New Year, Old Thoughts

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

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

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

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!

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!