347

Of course, when I got the room 347 at my hotel in Cambridge, I should have known that it was a good sign (with 3 and 7 being my lucky numbers.)

My group of co-workers ended up going to Jacques Carabet on Broadway at Piedmont. It's a gay bar that does karaoke on Tuesday nights - it's also known for it's female impersonators day in and day out. From the other gay folks that we encounted at our conference, Jacques didn't sound like it was going to be busy. But isn't that how we like our karaoke bars?

Immediately, I called Melissa and asked her if she remembered the time that I took her and a few other co-workers to a drag show in San Francisco. I took them to the Tranny Shack at the Stud (on a Tuesday night) and we were there for what we hoped was a good drag show, and it was, albeit it was a drag king contest. It's not everyday that you get to take your co-workers to a drag show, and it's not everyday that you can drag the office to a gay and lesbian karaoke bar.

We took like ducks to water. It was a blast. Co-workers combatted their fears of performing in front of others and others, like Lisa and I, just performed for the crowd. There now is video of me doing Ray of Light, and I told my co-worker who captured it on camera that if it ends up on youtube.com, she owes me lunch.

Happy Bloomsday!

For those of you who have read Ulysses, you will understand my well wishes. For those who haven't, learn more from wikipedia: Bloomsday.

Madras

I saw a cute squeaky-clean fair-skinned auburn-haired blue-eyed student walking the other day. If the OED had full-color pictures, he'd be there under preppy. Complete with the madras shorts.

That's when my horror set in. Madras! There's something just so scary to me about that many different colored plaids in one place. It must be from growing up in the 70's with Garanimals.

(This example is a very calm sample of madras. The Penn fellow I saw had yellows, robin blues, roses and light greens: like an easter egg was dressing for a tropical summer.)

I'll stick to my solid colored shorts, thanks.

The Rugby I

or (my emotional recollections of the 2006 Mark Kendall Bingham Memorial Tournament.)

picture courtesy of the San Francisco Fog

I lost myself in the weekend. I felt myself not just being this physical entity of a specific volume. I was 700 different people. There was no line between single and plural. I did my best. I played my heart out. I fought. I tackled. I drove that maul. I won my hooks. I outjumped my competition. I scored a try. I fell hard. I failed to stop the other team. I hightackled. I had a penalty against me. I had my hands in the ruck. I broke my collarbone. I bruised my thighs. I limped afterward. I lost to the Convicts and I won against the Fog.

It's not easy to explain how one feels as part of sometime much bigger than himself. How do you capture the sensation of the opposite of the pluralis majestatis, the royal we? How can one find a way to use singular pronoun as a way to refer to the entire group!? That was the feeling of this weekend.

After being eliminated for running for the Bowl by Boston, it didn't matter. It wasn't terminal. The Gryphons' hope for the bowl ended, but something happened. We fought a great game. Ironsides came back and told us that they felt that they were fighting for their lives in the match against us. It was a penalty kick – a simple 3 point penalty kick that ended the match. It was the only score.

We had a consolation match with Austin (cum San Diego.) At first, the game sucked. We were sloppy and tired, and Austin was matching it. They scored first and missed the conversion. We answered and missed our conversion. End of the first half.

The second half was aggressive. We were making penalties left and right due to aggression. Bam, Austin scored and again missed the conversion. Yet again, we answered that try and missed our conversion. 10 all. We had just recovered from losing one of our players to the sin bin for a yellow card.

Minutes to go and the drive was on. It was a nail-biter and we kept inching (or should I say centimetering since rugby pitches are measured in meters?) to Austin's try line due to their penalties. Our veteran players all got off the bench and were sent into the game.

"DRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!"

"DRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!"

"DRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!"

Our teammates and fan were hollering at us and cheering us on. This noice was deafening and a surreal silence came over when you're in the middle of fight for it all. The referee blew his whistle and snapped us back to reality.

"What? Why did the ref blow the whistle?"

"Penalty to Gryphons."

Fire. Passion. Want. Desire. Means to an End.

Q taps the ball and speeds towards Austin’s try zone – a very risky move. The usual move would have been to kick for points since we were meters from the goal. But Q's a tough little f*cker. He had been thrown around, picked up, tossed, kicked, scratched and abused. Damnit, he was going to make it over the try line. Damnit, the Gryphons were going to make it over the try line.

In a pile of sore muscles and sweat, aching joints and heap of adrenaline, the ball was controlledly placed in the try zone. Gryphons 15, Lonestars 10.

Unfortunately, we missed the conversion. As the kick was deemed no good, final whistle blew. It was finished.

There's sometime so beautiful, magical, divine when you stop and the adrenaline and passion engulf you. "Something is ending and something begins."

We release in cheers, hollers, screams, whoots, slaps on the ass, kisses on the mouth, hugs, smiles, "Thank yous" and tears. We live for this: living life to the best of our ability. This joy is overwhelming and can not be embodied in the frame of only one adult male. It's subtle and obvious. The thrill and glory of competition hung over the pitch thick and shined brightly. We hugged each other and clung on more than just for life, but for honor, for pride and for our greater betterment. We are all one.

We sloughed off an old skin on that pitch and a chapter in each of our lives ended. Some of us felt a feeling of belonging, some a feeling of surprise, some - complishment and others - success. Some of us these feelings just for the very first time. Never-the-less, we transformed into better men and we were more than the sum of our individuals.

(And, oh yea, some of us bitches got our pictures on Gawker.com - Did I just call us bitches? I need to limit my time with Malcolm and Martino.)