Sorry...

"You're too sensitive."  I heard these words many times when I was a kid.  From my father.  I could never disagree with those words.  But with those words, the conversation ended.  And I was left with the feeling that I should apologize.  But the moments came and went quickly, so I would end up leaving the house to go outside, away from everyone.  Or, if I were feeling especially crushed, off to my bedroom I'd go, to cry and listen to music (my favorite asylum).

Fast-forward to my 50's, and bubbles of my far past still come to the surface and burst, leaving me covered in yucky feelings.  My bi-polar disorder can make me unwillingly inappropriate.  My "feelings" can make me incredibly hard on myself.  Growing up in an alcoholic family made me an expert in hostility and confrontation.  I can thrive on turbulence and conflict, but then, I'm left with the feeling that I owe apologies.  And I have learn over the years that "sorry" only works a few times.  There is a great line in one of the episode of Lady Dynamite, the brilliant Netflix series centering on comedian Maria Bamford and her experiences with her own bipolar disorder.  In a session with her life coach, played by the impeccable Jenny Slate, the coach tells her "You know what they say; bipolar...bye-bye friends."

I have always worried about losing friends, always wanted more and more friends, and could never understand when people did not like me.  My mom tried to point out that I could not like everyone I met.  True enough.  But even at a young age, I was good at sympathizing with the bully who had a bad home life, or the snooty cheerleader who was only admired for her beauty and not her brains.  I didn't particularly want to hang out with them, but I didn't necessarily think that they were bad or vicious people.

Oh, and I am a pretty big people-pleaser:  probably due to the fact that I always felt out of place during my youth in a small town.  I was a peer-pressure junkie, trying too hard to fit in with my straight neighborhood buddies, my marching band mates, and my school friends.  Ever the clown, I was always seeking validation.  Even if my jokes weren't all that funny.  Hell, I was the King of Trying Too Hard.

So, when a person who knows me well points out that I am acting erratically and, rather than asking "Are you ok?" they immediately blame it on my mania (and they could be most likely correct).  They may act dismissive and arrogant; that hurts.  Or, if I mess something up by my own hand, this misstep may trigger a trip down nightmare lane to when my father was telling me that I am too sensitive.  And I'm a kid again.   And I wonder, what did I ever do to you, Dad? To make you angry and mean to me?  I was a kid.  How could I have made you belittle my feelings me and brush me off?

Over years and years of therapy (you bipolar folks and I know that we're probably never getting away from therapy, because we most always second-guess our actions and reactions), I've talked about being gay in my conservative small town (now, forever ago, since I've moved on from the conservative wasteland that I escaped).  I've talked about my inability to find a stable relationship (that has been fixed by my husband), I'm just about to embark on conversations about the lousy relationship between my father and me when I was a boy again, a subject that I thought that I had come to terms with years ago.  (For the record, I've forgiven him.  He did the best he could.)  And I can't change the past.  But I'm going to start talking about not trying to please people.  I'm going to start talking about not feeling sorry for who I am.  I'm going to learn to look after myself more, and not put other people's needs in in front of my own...so I don't feel resentful or let down when I do something for somebody, when I am been the epitome of reliability, and I'm never given thanks.

And this is it.  The last time that I'm going to self-pity.  I'm going to be there for me.  And not apologize for being me anymore.

Because, as the wise David Sedaris says "If you're looking for sympathy, you'll find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.” 

Castles with Axles

It didn't occur to me that the mode of abode for most of my young life might have been atypical, déclassé, or second-rate.   I never gave it much thought.  Call it what you will: mobile home, manufactured home, prefabricated house…it was always simply a “trailer” to me.  When I was in third grade, my family moved from a rent house into a brand-spanking new trailer.  And it was so cool. 

It was the early 70s, and bold earth-tones dominated middle-class style.  The aluminum siding on the trailer was white, with brown and orange shutters and trim.  Inside, shag carpeting moved like fire, all over the floors in vibrant orange, gold, and brown, save for the slightly-elevated floor of the kitchen, which denied the flame with its mushroom-brown surface.

Plus, the house came with its own groovy-cool furniture: two swivel-rockers covered in saffron crushed-velvet accented with white buttons, a matching headboard for my parent’s king-sized bed, and harvest-gold kitchen appliances in stark relief against pearly-white cabinets.  I immediately fell in love with the place. 

During my time in our trailer, I experienced some of the most lasting memories of my childhood:

·        Producing, directing, and starring in plays and musicals in our backyard (yes, I was, and am, just that gay)

·        Watching my mom’s fish give birth to speck-sized guppies in our large tank on the kitchen bar

·        Helping my dad build a plywood shed for our riding mowers

·        “Playing sick” on winter mornings by placing a thermometer on the floor heater vents, so I could cut class and watch TV gameshows all day

·        Spinning for endless hours on the candy-apple red merry-go-round that my dad built for us

·        Playing baseball with my buddies so late in evening that pitches became bruise-inflicting grenades in the disappearing sunlight  

·        Calming my sister, who would wake me in the middle of stormy nights, asking, “Hey…do you hear a train?”  She thought that sound was a tornado’s voice, and firmly believed that mobile homes were twister-magnets.

·        Proving my theory that Santa was a big hoax by silently observing my dad putting presents under the tree in the wee hours of Christmas morning

We moved from the trailer when I was in eighth grade, and as happy as I was to move into the trailer, I was just as happy to move out of it, and into our new ranch-style house in the adjoining lot.  My honeymoon with the trailer was over, I had the five-year itch, and the grass, which was only 300 feet away, looked so much greener.

My grandparents moved into the trailer, so I visited often.  But it was no longer my trailer.  I’d moved up in the world, and my love affair with the trailer was over.  My grandmother passed away while she still lived there.  And my grandfather lived there as long as he could, before his move to assisted-living, due to the debilitating dementia of Alzheimer’s. 

I would live in a trailer once more in my life.  Shortly after I was married, my wife and I bought a mobile home from my aunt.  The home was across the way from my parents’ house and, as a result, my old trailer, as well.  It was comforting to see my two former cribs from my new bedroom window.

When my marriage ended, I got custody of my new trailer.  When I decided to move to Houston, I toyed with the idea of transporting the mobile home to a trailer park in the city.  But then, my city friends told me that trailer parks in the city were not lower-middle class; most parks were upper-lower class at best.  So I sold my trailer to my sister, and she became a Louisiana landlord.  Parting with the new trailer was not difficult.  It hadn't been my first love.

All these memory bubbles came up when my husband mentioned an interview that he heard on NPR with a county music singer-songwriter, Kacey Musgraves.  Musgraves is a young, but wise, artist.  Her major-label debut was released earlier this month.  And it’s full of musings on everyday life in the lower middle-class of rural-suburbia.  The name of the disc?  “Same Trailer, Different Park” 

Before hearing the music, I thought that I’d never miss my old trailer.  A sincere thank-you, Kacey, for proving me wrong.

Grim Reaper…Stop. You've Already Met Your Quota

Wow.  I just looked at what was trending on Yahoo, and I noticed that Pat Summerall died.  Sad.  I remember Summerall from my youth in the 70s, a saavy guy who did sportscasts for the National Football League.  Most Sundays, I tried to avoid Mr. Pat and his jovial sidekick John Madden, since their pre-game appearance simply meant that my dad was going to watch sports on TV for the remainder of the afternoon  I’d rather been outside playing.

But, Holy Moley!  In visiting the CNN site to read the details of Summerall’s death, I came across a page entitled “People We Lost in 2013.”  And it’s only mid-April.

The biggest shock?  (And this may speak to how gay I am) Bonnie Franklin, the actress who portrayed Ann Romano on the 70s sitcom “One Day at a Time.” the strong single mom to Mackenzie Phillips and Valerie Bertinelli.  I watched that show religiously.  I always wanted to be the kid brother to Julie and Barbara.

It is only mid-April, and here are some of the losses so far this year:

• Jonathan Winters – The lovable, goofy comedian.  “If God had really intended man to fly, He’d make it easier to get to the airport."
• Annette Funicello – One of the original Mouseketeers in the Mickey Mouse Club, and the babe from many 60s Beach Party movies.  Made familiar in a quote from the movie Grease: “"Nobody's jugs are bigger than Annette's”
• Margaret Thatcher – Former British Prime Minister (Morrissey probably smiled at that news – she finally answered his question "When will you die?")
• Roger Ebert – I grew up taking movie viewing advice from him and Gene Siskel.  “Two Thumbs Down” for the loss of them both.
• Phil Ramone – Famous record producer, who worked with Billy Joel on one of my all-time favorites, The Stranger.  No, Phil did not die of a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack.
• Hugo Chavez – One of the most bizarrely entertaining U.S. adversary presidents ever.  You know…he’s the guy from such insanity as his “Life on Mars” theory, his assertion of the “Army of Voodoo Witches” set upon him by his political opponents, and his role as “sadistic butt-kicking soccer player” (literally...he'd kick opponents in the rear, if they dared score against him).
• Van Cliburn – A classical musician, who stepped into pop culture after winning, in 1958 (during the height of the Cold War), the International Tchaikovsky Piano Competition in Moscow.  He even got a ticker-tape parade upon his return to the States.
• Ed Koch – The larger-than-life former New York City mayor, the "How'm I doin'" politicial, who was in office for more than ten years from late 70s throughout the 80s.  In addition to being a political figure, he also make appearances on Sex and the City, Saturday Night Live, and in the movie The Muppets Take Manhattan.  Quite a CV.

While I was busy being surprised by the passing of people who had always been figures in my life, it didn't dawn on me until later that people, say of my son's generation, may not know who most of these icons were.  It only makes sense that as I get older, many of the people who were in the public eye, when I was at such an impressionable age, are going to pass on.



Regardless.  I remember seeing Jonathan Winters on a number of 70s TV variety shows (which themselves, have gone the way of the dinosaur). In 1983, Roger Ebert gave The Outsiders a bum review (which pissed off the 19 year-old me).  I didn't even notice when Koch was no longer the mayor of New York City.  I thought he was at a royalty level, and would die in office.

I'm sure that I'll continue to be surprised as 2013 moves along, and we lose more famous public figures.  These losses hit the public conscience, hopefully reminding us that we only have so much time on this Earth.  And we should take Jonathan Winter's advice:

"If your ship doesn't come in, swim out to meet it."

"Once Upon A Time, George and Weezie Moved to a Deluxe Apartment in the Sky"

I woke this morning in time, barely.  7:55 AM.  As I threw back the covers and took my initial stand, The Man was already beckoning “CBS Sunday Morning is about to come on.”

The Man…oh, The Man.  How he’s changed my life in so many wonderfully expansive ways.  And one particular not-so-wonderfully-expansive way.  Re-introducing Cable TV into my world. 

It’d been years since I enjoyed Cable TV.  I haven’t watched much TV as an adult, mostly because I had pigged out on every 60s & 70s sitcom available in my youth.  You name it; I watched it. The Jeffersons, Gilligan’s Island, The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, Good Times, The Facts of Life, Diff’rent Strokes, etc., etc., etc.  I can remember sitting on the floor with my back against my parent’s bed, door closed, watching One Day at a Time and smoking cigarettes. (My parents both smoked, so their bedroom smelled like a pool hall anyways.)

At any rate, I did get hooked on CBS Sunday Morning.  It’s my kind of weekend morning news program; no pieces too incendiary to blow the Hell out of my mood on my (Christian-upbringing) pre-designated day of rest.  So I settled into one of the orange living room chairs to enjoy the show.

And my mood was blown to Hell.  At the top of each episode, Charles Osgood offers the “serious news.”  He could have kept it to himself today.  Washington fighting over the debt crisis (still) and tax reform.  A national sales tax?!  Really?!  Great, U.S. government, infringe on the method in which many states and municipalities fund their own governing bodies.  I was outraged.  I settled down rather quickly (I always do).

What followed was:

• A wonderful story about a young woman, who started a school in Georgia.  The academy teaches refugee children who have settled with their families in this small rural town.  Heartwarming and inspiring.
• A fascinating story on Clive Davis, and his influence and success in popular music.  I’m wild about music, so this story was especially enjoyable.
• A thought-provoking, but characteristically-acerbic commentary by Nancy Giles.  This little rant focused on excessive bank fees. Of course, she mentioned my mortgage holder – the granddaddy of all evil financial institutions – Bank of America.  Again…look at me, outraged. 
• A segment on some surfer.  Whee. 
•  A piece on Martin Sheen.  Perfect for a Sunday Morning actor feature.  Martin Sheen is like a tepid oatmeal breakfast.  Filling, but not tasty.  (For my morning meal?  No oatmeal.  Over-hard eggs and grape-jellied toast, courtesy of The Man.)

The episode wrapped up with the customary nature scene:  this one from the Tennessee/North Carolina region.  Lots of beautiful fall foliage.  Gorgeous waterfalls.  Open fields with tall wheat-colored grass.  Elk and turkey grazing around.  Having recently chosen a vegetarian lifestyle, all I could think was “I hope that is a wildlife preserve, or someone is gonna slaughter those animals.”

Next up…Face the Nation.  This is the part where I rather go kill bandits and monsters in my computer game or go play the piano.  But I stuck it out.  Mainly because Michelle Bachmann and Rick Santorum were going to be featured.  The Man asked, “Can we turn this off?”

“Oh, no.  I want to hear what these two say…’Know your enemy,’ right?”

As I expected, they laid all the blame for the recent warfare directly at the feet of Obama.  Hmm.  Didn’t our government originally take a warrior’s stance when George W. Bush was in office?  Hmm.  I honestly did enjoy the foolish rhetoric of Michelle and Rick. 

Then Joel Osteen with the Lakewood Church came on.  I didn’t feel like hearing platitudes (well, actually I never do…), so The Man suggested a bio-piece on Benjamin Franklin.  It was engrossing, but an hour in, when the program hadn’t yet reached the American Revolution period, I asked The Man how long the show lasted.  Two hours?  Interesting show, but I couldn’t devote another hour of my precious time. 

So what’d I do instead?  Nap.

After an afternoon of vacuuming, practicing piano, going to my piano lesson and ironing this week’s clothes, I made the mistake of turning on the TV.  And promptly got dragged into a new show, “Once Upon A Time.”  Great…I already have a weakness for fairy tales (I’ve mentioned it before – yes, I’m gay).  I watched the whole damn show.  And it sucked!  Well, I mean that it sucked a whole hour from my life.  

I know that I’ll be sitting in front of our TV next Sunday at 7:00 PM. 

Shit.

Washing the Fairlane

I washed The Man’s car this afternoon.  This was not a last-ditch effort to make it rain this bone-dry late spring , but a directive from one of my co-workers:  a quiet but bold woman, who is both no-nonsense and humorous.  She said, that for all he does for me, I should wash The Man’s car on a regular basis.  I just sighed at her Friday afternoon and announced to The Man said-same Friday night that I would wash his car during the weekend.

Sunday, I pulled both his car and my truck from the garage to the drive.  I started on his car, of course.  I set Abbey Road by The Beatles on my iPod and began to spray his car with water.  When “Come Together” ended and “Something” began, the past sweetly bubbled up.  Suddenly I was a kid (mid-teens), washing my maternal grandmother’s early 1970s Ford Fairlane. 

I didn’t have a job back in the late 70s, not because I was focusing on school instead of work.  The reason was more that I was shy and a bit unsure of myself, a little too insecure to look for a job.  I had friends and cousins who worked, so I wanted money too.  And I had a girlfriend.  She never demanded anything.  But I wanted to be able to take her out and buy her gifts.

“Ma’am-Maw” was a quick and observant woman.  “My car always needs washing.” she’d tell me. “You know how much of a roadrunner I am.”  She and my “Pap-Paw” lived next to us.  So almost every week, I would show up at her house and spend an hour or so washing her car.

 

I would bring my boom box so I could listen to music while I worked.  The radio would be tuned to an AM station out of Shreveport.  AM radio in the 70s played it all.  And I guess that’s where "Something" by The Beatles got lodged in my head as car-washing music.

My grandma and I had a good routine.  She knew that I was not one for detail.  After I was done washing, I would let her know.  She would come out for an inspection.  Good naturedly, she would chuckle and show me all the places that I had missed.  I would smile and go at it again.   She’d give me a hug  and hand over 10 bucks.  10 bucks went really far back in the day.  Far enough to get me to the next Saturday.

When I married my girlfriend in my late teens, we moved into a mobile home on my parents' land.  My wife and I would visit their house for game nights with my extended family.  My mom and grandmother shared the same infectious laughter, and both of them would keep the rest of us entertained.

A rapid-fire succession of life changes occurred:  my mom passed away, my marriage ended, I moved to another state.  When I returned from my self-imposed exile, I may have seen my Ma'am-Maw once.  Then she was gone. Forever.

Being a good Southern Baptist man, I carried the guilt for a long time.  As I got older, I realized how lucky I was to have such a wonderful grandma.  I knew that she wouldn’t beat me up for what I had been holding myself accountable.  So I let it go.  Today...I would have given anything to have been washing her old Fairlane.
 

I was enjoying the nostalgia, then “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” ended abruptly (as it always does) and the opening strains of “Here Comes the Sun” entered.  I looked up.  The sky was dark with clouds.  And I was back to the present. 

The Man walked up. “Do I hear thunder?”  I smiled.  I thought he was coming out to inspect my work and slide me 10 bucks.

Dallas & Chris

Nineteen years old.  Not a lot of reasoning during that time of my life.  Almost nil foresight.  And in hindsight, everything turned out o.k.

But let’s rewind just three years from then. She and I came together at a weekend teen church retreat.  She was a beauty.  Hair – long, soft, dark.  Almond-shaped eyes with ebony-colored irises.  A soft laugh that she hid behind her hand.   I made up my mind that she should fall in love with me.  So I played piano for her.  I sang to her.  I clowned around on the basketball court for her amusement.  I invited her for walks along the red-dirt roads under the tall pines in the campgrounds.  It all worked.

And we dated.  Over the course of three years, she became like part of my family, and I of hers.  And then carelessness made the theoretical bond real.  A positive pregnancy test.  We broke the news to her parents to receive uncomfortable and unexpected laughter.  We broke the news to my mom and received an exasperated scolding (“Don’t ya’ll know how to use condoms?!”).  I broke the news to my father separately.  I’ll just say it was not pretty and leave it there.

I went from college to construction work, from walking across the green university campus lawns to inching my way across iron beams hundreds of feet above concrete.  She went from high school to housewife, home ec to home making. 

About six and a half months into her pregnancy, she woke me in the middle of the night.  “I think my water just broke…”  We headed to the charity hospital in Shreveport.  She and I, just kids, had  no money and no insurance.

At her initial examination, the doctor said, “I believe I hear two heartbeats.”  An X-Ray tech was brought in.  When the images came back, there they were:  curled like yin and yang.  We were excited.  Twins!  “This is not good news.” the doctor warned.  “This is much too early to deliver.  We need to keep the babies in the womb as long as possible.  Every minute counts at this stage.  It will be especially difficult with twins inside.”

There was the risk of infection since there was no longer any amniotic fluid.  But that danger was not realized; she only lasted a couple of days before going into labor.  I was banned from the delivery room and was upset about that.  I understand now the doctors knew best.

October 25, 1984.  And they were there.  Both indescribably tiny.  Dallas – 2 lbs 3 oz.  Christian – 2 lbs 1 oz.  My heart swelled and burst at the same time.  Dallas was on his stomach with his eyes open.  Chris, on his back with closed eyes. Both of the boys were on ventilators.  They were bruised, but beautiful.  The doctors did not sugarcoat the truth.  “It does not look good for either of the babies.  The smaller one sustained serious damage during the birth.  Survival for either is slim at best.”  Chris lasted for only 19 hours.  Dallas slugged it out and held on.

A hearse took our second-born son to the funeral home.  My sister’s boyfriend greeted us there.  This hardened police officer was a pool of tears.  “I don’t think you want to see the baby.”  We couldn’t listen.  We had to see Chris.  And I found out something that I never wanted to know:  one of the worst experiences in life is selecting a headstone for your child.  But Chris’ brother was in Shreveport.  We had to keep pushing.

My weekdays through this time went something like this: 

Up at 5:30 AM
30 miles to work until 4:00 PM
30 miles home
70 miles to Shreveport
Stay with Dallas until visiting hours were over at 10 PM
70 miles home
Bed at Midnight.

Suddenly I was all the adult that I never wanted to be.

One beautiful Saturday in early January, we arrived at the hospital to smiling nurses.  “He’s off the ventilator and under an oxygen tent!”  And there he was:  the first time that we had seen his face without a breathing tube and medical tape obstructing the view.  He looked so tough!  You could see that he was a fighter.  He even smiled a couple of times.  To this day, that smile is one of the most beautiful images that I’ve ever seen.

We returned the next day, and he was on the ventilator once more.  When my wife saw him, she started weeping uncontrollably.  I could do nothing but hold her.

A couple of weekends after that, even the ventilator was not working.  At the doctor’s recommendation, we shut everything down.  The nurses handed him to us and led us to a room right off the neonatal unit.  He took his last breaths as my wife held him close to her and I rubbed his little hand.

Against state law, the hospital allowed us to take him in the truck with us to the funeral home in our city.  The drive was long and silent.  For both her and me, the deaths of Chris and Dallas were our first experience with the loss of a close family member.  And these losses were of our sons.  It was painful beyond expression.  I remember that it rained on the day of Dallas’ funeral, and still the cemetery was filled with family and friends as we laid him to rest next to his brother.

We both stumbled through a fog for the next couple of months.

The doctor told us to wait for a year until trying for another child.  One year and nine months later, our third son was born.  Full-term. 7 lbs, 8 oz.  Spitting image of his brothers (only larger).   He was perfectly perfect.  After the loss of the twins, his mom and I knew how precious he was and how fortunate we were.

And here we are.  27 years later.   I still call the boys’ mom each October 25^th.  With the passage of time, the memories we share are bittersweet.  She and I are no longer kids.  We’re no longer irresponsible.  Shoot, we’re no longer married.  But together we went through a heartbreaking experience.  Plus she still loves me (and I, her).  So everything is o.k.

Support the March of Dimes for stronger , healthier babies
(Photo credit - Enrico/One from RM)

Bah, Humbug?

I wonder exactly when it happened.  I have an idea how. 

When I was a kid, Christmas was such a big event each year.  I grew up in a town that is famous for its Christmas festival.  The streets would be strung with a cosmic number of multicolored bulbs at the beginning of December.  The first Saturday of the month was the date of the fest.  The town would swell from the resident population of around 15,000 people to over 100,000.  I looked forward to the festival, because most of my family would come from all over the state to enjoy the celebration.

There would be two parades:  a short junior parade with groups like cub and girl scouts, junior high bands, and baton twirling squads, and a larger parade with elaborate floats, high school bands, horses, and the Grand Marshall.  One year, the Grand Marshall was (wow) Vanna White. After the parades, bands would play on the grandstand at the edge of the river that ran through the city.  When darkness closed in, a magnificent fireworks presentation would erupt over the river to the oohs and aahs of the crowd (and the cries of frightened young children).  As the end of the display, the city Christmas lights would suddenly illuminate the downtown district.

Throughout the month of December, the Christmas lights would twinkle, a tall tinsel tree on the grandstand would flash and play carols, and Santa would be in his small shop near the river with a ready knee to bounce the wishes out of children.  In addition to the festival, I was involved in many church-related activities that added to the spirit of the season:  live nativity presentations, cantatas, and candlelight Christmas Eve services.  Between the doings in the city and the goings-on in my rural neighborhood, I was in a constant glow of the season.

Then I grew up … fast. 

At nineteen, I got my girlfriend pregnant and we were married.  She was unknowingly carrying twins; we found that out when her water broke two and a half months early.  We rushed to the big city charity hospital (we were young kids… no money, no insurance).  Born so prematurely (and long before more modern medicine), the two boys had the odds stacked against them from the start.  One of the twins lived only 19 hours.  The other lived on life support from late October through early January, innocently throwing a shadow on the holidays.

When I was 22, my mother had a massive heart attack the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  By the time she was transported to the local hospital, she had slipped into a coma.  That holiday season, my family passed time visiting in the hospital with her unaware.  She never regained consciousness and perished in early February of 1987.

So there you have it:  the two most heartbreaking events of my life occurring during the holidays.  Lots of hospital-time and sadness; little celebration and merriness.  Each Christmas after those experiences reminded me of loss.

I will write off my lack of holiday interest to these two life events.  My wife and I had a son after the twins.  When he was a toddler, his mom and I divorced.  He would visit me during the holidays and ask why I never put up a tree.  As he grew older, he must have realized that it just wasn’t Dad’s bag.

Maybe it’s just the passing of time and my getting older.  I really wish I could be more celebratory during Christmastime.  Nowadays with the season beginning before Halloween ends and all of the pressure of shopping for the perfect gifts, it is a long two and a half months for me.  Even the Christmas celebration in my hometown has been extended to include fireworks for every weekend of December, which seems a bit too much for my take.  But I make sure not to complain about the holidays to others (as some do).  It’s one thing to be outside of the spirit of the season; it’s another thing to rip the tinsel from the tree.  I will not be a Scrooge

Incurable

That's it. They are no two ways about it. I tried to figure it out. I tried to understand if there was some reason. Now, I know that there is no rhyme to it. But that's fine. I live with the most ardent non-fatalist in the world. He believes in chaos. I see patterns. We don't try to convert one another.
I only know that when my hormones started raging at puberty, they did not push me toward the girls. It was difficult to try to act like one of the guys, when all the guys started to talk about getting busy with the girls. So I tried to keep my mouth shut and analyze how this happened.
Although I played shy for the first few years, my true personality rose to the top. I'm fairly outgoing and friendly. I made friends pretty easily. Most often with girls. In my analysis, I just attributed this to the fact that I had spent the first few years of my life with only my sister as a playmate. We lived in rural southeast Texas on the plant grounds, where my dad worked. We were isolated from other children, and she was older. She got to set the mood for a lot of the play, and I got used to playing house and putting on lip-sync shows for my mom. As I grew older and my family moved to a city in northwest Louisiana where there were lots of other kids, my sister grew a bit impatient with my wanting to hang out with her and her new girlfriends. So reluctantly, I started befriending the boys in the neighborhood.
Now that was a bit tough. Each of the boys were rough-and-tumble, and hell, I'd been playing with my sister and her dolls, twirling batons, singing Beach Boys songs and talking with her about Donny-freaking-Osmond.
I tried to analyze my friendships with my childhood male friends. At the onset of my interactions with them, I took a lot of ribbing. They called me names like "sissy" and worse. We would hang with the teenagers sometimes at the park up the road. The teenagers used to get special joy out of telling me that I had a spider on my back.

Being a wimpy little pip-squeak, I would flail all over the place, screaming and clawing at my back, eventually working myself up to a crying jag (I know, folks ... pitiful, but true). My friends would try to help me, telling me that there was no spider. I would eventually settle down and my friends would lead the crying little queer away. They did stand by me, but I could tell that they were more than a little ashamed at the affiliation.
I tried to look at my relationship with my father. It was less than ideal ... oh, to be honest, there was almost NO communication, so there could be NO relationship. (And Dad ... if you ever read this: I understand that you loved me then, you love me now, and you'll always love me. Ditto back to you, big guy). I thought that the absence of a chummy dad might have fueled my need for a loving relationship with another male.

When everything first came out about my sexual orientation, I got a little surprise one day. I was replacing the toilet seal in my bathroom one Saturday afternoon, covering in sweat, dirt, and nasty black wax. I sensed someone looking at me. I looked up to see my sister, who had come into my house quietly. She was just standing there and looking at me as tears ran down her face. "I just heard." she said. "Is it true?"
I just sighed and nodded.
"Was it something I did?" she asked.
"Yeah," I smiled at her. "You hit me too much when I was little."

In the time since that day, I have gotten a better perspective. I tried to date women after the break-up of my marriage ... once. Still, it didn't work. I finally ventured to the larger cities of Louisiana, where there was an actual gay nightlife, making friends and actually running into some old ones (I'll have to write a post on this one day...) I'm on my fourth and (I know) last live-in relationship. I've come out to everyone in my personal, professional and past lives.

Getting to this point in my life. I guess I really don't have to figure it out. I realize now that I'm an incurable: sometimes incurably romantic, sensitive and kind, sometimes incurably rude, thoughtless and narcissistic. But I'm always incurably queer.

"Rubber Ducky, You're the One."

Sesame Street. I'm sorry I'll have to admit that I couldn't stand the show when I was younger. It hit major popularity when my younger brother was about four, so he had to watch it every morning. It just pissed me off. I could have been watching recorded episodes of Super Friends or Shazam!, but we were a one-TV family back then. So I just sat through it.

"Today's episode of Sesame Street is brought to you by the number 2..." (for crap) "and the letter F" (can you add a U to that?). Big Bird annoyed me. Mr. Snuffleupagus looked like a moving ratty couch. I couldn't even identify with Oscar the Grouch. And I was pretty dang grumpy. I did sometimes like the animated segments ... you know, the 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9 ... 10 piece with the action-packed cartoon and hyper song. But mostly, I just gave my little brother hell for watching the program.

When everyone gets nostalgic for Sesame Street (and even worse, Mr. Roger's Neighborhood), my eyes just glaze over, or I try to direct the conversation to "Zoom!" or "The Electric Company," which I thought were much cooler.

Then ... Ernie moved in with me.

This is what I get when I'm trying to get out the door for work: "You are my sunshine." Sorry ... that doesn't work for me in the mornings.

Middle of the day, a text message "You are the most wonderful man in the world" Excuse me ... I'm working on a project plan, a spreadsheet and a meeting agenda here.

A call while he is at the grocery store, and I'm still at the office "Are you out of beer, honey?" Hell, didn't you check the refrigerator last?

If he took baths, he'd have a rubber duck, for sure. And he'd sing to it.



Uh, wait ... he does have a rubber duck.

It only brings out my Bert-ness. But anyone who has ever watched Sesame Street knows that Bert's grouchiness was never a match for the duckman's bliss.

Welcome to the Hotel Raging Hormones

It was the summer of 1977. Every adolescent had discovered three albums, “Frampton Comes Alive,” “Rumours,” and “Hotel California.” Now anyone with a knowledge of 70’s pop music might scratch their heads at this. “Frampton Comes Alive” and “Hotel California” were released in 1976; “Rumours” in early 1977. But we lived in the rural South. Plus we had just hit our teens. Naturally we were a bit behind the curve on music. But these three albums were the staples for the summer of 1977 for us youngsters (throwing in the Marshall Tucker Band’s “Carolina Dreams,” Atlanta Rhythm Section’s “Champagne Jam,” and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Street Survivors” – we were in the rural South).
But back to the most important album of my youth, “Hotel California.” The Eagles had long been the chosen group for all the kids in town. “Desperado,” “On the Border,” “One of These Nights,” and the ubiquitous “Their Greatest Hits 1971-1975” had established the group as rock heroes. The greatest hits collection was played so universally (at home, at the swimming pools, on the school buses) that I honestly do not believe that I could listen to it all the way through today.
But “Hotel California”… I do still listen to that today. It’s currently on my iPod.
Picture this. Four hormone-charged teens. One girl’s bedroom. “Jackie.” “Jimmy.” “Lynne." "The Queer." Jackie and Jimmy were officially "going-together." Lynne and I had been girlfriend/boyfriend on-and-off since the first grade, but weren't formally together at that particular time.

When Jackie dropped the needle into the first groove of the album and the acoustic guitars began to play, we two couples fell on the bed and began to make out. It was quite hot and heavy for a while. Since the title track builds to a respectable crescendo, it pushed the passion envelope a bit. Jackie and Jimmy became a tangled mess of arms and legs. Lynne and I were getting along pretty well too. She showed me how to French kiss (and I swear, her tongue was the softest thing on the planet).
As "Hotel California" gave way to "New Kid in Town," the mood mellowed. Well, at least for Lynne and me. Lots of staring into one another eyes and giggling (hey... you already know I'm gay). But Jackie and Jimmy were still at an inferno heat.
When the country shuffle of "New Kid" faded and the rock guitars of "Life in the Fast Lane" kicked in, Lynne and I were through. We held hands a little, and I kissed her on the cheek. But the passion was done. She was one who knew me better than most and with that knowledge, probably knew that I was not really absorbed in the moment. She began to brush her hair, and I began to look at the liner notes of the album. I even pulled out the insert poster and noticed how cute Randy Meisner was and what a great smile Don Henley had. I also noted that Glenn Frey, Joe Walsh and Don Felder look seedy and stoned (more my sister's taste ... just kidding, sis).
And Jackie and Jimmy? They had rolled off the bed in their ecstasy and were actually under the bed.
Without warning, the door opened. And there stood Jackie's mom. She looked from Lynne to me, and asked puzzled? "Where's Jackie and Jimmy?"
Without thinking, I immediately responded, "They're under the bed."
Lynne's eyes widened and her mouth dropped.
Jackie's mom pointed at the door and yelled, red-faced, at Lynne and me, "OUT!!!"
Lynne and I rushed out of the house. We hurried across the street to the vacant lot opposite Jackie's house. Jimmy soon exited, running toward us. He said the Jackie's mom had went berserk, slapping Jackie and calling her a whore and a slut. The three of us retreated to the park that was a couple of blocks away.

But things change quickly for you at that time of life. Jimmy and Jackie broke up shortly after that afternoon. Jimmy, who had been my constant friend that year, quickly abandoned me for a guy like him who liked outdoorsy stuff (leaving the door wide open for a new best friend, who became my first boyfriend and taught me all about that outdoorsy stuff). Lynne went her own way and discovered new, older friends. She traveled through high school always one step ahead of her former peers.

I don't know if any of the others still feel those raging hormones. I know I do, but I live a bizarrely wonderful life. But I've completely lost track of Jimmy. Jackie is a close friend of my sister's now, but I honestly do not know a lot about her life. And Lynne ... well, we lost Lynne about seven years ago in a car accident. She wasn't wearing her seat belt. She always had a deliberate disregard for danger.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if the music had continued to play, and Jackie's mom would have never entered the room. I can imagine it exactly. "Life in the Fast Lane" would have surrendered to "Wasted Time." Which would have been the perfect make-out song: slow, tender, lots of strings. Jackie and Jimmy could have continued making out under the bed. And I probably would have taken the brush from Lynne's hand and danced her slowly around the room. She had green eyes.

"Wait Wait...Don't Tell Them"

One of my biggest challenges is keeping my mouth shut. Most people can say "one of my biggest challenges is knowing when to keep my mouth shut." For me, I said it right the first line. "Filterless"... that's what they call me at work. I've earned it.
The job is high pressure. Sure. Most jobs can be. It's not like I'm working in the ER or directing airplanes in, but it's not bowl-glazing (sorry for the "Sex and the City" reference).
And when I get stressed, I get vocal. Sometimes loud. Almost always, red in the face. Things come out of my mouth. Ask any of my co-workers who have been in strategy meetings with me. Unfortunately, most times directors are in the meetings with us, as well. And when I get rattled, I have the annoying habit of referring to myself in third person (and everybody hates that). "Well, I'll tell you what The Queer would do..." followed by a steamed, uncontrolled rant.
I have been able to pull it in a little, through advice and help from mentors. My co-workers still laugh about my first year on this job. I was a red-faced, angry wreck. And then, my poor partner would have to listened to most of the same crap at the end of my work-day. He would sit placidly and nod as I spewed the daily venom. Poor guy.
Then I decided (quite firmly) to leave the office at the office. It has made all the difference in the world.

My mouth has gotten me in quite a few tight spots over the years. When I was younger, it was mostly due to naiveté , instead of anger.

• Like the time my sister, my cousin and I were playing near the front porch of my cousin's grandfather's house:

My sister was twirling a baton, and the Queer said to the grandfather, "I can do that better than she can."He just raised his eyebrows, smiled, and said "I'll bet you can." (He had me pegged as gay from the get-go).

• Like the time my best friend moved into his first apartment.
  

A bunch of us guys were hanging at the new place, when his brother and sister-in-law stopped by to visit. We were watching soft porn on cable. The sister-in-law was former military and couldn't be offended. So when they walked into the apartment, my best friend announced "Hey, we're watching naked women on TV!" The Queer quickly added, "There's naked guys too!" The brother just laughed and said "I bet you like that..." (Again ... busted).

• Like the time a close friend of my then soon-to-be ex-wife invited me out to meet her downtown.

And we ended up making out. I had recently come out to my soon-to-be ex-wife (hence, the "soon-to-be ex-wife"), and her friend knew that I had identified myself as gay (apparently quite a few other people had come to that conclusion too). But her friend was all over me. I stopped it, telling her that it was wrong, wrong, wrong. She told me that she had a crush on me from way back. And I told her that those feelings she had for me were wrong, wrong, wrong. And then in his bewilderment what did The Queer do? Call my soon-to-be ex-wife after the weird rendezvous and say: "You'll never guess what happened!!!" You bet she couldn't. So I told her. I trashed that friendship .... oops, DANG!


From the above examples, you can see that I went to the hard-knock school of learning to keep the mouth closed when one is uncertain or clueless how one's audience will react. Now I guess I'll just foot the tuition for the degree in mouth-control during bouts of anger.

Middle School Pals Are Best

I grew up in a small college town in the Deep South. The city was small but progressive due to the local think tank. I had the good fortune to attend the local "laboratory" school that trained education majors on the university campus. I started fifth grade at the school after a short time in the parish public school system. The following year, I was graduated to the middle school for a three-year term prior to high school.
Life at the middle school was ideal. We had the opportunity to attend many of the events on the university campus, had use of the recreational facilities and were student-taught by cool education student (hell, they were cool to us ... we were pre-teens!).
The friends that I made at Middle School seem to be the friends that I have kept since leaving primary school before my own college experience. Many of the friends that I had at middle school had parents who taught at the local university. So when I attended there, it was easy to keep up with my friends.
Even after many years when we gather for my high schools reunions every ten years or so, I gravitate toward my middle-school chums. This last reunion was especially bittersweet since we had lost many of our school mates from high school through accidents, health battles and just general bad luck. We had a special presentation for them at the club where we gathered after the dinner for the final night.
Following the presentation, I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. One of my middle school friends joined me. This fella and I weren't real close in middle school, but still closer than a lot of friends that I made in high school. He and I both played tuba in middle school. In our chat, we discovered that we both live in Houston. He offered his phone number and suggested that we get together. I gave him mine. Then he asked, "So...what have you been up to? Are you married?"
I just laughed and said, "Dude ... I tried that and it didn't work for me. I'm gay. I thought everyone knew." He raised his eyebrow, put his head down slightly, and laughed, "No, man ... I didn't know." He dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. Then he walked back in the club without another word.
Think he deleted my phone number from his cell phone?