One week before I was to leave for England, in the wee small hours of May 2nd, 2012, I was minding my own business on the northbound train platform of Princeton Junction, NJ, awaiting my usual morning express to New York City, where I work.
My phone went "BOING!" a curious sound I'd not heard before. I looked and the amber light at the top was flashing. I activated the screen and saw a tiny bear on the tool bar at the top. I pulled the bar down and found that somone had sent me a message on a bear dating site called "Growlr" which I'd joined just the day before. My icon photo was of me in a tux, taken last February.
My gentleman caller was a beautiful redhead from far across the seas. "You're hot" he said. Or words to that effect. I messaged him back that I thought he was, too. Seconds later he responded. I was amazed at the speed with which our messages were flying back and forth across the Atlantic.
Finally, he asked, "What do you like?" I typed, "I like saucy, ginger-haired lads" and hit send.
"WELL, I'M A SAUCY, GINGER-HAIRED LAD" he wrote back.
He lives outside London. I was going to London the following week. One thing led to another and suddenly we were meeting "for coffee" on the Southbank of the Thames the Friday after I arrived.
He is, indeed, ginger. And he certainly is saucy. And we couldn't take our eyes off each other.
I like relationships were both parties think that THEY are the lucky one!
He'd neglected to mention a few things. Like his boyfriend. I was crestfallen. Never mind that there was no way this would work, aside from that. Several hours later, as we were about to part, he dragged me into a deserted side-street and laid the most passionate lip-lock on me that I've had in over 30 years.
It would be romantic and easy to say that "at that moment...." but that would be a lie.
The fact is, when he sent me that message on the train platform at a God-awful hour of the morning, the first week of May, 2012... something re-awoke in me. Something long dead. Something I didn't want. Something I was better off without. Something that had caused me pain in the past.
That something was desire. A desire to be desired and to desire someone else. A desire to be loved and to love someone else. A desire to live.
Our ardor has, of necessity cooled. I'm not a homewrecker. But another gentleman cropped up on the same website expressing interest in me.
He even lives near me.
We've had two dates so far and so far, so good.
He's not ginger-haired. But he is very sweet. And interesting. And he likes me. Oh, and together we're 12 and 1/2 feet tall and weigh about 500 pounds. He's my size. At long last, an answer to one of my lifelong prayers -- someone I can look right in the eyes before we kiss.
And he loves to kiss.
Thank you, God.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
Rule, Brittania!
Late last year I received an email from some English friends announcing that it had been "too long" since I'd been over there (18 years) and that it was time for me to come back for a visit. I mulled it over for a few weeks and decided to go. Long story short, I'm leaving on May 9th for a two week visit.
The last time I was there was October of 1993 and I was a wreck. I was drinking heavily and I hated every minute of every day of my miserable life. I'd started that trip in Paris, then on to Barcelona and, finally, to London where I stayed with my friend Tom who'd been my host and guide on my 3 previous trips to the UK.
Tommy was a widower. His partner, Beauchamp (pronounced "Beech-um") had died of cancer in the very early 80's. Tommy grieved Beachies passing for several years. But he never let it get him down... at least, not when I was there.
That last trip, though, was rough .... hell, tell the truth, *I* was rough on Tom. I spent the whole trip drinking and bitching about my partner back in New York. I actually thought that he (the partner) was responsible for my crappy life. *I* certainly had nothing to do with it! HAH. I was a deluded, drunken, fool.
Back to Tom. What I didn't know, and wasn't capable of knowing then, was that as time went by I had developed feelings for Tom. Beyond friendship. I was incapable of feeling anything because I was so anesthetized and wouldn't have known a genuine feeling if it had come and bitten me on the ass. Eventually that trip ended, I came back to New York, things got worse, I finally left my partner and spent the next 4 years racing towards my bottom, lost everything and moved to NJ.
Then in 1998, five years after that fateful trip to London, I got sober. In the early 00's, I got back in touch with Tom. We talked every now and then and then, about 7 or 8 years ago, he invited me to come back.
I told myself that I didn't feel secure enough in my sobriety to go. But if I'd been really honest, I was afraid to admit to Tom (and myself) that I'd been attracted to him for many years. Somehow I felt that it was a disservice to the memory of Beauchamp. Never mind that on all those other trips, Tommy was always parading out some dishy young man, or another, and announcing that he was "the flavour of the month." Tommy, you see, was a bit of a whore. Not terribly, mind you. But just a tad.
I blew off that invitation with my latest affliction... recovery. "Tommy", I said. "I'm sober!" "OH!" he drawled. "We're TEDDIBLY sober people...."
"Not that kind of sober" I said. I think I sent him a Christmas pudding from Fortnum & Mason's that year to ease the sting of my idiotic refusal.
Two years ago, right after Christmas, Tommy died. His death kicked off a year-long binge of deaths among my friends and family. Each death just compounded the loss of the one before it.
When Tom's friends emailed me with another invitation I had no choice but to accept. Not because I'm just dying to do some more sightseeing in England but because I love and miss my friend Tom.
I have every intention of crying a lot when I'm there. It's the least I can do for one of the loveliest people I've ever known in my life.
The last time I was there was October of 1993 and I was a wreck. I was drinking heavily and I hated every minute of every day of my miserable life. I'd started that trip in Paris, then on to Barcelona and, finally, to London where I stayed with my friend Tom who'd been my host and guide on my 3 previous trips to the UK.
Tommy was a widower. His partner, Beauchamp (pronounced "Beech-um") had died of cancer in the very early 80's. Tommy grieved Beachies passing for several years. But he never let it get him down... at least, not when I was there.
That last trip, though, was rough .... hell, tell the truth, *I* was rough on Tom. I spent the whole trip drinking and bitching about my partner back in New York. I actually thought that he (the partner) was responsible for my crappy life. *I* certainly had nothing to do with it! HAH. I was a deluded, drunken, fool.
Back to Tom. What I didn't know, and wasn't capable of knowing then, was that as time went by I had developed feelings for Tom. Beyond friendship. I was incapable of feeling anything because I was so anesthetized and wouldn't have known a genuine feeling if it had come and bitten me on the ass. Eventually that trip ended, I came back to New York, things got worse, I finally left my partner and spent the next 4 years racing towards my bottom, lost everything and moved to NJ.
Then in 1998, five years after that fateful trip to London, I got sober. In the early 00's, I got back in touch with Tom. We talked every now and then and then, about 7 or 8 years ago, he invited me to come back.
I told myself that I didn't feel secure enough in my sobriety to go. But if I'd been really honest, I was afraid to admit to Tom (and myself) that I'd been attracted to him for many years. Somehow I felt that it was a disservice to the memory of Beauchamp. Never mind that on all those other trips, Tommy was always parading out some dishy young man, or another, and announcing that he was "the flavour of the month." Tommy, you see, was a bit of a whore. Not terribly, mind you. But just a tad.
I blew off that invitation with my latest affliction... recovery. "Tommy", I said. "I'm sober!" "OH!" he drawled. "We're TEDDIBLY sober people...."
"Not that kind of sober" I said. I think I sent him a Christmas pudding from Fortnum & Mason's that year to ease the sting of my idiotic refusal.
Two years ago, right after Christmas, Tommy died. His death kicked off a year-long binge of deaths among my friends and family. Each death just compounded the loss of the one before it.
When Tom's friends emailed me with another invitation I had no choice but to accept. Not because I'm just dying to do some more sightseeing in England but because I love and miss my friend Tom.
I have every intention of crying a lot when I'm there. It's the least I can do for one of the loveliest people I've ever known in my life.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Ugly American
There's nothing pretty about being an American these days. Just look at our politicians. Holier-than-fucking-thous on the right, politically-correcter-than-yous on the left.
Most of us somewhere in the middle and fed up with both extremes.
I heard someone comment on tv the other day that disgruntledness is in our genes. Every one of our ancestors came here because they were pissed off at the way things were wherever they came from. And that streak of cussedness now runs in our blood.
For sure we're never happy. Puritanism is the nagging fear that someone, somewhere, is having a better time than we are. Capitalism is the nagging fear that lazy, good-for-nothing-welfare-queens are bleeding us dry.
Sprinkle liberally, you should pardon the expression, with some American Exceptionalism, our Dominionist Mandate from Heaven to spread the Pax Americana everywhere.
Finally, throw some good old fashioned "I'm the Man and what I say Goes" evangelicalism on top of it, with it's sense of entitlement to dictate fiscal and sexual policy (I own the money. I own the slaves. I own your womb. I *AM* GOD!) and what have you got?
Us.
Ugh.
Ugly.
Most of us somewhere in the middle and fed up with both extremes.
I heard someone comment on tv the other day that disgruntledness is in our genes. Every one of our ancestors came here because they were pissed off at the way things were wherever they came from. And that streak of cussedness now runs in our blood.
For sure we're never happy. Puritanism is the nagging fear that someone, somewhere, is having a better time than we are. Capitalism is the nagging fear that lazy, good-for-nothing-welfare-queens are bleeding us dry.
Sprinkle liberally, you should pardon the expression, with some American Exceptionalism, our Dominionist Mandate from Heaven to spread the Pax Americana everywhere.
Finally, throw some good old fashioned "I'm the Man and what I say Goes" evangelicalism on top of it, with it's sense of entitlement to dictate fiscal and sexual policy (I own the money. I own the slaves. I own your womb. I *AM* GOD!) and what have you got?
Us.
Ugh.
Ugly.
Monday, November 21, 2011
The Washington Clown Show
Oh, hai. I've been busy. I had foot surgery (on both feet, cause I'm a f*ckin' wimp and if I did one and it hurt too much I wouldn't have done the other -- so shut the eff up about it) and was home recuperating from it for a month and a half and couldn't be bothered.
But I'm back and some things have happened in the meantime that have really gotten my attention and knickers in a twist.
The first was Occupy Wall Street. These are a bunch of frustrated folks without a clear message. Personally, I think they should rally behind this message:
Yes, the rich are richer and poor poorer. We all know that. But the problem isn't unequal distribution of wealth. The *real* problem is unequal distribution of tax effects. The rich pay nearly next to nothing in taxes in terms of the IMPACT that tax burden has on them, as a class. Unlike the poor, who take a real body-slam, taxation-wise, compared to the rich.
We need to even out the effect of taxes on the classes so that if a poor person has to sacrifice the equivalent value of a loaf of bread to the tax man, then a rich SOB should suffer an equivalent burden, i.e., they should sacrifice the equivalent value of owning a 4-star restaurant. In Manhattan. Or Beverly Hills.
The second thing has been watching the spectacle of the Republican Circus-Clown Volkswagen as it disgorged it's content on national tv, seemingly every 3 days for the past 2 months.
If I hear the message clearly (and I think I do), it is this:
The Republican Party policy is: that we should live in an abortion and gay-free America, where everyone who earns less than $1,000,000 per year must marry and endlessly procreate for the purpose of providing illiterate, underpaid workers and cannon fodder who will die, in the harness or in the trenches, before the age of 50, thus saving the rich from having to keep them in their old age.
Have I misread that?
But I'm back and some things have happened in the meantime that have really gotten my attention and knickers in a twist.
The first was Occupy Wall Street. These are a bunch of frustrated folks without a clear message. Personally, I think they should rally behind this message:
Yes, the rich are richer and poor poorer. We all know that. But the problem isn't unequal distribution of wealth. The *real* problem is unequal distribution of tax effects. The rich pay nearly next to nothing in taxes in terms of the IMPACT that tax burden has on them, as a class. Unlike the poor, who take a real body-slam, taxation-wise, compared to the rich.
We need to even out the effect of taxes on the classes so that if a poor person has to sacrifice the equivalent value of a loaf of bread to the tax man, then a rich SOB should suffer an equivalent burden, i.e., they should sacrifice the equivalent value of owning a 4-star restaurant. In Manhattan. Or Beverly Hills.
The second thing has been watching the spectacle of the Republican Circus-Clown Volkswagen as it disgorged it's content on national tv, seemingly every 3 days for the past 2 months.
If I hear the message clearly (and I think I do), it is this:
The Republican Party policy is: that we should live in an abortion and gay-free America, where everyone who earns less than $1,000,000 per year must marry and endlessly procreate for the purpose of providing illiterate, underpaid workers and cannon fodder who will die, in the harness or in the trenches, before the age of 50, thus saving the rich from having to keep them in their old age.
Have I misread that?
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
The "Real" America
I grew up in the 50's, believing in the American Dream of working hard and getting some stuff to show for it and eventually retiring on a pension and social security.
Well, so much for that.
Now I believe:
That both political wings of the same old party that we vote for have edged further and further to the right since I was a child.
That the Republican Party is against education, unless it's to educate their own offspring to handle the wealth that they will inherit. That the Republican Party is, in fact, against educating the middle and lower classes, in order that they will have legions of underpaid, mindless drones to work in their factories and on their farms.
That this is the Republican Dream: to have all the money and to share it with no one. To keep what's theirs and what's yours too.
This is not the American Dream. Republicans do not believe in the same America that I believe in. Republicans do not believe in the America that my dad and his brother and countless other dads and brothers fought for in countless wars.
The current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are not being fought to fight the forces of evil afoot in the world. They are being fought to further enrich the already Republican rich.
This is America now. America is a place where a handful of people have it all. And that same handful people has every intention to keep it all. And they will do whatever needs to be done in order for that to happen.
I can't believe that it's taken me 63 years to wake up and to see America for what it really is, a semi-noble experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong.
I am no longer buying the bullshit. Are you still buying the bullshit?
Well, so much for that.
Now I believe:
That both political wings of the same old party that we vote for have edged further and further to the right since I was a child.
That the Republican Party is against education, unless it's to educate their own offspring to handle the wealth that they will inherit. That the Republican Party is, in fact, against educating the middle and lower classes, in order that they will have legions of underpaid, mindless drones to work in their factories and on their farms.
That this is the Republican Dream: to have all the money and to share it with no one. To keep what's theirs and what's yours too.
This is not the American Dream. Republicans do not believe in the same America that I believe in. Republicans do not believe in the America that my dad and his brother and countless other dads and brothers fought for in countless wars.
The current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are not being fought to fight the forces of evil afoot in the world. They are being fought to further enrich the already Republican rich.
This is America now. America is a place where a handful of people have it all. And that same handful people has every intention to keep it all. And they will do whatever needs to be done in order for that to happen.
I can't believe that it's taken me 63 years to wake up and to see America for what it really is, a semi-noble experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong.
I am no longer buying the bullshit. Are you still buying the bullshit?
Monday, August 01, 2011
My Despair
I pissed away a small fortune back in the 90's. That's on me for being a drunk and believing a writer. But one thing I've done for my entire life, notwithstanding a few sabbaticals along the way, was to work. Since the week I graduated from high school, I've worked. Hard.
I grew up believing, because this what I was told, that in America, if you're a team player, and you work, you will get a protective covering when you retire, in the form of Social Security and Medicare.
I turned 62 last year and started "doing the math". The Social Security Administration started sending me yearly statements showing me "how much" I'd get if I retired at 62, 66 1/2 and 70 1/2. Needless to say, the big payday for me would come when I was 70. So I started mentally adjusting myself to the probability that I'd work until then.
But now, who knows what Congress has just given away to the far right meatheads who still fantasize that rich people create jobs. And what will be my new "plan B" according to them? Work until I'm 75? 80? Dead?
I'm not feeling the love from D.C. these days.
Maybe my recurring nightmare of living in a beat-up, 1966, all aluminum Airstream trailer, somewhere in the high desert 80 miles east of L.A., where atomically mutated ants come visiting at night, and you have to shake the scorpions out of your boots every morning, will come true.
It may not be much, but at least it'll be mine!
Thank you, Ronald Reagan.
And thanks, Mom, for naming me after that bastard.
I grew up believing, because this what I was told, that in America, if you're a team player, and you work, you will get a protective covering when you retire, in the form of Social Security and Medicare.
I turned 62 last year and started "doing the math". The Social Security Administration started sending me yearly statements showing me "how much" I'd get if I retired at 62, 66 1/2 and 70 1/2. Needless to say, the big payday for me would come when I was 70. So I started mentally adjusting myself to the probability that I'd work until then.
But now, who knows what Congress has just given away to the far right meatheads who still fantasize that rich people create jobs. And what will be my new "plan B" according to them? Work until I'm 75? 80? Dead?
I'm not feeling the love from D.C. these days.
Maybe my recurring nightmare of living in a beat-up, 1966, all aluminum Airstream trailer, somewhere in the high desert 80 miles east of L.A., where atomically mutated ants come visiting at night, and you have to shake the scorpions out of your boots every morning, will come true.
It may not be much, but at least it'll be mine!
Thank you, Ronald Reagan.
And thanks, Mom, for naming me after that bastard.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Clueless
How can you tell if someone is expressing interest in you? No, seriously, I mean it. How can you tell?
Being gay and of a "certain age" means having grown up without the benefit of acquiring the usual social skills that heteronormative kids get when they start dating in high school. While they were busy doing that, I was busy hiding in my bedroom waiting to be rescued.
Now, years later and without the benefit of drugs or alcohol, I find myself trying to decipher the words and body language of somebody I like. A lot. Who is cute. And smart. And an ex-actor like me. Yesterday, for example, he asked me what I was "doing for Easter." I looked at him blankly and said, "nothing." He then proceeded to tell me that he was going to a gay-friendly church downtown and how inclusive the place was and how comfortable he felt there, etc. I nodded and thought, "well, how nice for you -- Catholicism caused me nothing but self-hatred and guilt. But by all means go and enjoy! Who am I to criticize."
I thought, later, "You big dope. He was practically THROWING an invitation your way." I think. I'm not sure. Boy, wrap up some obliqueness with some low self-esteem, and you'll wind up like me -- clueless.
If any of the regulars are out there, I'd appreciate some advice.
STAT!
Being gay and of a "certain age" means having grown up without the benefit of acquiring the usual social skills that heteronormative kids get when they start dating in high school. While they were busy doing that, I was busy hiding in my bedroom waiting to be rescued.
Now, years later and without the benefit of drugs or alcohol, I find myself trying to decipher the words and body language of somebody I like. A lot. Who is cute. And smart. And an ex-actor like me. Yesterday, for example, he asked me what I was "doing for Easter." I looked at him blankly and said, "nothing." He then proceeded to tell me that he was going to a gay-friendly church downtown and how inclusive the place was and how comfortable he felt there, etc. I nodded and thought, "well, how nice for you -- Catholicism caused me nothing but self-hatred and guilt. But by all means go and enjoy! Who am I to criticize."
I thought, later, "You big dope. He was practically THROWING an invitation your way." I think. I'm not sure. Boy, wrap up some obliqueness with some low self-esteem, and you'll wind up like me -- clueless.
If any of the regulars are out there, I'd appreciate some advice.
STAT!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Shame
That word, that FEELING, is probably the cause of more addictive behavior than just about any other word or feeling there is.
I remember my childhood filled with shame. I was ashamed about the drunkeness in my family. I was ashamed that I often had to stand in front of my drunken grandmother on the sidewalk to shield her from public view while she relieved herself... her urine stream running out to the curb between my little legs.
I was ashamed the first time I saw my 1st grade school bus driver. His name was Frank and I knew, the moment I laid eyes on him, that wanted to be alone with him. And I felt shame about that and KNEW I could never share that shameful thing with anyone else. Ever. I remember the feeling of shame that arose from desiring boys, instead of girls.
I remember the shame I felt at being a late bloomer, puberty-wise. I remember the feelings of inadequacy that I’m quite sure, now, that every boy must feel in the showers after gym class.
I remember the shame of not being able to perfectly, and intuitively, understand Algebra. Because of that, I felt inadequte, inferior, “less than.” I cut school for nearly a month because of that shame. Until I got caught. And I felt shame over that, too.
I remember the feelings of guilt and shame that I was going to be consigned to the eternal fires of hell.
Shame.
I drank over all that shame. I drank over my shameful feelings.
And yet, I had absolutely *nothing* to be ashamed of. I was absolutely perfect, just the way I was.
Religion, however, had another idea.
Which is why, today, I believe in God, but I don’t believe in religion. Not any of them. And I’m not ashamed of that.
I remember my childhood filled with shame. I was ashamed about the drunkeness in my family. I was ashamed that I often had to stand in front of my drunken grandmother on the sidewalk to shield her from public view while she relieved herself... her urine stream running out to the curb between my little legs.
I was ashamed the first time I saw my 1st grade school bus driver. His name was Frank and I knew, the moment I laid eyes on him, that wanted to be alone with him. And I felt shame about that and KNEW I could never share that shameful thing with anyone else. Ever. I remember the feeling of shame that arose from desiring boys, instead of girls.
I remember the shame I felt at being a late bloomer, puberty-wise. I remember the feelings of inadequacy that I’m quite sure, now, that every boy must feel in the showers after gym class.
I remember the shame of not being able to perfectly, and intuitively, understand Algebra. Because of that, I felt inadequte, inferior, “less than.” I cut school for nearly a month because of that shame. Until I got caught. And I felt shame over that, too.
I remember the feelings of guilt and shame that I was going to be consigned to the eternal fires of hell.
Shame.
I drank over all that shame. I drank over my shameful feelings.
And yet, I had absolutely *nothing* to be ashamed of. I was absolutely perfect, just the way I was.
Religion, however, had another idea.
Which is why, today, I believe in God, but I don’t believe in religion. Not any of them. And I’m not ashamed of that.
Friday, January 07, 2011
I Dated
I need to put it out there that I went out on a date last week. It was the first "real" date I think I've ever been on.
Growing up in the 50's and 60's didn't provide a lot of relationship-testing dating opportunities for a gay kid from the suburbs of Wilmington, Delaware. I couldn't exactly ask the captain of the football team to go to the prom with me. So I didn't go to my prom.
"Jack" is a guy I met a year or so ago at a 12-Step meeting I sometimes attend on Saturday nights over near the Willow Grove naval air station in Pennsylvania. He's fun and kooky -- and fairly new in recovery (more than a year, but less than 2). I hadn't seen him in many months when he resurfaced at the meeting about 2 months ago. He asked me if I'd be willing to help him with one of the Steps, to which I happily agreed. We never quite got it together to do the step work but he called me the week before Christmas and wondered if I'd go out to dinner and a movie with him. I didn't think anything about it, other than as an "activity" a couple of guys in recovery could do together.
But I talked about it, with my sponsor and with some friends and the feedback was all the same... that this was a "date."
As dates go, it was catastrophic. The service was terrible at the restaurant. The food practically inedible (Thai/Malay). The movie he picked, one of the "Fokker" flicks, was gawd-awful and his movie etiquette was abysmal (he yapped and commented throughout, much to the chagrin of me and everyone around us.).
But it *was* fun. And I did have a good time. And I do like him. Even if he wants to live in half a dozen cities and is converting to Judaism (whatever for? didn't he get enough guilt in his Catholic childhood?).
I went out on a date. With a guy. What next? A goodnight kiss? Cue Katy Perry!
Whodda thunk it?
Growing up in the 50's and 60's didn't provide a lot of relationship-testing dating opportunities for a gay kid from the suburbs of Wilmington, Delaware. I couldn't exactly ask the captain of the football team to go to the prom with me. So I didn't go to my prom.
"Jack" is a guy I met a year or so ago at a 12-Step meeting I sometimes attend on Saturday nights over near the Willow Grove naval air station in Pennsylvania. He's fun and kooky -- and fairly new in recovery (more than a year, but less than 2). I hadn't seen him in many months when he resurfaced at the meeting about 2 months ago. He asked me if I'd be willing to help him with one of the Steps, to which I happily agreed. We never quite got it together to do the step work but he called me the week before Christmas and wondered if I'd go out to dinner and a movie with him. I didn't think anything about it, other than as an "activity" a couple of guys in recovery could do together.
But I talked about it, with my sponsor and with some friends and the feedback was all the same... that this was a "date."
As dates go, it was catastrophic. The service was terrible at the restaurant. The food practically inedible (Thai/Malay). The movie he picked, one of the "Fokker" flicks, was gawd-awful and his movie etiquette was abysmal (he yapped and commented throughout, much to the chagrin of me and everyone around us.).
But it *was* fun. And I did have a good time. And I do like him. Even if he wants to live in half a dozen cities and is converting to Judaism (whatever for? didn't he get enough guilt in his Catholic childhood?).
I went out on a date. With a guy. What next? A goodnight kiss? Cue Katy Perry!
Whodda thunk it?
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
And goodbye, American Exceptionalism. Hello, American decline.
And if there is blame to dole out for this, let it be spread, equally, among the left and right. But it should all be concentrated on one institution, the Congress, which perpetually runs for re-election rather than running the country.
Trillions of dollars which *should* have been spent on bettering ourselves, were spent trying to shove our brand of world-view down the throats of other nations. Other trillions were spent enriching people who needed no further enriching, i.e., the already obscenely rich.
We're sliding. Fast. China and India are rising. Equally fast.
What I find really sad is that the British Empire lasted twice as long as ours will have lasted.
And if there is blame to dole out for this, let it be spread, equally, among the left and right. But it should all be concentrated on one institution, the Congress, which perpetually runs for re-election rather than running the country.
Trillions of dollars which *should* have been spent on bettering ourselves, were spent trying to shove our brand of world-view down the throats of other nations. Other trillions were spent enriching people who needed no further enriching, i.e., the already obscenely rich.
We're sliding. Fast. China and India are rising. Equally fast.
What I find really sad is that the British Empire lasted twice as long as ours will have lasted.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Fasci-nistas
Ollie and Johnnie would've been right at home in ancient Rome or in Albert Speer's world capital, "Germania", where preservation of the Party and the State superceded any "collateral damage", which includes people, that might be incurred along the way.
They both envision a perpetually armed and alert America, prepared at a moments notice to spend every dollar and expend every life to impose our will on an unwilling world. They, like the Pentagon, argue that we must always be ready to fight the last war, even as we fail, miserably, to find solutions to our current ones.
They would call this "patriotism." I, of course, would call it Fascism. Unlike them, I picture an America at peace, not perpetually at war.
They picture an America steeped in ignorance, intolerance and war-mongering. I picture an America steeped in love, compassion and forgiveness.
Okay... which of those is the “Christian” view?
Monday, November 08, 2010
Hot Marines!
“Combat,” Amos said, “is an ‘intimate’ experience without parallel in civilian life. We're talking about our young men — laying out, sleeping alongside of one another and sharing death, fear and loss of brothers," he said.
What he didn’t say, but was implied in his description of the living circumstances, was this: it is better to have no unwanted psycho-sexual nonsense “cluttering up” the battlefield between a bunch of over-sexed hotheads who should be focused solely on killing gooks and eating dead, burnt, babies, in Jesus’s name. Or something.
Amos, 63, said he was reviewing the results of a poll of military members and their families about the potential effects of lifting the "don't ask, don't tell" policy. He declined to characterize the findings. Amos said that, unlike other services, the Marine Corps requires many of its members to share rooms while in garrison. That complicates the issue, he said.
Yeah. No point in cluttering up the business of glorious, heroic, death with something disgusting and nasty such as life and love.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Unrequited (and self-centered) Love....
I met "X" in the Navy. I was 21 or 22 at the time. He was 19 or so. He was big (a bodybuilder) and typical of the sort of corn-fed, All-American, boys from the mid-West we had running around in the services in those days. It was 1969 or 1970.
I had never in my life, up until then, felt those sorts of feelings about another human being. In fact, I was pretty sure by that age that I was incapable of feeling feelings like those. I was convinced that, due to growing up in the emotionally traumatic situation I'd grown up in, I was too shut down to feel anything for anybody -- including myself.
For nearly a year I wanted to be near "X" all the time. But I knew I had to be careful. I couldn't let the Navy find out about it. I couldn't even tell "X" how I felt about him.
Of course, I was deluded. He did know how I felt about him. So did the rest of the little tribe of intellectuals we hung out with. I remember one Friday night, all of us getting bombed in my barracks room, and them staging a "fake wedding" for "X" and I.
So, yeah, he (and they) knew. One other thing was playing under the surface of all this, though. "X" hated the military and was willing to do, and say, anything to get out of it so he could go back home to west Central Illinois, to his mom and girlfriend, and have nothing more to do with the Navy. I had another goal. And that was to stick it out long enough to get honorably discharged so I could collect the GI bill and go to college.
When I saw his obituary on my computer screen last week, I realized that I still had feelings for him. Strong ones. But there was another feeling there, too. A feeling of betrayal because it dawned on me that "X" had studied me closely during our time in the service together. He made my feelings for him the grist for his eventual, dishonorable, discharge from the Navy. For the whole time I knew him, he was seeing a shrink in Washington, D.C. who was building a case for "X" to be discharged as a homosexual.
For 40 years I was emotionally invested in something that could, and would, never be. Worse, I was emotionally invested in someone who, like the people who raised me, betrayed my love by being incapable of returning it.
He didn't do this to me. I did this to me. I know that now. I have re-enacted my childhood pain by carrying torches for the most unavailable people (men) I could find. If someone actually wanted me... I'd leave skid marks trying to escape. If someone was aloof and remote... they were perfect. I could pine away on the inside... alone in my solitary splendor, rather than building a life with some nice guy who really cared about me.
How stupid am I?
Oh, and RIP "X". My heart still flutters a little when I think of you. A very little.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Defense Appropriation and DADT - 2010
Today the full Senate is to vote on the Defense Appropriation (close to 3/4 of a Trillion dollars) for the next fiscal year.
Attached to that bill is a provision repealing DADT. John McCain has sworn to vote against it. Lady Gaga is all for it (she wants a new bill, directed against homophobes in the military, called "If You Don't Like It, Go Home"). There's no telling, as yet, how Maine senator, Olympia Snowe, will vote.
But this is how I feel about the hows and whys and whine and horse-trade and politicking that have gone on for years.... DECADES... about me and about my rights (or lack thereof) simply because I am a gay American (and I got this from Bill Maher):
"I am TIRED of being the chick you're banging but are too ashamed to be seen with in public."
You (Mr. Ms. Madame Politician) will be forced to vote, up or down, on this. And all of us gay people will be watching.
Have a day, you slimy, rat-fink bastards.
Attached to that bill is a provision repealing DADT. John McCain has sworn to vote against it. Lady Gaga is all for it (she wants a new bill, directed against homophobes in the military, called "If You Don't Like It, Go Home"). There's no telling, as yet, how Maine senator, Olympia Snowe, will vote.
But this is how I feel about the hows and whys and whine and horse-trade and politicking that have gone on for years.... DECADES... about me and about my rights (or lack thereof) simply because I am a gay American (and I got this from Bill Maher):
"I am TIRED of being the chick you're banging but are too ashamed to be seen with in public."
You (Mr. Ms. Madame Politician) will be forced to vote, up or down, on this. And all of us gay people will be watching.
Have a day, you slimy, rat-fink bastards.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The Face of Evil
This is the face of evil. It is the face of unbridled privilege, self-serving in the extreme. It was born with a sense of entitlement that knew no bounds. It saw what it wanted, it took what it wanted and it gave no thought or feeling to the consequences to other peoples' feelings or lives.
It lived only to serve itself.
Take a good look at it. You are staring into the abyss.
After trashing the lives of millions, it now seeks acceptance and forgiveness from those same people. My people.
If you see it on the street, do not hesitate to cover your children's eyes and to cross to the other side.
Shun this creature. It deserves it.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Odds and Ends
This is really important. Is it just me?......
Or is Terrence Stamp in "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" a dead-ringer for our very own Queen of the Desert, Arizona Governor, Jan Brewer?
I wonder how Terrence feels about illegal immigration?
Oh, and I pulled the trigger this week on a new toy. Four years ago I got my very first cellphone. Two years ago that contract expired. Verizon's been begging me to buy something else for some time now and so, at last, I did. Since it seems like Verizon will never get an iPhone, I ordered a Motorola Droid X, instead. I'll let you all know when it comes in, so you'll envy me for being the coolest kid on the block.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Blah-gging - Death on the Rails - The White House & Fox News
For the last couple of weeks it seems that all the gay bloggers have been off terrorizing Las Vegas at NetRoots or buying new refrigerators in Chicago or baking themselves silly at the southernmost point in New Jersey (that would be me).
Aside from the Bus & Truck production of "Hate on Parade" starring Mz. Brown and Mr. Gallagher of NOM, which is packing them in by the 5's, things are pretty slow around here in the cyber-sphere.
The big excitement in my life this week (and the lives of about 60,000 other commuters in NY/NJ) was the unfortunate suicide of a 30 year old woman this past Tuesday who opted for a permanent solution to her problems by throwing herself in front of a southbound AMTRAK Acela train, which was doing 135 miles per hour at the time. That night my 1 hour commute from New York City to Princeton Junction took nearly 5 hours. But even at that, I still had a better day than that unfortunate soul had.
But it wouldn't be a good week if I didn't stumble across something that really got my knickers in a twist. And this is my knicker-twister du jour:
As you may recall, the dean of the White House Press Corps, Helen Thomas, was recently forced to resign after an outburst of anti-semitism. The WHCA is now getting ready to give away Helen's former front row seat in the Briefing Room to one of the other senior newsgathering organizations.
And here are their current choices:
1. NPR
2. Bloomberg News
3. Fox News
Needless to say I sent them an e-mail.
"It is my understanding that with the recent departure of Helen Thomas from the press corps, the WHCA is considering assigning her vacant seat to one of three organizations, Bloomberg News, Fox News or NPR.
I would like to urge you to NOT consider Fox News for this prestigious seat. I have no problem with either NPR or Bloomberg, but it is my opinion that Fox is not a serious news gathering organization but, rather, serves but one purpose, that being to generate profits for it's parent, News Corp, by callously agitating the American political right.
Please do not open yourselves to ridicule and dishonor by giving this seat to Fox.
Thank you."
Google "White House Correspondent's Association" and send them an e-mail expressing your views.
Aside from the Bus & Truck production of "Hate on Parade" starring Mz. Brown and Mr. Gallagher of NOM, which is packing them in by the 5's, things are pretty slow around here in the cyber-sphere.
The big excitement in my life this week (and the lives of about 60,000 other commuters in NY/NJ) was the unfortunate suicide of a 30 year old woman this past Tuesday who opted for a permanent solution to her problems by throwing herself in front of a southbound AMTRAK Acela train, which was doing 135 miles per hour at the time. That night my 1 hour commute from New York City to Princeton Junction took nearly 5 hours. But even at that, I still had a better day than that unfortunate soul had.
But it wouldn't be a good week if I didn't stumble across something that really got my knickers in a twist. And this is my knicker-twister du jour:
As you may recall, the dean of the White House Press Corps, Helen Thomas, was recently forced to resign after an outburst of anti-semitism. The WHCA is now getting ready to give away Helen's former front row seat in the Briefing Room to one of the other senior newsgathering organizations.
And here are their current choices:
1. NPR
2. Bloomberg News
3. Fox News
Needless to say I sent them an e-mail.
"It is my understanding that with the recent departure of Helen Thomas from the press corps, the WHCA is considering assigning her vacant seat to one of three organizations, Bloomberg News, Fox News or NPR.
I would like to urge you to NOT consider Fox News for this prestigious seat. I have no problem with either NPR or Bloomberg, but it is my opinion that Fox is not a serious news gathering organization but, rather, serves but one purpose, that being to generate profits for it's parent, News Corp, by callously agitating the American political right.
Please do not open yourselves to ridicule and dishonor by giving this seat to Fox.
Thank you."
Google "White House Correspondent's Association" and send them an e-mail expressing your views.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Mark Twain, the New York Times and American Imperialism
Apparently he also knew a thing or two about American imperialism.
He died 100 years ago this past April 22. Now comes word that a large part of his "private" autobiography, held in confidence for the hundred years following his death, will be published this fall. In it, so rumor goes, he "names names" and calls a spade a spade regarding our American propensity for foreign military adventurism. It’s said, shockingly, that he actually referred to our armed forces as "uniformed assassins." We'll all have to wait until November to get the all deets on that.
Meanwhile, though, we can content ourselves with reading recently published secret documents posted first on Wiki Leaks and then again yesterday, in great analytic detail, in the New York Times -- documents detailing the horrors and failures of our 9 year war in Afghanistan.
The United States of America has involved itself in military actions, foreign and domestic, too many times to enumerate here. But you can check it out for yourself at the web site of Zoltan Grossman, a professor at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington by clicking on his web-page, Here.
It is naive of us to believe that our foreign excursions are excusable because they bring goodness and democracy to other nations. We're not terribly interested in that, when our strategic interests are really to annoy some foreign power and to steal whatever assets we can lay our hands on... assets which will further enrich the entrenched military-industrial complex here at home.
Winston Churchill once remarked that we Americans "can be counted upon to always do the right thing ... once we've exhausted every other possibility".
It's a lovely thought, but untrue.
In fact, we only do the "right thing" once we’ve been shamed into it (we were happy to sit by while England was visciously attacked by Germany and, in fact, didn't get off our asses to really help the English until the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor). Our natural inclination is to do the wrong thing, time and time again. And by wrong I mean "that thing which will embarrassingly enrich a handful of ruthless plutocrats who have zero interest in either democracy or their fellow men."
It is those same plutocrats who, by virtue of their self-centered ruthlessness, cause wars which must then be fought and won by the flower of our youth, millions of young men and women who have no vested financial interest in the outcome of the war but who are conned into believing that it is their patriotic duty to un-do the damage done by handfuls of hateful old men and women who then sit back at home and reap the profits generated by our sons’ and daughters’ deaths overseas.
And yes, I do love my country. But we have hocked our future to the military and industry to the tune of trillions of dollars. Dollars we should’ve spent making America a paradise on earth instead of a bankrupt nation of deluded fools who haven't got a pot to piss in nor a window to throw it out.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Irresistible Allure of Homosexuality!
Let's face it. The "real" reason there's so much pushback against my (homosexual) rights is because of the deep-seated fear that once people try it (homosexuality), they'll REALLY like it (and who wouldn't) and never go back (I haven't).
Why is that, I wonder? Is it something as simple as "because a man knows what a man likes and a woman knows what a woman likes?"
Probably.
I've known straight men who, even after years of trying, still haven't got a clue how to satisfy a woman and vice versa.
But put a man into bed with another man, or a woman into bed with another woman and WHAM! Suddenly everybody knows exactly what needs to be done in order to make everybody else happy!
Look, I'm all for procreation. After all, not everybody is cut out for a life of spare cash, incessant sexual gratification, fine dining and tastefully appointed condos in New York and South Beach. Some people need the overall deshabille and slovenliness, not to mention excess tonnage brought on by years of junk-food-stuffing-in-lieu-of-sexual-satisfaction, which can only be achieved by a life dedicated to boring old man on woman lovemaking.
And it's not "all about politics" either. And, to prove my point, if you're a gay man which would you prefer:
This:
or this:
And, if you're a gay woman, this:
or this:
I rest my case.
Why is that, I wonder? Is it something as simple as "because a man knows what a man likes and a woman knows what a woman likes?"
Probably.
I've known straight men who, even after years of trying, still haven't got a clue how to satisfy a woman and vice versa.
But put a man into bed with another man, or a woman into bed with another woman and WHAM! Suddenly everybody knows exactly what needs to be done in order to make everybody else happy!
Look, I'm all for procreation. After all, not everybody is cut out for a life of spare cash, incessant sexual gratification, fine dining and tastefully appointed condos in New York and South Beach. Some people need the overall deshabille and slovenliness, not to mention excess tonnage brought on by years of junk-food-stuffing-in-lieu-of-sexual-satisfaction, which can only be achieved by a life dedicated to boring old man on woman lovemaking.
And it's not "all about politics" either. And, to prove my point, if you're a gay man which would you prefer:
This:
or this:
And, if you're a gay woman, this:
or this:
I rest my case.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Taps
It's the hardest thing I've experienced while sober. My mother died while I was still drinking and I was pretty drunk through the whole thing.
This was different.
There was a brief service at the funeral home from 9:00 until 10:00 a.m. Dad's cremated remains were in a box on a table to the right and, on the left, was a table full of memorabilia about my dad -- much of it from his Navy days during WWII in the South Pacific where he was a gun captain aboard a refueling ship -- the kind of ship the Kamikaze's loved to aim for because they made such nice booms. Dad would only say of his wartime experience that he and his crew had "shot down a couple of Japs."
I was detached and calm through that whole part of the morning. At 10:00 we struck out for the cemetary and were there in about 20 minutes.
As we disembarked in front of the reception building a single bell started to toll. A Navy man, in dress whites, stood in front of the building holding a wooden case containing the folded up Old Glory. As we entered the building, across the quarterdeck, an honor guard, all in dress uniforms, stood on both sides and rendered us a salute.
We turned the corner into the chapel, the back wall of which was solid glass, two stories high. Outside we could see the rifle squad marching out to a mound, followed by the bugler.
My siblings and I, with my step-mother between my brother and sister, sat in the front pew... the rest of the family and friends filling in behind.
The minister made some remarks about dad being called "by the Supreme Commander in the sky" and I just dissolved. It started with a noise I had never heard myself make before -- followed by a flood of mucous and tears and sobbing and more weird noises. I reached around under the pew, looking for a box of tissues, but they only had this wimpy little kimwipe type things that wouldn't hold an ounce of water. I looked down the pew and my sister and brother had also both lost it. We were all bawling our eyes out.
Then came the kick in the gut. After the rifle squad had fired their salute and the bugler had played taps and the flag had been re-folded into the familiar triangular shape, the Navy Captain ( an O-6 ), took the flag as shown above and knelt on one knee in front of my stepmom.
"On behalf of the President of the United States, the Secretary of the Navy ... and a grateful nation..."
WHAM! It hit me. I was feeling feelings I didn't know I could feel. I knew that I loved my dad and had always loved my dad even when I resented him and that I would miss him.
And deep down inside I knew that I had made a good decision 42 years ago, when I decided to enlist in the Navy.
As had my father. As had his father.
I am my father's son.
And at heart, we are all deep-water sailors.
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