Anywhere that has to do with gay people is not a place to go alone. This is not only true of bitchy places like bars or parties, but protests as well.

Last weekend's Prop 8 protest had the extreme misfortune of beginning on time and in an out of the way place. Gays can never be counted on to arrive on time. Noon is merely a guideline. At 11:45, the herd of gays will begin heading out the door with a vague sense of where they're headed. At 12:30, they'll be in line at the nearest chain cafe, finally texting friends to see exactly where they are supposed to be. Upon arrival, the event will be winding down and they're like, "we came out for this?" It doesn't even matter what the event is. Earlier this month, I was 10 minutes early for Madonna's show and the 'mos weren't seated until about an hour and a half later.

Anyhow, a normal protest or political event would be somewhat social and democratic; but for us gays, it is a place to see and be seen. A crowd was amassed around the speaker by the time I arrived (on time) and the sound system was not working, so for a near hour -until the arrival of anybody I was expecting- I had to stand with my eyes unfocused anywhere, not hearing anything except random cheering at several minute intervals. The reason my eyes had to remain unfocused should be obvious to anybody who has dealt with the gays.

Woe unto thee who makes even fleeting eye contact with any gay male with any opinion of himself. I don't know if gayboys think that a brief glance in their direction means you want to fuck them, jump them, marry them, or merely just speak to them: but the reaction is the same. It's not that he will automatically roll his eyes or shoot you a fuck-off gaze (I have this bad habit sometimes), but will quickly jerk his head away to make some comment to whoever his companion might be. Gay boys always have some doppelganger - it doesn't even matter whom, his designated bitch - who helps prevent them having to mingle with the riff-raff. The only thing to do as a gay  male alone in the presence of other gays is to stare transfixed into your cell phone, pretending that you are communicating with somebody.

As the sound system was not working, and the crowds' signs were not particularly intriguing, and nor was the crowd much more interesting and distinctive than a crowd at any old community event might be, I cannot say whether this protest against a California amendment (in tandem with other such events around the nation) had any impact whatsoever. There was no march because we could not get a parade permit in time, in a town where nude bicyclists and drunken Santas are freely given permits. But in attending, I again realized one reason that it is so easy to pass amendments against gay people: Getting gays together on anything is like herding cats... catty cats. A crowd of three or more gay people - if they bothered to show up in one location at all - could not agree on a pizza topping let alone a plan for social action.                                  

Logically, Oakland seemed like the perfect place to see Madonna, right? It's next to San Francisco. I could make a weekend of it, finally see the grand Emerald City of homos in all its glory while seeing the patron saint of homos right next door.

Well, unfortunately, I ran out of money. Thus my trip was confined to one day. And I chose my hotel - the luxurious Days Inn - for its proximity to the airport and the venue. I paid for all this with my Martha Stewart money (see previous blog), and afterwards I had a cool 12 bucks in spending money.

The situation was so dire I could not get an airport taxi nor - given Sunday schedules - even a bus to the max stop, so I walked three miles in the rain at 4 am, all the while dreading the possibilites of missing my flight, not being able to get booked in my hotel, whatever. I imagine being in a middle seat  of the plane pressed between two fat people loudly discussing the merits of Sarah Palin. Because of my recent Final Destination movie marathon, I imagine crashing and burning in the Pacific... or avoiding that fate and dying in some freak accident, like in those movies. I imagine Madonna will shine a spotlight on me and command me to dance.

Well, of course it turns out to be a pleasant and nearly empty flight, very quiet. I read the new Sarah Vowell, and - historians take note - actually turned down a free alcoholic beverage.

The one little kink in my plan was my hotel check-in time: 2 pm. I arrived at 9 am. Well, no problem... I decide to wander around in my new environs.

It would perhaps be unfair to judge any city by the area surrounding its airport, generally a clusterfuck of vacant lots, chain hotels and restaurants. Oakland is even worse than most. I am in an area of totally pedestrian-inaccessible sprawl. The Oracle Arena, a half mile away, and site of the concert, is playing host to the Oakland Raiders and the street is swarmed with people, each one decked out in Raiders gear. Merchandise and ticket scalpers hawk goods every ten feet. I am the only white person. I find my way to a McDonalds where I buy a breakfast sandwich with a monopoly coupon; two unusually aggressive panhandlers accost me on the way in. I decide once I get to my hotel, I'm not leaving until the show.

Once again resisting the easy temptation to get wasted, the highlight of my afternoon is watching Happy Feet on HBO. If you haven't seen it, it's an animated penguin propoganda movie preaching gay rights and environmentalism; written by Oliver Stone, directed by Michael Moore.

It would be hard to categorize Madonna's crowd. I saw plenty of: 40 something gay men trying to look 25, foreigners, anorexic girls, chubby secretarial types, Latinos. I was sitting on the side balcony looking down on the stage. All the gay guys, starfuckers as you know them to be, are in the good seats by the stage. Unlike other concerts I've gone to with lousy seats, this one has a projection screen so we can see what the hell is going on.

I won't bother to do a blow-by-blow description of Madonna's setlist - mostly from her new album, or her wardrobe - a one piece bikini, mostly; because any of you who really care already know these things. My section sat mostly subdued throughout with sporadic dancing. A lesbian couple cheered Madonna kissing a woman dressed like Madonna (Madonna's ultimate fantasy); anorexic girls attempted to dance wanly to "Vogue." My heavily foreign section seemed to come alive during the Gypsy section, featuring Romanian folk songs and Opa! dance numbers. No mention of the divorce was made, but during the ballads "Miles Away" and "Devil Wouldn't Recognize You" you could see small hints of humanity in Madonna's iron exterior. During "You Must Love Me" she came alive: spontaneous, charming, human. Would you think I was being too sarcastic to desribe it as one of the best, least affected Andrew Lloyd Webber vocals I've heard?

During the fan request section - a section added to lend the appearance of spontaneity - Madonna claimed to have forgotten "Burning Up" after singing a few bars. She delivered an impromptu "C'mon Motherfuckers" song encouraging everybody to vote Obama, then launched into her last set. Two hours and it was over, crossed off my bucket list, finally saw Madonna on tour. This tour ranks behind Blond Ambition, Girlie Show, Confessions and the Virgin Tour but ahead of the rest... all of which I saw on video. Given that most concerts I've seen are girl on piano, guy on guitar, it was definitely the most elaborate production I've seen in person.

I can't quite claim complacency as I travelled back to Portland, I was coming back to joblessness, poverty and constant rainfall. But it was a kind of peace. At least I had done something for myself. I ran to catch the Max at the airport, which was just about to leave, and felt some relief to be back home in one piece. Then the announcement:

"Ladies and gentlement, please have you tickets ready for a fare inspection at the next stop..."

Well, damn.

My first cautious steps into the water of retail sales began, and likely ended, last week with a five day gig at a department store in Portland's historic, supposedly haunted Meier and Frank building. The 1905 building features five aboveground stories and multiple bleak, dusty subterranean levels for storage and receiving, connected somewhere to the notorious, also-haunted Shanghai Tunnels. A pre-fame Clark Gable supposedly once worked in the building selling neck ties in the 1920s.

The first day of any temp job can be stressful (see my earlier blog, "The Curse of the Christmas Kitty"), and this time I was working with 7-10 other rotating temps. Working within a crew adds another element of stress, as these are often people you would never socialize with in the real world, but with whom you'll have to spend hours working with. Besides a couple interchangeable straight male worker bees, there was Eric, a 19yo California stoner who may or may not be illiterate who claimed to be married though he had no ring; Carrie, a Mary Poppins-like ("perfectly pleasing in every way") tool who was raised never to question male authority, have fun, or cut corners; Jose, a recently sprung from prison Mexican American who constantly said "fabulous!," perhaps in imitation of the store's fantastically gay permanent clientele (two of whom winked at me, and one of whom told me that I shouldn't try operating a drill with a limp wrist); Star, a pagan/goth chick who quit after the first day because she did not want to attend her German Philosophy class dusty and sweaty; and one cute gay temp, whom I'll leave nameless in case I meet him again, who was moved to another department after the first day - just my luck.

Of the work itself, there is little of entertainment value to report. The most difficult day, ironically, was spent stacking pillows, blankets and towels. They were to be arranged by brand, size, thread count and color (by color, naturally I mean, "green tea," "chamomile," "Aegean," "daffodil," "linen" and "spa"). But, being the only gay temp left by day three, most of my work was performed under the tutelage of St. Martha. Radiant B&W photos of Ms. Stewart hung from each wall in home wares, like Big Sister supervising from an eye in the sky. There was no household task that did not cause Martha to smile ear to ear. If I'd worked in bathroom supplies, I'm sure I would have seen Martha smile beatifically as she plunged a stopped-up toilet or scrubbed urine stains off tiles. I designed several displays from a Martha Stewart magazine bible that featured detailed, coded diagrams of precisely what was to be displayed where, and how. Once, I stacked a group of colanders too high, partially obscuring the corner of one of the ubiquitous Martha pictures, and a supervisor rushed up telling me, "Oh no! Nothing should sit above Martha!"

Of course, most of the time I was hunting the elusive ghost. Although I did not see any direct evidence, I got a good idea of how the legend grew. The stockrooms on each floor were the kind of bleak, quiet, claustrophobic spaces where you expect a scare scene in a slasher movie. And the cavernous lower basement levels could conceal anything, they were the kind of place the Scooby Gang solved mysteries. I took every opportunity to visit the basement, which had the added bonus of being a place where I'd catch a glimpse of the cute gay temp. The elevators contained the only vague evidence of the supernatural. The freight elevator seemed to have a mind of its own, working perfectly sometimes, but at others shorting out every 9 seconds (I timed it) causing the simplest trip to the basement to become a half hour ordeal. As for the passenger elevators - and this might be a mere result of my magical thinking - I'd often find one of them waiting for me patiently when I returned from lunch or break, closing only after I'd boarded. Thanks, ghost! But, really, if you had the run of the afterlife, would you choose to spend eternity as an elevator operator?

At the end of the week, I neither saw proof of the afterlife, nor scored a date with that cute gayboy, but it did warm me up to the idea of retail as a career and partially improve my dark recent mood.

I'd been scared off by the potentially combustible customer interaction and temperamental employee interactions, but I found it much more exciting than drab office work, and enjoyed the comparatively down-to-earth people (although I winced when I saw them forced to answer the phone, "How may I provide you with excellent customer service?"). But of course, everything looks more enjoyable when you only have to do it for a week.

Being a temp is sort of like being a sad, elevator operating ghost: a fleeting glimpse of a certain reality with the ability to affect very little we see.

Or, What it Feels Like for an Office Temp.

The first day of any temp job runs thusly: showing up with directions hastily given and frequently wrong, receiving the quizzical looks of your new putative employer who has no idea who you are and shuffles you back and forth the first hour trying to figure out who hired you and what you're doing there. This solved: you're then passed off to another temp with a week or two's seniority over you, or the assistant of an assistant, who provides 20 minutes of training to their labyrinthine filing system and/or their computer database, often designed in the heyday of Atari. Two hours later, you are set to work… sticking paper in files, paper in envelopes, or loading the contents of paper into the ancient database. And this desk, or cubicle, shunted off into a corner, becomes your home until you are told, often 20 minutes before or after your shift ends on Friday that your services are no longer needed because you've done too good a job and finished the work. Or they do not explain, and you're left to wonder… Did I look at them cross-eyed? Did I evince personality? Did I express an opinion? Did I reveal the presence of a soul?

Every office has a Pam. She's a stern woman of a certain age with short curly hair, often of a golden hue, and frequently wears glasses. She regards you sternly over the wall of her cubicle, or from her office if she's a higher-up Pam, and never speaks. She has no personal life that you know of and you wouldn't want to find out.

Every office is full of women in cutesy sweatshirts or ill-suited office dress. They all say things like, "Having fun yet?" every time they pass your desk or let out a mock-angry "Leave me alone!" every time their phone rings. Everything anybody ever says is greeted with a smile and a laugh, and everything a man says is hilarious. They know this implicitly, because they're already laughing before he's finished speaking. You could tell them to fuck their mothers and they'd chuckle and thank you for it, "Oh you!" Despite their chipper attitudes, they all claim deep dissatisfaction with having to be at work and say they long for the weekend, even though the only non work thing they ever seem to do is watch that ridiculous game show with Howie Mandell. They are all fat, except the 20-somethings, who will be. Though every hetero at every office alludes to a husband or progeny, you assume that only liquor or shotguns could have drawn any man to the sexual wiles of a woman who stitches kitty cats on her sweatshirts during Christmastime. Compared to her, your life is an episode of "Desperate Housewives," but you mustn't let on that you do anything but ponder the weather, support the soldiers and watch the occasional "American Idol," lest you be suspected of some kind of subversion.

The puzzling isolation of homos in offices (where do they all work? Applebee's?) was never more clear to me than when temping at a hospital, I worked with a woman who was gay with a capital G. My first day, she shook my hand warmly and said, "I'm Gay," and I responded, "Oh." For the whole of my assignment, I couldn't walk across the office without shouts of, "Gay! Hey Gay!" It was high school all over again. Once I did work with an actual lesbian, but all she ever spoke of was her cat. Anything that went wrong in the office was blamed on the lesbian's cat. This was high comedy.

I discovered audiobooks on CD eventually and it became a saving grace that I could put my mind to an actual use besides alphabetizing (although, as an English major, I suppose alphabetizing does fall under my degree skills). It is best, when filing, to listen to light comedic novels or the Harry Potter series, because as I learned there's nothing more tragically ironic than listening to an existential novel about the futility of human experience while you're feeding papers into a temperamental copier.

Filing systems range from slipshod disarray to a Sisyphean debacle. To fit even a single new paper into any manilla envelope requires mass physical exertion. Each year, millions of trees are chopped down and our environment endangered because every email reading, "Thanks Kathy!" has to be copied and saved for a generation in a room that resembles the government storage house in the last scene of "Raiders of the Lost Ark."

The '90s movie "Clockwatchers" compares the life of a temp to the temporary futility of the human endeavor. We are all held captive for a time, then let go with no explanation and for no reason into the oblivion of the future. Until then, we glance furtively over our cubicles, a slight wince if we catch someone's eye. Don't let them know we have a soul, an opinion, a sex life or they will suck us down into their Christmas kitty abyss.

So this weekend my travels took me to the mall where - though I'm still too neurotic to get a desperately needed haircut - I did decide to browse a little for clothes. So I went to my old standbys - the only people who make shirts that fit me - namely the unholy Gap trifecta - Gap, Banana and Navy - and I soon noticed a highly disturbing phenomenon:  not one shirt there was in size Extra Small.

Now I'm not the type to complain (as I'm sure you all know), so I didn't inquire with the staff as to whether there was actually nothing in the damn store in my size, or if there had just been a run on extra smalls by a swishy clientele recently. Instead I tried to try on a small, which engulfed my body like a rain parka.

The second most ironic thing here is that their pants still fit me perfectly, 28x30. Now I'm wondering, if they sell 28x30 jeans, what exactly do they expect their customers to wear with them? If I wear a shirt too large, my legs will look like the clapper on a bell.

Of course, this is part of a larger phenomenon, a war on waifs, if you will... Because America has become grossly obese, they've grown jealous of skinny people, and jealous of any kind of fun. First they try to ban gay marriage thinking of all the mo's out there getting laid, and now they ban extra smalls in an obscene effort to try to fatten me up (my friend Rusty has suggested that this would be no trouble if I didn't vomit up my nutrition. Thanks, dear).

And although it's usually larger people who complain about having nothing to wear, this is a blatant falsehood. At Wal Mart, a "small" is a dust cover for a Hummer, a "large" is a parachute, and a Triple X large could circle the world twice and still fit Kirstie Alley.

As for the waif-haters, to quote Marky Mark in "Boogie Nights," "Jealousy will get you nowhere."

Really sometimes I wish I were much less thoughtful, less political, because honestly I would love to be able to enjoy the simple pleasures that seem to delight other people. I see everything, including shit television, only in its political context. Every reality show - including American Idol - I analyze obsessively how it correlates to every known human rights struggle, historical or modern.

As a child, I stayed up nights scared of horror movies, now I stay up nights worried about Republicans and homophobes and hegemony and gender theory...

Oh please won't big-Pharma make a pill to stop all this so I can actually lol irl at least once a day...

So Friday I decide since I had a productive week last week to celebrate by using one of my Lent get out of jail free cards I promised myself.

So I didn't mean to get wasted, and the night started off alright. My friend and I went to this kind of dive, and he was itching to go and this guy came and joined our table. He was really boring and I was making fun of him (he claimed for instance to have slept with 200 women). Anyways, my friend left and this guy invites me to have drinks at his sister's place, where he's evidently staying. So I say yes, but no sex.

So we get to the apartment after he stops off to buy beer (Icehouse, egads, that's what homeless people drink) and everything's going well. His sister's an older woman, who I think I recognized from somewhere. She tells me her teenage daugher and boyfriend, and their baby, would be coming in later.

So I go in the living room to rummage through CDs, and I put on Cher, and I go back to the kitchen and the two of them are choking each other, like something out of the Simpsons. She's accusing him of drinking all day; he's accusing her of withholding his psych medications. So she calls the police, and they come and haul the guy off. So I am stuck there. Luckily I'm shitfaced at this point and pass out.

The next day the daughter has arrived with baby and mexican boyfriend in tow. She's about 200 pounds and has half her body and nearly all her ass hanging out of her clothes. Her skin looked like rancid chicken, red, splotchy, bulging out for dear life.  I think they should put her on display at gay pride, with a sandwich board around her, saying "Depressed about being gay? Here's the alternative."

So with my insane hangover, I had to lay there for about five hours, listening to them yell at each other, using more "fucks" per minute than Scarface.

I finally get home at 4 in the afternoon and collapse from exhaustion.

Yes, folks, here's a lesson. Don't piss off Jesus by breaking your fast for no good reason, or Jesus will put you through your own personal Jenny Jones show.