HOPES SO HIGH

   If Rachel Maddow can talk about the Woman's World Cup and star goalie Hope Solo then so can I, because I am far more connected to Hope than Rachel can ever dream of being.  My ex-boyfriend Grant was in Hope's 5th Grade class in Sajawea Elementary School 20 years ago, so he knowing her and me knowing Grant makes the connection I have with Hope the strongest I've ever had with a famous athlete, and intrinsically bonds she and I forever.

   Soccer is the only sport I have ever liked. It was ideal for kids born with flippers instead of hands and for other kids like me who just couldn't catch a ball. Mind you, when I say I like soccer, it actually means I don't hate soccer like I hate other sports. It certainly didn't mean I was willing to play it with Grant, who plays soccer very well. This is not to say that Grant would have ever been willing to play soccer with me. He knew how bad I was at anything involving grass and a ball, even if it just required kicking. He would have looked like a coach for The Special Olympics if he tried to teach me even the most basic soccer ball footwork.

   Never having been interested in sports at-large, I have always kept my ears open for news of Hope Solo. Grant first told me about her when he heard she had made the US Olympic Team in 2004 and has kept me posted on more recent news of this Goalie Goddess. Between her very memorable, strangely ironic name, her outspokenness in interviews and on the Internet, and her beauty to boot, she's become quite a sensation, heading towards icon.

  I was at work in the hospital two days ago and all of the sudden I heard a group of women scream. Screaming is not uncommon in a hospital but it's usually accompanied by sobbing, not clapping. I ran to where the commotion was and found five Latina women of varying ages in the Surgery Waiting Room watching the match between the US and France on the TV there, and on the screen was a replay of no other than my own Hope Solo, making an amazing save.

    When I hear a group of men scream I always immediately know no matter where it is that they are watching or listening to either a touchdown, a home run, a knock-out, or a full court basket.  These moments and when a man is behind the wheel of a car are the only two times when it is socially acceptable for him to get carried away by his emotions. Hence the ever growing popularity of road rage and deadly stadium rioting. Everywhere else the man must stay stoic and let the woman's emotions run amok. I have seen groups of females scream about everything from seeing George Clooney to seeing a mouse running on the floor, to getting an all expenses paid-for spa day on Oprah to catching the bouquet at a wedding, and during protest marches against the government and on abortion lines against each other, but until that day in the Surgery Waiting Room, I never witnessed a group of women screaming over a sports event. I've come find out that women were screaming in groups all over the country at that same moment, turning it into no less than a national phenomenon.

   The Finals for the Woman World Cup is tomorrow and needless to say, a lot of Americans who never watched soccer before, along with a lot of European women who never watched either, will be tuned in.  Has The US Woman's Soccer Team stirred something in women and in men in this country that promoters have failed to do since Pele 's heyday in the 1970's? Can Hope Solo, a woman who is as talented an athlete as she is outspoken and beautiful with a name as memorable as Tiger Woods, do for soccer what he did for golf?

  The biggest question of all is can Hope Solo do the impossible by making me actually enjoy watching a soccer game? If you can do this Hope Solo, you are truly the greatest athlete in the world. 

I LEFT MY JACKET IN SAN fRANCISCO

   I have to write this tonight because I won't feel this way tomorrow. Today the July fog finally arrived, and it felt magical. Tomorrow it will feel dismal and be as annoying as having a relative who you hate stay with you for the next month. When I stepped outside this morning the cold hit me. Well it actually slapped me in the face, like a big drag queen who had just kicked the sun out of the sky with her huge high heel. "It's me. I'm back."  I didn't get mad or disappointed. I smiled. I was glad to see it, and feel it. I realized there is no other time more than that moment when I feel the first cold wet July breeze that I remember I'm in a place different from all other places, and how lucky I am to be here.
  My first July here was, of course, shocking.  Not that I wasn't warned by my best friend and ex, Scott, who had moved here a few years earlier. Coming from the East Coast, I just didn't believe that any place in America, especially in California, could be so cold in the summer. He made it sound like places on the other side of the Equator. When I arrived here with my dogs in the end of May in 1995, the weather was still beautiful, as it was for the entire month of June. But then it came as Scott had promised. The fog rolled in so thick that I expected pirates to come out if it like in the horror movie 'The Fog ', only these pirates would be gay of course. Every morning I would put on my jacket and walk outside in disbelief. It feels like I'm walking through water but but I don't get wet. Three or four years passed before I really got used it, to finally not be shocked. Now, as a seasoned San Franciscan, I  see people who have moved here and are experiencing their first  summer or who have made the fatal mistake of planning a vacation this time of year. They all have the same look of bewilderment on their faces. You can always spot them by the amount of white they have on, and the shorts and the tee-shirts they're still wearing in the late afternoon. They try to look like they're having fun and not minding the temperature, but they're cursing inside. No matter where they came from, it's probably warmer there right now.     

   It reminds me that San Francisco stands alone. It makes perfect sense that this city has it's own weather. San Francisco doesn't have the same politics as the rest of America, so why should it have the same climate? Even if California hasn't passed a Gay Marriage Bill, San Francisco is still the only place in America where all politicians pander to the gay vote and live in fear of gay boycotts and pickets, and even riots if need be. Face it, there's nothing scarier coming towards you than a screaming gay guy in high heels or a pissed-off dyke, or the most scary of all, a gay couple charging at you with a baby carriage. The Republicans who are here don't seem to have any problems with the gay lifestyle, or at least they keep their mouths shut about it in public. Bigots and fundamentalists around the country always single out San Francisco as Hell on earth. It is a distinction that also is an honor, and makes us even more unique than our weather. City Supervisors arrive in drag at fundraisers, and transvestites go to work in schools and  corporate offices. San Francisco lets you do what you want to do and be who you want to be. The only thing it will judge you for is being closed-minded. That seems to be the only socially unacceptable thing here. 

    I grew up in New York, lived in Miami, and have traveled to many gay meccas around the world, but I have never felt more safe and more powerful as a gay person as I do in this big little village. Let the weather suck in July. It's a small price to pay for being in such a special place. I promise to remember it every day this month, and I promise to remember my jacket too.   

WELCOME TO THE DOGHOUSE

    Childproofing your home is time-consuming, takes meticulous planning and diligence, and can be expensive as well as inconvenient. Luckily for parents it only lasts for a few years until their children are grown enough to be safe at home, and then parents just have to worry about them getting killed outdoors instead. Dog-proofing your home, on the other hand, is an ongoing concern that might lessen a little as a puppy grows older but it never really ends. You could say it's like childproofing, but for a retarded child who will lick, sniff and swallow anything, will chew on electric wires and any possessions that smell like you, shit and piss anywhere it wants or has to, stares at you constantly, and always wants to join in and play.

   My two wonderful boxers, Bronski and Mack, a father and son who both lived to the wizened age of 15, taught me many lessons. One of the lessons was that safe sex can kill a dog. When a used condom, considered quite a delicacy in the canine world, doesn't get thrown away in the trash immediately and is left on the bed or falls on the floor, it can end up in a dog's stomach. And if that dog swallow a few in one night, it can cause severe twisting in the digestive track. Luckily the worst that ever happened to one of my dogs was a  condom getting stuck in Bronski's ass as he strained to shit it out on Market Street in front of Pasta Pomadoro, and I had to play tug-of-war stretching the elastic as far as I could until it snapped out to the horror of the diners sitting at the outside tables. When I started getting into fisting, the same thing happened with a Latex glove, but luckily it was on 16th Street away from anyone eating. Dogs swallowing objects that weren't meant to be swallowed is probably the biggest hazard to their health, and the hardest thing to prevent. Everything that you think won't be eaten will be eaten. Cock- rings become chewy calamari, dildos become steak bones, spilled lube becomes gravy, and dirtied balled-up paper towels and tissues become lettuce salad. Bronski did have surgery one time to remove a blockage, but it ended up being a piece of a sneaker's rubber sole, which saved my ex-boyfriend Brian and I some embarrassment at the vet's office.

Brian's skateboard was also a delicacy.

        The dogs originally belonged to me and the boyfriend I had before Brian named Pepe, but Brian loved Bronski and Mack like they were his own, and as far as I was concerned, they were. We were both so affectionate with the dogs that it was hard to yell when they crossed the line, but we had to make them understand there were a few things they could not do. They would have to be content licking their own assholes, not ours.  A good rule to follow is always make sure all licking is being done by a human especially in a dark room. And  be very careful never to go to the bathroom while your partner is blindfolded on his hands and knees without telling him that you're leaving the room. Whether it's sweat, lube, or cum, dogs will be relentless in their efforts to lick it, no matter what body part it's on. Half of the time Brian and I were having sex  was spent kicking and pushing the dogs away. We also had to know where all the lube containers, toys, jockstraps, underwear, and latex gear were at the beginning of sex and where they wound up during sex, which was hard to keep track of as the night got later and wilder. The dildos were the dogs prime targets and the most valuable things to guard. Brian came with a renowned dowry of rubber toys that over the years he bought for himself or were given to him as gifts from impressed admirers, were won as prizes, were traded for ones he was bored of, were on loan from friends on extended trips abroad, and even some very expensive ones which were  willed to him by friends who died. And because of how he got it, his favorite buttplug was one he shoplifted up his ass from a store that wouldn't honor an old credit he had. No matter how careful we tried to be, the dogs got to them one by one. And when a dildo or buttplug has one bite mark or small piece eaten away, it's ruined for good. By the time Brian and I broke up, all that survived was an African dildo made of petrified wood and stainless steel Ben-Wa Balls. The one luxury we did allow the dogs was to lick up any cum that got on the carpet, just because it was easier than cleaning it up ourselves. ( This gave Bronski and Mack the  endearing nickname "The Clean-Up Crew") 

After all the dildos were destroyed, Bronski and Mack eat all other towels.

     If these things sometime happen between you and your dog they are forgivable and even laughable in the right circles. However, it should never happen between you and a friend's dog that you're watching for the weekend. Every time I get ready to take care of my dear friend Ron's dog, Bubba, I turn my studio apartment up-side-down in preparation. I stop looking at it as a home and instead as a minefield filled with all the ways a dog could potentially cause trouble, or worse, hurt itself.  Bubba is a spunky, loving, playful, handsome little man mutt  who everybody loves. He's the only dog I know I would actually like to keep for myself, so much so that I find myself occasionally hoping Ron falls down an elevator shaft.  As a matter of fact, Bubba is such a great dog that I just might push Ron down that elevator shaft myself.  

   Because I love Bubba so much I am extra careful not to do anything wrong when he stays with me. This makes having sex with my boyfriend, Alex, in my studio apartment a little nerve-racking. To protect Bubba from the shock of anything he might see, I had put him in my kitchen and blocked the entrance with my coffee table, but he somehow got out and jumped up onto the bed. "Bubba no!" I put my hand in front of his eyes, lifted him up, and ran him into the bathroom, which was the only place that had a door in my apartment.  "Alex. Get his blanket from the kitchen. He can stay in here. Thank God he didn't see anything else."

    " Oh please, he sees the same thing at Ron's."

    " Oh really?" I said, raising my eyebrow.

    Alex thought for a moment and nodded with one of his devilish smirks.  "You're right. He better stay in here."

    I made Bubba comfortable on his blanket then closed the door. Within 30 seconds he was whimpering so loudly that I had to open the bathroom door immediately. He ran past my feet as quickly as he could and jumped back onto my bed, happy to be free.

   " Let him stay out here and we'll play in the bathroom. That way he won't feel like he's being punished," I told Alex as I led him in.

    " Bathroom sex?  How lucky can I get!" he opened his arms and looked around." The tub, the toilet or the sink. So many choices. And they all look so comfortable, " he said, sitting backwards on the toilet.

    "Thanks for understanding. Ron thanks you too," I said, taking Bubba's blanket out of the bathroom and putting it on my bed for him.

     I petted Bubba again and went into the bathroom with Alex.  As soon as I started to kiss him, I could hear Bubba scratching at the door. I looked at Alex and smiled apologetically. I opened it and Bubba ran right in, forgetting how much he wanted to get out of the bathroom two minutes earlier. I picked him up and looked him in the eyes.         

    "You've won this round Bubba. But Alex and I are going to find a place to have sex eventually, no matter how hard you try to stop it."

    " I'm not going to the roof or the car for sex, so I think we're out of options. Too bad", Alex shrugged his shoulders punishingly.

    " I'll make it up to you tomorrow," I promised.

    " Yeah? Well it better be good, Coach, " he said in the toughest voice he could muster dressed as a schoolboy in a jock, knee-high socks and sneakers.

    I whispered in his ear so only he could hear what I was going to do to him in the morning after we get to his house. Alex grinned and nodded in approval, excited that it would be ' Phyical Examination Day' in Coach's office tomorrow. "And Bubba will be so busy playing with Doug( Alex's dog) that he'll totally forget about us for awhile, " I asured him..

    Alex smiled at  Bubba and petted him.. " Good doggie."