Reach For The Skies

I am that person in the movie theater that covers her eyes the instant someone pulls out a gun, or even if they just act like they might at some point in the future. For this reason, I saw almost none of Goodfellas and spent the entirety of the famous bible-quoting scene of Pulp Fiction making a high-pitched squeal not unlike that of a frightened bunny. This strange nuerosis has not resulted from any sort of traumatic contact with handguns, since I grew up in a small town in Michigan and have never, in fact, seen an actual handgun much less had one pointed at my head amidst shouts for "all my money." I am afraid of guns the way people in Nebraska fear sharks or large-scale terrorist attacks--the fear is self-perpetuating though completely unfounded.

Unfortunately, I have recently relocated to New York City--a city that my small-town rearing has assured me is teeming with cocaine-fueled maniacs armed to the teeth with semi-automatics they've stolen off the bodies of fallen policemen--so my formerly neurotic, improbable fear has gained some credibility. Now when I go to movie theaters, I am not only afraid that one of the on-screen characters may reach for his holster, but that the 50-year-old Jewish woman in front of me might have an oozie in her jujubees. Everyone is suspect, from the ushers to the pimply-faced consession stand worker who looks like he has a mean-streak and an itching trigger finger. It's only a matter of time before I'm staring down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun and handing over my purse and king-sized Mike & Ikes.

I am fully prepared, at some point in my term of living in New York, to be robbed by a small child fishing for quarters in his front pocket.

I'll Show You Some Resume Builders

I have come to the realization that my job search would go a lot faster if I just agreed to work for no money while topless.

Woah, Liza.

This afternoon a friend of mine, who shall remain gay and nameless, sent me the following e-mail. It was one sentence, following the subject header "How gay I am":

"I had a dream about becoming good friends with Barbara streisand."

Don't bother adjusting your screen. The above statement is really that level of concentrated queer.* But as shocked as I was to discover someone I already knew was gay could come out of the closet all over again--and with newfound intensity--as time passed I was more concerned with how this new development might further stereotypes about gay culture. Namely, that gay culture is a one-trick pony.

Sure, they had us all amused with their obsessive devotion to musical theater, their over-usage of the word "fierce," and their subscribing to Teen Vogue, but what have you done for me lately, homos? I know you're only 10% of the population, but you're 90% of the entertainment industry. Get the dozen or so of you who are writing shows for NBC to pump out some fresh material. You can start ATVing, or preferring brined meats, or even start the rumor that you're all from Iceland.

Just so long as it's not the same old window treatment story.

*Please Note: I was granted permission to use the term "queer" after acquiring my third gay friend.