Some people ask me what I could possibly have to complain about, seeing as how I’m currently attending an Ivy League school and studying something that I’m really passionate about. Add to that that I’m a middle-class white male who is culturally, if not religiously Christian with a generally supportive family and group of friends, and you’d think that everything is going just fine for me. And you’d be wrong. I still don’t have time for everything I want to do. Yeah, I’m keeping my head above water, but that’s about it. Last night, I turned in a paper. I was pleased with the content, but so worn out by the time that I’d finished it that I threw together the citations page in several minutes without bothering to link each fact in the body of the essay to one of the references, cite them using MLA format, or even check to make sure that every fact I’d used was accounted for in the references. Something tells me they’ll take off a few points for that. If my gut is correct, they’ll still give me a decent grade, as I still did research and wrote a halfway decent paper, but that’s not enough. As I’ve said many times before, I want to conquer the world. What’s more, I want to have time once it’s done to bang my supermodel husband and retire to my private island. Why, I insist, is that so much to ask? It’s not like I’m trying to do the impossible, like make Mitt Romney a viable presidential candidate or get Catholic priests to stop fondling boys. I just want my own little corner of the world. To be fair, my corner of the world is the world, but you see my point.
I watch a lot of Star Trek, as anyone who knows me and/or reads this blog should know. Lately, I’ve started to get into Sherlock Holmes. My father is a total fanatic, which means that even before I’d read a single story, I knew the characters and many of the stories. For the longest time, it was a family tradition to watch mysteries together, usually the BBC adaptations with Jeremy Brett as Sherlock or those Brother Cadfael adaptations with Derek Jacobi as the title character. I’m too lazy to research this, but I wonder if Sherlock and Dr. Watson were the first ambiguously gay duo. To me, there is nothing ambiguous about it: Watson clearly loves the ladies, and Sherlock is either asexual or so caught up in his problem-solving that he just can’t find time for them. But the recent BBC adaptations of the stories (starring the equally wonderful Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as Sherlock and Watson, respectively) can’t help but wring humor from the situation. Part of that arises from the setting, which reimagines the stories in the present day rather than the Victorian Era. These days, any two men over 30 living together are automatically assumed to be gay. They aren’t, but that doesn’t stop Watson from constantly having to reassure people that no, he isn’t, will you please stop looking at him that way.
Anyway, Star Trek. Part of what I love about the Original Series is its repetitiveness. At least once or twice an episode, Spock and McCoy will have an argument. For those who’ve never watched the show, the argument between the Enterprise’s cold, rational half-alien and less-cerebral Southern doctor goes something like this:
SPOCK: Well, Jim, logically I deduce that if we choose Option A, 54.7 people will die, but if we choose Option B, 53.2 people will die. Therefore, we should logically choose Option B. Logical logical logical.
MCCOY: Listen to this guy! These aren’t numbers; they’re people’s lives! Jim, how long have I known you? I’m your friend! I’m a doctor! Don’t listen to him!
SPOCK: I’m sorry that your human emotions are clouding your judgment, Doctor, but–
(MCCOY knocks him over and instigates a wrestling match. KIRK breaks them apart, then forces them to kiss and make up. They go on with their lives, convinced that the other is out of his mind, only to repeat the process the next time KIRK can’t decide which distress call to answer or whether he wants one or two lumps of sugar in his tea.)
Here’s what you might not have figured out about me if you’re not looking too close: I’m more McCoy than Spock. I mean, yes, I tend to overthink things, but that’s just because I can’t help myself. In reality, I’d like to lead a quiet, uneventful life. I really don’t think it’s going to pan out that way, however. I’m not the type who leads a blissful existence. I’m the sort who lives a very long life that is filled with hills and valleys and at the end, decides that he could have done a lot worse. Some people burn out and die young. I’m not sure that I envy them, but I’m not sure that they envy me.
I used to hate having to draw my dating pool from only 5-10% of my preferred gender, but over time, I’ve grown to enjoy it. For one, I don’t have to deal with women and their confusing, contradictory emotions. For another, I don’t have to hide my porn usage. In fact, one of my greatest fantasies is to someday attend a gymnastics competition with my boyfriend, argue about who we’d like to bone more, then go home and fuck each other’s brains out. A man and a woman cannot do that. Two women wouldn’t. But two men? You betcha.
Enjoy it while you can, breeders, because we fags are going to take over the world someday. Just you wait. Until then, I have to pay for my education. Anyone have a briefcase full of bullion lying around?