Blog

December 11, 2002

Today I had my first cheersetback.

On a cheerleading squad, there are two positions. These are not, as one might expect on a gay cheerleading squad, “top” and “bottom,” since everybody on the squad is very clearly a bottom, but “base” and “flyer.” A flyer is, of course, somebody who gets thrown in the air, and a base is somebody who does the throwing. From the moment I realized there was a chance I could be a cheerleader, the dearest wish of my heart was to be thrown in the air. Since I am short and fairly slim, this seemed to be a reasonable thing to hope for if I made the squad.

So they sent out an e-mail today about squad positions. I eagerly scanned the list for my name and was shattered to see next to it the words “mid base flyer.”

Clearly they think I am TOO FAT TO BE THROWN IN THE AIR.

I’m trying to decide whether to lose fifteen pounds or to eliminate the pure flyers on the squad one by one until they are forced to promote me to pure flyer status.

The latter would be both healthier and much more fun.

Posted on by Joel Derfner | 3 Comments

December 10, 2002

I made the squad!

I’m a CHEERLEADER!

This is the proudest day of my life.

Posted on by Joel Derfner | 20 Comments

December 7, 2002

I am sick. I have an upset stomach and an achy body and a fever. I want a cute boyfriend who will bring me soup and stroke my hair and tuck me in and make me feel all better.

I also want to inherit 100 billion jillion dollars from a long lost relative and to win the Nobel Peace Prize. At the moment these goals seem more realistic than the first.

Maudlin whining brought to you by TheraFlu.

Posted on by Joel Derfner | 2 Comments

December 6, 2002

Yesterday I found out my therapist isn’t gay.

I told him I knew it didn’t matter but I still felt betrayed, just like when it turned out that Atkins protein bars are actually full of carbohydrates, even though they’re the kind of carbohydrates that don’t have any effect on your blood sugar and therefore don’t count as Atkins carbs. But still. They’re full of carbs.

I hate everyone.

Posted on by Joel Derfner | 6 Comments

December 5, 2002

After trying in vain for two days to summon the mental focus required to blog about the cheerleading clinic, I’ve come to the realization that I am simply mentally unfocused. Perhaps I require mental contact lenses. Or mental bifocals.

I was accompanied to the cheerleading clinic by my staunch and loyal friend D.R., who claimed he was coming along for moral support but whom I suspect to have joined me simply to see the cute guys jumping around in athletic shorts.

I was actually late meeting him because I couldn’t decide whether to bring my regular athletic shorts or my athletic shorts that are way too short and tight. In the end I decided to bring both and wait and see what seemed most appropriate. When I got there it very quickly became clear that the too short, too tight shorts were the way to go.

So of course I had left both pairs at home and had to do the whole thing in jeans. It was mortifying and I wanted to die.

Plus, I have really cute legs, and I had been counting on them to give me an edge.

One very fascinating thing was how multiethnic the squad and squad hopefuls were. Of about thirty people in the room, exactly five were white. Given that the gay community tends to draw racial lines very strongly, this was both surprising and heartwarming.

Also heartwarming was the fact that these were the queeniest queens ever to queen their way down the pike.

Now, nobody who spends more than three seconds in my company can say that I am in any way a paragon of masculinity. But next to some of these guys, I was positively Schwarzenegger-esque. My gay mentor, the first person I came out to and the guy who helped me be okay with everything, was also incredibly queeny, and so in a very real and very comforting way, this felt like home.

I really don’t understand it at all. Given the fact that I hate everyone, you’d think that cheerleading was the very last thing on earth I would enjoy doing. But there I was, clapping and jumping and shouting “Go, New York, let’s go!” and “New York, let’s hear it! Yell go, fight, win!” and having the time of my life. It could be a Molière play: The Misanthrope Cheerleader.

Of course, since I am insanely competitive, I spent the entire time with a look of grim concentration on my face, hoping that my cohorts would trip or fall while I got everything right. Every once in a while I would remember that I was supposed to be cheering, and I would grin like a madman for a minute or two, and then I would go back to wishing my competitors ill.

The one thing that makes me sad is that this is clearly not going to be the place where I meet my soul mate.

They’re bottoms, to a man.

Posted on by Joel Derfner | 1 Comment

December 4, 2002

As a service to my loyal readers, I would like to point out that virtually any statement or question in English can be turned into a come-on by the addition of the word “sailor” to the end. For example:

“Do you know what time it is, sailor?”

“A stitch in time saves nine, sailor.”

“I’m rereading the complete works of Jane Austen, sailor.”

Until a few days ago, I believed that this method could turn any statement or question into a come-on; this belief was shattered, however, when my friend R.A. came up with:

“I’ve just been diagnosed with Legionnaire’s Disease, sailor.”

If there are people who would be aroused by hearing this, I can only hope I never ever meet them.

Posted on by Joel Derfner | 7 Comments

December 3, 2002

To blog effectively about last night’s cheerleading clinic would require more mental focus than I am able to summon at the moment. I promise I will tell all within the next few days.

For the moment, I’ll just say that, of all the times I have been sore the day after spending an evening in the middle of a group of sweating, groaning gay men, this has been the most enjoyable by far.

Posted on by Joel Derfner | 9 Comments

December 2, 2002

Tonight is the clinic for the cheerleading tryouts next week. My friend D.R. is accompanying me for moral support. I have spent all day worrying about what to wear.

I wish there were an “i” in my name so that I could start dotting it with a heart.

With any luck, I’ll make the team and then become instantly popular and start being really mean and bitchy to all the unpopular kids.

Posted on by Joel Derfner | 3 Comments

December 1, 2002

I spent the day today writing a song about duct tape.

The Duck brand duct tape company is sponsoring a contest for the best song written about duct tape, with a first prize of $2,500. A brilliant collaborator of mine and I decided to write a song about being abducted by aliens.

Get it? AbDUCTed, DUCT tape? Get it?

So it’s this guy who gets abducted by aliens, who tell him that they have seen how powerful duct tape is, and so it must clearly be a weapon, though they can’t quite figure out how, but they’re going to destroy Earth rather than allow this weapon to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting galaxy. All the hero’s protests about the usefulness of duct tape are in vain. The aliens are about to pull the trigger . . .

. . . when all of a sudden a meteor strikes their ship, leaving a huge gash in the side, which our hero REPAIRS WITH DUCK BRAND DUCT TAPE.

So instead of destroying Earth, the aliens invite us to join the Galactic Federation.

We had better fucking win this contest.

If we don’t, I know where to send the aliens first.

I should note that the Honorable Mention prize in this contest is a year’s supply of duct tape. I would really rather have my half of the $2,500, but if I get the duct tape, I suppose I could use it to bind the disfigured man so that he’s no longer capable of following me to orgies.

Posted on by Joel Derfner | 3 Comments