Acerbic Wit

Which of the President's Two Faces Do I Believe?

2010-10-17T09:51:00.008-04:00

Dear President Obama:

Rumor has it that you get angry about being heckled about Don't Ask Don't Tell. Rumor has it that you think gay Americans don't understand the complexities involved in reversing unfair and bigoted policies that sanction legalized discrimination in the United States. Rumor has it that you don't understand why gay Americans think you haven't just let us down: you have stabbed us in the back. Over and over again.

Like most American political rumor, that last one is more fact than fiction. And here's another one for you. Don't count on a groundswell of support in 2012 from many in the nation's LGBT community.

I am not empowered to speak for the tens of millions in the LGBT community, so I will speak only for myself.

In the early campaign season of 2008, I was not an Obama supporter. My support went to Hillary Clinton. While far from perfect and with her own political baggage, I believed she was honest and truthful, even when she said things people didn't always want to hear. I will believe and trust that person far more than someone who seems to have the ideal answer for everything and rarely draws a critical concern from their base camp. You fell into that second group.

I voted for Hillary in the primary, even though it was obvious by then which way the tide was turning. But, when the ticket was decided and Barack Obama was the candidate, you got my support and my vote. And in the 22 months since your nomination, you continued to have my support. I defended your decisions and administration because I believe that change doesn't happen overnight and that true progress involves hard decisions.

Many of your positions will not help me, and, in fact, some will not be in my best interest. Your health care plan will not improve my health care options; your tax plans will probably do me more harm than good; your Social Security decisions will have an impact on retirement decisions I will have to make soon. But I understand the big picture and the greater good. I am better off than many. So, even if I am personally harmed by your changes, if a stronger nation and healthier population is the result, I am a supporter.

But, President Obama, you are quickly losing me. I'm no longer sure which of your two faces I should be listening to. You tell us you believe in LGBT equality but you oppose marriage equality. You claim you oppose the Defense of Marriage Act, yet you are allowing your administration to appeal the federal court ruling that found DOMA unconstitutional.

You claim you oppose Don't Ask Don't Tell. Yet you are allowing your administration to appeal the federal court ruling that found DADT unconstitutional. Here, your administration rationalizes this insanity by saying the end of DADT must happen legislatively and not judiciously, to allow the military an orderly transition.

What a load of crap. This can and should be a no-brainer. The military stops persecuting its gay enlistees. Period. Orderly transition accomplished. If the nation followed your "orderly transition" logic, then Rosa Parks would have been ordered to sit in the back of that bus for another 40 years while the Montgomery bus line wrote a new rule book.

It is beyond all sane logic and reason that this nation continues to debate the basic civil rights of 10% of its population. It is beyond all sane logic and reason that your administration doesn't just allow it; your administration encourages it. In my opinion, your administration is far more dangerous to the LGBT community than any Republican administration in the last 30 years. Why? Because we knew they hated us, and in their hatred, we found unity and activism. We became a force.

But the Obama administration's false claims of support and inclusion hypnotized our community, and lulled it into a false sense of security. Fortunately, our community is now awaking from that haze and becoming aware that we have no true friend in the Oval Office. We are realizing that we have been betrayed, and that there is no end to the lies and betrayal.

So, President Obama, while I know I cannot trust your promises, you can indeed trust mine. Unless things change, you will not have my support in the 2012 campaign. No money and no defense of your administration. My money and my support will go to good Democratic House, Senate, and local candidates who are honorable and will work toward equality. I will support those men and women who have courage and speak with one message.

Here's the bigger issue: What do I do about my vote for president? I don't vote for Republicans because I could never support a candidate or incumbent who sanctions hate and discrimination as U.S. policy. But... how different is the Obama presidency? Your administration, in its benign neglect and callous disregard for the concept of equality contributes and sanctions the hatred and discrimination that still endure. Leaders make right decisions even when they are unpopular. Unfortunately President Obama, you do not make that cut.

In a national mood that is dark and distrustful, you are alienating your friends even faster than your enemies. People are angry that little has changed since George Bush occupied the White House. What federal strides and protections can the LGBT community point to, as a result of the Obama administration? What advancements are ahead that we can count on?

I don't worry about our advances on the state level. Our state leaders have a better understanding of human rights and progress than our federal leaders. And those who have disappointed us are finding themselves on the outside looking in. We have a better chance of kept promises on the state and local level. That's where my support will go. While Washington continues its long history of working only in Washington's interest, our states and our cities are winning the war on discrimination.

So, President Obama... do you want to see real anger? Start really listening to the men and women in the LGBT community. If you don't the silence that will follow will be deafening.

SHOW TARGET YOU ARE SHOPPING ELSEWHERE

2010-08-23T10:12:00.004-04:00

Here's how.
Collect your receipts from merchandise you are buying at other stores that you could have gone to Target for.
Bundle them together.
Open the file for the TARGET LETTER. Print it out and complete it.
Clip the receipts to it and mail it to:

TARGET CORPORATION
Beth M. Jacob
Executive Vice President and Chief Information Officer
1000 Nicollet Mall
Minneapolis, MN 55403

Do this again and again. Make sure you do it for your Halloween purchases as well.
If necessary, carry it through Christmas.

Show Target that the dollars not being spent at Target are indeed being spent elsewhere.

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD THE TARGET LETTER

HRC: LESS TALKIN'; MORE WALKIN'

2010-08-01T21:08:00.005-04:00

I should make this clear right off the bat. I am not a fan of the HRC (Human Rights Campaign).

It isn't that I don't believe in their mission or what they claim they are here to do. Good God, I'm gay. Of course I believe in it. But, as I have said before, I don't believe the HRC knows how to get the job done. The HRC is all about writing letters and issuing press releases. And raising money. My God, do those people love to raise money. If there were a Nobel Prize for fund-raising, it would have to go to the HRC. (With GLAAD a close second, but they are for another time.).

Right now, American gays are uber-pissed at Target and Best Buy for their corporate political contributions to MN Forward, a Minnesota PAC established primarily to support Tom Emmer, a conservative candidate for governor who, among other things, doesn't support equal rights.

The HRC has decided to lead the charge of chagrin and has deployed as its primary weapon, an open letter to Target (the link is below) that has all the anger and disdain of a Fifth Avenue matron who has discovered a tea stain on her doily.

Among the more outraged passages:

"With these contributions, you have severely damaged those carefully cultivated reputations and violated the spirit of the gold standards bestowed on you."
"What may have sounded like a “good business decision” in the board room turns out to be a horribly short-sighted business decision when millions of consumers lose respect for your companies."
"Your foray into this uncharted water has proved choppy and should serve as a warning to other corporations mindful of the perceptions of LGBT and allied consumers."

I'm sure Target executives are quivering.

But the most telling line is the last one:
"We’re watching and we’re waiting."

Yes... that's what the HRC does best. They watch. They wait. They watch some more. They wait longer. They will watch any progress our community has made in the last 25 years slip away, waiting for somebody somewhere to do something. The HRC wants Target and best Buy and everyone else to do the right thing. I hope the HRC, and the rest of us, are prepared to wait a long time.

The HRC is content to play diplomats in an arena where human rights are a blood sport. Our opponents are not polite. They don't write neatly spaced letters posted on optimistic websites. Our opponents raise hell. They rally people into demonstrations, carrying signs, demanding press and swaying public opinion. Our opponents are loud and obnoxious and they are very good at getting their way. The fact that their campaigns are based on lies and hatred cannot hide the fact that they are effective.

Do I advocate lies and hate speech? No. Do I think it is time for the fight for equality to move into the streets? Hell yes! Equal rights in this country have never been won by the printed word alone. Whether it was civil rights in the 60's, women's rights in the 70's or ACT-UP in the 80's, the struggles that mattered were in the streets. Progress came through protests, demonstrations and, when necessary, non-violent civil disobedience.

The HRC has the strength and the reach to organize the community into meaningful public displays of anger. The HRC could find a way to take this beyond the equality question, and to show that Target & Best Buy are funding a candidate who doesn't just hate gays.

Tom Emmer believes federal laws don't apply to the individual states and supports a Minnesota constitutional amendment allowing the state to ignore federal laws;
Tom Emmer believes restaurant employees should be forced to take wage cuts because they receive tips;
Tom Emmer supports legislation that would allow pharmacists to deny contraception to anyone they believe is unfit. Just the insanity of this position alone is mind-boggling. A pharmacist could decide someone is unfit for contraception, therefore they should have children. Excuse me?

The HRC needs to understand that our cause alone is not necessarily enough to raise widespread public outrage over the Target and Best Buy contributions. But the HRC won't. It is a group where nearsightedness is epidemic. It is an organization mired in the same inside-the-beltway bureaucracy it once hoped to cut through. And even in the fight for equality, the HRC has no balls and no teeth. Local community groups such as Broadway Impact, Fight Back New York and Marriage Equality New York are fighting and winning battles that the HRC has either abandoned or ignored.

The clock is running out. If the HRC doesn't have the stomach for the fight, then it should fold up it's very pretty website, get the hell out of the way, and let people who really care about equality lead the fight.

(The HRC letter to Target & Best Buy)

Come Fly Away

2010-06-30T20:53:00.003-04:00

So... here's the situation.

It's a quarter of seven on a Wednesday night. I'm walking down 8th Avenue at 45th Street, and I see a guy coming toward me. His fly is down. Do I tell him? Or not?

Now, New Yorkers know what 8th Avenue in the Theater District is like at 6:45PM on a Wednesday. For non-New Yorkers, imagine the North and the South in the battle of Gettysburg, meeting head on at Cemetery Hill. No matter how many people you know are coming up behind you, there are even more coming right at you.

So, what do you do? Tell him or not?

In the split second I had to decide, three scenarios went through my mind:

He would be grateful and then try to find some way to quickly zip up in the middle of the matinee hordes leaving and the evening crowds descending;
He would glare at me and demand to know why I was looking at his crotch;
He would say that he knows it's open and ask if I'd like to see what's inside (Hey, just because they've cleaned up Times Square doesn't mean you can't still find a good time).

The only one that really concerned me was the second, but given the crush of people, I shouldn't have been concerned, because before he could do anything about it, we'd be half a block away from each other.

As it turns out, I opted for the "keep moving" approach, and said nothing. Perhaps somebody in the next block said something. Or perhaps right now he's sitting in the orchestra section at "Rock of Ages" with his rolling stones hanging out.

I suppose I have become one of those "mind your own business" New Yorkers. I will still consider offering direction assistance to tourists standing on a street corner with a map or tour book open to the wrong neighborhood... or assistance to somebody standing on the 14th Street subway platform on a Saturday, wondering why instead of a downtown #2 train, there's an uptown #1 train. But the tourists always grab their cameras and purses and in a frightened voice mumble "no thanks"... the result of too many Law & Order episodes. Then they'll blindly head off in the wrong direction.

And don't get me wrong. While not quite my type, the fly-guy had a cute quality about him. But, in the end, it was more important to me to get to the bus stop and get the hell out of the theater crowd, then to worry about the cute guy's zipper.

That is just wrong on so many levels.

Being Civil

2010-06-29T14:32:00.004-04:00

I was online this morning, looking for something witty... and instead I stumbled across a calendar that told me that on this date, June 29th, 46 years ago, Congress passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

That was 187 years and 51 weeks after the founding fathers set forth their history changing declaration.

The things that both landmarks have in common is that all people are created equal. All people are entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. While one document says that in those very words, the other makes the point in long bureaucratic paragraphs. Unfortunately, while the words are often quoted and the law is often cited, the spirit of neither is understood, appreciated or observed.

In the spirit of the law and our history as a nation, all people are created equal. In the spirit of the law and our history, we are all entitled to chase our dreams. All. Everyone. All people. And while neither document then, nor any that have followed since, have spelled out every single race, religion and orientation under the sun, none should have to. All means all. Everyone means everyone. The spirit of equality has no asterisk.

And yet, centuries later, 30,000,000 gay and lesbian Americans are still waiting for civil rights. The right to marry. The right to serve. The right to be parents. The right to care for each other and share lives together. The right to work and live and love without living in fear of losing it all. The right to equal protections and treatment under the law. The right to live in peace. The simple basic right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Our critics will say the framers of the Constitution and the authors of the Declaration of Independence did not specify us, and therefore we aren't included. Neither did they specify old white men from Alabama, botoxed socialites from Beverly Hills or out-of-touch clergy from Texas, Utah and Kansas.

Our government has no problem practicing equality in taxing us. America's gay and lesbian citizens pay a disproportionate amount of tax dollars compared to the liberties and protections we receive. Our own tax dollars are spent in state capitals in efforts to keep us as a sub-class. Nowhere have any right wing politicians, commentators or clergy suggested our taxes be discounted to the same extent as our rights.

The spirit of the law is being ignored. As gay Americans, we have to start to ask how much longer we are willing to wait. We might have waited too long. Too many in the USA are trying to turn the clock back. Our Constitution was written to grant rights, not deprive them. We were founded as a nation to set people free. Yet we are losing count of the number of state and local governments passing laws that specifically deny us basic equal rights. As a community, we write angry letters, make angry threats, and then throw a parade once a year. Then we go back to whatever we were doing and wait for the next group of bigots to find ways to kick us in the groin.

The spirit of the law and the spirit of our heritage mean nothing if we don't have the spirit to fight for them and protect them. Our community has a few brave men and women who are fighting that fight for the rest of us. People need to join them. In the legislatures, in the courts and on the streets. The spirits of our past and our future should demand nothing less.

Encore Performance

2010-06-29T07:01:00.003-04:00

Well... this wasn't exactly how I envisioned returning to this page... but sometimes opportunities just present themselves.

On Sunday, CBS Sunday Morning did a short, fluff piece on the Sunday New York Times wedding section. It reminded me that I had written about the Times wedding pages as well. So, here is the entry I wrote about the Times on September 3, 2007. In the future, i will try to keep encores to a minimum. After all, there is plenty of current day stuff to bitch about.

EVERYTHING IS NOT ALWAYS FIT TO PRINT

Have you ever read the wedding announcements in the Sunday New York Times?

First of all, I think you have to be related to royalty to even be considered for the wedding announcements section. I'm not sure what the requirements for inclusion are but I do tend to notice that the vast majority of couples are white, certainly extremely upscale, disgustingly photogenic and certainly of expensive country club caliber. Every picture is professionally posed. No Canon Sure Shots here, and nothing from that road trip weekend to Long Beach Island or the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. In other words, people I wouldn't even pass on the street, let alone know personally. This applies to the sex-mixers and same sex couples as well.

I'm not sure who writes these things, but the idea of restraint or moderation is obviously not a concept often considered. After the names of the intended, their parents, grandparents, siblings, house pets and nannies, we must read every last detail about the wedding arrangements. The dress, the church, the reception, the decorations, the menu and the toilet paper in the bathrooms which these people are far too dignified to ever need to visit.

Then there's the honeymoon. The destination, means of travel, length of stay and expected activities, other than the obvious. They haven't yet delved into the various sexual positions to be tried, but that would be infinitely more interesting.

After all that, we read how they met, who introduced them, and where they went on their first date. Riveting. They do leave out information about the first time they hit the sack. Hell, if I have to know about the wedding trip to Barbados, at least tell me if they did it on the first date or whether they held out until the third or fourth. Did they go to her place or his... or did they go to the Marriott Marquis? Did they spend the whole night together, or schtup and run? Was the cat in the room watching? Did the doorman smile knowingly? Did he use a condom? (The boyfriend, not the doorman... unless of course the doorman was invited to participate. Hey, this IS New York.)

The last one I read went into great detail about how the couple broke up for awhile and one or both of them began dating other people until one flew off to see the other to make up in some distant city. And Spielberg wasn't there to capture it all? Didn't I see this in a movie with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan?

Obviously the concept of too much information has never occurred to Muffy and Buffy or the hacks reviewing their nuptials. I'm beginning to think the depth of the wedding announcement is directly proportional to the cost of the wedding. The higher the price of the affair, the more column inches must be devoted to chronicle the spectacle.

I've wondered recently if anyone reads short stories anymore, or if anybody actually still writes them. I think I know the answer. They are still alive and well. They just live in the Sunday Style section of the Times.

Five Radio Guys

2010-03-17T21:59:00.001-04:00

Please bear with me today for something different.

Today I am thankful for Steve Hidey.

Many years ago, Steve Hidey, his brother Bob and their friends David, Jim and James were disc jockeys at a little radio station in Cumberland, Maryland. When I was a teenager, I used to hang out there all the time and even fill in on running the board and playing records while they went to get something to eat. Before there was WKRP in Cincinnati, there was WCUM in Cumberland. Yes. That was really the name of the radio station. (But not any more.) It was one of only four radio stations in the whole county and the only one that played rock. (Well, top 40.)

Those five guys were at least ten years older than me. They didn't have to let me hang out with them, but they did. They taught me about radio, and they made me feel like I was worth something. When I couldn't be at home (which was a lot), I always had a refuge at the radio station, any hour, day or night. For at least two years before I had a driver's license, that meant hitchhiking into town to get there.

Steve was going to law school while he worked at the radio station. By the time I was 21, he had graduated from law school and was working in the law office where my mother's lawyer worked. After she died, he helped me handle all the bureaucracy for much of the year it took to handle her legal affairs. He was gentle, caring and treated me with respect and great care. At the time, I thought it was because we had known each other for a long time. I've since learned he treated all his clients that way.

I found out that Steve died about a week ago. I read his obituary in my hometown newspaper online. He was a man loved and respected by an entire community. I hadn't thought about him or the other guys in a very long time. But today I had a chance to think about the profound effect they had on me when I was very young and had no one in my life who really cared what I was doing, what I wanted or what made me happy.

James died a few years ago. I don't know where Jim or David are. But I know Bob (Steve's brother) is still in town. I found his address and am going to write him a long letter.

I don't really know how much of what I am doing now can be traced back to those days and nights at WCUM (1230 on your AM dial!). I do know that if I hadn't had that place to go to, to keep my dream of working in this business alive, I might very well have wound up a car salesman like my father, or a CPA like my mother wanted. But that place and those guys made me feel like there was value in what I wanted and what I wanted to do.

The memory has stirred up all kinds of other stuff in me tonight that I am frankly having a little trouble with. But it will be OK. As bad as those years were at home, the memories of those five guys, their humor, their ridiculous stunts and their caring for me give me some of the few good memories I have of that time of my life. They made me part of their families. And Jim was the first man I ever met who was an actual out, and proud, gay man. In the late 60's and early 70's, that took a lot of courage.

So tonight I am grateful for Steve Hidey.
And for his brother Bob Hidey.
And for Jim Drake.
And for James Robey.
And for David Gorman.
And of course for all of you.

Thank you for letting me share.

This Is A No-Freeze Zone

2008-07-29T08:03:00.005-04:00

Well, my flyover state friend has stopped speaking to me. Actually, he doesn't answer the phone when I call and he isn't calling me back. He's obviously pissed, and thinks his passive aggressive retaliation will teach me a lesson or hurt me or make me a nervous wreck.

What he doesn't know is that I grew up with the worldwide champion of passive aggressive. My mother was in a league of her own. Nobody before her or since could even come close.

My mother's way of dealing with anger or frustration or disappointment was to freeze people out. I was her number one target. If we argued, if I did something wrong or if I said or did something that was not in keeping with being the best little boy in the world, she stopped speaking to me. Sometimes for a day. Sometimes for a few days. But she could go indefinitely.

Once when I was 19, she and I got into a big fight over something fairly small and ridiculous. I refused to back down. She couldn't win the argument, so she stopped speaking to me. That wasn't unusual. But this time she didn't speak to me for six weeks. SIX WEEKS. That's 42 days.

It was an interesting existence. Life in our house continued in silence. I knew it was dinnertime by the banging of plates on the table. I sat at the table. She sat at the kitchen counter. If I moved to the counter, she moved to the table. If she went to the supermarket, my cue to bring in the bags was the garage door opening and closing and the car door slamming. On Sunday mornings, she would go down to the garage and sit in the passenger seat of the car and just wait until I got there, to drive her to church.

In the first few days of the freeze-out, I tried to defuse it all. I did extra things without being asked. I joked. I made idle chat in the car. No response. After a few days I realized that the harder I tried, the colder it got and the more she felt like she was hurting me. So I stopped trying. I went about my routine of cutting the lawn, taking out the garbage and doing whatever I would usually do. I realized that it would continue to bother me as long as I allowed it to bother me. This was her problem, not mine.

What broke the freeze? I don't really remember. I think we had to take a trip somewhere... New Jersey, Indiana, or somewhere else. I needed to be involved in the planning (since I would be doing all the driving). So some dialogue began.

In the end, neither one of us won this battle of silence. And, just to be honest, I am no saint. I certainly have more than my share of passive aggressive behavior in my past. I have pulled that crap on more people than I can count. I've also paid the price in shattered friendships and personal relationships that were doomed to failure before they had a chance to develop.

It's interesting looking back at it. The passive aggressive freeze outs started when I was a young child and continued for years. As a child, they terrorized me. I felt abandoned and very alone. As I got older, they became as much a part of my life as my father's drinking and violent rages. It was very hard as a child to be suddenly invisible. As a teenager, it was sometimes a welcome break from the insanity. Looking back, being invisible as a child was probably great training for being invisible as an adult.

Except for the damn addictions. And the fear. I still live in constant fear that the slightest mistake or wrong word or misunderstanding will cost me a friendship, or force someone I care about to drop-kick me out of their life. Self-confidence is an unknown quantity in my head. It's like astro-physics. No concept.

So... back to my flyover friend and the passive aggressive.

I don't do that to other people anymore. And, I won't accept it from other people anymore either. That means today I'm leaving him one last message telling him this is the last time I'm calling him. If and when he wants to call me back, I will be here. He will always be my friend and I will always be here for him. But I can only be his victim as long as I allow myself to be. And those days are over. Now, its up to him.

I will love my friend until he learns to love himself. Even if he doesn't believe it. But right now I'm trying to learn how to love myself. And neither he, nor anyone else, is going to get in the way of that.

Part Of The Process

2008-07-24T16:26:00.006-04:00

What do you do when someone you care about seems bent on self-destruction?

I have a dear friend in a flyover state, who has taken the first step toward recovery, but seems unable or unwilling to go any further. He's an amazing man who can light up every room he enters, but who seems determined to remain in a dungeon of darkness.

One of the things I have learned, perhaps the hard way or perhaps through time, is that recovery and emotional peace won't come looking for me. My journey means doing the work to look for them, recognizing them when I find them within my own soul, and making sure I have opened my heart and mind to accept them.

Recovery and emotional peace are not Jehovah's Witnesses. They don't come ringing my doorbell.

My friend took a very first, difficult step. He recognized the depth of his depair and the severity of his problem, and he went to rehab. He spent more than a month learning the tools he needed to deal with his addiction. He came out of it seeming stronger and ready to deal with life on life's terms. But in recent days I have heard the same despair return to his voice. I am hearing the same detachment, and the same self pity that was so common before he finally asked for help.

I hear the sadness in his voice when he says that he has nobody to talk to and nobody to turn to. How can I make him understand that he has a whole fellowship full of people to turn to and who will listen? But they can't read his mind. And if he doesn't show up to take the journey with them, he can't complain about not having a seat on the bus.

I've also learned that I get back what I give out. If I show up, if I'm a positive influence, if I recognize someone else's pain, if I'm willing to listen, then I will get all those things back. People want to be with me and help me when I am open to them being there, and when I show I can be there for someone else. I'm not the only one feeling lost and alone. Even when I want to run and hide, I need to remember that by showing up and sharing and being available, I might help someone else in need.

There is no entitlement option in recovery. This is a cooperative process. I need to do my part. So, I do my best to help others. I care about others. I do service in the way I can. I share. I'm honest. I make recovery a priority and not something else on the list after cleaning the kitchen and going to the store. All those things are part of the process. And inevitably I get back more than I gave.

Recovery is like a chicken pot pie. Someone brings the chicken. Someone else has the flour for the crust. Other people have the potatoes and the peas and the carrots and the gravy and the salt & pepper. The only way you get to have pot pie for dinner is if everyone contributes what they have to make the recipe work. Then everyone gets to share dinner, and everyone leaves with a smile on their face.

Unless everyone shares, all you've got is a bunch of bland ingredients, rotting alone on a kitchen counter.

I'm learning that the things I seek are within my reach. The hardest part is accepting they are there and being willing to do the work to make it happen. Recovery is hard. But the alternative is even harder.

I love my friend, and will continue to love him until he loves himself. Even if he doesn't believe it.

Character Defect #1B - Fear of People/Social Situations

2008-07-20T10:46:00.008-04:00

If my character defect list could be three dimensional, this might not be second on the list. While it is certainly a major fear, it is not actually my second worst character defect. But I'm not ready to "go public" with that one yet. I have already written about it, to myself, and will post it when I have the courage to say it to the world. Or at least to the people who are reading these pages.

So... back to the matter at hand...

If my number one fear is Rejection, then it is makes sense that my fear of other people and social situations should be in the same realm. Therapists I have had (too many to mention) blame my people fears on a violent alcoholic father who was almost never around, at least sober; and my mother who loved me, but was cold and distant and rarely showed affection. I grew up without friends, always feeling inferior or self-conscious, and with almost no ability to strike up a friendship with a stranger. I could create work friendships, which came about out of convenience and necessity. But other relationships were non-existent.

I could be notorious for being the "Yes" RSVP who never showed up. It didn't matter whose party or wedding or event it was, I would promise to be there and be the guaranteed no show. I used to make up excuses. (The most outrageous was telling someone my car was stolen. Then I had to come up with a good excuse about how I had it back to drive to work on Monday.) Then it got to the point where people just expected not to see me. Why they kept inviting me, I don't know.

On those rare occasions when I did actually show up, I was never more than the 20 minute guest. I knew before I walked in the door exactly how long it would be until I left. I made sure my car (if driving) was in an easy escape position and that my coat was easy to grab. My first minutes would be spent scoping out the geography, and creating the best excuse for getting out. I would hope and pray for a bathroom near the front door, so I could pretend to be heading for the john, and then just slip out. The very worst situation was a backyard party, where escape meant leaving the patio, walking through or around the house, and then down a driveway, without being stopped by the host wondering why I was leaving so early. Again, the 20 minute rule.

The absolute perfect situation involved cats. I have a pretty severe allergy to cats. So, if the host had a cat, even if it was locked away, I could claim a terrible allergy attack coming on, make apologies and leave. Not only did I get out fast, but the host would feel bad. Bonus points!!

It wasn't like I had somewhere else to go. I was scared to death of having to talk to other people. And I was always careful not to get hammered in front of other people. That was reserved for being home alone.

The system wasn't perfect. As time went on, I realized I had nobody in my life. There was nobody I could call who could or would listen to my pain, and nobody to call if there was a brief moment of glee. Nobody to share the sudden second ticket to a show with. Nobody to even call and say "I can't believe who got voted off Project Runway". For a long time, I pretended not to care. Eventually I realized that the solitude I had created for myself had become an abyss of isolation and loneliness, and I didn't know how to escape.

I still live with this fear everyday. I'm starting to talk about it, and I'm finding out I'm not alone. I've been able to make friends and develop relationships with other people in the program. But I still haven't been able to venture out into civilian life. I go to some events now... some, not all. And while the voices in my head are still screaming the 20 minute rule to me, I manage to try and stay and be social. Still... I always notice the people who are first to leave. I'm rarely far behind. Progress, not perfection.

I hate this fear. It's one that I can't smile through, or pretend around and hope nobody sees. Everybody sees this one. It's an infuriating enigma. By trying so hard to be invisible, I become the most visible.

It sucks.

Character Defect #1: FEAR

2008-07-18T10:19:00.005-04:00

After a whole lot of procrastinating (Character Defect #17) I have finally approached the point of addressing my many character defects. Number one on the list is my old friend Fear. Since I have huge issues talking about fear out loud and listing all the things I am afraid of, my mission is now to write about fear and my fears. Certainly no easy task, but also certainly easier than talking about them out loud.

It's hard to list the first of the worst, but if I had to decide between the top three or four, I think my top fear is a fear of rejection. It's almost paradoxical that this is my top fear, because I also have a huge fear of people and social situations, and because I have become so accustomed to being alone.

Like a lot of other things, I think this traces back to my childhood.

For the majority of their marriage, my father ran around on my mother. He had one specific very long relationship with a woman who had two children a few years older than me. From the time I was five years old, I know about them. He spent nights, weekends and at least part of every holiday at their house. There was never a school event of mine, other than my high school graduation, he ever attended. And the few times he was home, he was drunk and abusive. One of my very earliest memories is kneeling on my bed, looking out the front window toward the street corner, waiting for him to come home, and wondering why he would rather spend time with Garrett and Martha instead of me. What had I done wrong? Why wasn't I good enough?

My mother was too wrapped up in work to spend much time with me. She'd come home and make dinner for me, then go lay down on the sofa and fall asleep. I'd eat dinner alone, then watch TV. I knew my bedtime and would wake her up to kiss her goodnight when I went to bed. Eventually, as I got older, I would wake her up to tell her she needed to go to bed. Even though I knew she loved me, she was never particularly affectionate. She wasn't into hugs or outward displays of emotion. When I told her I loved her, she would tell me "Talk is cheap. Don't tell me. Show me.". As an adult I wouldn't know what to do with that now. Imagine being 8 years old and trying to figure that out.

In my first few years of school, we lived on the wrong side of Radecke Avenue, so other kids at Hazelwood Elementary didn't want anything to do with me. Sitting here writing this, I suddenly remember the Valentine boxes we used to have on Valentine's Day for kids to drop cards in for other kids. My biggest year was two cards.

When I was 11, we moved across the state to a small town in the mountains. There, I was the fat outsider who nobody knew, who didn't go hunting or fishing or camping. Kids there kept their distance. As a teenager, I didn't have many friends because we didn't have anything in common, and I was too afraid to have anybody come over, for fear they would see my father. And my mother didn't like anybody I tried to be friends with anyway. So it all evened out.

Because I took a few years off, by the time I was in college for real, I was older than everyone else. Friends were hard to come by. And being a gay man in Miami who wasn't a Coconut Grove or South Beach model was nearly a crime. Men were not flocking to my side. I remember one night after work cruising Biscayne Boulevard until almost 3AM. FInally I made eye contact with a guy in another car enough times that he followed me home. I got out of my car, walked over to his car to take him inside, and instead, he drove off.

Good times.

So, my number one fear is rejection. All the others have a whole lot to live up to.

When I started writing this entry, it was supposed to be all encompassing about all my fears. After 721 words (thank you Microsoft Office word count), I've only managed to get through Fear #1. I guess there are more to come.

Is this fun or what?

North Carolina: Insanity Personified

2008-07-17T12:50:00.002-04:00

I have been working to better control and moderate my sarcasm and outrage at obvious stupidity and insanity. But sometimes circumstances defy all attempts at keeping it civil.

U.S. Senator Elizabeth Dole is proposing an international AIDS initiative be re-named to include the name of recently deceased (but not soon enough) renowned bigot and hate monger, Jesse Helms.

In the comment I sent to the Senator's office, I asked if her next bright idea was to include Adolf Hitler's name in the name of the Holocaust Center.

Here is the excerpt from the July 14th Congressional Record:
SA 5074. Mrs. DOLE submitted an amendment intended to be proposed by her to the bill S. 2731, to authorize appropriations for fiscal years 2009 through 2013 to provide assistance to foreign countries to combat HIV/AIDS, tuberculosis, malaria, and for other purposes; which was ordered to lie on the table; as follows: On page 1, line 5, strike ‘‘and Henry J. Hyde’’ and insert ‘‘, Henry J. Hyde, and Jesse Helms’’.

Included among the funding initiatives the late Senator Helms opposed in his years on the Hill, was the Ryan White Act. In opposing that measure he wrote that that people with AIDS do not deserve life saving research because AIDS was caused by their “deliberate, disgusting, revolting conduct.”

His criticism of AIDS prevention literature included the opinion that it was “so obscene, so revolting, I may throw up.” He stupidly and arrogantly opposed AIDS funding in 1988 by saying “There is not one single case of AIDS in this country that cannot be traced in origin to sodomy.”

But Senator Elizabeth Dole, who once pictured herself as First Lady, now believes Senator Jesse Helms was such a friend to the fight against AIDS, that an international treatment program focusing on AIDS and other serious illnesses should carry his name.

My e-mail to the Senator also suggested that she is not just out of touch... she is out of her mind. I suppose her next brilliant idea will be to name a pediatric AIDS clinic for Ronald Reagan. Maybe they could donate funding for that to Iran.

No anger or sarcasm from anyone can beat the sheer stupidity, insanity and complete cluelessness of Elizabeth Dole. This is a person who should know better, but doesn't know anything. So, I hope you will take keyboard in hand and drop the Senator a strongly worded, but still respectful e-mail. I'll simplify things for you by providing a link:
http://dole.senate.gov/public/index.cfm?FuseAction=ContactInformation.ContactForm

Resist the urge to remind her that reality might take a little getting used to, but it's a world she really should be spending a little more time in.

A Paradox And A Puzzle

2008-07-16T07:13:00.003-04:00

Here's a paradox. Pain is easier to write about than gain.

I felt a little better yesterday. It's hard to write about that, because it isn't like I have joy or happiness to write about. It's that the unhappiness was a little less. Because I love analogies, here's an appropriate one. It's like having an excruciating headache. Every shooting, throbbing pain is easy to describe. So you take the Advil, and 20 minutes later, the pain has subsided some. How do you describe that? All you can say is that it doesn't hurt as much. There are no beams of sunshine to describe and no magical orchestras playing Disney tunes. It's just beige. Sometimes beige is OK, but who ever wrote a love song about beige?

The escapist in me doesn't want to think about why yesterday was better. The fatalist in me will say that, if yesterday was better, than today is going to suck. The realist in me says that whatever I want today to be, it won't be. The optimist in me ran away when I was 6, and hasn't been heard from since.

But the part of me that is trying to be an active participant in my own life wonders if I feel better because I've written stuff down in the last couple of days, and talked about it with one or two people. People in the program say that's what you have to do. Like an abscess, you have to open up the wound, let the infection drain, treat it gently and it will eventually go away. I've been hearing "talk about it" for months. But I'm not a "talk about it" kind of guy.

As a kid, there was one cardinal rule about everything. Don't talk about it. Don't talk about your father's girlfriend or his drinking. Don't talk about your mother being cold and detached. Don't talk about being alone day after day and night after night. Don't talk about not having any friends and your parents not liking anybody who tries to be your friend. Don't talk about the fact that you aren't allowed to bring Coca-Cola into the house, but at 13 you can share after-work cocktails with your parents.

Don't complain. About anything. Because in our house, the standard method of dealing with unhappiness was: "You don't like it? Just shut up, or I'll really give you something to complain about."

So for me, talking about anything so personal does not come naturally or easily. Writing is a good substitute, and can help me find my voice. It helps when I eventually talk to my sober friend R, who has become my very closest friend, and the one person I can say anything to. And it helps that I now have my friend B, who shares my understanding for writing about feelings. That he shares so much, so well and so candidly in his words, gives me the strength to write my own.

So I guess that's why I feel better. It frightens me that I am telling more people about my writing. No ads on buses or late night infomercials. But I've given a few people here and there the web address. It frightens me that more people know what I'm thinking and why. I like having secrets and knowing secrets. I like never, ever revealing secrets. Opening up the closet door to all this stuff scares the hell out of me.

I started with a paradox. I leave you with a puzzle.
Up is the opposite of down.
Go is the opposite of stop.
So, what is the opposite of pain?
Caution: "No pain" is not an acceptable answer.
Pain is a feeling. No pain is not.

So... What is the opposite of pain?

The Hell In My Head

2008-07-14T05:18:00.002-04:00

I'm trying to figure out when the insanity in my head is going to end. It feels like zero hour on a battlefield. Noise, screaming, bombs going off, dirt, stench and general mayhem. It's a never ending blitz of fear, confusion, anger, disappointment and emotional pain.

People tell me that in order to find peace, I have to walk though this Hell, feel it, experience it, face it, and learn how to turn it back. I am told that peace and serenity will come, but not until I confront my demons. I don't know if I have that much strength.

Last night I was reminded of one of my most basic fears. I am terribly afraid of people. Specifically, I think I'm afraid of rejection, and afraid that people will see the total failure I feel like. On the one hand, I'm craving human contact and friends and relationships, and at the same time running away from them, and shutting them out of my life because I'm afraid I can't measure up.

There was a time I shut people out of my life because I was afraid they would disappoint me or abandon me. I expected only the worst. That became a convenient excuse for not allowing anyone in my life. But the truth was I knew they would see through the act on the surface and discover my weaknesses, my flaws, my addictions and the truth that my life was nothing but lies. And then when I discovered I was all alone, it was easy for me to blame others, and say people can't be trusted.

I find myself reaching out and pulling back at the same time. I want desperately to be accepted and wanted, and just as desperately to run back to my safe, dark den of isolation, keeping everyone at a distance. Alone, I feel lost, desolate and empty. With people I feel like a fraud, frantic and afraid that they're going to see the loser I feel like I am.

Right now I feel like I'm standing in the middle of that battlefield. I don't know which way to turn or which way to run. All I want to do is drop to the ground, cover my eyes and ears and wait for it all to just go away. I have that picture in my mind, and as I think about it, I remember lying in my bed as a child late at night, while my father was on one of his drunken rampages in the living room. I was trying to do the exact same thing. Under the covers, pillow over my head, eyes tightly closed and hands over my ears, waiting for it to stop. The silence was at one time both a relief and terrifying, because I never knew if the madness was at an end, or if it was just re-charging for another assault.

I used to think the hardest thing I could ever do was admit my problems, my weaknesses and my dependencies. I used to think the hardest thing I could ever do was to ask for help. But I was wrong in such a big way. The hardest thing for me is not the asking for help. The hardest thing for me is accepting it. I'm like the animal who is starving to death, but is too afraid to get close enough to the outstretched human hand to accept the food. The pain I already feel is one I understand. I don't know how to accept or deal with relief. I know how to live in Hell. I don't know how to function without it.

Why is it that the thing I want the most is the thing that scares me the most? Why is it that I fight the cure so defiantly, when the disease is so exhausting? Why can't I fight the sickness with the same intensity I drive away the cure?

I want to cover my head until it all goes away. The problem is, when the noise is all internal, there's no way to escape it.

Completely and Totally

2008-07-10T19:11:00.005-04:00

I'm not sure when I completely and totally fucked my life up.

If I could put an exact date on it, I might at least understand how things got this bad. At this point, all I can do is look at the path that got me here, and wonder how and why I ignored the signposts along the way. It's not that I didn't see them. I did. I just chose to ignore them.

The last, and perhaps only, contented time of my life was when I was 25. I was fresh out of college, had a job, living in Miami and discovering gay bars. I thought I was finally at a place that was right for me. And even though things were OK in Miami, what I really wanted to do was drop everything, move to New York, be a writer, and find the love of my life. It had been my dream since I was a kid. My job involved a certain amount of writing and people said I was good. Teachers in school had said I was good. And where else to find a man to love me, than New York. So, why not?

"Why not" happened when I started thinking about it too much... with my head instead of my heart. "Why not" happened when the voices in my head kept having this debate between doing the adventurous thing I always wanted to do... or staying where I was, in something safe and reliable. Safe and reliable was really the one thing in my life I had never had. Why should I give up safe and reliable for a dream?

So I didn't. I stayed where I was and never went searching for life and love in New York. That was a signpost.

By the time I was 29, I had moved up at work and was exploring jobs elsewhere. I was thinking Atlanta, Washington, Boston, Chicago or Los Angeles. Instead, I took the first job I was offered and went from Miami to Tulsa, Oklahoma. Believe it or not, a pleasant, livable city where I made some friends and was fairly successful professionally. I certainly didn't find love there, but I didn't go looking for it either. It was, however, the first time I began to fear my life was spiraling out of control.

It went from bad to worse. Bad life decisions took me to Virginia, back to Florida and then to Texas for the first time. The fact that I say "Texas" and "the first time" in the same sentence should be a sign of the disasters I created and the pit of despair I seemed to constantly call home. Along the way, there might have been opportunities to bring someone into my life. There might have been a time to stop being lonely. But, like everything else, I have always been too afraid. Fear of taking a chance, fear of rejection, shame, disgust, self-hating, self loathing... whatever you call it. My love affair was always with fear. Never with someone else.

I kept playing it safe. I kept pretending I was where I wanted to be, because I was too afraid or too ashamed, or both, to say "Fuck this" and start over.

My addictions (there, I said it) were getting the best of me. My life was more out of control every day, although I somehow managed to hold it together at work. There were occasional bizarre behaviors and ludicrous decisions. I pretended to be audacious, eccentric or charmingly crazy. In reality, I was out of my fucking mind. And I was alone, because it was too dangerous to let anyone else see what a mess I really was.

I made a stab at a drastic career change that finally brought me to New York (the first time). I failed miserably, because I was too fucked up to admit I had a lot to learn, and I was working for people more messed up than me. And I made the mistake of living in Chelsea. If I didn't feel bad enough about who I was already, living in the center of Pretty-Boy America made it even worse. Look for love? I was too afraid to look for the laundry room.

I ran back to safe and secure, where I have been ever since. Now, I am at an age and a point in my life where change just doesn't seem to be an option.

Someone once told me after one of my disastrous life choices "Well, you really screwed the pooch on that one". I hated her for saying out loud what I knew too well. I still do. The truth is, I started screwing the pooch back when I took that first safe road, and stayed on that course over and over, despite the gnawing, screaming desire to go in search of joy.

"Safe" is like a drug. "Safe" is addicting because it lulls you into a false sense of security. It makes you feel protected, warm and oblivious to what is happening around you. But like drugs, "Safe" is a lie. It will sneak up on you, drain you of everything that once was good, and then abandon you on the street, with no one to hold you and nothing to protect you.

Every day, I work on trying to fix what is broken. I can barely stand to get up in the morning and face my life. I'm told it will get better. The pain will pass. I will overcome the fear. I will learn to live and love in the now. I spend a great deal of time with people who like to say "We will love you until you learn to love yourself." I'm not sure they have that much time or patience.

There's no one place or one incident or one date in time I can point to where I can say "This is where it started to go wrong." I've always played it safe because I never believed I was good enough to play it any other way, or that anyone else would want to play with me.

I lot of paragraphs ago, I started off by saying I'm not really sure when I completely and totally fucked my life up. Maybe it was when I took my first taste of "Safe" and never learned how to stop.

Feeling Feelings

2008-07-10T08:54:00.004-04:00

A week or so ago, I was asked what I wanted most out of life. My answer was "Joy".

Then, I was asked if I had that.
I said no.
Had I ever had that?
No.

So then, I was asked to describe what no joy was like. It took me a few seconds to put it into words. But the best description I could muster was that it is an emptiness. It's like the black hole in space. I huge, dark void of nothingness. A vacuum with no light and no air where nothing can be seen, felt or touched.

I didn't realize until a little later how much I hated that conversation. It opened up a whole bunch of feelings that I work really hard not to feel.

I have spent the vast majority of my life trying to keep feelings as tied up and locked down as a pit bull at a kindergarten convention. The only way I can function is if whatever feelings I have are dumped in the ground, with cement poured on top of them.

The only thing feelings have ever brought me are pain, anger and disappointment. It isn't that I can't feel emotions or don't feel emotions. It's that nothing good has ever come of the feelings and emotions I have. The pain and unhappiness is crippling.

In the last year, I have had some very smart and caring people tell me over and over that I need to let the feelings happen, that I need to confront them, feel them, and that only by actually having them can I get past the point of pain and start moving toward joy. I tried that. I felt the feelings. I let them happen. I talked about them and I let the emotions happen. I fought back the tears and tried to understand how feeling the pain could move me out of pain.

It isn't happening. The only thing the feelings and emotions have brought me are more unhappiness and disappointment. I can't open myself up to that anymore.

I need to close the door on the feelings. The problem is, once you allow them in, it's a lot harder to force them out. So, I'm leaning hard on the door, pushing with all my might, to fight them and defeat them and make my way back to that black hole.

And while there might be no joy in a vacuum, there is no pain either.

Swimming Takes A Dive

2008-07-09T11:25:00.002-04:00

One of the best short vacations I ever took was going to the summer Olympics. To keep from dating myself, I'll refrain from mentioning the year. We were there the first week, which was the week of a lot of the preliminaries, and didn't get to see many medal finals. But still, it was an exciting experience. Since then, I've watched the games on television in an entirely different way.

But this year, as I watch the qualifying events on television, I am already disappointed. It has nothing to do with the performances or the athletic prowess. It's the bathing suits.

Where the hell are the Speedos????

What sick mind devised these swim suits for men that look like 1808 bathing costumes for women? Neck to ankle silicone suits?

Are you kidding me? Where are the skimpy little hankies that barely covered the goodies, and certainly NEVER hid the bulges?

Does anybody believe people watch the water events to actually see the dives or the butterfly strokes or the paddling skills? Uhhh... NO! We watch to see all the ripped boys in those too tight little bikinis diving in dry and jumping out wet, with the suits showing us as much forbidden real estate as network television can handle.

Supposedly these new Mormon suits help eliminate drag and friction in the water. Well, they may eliminate friction in the water, but they're not helping friction in the living room. If I wanted to see repressed stud boys, I'd go sight-seeing at the seminary in Yonkers. The whole idea of Olympic swimming is to feed the fantasies of women and gay men in living rooms around the world. I mean, get real... how many straight men do you know who actually watch men's diving? It's right up there with Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance.

I'm told there's a whole international scandal about these suits, with other nations accusing the United States of trying to achieve an unfair advantage and get the upper hand on the competition. Well, while the US team is getting the upper hand, millions of boys at home have nothing to do with theirs.

If this catches on, the next thing we'll see is Superman in a kilt, Batman & Robin in basketball shorts, and Boys Gone Wild in Amish country. The Olympic team has forgotten the first commandment of competitive sports: It's not whether you win or lose. It's how good you look in the gear.

Out Of The Picture

2008-07-06T16:10:00.002-04:00

Nobody subscribes to Out for life.
(For the benefit of straight people, Out is a monthly magazine aimed at the Gay community.)

Unlike Time, Newsweek and even Gourmet, Out is not so much a chronicle of the ongoing history of our life as it is a chronicle of our underwear and cocktails of the moment.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing, because God knows every culture, class, demographic, orientation and time zone needs its own guide to hot and not. The trouble is that Out and its identity-challenged sister publication The Advocate are the only national news-like magazines we have. Except for a few struggling regional gay newspapers, there are no loud and proud gay news magazines standing up for us and staring down the nation’s bullies. There is nothing that we can own from the day we come out of the closet until the day they put us into the ground.

The Advocate once tried to fill that bill, and in their own minds, editors there might think they’re still doing that. But in reality, its little more than another version of the Big Gay Book of Bling.

The first time I subscribed to Out was when it and I were both quite young. I had just come out and was reveling in all things gay. It was my awakening, and I was going to conquer the world as a proud gay man.

Eventually I reached a point where I realized Out was becoming repetitive and my tastes were changing, so I let my subscription lapse. As a corporate gay man, I had other corporate gay people with whom to share interests, so Out was less necessary.

Then I was transferred from the very large southern city where my career had taken off to a much smaller Midwestern city and then a still smaller Mid-Atlantic community. I realized I needed to stay in touch with the outside gay world. That was also when AIDS was terrorizing our community, but our government was doing nothing. I subscribed again to Out, because I needed it to keep me tuned in to all of those things.

At some point sanity returned, I gave small town life the finger, and took a new, much better job with a much larger company in a mega-metropolis. Unlike my previous firm, my new big employer liked gay people a lot, promising non-discrimination and offering domestic partner benefits.

By that time I had also realized that Out really didn’t speak to my age group anymore, and really didn’t care who I was. If I wasn’t just barely drinking age, I was too old to matter. When it became clear that it took me only about two minutes to flip through the new issues of Out when they arrived, I decided to let my subscription lapse once again.

And time passed, until I entered my third season of Out. That would be the mid-life crisis. This is the time we want so badly to reclaim our lost youth and to do all the things we were too chicken-shit to do when we had the chance. This is an especially volatile time for gay men, since this is the time we achieve virtual irrelevance in the gay community. We might as well skip the Christopher Street stop in New York or the Dupont Circle stop in Washington. Not caring about us is one thing; not wanting us around is another, and that hurts.

So, in that effort to pretend I wasn’t as old as everyone else knew I was, I subscribed to Out for the third time. I tried to be interested in the music and the travel and the trends. I looked at the boys and sized up the clothes that would never come in sizes for me. It was a shabby fantasy at best, and one I never really believed.

So, here I am, back at the point where I can get through a complete issue of Out during a Project Runway or Big Gay Sketch Show commercial break.

My subscription will end before much longer, and I’ll let it lapse for the last time. The same for The Advocate. Everything here is interchangeable there.

It’s too bad. I won’t miss the magazines, although I’ll miss what they represented. I’ll miss the arrival of those plastic sleeves every month with the magazines that held the promise that there might be something relevant to my life. I’ll miss the hope that somebody at either magazine might realize that I still matter, and that the people who can actually afford the trinkets and toys that are advertised in the magazines are not the same ones the editorial department is targeting.

I will miss what the magazine represented in the reminders of the stages of my life that I shared with Out. I will miss the boldness of having Out on the coffee table when my (straight) brother comes to visit, and watching his face as he leafs through it and tries to comprehend what’s in it.

I know nothing about magazine marketing or Out’s market share, reach or circulation statistics. But I would take a wild guess that Out’s research shows people subscribe to Out for a couple of multi-year cycles, then go away as adulthood takes shape and they mature. They are replaced by a newer crop of readers, and the cycle continues. The well never really goes dry, but the numbers never really grow significantly. It’s a status-quo existence. And, in too many ways, that reflects how the gay community has allowed it’s political and socio-economic influence to languish as well.

But that’s a whole other subject.

Nobody subscribes to Out for life. And that’s a shame.

Not Going Anywhere

2008-07-03T05:19:00.002-04:00

Now that Pride Week has come and gone for 2008, I am reminded of an important distinction that I think must be made in the quest for Equal Rights.

Tolerance vs Acceptance.

The gay community has been campaigning for, insisting on and rallying around the idea of "tolerance" since the idea of gay rights began. It is one of those favorite terms used by our supporters and opponents alike. Our best friends call for tolerance of all people. Our worst enemies are defined as textbook examples of intolerance.

I'm not sure we should want or accept the idea of "tolerance". I think we should demand nothing less than complete acceptance.

You tolerate a bunion. You tolerate your brother driving 50 miles an hour in the left lane of I-95. You even tolerate the loud frickin' neighbors upstairs. You tolerate something you really don't like and will be happy to see go away forever.

I don't think I want to be just tolerated.

There are those linguists who will argue that tolerance is a synonym for acceptance. That it is, in fact, a form of acceptance of those who believe or live differently than you do. Perhaps. However, even that liberal interpretation of tolerance still suggests that being gay is unusual, perverse, less than normal, and requiring society's special consideration.

Bullshit.

Acceptance is approval and welcoming. It is an invitation into your life and heart. There's quite a difference between acceptance of your best friend's new wife... and tolerance of her.

For some, this is a small thing. Nit-picking. A needless choice among equals. For others it will be a question of taking what we get, no matter what it is called. Kind of like settling for a scoop of store brand vanilla ice cream while the guy at the next table gets the Ben & Jerry's triple hot fudge sundae... and you both pay the same on the way out.

I don't like the option. This is a tough fight that has gone on for decades and will probably continue long after my ashes are washing up on a Pacific beach. So, if you're going to fight a tough fight, you might as well go for everything.

If all you can manage is tolerance, you're not doing enough. I demand acceptance.

The funny thing is, if you recognize and understand the difference, you're probably already there. If you don't, you're not even close.

My Poll Is Bigger Than Your Poll

2008-07-01T15:35:00.003-04:00

As Americans, we are obsessed with public opinion polls. Gallup, Zogby, Pew, Quinnipiac, Harris, and on and on and on. We love being told what we think and why we think it. Personally, I think their value is limited and questionable. Stay with me. There’s a point. It might take a while to get there. But there’s a point.

Someone told me, a long time ago, that to understand what is really important to people, you have to read the Letters To The Editor.

He’s right. Here’s why.

Reading the Letters, you’ll find that what pisses people off is government lying, letting down their communities and failing to make tough decisions. People hate wimps. They’ll argue with anything, but they will always respect strong decision making skills. People care about what’s happening on their streets, in their schools and on their jobs. They care far less about what people are doing in their bedrooms or where celebrities are adopting their children.

If you read the Letters, you’ll find people care a great deal about the war in Iraq but not so much about the war between the Lohans. They care about gas prices, house prices, potholes, pollution, traffic, taxes, honest car mechanics, finding a plumber on a holiday and sending their kids to college. The most interesting thing about reading the Letters is the difference between the things that really matter in people’s lives and what the polls and politicians are talking about on a daily basis.

Remembering that people who are writing the letters actually have to stop what they’re doing and take the time to sit down, lay out their thoughts and then send them off shows how important they are to them. It’s one thing to be ambushed on a street corner by a pollster or to be called on the phone at random. It’s another to go out of your way to be heard.

Here’s the point.

The political season is in overdrive. The candidates are clear. The clichés are off and running. In the next few months, politicians and evangelists from every mountain, valley, plain and seashore will be coming out of the woodwork quoting every well known and obscure poll, claiming to be experts on what we all want and believe. In my opinion, 98% of them will be full of crap. They’ll quote the numbers, but the numbers fail to tell a complete story.

Polls are a dangerous and limited commodity. They ask limited questions of limited interest to a captive audience. They ask people to rank their interests and concerns from a menu that almost prevents a free exchange of ideas.

I love analogies, so here’s the analogy. You are invited to dinner with friends at an Italian restaurant of someone else’s choosing. You are presented with a menu of pasta and so forth. Now tonight, you really wanted crab cakes for dinner. But they're not an option. So, you choose the manicotti. The manicotti is tasty enough and when asked you say it was fine and everyone assumes you are full and happy. But you still would have been far happier with crab cakes.

Such is what can happen with polls. You are asked to rank education, gas prices, taxes and trans fats as the issues that most concern you. You dutifully answer the question and your opinion is registered. Unfortunately it might not reflect your true number one concern which might have been about job security, and was not included in the survey. If you try to volunteer that issue “off the menu”, you’re told it isn’t an option.

Not an option? Not an option for whom? Your true concerns are not an option? This is the problem with polls. They are designed to address political needs, not truen concerns.

I am sick and tired of being told what to think and what is important by people who can’t even ask the right questions. Don’t tell me my favorite color is green when the only choices you’ve given me are on a traffic light.

Personally, I like blue. Lapis, to be exact.

I recognize the reality of the world in which we live and the process to address large sections of public opinion. The realist in me knows this will not change and is what it is for a reason and forever. But please at least let's acknowledge that our lives are neither based on nor centered around whatever happens to be coming out of the latest Washington focus group or think tank survey. Our lives are both far more complex and far more simple. We deserve a little respect and a basic understanding of what makes lives tick outside the beltway and west of the Hudson.

By the way, with the exception of my civil rights soapbox, I try very hard to avoid writing about politics. There are no winners in a political pissing match. But I think it's time to recognize that, as a people, our concerns this year are far more complex that red state/blue state. We want to know what the vision is. We don't even need a promise of an immediate solution. Just a vision to show us that our new administration, whoever it is, will take off the blinders. I'm hopeful, but not confident.

Oh... and as for the title of this post...
My, you have a dirty little mind, don't you.

THE FIVE STAGES OF GAY

2008-06-29T19:29:00.000-04:00

Gay men are a funny bunch. Gay men have been pioneers in changing the way modern America looks at fashion, travel, self-care, self-grooming and community revival. The more involved and evolved gay men have also taken leadership roles in the fight for human rights, equal rights and an end to medical discrimination.

Still, the core of the gay man rarely changes. For all the forward thinking that happens on the outside, deep inside, nothing has changed in decades. The Neanderthal is still as alive and well in Chelsea and the Castro and Asbury Park as it is in Bloomington, Wichita and Hialeah.

Bitter? Not me.

With that in mind, I thought it only fitting to actually quantify the FIVE STAGES OF GAY. Even though there are actually six separate life categories, one is optional and does not apply universally. It also is a life plateau that temporarily removes the gay man from the rest of the gay continuum.

It should also be mentioned that the STAGES OF GAY are not absolute. This is not a one-or-the-other situation. There are multiple transitions, phases and subtle nuances. One usually does not make a hard left turn out of one and into another. One moves through them, the way one uses an exit ramp on an expressway or walks into and out of the surf.

It is also possible to skip a stage completely. But while a person can skip one stage, it is highly unlikely to skip two. For instance, a person can certainly skip STAGE 2 OR 3, but it is most unlikely that anyone could skip more than one. The only instance I could even imagine where a person could or would skip two stages would be a Catholic priest, who might skip 2 & 3. But in even those cases, I think there are any number of instances where a man of cloth has taken a quick stop on number 3.

That said, I give you the FIVE STAGES OF GAY. Definitions follow the list.

1. CLOSETED
2. OUT
3. SLUT
3A. (optional plateau) >>> SOBERLY SEARCHING
4. COMFORTABLE
5. INVISIBLE

OK. So, what do they mean? Here goes.

CLOSETED – Everybody starts here. This is the one stage nobody can avoid. Even those gay men who insist they burst out of the womb belting out show tunes still had those few years of their lives before awareness, and before their parents learned the true definition of denial. Some people choose to remain closeted for their entire lives. These people tend to be Catholic clergy, Republican politicians, evangelists, Hollywood actors, and small town grade school teachers.

OUT – People have to choose their own times and own terms for coming out. Not everybody comes out at the same time. Not everybody comes out, period. Some people inch out of the closet gradually, first to selected friends and families, and then eventually to the world at large. Some come bursting out of the closet like a 4th of July firecracker bursting into the sky. For many others, it’s just a transition that begins the same day the denial ends.

SLUT - Is any definition really necessary? This stage can begin in the late teens or college years and extend into the late 20’s and perhaps even into the 30’s. At some point, as maturity occurs, SLUT has less to do with the number of partners and frequency and more to do with chasing youth as it becomes more and more fleeting for one’s self.

SOBERLY SEARCHING – Discussed later.

COMFORTABLE – This stage is slightly more abstract and means many different things to many different people. In general, COMFORTABLE is the stage that occurs when Slut is a semi-fond memory, whose details are now crisply edited for story-telling, unlike earlier years when those conquests were badges of honor. COMFORTABLE is the stage where people vote their conscience for gay-friendly causes and candidates, but no longer feel the need to go to the Pride Parade, because who really needs to stand on Fifth Avenue in the sun for four hours? COMFORTABLE means having monthly payments instead of nightly adventures, a bed instead of a futon, 401K is more important than 69 and Therapy is what you do once a week, and not where you go every weekend.

INVISIBLE – Nobody likes talking about this one. You never see INVISIBLE coming. But one day you find yourself surrounded by people of all the other stages, and nobody sees you, recognizes you or acknowledges you. It can come with a 50th birthday, a shirt that you bought at Bloomy’s instead of Barney’s or strands of grey that have drifted past your temple to the middle of your head. INVISIBLE is what happens when everyone says hello to you as you walk in the door, but nobody sits next to you once you’re there. INVISIBLE is what happens when the person you’re talking to is more interested in returning the text he just got, than hearing what you have to say. INVISIBLE is what happens when people realize the “classic” movie they just saw on AMC was the big summer movie the year you graduated from high school. INVISIBLE is taking a book to the beach, and actually reading it. INVISIBLE is absolute. The only way of avoiding it is death. But to people of the earlier stages, INVISIBLE and death are the same things.

SOBERLY SEARCHING – This is the optional life stage that is a plateau somewhat separate, but also hopelessly intertwined with the others. It can occur anywhere along the path, but is probably more likely to come between Stages 3 & 4. So that’s why it’s there on the list. SOBERLY SEARCHING applies only to those people who are active participants in a 12-Step program. AA, NA, CA, CMA, OA, SAA and others are included. People who are SOBERLY SEARCHING are making new discoveries about themselves, their behaviors, their relationships and the course of their lives. Inevitably, people who are SOBERLY SEARCHING are transitioning through one or more of the other stages, and trying to find their footing. Sometimes it can take years to figure out where they stand and where they go next. And while the people who are SOBERLY SEARCHING might not have the clearest picture of where they are going next, they are absolutely precise about where they have been, where they are, and what they plan to avoid. The hardest part of the SOBERLY SEARCHING plateau is that it is absolutely counter-intuitive of so much that is identified as being gay. The person who is SOBERLY SEARCHING must find the balance between living life gaily and living life joyfully. For them, it takes a great deal of work for them to be synonymous. In any case, success is brutally difficult to achieve, and enormously challenging to hold on to. Surviving it defines strength.

So, what does this all mean? It means little in the grand scheme of life. Knowing what it is doesn’t change what it is. Awareness is not necessarily enlightenment. But in any journey, no matter how familiar the path might be, seeing, recognizing and understanding the signposts can help a traveler keep their bearings, make better use of the time he has where he is right now, and allow him the luxury of choosing a path he might not have considered before.

The tricky part is to allow the Stages to explain where we are, without allowing them to define who we are.

New Thoughts, Old Opinions

2008-06-27T09:42:00.005-04:00

There's an old saying about opinions:

"OPINIONS ARE LIKE ASSHOLES.
EVERYONE HAS ONE AND MOST OF THEM STINK."

In the all online world of the 21st century, the same can probably be said about blogs.

Yet, love them or hate them, blogs have opened up a whole new world of communication, commentary and opinion. They have given voice to silent opinions globally, no matter how hopeless, whacked out or fruitless those opinions might be.

Count me as one of the hopeless, whacked out and fruitless.
(OK... I might be a fruit, but I can still be fruitless.)

For good or bad, I now recognize that online journaling can be, at least for some people, including me, a way to find sanity in a world of insanity... and a way to maintain some sense of place in a world where it becomes harder to stand every day.

I have discovered that we are all enormously fucked-up, no matter how put together we seem on the outside. For myself, I can be a rock for everyone I know, even though I am a human landfill inside.

At one time, I looked at blogs as just more noise in a world that is already a deafening cacophony of people screaming wildly from rooftops with nothing meaningful to say. Now I realize that all the crap that is meaningless to me will probably have meaning to and for somebody else, even if it is only the screamers themselves. So, as one of those people screaming wildly into the abyss that is life, I can now respect the lunatic cacophony, even if I don't understand it. (Note: This respect and understanding does not apply to idiot conservative nutcases who believe we should amend the Constitution to deny rights rather than to insure, enforce and guarantee them.)

I promise nothing. I guarantee nothing.
So, here goes nothing.

Changes

2008-06-27T09:38:00.001-04:00

Changes Changes Changes...
I've been away, but the time is coming for a comeback.
The look will change. The attitude won't.
Stay tuned.

My Bill Of Rights

2007-10-01T13:14:00.000-04:00

I've been starting to share with people the details about some personal issues in my life. As part of the process, I spend a lot of time with other people wrestling with the same demons, and learning how to cope. Recently, we were given a personal manifesto that I think is worth sharing. I don't know the origin, but I find meaning in every line.

MY BILL OF RIGHTS

I have the right to be treated with respect.

I have the right to say No and not feel guilty.

I have the right to experience and express my feelings.

I have the right to take time for myself.

I have the right to change my mind.

I have the right to ask for what I want.

I have the right to ask for information.

I have the right to make mistakes.

I have the right to do less than I am humanly capable of.

I have the right to feel good about myself.

I have the right to act only in ways that promote my dignity and self-respect as long as others' are not violated in the process.

Promises Are Made To Be Broken

2007-09-23T08:20:00.000-04:00

I am so angry and disappointed today, I'm not sure how to handle it. In the past, I simply wouldn't handle it, and I'd spend the day reveling in it. But the recovery process tells me I can't just ignore it or bury it. I'm supposed to express it, face it, deal with it, or whatever, as long as it is resolved.

That's easier said than done. Not all situations are easily resolved. In this case, it involves somebody who has huge problems and issues of his own. How do I address mine without them seeming petty in comparison to his?

I've never been a big believer in promises or expectations. It has been my experience that both lead to disappointment and anger. The world of psychoanalysis and I are at odds over this one. I believe if you never expect anything you'll never be disappointed. The shrinks say if you expect nothing, that's what you'll get. Whichever theory you subscribe to, I believe the end result is the same.

Unfortunately, people assign different importance ratings to different promises. Follow me on this. On a scale of 1 to 100, an engagement or fidelity or an organ transplant would probably be in the high 90's; an invitation to dinner in the 50's; and picking up stamps for somebody at the post office would be about an 8. But because a promise or expectation involves more than one person, the different people involved might assign different values to it.

The person offering to get your stamps might only value the expectation at an 8. But the person who needs the stamps to mail a birthday card to his mother might place it at a 74. So, when the stamps are forgotten, one person is pissed, and the other shrugs it off... and that only makes the disappointment more intense.

Because both apparent answers to my problem are unacceptable in their own individual ways, I need an alternative. I can't confront the other person, and I'm not supposed to suck it up. So I'm going to choose "none of the above" and vent to the world at large. The specifics of what happened are really irrelevant. The truth is that nobody values promises or expectations in the same way. My parents used to say that promises are made to be broken. I used to think that was just a way of avoiding committing to anything. I was right. It was. But maybe what looked like a cop-out on the surface was actually the far more honest approach.

Thanks for reading my rant this far. I promise I won't get on a whiney soap box again.
And after all... a promise is a promise.

Sour Grapes

2007-09-20T16:03:00.000-04:00

As if I didn't already have enough reasons to stop drinking...

Martha Stewart is launching her own wine label. "Martha Stewart Vintage" will be manufactured and distributed by Gallo wines, and will sell for about $15 a bottle. The first markets to get a chance to get stewed with Stewart will include Phoenix, Denver and Charlotte where, presumably, the best wine labels are already Sam's Club and Costco.

As nauseating as the prospect of Martha Stewart wines are, I do have to give her and her marketing people credit for finding every way possible to pander to the trailer park crowd in the fly-over states. A Martha Stewart line of flowers in conjunction with that famous 1-800 firm is also on the horizon.

The only thing left might be tastefully decorated Martha Stewart condoms. After all, if the idea is to be a wh*re of national proportions, one should at least do it responsibly.

Jam It

2007-09-16T21:08:00.000-04:00

I saw a commercial on television yesterday for a mobile broadband service. The premise was that people are on board an airplane, getting ready to take off, and all are in a hurry to send the last possible e-mail or surf the last possible webpage before take off. The tag line suggested that with their brand of broadband connection, they could jam every possible e-mail and task into the last available second possible.

Why?

Where is it written that we are now obligated and required to spend every possible waking second doing something productive? What ever happened to relaxing? Doing nothing? Enjoying your surroundings, the world, or God forbid, each other?

The most ridiculous indicator of "progress" is the installation of WiFi throughout Central Park. So, you can now take your laptop to Central Park, ignore the trees, the softball games, the bikers, the kids, the cute guys/girls (depending on your preference), and instead stay glued to your 14 inch screen, Googling your heart out.

Why bother going to the Park? Just stay home, where you'll get four bars of signal, or even at Starbucks, sipping on an overpriced latte while you run your finger lovingly over your touchpad. Or even McDonald's where your McNuggets can cozy up to your Mac.

Again, at what point did we decide that no moment can pass without doing something? To be honest, the non-stop non-stopism is making me crazy. I sometimes think the best time of the day is the 30 seconds in the elevator going from the lobby of my building to my floor. Unless, of course, a lovely neighbor is on board with me using the time to text away or peck at their Blackberry because, God knows, they won't be home for another 60 seconds and whatever has their attention can't possibly wait. Tomorrow they'll be doing the same thing on the way down, because something dramatic must have happened in the world in the two minutes since they walked out the door of their apartment.

I have no explanation for any of it other than the constant availability to communicate in all ways except real conversation... or the sheer fear of being alone with one's thoughts.

I have a home phone, a cell phone, a fax machine, two work cell phones, a wireless work PDA and a desktop and laptop computers. And I can't wait to turn them all off.

The silence is overwhelmingly therapeutic. And trust me... I need all the therapy I can get.

Manhattan Morning

2007-09-16T08:51:00.000-04:00

New York has a reputation as a 24 hour city. You can get, go or see anything at any time, around the clock. Dinner at 3AM, breakfast at 3PM, an AA meeting at 2AM or a gospel preacher in the subway at 4PM.

But to find the real magic of the city, you have to be willing to haul your sorry ass out of bed before the paper hits the front door, and be willing to be out on the sidewalk right behind the person who delivered it.

There's something strange and wonderful about New York before the rest of the city gets going. That brief hour between 7AM and 8AM is my favorite hour of the day. The city is certainly never silent, but that's the hour it has kind of a quiet anticipation. Traffic is still light, few horns or sirens, no blaring radios, screaming babies or rumbling diesels. Yet you know they're just around the corner or up the street, because it's already full blown daylight. Everybody is waking up and planning their attack on the day. They're just not in your face yet.

I enjoy walking down Broadway or 8th Avenue as the city wakes up. Everybody moves at a slower, more relaxed pace. It reminds me of animals waking up from hibernation, venturing out bleary-eyed into the world, trying to get their bearings. There is almost an unspoken fellowship among the early risers, and a secret mutual understanding of how special and soothing these fleeting moments really are. To me, even a springtime afternoon in the park is not as relaxing or mind clearing as this early morning walk through Manhattan.

Then, as 8:00 comes and goes, the pace automatically quickens. More pedestrians, cabs, cars and buses whiz by. There's a noticeable increase in the number of trains rumbling beneath the street, and the coffee shops and bodegas buzz with people grabbing their morning coffee and bagels. By 8:30, the quiet is a mere memory. The city is at full throttle.

And then, people like me blend into the fabric of the high speed landscape, off to do whatever it is we do, but with a secret hidden smile that we've just been part of New York's best kept secret.

Who Knew?

2007-09-15T12:22:00.000-04:00

Yes...
It IS possible to be TOO gay.

Everything Is Not Always Fit To Print

2007-09-03T05:00:00.000-04:00

Have you ever read the wedding announcements in the Sunday New York Times?

First of all, I think you have to be related to royalty to even be considered for the wedding announcements section. I'm not sure what the requirements for inclusion are but I do tend to notice that the vast majority of couples are white, certainly extremely upscale, disgustingly photogenic and certainly of expensive country club caliber. Every picture is professionally posed. No Canon Sure Shots here, and nothing from that road trip weekend to Long Beach Island or the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. In other words, people I wouldn't even pass on the street, let alone know personally. This applies to the sex-mixers and same sex couples as well.

I'm not sure who writes these things, but the idea of restraint or moderation is obviously not a concept often considered. After the names of the intended, their parents, grandparents, siblings, house pets and nannies, we must read every last detail about the wedding arrangements. The dress, the church, the reception, the decorations, the menu and the toilet paper in the bathrooms which these people are far too dignified to ever need to visit.

Then there's the honeymoon. The destination, means of travel, length of stay and expected activities, other than the obvious. They haven't yet delved into the various sexual positions to be tried, but that would be infinitely more interesting.

After all that, we read how they met, who introduced them, and where they went on their first date. Riveting. They do leave out information about the first time they hit the sack. Hell, if I have to know about the wedding trip to Barbados, at least tell me if they did it on the first date or whether they held out until the third or fourth. Did they go to her place or his... or did they go to the Marriott Marquis? Did they spend the whole night together, or schtup and run? Was the cat in the room watching? Did the doorman smile knowingly? Did he use a condom? (The boyfriend, not the doorman... unless of course the doorman was invited to participate. Hey, this IS New York.)

The last one I read went into great detail about how the couple broke up for awhile and one or both of them began dating other people until one flew off to see the other to make up in some distant city. And Spielberg wasn't there to capture it all? Didn't I see this in a movie with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan?

Obviously the concept of too much information has never occurred to Muffy and Buffy or the hacks reviewing their nuptials. I'm beginning to think the depth of the wedding announcement is directly proportional to the cost of the wedding. The higher the price of the affair, the more column inches must be devoted to chronicle the spectacle.

I've wondered recently if anyone reads short stories anymore, or if anybody actually still writes them. I think I know the answer. They are still alive and well. They just live in the Sunday Style section of the Times.

The Break is Over

2007-09-02T11:08:00.000-04:00

I took a break. Now it's over.
Thanks for your patience.
Let the madness begin again.

Victor, Victoria, Victorious

2007-04-29T06:16:00.000-04:00

You have to hand it to Alexis Arquette. Here is a talented, very cute guy with the potential for a moderately succesful acting career, who has decided to live life as a nebbishy woman from Long Island.

Now, such decisions are hardly unusual, although actors tend to confine their unconventional eccentricites to weekend events, like the National Guard or deer hunting.

In all seriousness, I do not mean to disrespect Alexis Arquette or any other transexual or transgender person. I believe it takes a great deal of courage to decide to live life openly in a way that is so dramatically different than the way everyone has known you. It is revealing your inner most secret to the entire world. It is far more than coming out of the closet. It is coming out, and bringing everything in there out with you.

I believe people come out when, and if, they are ready. That's why I have never liked the idea of "Outing" people. I have always said that I think coming out is a very private and personal decision that people can make only for themselves, and only when the time is right. I make exceptions to that rule and philosophy for bigoted, hypocritical members of the political and religious communities. While it can only help our community when well known people come out, and young people need all the good role models we can provide, nobody should make the decisions for them.

Back to Alexis and what she represents. Alexis represents the true courage of coming out and being out.

It takes no courage to be straight. Being straight and living life today is like driving a Hummer at 35 miles per hour. Well protected, safe, structured, and totally risk free.

It takes even less courage being in the closet. While I accept the decision to live life in the closet, I neither understand nor respect it. Doing so denies who you are. It is hiding under a blanket in the back seat of that slow moving Hummer. It is, in its own way, playing dress-up, except you're disguising your life, not just your identity.

Being out defies convention, political expedience and society's norms, despite what they say in the New York Times Style section or on Project Runway. And while being out is brave, the majority of out men and women still "blend in", assuming a certain amount of anonymity and safety whether they seek it or not. The Alexis's of the world don't have that and don't seek it. Their reality is truly out there, like a billboard.

Not all gay men and women understand or accept transexual or transgender members of our community, despite what the banners say in the parades. But we all must recognize their courage, as we must be proud of our own.

Human Rights Campaign Coming Out Resources

OutProud

PFLAG - Parents & Friends of Lesbians & Gays

Human Rights Campaign Straight Guide to GLBT Americans

GayHealth.com Coming Out Page

Ramblings With No Direction

2007-04-18T14:09:00.000-04:00

I haven't written anything in more than a week because, frankly, I haven't had anything to say worth reading. That isn't to suggest I EVER have anything to say worth reading, but at least I sometimes admit it.

I decided to try and stay off the Imus topic after my inital post because the bandwagon got so damn crowded. At some point so many people are shouting, its hard to be heard above the noise. So I begged off.

Katie Couric, however, owes Don Imus BIG TIME. She should take him out to dinner every Friday for a year! It's only because of his problems that people virtually ignored the CBS Evening News plagerism incident, where she read a "diary" entry that was actually lifted from the Wall Street Journal. A CBS staffer was fired. The only reason there wasn't a huge public outcry calling for her head is because the Imus flap was everywhere. I bet she didn't even send him a thank-you card. I bet American Greetings is developing one.

Then Virginia Tech. Again, nothing I could say that meant anything. However, USA Today has a very interesting sidebar, discussing how much bloodshed and tragedy this current generation has grown up with. It certainly makes one think. I also liked the Daily News column called "Yes Virginia, Guns Kill Innocents". That says it all.

And we can't forget In Touch magazine. These yahoos are giving their own colons a close-up examination (think about it). Take a look at their magazine cover this week. Pay special attention to the subject matter on the left, contrasted with the subject matter on the right. Enough said.

Moving on to another mostly unrelated topic... I got a bill from the IRS for 2004 for $4100. Knowing the IRS stands for "Invariably Really Stupid", I sent everything off to an accountant who figured out I only owed them $150. But his bill for sorting it all out was $700. Reminder to self... the IRS continues to be a bunch of feeble-minded bullies who think they can scare the crap out of people. They're worse than the thugs on Miami streets. At least you can see them coming and run the other way. The IRS just likes to pounce. If anybody reading this is sleeping with an IRS employee, please kick him in the balls for me.

That's if he has any to begin with.

Stupid Is As Stupid Says

2007-04-06T16:57:00.000-04:00

I'm going to buck conventional liberal wisdom and certainly the feelings of many of my gay brothers and sisters today, when I say many of them need to repeat a semester of Social Studies.

People all across America are calling for the firing of Don Imus, after he referred to the Rutgers women's basketball team as "nappy haired ho's". Many of these people are the same ones who called for the firing of Ann Coulter from her radio and TV gigs after referring to John Edwards as a faggot.

I disagree. I certainly don't like hate speech of any kind. But ignoring the first amendment and denying people of the simple freedom of speech is not the answer to ending the hatred. Freedom of speech also allows people to make assholes of themselves and, as we often see, many do.

The way to deal with people like Mr. Imus, Ms Coulter, and others of their ilk is to ignore them. But we need to ignore them with our remotes and our radio dials and our feet. We need to constantly turn their programs off and encourage others to do the same. We must ignore their books and refuse to buy the newspapers that publish their columns. And again, encourage others to do the same. We must let the radio stations and the cable networks and the publishers know, without question, that they are free to continue airing or publishing these hate mongers, but our dollars and our ears and eyes are going elsewhere.

Raising Hell about the Coulters and the O'Reillys and the Imus types of the world only gives them the attention and publicity they need and crave. It feeds their public relations machine and draws people in, wondering what they will say next. Like moths to a flame, people can't avoid it. I haven't figured out yet why any one of those three have anything to say worth listening to. So, just stop. Just say no.

Stripping idiots of their free speech is a dangerous precedent. They are trying every day to rob us of our rights. Depriving them of theirs is simply lowering ourselves to their level. We can't claim we're better people than they are if we really aren't. Allowing them to shrivel and die on the vine, like a crop of bug infested tomatoes, is the best way to deal with them. Eventually even their most ardent followers will see them for who and what they are, and abandon them too.

My father, in one of his few sober moments, once told me it is better to keep your mouth shut and be thought an idiot than to open it and remove all doubt. The Imus's and the Coulters and the O'Reillys remove all doubt with every syllable. The only way people will learn how stupid and dangerous they are, is if they can hear the stupid things they're constantly saying.

Channeling Bad Decisions

2007-04-05T19:33:00.000-04:00

Once again corporate America slithers to another new low. This time it's Circuit City, terminating 3400 employees because they make too much money. So they'll all be fired and replaced with another 3400 employees who will be paid less.

This is lousy news for those 3400 employees But for anybody who has actually shopped in a Circuit City, this is like saying they've just lowered the minimum basic requirements for selling a Sony from dumbass to dumbfuck. As it is now, the average Circuit City employee ranks on the ability and interest level somewhere between TSA and Rite Aid employee.

I can't even begin to imagine what they're going to find once they start paying less than they are now.

Over the years and in different states, I've made a fair number of purchases from Circuit City. A few televisions, a washer-dryer, refrigerator, XM radio, various accessories and some other gizmos here and there. But I learned long ago not to go near one unless I had done all my research first. Any time I walked into a Circuit City to buy something,I had already decided on the exact make and model of whatever I wanted, plus the price I should pay. I know that nobody working in one of those stores knows enough to answer any sort of comparison question about their products, warranties or quality. The last time I was there, they didn't even know that what I was buying was on sale.

And now, they're going to dumb it down. Well, I don't need to be told again to avoid those places. At least in New York we have J&R, which beats the hell out of every other place anyway. But God help people living in the flyover states.

I can't quite fathom how Circuit City thinks there is long term gain in this. The public relations fallout has already been on every business section front page in America. As customers start realizing the sales staff has dumbed down even further, they'll run for the doors. Provided of course, there's a place to run to.

Interestingly enough, by early 2009, moost American television sets will be obsolete and people will have to replace them with digitaql receivers. By then, the new crop of Circuit City employees will be making just enough to be fired and be replaced by yet another wave of cheap drones. Which means that 15 year old in the subway who just jumped the turnstile, has his Ipod blasting loud enough in his ears that you can hear it at the other end of the car, and is trying to toss french fries into his girlfirend's cleavage is probably going to sell you your next $1500 HDTV.

Makes you want to start reading again, doesn't it.

Terminal C

2007-04-01T07:30:00.000-04:00

(I obviously had nothing better to think about this week than dealing with Houston's airport. I gotta get a life.)

I spent last weekend in Houston for my friend Jack’s wedding. Jack, if you ever read this, I think the thing that amazed me wasn’t that you had so many cousins... SO MANY COUSINS... it was that you could remember all their names! And their spouses’ names! And their kids’ names!

But that’s not my point (and congratulations Jack).

I used to live in Houston but had never really visited there as a... well... visitor. If first impressions really matter, than its no wonder Houston has some issues..

First, I want to know what Houston brain surgeon designed the rental car facility at Houston Intercontinental Airport? Let me describe this to you. On arrival, after schlepping the mile or so from your gate to baggage claim that clearly must be in another county, you haul your bags across a cavernous hall the size of Lake Erie to find the bus to the rental car building. After hauling your bags onto the bus, along with the dozens of others jockeying for space, you take the five to eight minute ride to a futuristic structure that looks like the Starship Enterprise crashed alongside a Texas highway.

Not much different than some other major airports you might say. Ah, not so fast.

You see,at IAH, they have a surprise for you. The bus drives up a ramp to the second level discharging passengers on the upper level of the building, where there is absolutely nothing... except escalators to take you down to the first level. The logic of this absolutely escapes me. Customers haul their luggage off the bus, then negotiate it down the escalators into another great hall (picture the Orange Bowl in its glory years), to find their rental car counter.

(Intermission... I am writing this while waiting for my plane in Terminal E of Intercontinetal. The people sitting across from me have a miniature poodle that they are obviously bringing on board with them... dressed in a SUEDE overcoat complete with designer belt. The dog... not the owner. She is giving it a sip out of her take-out coffee cup. I’m not sure whether this means I need to travel more, or less.)

We’re back. After the requisite paperwork, one is directed to the great garages, out double doors on either side of this great expanse. And there, one drags their luggage either up or down, you guessed it, more escalators, to the aisles where their cars are. Mine was at the very end of its row, which meant walking halfway back to the Continental airlines terminal.

Only in Texas would they design a building that forces people who they know will be carrying heavy suitcases to traverse multiple escalators with their luggage, repeatedly... because, after all, the process must be repeated in reverse when returning the car.

Now you might find it odd to base an entire entry on the simple act of picking up a Pontiac from Hertz. Perhaps. But trust me... you’d rather read about this than what happened between 2:17AM and 4:21AM after the night of the Mexican food dinner.

Gettin' Hosed

2007-03-16T10:42:00.000-04:00

Well, it seems the Fire Department of New York has its collective panties in a twist over the FDNY's placement in New York's annual St. Patrick's Day Parade. Instead of their traditional place of honor near the front in third position, firefighters have been shoved way back, so they won't be seen until about 35 minutes into the march.

Well boo frickin' hoo.

The resident Nazi who makes all the parade decisions was pissed last year when uninvited firefighters from New Orleans marched with the FDNY and unfurled a banner thanking New Yorkers for their support after Katrina. Seems it delayed the parade. As further retribution he's also trying to keep the FDNY EMS Band (who knew there was such a thing) out of the parade too.

More boo frickin' hoo.

Parade Nazi refuses to discuss it... refuses to comment to the newspapers... says he is the ultimate decision maker and everyone else can kiss his royal green ass.

Ergo... the firefighters, Mayor, City Council, and a bunch of other yahoos have their panties in a twist.

I couldn't care less.

Where have all these people been year after year when the parade Nazi and his fellow Irish autocrats have barred New York gays and lesbians from marching in the parade? And I still don't get the city allowing the discrimination when that discrimination is illegal if the non-profit agency or organization does business with the city or receives city assistance. And, since the parade uses enormous city resources in closing Fifth Avenue, police, sanitation, EMS and so on, this makes no sense. But everyone looks the other way, because it's the St. Patrick's Day Parade and the Irish, and gosh, it's tradition.

Well screw them.

New York's firefighters now understand what it feels like to be second class citizens. It sucks. They also know what it feels like to complain and be ignored. It still sucks. And they know what it feels like when you know you are being dicriminated against for no good reason and nobody will lift a finger to help you. Big time sucks.

Maybe next year when New York's gay and lesbian groups try once again to get a place in the parade and look for public support, New York's firefighters will come to their aid. But I doubt it. More likely they'll get hosed yet again.

Turn Back The Clock

2007-03-13T06:03:00.000-04:00

I hate Daylight Saving Time. You've probably never heard anyone actually hate a parameter of time. Or if they do, why would they dislike one that gives us more light in the evening? Because I do. I like having light when I get up in the morning. Getting up before dawn makes it seem too damn early. I like it being dark when I go home at night. It feels like the day is reaching a natural conclusion, the city is illuminated the way it should be, and I feel like I can relax. And I haven't quite figured out the value of daylight until 9PM. Stretching and contorting the day doesn't work for me. It screws up my body clock and short-circuits my sleep, which is messed up enough already.

Daylight Saving Time was an idea originally meant to give the farmers more time in the fields. Last I checked, farmers along the Northeast Corridor weren't too concerned with it. The big corporate farms elsewhere seem to be doing just fine, raising milk prices year 'round, with or without time changes. Now Congress says a longer DST will save energy. Sure it will. Because people getting up in the now pre-dawn morning can probably get dressed in the dark and the lights in most office buildings that are on all day and all night must use less electricity when the sun is up.

I was pleased to discover I'm not really alone. I found an article in Slate Magazine online that actually seems to agree with my contention that daylight saving time is just a bad excuse to force us to fumble with clocks that don't automatically adjust themselves. (Note to the people at XM Radio... you guys never figured out how to update your receivers early, did you?) It even suggests that the whole idea is dangerous to small children. Not that Congress has ever cared about small children. (Lack of universal health care, minimal access to affordable daycare, Head Start cuts, etc.)

Like most other bad ideas to come out of Washington, this is unlikely to change. We'll be stuck with extended Daylight Saving Time until the End Of Time. Except in Hawaii, Arizona and certain parts of Indiana where they realize it's all nonsense and told the government long ago to stick their clocks in their collective colons.

Those places have managed to survive without the semi-annual clock setting ordeals. The kids, cows and cowboys all live full and productive lives. Or at least as close as you can come to it in Indiana.

An Open Letter To My Building Management

2007-03-11T18:40:00.000-04:00

Dear K----:

I hope this finds you well and that you had a good weekend.

This will not be my first letter to you on this subject, and somehow I doubt it will be my last. But perhaps I should try a new approach.

How proud you must be, to have signed the New York Knicks, New York Jets, United States Marine Corps and Continental Airlines, all as tenants of Apartment 26-B above me. It must be cozy up there, but given the noise coming from that apartment, they are certainly all keeping busy.

First there are the Knicks, running back and forth across the floor, bouncing balls and whatever else they might have, at all hours of the day and night. How they haven't had a championship season given all the practice they're getting in every day is beyond me. Perhaps they should invite over a few more screaming children. The screaming kids they already have up there each day don't same to be enough inspiration. Maybe a few hundred more will do the trick.

Then there are the Jets. Oh my, the touchdowns they must be scoring, given how many times they are juming up and down in what must be their victory dances. I don't know what those cleats are doing to the hardwood floors though. Now, once upon a time you told me that the people up there had promised to put down rugs to deaden the noise. They obviously realized that rugs would get in the way of the basketball and football, so that plan has apparently been scrapped. The cleats might indeed do a number on the floors, but isn't it worth it to have Gang Green on the 26th floor?

And then there are Marines. Semper Fi! What a good American you are... allowing them to march back and forth in close order drill constantly. No slippers or socks for those adults. No sirree... not when U.S. military issue combat boots are available for stomping around a two bedroom apartment. God Bless the USA and 26-B.

And of course, Continental AIrlines. Newark International just wasn't enough. It has to be jet planes making that grinding sound every Sunday afternoon from one end of their apartment to the other. If it weren't for the Knicks and the Jets up there already, I might think the Rangers had taken over and it was the Zamboni smoothing the ice. But that would just be crazy talk. Now, I don't know how you manage to get those jet planes through that narrow hallway, but at least I know I can save on car service expense and just take the elevator up one flight instead of taking a town car to Newark.

So K----, it is indeed an accomplishment for you, packing all that into one small apartment on the 26th floor. But for some of us on the 25th floor, it can be a bit overwhelming. Now, we have talked about this before and nothing seems to be changing, so I guess our building is destined to be the new Upper West Side Madison Square Garden International Airport. Unforunately, it's a little more than I can take, so I guess I'll be forced to look for an apartment a little less athletic when my lease is up. Maybe I can move into the traffic island in the middle of Times Square.

Until then, I've decided to start drinking heavily and will deduct the wine costs from my rent. 311 said I could. If you don't believe me, call them yourself. By the time you get through, I'll be unpacked uptown somewhere.

That's all for now.

Oh... someday remind me to tell you about the people in the apartment next door screwing in their dining room.

Best regards...

Over The Shoulder

2007-03-11T08:52:00.000-04:00

This week I was reminded of one of the best things of living in this city. It's one of those strange little connections you make that is just kind of fun, even when it has nothing to do with you.

My friend Nick wound up over Jon Stewart's shoulder on The Daily Show. Nick is actually an intern on the show, and wound up in a graphic for a story.

That's Nick reading the computer monitor.

Now, in the world of Newt Gingrich extra-marital affairs, turning clocks forward, Dannylynn's daddy and the mystery New Jersey Mega Millions winner, how important can this really be? (Sorry Nick.) But still, I think it's cool to know somebody who actullay sat in front of a faux subway wall with a computer in his lap to be photographed to be shrunk down for a Jon Stewart over-the-shoulder graphic.

Given the givens in a world where they have polls and public opinion barometers to regulate the levels of unhappiness and hate... I think we all need a brief over-the-shoulder moment every now and then.

Check out Nick's MySpace page.

By the way... Nick is a smart guy who hopes for a career in comedy. Someone should hire him.

He Must Have Been Getting A Pedicure That Day

2007-03-04T08:44:00.000-05:00

It is getting harder and harder to avoid dealing with national politics here, especially when the topics are so ripe for the picking.

Now it turns out that Rudy Giuliani doesn't get along with his children. Truth be known, Giuliani doen't get along with very many people, but generally he has managed to trot out his kids even when his marriage, professional connections and other relationships go south. But children are excellent, if under-appreciated, bullshit monitors.

John Gotti might have been a notorious mobster, but his kids stuck by him. They knew that there was still something worthwhile beneath and beyond the larcenous and murderous intents. Richard Nixon's children were fiercely protective of him and Ferdinand Marcos had four children who stuck by him.

Interestingly enough though, Mr. American Hero, Rudy Giuliani, can't seem to count his children as his fans. He isn't the only politician to have pissed of his kids. Fidel Castro's daughter, Alina, lives in Miami, where she, like thousands of other exiles, waits for the fall of her father.

But Mr. Giuliani, who, according to his own hype, must have donned blue tights and a red cape in 2001 to single handedly save the city, managed to skip his own son's high school graduation and his daughter's theatrical productions in which she was the star. HE MISSED HIS SON'S HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION.

Now, my father was the nastiest, meanest son of a bitch to walk the face of the earth. He and I had a violent fight the week before my graduation. I wanted to bar him from coming, but my mother talked me out of it. Even if I had tried, I am reasonably certain he would have shown up in the school gym that night anyway. And Rudy is Rudy. Even if his son refused to give him a ticket for the event or reserve him a seat, Rudy can get into anyplace for any reason in New York. Hell, they probably would have rolled him in on a solid gold throne. He can do it if he wants to. He obviously didn't want to. That speaks volumes about the character, or lack of it, of the man.

Which brings me to my one and only mention of the Clintons today. They have their own family issues and family troubles as well. No question. However, absolutely no one, including their most vocal critics, could ever question or criticize their love, devotion and dedication to their daughter. I believe Bill and Hill both would walk away from politics in a New York minute rather than turn their backs on their daughter.

Mr. and (the current) Mrs. Rudy Giulianis seem to have other priorities.

I don't like or enjoy seeing family discord, but I am always amzed by the pompous "do-as-we-say, not-as-we-do" mentality of the Republicans and their conservative base. Not that Giuliani is as conservative as some of their Confederate flag waving, white hooded mainstays, but he is learning to bow and scrape to them more every day.

So, just so I have this straight, let me paint the picture of modern Republican family values...

Have lots of marriages. Make sure you start schtupping your new spouses while you're married to your old ones. Whenever possible, make sure your spouse hears you announce on live television your intention of getting a divorce.

Oppose abortion. Force everybody to have children. Once they're born, deny them health care. Put them in the worst schools you can find. House them in the worst projects in the city. Make sure they have no access to quality education. Discourage job training. Repeat the cycle.

When it comes to your own kids, teach them the joys of booze, extra-marital affairs, living beyond their means, compromising your own values to get ahead, and at some point, lock them out of your lives.

On the other hand, make sure you organize your party and as many conservative fringe groups as possible to stop people from marrying each other, raising kids or fulfilling their own American dream, because they happen to be doing it with members of the same sex. After all, a happy same-sex family must be worth far less than a dysfunctional, miserable so-called mainstream family.

Rudy Giuliani is running for president. At some point, he will start waving the family flag and talking about the importance of the wholesome, nuclear, modern American family. It will be a very important issue to him, as long as the family he's talking about isn't his.
________________________________________________

On a different subject...
Watch this week's Jossip TV. It's great.

This Soda Might Be Hard To Swallow

2007-02-26T12:53:00.000-05:00

I don't normally take an entire entry to go down an equal rights road. But today I feel a little pissed off. So what the hell. Straight people will have to bear with me. I've endured Parade Magazine all these years. You can deal with this.

For a while now, gay people have been trying to deal with a response to DOMA... The Defense of Marriage Act. I've come up with it.

I think it's time for one of my elected representatives to introduce SODA: The Sexual Orientation Discount Act.

Here's the premise.

The conservative right spends an inexplicable amount of time and energy devising ways to shortchange gay men and women of their rights on the federal, state and local level. Depending on the issue and community, these efforts have either been partially or entirely successful. So, if our rights are to be discounted, our taxes should be discounted as well.

Here's how it works.

Each right is assigned a value based on its importance in the American fabric. As these rights are deprived, the value is discounted on our tax returns, by a newly created IRS form. Here are some possible examples:

MARRIAGE: 35%
MILITARY SERVICE: 8%
ADOPTING CHILDREN: 15% (currently only an issue in Florida, so only gay Florida residents are eligible.)
EDUCATIONAL OPPORTUNITIES: 9%
PRIVATE SECTOR EMPLOYMENT: 11%
HOUSING CHOICE: 16%
HOSPITAL VISITATION EQUALITY: 7%
ESTATE EQUALITY: 7%

The following discounts are available only in the communities where applicable:
LOCAL GOVERNMENT EMPLOYMENT: 11%
TEACHING: 16%
LACK OF HATE CRIME PROTECTION: 9%

These are only examples. There could, of course, be more.

People would qualify for the discounts by filling out a simple IRS form where they would simply:
A) Declare they are gay;
B) Check off the discounts for which they are eligible;
C) Apply the discounts to their federal, state and local income taxes;
D) Calculate similar discounts to their local property taxes;
E) Calculate the total, then enter it on a line on their 1040 form to be deducted from their tax obligation.

No further proof or documentation would be required.

Critics might argue that it would be possible for some dishonest heterosexuals to claim they are gay, simply to get the tax advantages. I find this difficult to believe. But even if it happened, it would serve only as a balance, considering the enormous number of closet cases who continue to try to pass themselves off as straight.

This is just a starting point, but, like all IRS codes, I believe it could have the potential to develop into an entire bookshelf of long overdue tax breaks.

Now, let's calculate the cost.

Assuming the standard 10% number for the nation's gay population, we get 30 million people. Realizing that gays and lesbians have higher average salaries, we're looking at taxable income well in excess of one trillion dollars. Given that gays and lesbians have fewer average deductions, you're looking at taxable gross income of about $900 billion dollars. Once you calculate a conservative federal tax rate of 23%, plus state and local taxes, then apply the SODA deductions you're probably looking at tax losses of about $250 Billion.

That's $250,000,000,000.

That should close a few thousand schools, stop construction of a few highways, and shut down a few dozen federal agencies.

I think people might start to notice, and might decide there isn't that much wrong with same sex marriage and equal rights protection.

After all... neither Massachusetts nor Canada have ceased to exist yet. And I think most people would rather live in either place than ANY part of Kansas or Mississippi.

Kiss My Blog

2007-02-24T17:26:00.000-05:00

I have come to the conclusion the blogs are like asses.
Everybody has one.

Let me explain.

You have noticed by now that my site is not particularly flashy or dynamic. It is a simple design, with the primary purpose of steering you to these pages. It doesn't contain screaming graphics, fabulous backgrounds or dozens of video clips culled from YouTube or other places scattered around. It isn't that I'm not interested in making the site lively. It's that I just don't have the time. I don't have the endless hours it takes to make a Spielberg-like website an obsession. It's all I can do to squeeze out a few hundred words a few times a week... if that.

But even though my site will never be a 3-D or HD experience, I've at least been trying to develop and build up a links page with links to some interesting websites and other blogs that might be fun to visit. So, I spend a little time in the evenings and on weekends, trolling websites and blogs, in search of other website and blog links, looking for gold.

Yeah. Right.

Which leads me back to my conclusion.
Blogs are like asses. Everybody has one.
And, like asses, most look basically alike and serve the same function. A few look a little nicer than others, until you take a closer look. Then you discover they tend to be bloated, uninspired, or even padded to look nicer than they are.

But once in a while, like asses, you find one that is exquisite. A joy to behold. Breathtaking in so many ways, that you can't stop looking at it. You want to explore every part of it, and you can't wait until you have the chance to see it again.

Come on. You know it's true.

I do have a link to one blog that seemed to have that kind of promise on my links page. I'm not going to name it... if you explore them, you'll figure it out. It looks better than it really is, although it does have some admirable qualities, some good news areas, and is updated daily. It has even won a number of awards. I'm not sure why, but it has. It also has a quite lengthy "Blogroll" of other blog sites. I've explored many of them and they bear out my point.

First, about 10% of the sites don't exist anymore. Keeping them there is just sloppy on the part of the blog creator. But I've discovered none of them are particularly different from the others. Most have the same clips pulled off YouTube. Most have the same gossip pulled from the trendy gossip sites, the same blind items and the same bitchy comments. Even the same naked pictures (where applicable). Not much creative content, not much thought and not much new. Nobody seems to be trying. It's like McDonald's of the Blogsphere.

Which brings me back to my conclusion for the third time.
Yes... that.

Thus ends today's rant.
My ass might not be pretty, but at least it's a little unique.
So is this clip I found. Yes it's from YouTube... but it hasn't made the rounds a lot, and I think it's pretty funny.

Please enjoy "THE EVOLUTION OF DANCE."

Roses Are Red, How Soon Til You're Dead?

2007-02-17T15:19:00.000-05:00

Okay. I've long since passed the point where anything really surprises me anymore. Now I'm just amused.

This week, Hallmark unveiled a new line of greeting cards called "Journeys". These are cards for people who want to say something but don't know what. In my experience, those are the people who should just keep their mouths shut.

Anyway, this is an idea obviously conceived by and green-lighted by a couple of people who believe there's no reason to wait until people die to send sympathy cards when there's a market to be cultivated among the not dead yet.

There are cards for those with cancer that say don't give up hope. After all, the one thing a person needs to pull them through a cancer diagnosis and the battle facing them is a frilly Hallmark card. Think how many people could have been saved through the years if only they had gotten Hallmark inspiration instead of chemo.

There's a card for eating disorders that basically suggests thinking positive thoughts are better than barfing. Ironic, since the very idea makes one want to vomit.

For the clinically depressed there are cards encouraging one to look up, be happy, and work harder toward a brighter tomorrow. How fortunate that so many drug stores sell Hallmark cards just a few steps from the pharmacy department. People can now peruse the options while waiting for a Prozac prescription.

On the lighter side, there are even a couple of cards congratulating people on coming out, complete with full color rainbows. Who would have ever dreamed that the Gold Crown could find its way to America's queens. Still, somehow I doubt we'll be seeing reruns of Queer as Folk on the Hallmark Channel.

I long ago stopped buying Hallmark cards, opting for the much more creative, and usually dirtier, cards they sell in little shops in Greenwich Village. Obviously Hallmark recognizes that's a niche market that Omaha and Oklahoma City can't quite replicate, so they're going to try with their own version coming soon to a Rite Aid store near you.

What with stores full of cards for Grandparents Day, Adoption Day and Take Your Toaster To Work Day, the card companies have no choice but to dream up some new ideas instead of some new holidays. American Greetings had already come up with the Anti-Valentine card this year... an idea I like a lot. I think a card that says "I hope someone breaks your heart" still beats the hell out of one that says "Have a happy heart attack".

Welcome To Carousel

2007-02-15T08:49:00.000-05:00

If you haven't seen Logan's Run, you might have a little trouble following part of this. For those who need it, here is a very quick summary.

Logan's Run is a movie set somewhere in the future where people live in a mythical city run by unseen bureaucrats. Nobody lives past 30. On reaching 30, citizens must take themselves to Carousel, where, presumably, they are "recycled", to return again as infants and start life all over again.

As a gay man in New York, I understand the concept of being considered dead at 30.

Continuing on, some rebels don't believe the recycling is real, and instead run to escape Carousel. Logan is an undercover cop who penetrates the resistance to arrest the runners, but instead learns the truth and helps to expose the lie of Carousel and destroy it... thus allowing everyone to live past 30 and happily ever after.

He should have left well enough alone.

When I was a child, we had a family friend named Jerry. On Jerry's refrigerator was a piece of paper with a mystery date written on it. Nobody knew what it meant. Not his family or friends. Not even his wife. People theorized it might be the date he wanted to retire... Or when he hoped to have his house paid off... Or when he might take some long discussed vacation. Jerry never divulged the secret.

Years passed, and when that day finally arrived, Jerry got up very early in the morning, got dressed, went out to the garage and started his car. And stayed there. His wife found him hours later. The mystery date was the date Jerry had chosen years earlier to make his exit.

In going through his letters and notes, people learned that Jerry had realized the time would come when he would have done everything he wanted to do, and would face only boredom. He would have sold enough cars in his life so that it was no longer a thrill. He would have seen his children graduate from school, marry and have their own children. He would have fought in wars and seen any parts of the world he wanted to see. He would have buried enough of his friends and family to know he didn't want to be the last man standing. He decided the choice of when to leave would be his.

Friends and family were aghast. They were stunned and angry. I was in awe. I applauded him for seizing control of his own existance and refusing to allow anything or anybody to make what would be the ultimate and last decision of his life for him. I have never forgotten it.

My parents died of cancer in their 50's. Three of their parents and two siblings died in their 50's as well, of heart disease.

Owing to heredity, knowing I am predisposed to both, I have lived my life with the idea (though not necessarily the intention or goal) of dying relatively young. I have not saved a tremendous amount of money over the years. I buy what I want. I go where I want. I make life decisions based not on what they will mean for me when I am 60, but what they will mean 60 minutes from now.

Carousel gave people the same opportunity that Jerry's mystery date did. It forced them to live life now. It removed the temptation to put off joy or love or excitement. It forced people to realize that time is finite and there is no reason not to do what you want when you want it, rather than waiting for a "better time". It also forces you to make good decisions, because the chances to compensate for bad ones are limited.

My biggest fear is not dying. That is... I'm afraid I'll live way too long. I don't want to outlive my ability to afford living or my friends or my interest in what comes next. I don't have the courage to put a date on my refrigerator. Even if I did, I own neither a garage nor a car. Carousel would make it all a lot easier.

For irony sake, they could even put it in Chelsea.

Getting, Having, Doing

2007-02-13T16:25:00.000-05:00

There's a difference between having a job and doing a job...
Between wanting a responsibility and wanting a title.
Sometimes it's a very fine line, and other times it can be a huge divide.

Take for instance, the growing field of men and women who are trying to decide whether to run for President. I think there are actually a few of them who really want to be President, to face the challenges, make the hard decisions, and do something for the nation. Whether I agree with their intentions doesn't matter. The fact is, their intentions are to do the job.

Then there are those who just want to BE President. They want the power, the parades, the marching bands, Air Force One and their name in history books. They don't have the slightest idea what to do for the country, and actual service is the farthest thing from their minds. They just want to sit behind the desk.

The tough part is distinguishing between them. The dangerous part is when the wrong one gets the job.

Similar situations can be found much closer to home. Even the local automobile dealer has a couple of salespeople lusting after the new car manager's job, and a new car manager who wants to be general manager. Some of them might actually know how to increase sales, motivate employees and whack the competition. Others just want the desk, the check and the business cards.

I'm reminded of something a cousin used to say: "Remember the dog who chased cars every day until he finally caught one, and then didn't know what to do with it." A little South Plainfield logic mixed in with a touch of Perth Amboy irony.

Every day we encounter people who can either make our life a little easier or a little harder. The ones who are simply filling the chairs inevitably make things harder, either because they can or because they don't know any better. The rest of us are stuck with it.

Then again I am reminded of what my friend Joe K. used to say back in Maryland: "the sun doesn't shine on the same dog's ass every day."

Under Life's Bigtop

2007-02-11T08:33:00.000-05:00

I've always been fascinated by the idea of being famous for being famous. It's a phenomenon that's only been around a decade or so, but already seems to captivate us at every turn. Paris Hilton, Perez Hilton, at least half of the entries on any given day in Page Six and, of course, Anna Nicole Smith.

I don't plan on speaking ill of the dead, but Anna Nicole Smith's death has now been on the front pages longer than Gerald Ford or Ronald Reagan. And while I was certainly no fan of either, a decade from now people won't say "Who?" when their names come up.

That isn't to say Ms Smith's untimely demise wasn't headline making. It certainly was, in that way that human nature loves a circus sideshow or a train wreck. Nobody wants to live next door to an Anna Nicole Smith or be related to one, but everyone wants one to talk about. The Anna Nicoles represent an important need in each of us... the need to feel better about our own lives. Because on any given day, no matter how crappy our own lives or jobs or or personal relationships are, at least we can sit back and say with an air of self righteousness, "Well, at least I'm not Anna Nicole Smith (or Britney Spears or Paris Hilton or Kevin Federline or whatever sorry SOB has pissed off the columnists today).

There is a vulture mentality that grips each of us when a story like this hits. We love seeing the bones laid bare and picked clean. We want to know all the dirty details, regardless of who is scarred along the way. No preaching, just fact. To us, these are creatures in a circus we can gawk at and laugh over for a few days, then forget about and resume our own sad pathetic lives, rich in the knowledge that for at least a few days we could feel superior to somebody richer and more famous than ourselves.

Such is the danger with being famous for being famous. There is no cushion of love or loyalty to protect these pseudo-personalities from the inevitable fall. Celebrities who have truly accomplished something have more than money in the bank. Like family members who sometimes stumble and fall, they have built up forgiveness credits with the public that they cash in when needed, provided they don't bankrupt the system.

After the quickly assembled books are released and the Lifetime movie is made, the Anna Nicole memory will fade. There will be no blockbuster film starring Meryl Streep and no Broadway musical. No college course on her life will be taught. However, someday, perhaps a century or so from now, somebody will pull a Daily News or New York Post or Miami Herald from a newspaper archive and see the newspaper headlines about Anna Nicole from this week. They will be totally clueless and will devote hours or days of research to finding out who this apparently quite important personality was who suddenly died in a Florida hotel room.

Won't they be surprised!

More Lunacy To Walk Away From

2007-02-06T20:46:00.000-05:00

The protectors are out to keep us safe again. Why is it the more they try to protect us, the more I feel violated?

State Senator Carl Kruger of Brooklyn wants to make it illegal to cross a street in the state of New York while listening to an iPod (or similar mp3 device), talking on a cellphone or using a Blackberry. It seems he believes iPod distractions are dangerous and responsible for pedestrian accidents in his district. So, his solution to individual personal stupidity is a stupid statewide law.

I don't see any rush to ban the practice of putting on eyeliner with one hand while holding a cup of coffee in the other and still driving down the Thruway at 70 miles per hour. Nor is anybody cracking down on bike riders in the city who endanger themselves, pedestrians and drivers by weaving in and out of traffic, ignoring stop lights, and riding against traffic on boulevards or one way streets.

The idea that police officers are going to start ticketing walkers who don't take earpieces out at cross-streets is only slightly less moronic than the idea that people would actually pay attention to such a ridiculous ordinance. If people are so stupid they can't walk and listen to music at the same time, odds are they don't know how to program an iPod in the first place.

Yes, some people can get distracted and lose focus. But they don't need an iPod to do that. People daydream behind the wheel, lose their balance on subway platforms or lose focus on a stairway. We've already got new laws on the books telling us what we can and can't eat in restaurants. Now they want laws telling us how we have to conduct ourselves on the way there? Are we not to be permitted the luxury of actually being responsible for our own well being?

The last time I needed somebody to watch me cross the street, I was 7 years old. I don't need Senator Kruger or the police of any New York municipality to start holding my hand again. If I can't think clearly enough to listen to my XM and look both ways before crossing 48th Street, or to at least wait for the walk signal, then I probably deserve to get hit by a Gray Line bus or a Honda from New Jersey.

Maybe the good Senator would consider a ban on incense sales on street corners instead. Talk about something that will drive you into the street!

Left, Right, Sideways

2007-02-03T06:39:00.000-05:00

Let's see if I can make this make any sense.

I'm at a crossroads in my life and trying to anticipate what comes next. Like any stop at a crossroads, that means looking at where one has been and where one is going. While I generally dislike looking back, I can't deny I've learned some simple but important lessons over the years, and unfortunately I have learned them all the hard way. But they still all seem to apply.

1. Always go with your gut. Never over-think things. Generally your first reaction or decision is the right one.
2. Knowing stuff is important, but it is sometimes more important to know what you don't know. Knowing what you don't know means having the wisdom of caution and to ask questions. Both can keep you out of serious trouble.
3. People are not interchangeable. They are not commodities. They are not hammers. Understanding each person as an individual and as being unique means seeing the big picture. It takes longer to do and takes an enormous amount of patience at the start. But as time goes on, like any good investment, the dividends will prove the time and energy investment worthy.
4. The worst decision is no decision.
5. Be bold enough to risk making mistakes and be brave enough to admit it when you do. Mistakes come with bold risks and bold moves. If you've never made a mistake, then you've never aspired to much of anything at all.

They're fairly simple principles, and yet I am amazed at how radical they seem to some people. They often get me in trouble, especially with authority figures.

So now, as I said, I'm right at that junction where the Turnpike meets the Parkway. One wrong move and you get slammed by a commuter bus doing 70.

I'd give anything for an E-Z Pass.

More More More

2007-01-28T05:21:00.000-05:00

I have an addictive personality.

Before the rumors start running rampant, that does not mean I am addicted to anything illegal, destructive or perverse. At least not at the present time. It does, however, mean I walk a very fine line between being in control and out of control.

Addiction runs in my family. My father was an alcoholic... and a very violent one at that. His father was an alcoholic as well. And, since medical science has shown it can be passed through generations as easily as eye color or male pattern baldness, I deal with it head on. With the exception of very rare, very special family occassions or those involving close friends, I do not drink. Although I do enjoy the taste of a cold Stoli and tonic, basically I don't miss it.

Nor have I ever done drugs. No cocaine, ecstasy, meth, qualudes, or other so-called party drugs. I did smoke pot twice when I was in college. It didn't do much for me and I saw no reason to go back for a third time. I make no judgements about others who do use drugs. I just know the problems they could present for me.

I got a preview of just that kind of threat 12 years ago. I was living in Texas and had major surgery. In the three days following surgery they gave me either Morphine or Valium or both. I was having the time of my life. I had never felt like that before. Despite the stitches and the tubes, I was livin' large. The only problem was the effect only lasted about 90 minutes, and I got the shots every two hours... so that last 30 minutes was hell on earth. I craved those shots and then I flew like a bird.

I was truly very sad when they told me they were taking me off the drugs after three days. And as my head cleared, I realized more than ever just how vulnerable I was... and still am.

By and large I've managed to avoid a taste for alcohol or drugs so they haven't become players in my life. As a matter of fact, they've been as rare as boyfriends. The problem with having an addictive personality is that there are other threats and other temptations out there... all that appear harmless or benign to the rest of the world, but are disasters lying in wait for people like me.

So... what's the point, because there must be some point, otherwise I wouldn't be writing about it. I don't know if there is one. I guess I'm just aware of the fact that control can sometimes be more an illusion than a reality. Sometimes it is just incredibly exhausting, trying to teeter on the very sharp edge between living life and screwing it up.

Excuse Me For Living

2007-01-27T16:39:00.000-05:00

On behalf of all the unregistered peons of the world, I would like to thank the owners and proprietors of the planet and all the property thereon for allowing the rest of us to walk your precious streets and breathe your sacred air.

You know the people I'm talking about. The people who live in a special cloud, oblivious to all around them, functioning as though everyone else must find a detour.

For instance, there are the Sidewalk Standers... the group of six or eight who decide they must have their intense discussion of where to have dinner, what movie to see or who the Washington Monument is named after, in the middle of a narrow sidewalk instead of taking it off to the side or to the curb. It is the responsibility of the rest of the world to step around them or stop and wait for them to come to a consensus because, after all, they ARE the most important people on the block.

There are the Escalator Toppers. These people are a real joy. Let's step off the escalator and then just stop to either get our bearings, search our purse or wipe Junior's nose. Let's ignore the fact that other people are on the escalator behind us and will start to fall over each other. They are not relevant.

Similar in scope are the Elevator Blockers. It is far more important to push onto the elevator when it stops than to allow those already on to exit gracefully. Woe to those who had the audacity to actually be on the elevator in the first place.

Incredibly special are Subway Mother Superiors. These are the very regal people who get on the subway pushing a stroller the size of a Subaru. Once through the door, they simply stop, not only blocking any behind them from getting in, but guaranteeing people already on board in that area of the car will be unable to get out through that door. They assume the role of owner of the train, absolutely convinced that the $2 fare they paid give them imminent domain over one third of whatever car they are in.

Another transit favorite is the Bus Betty. This is the rider who has been waiting at the stop for 15 minutes. Only after she steps on board does she open her purse and start rummaging through it in search of her fare card. Everyone else can wait behind her. Everyone on board can just sit there as long as it takes. It didn't matter that she had all the time in the world to find her card before the bus got there. Her routine is more important than anyone else's convenience.

Parents who own the sidewalks set a fine example for their children as Curb Hogs. It is great to see adults with young children standing in the middle of a sloped curb cut, blocking the path of the old man or old lady with the walker, forcing them to either negotiate a high curb or wait in the street until the happy family moves across the intersection. Children must never be taught what that curb cut is actually meant for.

I also enjoy the Munch-Alongs. These are the people who have been standing in line at the fast fooderie behind six other people, but wait until they get to the counter to decide or discuss what they're having... now with six MORE people lined up behind them waiting. "I think I'll have the Quarter Pounder. No wait, the Double Cheeseburger. Make it a Value Meal. No, I think I really want McNuggets." Good God. It isn't like the Golden Arches has changed in 20 years. Since when did a McDonald's menu become an SAT test?

So, in conclusion, we lowly mortals humbly apologize to the rest of you for being so needy that we would actually expect some common sense and common courtesy from others who occupy the same planet and community as we do. We shall attempt to learn the error of our ways, and to avoid interefering with your personal quest of Supreme Assholedom.

Coffee, Tea Or A Pain In The Ass?

2007-01-24T20:53:00.000-05:00

Who knew? An airline that actually has balls!
But still, not enough brains!

AirTran actually threw a family off one of its airplanes in Florida because the three year old daughter was throwing a temper tantrum prior to takeoff. It seems the parents couldn't keep her quiet long enough to buckle her in, so with the flight already running 15 minutes late, the cabin crew off-loaded them all. The airline refunded their money... but then gave them additional round-trip tickets as well to compensate them for their inconvenience.

First of all, HOORAY FOR AIRTRAN. That's probably the first and only time anybody has actually uttered that sentence. But as someone who has spent more than enough time sitting in front of miserable kids kicking my seat, behind kids who cried or pouted from LaGuardia to Los Angeles or sat across the aisle from kids who spent hours on end running up and down the aisles while their parents got sloshed on $5 Budweisers, I applaud any airline that tosses them out on the tarmac. I have said over and over that airplanes should have child and non-child sections, just like they used to have smoking and non-smoking sections. The day someone comes up with a successful business model for a no toddler airline is the day somebody strikes gold.

I don't dislike children. Nor do I dislike smokers, farters or fire-eaters. However, not all are appropriate for what is essentially a flying hallway with chairs. And, if smokers are expected to control their nicotine cravings and farters are expected to control their bowels, then it isn't too much to ask that Joe and Mildred Sexmixer control their offspring. Why should 112 people held captive on board a 737 have to be subjected to the bad behavior of one three year old who had too much sugar or too little sleep, or both?

And no... I don't advocate banning all children. Most times kids have a good time on planes with only an occasional outburst. The holy terrors I think we all want to avoid are the ones that are perpetually out of control... the pint sized versions of Veruca from Willy Wonka.

The only thing I think AirTran did wrong was give this Massachusetts mom and dad free tickets over and above their full refund. What compensation did they offer the passengers who wound up getting to their destination 15-30 minutes late? The family said they are so angry they'll never fly AirTran again. I can think of at least 112 customers and six or eight flight crew who hope to take that promise to the bank.

Air travel stopped being fun about a decade ago. Today it's about as exciting as a subway ride to Queens. But at least on the subway, when someone gets in your car with a screaming child or a stroller the size of a Volkswagen, you can change seats, or even change cars. No such luck at 30,000 feet. So even though airlines are subjecting us to the indignities of crowded terminals, cramped seats, bad service, lousy schedules and high fares, there should be some respect for our battered eardrums and shattered patience. Just because the airline is too cheap to show a movie on my flight doesn't mean I need to be subjected to a real life family drama across the aisle. I'll get plenty of screaming kids and screaming parents when I get to my brother's house. I don't need 6-10 hours of it enroute.

Pod People

2007-01-21T12:25:00.000-05:00

I don’t know if Shirley MacLaine is right and if there are future lives after this one... but if there are, I know what I want to be when I come back.

An iPod.

Strange but true. And perhaps manufactured objects aren’t on the table for reincarnation, but the allure is there.

I was in the Apple store yesterday. As far as the eye could see, men and women, young and old, tenderly caressing all things Apple. It was a retailer’s version of live action porn. But few things there or anywhere else rate the love, adoration and commitment of the iPod in all its variations.

People can’t be separated from their iPods. They buy them wonderful dress up outfits, keep them clean and shiny and constantly feed them new content. They take them with them everywhere. Work, vacation, the gym, the car wash, school, funerals, job interviews, shopping… it doesn’t much matter. It goes everywhere with them. The commitment to take their iPods seems more important than taking their spouses or children. Of course, the iPods are far less demanding and far more accommodating. After all, at least you can stop an iPod from constantly repeating the same old song.

I want that kind of love and commitment.

Scan the personal profiles from MySpace, AOL, Tickle, Match or whatever, and you’ll find questions asking the three, four or five things people can’t live without. Invariably, their iPod is going to be on the list. More than a boyfriend, girlfriend, spouse, child, pet, Honda, toaster or rubber blow up doll, people want their iPod more than just about anything else.

How can anything compete with that?

Don’t get me wrong. I joined in the orgy, plunking down $400 for a new iPod and case to buy myself a little love. My new sleek video model replaces an older first generation version that just kind of died before Christmas. Yes, I could live without the iPod and yes there are other devices in my fleet of electronics that could take its place. But nothing is quite as universal as iPod intoxication. And now that it has video as well, I can actually be mesmerized by staring at the screen instead of watching the real world go by.

So in my next life, I want to be an iPod. I want my wheel spun and clicked lovingly. I want to be stared at for hours on end, listened to without question, never left behind, ignored, overlooked or taken for granted. In my next life I want to be an iPod... to be the last thing someone touches at night and the first they touch in the morning. I want to the object for which they buy accessories, bling and endless amounts of goodies to fill me.

I want to be an iPod so that someone will absolutely unspool if they discover I haven’t been properly cradled at night or they’ve neglected to plug me in. I mean, who doesn’t like the idea of a priority plugging?

Idol Shame

2007-01-19T05:11:00.000-05:00

Everyone, it seems, has something to say about the new season of American Idol and its nasty new episodes.
The View

I should start by saying, until this week, I had never watched American Idol. Really. I never had any interest in the show, even though it had become a national obsession. But Wednesday night there was absolutely nothing on television, and I just couldn't take watching another rerun of Cash In The Attic on BBCAmerica. So, I decided to finally watch American Idol so I could at least participate in the Thursday morning reviews.

Like most everyone else who watched this crapfest, I was horrified. This wasn't a program showcasing new American talent. This was a show devoted almost entirely to the humiliation of young men and women who should know better but don't... people who have never been told they can't really sing but have been listened to for years out of politeness because nobody wanted to hurt their feelings... people who sing on Sunday morning in church simply because nobody else will. These are people who might have limited talent but still have dreams and souls and feelings. And some of them, as weak as they might be, still have more talent than Paris Hilton. They just haven't done an Internet sex tape.

American Idol has indeed JUMPED THE SHARK.

But I'm not going to lay the blame for the tasteless agony all at the feet of Simon and the producers. It really is because of the insatiable appetite we all have for misery and agony. See "Dirty Laundry"

There is no end to the number of things that concern me about this show and the fact that it was an overwhelming monster in the ratings. But I'll focus on one area other critics might have bypassed... and that's the fact that millions of parents sat down to watch this with their children and had the opporunity to laugh and hoot at the freak show, spurred on by Paula and Simon. They will learn that it is OK to laugh at people, humiliate them and call them names. At some point later in life, they might even decide it is OK to use the word faggot at the Golden Globes. Different headline, same theory... cultivating hate by cultivating intolerance and turning people who are different or don't fit into our individual mold into outcasts or castoffs.

I can't say American Idol lost me, because they never had me to begin with. I only hope there is sufficient anger and outrage elsewhere in America that other people who might have given this program their time in the past will now give it nothing more than a cold shoulder.

While I doubt American Idol will wind up on the scrap heap next week or next month, I think it is possible people might finally begin seeing it for what it really is: a forum for people so shallow and and with so little self confidence and worth in their own lives, their only joy can be found in the destruction of others.

Simon and Paula need some humanity lessons from Tim Gunn.

Don't Walk The Line... Jump It!

2007-01-16T12:59:00.000-05:00

There might be a thin line between love and hate, but it isn't nearly as important or relevant in everyday life as the even thinner line between sane and everything else.

The sanest person I know is my friend Connie in South Florida. I worked with Connie for many years in Miami. She is now a college professor and sharing her experience, and hopefully her common sense and humor with a new generation of young people.

But thinking of Connie got me thinking about that thin line. While Connie might be the sanest person I know, even she will tell you that sanity is a subjective and often questionable commodity. I think there is Connie, and then there is everybody else... each finding their own place along the scale or in the great realm of crazy... from mildly offbeat to completely certifiable.

Perhaps we spend too much time searching for sanity and reason, and trying to make people and circumstances conform to some storybook idea of normalcy. Why do we believe that normal is that 1960’s version of network television sanity, when normal might be far closer to Jack Nicholson and Nurse Ratched?

There is nothing wrong with being a little off kilter, or, as they used to call it in my hometown, “a half bubble shy of plumb”. Colorful people give us something and someone to talk about over dinner, cocktails or during road trips. If we didn’t know crazy friends, crazy co-workers and crazy relatives, we’d be reduced to talking about Tony Danza and Dr. Phil all the time. And trust me, you don’t want to do that.

It’s time to embrace insanity. Cuddle up to craziness and hug a looney. If that looney is yourself, so much the better. Life is full of stress, demands and pressure around every corner and curve. The struggle to be constantly in control needs to be less of a priority and more of an option.

Think of sanity as expensive, rare cologne. Just a touch shows high class and exquisite taste. Too much just stinks.

You Are... Who?

2007-01-14T20:46:00.000-05:00

I had a conversation with a friend and co-worker tonight about a situation at work, that wound up branching out, as these things always do, in a dozen different directions. But the point I was left with was the one about making a mark. We were talking about a colleague who had recently resigned and the mark she had made and the legacy she was leaving. We agreed, despite whatever problems people might have had with her (and there were many), she was a smart woman who left a legacy behind her and a mark that would be remembered.

Which got me thinking... what's my mark? What is my legacy?

I always wanted to write the great American novel or the next great American Broadway smash hit. Hasn't happened. Isn't likely to.

I always harbored a secret desire to be Presidential Press Secretary. I'm not smart enough, Republican enough or straight enough. Not gonna happen.

No children, so no legacy there.

Not a captain of industry. Not an inventor, scientist, artist, actor, defender, criminal, psychopath, rock star or Paris Hilton's sex tape co-star. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero, zip, bupkus.

So, I'm at a loss about my mark and my legacy. I suppose in the grand scheme of things leaving one isn't absolutely necessary. History is full of people who just passed through... paying taxes and retail and quietly departing when the time came. There's nothing wrong with vanilla. It is, after all, America's favorite ice cream flavor (according to CNN & Money Magazine). But few people stand in lines around the corner for vanilla, or tell their old classmates about it at their high school reunions.

Spare me the maudlin family love and impact goop. That's like saying your new car came equipped with a radio. It's not unappreciated, but it certainly isn't profound either.

For the vast majority of us, I suppose just getting through day after day, week after week, making ends meet and not losing our minds is as close to a legacy as we'll get. Great civilizations and great republics are not built on the backs of rock stars and football stars and hotel trust fund heiresses. They are built on the foundations of millions of pyramid builders who haul the boulders up hill in the sand every day. The fact that we were here doing what we did will mean a few hundred million will get to do it all over again a couple generations from now.

I guess I can live with that, even if my name won't be on a building, monument or statue. Although there is one sidewalk behind a house in Baltimore where it still might be written in the cement.

Gimme Dirty Laundry

2007-01-10T11:20:00.000-05:00

I really don’t care about Donald Trump or Rosie O’Donnell. Together, separately or as a couple… I really don’t care.

Trump is a moderately successful businessman who loves being the center of all attention. In my opinion, he has joined the ranks of Paris Hilton and Fabio, as people who are famous simply for being famous. And annoying.

Rosie is a moderately funny comic who parlayed her schtick into an enormously successful television franchise, then walked away from it. Now she needs to rein herself in before she becomes even more of a parody of herself.

That said, I realize that their very public sniping makes great headlines. I think it speaks volumes about us and them.

I think there is this enormous fascination with Rosie and Donald screaming at each other, because people love seeing other people unhappy or miserable or in pain. Someone once told me that people don’t go to automobile races to see accidents, but if there were no accidents no one would go. I absolutely believe that.

I think people revel in unhappiness. In business, when Company A has a better quarter than Company B, the executives at Company A gleefully sing about how miserable the folks across town must be.

When the baseball Doodads beat the Hoohahs, fans and teammates are thrilled to have trounced them. There is not nearly as much joy in their own victory as there is in someone else’s failure.

I think I have written before that I believe that the universe is a balance. In order for some people to be happy, other people must be unhappy. People can’t seem to find joy in their own happiness or success unless it is at the expense of somebody else. It isn’t enough that Joe got the promotion. It’s that he beat out Jack. It isn’t enough that Sadie got married. It’s that her husband is a better catch than Dorothy’s.

There seems to excitement in excrement. People devour gossip magazines, gossip columns and gossip websites looking for any evidence of wrong-doing, screwing-up or screwing around. I’m no different than anyone else. I check out Perez Hilton, TMZ and many of the others. But at some point I think the taste for blood should start to fade. My worry is that it doesn’t.

I’m really dating myself when I quote “Casey At The Bat”, and the last line which goes: “But there is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey has struck out.” If the famous Ernest Thayer poem were written today, the last line might go: “But all of Mudville had orgasms – mighty Casey has struck out.”

Five Words

2007-01-07T20:15:00.000-05:00

(removed for editing. will be re-posted)

Waiting For The 104

2007-01-06T21:44:00.000-05:00

I have become one of "those" people. An earbud person. I am now one of those people who can't walk down the street without a set of earplugs jammed into my ears... usually connected to a portable XM satellite radio receiver, although occasionally connected to an IPod. The audio is always cranked up to mind numbing, drowning out the sounds of the city as I take long walks through the streets from one side of town to another.

I have found it best to block out the sounds of the city, since the sounds have become more and more inane. The horns and sirens I could handle. It's the people that drive me crazy.

The tourists first of all. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad they're here spending their money. But they all sound the same. Starstruck honeymooners from Tennessee wondering if they can get in to see Saturday Night Live (they won't); clueless families from Ohio looking for the Jekyll & Hyde Restaurant (5000 world class restaurants in the city and they want to go to a theme joint where the plastic menu tastes better than the food); confused school groups from Nebraska staring at the Chrysler Building and thinking it's the Empire State Building; know-it-alls from Oregon chatting about what a pain in the ass security precautions are since 9/11 (yeah. my heart bleeds for you.)

The locals... The mothers screaming at their kids as they drag them on shopping trips they don't want any part of; the bridge and tunnel people from Jersey who hit the city sidewalks once a week for cheap Broadway tickets and complain about everything they see, from the high price of parking, to the Naked Cowboy in Times Square to the cabs they can't get because the matinees have just let out and nobody can get a cab (hint: next time go to Paramus); the nannies too busy talking on their cell phones to pay attention to the screaming kids (just like the real mommies); and the assorted cell phone junkies who have to wear a Bluetooth headset everywhere they go and never stop talking on it. (I swear there really isn't anyone on the phone. The headset is just a cover to allow them to talk to themselves without the stigma of being so obviously certifiably insane.)

I do take the earbuds out when I go in a store though, since I actually might have to communicate with someone in there. But again, there are times I would rather not. Take today. I stopped in the supermarket on the way home. Walking by the seafood counter, I saw a woman arguing with the clerk over the raw shrimp. At $11.99 a pound, she was bothered by the fact there was ice on them, and wanted to know how much the ice weighed that stuck to the shrimp she was buying. I did a double take. On the scale was $20 worth of shrimp, and probably about 8 cents worth of ice. But she's there arguing about it. That's kind of like buying a $60,000 Lexus, then arguing about gas going from $2.55 to 2.57 a gallon. I wanted to stop and make a suggestion. I wanted to tell the clerk to weigh out her shrimp, then take it and put it out in today's 70 degree sun for about three or four hours. Then re-weigh it without the now dried up ice, and the woman would be happy. He'd be happy too, since in the process the raw shrimp would turn rancid, she'd get good and sick and hopefully would never bother him again. However I thought better and continued on.

Of course, wearing earphones in the store would also deprive me of one of my greater pleasures... The stupid checkout question. At least once a week, when I am standing with half a dozen other people waiting to go through one of the self-serve checkouts, someone will come up to me, seeing the people waiting, the cash registers and the bagging in progress and say to me "Is this the line?" I get to respond, with just the right combination of sarcasm and fatigue "No. We're waiting for the 104 bus. I hope you have exact change." The dirty look I expect. What amazes me is that they will turn around and ask somebody else the exact same question.

Here's today's Daily Motion discovery. It's called CUT THE CRAP.

New Year, Old Thoughts

2006-12-31T12:53:00.000-05:00

First of all, I don't believe in New Year Resolutions. They're promises that are made to be broken. And for the record, that comment has nothing to do with anything I am writing about today.

I said a few days ago that I have been sick all week. That's given me an enormous amount of time to ponder the past, the present and the future. That includes two people who have had profound effects on my life... one whose name I can't remember... and another who I will never forget.

I feel bad that I can't remember the name of the guy who took me to my very first gay bar nearly 30 years ago, or even how I met him. I think he might have been a friend of a friend from college. I was living in Miami at the time. I think I had just come out, and was kind of trying to get my bearings. He offered to take me out on a Saturday night. When he picked me up, I remember he didn't like what I was wearing, but didn't offer much guidance. In retrospect, it didn't really matter.

The first place we went was The Copa in Fort Lauderdale. I was mermerized. The place was enormous. The music was captivating and unlike anything I had experienced. The place was crowded with wonderfully happy, excited, carefree gay men. I had never seen so many gay men at once, and instantly felt that this environment, this energy and this acceptance was what I had been searching for my whole life. I don't know that I've ever had another awakening moment quite like that one. We had an incredible time. I couldn't imagine anything or anyplace could be better, until we left there and we went to another club a short distance away. That one was Backstreet. If Heaven existed, this was it. As great as The Copa was, for me, Backstreet was all that multiplied. The music, the dancing, the lights, the atmosphere and the joy of life were exhilarating.

After that night, I became a Backstreet regular. I went at least three or four times a week. I'm not much of a drinker, so it wasn't the bar that drew me there. It was the music, the lights, the party atmosphere, and the feeling of being with hundreds of other people just like me, who only wanted to be who we were, and enjoy life.

Backstreet closed many years ago. But The Copa, amazingly, is still there. If I ever get back to Florida, I'm going to drop by.

The same guy (I wish I could remember his name) also introduced me to Miami's gay pride parade. In fact, I believe I was at Miami's very first gay pride parade. He was in it, riding in a car sponsored by a business or group I can't remember. The entire parade stretched about three or four blocks of Biscayne Boulevard near Bayside Park. It was in the far right lane on a Saturday afternoon. They didn't even close the street for it. I think there were about 100 of us on the sidewalk watching it. It wasn't a show stopper, but it was a first, and I was there because of him. Now I can't even remember his name.

We never became close, fast friends, and I don't think we did much more than go out to the bars one night and to a tiny parade on a weekend, and I never saw him again. But he had a big effect on my life. I doubt he ever knew it, and I don't think I ever realized it until now.

But even before him, there was Brad. I knew Brad from junior high and high school. We spent six years in school together, sitting near each other in many of the same classes. That was because our last names were very close to each other and of course everybody had to sit in alphabetical order. The funny thing is, we hated each other in school. We had nothing to do with each other. Part of that was because we were in different groups. He was part of the pseudo sport/ psuedo thug/ psuedo stud guys. I was the fat geek who sang in the school choir and hung out with other kids who didn't really belong anywhere.

Then, a funny thing happened about 18 months after graduation. I was a volunteer in a big local community organization, and actually one of the officers and board members. One day I looked up, and there was Brad, on his first day as a volunteer, and I was doing his orientation. I was shocked. Gone was the hell raising brat I had endured for six years of school. Here was a tall, senstitive, very caring (and very handsome) young man, who seriously wanted to do something good and important for the town. We bonded instantly and became the best of friends. Over the weeks and months, we discovered we had far more similarities than differences. We both had alcoholic, abusive fathers... mine was dead... he was still living with his. Neither of us had a clear direction for the future. We both felt we were searching, but we didn't know for what. And then there was the big one. We never said the word to each other, but we both knew what else we had in common. And, as time went on, I found myself falling in love with Brad.

Eventually, I realized my future would not be found in a small town of 5000 people that was little more than an exit off an interstate with a McDonald's, a Best Western and an Exxon station. So I sold my mother's house that I had inherited, and announced I was moving to Miami to finish college and see what life held for me. I wanted more than anything to ask Brad to come with me. I ached to have him with me. But I wasn't out yet. I didn't know when I would be ready to come out, and I didn't know if I could make this huge change in my life with somebody else to think about as well. I was at a point where I really needed to think only about me, and couldn't find space for someone else in what I was about to do.

So, on a warm mid-September day I left there, got in my Plymouth and started the 1200 mile trip to Florida. I told Brad I wanted him to come see me as soon as I was settled. I wanted him to come see Florida.

We talked on the phone a few times. By December, I knew a couple of things. I knew my adjustment would be OK. I knew I wanted to come out, and I wanted it to be sooner than later. I knew I wanted someone in my life, and I knew I wanted it to be Brad. I had already made plans to go back to my hometown for Christmas, and I decided while I was there, I would ask him to move to Florida to be with me. I couldn't wait to see him.

The day I got back, I dropped my bags at the family friends' where I would be staying, and tried to call Brad's house. There was no answer, so I drove over to the office of the volunteer group. After happy hellos all around, I asked when Brad would be in, because I wanted to see him. Silence and strange glances all around the room, then finally the question... "Don't you know?". Huh? "Brad is dead. He died a few weeks ago. He was in a terrible automobile accident. His car was speeding and hit a telephone pole... the one right in front of his house"... on the town's main drag. I was stunned. I was even more stunned when I called friends I knew at the state police and found out there were no drugs or alcohol in his system and no skidmarks on the roadway. The suggestion was undeniable.

I was devastated. I was lost. I suddenly understood so much. And I've never forgotten him. I also don't think I've ever gotten over him. I loved him a lot. I never told him how much. I wasn't there when he was going through his own crisis. Whenever I read about young gay people committing suicide because they don't know how to deal with the realizations of their own lives, I think of Brad.

He never knew how he touched my life 30 years ago, and how he still touches it today. I think about him every day.

I miss him.

There are actually others... but if you've already made it this far, you've made it through a lot.
Thanks for letting me share.

A Place Worth Visiting

2006-12-29T19:41:00.000-05:00

Check out www.dailymotion.com . But make sure you have nothing else to do. You will lose all track of time, and return again and again.

Here's something I just found there. It is from the Dutch equivalent of a Nickelodeon channel. I believe the show title translates to something like "Children For Children". The name of the song is "TWO FATHERS". It has English captions.

Just A Video

2006-12-28T23:05:00.000-05:00

I'll actually post something later on.
But for now, this is just fun.

PJ DeBOY from ShortBus on coming out.

The Only Thing They Get Right Is Getting It Wrong

2006-12-27T20:13:00.000-05:00

I'm quickly becoming one of those old farts who wants as little to do with giving and receiving Christmas presents as possible.

I spend a lot of time each year tracking down unique gifts for people on my list, and giving a great deal of thought to what is right for each person. Will they enjoy it and use it? Will it evoke happy memories of the day and will it be something they'll still enjoy months from now? Or, if its a short term consumable, will the memory be a good one that will endure for a while?

I don't rush into Macy's and buy the first sweater I see on sale for random person J on my list. I browse stores, catalogs and the Internet. I remember conversations during the year for gift ideas that I know will be appreciated.

All that is probably the extreme end of the gifting scale. But that at least balances my relatives who manage to stay far at the other end of the gifting scale. And this year, I've had enough of it. Next year I'm telling them not to buy me anything for Christmas, period. If any packages arrive at my address, I'll send them back unopened. I swear to God.

Let me be clear about something. I know it isn't the gift, it's the thought that counts. The problem is, these people aren't thinking. Or the only thing they're thinking about is what can be the most ridiculous and insulting way to waste their money this time. Or maybe they're out for a good laugh of their own. Its just that no one else gets the joke. Whatever the answer is, and I'm sure it lies in one of those choices, the spirit of Christmas and the spirit behind the gift is lost.

Let me relay some recent Christmas gift debacles from my family. I'll save this year's surprise for the end.

Let me set this up by saying I live in a moderate sized two bedroom apartment in a very large high rise in a very large city. My brother, his kids and their spouses have all been to my apartment. It isn't fancy. It's comfortable. The bedrooms are decent sized. The living room is adequate and the kitchen is the size of a postage stamp. They've all seen it.

In my two bedroom apartment, I have five telephone extensions. You are never more than four steps from a phone. A little excessive, yes... but that's the way I am. They're all nice small, compact phones that take up a minimum of space on a table, desk or wall. So, I have no idea why a few years ago both my brother and his oldest son got the ridiculous idea of each giving me outlandish "theme" telephones. My brother gave me a Coca-Cola phone that I'm sure would fit in well on top of a basement bar in a paneled basement of a split level home in suburban Wichita. But not in my apartment. The very same Christmas, my nephew gave me a Harley Davidson telephone that is as big as a microwave oven. I have never been interested in Harley Davidson anything in my whole life. I wouldn't even date a guy who rides a Harley. (Except perhaps Brad Pitt.) This one would be best for some guy in coveralls in Bluefield, West Virginia. But again, not my apartment. They both thought these were the greatest gifts ever, and roared with laughter when they realized they both had given me stupid theme telephones. They're both still shoved in closets. I considered selling them on E-Bay until I went and checked and found there are already dozens for sale on E-Bay that other poor victims can't unload.

Another year, my brother lamented he didn't know what to get me. I told him to get me a toaster. He scoffed at the idea. I told him, quite honestly, that my toaster had just died and I needed a new one. Nothing fancy. No big deal toaster oven. Just a plain black, four slice, wide slot toaster from Sears for $20. He though that was ridiculous and wouldn't listen. I told him it was the one thing I actually needed, wanted and could use, and I would just have to wind up buying one after Christmas anyway if I didn't get it for Christmas. He ignored me, as I knew he would, and went out and bought me a George Foreman grill, identical to the one sitting on my kitchen counter, that he had to have seen during one of his visits. Ironically, his oldest son bought me the identical grill as well, and I opened both at my brother's house on Christmas morning. After much debate, it was decided that my brother would return one grill and exchange it for a toaster, which I still needed and really wanted to begin with. My nephew decided that meant he didn't need to exhange his, since I could bring it home with me and now have two instead of one. How handy that has been, since I live alone and basically use the one I already had about four times a year as it is.

Two years ago nephew and his wife gave me an over-priced Cuisinart copy of the George Foreman grill concept. Now I have three that I never use. My brother gave me a dresser caddy to hold cufflinks that I don't own and other man jewelry and accessories I never wear. That's in a closet too, right next to the home suit steamer he gave me. That's another gift I never really needed since I send my stuff out to the dry cleaner that is on the first floor of my building.

Then older nephew's wife went into the candle making bnusiness, so last year they sent me the ugliest wall accessory i have ever seen that is supposed to hold a series of votive candles. Black wrought iron. Again, anybody who has ever been to my apartment knows it isn't something I would ever put up. After it sat around in the box for eight months, I put it out with the other metal recyclables.

This year was a true treat, however. My younger nephew decided that his uncle should take up some nice perverted hobbies. So, he bought me a pair of binoculars and a Sharper Image long distance listening device... both with the expressed purpose of looking into and listening in on apartments in the building across the street. He even said so on the card. Now, I have lived in this building for seven years. He and his whole family have been here many times. They have joked about this, but I have made it crystal clear that this is not a joking matter with me. I can't stand peeping toms, and I find no humor in it at all. But, this is now how they think I should amuse myself.

I'm furious. I haven't decided yet how I will handle this, but it will somehow be addressed. Whatever I do, it promises not to be pretty. I should also add that I haven't received anything from my brother. I'm hoping against hope that I won't.

I do know I'm not at all easy to buy for. I don't need or want anything in particular. I have everything I need. I have said annually and repeatedly that they should simply take their money and make a donation to The Point Foundation instead of buying something useless. It is a great organization in which I firmly believe. The money would go to much better use there. Or, if they don't want to give it to them, make a donation to the charity of their choice (except the Catholic Church) or buy something for Toys For Tots. They ignore me.

I do want to tell you about the best gift I got this Christmas. It was, of all things, an Etch-A-Sketch. Remember those? My friend David from work gave it to me. A few weeks ago, a few of us were having a casual conversation about childhood toys and everyone talked about their Etch-A-Sketches. I had never had one as a kid, and I loved them. I always played with the ones my friends had. David remembered that converssation, and went and bought me an Etch-A-Sketch. See... that's what it's all about. He remembered something that he knew was important to me or that I would enjoy, and then turned it into something nice and memorable. Truly, the best gift of the season.

I don't know what I'm going to do about my own family. Maybe I could box up all the useless stuff from them in my closets, and build a great big pile on my brother's front yard. Then, I could use the torch in the creme brulee set his oldest son gave me this year, and set it all on fire.

Oh My God!

2006-12-27T08:46:00.000-05:00

Has it really been two months since I last posted here? I thought it had only been a few weeks. Good God, I'm losing it.

The problem with not writing in so long is that you forget a lot of good stuff. Or, even worse, it gets all bottled up inside and then it doesn't make any sense at all. All sorts of mindless ramblings, getting pissed at ridiculous things or people, or just general crap... it all seems to get lost in the passing weeks.

I have managed to make it through Christmas, and I'm proud to say this was one of the worst in recorded memory. Being alone wasn't the problem. It was that I've been sick for the last week. Last Wednesday, the worst cold in my life slammed into me... and now, a full week later I'm still only marginally better. I haven't been out of my apartment in four days. That's the longest in my adult life I have been cooped up in my home. Ten years ago I had major surgery, and the day after I got home from the hospital I was driving to the drug store and supermarket. But this had me flat on my back.

So, I've spent the last 100 hours or so watching really bad made for TV holiday dreck. Lifetime holiday movies, Oxygen holiday movies, Family Channel holiday movies, 90210 holiday episode reruns. Are these things supposed to put you in the holiday spirit, put you in a coma, or just drive you to suicide? If I wanted to fill my holiday with family tragedy, all I'd have to do is call up the joyous memories of my father drunk on Christmas Day (insert year of your choice here) and images of him kicking in the television, smashing the Christmas tree or ripping the door off the hinges. Hmmm... maybe I could have a future in writing Lifetime holiday movies.

I did manage to make the turkey I had wisely purchased a week earlier and had defrosted in the refrigerator. I wasn't at all hungry, but at least I now have a week of leftovers to pick at.

I especially enjoy the commercials that run throughout the lousy tearjerker movies. Ads for every herbal weight loss formula concocted by quacks across America. Then there are the work at home ads, featuring the woman who doesn't see a future in being a cashier at the dry cleaner. And of course the Bedazzler, the space bags and the penis enlargement pills.

So, three hours spent watching Jaclyn Smith as the cursed woman in a holiday tragedy consists of about 75 minutes of actual bad film. The remainder is a bombardment of images and messages for viewers (perceived to be women) being told they are enormoulsy fat and uneducated. The only way to better themselves is to buy mass quantities of fat reduction pills that they conceivably can wash down with chocolate milkshakes. They need tacky rhinestones for their size 16 jeans that they bought from the discount rack at the dollar store, which they can wear while they send more money to online schools that won't help them do anything more than wish for a better job. At the same time they can buy erection pills for their husbands who need them for obvious reasons, and when all of it fails, they can shove all of the crap in an oversized plastic bag, vacuum out the air and slide it under the bed to be forgotten about.

Now THAT'S what I call Christmas!

The Worst Decision Is Often No Decision

2006-10-26T14:59:00.000-04:00

"Welcome aboard. Please feel free to sit in the middle of the bus."

A co-worker was congratulating all the gays on the floor yesterday when news broke that New Jersey's Supreme Court had ruled discrimination against same sex couples was illegal. For those who haven't read about it, the court stopped short of saying same-sex couples could marry. It did tell the state it has 180 days to enact legislation that legalizes either same-sex marriages or civil unions.

I told him it was no great accomplishment. He seemed stunned that I was not elated about a court decision that gave gays and lesbians 50% of what we are legally entitled to. I told him it was like being told we could now sit in the middle of the bus (a line he used in his own blog).

True, the New Jersey court went further than many others, and certainly showed some understanding of fundamental civil rights in saying discrimination is illegal. But by not immediately allowing full marriage rights, the court wussed out.

Unfortunately, I don't think anyone honestly believes the New Jersey state legislature is going to approve same sex marriage for the Garden State. Even though it is the right thing to do, and even though treating 10% of the population as second class citizens is clearly the wrong thing to do, doing the right thing is rarely the popular decision in government these days.

For years I have been saying it is time to start withholding our taxes. If they want to cut our rights by 50% or 60% or 80%, then I want them to cut my taxes by the same percentage. I don't see anyone trying to relieve my tax burden, even though they want to deny me basic civil rights. They don't want gays to marry. Some don't want gays to adopt. Others want to be able to keep gays out of housing or jobs. Yet nobody has suggested we shouldn't continue to pay school taxes, even when we have no children in school. Nobody is willing to give us a break on taxes that fund domestic violence programs, after school programs, unemployment programs or urban renewal, even though conservatives want gays deemed unworthy and ineligible.

This is the definition of hypocrisy.

None of this is new. None of it is really news. None of it is likely to change until change is forced in the streets of America.

It is coming. Not today... not tomorrow... probably not next week, next month or next year. But within a generation it will happen. An ugly confrontation is coming. With it will be change. It will have taken the better part of a century and in the end America will be better for it.

But the question remains... Why, in a nation founded on the principles of freedom and respect for human rights, are human repression and hatred the way we are forced to lead our lives?

Amendment Amendments

2006-10-24T14:17:00.000-04:00

Its starting to look like the nation that wrote the book on freedom of the press is going to have to start re-reading some of its own history.

Reporters Sans Frontieres, which translates to Reporters Without Borders, has released its survey of 168 nations and their records on journalistic freedom. Freedom of the press is an important measure of a nation's true liberty and ability to function as an honest and open democracy.

The United States, which ranked #17 on the list of 168 when the list first began in 2002, has now slipped to #53. The USA is tied in that position with Botswana, Croatia and Tonga. It almost seems difficult to believe that the United States is no better at journalistic freedom than Croatia, which used to be part of Yugoslavia.

Perhaps even more interesting are the nations higher on the list of press freedoms than the USA. The list includes Bosnia-Herzegovina, Germany, Czech Republic, Canada, Sweden, Namibia, Panama, Taiwan, Israel and dozens of others. Finland, by the way, is number 1.

And because you're curious, below the USA are Uruguay, Kuwait, Brazil, Haiti, Thailand, Egypt. Libya, Cuba and more than 100 more. North Korea is dead last.

So what does it all mean? It means the United States, which should be leading the way in press and journalism freedoms, finds itself in the middle of the pack. Graded on a curve, our place on the list might merit no better than a C+. I doubt the founding fathers believed any of our essential freedoms warranted a C+.

The change of place is blamed on security measures and concessions made necessary by the way in Iraq and terror concerns. But at what point do our fears force us to stop becoming who WE are, and instead become who THEY are? Are we so afraid of losing our way of life that we are willing to give up and give away our way of life? Where is the line that we should not cross?

We are giving up and giving away our essential rights and freedoms without a whimper. We are handing over to our government what the terrorists could not steal from our grasp... Our ability to live freely as Americans, celebrating the rights and freedoms granted in our constitution.

Never in previous generations have there been so many efforts to DENY rights in the form of constitutional amendments as there have been in the past few years. It seems bureaucrats have lost sight of the fact that our Constitution and Bill of Rights were drafted to give us rights and freedoms, not to deny them. Yet that is a constant drumbeat in Washington.

A hundred years from now, will American school children open history books and read of a United States that is foreign to them... one that represents theories and philosophies will have long been given up and forgotten? Will they even be allowed to read of the basic freedoms that they no longer enjoy? And will the future hold another revolution... when people from these shores will set sail for a distant land to cast off the shackles of repression, in search of the freedoms that we once enjoyed?

I'm glad I won't be here to see the answer.

http://www.rsf.org/

Plus One

2006-10-17T19:08:00.000-04:00

Well, the United States reached 300,000,000 today, at least in theory. At 7:46AM Eastern Time, the thoretical 300 millionth American was born somewhere in the USA. At least two hospitals in New York City claim the newest American was born in their delivery rooms. Not coincidentally, one of those hospitals also has a habit of claiming the first baby each new year. So, while we might never know for sure where exactly the baby was born, or who he or she is, the Census Bureau tells us with some dgree of scientific certainty that the 300 millionth taxpayer joined us today.

One of the two infants claimed by New York hospitals was born to parents from Mexico who speak only Spanish. Shortly after they appeared on television today, I received an e-mail from a colleague elsewhere in the mega-corporation I work for, suggesting that the "founding fathers would spin in their graves if they knew the father" of one of the two babies being showcased did not speak English.

I replied, as diplomatically as I could, that I did not agree. In fact, I believed they would be proud that this many years later, people from around the world were still coming to America in search of the American dream, since it was indeed a dream of a better life that drew the first settlers to this nation's shores. I said they would probably spin in their graves knowing there were so many in Washington trying so hard to build fences on the borders to keep people out.

Which brings me to this. When exactly did we become so elitist that we decided the American dream had been atained by enough people, and it was time to turn off the dream tap? How do we know we aren't keeping out the next Albert Einstein, Henry Kissinger, Werner Von Braun, Ingrid Bergman or Dora Press?

Dora Press? Who is Dora Press? She was an immigrant who married Edwark Salk. Together they had a son named Jonas who discovered the polio vaccine.

I can't say I agree with the post 9/11 paranoia over protecting borders and using that as an excuse to try to keep people out of the USA. I understand the attempt, and I also understand it reeks of exactly what it is... paranoid provincial racism. I also know what people are doing when they say they have to protect our borders to protect American jobs. What they're really saying is that Americans are reaching a point where they can't compete with people willing to do better or harder work. It means the whole idea of work ethic is lost on people who view a birthright as a job right.

It isn't.

The United States is still a relatively young nation. At 230 years of age, we're just a teenager compared to some of the other nations of the world. And just like teenagers, we think we know better than everyone and have the answers to everything. Unfortunately, there's nobody around to take away the keys to the car when we screw up. Instead, we just keep screwing up even more and more.

Insert current international debacle of choice here.

So, trying to close the borders or shut down access to the American dream isn't much different than turning your back on the girl with the braces in high school English or the guy with the acne in history. It makes you trendy today and the cool kids invite you to lunch. But a year from now you'll still be a shallow ass. Ten years from now you'll look across the room at them at the reunion and wonder when they got so hot and wonder why they won't give you the time of day. And 25 years from now when you're old, fat and useless and they're rich, powerful and famous, you'll kick yourself for not being and staying their best friend for life. You'll try to cozy up and schmooze. And you might even get a little lip service. But in the end, you'll get kicked to the curb as the loser you are.

That's the risk we run as a nation and a society. Once we start kicking others to the curb, we've landed ourselves in the gutter. And the sewer is just one more step away.

Smello Pages

2006-10-15T19:01:00.000-04:00

I subscribe to about half a dozen magazines. I'm not sure why. Only one of them is really worth the time or money. The others seemed like good ideas in the beginning. I think I've kept them so long because, as a reasonably intelligent, educated gay man working in the real world, I'm expected to subscribe to and read certain magazines. Too bad so many of them are crap.

I could actually deal with the crappy magazines, the repetitive news articles, the unimaginative features and the unrealistic fashion spreads. But I can't stand the insufferable perfume and cologne inserts that show up in at least one magazine weekly. Some magazines even show up with multiple smelly inserts. Have any of the geniuses who devise these campaigns ever actually smelled any of these cologne samples once they arrive? They all smell the same... like rotted fish shoved between the pages of glossy paper that sit in canvas bags for a few days.

Lovely.

I have not yet met anyone who actually either appreciates these foul smelling inserts, or has actually ever made a cologne decision based on them. They are grossl. In fact, even people I don't know do what I do... stand in the mail room of the apatment building, rip them out of the magazines as soon as they are taken from the mailboxes and toss them in the garbage can. Nobody actually takes them to their apartments for fear of smelling up the electric bill, the credit card bill or even the junk mail Chinese restaurant menu.

These stupid things are even worse than the nozzle ninjas who populate the department store aisles, spritzing people with cologne samples as they go by. At least one can dodge them, or fix them with a warning "Don't even think it" glare, to keep them at bay. These putrid magazine inserts attack without warning, attacking the senses in an unwanted assault, hidden within the copy of that weekly that you've overpaid dearly for.

The next magazine that comes due for renewal, I will let lapse. Then, when the phone call comes wondering why I haven't renewed, I will happily tell them... "Because your magazine stinks."

Literally.

Babble of Tower

2006-10-09T13:42:00.000-04:00

I never like to see anyone lose their job. I think each of us, no matter how successful we might be in our jobs, is also secretly insecure about whether we'll still be here a week or a year from now. So, I hate to hear about anyone being out of work.

That said, it was with some mixed emotion that I learned that Tower Records is going to close. Tower is an icon in big city record and music sales. They've been around forever. Tower closing seems like the Colonel closing up shop or Ronald turning off the arches. Why mixed emotions?

Because I hate every S.O.B. that works in those stores.

The ones that aren't rude and nasty are just plain disconnected and too busy doing their nails to assist anybody. The customer is never right in that store, and nothing can ever be found.

Tower will blame many of its problems on competition from the Internet. They will say cut rate online competitors and music downloads spelled the end of their traditional brick and mortar music business.

Certainly point and click shopping made life difficult for Tower, and certainly the ability to buy one favorite song for 99 cents instead of an entire mediocre album for $16 didn't help. But as a consumer, I can tell you Tower made several critical errors. The biggest is they failed to understand and appreciate the challenge, then failed to find a way to fight it. They did absolutely nothing to keep shoppers coming into their stores. They found nothing to offer that would make it worth my while to spend my time and money there. And I don't even have to go out of my way. I walk past a huge Tower Records store every day of the week. The problem for them is, I keep walking. I'm an Amazon and ITunes customer.

On top of that, they continued to employ an arrogant, rude, often clueless staff, that had no interest in satisfying customers or encouraging any type of loyalty.

Think this is an isolated case of consumers abandoning an uncaring retailer? Don't be so sure. Have you been in a supermarket lately that has installed self-checkouts? The stores might look at it as a way of speeding up check-outs without hiring additional people. I see it as getting through the checkout much faster, without dealing with a slow moving cashier who wipes her runny nose on her store apron in front of me, then handles my lettuce. True story. I can get through the self checkout in the same speedy time I can use the ATM at the bank or the self shipping machine at the post office.

Shoppers can't get enough of them. They're faster. They're more convenient, and they aren't rude. They even say "thank you", which is more than any cashier in the local supermarket has said in a very long time.

So... the bottom line is this... The rest of the world be warned. As shoppers, we are even more tired of crappy attitudes than we are of crappy merchandise and high prices. We've been paying that price for a long time. Now, it's someone else's turn.

Taste of the Town

2006-10-08T19:57:00.001-04:00

I met my friend Patrick for lunch today. He's in town visiting from Florida. So I decided we should head over to one of the leading gay neighborhoods for lunch and guy watching. I'm never quite sure why I subject myself to that since I have committed the three biggest cardinal sins of the gay world: I passed 29; I weigh more than an underwear model; and I don't wear designer clothes. Therefore, I have little reason to live and certainly don't warrant a second look.

However, Patrick is cute, even if he is also over 29, and I thought he'd enjoy a look at some of the local scenery.

The restaurant was busy, but amazingly, not mobbed, even though it was 1:00, and certainly the prime brunch period. We were surrounded by an assortment of downtown actors, out-of-work actors, former actors and actor wanna-bes. Throw in some part-time actor waiters and you've got a menu of lunchtime men who can deliver a line on stage and in the bedroom, and not make it the least bit believable in either place.

Perhaps I'm being a bit too cynical. These are, after all, my people, although I have trouble understanding how and why we tend to be such a dangerous group.

Scanning the restaurant and then walking back uptown, I couldn't quite see how this neighborhood, and others like it around the nation, posed the risk to the American way of life that the American conservative movement and the Wal-Mart Corporation seem to suggest. These are men, and a few women, eating egg white omelets and salads, shopping for birthday cards and skim milk and paying far too much in local, state and federal income taxes to be treated the way we are treated.

Every now and then I get loud and obnoxious about the fact that Washington keeps wanting to cut my rights but doesn't seem interested in cutting my taxes to the same degree. That might not have much to do with going to lunch with Patrick, but I am somehow reminded that we are expected to pick up our portion of the check, even when people want to deny us a place at the table.

I'm going to start tipping Republicans a lot less.

Even More Bad Taste

2006-10-05T15:58:00.000-04:00

If you read my previous pissing and moaning (below), then you know I think New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg has lost his mind in pushing legislation to outlaw the use of trans-fats in New York City restaurants. He needs to get his nose out of everyone's chicken buckets.

Now, New Jersey is kicking this nonsense around too. This is one weed of a Garden State idea that needs to be pulled right now. Again, it isn't because health doesn't matter. But personal freedoms and freedom of choice DO matter. And no government should be taking personal decision making ability away from its citizens. This whole thing is so ridiculous. Again, not to downplay the relative dangers of trans-fats. But Hell... They've known for decades that cigarettes are absolute dangers, yet they are still sold freely everywhere, including drug stores. There are no laws in consideration anywhere to outlaw their sale. But suddenly they want to outlaw trans-fats. Again, why should we, the buying public, be denied the freedom of choice?

New Jersey has much more important and pressing matters to deal with. The budget deficit there is staggering. Taxes are beyond unreasonable. New Jersey Transit is driving riders to distraction. New Jersey traffic is insane and drivers aren't much better. Development is out of control. Crime has turned some communities into modern day versions of the wild west. But trans-fats are now going to be the issue du jour.

This isn't much better than the idiots who ignore war fatalities, the homeless, the hungry, the uninsured and the teetering future of Social Security to spend incredible amounts of energy gay bashing 10% of America.

I hope they all step in a puddle of polyunsaturated Wesson oil and break their collective necks... then find out their insurance doesn't cover them.

Fat Head Ideas

2006-10-03T11:51:00.000-04:00

I don't always agree with New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg, but I think this time the man has lost his mind.

He wants to ban trans-fat usage in New York City restaurants. And, of course, the Center for Science in the Public Interest (the food police) love the idea. These are the same people who hate movie theater popcorn and Chinese food.

Now, to be clear, I do endorse and support the Mayor's ban on smoking in New York restaurants and bars. But that restaurant smoking is something that affects more than the smoker. It subjects others to second hand smoke. So, I like the ban. To be honest, I'd also like to see them ban over-strong colognes, garlic in office lunches and perfume ads in magazines.

The problem with the trans-fat ban is that it removes freedom of choice and decisions from the only people affected by those decisions. When did Mayor Bloomberg decide that none million New Yorkers and tens of millions of visitors could not make decisions for themselves, on their own?

Where will the city draw the line between what we can't eat and what we will be forced to eat?

To be honest, my diet is so restricted, I haven't had a trans-fat in longer than I can remember. But if I make the decision to go to a lousy restaurant and have a disgusting fatty meal fried in a ton of crappy oil, that's my decision. If Mayor Mike isn't chewing it, shitting it or paying for it, he should mind his own business. I don't tell him how to order his caviar. I don't want him deciding how to cook my onion rings.

I keep thinking, in most New York apartments, the kitchen is only a few steps from the bedroom. How long until the city starts messing with us there?

The Great SeeSaw Of Life

2006-09-18T15:08:00.000-04:00

I believe the universe is a balance. Picture it as a huge seesaw. I believe in order for some people to be happy, other people must be unhappy.

Not everyone agrees with my philosophy. Interestingly enough, the perpetually happy people think I'm full of shit. The saner, more realistic people I know tend to nod knowingly when I spout my theory. Even if if you don't agree, consider some examples.

When Wilma marries her Fred, they are both fabulously happy. Of course for them to be so happy, then some George and Judy, who might have loved the couple from afar, are left there. Afar. Fast forward five or ten years when Fred and Wilma are generally miserable, and you're likely to find that George and Judy are now conversely happy that it wasn't them.

On a more extreme scale, in order for that woman with no teeth from West Virginia to win the Mega Millions lottery, you and I ha won't win. And, when the airline upgrades someone else to first class because steerage is full, it means you still get stuck sitting between two people in that row across from the lavatory at the rear of the plane. In order for them to be happy, others must be unhappy.

I fully believe in my theory and support it. What I haven't been able to figure out yet is why some people feel they can only be happy by intentionally making other people miserable.

We've probably all worked for autocrats at one time or another who go out of their way to say or do ridiculously unpleasant things, just to prove something. They get some sick pleasure out of screwing up someone else's existence.

While I have learned to accept being at the mercy of the universe and taking my lumps on the great seesaw of life, I haven't quite learned how best to cope with the assholes who try to jump up and down on the end of the board and throw others off.

I need to find a way to make sure they get splinters in their butts.

Catching Up

2006-09-10T12:24:00.002-04:00

I am way behind.

I haven't come back here in about a month. I've been swamped and haven't been focusing. God knows there's been no shortage of subject matter...
- Katie Couric
- Paris Hilton
- 9/11
- NFL
- Visiting Relatives

All in good time.

Since today is September 10th, the trendy thing to do would be to be philosophical about September 11th. Plenty are already doing that with entire libraries being written about the subject this week. What I'd like to know is how many of these people with radical opinions or poetic ideas about where we are and where we're going actually spent any time in New York or around Ground Zero in the days, weeks or months following September 11th.

Did they see the hundreds of posters all over the city of the missing men and women? Did they walk the streets and see the smoke still rising from the ruins? Did they pass the dust covered storefronts and see the shop displays buried in debris, frozen in time? Did they hear the silence in the streets and the stores? Did they smell the smoke that hung over the city? Or did they watch it all from a safe distance and now make a lot of noise because they think they "get it"?

I know the answer, and so do you.

I'm over it. It isn't the politically correct thing to say, but I'm absolutely over it. I want to move on. So do millions of others. When will we be allowed to?

This has nothing to do with Acerbic Wit. It just is what it is today. And tomorrow will be worse.

When "D" Students Get Jobs

2006-08-08T20:37:00.000-04:00

People amaze me. But not always for the right reasons.

I work for a large, multi-national corporation whose name, logo and corporate signature are instantly recognizeable. The people I work with are highly paid (if not over-paid), highly trained professionals who are at the top of their field. Many are nationally known for their work and accomplishments. I, on the other hand, actually work for a living.

And yet these well educated, well read and well bred professionals are some of the dumbest, most incosiderate people I have ever met. Not stupid. Not ignorant. Not naive. Just dumb. Because there's a difference.

By dumb, I mean no common sense. No sense of reality. No consideration of others or awareness of what's happening around them or the impact on others. Brilliant is the person who can tell you when, where, why, how and how much it rains. Dumb is the person who knows all that but still doesn't know enough to come in out of it.

There's the high level manager who delays the 9AM meeting four days a week because at 8:58 he has to leave the building to walk to the deli a block away to get a breakfast sandwich, then spends an hour dissecting it in front of a room full of people.

There's the person in Administration who refuses to order light bulbs for desk lamps until you can prove to her you have exhausted all other ways of solving the lighting problem without them.

And then there's the person who sent eight overnight packages to his son at UCLA on the company DHL account, then put in a voucher for reimbursement of $2 for coffee he bought a job candidate at the coffee cart on the corner.

Certainly we all have our workplace horror stories to tell, but what we sometimes overlook is that the knucklehead who still hasn't learned how to operate his telephone voicemail after 15 years could very well wind up becoming the senior executive responsible for everything from environmental safety to global oil prices. For instance. whoever the genius is at BP that decided not to inspect the pipeline for the last 14 years, was once a peon driving some other office worker crazy. At some point someone should have recognized the danger in this guy.

BP, according to wire reports, had not performed the required physical inspections over the years. Instead, they relied on ultrasound analysis which told them things were OK. They were wrong. In some spots, more than a foot of sludge had built up in the pipeline. In others, the corrosion was so bad, the pipeline was actually leaking barrels of oil. A BP expert is quoted as saying "My assumption is that we didn't do it in the right spots".

Well DUH.

The nation has now lost 8% of its oil supply due to this lunacy. Higher prices are sure to follow. There will be much governmental hand wringing and very little in the way of penalties. Why should anyone be surprised? Corporate America continues to reward stupidity and malfeasance. The guy in the small car on the freeway takes it in the shorts and nothing ever changes.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a capitalist just like everyone else. I just can't figure out why I have to push and struggle and fight eleven hours a day, 49 weeks a year to keep my job and make a living, and other complete fools muck up the environment, wreak havoc on the economy and threaten the financial future of millions of people, then are rewarded with bonuses, stock options and transportation on private corporate jets.

I'd like to see those jets take them to some nice federal prisons and leave them there. Not likely though. They're too busy having barbecue down on the ranch in Crawford.

E-Smarmony

2006-08-07T13:32:00.000-04:00

Am I the only one who thinks those e-Harmony ads are annoying as Hell?

All those smiling suburban mall people make my skin crawl. And that guy who runs it with that automatronic grin looks as smarmy as can be. Every time it comes on, I reach for the remote and change to something else. Anything else.

Let's be clear. I have nothing against online dating or match-making. I know plenty of people who have done it with great success. I think it is a great idea when done correctly and safely. But these ads just make me ill. And what the hell are the 32 or 47 or 658 dimensions of compatibility they match you against? Are you a psycho? Do you drown small animals? Pay your bills? Have indiscriminate sex? Subscribe to 53 different porn sites? Go to church more than twice a year?

As a perpetually single person, I admire people who are able to find true love even after passing beyond their fabulous years and into the beer gut years. Even though I am essentially jaded and unfeeling, I believe one can find true love at any age, and hopefully when you're not already married to someone else. And while e-Harmony is not the only company capitalizing on people's hopes for happiness, their come-ons bother me the most. I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's the promise of absolute happiness that they seem to want to convey. Maybe it's that grinning pitchman and his nebulous dimensions of compatibility.

Come to think of it, that's a dating term I bet you never even heard of. Maybe you should try it in a bar sometime. Just walk up to that someone you'd like to know better and say "Hey... want to see my dimensions of compatibility?" Or how about "Wow, those are some knock-out dimensions of compatibility you've got."

Let me know how it goes.

It Begins

2006-08-06T15:29:00.000-04:00

I've been mulling over how to begin this project. What would be an appropriate topic about which to vent. God knows there are plenty to choose from. But a look back at the last two weeks gave me some inspiration.

What in the world goes through the minds of corporate mega-executives? Or is anything going through those minds at all? I'm speaking about New York's Con Ed. The company had a melt down in Queens that quickly became a public relations nightmare. Unfortunately that was followed immediately by a week-long heat wave that came close to crippling the city's power grid.

Now, I won't harp on why a city like New York should have such a fragile power system to begin with. That's a topic for another time. What I can't fathom is why Con Ed is so incredibly bad at dealing with the public and the media. The arrogance and the disregard for the public's interest, concern and anger is astounding. They stonewall media inquiries, answer direct questions with double-talk, schedule briefings for times that are so late in the day it is virtually impossible to get the information out there, and do everything in their power to keep the media from distributing the information in a timely fashion at all.

Con Ed, like the New York Metropolitan Transportation Authority, has not figured out that a little touch of honest, candor and accessibility will go a long way to diffuse public rancor and media criticism.

Con Ed also hasn't figured out that sending the CEO out in a chauffer driven car with his own personal photographer to a work scene to pose with crews achieves nothing good. He needed to go out in the community without the photographer. He needed to go in casual clothes, riding in a Con Ed work van, make multiple stops, talk to workers, customers and business peoples. He needed to personally hand out claim forms and face the music. Hiding in the Union Square headdquarters achieves nothing.

Unfortunately, this will likely not be the last time New York will see this type of problem. Even more unfortunately, the next time this happens, Con Ed will handle it exactly the same way. They need serious public relations advice and they need to listen to it.

But they won't.