Author Archives: Joel Derfner

N.B.: This post was inspired by this man’s reflection on his name.

When I was five–I believe this was before the picket described in the “about me” section on the right-hand side of this page, but I can’t be sure–I decided that my first name wasn’t nearly glamorous enough, and I needed to change it.

Even at such a tender age, I was aware that “Daisy” (after my favorite character on The Dukes of Hazzard) wasn’t a realistic option. But, after a day or two of careful consideration, I was able to narrow the list down to two choices, both of which seemed eminently suitable to me.

I then spent three days trying to figure out whether I should change my name to “Rainbow” or “Jehovah.”

It was agonizing. “Rainbow” was certainly colorful and bright and joyous–all qualities I felt I possessed in spades–but it lacked the grandeur of “Jehovah.” At the same time, “Jehovah,” while it satisfied my secret feelings of omnipotence and superiority, might distance people from me in ways that “Rainbow” wouldn’t. I briefly considered changing both my first and last names and becoming “Rainbow Jehovah,” but somehow that seemed to be crossing a line.

In the end, unable to decide, I gave up and stuck with the name my parents had chosen.

I guess I could always use “Rainbow Jehovah” as a drag name, but, to be honest, I do really bad drag. So perhaps it’s best to leave well enough alone.

I always thought that the news of Ronald Reagan’s death, when it finally came, would fill me with a joy and elation thitherto unmatched in my life.

And I’m certainly happy that such a force for evil has departed this world. But I’m not dancing around my apartment in the total ecstasy I expected.

My muted response baffled me until I realized it was because the conglomerate of evil we have running the country now is even worse.

In therapy yesterday, I was talking about various worries and anxieties we’d discussed a couple weeks ago, and how I was feeling better about some of them, or at least somewhat less tortured. My therapist said, “It sounds like you’re working through these issues very well.”

I said, “It’s not so much that I’m working through them. It’s more that I’m on a path, and whatever’s on the path is there, and I’ll just keep walking it.”

“You sound dangerously close to enlightenment,” he said.

“Have no fear,” I answered.

I feel no small degree of shame about what I am about to confess.

I have jumped on the bloggers-writing-books bandwagon.

I have written a book.

And Random House is publishing it.

Those of you who’ve been reading this blog for a while may remember that I participated in the Blogathon by writing 49 haiku about gay dating and sex.

Well, people seemed to like them, and they were easy enough to write, so I decided to write 20 more and try and get the group published as 69 Gay Haiku.

Eventually somebody at Random House decided he wanted to publish it. The only issue was that he wanted 110 haiku. I had no problem writing the extra haiku; it’s just that 69 Gay Haiku is the only decent title I’ve ever come up with for anything. The current title of the book is Gay Haiku.

I would link to the haiku that I posted for the Blogathon, but I was contractually obligated to take them off the web site.

So, as I say, I feel no small sense of shame about this. However, the first part of my advance came yesterday, and, let me tell you, there’s nothing that takes that shame away like being able to pay the collection agencies what you owe them.

Since Six Flags is in far-off New Jersey, we actually left New York the day before our afternoon there and spent the night at E.S.’s parents’ house, which is about half an hour away from the park. After dinner, E.S.’s parents were talking about how aging affects memory. We had the following exchange:

E.S.’s father: “As you get older, the facts start to drop away but the wisdom you’ve learned from them stays with you.”
Me: “What if you never had any wisdom, only facts?”
E.S.’s mother: “Then you’re doomed.”

On Friday, E.S. and I went to the Six Flags Great Adventure amusement park.

The last time I went to Six Flags was three years ago, with this man’s boyfriend. Twenty minutes into the bus ride there, when I started talking about what roller coasters we should go on, he said, “Oh, I don’t really like roller coasters.”

“What?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Then why did you say yesterday that you thought going to Six Flags sounded like a great idea?”

“Well, I thought we’d do other stuff,” he said.

“There isn’t any other stuff. It’s an amusement park.”

In the end, we had a terrific time–we were able to find four or five rides he was glad to go on, and we ate lots of junk food, and we played Whack-A-Mole, which I won.

Fast forward to this past weekend. It was clear to me that E.S. wasn’t nearly as excited about going to Six Flags as I was–a fact that mystified me–but, luckily, he had agreed to go simply to humor me, or, more likely, to shut me up, as I’d been begging him for about three months to go.

When we arrived, E.S. looked through the map of the park and said, “Oh, we have to go on Nitro.” According to the map, Nitro is the largest steel roller coaster on the east coast. We wandered over to the Movietown section of the park and stood in the line for Nitro behind (and eventually in front of) a group of preteens. Those who were not wearing identical blue T-shirts with musical notes on the back were wearing identical white T-shirts with “Calvary Christian High School” on the front; I wasn’t sure who to be more scared of.

But soon enough it didn’t signify, as Nitro was far more terrifying than all the preteens put together. It starts by taking you slowly and creakily up a 230-foot ramp and then dropping you at an 85-degree angle almost to the ground. Then it goes on for another four minutes.

When the ride was over, a thoroughly terrified E.S., whose hands were shaking, said, “Did I tell you that I’m scared of heights?”

This explained his mystifying reluctance to go.

“That was too scary for me,” he continued. “I think I’m too old for this.”

A booth at the exit was selling photos of us; evidently, a strategically-placed camera had managed to capture our likenesses as we plunged to what our noradrenergic systems were convinced was our deaths. In the photo, E.S. looked handsome even filled with terror, and the preteens, whose noradrenergic systems were clearly far less gullible than ours, looked like they were having the time of their lives. I, on the other hand, had on my face a look of such grim concentration one might think the lens had caught me in the midst of performing a particularly complicated neurosurgery. E.S. wanted to buy a copy of the picture but I forbad him.

Then we found three or four more rides he was glad to go on, and we ate lots of junk food, and we played Whack-A-Mole, which I won.

Those of you who know me personally and/or intimately are aware that my housekeeping skills leave something to be desired. The less kind among you might say that the something to be desired is a wrecking ball, but then again you might choose instead to remember that discretion is the better part of valor, or at least, for those of you who know me intimately, that I was good in bed. For those of you who know me personally but not intimately, well, I’ll just have to hope for the better part of valor thing.

In any case, even I will acknowledge that, when it comes to my apartment, I am not the neatest of men. This is a result of having too many books, too many papers, and only a velleity to do anything about it.

E.S., however, takes a less lackadaisical view of the whole thing. You may remember that in the past he has actually done something about the messiness of my apartment himself. Apparently, however, that was a one-time event, not to be repeated (or perhaps it was a Christmas gift and I can expect the same next December). In any case, he has been after me for weeks to clean my apartment. Every time the subject came up I would promise to do so, and, as evidence of my good faith, would pick up a piece of paper from the floor (making sure he saw me) and put it in the recycling box. Then I would blithely make my way through the obstacle course of books, papers, and dog toys to wherever my destination was.

Then, this morning, E.S. said he wasn’t having sex with me until I cleaned the apartment.

Let me tell you, you could do brain surgery in this apartment now.

Actually, that’s a lie, but the place is certainly cleaner than it was before his Lysistrata move. And, as subsequent events proved, brain-surgery clean wasn’t necessary for him to lift the moratorium.

I have spent the last two months drowning in a maelstrom of anxiety and depression. This has interfered with any number of my regular activities. I haven’t been to the gym in so long I’m beginning to fear being harpooned for my blubber when I walk down the street. There are friends I haven’t called in so long they may actually have forgotten my name. I’ve taken a leave of absence from the cheerleading squad. And, worst of all in some ways, I’ve let this blog founder.

A couple weeks ago, I went on a new medication. And the maelstrom is calming down ever so slightly. But the problem is, getting back to my normal life still seems a task far too daunting to be contemplated, much less attempted. I’ve been to the gym a couple times in the last two weeks, and reminded a couple friends of my existence, and here I am posting.

But there are still miles to go before I sleep.

Today is the 50th anniversary of the Supreme Court’s ruling in Brown v. Board of Education that racial segregation in public schools was unconstitutional.

Today is also the first day that gays and lesbians can legally marry in this country.

There really are a few brief, shining moments during which this country can get things right. I don’t yet know how I’m going to celebrate today, but rest assured it will involve ice cream and sex.

The other day, E.S. and I saw a commercial for an upcoming NBC show called Next Action Hero. Instantly I realized that this whole “musical theater composer” thing had been a big mistake, and that my true calling was to be an action hero in Hollywood movies. After all, I learned how to do a back handspring at the age of 30; what feats of greater dexterity or stamina could possibly be required in an NBC movie called Hit Me?

E.S. was somewhat dubious when I expressed to him my soul’s new desire.

“Okay,” he said. “Say this as if you were in an action movie: ‘EVERYBODY TO THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE BUS!'”

I assumed a very butch body position and shouted, “EVERYBODY TO THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE BUS!”

We both agreed that I would be the best gay action hero in a gay action movie around.