Sunday afternoon was my very own Ferris Bueller-inspired adventure. Except in this rendition, Cameron and Ferris are the happy couple, and I didn't rock the white leather fringe jacket and cowboy boots, but chose instead a chambray dress and flats. I like to think of it as Sloane updated.
But attire aside, I had some pretty fantastic adventures with the Boy Genius Organist and his boyfriend, Emilio (yes, he is Latino, and yes, he is beautiful). We lunched at a lovely Thai cafe (but no one thought to impersonate Abe Froman, the Sausage King of Chicago. What a let down.) with some pretty fantastic people. Where else but my church can you eat with an inked-up vegetarian M. Div student while talking about feminist theology, and then discuss how Mars was in someone's rising house and that made her cranky, and then dish with the former ministerial intern about the fiasco that is the gay dating scene in small town N.C. (pumpkin, if your date can't even have a drink with you and he's straight for Jesus? You need to rethink the situation...)??? That's right, nowhere. Because my church is awesome.
Post lunch, we ventured to Raleigh to see the Al Norte Al Norte exhibit at the NC Museum of History. This exhibit was put together by Pulitzer Prize winner for photojournalism, José Galvez--who also happens to go to my church. In the exhibit there was traditional Mexican folk music playing, and so Emilio decided to test my dancing skills. We were doing fine until he started insisting that we incorporate some swing moves and I nearly dropped my purse and almost knocked over Boy Genius, who simply snorted and walked on. To quote Shakira, my hips don't lie, but they don't get tossed around museum corridors by spry Mexicans either, okay?
After seeing José's brilliance, we took a quick run through the Natural History Museum, stopping to ogle the whale skeletons suspended from the ceiling ("Look what massive resonance chambers they have!! Imagine making a cello out of one of their jaws, no?" Emilio says to me. "Or a lute," I retort. "......Eden, you are always saying better instruments than me." For the full effect, please read Emilio's part as though you were Hank Azaria's character in The Birdcage. And now it's funny.). We also gawked at the sloths and giant prehistoric beetles, ooohed and aaahed over the tiny little stuffed baby black bear in the terrarium. But mostly the boys held hands and caressed each other's hair while onlookers stared in amazement. B.G. and Emilio were not doing this to be overt or anything; rather, so much of the time, it seemed to be mindless--like their connection is such that they are constantly drawn to each other without being consciously aware of it. It was endearing to witness (and, if I may be honest, disgusting, but only because I'm bitter and cranky at anyone who is so happy with their lover).
Upon deciding that we had had enough of the Mesozoic era, we headed across town to the art museum. Our time there went a little something like this:
Except, you know, instead of Picassos and Rembrandts we saw bad pop art and a work that was merely a trapezoidal piece of canvas painted blue. We're in North Carolina for fuck's sake, you can't expect too much. (Sidebar: Who woke up one morning and decided that blue trapezoids were art?!?! I demand to know so that I may write them a strongly worded letter and tell them that they are, to put it delicately, a hack and a detriment to their profession.)
We ate a variety of popsicles from Locopops, a locally owned ice cream store that sells magnificent popsicles in weird combinations. We tried grapefruit lychee, banana horchata, honeydew jasmine (which we decided would have been better if they had included jalepeño and/or sea salt), and sweet cream/olive oil/pumpkin seed. We drank coffee from a coffee shop that boasts beverages with 6 (SIX!!!) shots of espresso in them, while reading (and I am not making this up) some blogger's take on Cosmo's 44 Most Ridiculous Sex Tips. The commentary nearly made B.G. and me shoot our mochachinos out our noses. Then we trolled a used bookstore; B.G. and Emilio made friends with the owner while I happened upon The Pop-Up Book of Phobias, which is just my brand of fucked-up humor (except the clown page--that shit is scary beyond all reason). We went to B.G.'s favorite record store where I bought my very own, very first Dave Matthews album. (And my two best friends from college are reading this and wondering why they ever associated with me. How did I survive my college years with only one pair of Chuck Taylors and NO D.M. albums??? I am a traitor to my generation.)
On the way home from Raleigh, stuffed to the gills with rich food and exhausted from meandering through museums all day, we listed to Dave and discussed the finer points of the queer culture in N.C. (wherein I learned that I can identify as "queer," as that is anyone who defies to the mainstream concept of "one white middle class man and one white middle class woman beget 2.5 white middle class children, and that and ONLY that makes a family."). And while Cameron (aka, Emilio) didn't run his dad's 1961 Ferrari GT off the two-stories-up garage and into a tree (Emilio's dad doesn't even have a two story garage, y'all), we did bare our souls and dream of what the future holds for each of us, and as I dropped the boys off at home, I knew that this was a day for the record books.
"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once and a while, you could miss it."
Cue Yello's "Oh Yeah" and roll final credits.
Teaser for next weekend: Four friends, lots of beer, and a performance by a living legend. He would do anything for love, but he won't do that. This will be epic.
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