen to be attractive and at the very least slightly feminine, but every single pride event I've ever attended, no matter what city, is flooded by lesbians that could easily be mistaken for overweight plumbers or heavyweight champions. Baltimore was absolutely no exception. I swear at one point I looked over and saw two different lesbians scarfing down a hot dog without so much as a single chew. For a group that is so opposed to weeners, they seem to take great pleasure in shoving them down their throats without shame. I suppose I can identify.

In general I find that gay pride parades bring about every type of lesbian and/or gay that very few of us would actually be "proud of" per se. Nevertheless, I can appreciate the sense of camaraderie and community during these types of events. It reminds me of a real life family, where you realize that you don't choose to have ugly or obnoxious family members, you just accept them as an inevitable reality and move on. That's relatively close to how I feel about the gay marriage issue. If you don't like what you see, just look the other way. I found myself having to do plenty of that in Baltimore, and it's just a part of life. There will be times where you don't particularly care for the environment or lifestyle or people that surround you, but it's never an excuse for interfering in the lives of others. I'll be the first to admit that I can be a judgmental prick. My day in Baltimore was filled with reverberating thoughts of "I didn't know such levels of ugly and trashy could exist and be morphed into one person". But in those instances, if I wasn't staring out of curiosity and entertainment, I just looked away and kept it moving. For those people that oppose gay marriage or the gay lifestyle in general, I can only say this: If you don't like gay marriage, blame straight people. They're the ones that keep having gay babies.

For me the logic seems simple. If you have a problem with the gay lifestyle, then don't be gay. You can hide and shelter yourself and your precious children in a bubble in suburbia but guess what, sooner or later Todd and Chad will be moving in next door with their black lab, Vietnamese baby, and VW Jetta parked in the driveway. Sorry to burst that bubble. But, it doesn't stop there. They will recruit your children for play-dates with the Vietnamese, bake you an evil quiche, sow you some curtains for your bare windows, and saunter away the hopes and dreams you had for living in Pleasantville. Before you know it, you and your spouse and all of your children will be partaking in musical theater and embracing the arts while living a life of evil and sin without even realizing it. The world is changing and I believe the views and perspectives of human beings in general need to evolve as well. In the end, we are no different than animals. Animals have evolved for millions of years to adapt to changes and become fit enough to live and thrive in their environments. What makes us different? What is it about change that scares people so much?

Some of the reason behind the "logic" I've heard spewing from the mouths of conservatives and religious zealots is that the Bible says homosexuality is an abomination. Well the Bible also says that adultery and divorce and pre-marital sex are all grounds for dismissal from The Kingdom of God...yet I see Sarah Palin's 17 year-old daughter, Bristol, embracing her love for the male genitalia and then discussing it with Barbara Walter's on The View in between breaks to breast feed her baby. The world is a sadly hypocritical place. It must be nice to pick and choose to believe what you want based on convenience, and then condemn what you disagree with based on ignorance.

Presidential hopeful Michele Bachmann and her husband, Marcus, are actively involved in the "Conversion Therapy" movement, where a person with homosexual tendencies can actually "pray away the gay" through therapy and religion. It astonishes me that highly educated (allegedly) individuals like Michelle and Marcus can simultaneously be so sheltered and idiotic. Perhaps a better use of their time would benefit from counseling ignorant Bible thumping Midwesterners to use condoms, monitor their cheese intake, and stop the obesity epidemic that's driving up healthcare costs. At the very least, that area of the country would benefit from condoms and a detraction of hideous genetics being spewed out from the vaginas of 19 year old mothers (No offense to those hot, cornfed and moderately educated Midwesterners. Hollerrrrrr!)

In short, I would love nothing more than to place Michelle Bachmann or Anne Coulter amidst a crowd of New Yorkers in Times Square and allow them to speak for 10 minutes about their views on gays. I would televise the event and hold nationwide bets for an ultimate jackpot to the person who can guess how many Louis Vuitton purses, Alexander McQueen shoes, D&B sunglasses, and Skinny Girl Margarita bottles the gays could throw at them in the span of exactly 10 minutes. Whether they like it or not, the gays may be queens but they are also relentless, catty, and vindictive. It's a perfect tri-fecta of evil used for survival that would not exist had people like Coulter and Bachmann just kept their mouths shut and possibly their legs closed.

And since we're all entitled to voice our own opinions I can wholeheartedly say this: I'd much rather attend the wedding of the crackwhore in Baltimore exchanging vows with the morbidly obese tattooed lesbian, officiated by a scantily clad Tranny in a thong and lace bra, instead of the backdoor redneck fiasco shotgun weddings that take place all across America intended to represent the "sanctity of marriage". Whether we like it or not, change is coming; and you can either embrace the evolving ways of society that represent fairness, progress, and equality, or swim against the current and drown amidst your own stupidity and false pretenses. I just hope that the Bachmann's, in the thick of their endeavors to preserve America, took some time off for some swimming lessons.

Excessive Heat Warning

It's days like these that I fear most. Those summer days where the temperatures soar and the humidity clings to you like like a relentless ex that you want nothing to do with. Days like this make me angry at myself. They truly and honestly bring out the worst sides of me.

I hate the fact that I sweat far more profusely than the average human. I hate that I'm forced to wear dress pants and a button-down shirt to work amidst excessive heat warnings. I hate the metro, the crowds, the pavement, the sun, the shade, the warm disgusting breeze blowing the sweat off my face. Most of all, though, I hate that at any given moment, I can look up or down a street and find one of two things: a girl in a sundress wearing flip-flops and sunglasses looking minimally bothered by the oppressive heat, or a strikingly thin gay man wearing the gay summer uniform - a torn tank top/wife beater combo adorned with a picture of a child actor from the 80's that barely constitutes as clothing and fully exposes both nipples but is still sold for $20-$30 bucks at American Apparel, slightly rolled up and/or frayed jean shorts, and excessively large and colorful high tops that look cheap and worn yet, in reality, cost $400 from an online sale at Barney's.

I get angry at both because I'm in dress clothes and it's unfair. Why can girls show up to work half naked during the summer and I can't? Why do they get to wear open-toed shoes while I'm forced into black socks and ugly loafers that literally taunt me every morning while I dress? Who the hell made these rules? And above all, where the fuck are all these gays going dressed like that? Am I missing out on some type of Tuesday mid-morning rave on U street? New York is even worse. Do the gays even work there? Did they all get the same memo that black leather gladiator sandals is the only acceptable form of footwear within the confines of the 5 Burroughs of New York?

All these questions race through my mind as I look down at my watch and realize that my dress shirt is soaked, my balls have suffocated and retaliated with anger in the form of chaffing, and I'm late for my 9-5 life. There's few things worse in life than sweating completely through one's work clothing and arriving to the office looking as though you've just stepped off a river cruise during a monsoon in the Amazon. My anxiety and levels of discomfort in this type of weather are not unfounded....

A couple of summers ago, I was going through my usual phase of "Fuck this place I'm moving to NYC" mentality. I had applied to numerous jobs when, out of the blue, a small sports advertising company contacted me for an interview. "Finally!", I thought, as I emailed them back confirming a date and time to meet. My plan was to hop the Chinatown bus from DC to NYC on a Thursday evening and spend the night with my friend Candy at her apartment in Long Island City before my 9am Friday interview. Her apartment was conveniently located within walking distance of the place, so I was proud of myself for my quick last minute arrangements. "This'll be easy" I thought to myself. "I'll be there in time for a late dinner with Candy, get some rest and wake up early for my interview and then head back home in the afternoon". Of course, my life as I've learned never goes as planned.

When I arrived to Penn Station on that Thursday evening, I noticed on various flat screen TV's a CNN headline that read "Worst heatwave in over a decade to hit Northeast cities tomorrow". In my mind, I brushed it off thinking that I would just surround myself in air-conditioned spaces for the next 48 hours. No biggie. I hopped on the subway and headed towards Candy's place in LIC to change and head out for a drink and some food. Upon arriving, I walked into her apartment and was met with a blast of heat far more sweltering than the outdoors.

"Holy fuck your apartment is like living in the slums of Mumbai, except without the unlimited supply of cheap curry and human shit on the streets!". Candy's apartment was nice and big, but grotesquely un-airconditioned.

"I know" she laughed. "There's no central AC and I haven't really needed a window unit until now". Great. I had conveniently forgotten that most people in their early 20's living in NYC and supporting themselves have barely any money to eat, much less afford an extravagant luxury such as a window unit. In an effort to escape Satan's lair, I suggested we go to a restaurant and hang out for a few hours.

In my mind, 10:30pm is a reasonable hour to return to an apartment and expect for the interior to not feel as though you're being wedged into an overweight bus driver's crotch. Unfortunately, Candy's apt was still a sweltering 88 degrees inside. I took a cold shower and a shot of vodka and settled into the leather couch in the living room where I would be spending the night. I opened both windows next to the couch in a desperate effort to have some type of cross breeze. I'm not exaggerating when I say this was amongst one of the worst nights of my life. I tossed and turned until about 1 am, at which point I peeled my soaking body off the leather couch and headed towards the kitchen. I opened the freezer and attempted to climb in, but only my head would fit. I then opened the refrigerator to cool down my legs and balls and began to imagine myself as a frozen pork loin basking in the glory of freezer burn. After passing out with my head in the freezer and balls near the milk, I made my way to the sink, turned it on, and furiously splashed water on my face and chest before heading back towards the leather couch.

Following a few more hours of tossing and turning, coupled with the incessant rumbling and shaking of the above ground train running directly next to the living room window, I began to panic. I realized I had only a few more hours of solid rest before my interview, but I was sweating so profusely that I actually considered walking to the nearest hospital and having them admit me for dehydration and heat exhaustion. At least that way I could find some relief. Seeing as how it would be difficult to make an interview successfully wearing nothing but a hospital gown, I began searching for a nearby hotel. In moments like these where I'm so exhausted and uncomfortable, I lose all dignity and would have walked to the nearest Holiday Inn wearing nothing but underwear and a moist towel around my head had I been able to find one. At one point, I honestly feared I would pass out and drown in my own pool of sweat. The NYPD would peel my dead body off the couch the following day, and I would join the small list of senior citizens and mentally handicapped victims on the headline of the NY Times: "Extreme Heat Responsible for Death of 3 elderly, 1 Mentally Disabled child, and 1 Large and Sweaty Giant Pussy of a Man". So I can't handle extreme heat as well as others...I know this and I have accepted it as my fate. Pussy or not.

I finally awoke in a fit of anxiety as the sun beamed onto my face. I looked at the clock on the wall. 7AM. At this point, I knew falling back asleep would be impossible so I stripped off my clothing and headed towards a cold shower, figuring that 2 hours to dress and walk 1/4 mile to the interview would be ample time. Have you ever experienced stepping out of a shower and dressing yourself in formal attire in a blistering hot room? It's a feeling I think everyone should experience at least once in their lives to connect with our ancestors from the previous centuries. Had I lived during their time, I would have gladly enlisted in the military and volunteered myself to be amongst the first line of defense in a deadly battle. If that didn't work, I would forcibly engage in lewd sexual acts with someone riddled with bubonic plague.

As I strolled out the door in my damp suit, I headed towards the Quizno's on the street corner. My plan was to walk 15 feet and then quickly duck into the nearest shop for temporary relief before continuing on. It was 8:15am and the temperature was already creeping towards 100, and if I arrived to the interview early enough I could enjoy a few moments of peace in an air-conditioned lobby. Imagine my disappointment when I arrived a half hour later to find this newly constructed building made entirely of windows and a half finished lobby. With no AC. At this point my anxiety crept up as I knew for certain that my interviewer would take one look at me and think I was a homeless businessman living out of his car and wearing the same filthy suit covered in sweat marks. As I made my way to the 9th floor, I opened the office door and greeted the receptionist.

"Sorry about the heat in here, our AC doesn't seem to be working these past few days."

"Oh no worries, I was accidentally pushed into a sewage pond on the way here so AC is the least of my worries right now" I smiled, as I sat onto an all-too-familiar leather couch. Moments later, the interviewer appeared and led me back to his office which, of course, was also comprised entirely of windows and no blinds. Luckily, he was sweating as incessantly as me as he sat and began the interview. I can't say I remember much of what happened, as I'm fairly certain I may have blacked out at various points during our discussion. Regardless, I left the building and headed quickly back towards Candy's apartment. When I opened the door, I found Candy's roommate sitting in the living room watching TV.

"How can you sit in here it's like 90 degrees?"
"Oh well it's nice out here my room is FREEZING. I slept with the window unit on all night."

Upon noticing the look on my face, she asked "Did you sleep ok out here? I wish you had said something I have an extra air mattress in my room you could have slept on".

Trying my best to not kick the bitch in her ovaries, I gathered my belongings and headed out the door. The thought of taking the subway to midtown and waiting 3 hours for my bus was overwhelming to me. At this point I was so desperate for relief, that I hopped on the internet and booked a flight from JFK-DCA which would depart in 4 hours. Fuck the bus. Happy with my decision, I hopped on the airtrain and got off at the Delta terminal of JFK where I could finally relax in the AC and grab a drink. As I entered the terminal, I was horrified to find large industrial fans scattered strategically throughout the building.

"AC's broken" said the large African American lady at the Delta counter to me. "We got fans."
"Yes, I see that thank you. Um, by any chance can I get on an earlier flight. Sayyyyyy right around....now?"
"That's a hundred dollaz, sir. And it's full."
"Great" I smiled, and walked away.

The next 4 hours passed eternally slow until I heard the sweet and angelic voice of the gate agent announcing the boarding of my flight. I walked down the Jetway fanning myself with my boarding pass yet ecstatic that I would soon enter the notoriously frigid cabin of an airplane. I smiled at the flight attendant and stepped on board where I found row after endless row of overweight passengers violently fanning themselves with barfbags and magazines and desperately reaching towards the air-vents above them. The inside of this cabin was, no exaggeration, a cool 90 degrees. I took my window seat and recalled the scene in that movie "Airplane" where the old lady hangs herself mid-flight. I began to wonder if my seat belt was strong enough to support my body weight. The captain announced that, due to a malfunctioning APU system, there was no AC available on the ground. IS THIS REAL? By now I could say with all confidence that I know what it would have been like to be a prisoner of war in Vietnam or Rosie O'Donnell on an African safari.

As the plane taxied and I went in and out of consciousness, the captain informed us we were number 21 for take-off and would sit on the runway for the next hour or so. Baking. What was supposed to be a 30 min flight suddenly seemed endless. I could have fucking walked home by now. The flight attendants walked through the cabin offering small glasses of water as I grabbed 3 and proceeded to dump each, one by one, on my face. The next thing I can remember is landing in DCA and taking the metro back to my dad's office to catch a ride home. As I opened the door to the car, I threw my belongings in the back and collapsed into the front seat. "Tough day?" my dad asked with a grin on his face, as I looked over and gave him the finger.

This ordeal occured 2 years ago and it haunts me still. Any time I see warnings for "excessive heat" or adjectives such as "Blistering, boiling, sweltering" and any other word that should never be used to describe the weather, I cringe in fear. Since I'm not fortunate enough to have been built with the body of a 15 year old Korean gymnast and cannot appropriately pull-off the summer gay look or a sundress, I'll be declining any invite for an outdoor gathering until mid September. I've noticed more and more rooftop bars and outdoor seating available for happy hours and fine dining and I laugh to myself as I drive by in the comfort of my AC on a hot summer day and notice two gays on a dinner date, in their summer uniforms, inconspicuously dabbing the glisten on their foreheads as their date looks away.

Is There Vodka in the Freezer?

Being a homo is not all fun and games. While to most it may seem like a lifestyle full of swanky gyms, lavish vacations, sexual escapades, and eventually a luxury town home complete with 2 dogs and/or a newly adopted ethnic baby, it can also be quite challenging. Growing up in a South American household has many advantages, but being gay is certainly not one of them. As a young kid, my parents frequently took our family to their respective countries every year.  Upon deplaning, not only were we met with loads of extended family members and oppressive heat, but we were also the subject of every single family member's criticism. On more than a few occasions, we would be called fat which, to the despair of my sister and I, became the common theme for our extended vacations down there.  Since my parents so frequently found it necessary to take three obnoxious kids on 12 hour flights to their homelands, we were able to form quite a few friendships with the kids of my dad's former high school buddies.  
 
One summer, my parents decided it would be a good idea to send my brother Luis and I to Paraguay to stay with my aunt and uncle for three months.  I was 11 at the time and my brother was 15, so my parents saw this as the perfect opportunity to deal with fewer kids in the house for 3 months.  Since my sister was only 7, the lucky bitch got to stay home.  My brother was excited to go since he had convinced my parents to enroll him in a soccer league for the duration of those 3 months.  Because of this, my mom had also brilliantly decided that my chubby ass would benefit from tennis clinics at the local country club near my aunt and uncle's house 4 days a week.  As a fat little boy with few friends, being sent to Paraguay for 3 months and forced to play tennis and spend time with my dickheaded brother sounded about as appealing as a sleepover with Michael Jackson.
 
When the day finally arrived, I started to worry at the outcome of this trip as my parents sent us down the jet-way, armed with a fanny pack and full of fear that my brother would somehow purposefully place me on the wrong flight during our connection in Miami.  My fear became real as he turned to me and said, "Listen asshole, don't annoy me or cry for mommy and nothing bad will happen to you.  In fact, let’s try not to speak until we get there."  I immediately imagined myself stepping off a plane in some remote African country carrying nothing but a fanny pack with my passport and twenty bucks in cash.  I would fend for myself by selling Chiclets on the streets and washing windshields at stop lights with all the other children.  If I worked hard enough, I could eventually afford a mud hut where i would reside by myself and study the language and culture of my local village.  After sometime, I would force my way into the inner circles of my new society and take over as king or tribes leader and live happily ever after in spite of my asshole brother.  Nevertheless, the tears flowed down my cheeks as the plane took off and left DC in the distance.  
 
 
Within the first two weeks, I had managed to successfully ditch my tennis clinics by convincing my aunt that I would be much more useful at home with her discussing soap operas and getting the housekeeper to teach me her best recipes.  I also didn’t have much of a choice, as halfway through our stay my brother and some of my so-called "friends" convinced me it would be a good idea to play goalie during numerous mini soccer matches.  Needless to say, I ended up with a broken left wrist as a result of my brother shooting towards the goal with the force of a German firing squad while pretending to be David Beckham.  Exactly one week later, my right wrist broke during a separate attempt at me playing soccer against my savage brother.  Left with two useless arms, I could barely dress myself or do much of anything, really, but at least I gained culinary experience and watched every soap opera that existed during the summer of 1996.  My parents are still convinced it was a great experience, but they're also half-buzzed as a result of their daily wine consumption so what the hell do they know anyway?
 
As we got older, our trips to South America came with a price: about 2 months of serious anxiety thinking, "Holy shit I have to lose 40lbs and buy new clothes and bleach my teeth so I'm not criticized and ridiculed by my supposed 'loving' family and friends".  My sister Daniella and I would starve ourselves in an effort to look good, but it never seemed to be enough. Luis, of course, being the ever-perfect athlete and social superstar, could down 10 burgers and some slurpees the week before leaving yet somehow manage to retain abs.  He looked, talked, and behaved like an asshole so that became my preferred method of addressing him.  
 
For these reasons, I grew quickly nervous upon receiving an email from my childhood friend in Paraguay informing me that she was getting married.  As I sat and pondered the absurdity of a culture in which marriage (of course only between a man and a woman) and reproducing were an essential part of your 20's, I decided it would be an interesting experience to go back and see some family and friends that I hadn't seen in over 5 years.  Given my track record of venturing to foreign countries alone, I decided upon visiting Buenos Aires for a few days before heading to Paraguay to be called fat and ugly and have every last droplet of self-esteem completely pulverized.   The following is an account of some of my time in Buenos Aires that I chose to re-cap while sitting in a random cafe:
 
I'm in a rustic cafe in Buenos Aires that smells funny - a bit stale if not reminiscent of the cafeteria inside a nursing home. I'm not sure what brought me to this particular one, but I'm thinking the name "Cafe Pretty” had something to do with it.  Maybe I’m feeling particularly pretty today. It's March and it's hot and I've been sweating nonstop for the past 4 days, so how I can feel so good beyond all that is astonishing to me.
 
There are smells and sounds and an energy in Buenos Aires that are difficult to describe, but it reminds me of my childhood.  I still remember always feeling hot and uncomfortable as a kid, a lot like I've been feeling these last few days.  The difference is that now I feel slightly calmer, as though the nuisances of life like heat and traffic and crowds aren't quite as bothering to me.  Don't get me wrong, this particular hostel I’m staying in is equivalent to sleeping on the surface of the sun, which makes me cranky and mean to all those around me. In fact, I've had to apologize for not being as friendly as I could have been to this one British girl but I blame the excessive heat and the fact I have to walk up 6 stories of steep stairs to get to my room.
 
As I walk around this city, I see how different people’s lives are.  It's funny how at home I'm consumed by my own problems that many would classify as "petty". I’ve come to realize that although that may be true, everyone’s problems and hardships and hurdles are relative, and they are their own, which actually doesn’t make it petty at all. While I know that the woman sleeping on the streets with her kids's idea of a bad day is not having enough money to eat, while mine is "Why won’t this asshole that I like text me back?" they're both a cause of anxiety for each of us. It's stupid and trivial, but it's true.  Both of these instances can be portals towards anxiety and unhappiness which, ultimately, are no different for either me or that woman.  We all just want to be happy in the end, right?  Of course in my experience, drinking heavily and dancing like a douche bag to "Top 40" songs tends to help.
 
In a city of nearly 20 million, I still feel as though I'm a part of the energy. I don't feel lonely the way I often might when I’m at home. I like the honking and the diesel smoke and the street performers and the mopeds and the smell of food cooking on the streets- it's so different from what I’m used to that it makes me feel strangely alive- aside from the overwhelming smell of urine, which is something I can't seem to escape in DC or any major city.  It's incredible how going out of your own comfort zone can change your perspective and mood and outlook on whatever it is that made you feel uneasy in the past. For me, it seems as though each time I travel to a new country, it's because I'm running away from something or someone that caused me to be uneasy back home.  I can't help but think this is the case once again. Maybe it's just my denial, but it seems as though my worries and anxieties and insecurities and fears seem to disappear when I'm experiencing something new, so perhaps I just find myself craving that necessary break from time to time. I haven't felt as care free and happy and, most importantly, present in the moment as I've felt in the past few days.
 
Last night, I went to a floating casino where my friend Chrissy and I spent hours on the slot machine, winning and losing and winning only to ultimately lose.  There was one point where Chrissy and I had tried to re-enact a real life scenario of her very overweight stepdad consuming shrimp at an all-inclusive buffet, but when I attempted to exclaim, "This shrimp is DELICIOUS!" in my nasally obese-man grunt, Chrissy was roaring like a hyena so loudly that I spit some of my wine onto the shoes of an old Argentinean woman, which nearly got us escorted off the premises.  No matter where in the world I am, I've come to thoroughly enjoy the unmistakable look on a local's face that inevitably conveys the world's superb annoyance with loud and obnoxious Americans.  
 
Chrissy is actually one of my sister's friends that came to Buenos Aires for study abroad in college and, like any other American girl, found a boy and fell in love.  That was over two years ago and she hasn't been back since.  It seems strangely similar to my love story in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, except I'm assuming Chrissy's now fiancé, Pablo, is not a stripper or a hooker.  Maybe I just don't quite know how to pick them.  
 
In this cafe I'm sitting at, I ordered a really grotesque chicken sandwich that tasted dry and, frankly, offensive.  To make up for it, I've ordered a chocolate frappucino with extra syrup and 2 non-diet Pepsi's, and I can say with strong conviction that I’m enjoying every calorie induced sip. I've come to find that the key to enjoying any trip is to make the best out of the situation you're in because it's the only thing you can really do.  My hostel advertised air conditioning and comfortable beds, but what I've gotten is quite the opposite. My room is at least 90 degrees and their idea of AC is a ceiling fan, an open window, and a cheap white towel you can rent and use at your leisure to wipe the sweat dripping from your now entirely unattractive body.  But what can you do? Besides sleep half naked of course. Or find a stranger at a bar to go home with. I can only laugh and remember that I've paid approximately 16 dollars a night, so in the end the lack of AC won't kill me - although it might accentuate my ass hole-like tendencies.  After all, I'm only human and even under the best of circumstances I can be a real dick.  
 
My life at home seems so consumed by money and promotions and social networking and meetings and conferences and dealing with people you want nothing to do with, that it's such a refreshing thing to be able to travel 14 hours by plane and experience only the things that YOU yourself want to experience. Even if that means sweating your balls off in a third world country.  There’s so many tango shows and comedy shows being advertised and, yet, I haven't gone to one.  At first I felt a bit guilty because everyone says, "You can't leave Buenos Aires without experiencing a tango show". Really? Well, I am.  I don't want to see two people dancing far better than I ever could, so I'm deciding not to. And guess what? I don't give a fuck. I'll just watch Dancing with the Stars on TV and pretend I saw a tango show.  I've done what I've wanted to do in these past 4 days, and that's more fulfilling to me than getting ripped off watching a tango show and eating the all inclusive dinner by myself. I'd rather go to a local bar and enjoy a few drinks, or sit in a cafe and continuously lie to strangers about where I'm from.
 
I’m constantly finding that when you travel alone, it's the only time in life when you'll be truly free to do whatever you want. Don't let yourself get caught up in what others say you should be doing or seeing; make the experience your own.  There's absolutely nothing wrong with that.  I spend far too much time at home and at work having to answer to the likes of others, so do what pleases you.  The only thing that’s truly universal when traveling is this:
Watch your shit closely; these foreign fuckers like to steal.
 
Having had a fulfilling trip to Buenos Aires, I made my way to the airport for the quick flight to Asuncion, Paraguay where my mom, dad, and Luis would be waiting for me.  Before this trip I had promised myself that I wouldn't lie.  What I mean is that my friends and family in Paraguay don't know I'm gay.  This seems to beg the ever popular "Do you have a girlfriend?" question that always comes up. Whether it's my grandmother, her neighbor, a friend, a cousin, or the cashier at a grocery store, the question never escapes me.  
 
"Do you have a girlfriend?" my grandmother asked, as I made my way out of the international arrivals hall with my bags. "No, I'm enjoying the single life right now where I can drink beer and sleep around", I replied, as I leaned in for a hug. I noticed a smile across her face as she held my face close.  "That's great. I'm so proud of you!" she exclaimed and kissed my forehead.   The irony that my grandmother is more excited about me whoring myself out to women rather than confirming any type of committed relationship with another man is not lost on me.  But, I didn't lie.  I just chose not to specify that not only do I enjoy drinking beer and possibly sleeping around, but I also like to add hard liquor, an occasional joint, and men into the scenario.  This is the same approach I took when the same question was asked of me by at least 40 different people. "Do you have a girlfriend?" they'd ask. "God no! Who needs to be tied down at an age like this?!" I would reply, all the while thinking to myself that being tied down wouldn’t be so bad if it was done in the literal sense, with silver handcuffs, a leopard skin blindfold, some sort of edible paraphernalia, and carried out by a charmingly exotic Brazilian soccer player with a penthouse in Rio.
 
Nevertheless, Paraguay is an interesting paradox to me.  People there can be the friendliest and most welcoming people on earth.  Until, of course, they find out you just happen to be a homosexual. It's not that I was scared to tell anyone, but I kept it to myself out of respect for my dad.  My dad is very much a laid back, quiet, and private person.  Sure he is constantly telling terrible jokes at dinner parties, ordering the world’s most indestructible wallet off an infomercial, or telling people what a great deal he got on a fake Rolex he illegally purchased in Italy, but in general my dad is not one to air the dirty laundry. So, I kept it to myself.  My brother, Luis, however, found it incredibly necessary to bring up the subject of my gayness at various times throughout the trip.  "Wasn't it funny when that girl wanted to go home with you last night but couldn't because you like men?" he'd ask, as my parents sat with my grandmother and awkwardly downed their respective glasses of wine as though they were tequila shots.  It felt strange being back to a place I was so familiar with, yet so out of place.  I was worried I would have a harder time trying to blend in this time around, as through the years I’ve become increasingly more comfortable with whom I am.  The trick was to keep reminding myself that, while I may be a homo, at least I’m not a clan of crazy people like most of my family in Paraguay.  To say that they’re eclectic is putting it mildly.  My grandmother's side is particularly entertaining to me, as it consists of her 80 yr old womanizing brother Oscar, who has fathered about 10 kids with 10 various women, her crazy younger sister Gloria, who shits her pants constantly and pulls all her hair out and refers to her husband as “that cheating old bastard with a tiny useless dick”, and lastly her youngest sister Delia, who decorates her apartment with various artifacts including kitten statues, bird cages, and an abundance of colorful lamps.  Every trip my family has ever taken has involved collecting some sort of artifact or peculiar object requested by my great aunt Delia.  One summer when I was 14, my parents took us to Machu Picchu for the first time. While most other tourists and families seemed enthralled by the history and magic of an ancient Incan civilization, my family was too busy breaking into pairs and scavenging the grounds of the former Incan empire in search of the perfect rock and clump of soil that my great aunt Delia had so adamantly requested.  "I need the rocks and soil so I can re-balance the astrological energy field in my house" she pleaded to my dad.  "My pets are getting sick and Machu Picchu is the only place where you can find the remedy.”  When I was younger I wanted nothing in the world more than a Power Wheel convertible, but my dad turned me down every Christmas until I became too big and fat to fit in one.  Have a crazy old woman ask for a pair of rocks and some soil from a faraway land, and suddenly my dad has the whole family on all fours stealing ancient Incan artifacts to smuggle across the border.
 
As I arrived to my grandma's house, I set down my bags and entered the kitchen, where my great uncle Oscar was sitting.  "Wow Andres, you are looking pretty big.  How will you ever get married that way?" It had been at least 5 years since the last time I saw him, and those were the first words out of this bastard's mouth as he sat ominously, wearing fake black Oakley sunglasses that he uses primarily to shield others from seeing him check out anything armed with a vagina.  "Nice to see you too" I replied, trying my best not to show utter annoyance. "And not to worry, I’m not legally eligible to get married in the states anyway" I continued.  There's something innate in my personality that forces me to fuck with the elderly, particularly ones I'm related to and don’t really care for.  Something akin to what I refer to as “eldery teurettes”, where I can't control the snark remarks that spew from my mouth.  "What do you mean not legal? Are you trying to marry a black girl or something?" he asked. "Sure, something like that" I smiled.  "Is there vodka in that freezer?"
 
The next few weeks were filled with quite a few awkward encounters at various bars and clubs with my friends and Luis, as I was constantly pressured to approach random girls to flirt with and, eventually, engage in some sort of awkward intercourse.  Every time I ventured out, my friends would time and again tell me to approach various females while, simultaneously, Luis would be hovering close by and laughing hysterically to himself while pretending to suck a fake dick like the giant asshole he is.  I reminded myself that I had come to see my friend Laura get married, and that I needed to just get drunk and enjoy the time I had with my friends.  Things were made a bit more awkward as the last time I had visited Paraguay five years before, it was no secret that Laura (whom I refer to as “Lala”) and I had mutual crushes on one another.  Mine wasn’t so much a crush as it was an excitement over the fact that I found a female friend in Paraguay who could be just as inappropriate and bat shit crazy as me.  Lala is the type of girl who will flash her tits to a random stranger while walking out of a NYC subway just to confuse the person and leave them wondering whether the event was real or just a temporary figment of their imagination.  It’s exactly something I would do if I carried a pair of D-cup breasts.  Because of our special relationship, people often times approached me with pity, asking me if I was happy to see Lala getting married while reminding me how great of a guy her fiancé really is.  This, of course, created a lot of confusion in my mother’s mind as she began to reminisce on my earlier years spent hanging around Lala.  “Remember how cute you guys were together? And how much fun you guys had when you met up every weekend in New York?  Don’t you think your attraction for her was just a little bit real?” she’d ask, with a glimmer of hope evident in her tone.  “Yeah mom, it was a blast.  But let me explain it to you this way: my relationship with Lala is similar to my relationship I have with a bacon cheeseburger.  I enjoy the idea of it, but eating one often times leaves me feeling sick”, I replied.  My mom glared at me, took a sip of her wine, and sarcastically replied, “Ok I get it, just making sure I understand that’s all”.  “What’s not to understand?” my dad interjected, looking over at my brother who was sitting on the couch holding up his donut and mouthing the words “donut puncher” with a huge smile on his face.  “Clearly he’s not into the egg McMuffin, so just let him stick to sausages if that’s what he likes” continued my dad, in an obnoxious attempt to find the perfect opportunity to insert one of his jokes.  I couldn’t help but appreciate the humor and utter stupidity of that entire conversation as I grabbed my suit and prepared to see my alleged childhood girlfriend walk down the aisle.  

Read the rest of the chapter and more when the book comes out!

-Andres