I always told people I was going home.

This is what I would tell people when they asked what my plans were for Thanksgiving or Christmas or if they asked me what I was doing a particular weekend and it involved me going back to Wisconsin.

"I'm going home."

And for years, this was true. There's that whole concept of where is home when you are in college? You know, if you go to college and then go back to live with your parents in the summer, where is home? Obviously, it's where you will be moving back. It's the same when you only live in a city for a only a few years. Like, when I moved to the city almost seven years ago to go to college. I literally only knew one person and that was barely. I lived in this shack of a studio(seriously, ask my parents/friends/brother about this place and they will all use the same word "Shack" with multiple adjectives such as "Shitty" or "INSANELY tiny" or "Unbelievably too expensive for what it was") and to me, it was never home. Home was when I got to go back and see all my close friends who were still in high school or my family who still lived in the same houses in the same cities or, well, who were still alive. Home wasn't a place where the kitchen and the bed were within feet of each other. Home wasn't neighbors who often got so high they would flush pizza down the toilet which would cause a flood and leakage from their apartment above me to my apartment below them which would eventually destroy everything in my apartment from books to photographs to my writing and photography portfolio to my futon bed that wasn't that great in the first place, but wasn't much better when it smelled like toilet water that had filtered through years of old ceiling material.

Anyway, the city wasn't home.

But things change.

I spent almost a week in Wisconsin for Thanksgiving. At my parent's house. Their house. Not mine. This may have sunk in a bit more over the years when the colors of my old bedroom went from blue to flower wallpaper and when the decorations went from Alanis Morissette posters to teddy bears. This may have sunk in a bit more when my brother moved out a few years ago. Or even more when my last neighbor who I had grown up with moved to Spain to study. Or even in moments, like last night, when I actually braved it out to a bar or two with an old friend and had high school classmates who hadn't seen me in years come up and re-introduce themselves in flirty ways thinking I was new to the city in Wisconsin. Things have been adding up over the years.

But what really made it sink in is when I got off the train tonight. It was a mix of snow and rain. The Chicago wind slapped my face the minute I left the station. I even think I stepped in a puddle when I rounded a corner heading to catch the bus. The tall buildings were all in their right places. The el train rumbled by making the same old screeching noise. The cabs honked and sped around other cars. Unconsciously, I took in a giant breath. It smelled like winter. It smelled like Chicago. It smelled like home.

This morning while going through my old closet in my old bedroom in the old house I used to grow up in the old town I grew up in my mom pulled out a coat: my Letterman's jacket.

"You still want this?" She asks.

I look at it. I got it Sophomore year of high school when I made the Varsity diving and swim team. I got it to put my letter on it. A giant letter "C" that was sewed to the left breast of the green leather exterior. I got it so I could pin the medals I would win at local and state meets. I got it because that's what guys did at my high school. They wore jackets. They played sports. They walked around with giant "C's" on their chest.

I hated that coat.

"Eh... " I said while putting it on. It was two sizes too big and the second I saw it on me in the mirror I felt like I was fourteen and reeking of chlorine. I hated it. It wasn't me then and totally wasn't me now. "I don't think I have anything to do with it now."

My mom tells me to throw in on a pile and we can donate it. As she leaves my brother comes in eating a piece of toast. He sees me wearing the jacket, laughs and says: You're keeping that, right?

"No, why?"

"Dude, if some guy saw that in your closet at your apartment... all I'm say'n is Jock Fetish, duh bro."

He leaves my room crunching on his toast as I put the jacket in my suitcase.

After extensive research I have discovered I have a type. This research has been studied and collected and totally identified through watching the Travel Channel, History Channel, and the National Geographic Channel.

After a few days of planting myself in front of cable t.v.(damn you cable t.v. and your whole addictive "I'm going to make the hours of the day fly by" style.) I have fallen for three different t.v. hosting personalities. And, um, apparently I have also just discovered my type.

This is Don, he's from "Cities of the Under World" on the History Channel. Honestly, I don't really like the show, but I do get that butterfly feeling every time I know I get to see him.

This is Bear. He has an accent. He has to survive in wild conditions that are insanely dangerous on Man Vs. Wild. I don't even camp. This relationship probably wouldn't work. But, dang, he's pretty to watch eat cooked roaches.

This is Marsh. He's also a host on the History channel. He's. Pretty. And I even learned some history stuff. Everyone say: "Hiiiiiiii Marsh".

Byron's type: Rugged. Scruffy. On cable Television.

I may or may have not enjoyed(and, ahem, slightly wept at) the aforementioned movies.

On Christmas Eve, two years ago, my brother and I drove to a house that was ten minutes away wearing our pajama bottoms and pea coats. It was, like, eight in the morning and I was without coffee(which, folks, as I get older this becomes more important. MUCH. More. Important). Brandon, my brother, woke me up and yelled: "Get your ass out of bed. We're going for a ride."

I knew where we were going. We were on our way to pick up this guy:

Kayne. The best damn dog in the world. An Australian Shepard that even as a puppy was a keeper. It took this guy a week to house break and only a month to learn sit, stay, fetch, roll-over, high-five(yes, like a frat dude) and to make blueberry muffins while reciting the Theory of Relativity. A damn good dog. Plus, I'm his uncle.

But this dog also has the best damn owner, my brother, who I adore. He's my best friend. He's the guy that will laugh at my really really bad puns. He's the guy that I threatened people's lives for in high school when he was a freshman and getting teased. He's the guy I blamed breaking one of my mom's expensive collectibles so I could go out to the mall with my friends while he had to sit in his room and read my old Box Car Children series. He's the guy I can call and will be judged by because he loves me and will not hold back what I really need to hear.

Which is why it's killing me what he's going through.

Kayne disappeared three days ago. He was at the groomers. Someone opened the door. Kayne took off. They think he thought he saw my brother and now is lost. This is totally unlike him.

I just got back to Wisconsin today for the holiday and have spent the last four hours driving around with my one of my childhood friends. We have pulled in to vacant parking lots where he might be hiding behind an abandon building. We have circled in quiet neighborhoods hoping he might be asleep on someone's front porch. We have passed out fliers. We have knocked on doors.

It's cold outside. It's been three days. Some people are crazy when it comes to animals. Your brain tends to not have good thoughts when these are your options. But this is my brother. And this dog is his life. And if I have to get up and search the entire five days of my visit I will do it because I can't let my little brother down. This dog means the world to him. Then this means the world to me.

"What if... what if we don't find him?" Sarah, one of my best friends, asks while we both squint in to dark cornfields watching the shapes of trees and street lights hit our faces as she drives.

The big brother in me wants to punch her in the arm and say something like: "Stop! We can't be like that. We'll find him!" But the adult me, the one that needs that coffee when he wakes up and has weighed the options, sits quietly for a second then rolls down the window to yell: "Kayne!" in to the cold.

Thanks for making me blush.

Byron's Christmas list from 1988:
Legos. Crayons. He-man super hero action figures. Pound Puppies.

Byron's Christmas list from 2008:
This. This. THIS!

Never. Doubt. My gayness.

After a few good glasses of champagne with my friend Rion and the witty conversation that comes with Byron's consumption of glasses of champagne, we left and walked out in to a slew of falling snow. As we said our goodbyes and walked in opposite directions I shivered starting to remember the me last year at this time. Everything felt so hard. The cold. The snow. The walking home alone to an empty house.

This year the snow seems softer.
So does the walking home alone to an empty house.

It was a text message from a number I don't ever remember seeing in my phone book.

The area code, after totally Googling it, was from California. And for, like, the majority of my day I kept going through the alphabet of my head. You know, the game you play when you try to remember someone's name? "A", no name doesn't start with that, "B" nope. "C"... until you hope you randomly just remember the name.

But that didn't happen.

I kept trying to think. California? Who's in California that would have my number. But they miss me. Why do they miss me? If they missed me, wouldn't the call? I always save numbers in my phone. Why didn't I save this one?

Within in a few hours, I got another text message that read: "Do you miss me?"

I couldn't figure out who it was, now, I had to figure out who it was and admit whether I missed them or not?

I went back and forth: How do I do this? Do I say I miss them? Do I ask who it is? Do I just ignore it? I started playing the alphabet game again. Then I tried to see if any of my friends had recently moved to California and sent one of those mass texts/emails that announces their new number that I never got a chance to saving in my phone. It's so rude to so many people to not have their number saved in the phone. Trust me. I've made this boo boo. I literally, kinda sorta, lost a friend because of it. OK. It was a boyfriend of a friend who was offended that I didn't save his number... but I didn't the relationship was going to last...and he didn't know how to spell when he texted and it just bugs me when people don't how to spell when they text and it bugs me when people text big questions when I don't know where the big questions are coming from!

"I miss you too, I think?"

I knew it wasn't the most, well, endearing answer... but I figured it would get a response and I'd gather more clues about who it was. I mean, I wasn't going to call and ask. That would be weird. Playing "passive aggressive phone number deciphering" is much more mature.

"You guess? Wow. Thanks."

Nothing! No clues. Just offense. I tried to think of something else I could ask in response. I got so close to just doing it. Just asking it. "Who are you!" I mean, maybe this could be some sort of perfect soul mate! Maybe my future soul mate was trying to get in touch with me! Maybe my soul mate was a text away! Maybe I was so close. Maybe this was the moment. That one moment that I would look back and tell all my friends and family: Yup, it all started with a text when he remembered me. I could be totally passing up the love of my life because I'm too scared to admit I didn't save the number. And just, just in that moment, I was going to do it. When...

"God, Ben, glad you feel the same...ouch."

It was a wrong number.

Definitely, a miss. Just a different kind.

Once upon a time a boy got a job to write a column for a Chicago magazine. The boy writes about relationships. The boy tries to avoid any Carrie Bradshaw references because people are over his Carrie Bradshaw references. He know this now. That boy is me.

An URban Legend : The Cynic and the Touchstone

As I got the call to meet Jeff and his girlfriend at a corner bar one night I knew it was coming. Jeff, my best friend of years, the guy that I had dubbed my "Straight Wing Man" was going to tell me the unthinkable. The guy that I could depend on for blunt relationship advice ("Hey, they suck. You don't.") was going to blow my mind. When Jeff walked up to me on that cold wet rainy night, hugged me with a smile and told me he proposed to his girlfriend, I was already drunk and needed to get drunker...

FINISH THE REST HERE!

It all began with a flash of my underwear.

It was a few nights ago, in the laundry room, when I met Emily. She was all hipster style with bright red hair and boots that are on page twelve of Vogue and tall and really really really really pretty.

"Hey!" I say spinning the dryer dial.
"HI!" She excitedly returns.

Then there was silence and an awkward pause and then, quite literally, we both screamed: "It's good to finally meet someone nice in this building!" OK, so it wasn't all Parent Trap with unison sentencing, but we were both pretty dang excited about the fact that we had gotten to meet.

It's totally true, too. I've lived in this apartment for almost a year and a half and have only met two other people.

#1 Peacoat guy:

I met this guy a year ago. He lives one floor up and we leave pretty much the same time every morning. He, obviously while wearing a pea coat, always has his ipod blaring in his ears. We just nod. I've caught him in the lobby a few times too.

"You live above me I think." I say causally while grabbing my GQ out of my mailbox and while fingers through his envelopes.

"Yup." He says with much less excitement than me.
"I'm Byron." I say pulling out my gloved hand to shake.
"Tim." He says not looking up.
"Well. Have a good one." I say discouraged.
"Yup."

#2 I'm going to die in a tornado girl.

So then there was this cute mid twenties brunette girl that lives right next door to me, right? Cute girl. Punky Brewster, the adult version, sans the whole mis-matching outfit and the avid "Punky Power" slogan. Anyway, it was this last summer on a day where(the first I had ever heard a tornado siren in Chicago) a tornado was promising to whip through the city. Trees were bent in half. Windows were shaking. Lights were flickering. People were going in to the basement in the next door building and I thought it was a good idea... except my backdoor was jammed and I couldn't get to the basement and would have to go outside and around my building to the alley in 70 mile hour winds.

Instead I went to the lobby to at least get closer to the ground. Tornado girl was there.

"Hey... so... this is really scary."
"Yup." The girl turns and looks at me. She reads my face like a scanner. She shows, like, no emotion. No smile. No Hi. Nothing.
"So, I know this is weird... but are you going to the basement?"
"Maybe." She says like a cheerleader scoffing at the nerd.
"Well... my back door is jammed and I can't go in that to get to the basement. Do you think I could go with you out your door... I promise I'm really nice!" I say this just to, well, show her I'm really gay... and not pretending to be in hopes of using this whole "save my life" thing as a booty ploy.

Tornado looks at me then shakes her head and walks away.

So as you can see, I haven't been impressed with meeting the neighbors.

"GOD! No one is friendly here!" Emily says to me pulling her unmentionables in to a small pile. " I mean, I try to be nice. I try to be polite. I even knocked on my neighbors door just to say: Hey! I live next door and if you need anything just let me know. The chick just nodded and slammed the door! I mean! What do you have to do to get a neighbor friend around here? She shakes her head while she is trying to untangle her underwear. She's struggling. Her panties and bras are all over the place.

"Well, seeing you play with your underwear might be a start."

"I'm sorry... this is weird... right?" She says covering her underwear.

"No! No... I'm gay. I could care less."

"Now I feel like that crazy neighbor you're going to tell all your friends about who was 'flaunting her panties like she was flirting'."

I pull a pair of my underwear out of the dryer and flash them at her.

"There. Now I'm that guy, too." I say laughing.

"Holy shit." Emily screams. "You're my new best friend."

Yup.

The other morning I asked Josh a punctuation question.

Josh: No. You do use a comma instead of a semicolon there.
Me: I figured. I was going to Google it, but you're so much faster than Google.
Josh: (Shrugs his shoulders)
Me: You're my JEWgle!
Josh: (Shakes his head in discontent)

When I call home my parents put me on speaker phone. In theory, this is a brilliant idea. It's all conference- call-eqsue. High productivity-ness. Multi-tasking-ish. But, in reality, it's, well... it just never works. Never. Ever.

Me: Hey, mom!
Both Mom and Dad: Hi B!
Me: Ohhhh, great, you're both there... this is always fun when we do this...
Mom: Well, do you want to have to tell the same stories twice?
Me: Can't you tell one and other the same stories?
Dad: No... she never tells me anything. Only the bad stuff. Like your toilet.Did you ever fix your toilet?
Me: Yeah... I...
Mom: B, I tell him the good stuff too! Come on, Dennis! You know I tell you the good stuff!
Me: I...
Dad: Well, you only tell me the good stuff if I ask him the good stuff and then you fill in with the good stuff that you know about his good stuff and I look like a doofus.
Me: I...
Mom: B, I tell him the good stuff...I really do!
Dad: Yeah, like your broken toilet. That's the good stuff I get to hear...
Me: Well... my toilet...
(In the background two large dogs are barking insanely at the doorbell.)
Me: I can't hear you guys anymore!
(Barking.)
(Barking.)
(Barking.)
Me: Hello? Hellllloooooo?
(Random chattering and struggling and sounds like elephants pushing walls down.)
Dad: Sorry, B. The neighbors from next door are here... good talking to you! Love you!
Mom: Love y...!
Me:Hello...hello?

CLICK.

There comes a point in every guy's life where he starts to define what he truly believes in.

It starts young when he stops believing in everything he's been told: Santa exists, the Tooth Fairy is real, boys can't play with dolls.

He realizes that people are going to tell him differently. Some people are going to disagree with what he agrees with. This means he will have to stand up for himself.

And sometimes he will stand up for himself with thousands of other people who believe in the same belief, but he doesn't even know them. But they all do know each other because they all are the same in some way.

And it will be a long, tough fight.

There comes a point in every guy's life where he starts to define his beliefs. It can be scary. It can be frustrating. It can feel like there's really no hope no matter how hard you fight.

But when you have people who believe in you as much as you believe in your passions and in your fights and in your struggles, the defining isn't as scary as you think. Having friends here for you in the dead of cold on a Saturday morning to pat you on the back when you're trying so hard to not grit your teeth in frustration that you even have to be at a protest will mean the world. Having friends who will shiver right next to you when, really, the protest has nothing to do exactly with them will mean the world. Having a friend who is straight with a hot straight girlfriend hold a giant rainbow flag in the middle of a bunch of gay guys... that will mean the world. That will force you to keep defining in what it truly is you believe in.

Love.

I've watched this, like, eight times already. So dang funny.

But I just can't help oozing all over the severe ga ga-ness of this movie. Plus, who knew Captain Kirk and a Vulcan could be so doable?

They say everything has its place. That when something or someone figures out its place, everything else just begins to come together. For instance, placing furniture and accessories in a certain order in a room could change the entire energy flow of your world. Or like how when you're placed at a tiny table having lunch with good company can change your entire perspective.

This past week my aunt made a visit from Wisconsin. It was one of those perfectly planned days where everything just happened on its own with uninterrupted conversation, shopping, topped off with a late lunch a favorite restaurant of mine tucked on a quieter street downtown.

My aunt is someone I admire. She knows what she wants and she's worked hard to get it. She also isn't afraid to ask... anything.

"So, are you seeing anyone new?" She asks while sipping her water glass and smiling from a across the table. The restaurant is dim and a light ambient music is playing through the high-ceiling room.

"Nope! No one. I've been too busy with, you know, other stuff..." I say closing my menu and folding my cloth napkin across my lap. Our table was tucked in a quiet corner. It felt like we had the whole restaurant to ourselves. It felt like we were put there just to have this conversation.

"No? Well... are you busy because you are trying to distract yourself... or...?" She says crossing her arms in front of her and giving that look she is so good at giving someone when she's trying to get the real answer.

"No... I'm just not there yet. I finally get it. I'm not ready yet. So many people jump into being with other people before they are really there... you know, in that "place".

"Place?"

"Yeah. You know, no one is ever perfect when they get in to a relationship, but there are things we have to organize in ourselves before we place someone else in that space. Things need to be in the right place so everything can just flow better. You know? Like Feng Shui. "

My aunt smiles, nods and says: "That might be one of the most maturest things I've ever heard a twenty-six year old say. How did you figure that out?"

As our crab cakes arrive to our small table, the waiter removes things we don't need at that moment to make room for the hot plate. He takes the menus that we don't need anymore because we were done with them. He then takes the extra flatware that was unnecessary for just the two of us. Then he removes the wine list that wasn't any use to us leaving our table airy, organized, and... comfortable.

That's the funny thing about life. Sometimes answers about your place are right in front of your face.

I met a movie star tonight. Will get back about that.

Josh and I are going to the Proposition 8 protest downtown this Saturday. In attempt to be a good little protester and because I love a good protest sign, I have spent the last fifteen minutes try to decide what my "Anti-Proposition 8" poster will look like... or what it would say.

Byron: "I think I have the perfect sign!"
Josh: "What?"
Byron: "It's a giant 8 with gigantic sharp mean dripping teeth because, you know, 8 is totally an evil monster."
Josh: Silence with Josh eyes(Josh eyes to Byron are much like a puppy that was just woken up from a nap and isn't too happy about it).
Byron: "Fine, no sign."

But I lied.

This. IS. Fascinatingly sad... because it's true.

It is my belief that life's best lessons come from people who can't talk, but can gurgle.

Caleb is crawling. I mean, seriously, last March he was a piece of Silly Putty that would suck on a bottle and go limp the minute he finished. He'd sleep for, like millions of hours, and when he woke up he wanted more milk.

"Wooooooah partner!" Seems like all I have been saying today as the little guy speeds around the hardwood floor trying to dig in to mommy and daddy's filing cabinets or puppy's food bowl or on to the wii fitness board. He has that look of fascination in his eyes that you forget that we are even born with. I mean, my cell phone rang and his eyes lit as he jiggled himself to the tune. The way the dog sneezes excites the hell out of him and when I clap it's like I just offered him an all expense paid trip to the moon. I mean, to him, I'm amazing. We forget that as we get older... when everything someone does is amazing. Anything I do is amazing. Yet, everything to him in comparison seems so hard.

This afternoon, after Caleb's nap, I pull out his colored stacking cups. I stack them and he punches them with his little hamburger patty sized hand and then tries to restack them like me. You can tell he gets frustrated because he wants to do it just like me... but what he doesn't know is it's just going to take time to be able to do that. He's doesn't want to wait, though. He wants stuff to come to him and be easy and natural like all the things he's good at doing... like crawling. But what he doesn't know is that he'll be like me soon... he's just got to let time help him do it.

Lately, I've been stacking my cups and it seems like someone keeps swooping in to knock them over. It seems like I can't keep them stacked as tall or orderly or cleanly or quickly or nicely as other people around me. My life is just all over the place and bumpier than usual. I feel like I chose some dirt road to ride my bike on while everyone around me is on cement.

But what I do know is exactly what Caleb doesn't yet know. I want my answers. I want it right now. I want things to be like everyone else. I don't want things to frustrate me. I want to be good at my life. But like wanting to walk when all Caleb can do is crawl, I just need to trust and believe and look forward to when that time will come where instead of being amazed by everyone else I will, again, be amazed by my self.

People are fighting it. There's a site where you can see what you can do. Total. History.

Yo, Gents, take note:
What do you do if you want to woo a Byron?
By him a cupcake(or, you know, more than one cupcake) from here.

I'm still in woo. I was wooed by myself, but as long as I'm wooed, I don't care who's wooing me.

I love kids. Kids. Rule. I'm not the Cruella Deville of children! I swear. I love all good things. Really! Puppies. Kittens. Rainbows. Smiley faces. Ice cream. Balloons. Happy things!

Cool? Cool.

The other day, one of my friend's "Updates" on Facebook after the election read: "(Friend's name here) is good job America, EXCEPT for CA. WTF!?!??!?!"

In case your not a Facebook fantatic, these updates are just little blurbs that you can change any time to update your peeps of what you're doing. "Byron is brushing his teeth to Metallica." or " Byron is writing his grocery list in his underwear." You know, just another way to not be alone in this big old Cyber World.

Anyway, people can also comment on your Facebook status. So underneath this aforementioned friend's update was a comment from someone I don't know at all and apparently one of his "friends" that read: "Ha. Ha. No Gay Weddings!!!"

I know. Right?

Now, I've been real good about Proposition 8 on here. My soap box has remained with the other boxes I keep in my closet. I haven't told anyone that I've occasionally stomp around my apartment after reading another article on the update of Proposition 8. I haven't mentioned to a soul that I may or may have not screamed on the top of my lungs when seeing a Youtube video of people protesting the rights of gays to marry. I also have not peeped a word to anyone that if I ever came across someone who either voted "Yes" to Prop 8 or someone who agreed with its assaulting concept I would take them down right then and there. Which, unfortunately this douchebag on Facebook was implying. Which, unfortunately, got the wrath of Byron's pent up aggression.

ME: " Um. 'Ha Ha'? Kinda not funny at all." I wrote innocently as a comment back. Truth be told, I didn't even know how old this guy was. I know nothing about him except his Douchebagness.

Douchebag: "The ban has a purpose. Gay marriage is a slippery slope to collapse of civilization and is immoral. Jew marriage is no different than black marriage or Irish marriage. Gay marriage is a monstrosity."

ME: (Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.) ( I didn't respond right away.)

Douchebag: "Sanity is marriage between a man and a woman, and society should not be forced to accept an altering of that definition."

ME: "Is this a joke... can someone I know have a friend that is this ignorant?"

Douchebag: "I have no problem with people that are gay for their life choices, but redefining marriage is wrong. That is my statement. there is nothing bigoted about that."

And then I wrote something that, after I stopped typing, I reread and was sincerely proud of. It went something like: "Progress comes from reevaluating the way we view things in 2008 based on things that were established in 1808. It would be the first step of many steps... seeing what a joke it is to try to live by standards that were set up in a time when standards were quite different. It's like... it's like using a Mac that has OS 9 with a brand spanking new ipod that obviously will not work with OS 9... so why are you going to keep trying to force that ipod on OS 9 when OS 9 (totally a perfect operating system to work on at one time in history) is out of date and just won't work for new ipods... and there is nothing wrong with that... having to upgrade to a better way of working OR evolving to make things better... easier... functional..."

That's what we have to do. Evolve. Otherwise we might as well still be going to the bathroom in the woods and using candle light to try to read and stick to having just white men as presidents and keeping certain water fountains for certain races and women should only cook and marriages should still be arranged. And you should only be able to get married once. And you should only be able to marry in a church and not on some sexy beach. Everything else should stay the same because, clearly, it was established way back when and worked for those people then should just have to work for us now."

But that's not the case for all that other stuff... so why is it a case for us and our life choices?

But I didn't say anything. Instead I let the guy Facebook his this little heart out with out response. I mean, really, I already felt passive aggressive arguing with a guy I didn't know on a computer.

Because in the end, really, I don't need ANY of you to vote for me to be able to be with the one I would want to be with. Legal or not, I'm going to do what I believe is right for me.

Proposition Hate, whoops, I mean Proposition 8 or not.

A boy, probably ten, was reading my laptop over my shoulder at the coffee shop I was working at while his grandpa was in line for his Cappuccino. I wasn't for sure about him reading over my shoulder, but I did hear some of my words I was typing being quietly whispered out loud. When I'd turn over my shoulder I would see him looking at my screen and then looking at me and then a huge ten year old smile.

I like kids. I love kids. I want kids. Kids are great. But kids that are not great are ten year old boys that don't know that they shouldn't read over the shoulder over a twenty-six year old that is trying to write a story that uses the "F" word in it. Not that he saw the "F" word, but I should be able to type the "F" word in public if I want to type the "F" word. It's my right. I'm totally allowed to drop the "F". "F! F! F! F!" SEE!

So instead of just ignoring it or, of course, being an adult and turning around and saying something along the lines of: "Hi, you should be more polite and not read other people's business." I instead opened a new word document and in big bold letters wrote:

"YO, KID BEHIND ME... YEAH, YOU IN THE RED SWEATSHIRT READING THIS AS I TYPE IT. STOP BEING A BRAT. YOU'RE BEING RUDE.

He stopped. I could tell this because he looked at me when I turned around and as I smiled he slinked back towards his grandpa's side and didn't turn as he left nervously drinking his hot cocoa.

Thanks, Megan.

One sunny day in 2048 I will be sitting in a futuristic living room filled with gadgets that will be turned on and off with just a conversation with a computer. I will order dinner with our hologram picture phone. Our hover-craft car will be hovering quietly in the post consumer material made garage. Our robot butler will not look or act like a robot, because by 2048 robots will look human and yet only want to fold your laundry which in the future will not be done in water by with solar blasting-- kills the germs faster and more effectively.

And in 2048 my grandchildren will come visit their grandpas(because Grandpa Byron finally found the man of his dreams in his late twenties/early thirties after he became famous for writing two books that changed the world and having that television show that was offered to him) from the moon(since one of our sons will get a job there after Earth finally colonized it in 2027.).

The kids will float in on their Back to the Future inspired Hover Boards wearing crazy outfits that Grandpa Byron will never judge because he will always appreciate style and "whatever those crazy young people are wearing these days." And they will sit around Grandpa Byron while Grandpa Byron wears his futuristic Prada loafers and because the moon's grade schools are quite advanced and future kids in fifth grade have to write term papers about the crazy past, one of Grandpa Byron's grand kids will ask him:

"Grandpa Byron, what was it like to be there when they elected the first African American president... why was it such a big deal? You always talk about the forty-fourth president! I mean... why did people care so much... people are just people... and numbers are just numbers, right?"

And that is when Grandpa Byron will go in to his giant walk-in closet from the future, pull out a dusty box and set it in the middle of his grandchildren.

"Grandpa... is that... is that... is that paper?" The little boy will gasp in shock. "I thought paper didn't exist anymore!"

I will laugh. I will bend down grabbing my back a little from it's old man ache and I will open the box. I will pull out a journal from November forty years ago and turn to the page that my twenty-six- year-old self had taken notes in about the event of his lifetime that he had brought to the bar with him while he watched an election that changed the way he looked at his country. That changed the way he looked at the future. An election that made him cry for the first time ever. An election that actually made him listen to the speeches and think of the little future rugrats that were sitting in front of him, now, in 2048.

And because Grandpa Byron will be stoic (years of life lessons have made him this way) he will say: "Once, before Grandpa Byron was married to your grandpa and when paper was still written on and when people didn't think Global Warming was totally true(this part the grandkids will laugh at!) your Grandpa Byron didn't believe in lucky numbers. See, people who had lucky numbers were strange. But on that day, forty-four seemed to say something to him. It was the number of Mr. President Obama in office. It was a number that made him realize that maybe a change is about to come. It was a number that made him feel,again, that luck is nothing but a belief, but when a belief is put back in you that you haven't felt in years... well, that, is a number you carry with you forever and moment you never want to forget."

Hi. Guys? My name is Byron and I shop at your store all the time. I'm that guy that gets the salad and sometimes the soup and the pretzel roll(GOD THOSE ROCK!) and bananas. Remember me? OK. Didn't think so.

We still need to chat, though.

There's this whole new trend called "Green" that we are all raving about. Now, with you working at an all organic place, I totally respect your avid and almost hippie approach to shopping bags. What do I mean, you ask? OK. See, I'm just going to come out and say it: Do they train you to be shopping bag Nazi's?

"That will be $10.55, please" Says one of your cute sales associates that looks like the hippie version of Natalie Portman with dark hair in braids. "You don't need a bag, right?"She gives me one of those scrunchy faces and head nod "no" to try to brainwash me in to agreeing with her.

I stare at my pile of things. I don't have a backpack and I am stopping at a few other stores on the way home and don't really need the Walgreen's clerk to see that I use a multivitamin from Wholefoods and not from him. So...

"Yes, actually, I would like one." I say politely with a charming smile.

And with a big sigh, your co-worker cute hippie Natalie Portman look-a-like sighs and whips open a bag. A sigh that was totally filled with "You just killed a tree for personal convenience, so I hope you're happy".

I'd like to say to you guys that this was a one time situation. But that would be lying. Because I shop with you guys often and quite honestly almost every visit and no matter who is ringing me up, I STILL get the weird "I can't believe you're using a bag for this!" judgment face.

I want you to totally know that I get where you're coming from. I mean, people use bags for everything. Then they get home and throw them out. But that's not me! I save them. I use them as garbage bags(instead of using plastic that, um, never decomposes!!!!!) or I use them to give things back to others that I may have borrowed. OR I reuse them again and bring them to the store with me when I am prepared to go to the grocery store. I don't plan my day minute for minute... so sometimes this isn't the case and I am going to need a bag to carry my stuff home in. I mean... I mean... I know people are all wasteful and bad to the Earth. But I'm the good guy! I use natural cleaning products! I carry water bottles with me until I find a recycle can! I turn lights off when I'm not in the room! I walk everywhere or take public transportation! I don't use Aqua Net aerosol hairspray(!!!!!). GEEZ! I started K.S.E. in fifth grade(That stands for Kids Saving Earth!). I was the president of the club. I have "SAVE THE EARTH" in my blood!

But sometimes I just need a bag sans the Nazi tree-hugging GUILT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, again, we don't know each other so I'm not going to get all in your faces at the grocery store because then I would be that crazy guy that likes your pretzel rolls too much(ADORE THEM!). But I do want it to be known that I shouldn't feel like I'm asking for you to wrap perfect Tiffany bows around every one of my purchases when I say "Yes" to needing a bag.

But, Whole Foods Check-Out People, I do want you to know this: You may be stingy with your bags. You may give me a guilt complex. You may even be hippies. But, damn, you kids are stylish. I don't think I've seen a bad outfit at your store yet.

Friends?
Friends.

Last night I made a special appearance at the bar I used to work at to fill in a few empty spots on one of the busiest bar days of the year: Halloween weekend and Day Light Savings Day. (You'd actually be surprised how excited people get with this whole "We have an extra hour to be at the bar!" Really excited. Which I'm sure is awesome when you're on the other side of the bar and not tired and still exhausted from your night before Halloween party that may or may not had included dirty dancing with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.).

Anyway, also working the bar with me as a "one time only" bartender was my good friend Josh. We work together often. At coffee shops. Not at gay bars. But there we were with loud dance music screaming through the bar speakers and bottles sliding in and out of our hands.

See he's just cool like that. He's straight. He's got a fiance at home. He's all Josh and stuff who also doesn't mind crawling behind a bar and slinging drinks to help out a friend. That's just the type of guy he is. A good friend. A good person.

You will meet a lot of people. Tons. All the time. Some of those people are people you happy just to have a quick conversation with while in line at Starbuck's. Some people you only need to have around occasionally. Then there are others that you finally realize have defined you and will continue in aiding that definition as your friendship grows. They are the ones you owe forever "Thank Yous" to not for helping you hang picture frames or listen to you whine about that really really really bad date, but for just being there and rubbing off that high-end quality person vibe they radiate so naturally. They don't come around often.

"You guys are like a duo! You're like an act! You work well together!" says one of the guys that Josh and I had been serving for a few hours as I hand him back his change. "You get each other. You can just tell. You should do this more often!" He sways his arms around the bar to signify 'bartend together'.

And as I look at Josh handing a beer to a girl that probably doesn't really need another beer, I totally agree with the guy. Not with bartending. We both(yes, I'm going to say this at the risk of being moaned at by everyone older than me) are getting to old to stay out past our bedtimes. But I agree that I should do this more often: have moments when you realize you are a better person for the good friends in life.

It's funny. Some people spend their lives looking for that one love. The core shaker. The type of love that you see in movies with Richard Gere or Meg Ryan. But, in life, you are more lucky if you meet a friend that makes you look across a gay bar in the mist of coasters and drinks and drunk people and Madonna remixes and say to yourself: Dang, he rules.

An actual conversation had last night at a party:

Girl: You don't really know me, but I stalk your Twitter.
Me: Wait, you're that Twit-y?!
Girl: The Twitter-Stalker!
Me: I wish I could Twit more, but I don't have Twinkle.
Girl: Twinkling's cool.
Me: GOD! I need to Twitter and Twinkle more.

Actual said line two nights ago at Josh and Drea's

Michele: So, then he was all: "Come play football with us!" And we actually played real football! Not Wii football!