Acerbic Wit

This Is A No-Freeze Zone

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 12:03:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 20:26:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 14:46:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 14:19:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 16:50:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 11:13:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 09:18:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 23:11:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 12:54:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 15:25:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 20:10:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 09:19:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 19:35:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 23:29:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 13:42:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 13:38:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Mon, 01 Oct 2007 17:14:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 12:20:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Thu, 20 Sep 2007 20:03:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 01:08:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 12:51:00 +0000

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?

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Sat, 15 Sep 2007 16:22:00 +0000

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

Everything Is Not Always Fit To Print

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Mon, 03 Sep 2007 09:00:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Sun, 02 Sep 2007 15:08:00 +0000

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

Victor, Victoria, Victorious

noreply@blogger.com (Bill) — Sun, 29 Apr 2007 10:16:00 +0000

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