Category: Life

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Stories – The College Years (Part 4)

Previously on Battlestar Galactica…

A Mentor Arrives

After Ric disappeared and we'd gone our separate ways, I would be lying if I said the rest of the semester was filled with sweet romantic interludes—or at least hot monkey sex, because it most certainly was not. That's not to say I didn't fall in love—or at least lust—with two more individuals, both of whom occasionally popped in at Louie's, but were far from regulars.

The first was a Hispanic boy named Jesse.

(L-R) John Marion, Tommy (aka Spider Lady), Jesse, and two queens I didn't know

Jesse and I were friendly, but he barely knew I existed. And yet, at 18 years old, I fawned over him. I remember sharing some writing I'd done about him with another friend at the table, James Uhrig. James, who was older and wiser than I was…kind…in his assesment of my musings, but suggested that perhaps I move on.

Kent Kelly

It was around that time that Kent Kelly and Peter Whitman entered my orbit. Kent was the catalyst that caused me to move on from Jesse. Peter and I immediately became best friends. I think Kent—also older and wiser by a couple years—sensed my fragile, newly-minted gay state, and very gently let me down when I confessed my feelings for him. It didn't make it sting any less, but I respected him for it, and out of that grew a friendship which lasted until his death in 1987.

(L-R) Kent Kelly, Chas Dooley, Don Hines

Kent became my mentor, my friend, and my dance partner; my Life Teacher if truth be told. After I quit school in 1978, Kent ended up in Phoenix with me, proclaiming that Tucson had simply gotten too small—or more likely as I suspected he'd simply slept with everyone he'd been interested in sleeping with there.

Kent in 1981

Shortly before the semester ended, I arrived at Louie's one afternoon and found the table abuzz. Ric was apparently at Student Health with a case of Hepatitis and they'd advised everyone who'd had sexual relations with him during the previous few months to get a Gamma globulin shot.

Needless to say, I was more than a little surprised at the number of us who got up from the table and formed a little parade that headed over to Student Health. Not as surprised, I'm sure, as the staff at the center was…

Apparently Ric was the table's resident Welcome Wagon.

I returned home at the end of the semester, leaving all my new friends behind and wondering what the hell I was going to do, not only for summer work but also with my new gay life in general. My 19th birthday was quickly approaching, so I decided to say fuck it and invite everyone up to my parents' house for an impromptu party. Not exactly how I envisioned coming out, but if they figured things out, they figured things out.

I think—based on that article he'd sent months earlier—Dad knew what was up, and arranged for he and Mom to be out of the house that night. My sister was having a sleepover at a friend's house.

Phil (the man who initially welcomed me into GSA) arrived on his motorcycle the afternoon prior to the party. Since no one else was showing up until the following day, he and I headed out (not on his motorcycle) to the local mall.

As we walked the mall, Phil freely ogling boys as they passed like a dog in heat and whispering salacious suggestions in my ears, by the time we got back to the house I was…aroused…to say the least. He tried to put the moves on me in my bedroom, but I rebuffed his advances. That was not the way I intended to come out to the family.

Phil was an expert at the art of seduction, and while it didn't happen that weekend, he did eventually bed me. Or maybe it was the other way around. It doesn't matter. He and I had many an overnight encounter until he moved to San Mateo in 1980.

As an aside, I briefly reconnected with Phil (not that way—although to be honest, prior to him actually showing up at my door that afternoon I'd fantasized about it) once in 1992 long after I'd moved to San Francisco. I didn't pursue anything phyiscal or even reigniting the friendship because something just seemed off, and frankly it creeped me out.

Next time on Battlestar Galactica…

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Stories – The College Years (Part 2)

Previously on Battlestar Galactica…

The Table

It was shortly after my second meeting with GSA that I was introduced to the table at Louie's Lower Level.

Louie's—located in the basement of the Student Union—was the funky laid-back alternative to the more traditional and sterile campus cafeteria upstairs and doubled as a great gathering place for students before and after class. Think lots of dark wood, Tiffany lighting, and plants in macrame slings. Kind of TGI Fridays on a budget. (It was 1977, after all.)

I'd been going there since I started at the university, but until my second GSA meeting and a group of us headed downstairs afterward to grab a bite to eat,  I'd somehow been completely oblivious to the fact that one long table off to the east side of the dining room was home base for many of the campus homosexuals.

It was there where I met my tribe that spring: John Maguire, Ric Hathaway, Chas Dooley, Don Hines, Kent Kelly, John Marion, Abe Marquez, Tina, Marco, and many others who became friends, mentors, and yes, in a couple cases, even lovers over the coming months. I shall do my best to give each their proper due since so many of them are no longer with us.

Chas Dooley

I actually met Chas before GSA or Louie's. He was a good friend of Andy's and visited him a lot when I was in the old dorm. Chas was young, black, proud, flamboyant, and simply had no fucks to give. He intimidated me when I was still in the closet; once out I came to admire and adore him. In fact, there were times over the next couple years I wanted nothing more than to jump his bones, but while the interest seemed to be mutual, the timing was always off and it never happened.

I lost track of Chas sometime between 1978 and 1980. He'd moved home to Louisiana and while we'd continued to correspond eventually a letter was returned as undeliverable and the phone number I had for him was disconnected.

It was in 1991 or so that I was walking home from the Castro to my apartment off Church Street in San Francisco and I passed a handsome black man coming my way. We made eye contact, smiled, and after we'd passed almost immediately turned around. "Chas?" "Mark?" We rushed to each other and hugged. He was late to be somewhere, so we couldn't catch up. We exchanged numbers (I guess everyone ends up in SF eventually), but not for lack of trying, we never did reconnect.

I have tried to track him down, both through normal channels as well as through the Social Security Death Index (you never know, and if he's gone I'd like closure) but there are hundreds of Charles Dooleys listed online (but none in the SSDI), so I've given up hope of ever reconnecting with him.

The First Time: John Maguire

I wasn't particularly attracted to John. We'd both become regulars at Louie's and had gotten friendly, enjoying each other's company, but while there were many tasty things on Louie's menu, lust of John definitely wasn't one of them. One Friday afternoon we were at the table talking and discovered we were both still virgins. He looked at me and asked, "Do you want to do something about that?" A thousand thoughts ran through my head in a flash, and I blurted out, "Sure!" It was one of those, "Oh fuck, why not?" moments.

We didn't go out on a proper date beforehand and there was no romance; he simply showed up at my dorm room at the appointed time and we got naked. I won't go into all the gruesome details, but let's just say the experience was far from what I think either of us had hoped for. After he left I thought, "This is what has everyone in such an uproar?" John and I were still amicable after the encounter, but something had definitely changed and neither one of us really put any further effort into our friendship developing further.

I have no idea whatever happened to John. Upon returning to school for my sophomore year, many people had disappeared from GSA and the table, John being one of them. I heard he'd moved home to New Jersey.

And again, like Chas, there are hundreds of possible John Maguires online. So…yeah, tracking him down, living or dead…not going to happen.

Next time on Battlestar Galactica…

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Stories – The College Years (Part 1)

Okay…remembering and writing about all this is fun!

Previously on Battlestar Galactica… (In case you're wondering, I'm calling it this as a throwback to my original posting of these stories on the old blog, written at peak Battlestar Galactica popularity.)

While I suppose I could have come out publicly in High School, for a variety of mid-70s reasons I chose not to. I had consciously decided that I would announce to the world once I'd moved away from home and started college. Based on my mother's earlier reactions to gay men—which was surprising considering she was an interior designer and had worked around them her entire career—I wasn't entirely convinced it would be warmly received by the family and wanted to be as far away as possible when I dropped the proverbial bomb.

My first semester at the University of Arizona was—not surprisingly—a difficult one, if only for the usual problems of any first year college student. I had never lived away from home, and while I made friends easily, in the beginning I knew no one in Tucson.

My first dormitory roommate was a Japanese-American gymnast. I don't remember his name or even what he looked like at this point other than he had a body that wouldn't quit. He was a gymnast, after all. Might've been a fantasy come true if not for the fact he was virulently homophobic and made it known almost immediately. While I was still firmly in the closet, I knew this was not going to work as my plans for coming out slowly began to coalesce in my head. After a week or so I swapped rooms with a guy down the hall I'd gotten friendly with.

My new roommate was Karl Kilgore, a tall, blond, good-looking civil engineering (?) student from southern California.

Karl and I got along famously. We shared the same world view, liked the same music, and enjoyed each other's company.

I still hadn't come out yet, but the guy in the room adjacent to ours read me from the moment I arrived on the floor. Andy was…flamboyant…out and proud. He was one of the first gay men I met who was not. taking. shit. from. anyone.

In many ways he took me under his wing for those first couple months at the university, keeping my secret to himself. I remember one day toward the holidays we were chatting and he flat out asked, "When are you going to end this charade and just come out?"

I was quite taken aback, and at the same time relieved that he knew it was time as much as I did.

Along the same time this happened, I was over at the campus planetarium one night, when a series of events were set in motion that led to my tearing the door off that closet and bursting forth into the light. I was touring the exhibits when another boy caught my eye, one David Miller.

Another freshman, David was from the hills of West Virginia and frankly, turned out to be sweet as fuck. We struck up a conversation and a friendship soon formed. Was David gay? I didn't get that sense about him at all, but I didn't get "wholly straight" either. I remember that when I told Andy I'd made a friend outside the dorm he quipped, "So…Mark's got a boyfriend."

No, that wasn't it at all, but when the opportunity presented itself for me to switch dorms and share a room with David, I jumped at it.

David accompanied me back to Phoenix for Thanksgiving that year and my family loved him.

The Christmas and New Year's holidays came and went, and upon returning to campus for the spring semester I'd resolved that this was now the time to come out.

One evening in late January, after we'd gone to bed, I said to David, "I have something to tell you."

"What is it?"

"You know that guy Adam I told you about? The one I met up with again at the library?"

(Adam was a guy from Phoenix whom I'd met and buddied up with during the Freshman Orientation weekend on campus the past August.)

"Yeah."

"I like him."

"Great! You made another friend. What's he like?"

"No, I like him, David. I really like him."

(It should be noted that nothing had ever actually happened between Adam and I at the library or anywhere else for that matter—but I was mightily infatuated with this now newly-minted frat boy I'd reconnected with.)

"What are you saying?"

"I'm gay, David."

There was an extended silence. After several minutes he said, "I have a confession too."

Was David about to tell me he was gay? I mean, that would be awesome.

"My uncle is Christine Jorgensen."

Now while I hadn't been officially out, I had done my gay history. I knew who Christine was.

"We don't talk about uncle George much anymore," he added.

Of course, this opened the conversational floodgates and for several days thereafter it seemed all was well in the world. David showed no signs of being freaked out, nor had his attitude toward me changed in any way.

HOWEVER, a little over a week later, David announced he was moving out of the room and in with—in his words several months later—"an Iranian who never bathed."

I soon learned that shortly after my coming out to him, David—who never had a drink in his life—had gone out one night and had gotten absolutely shit-faced. He returned to the dorm at 2 am and basically went door to door telling everyone on the floor, "Mark is a fag!"

Well, I was now officially out. It also explains why there was no hurry to backfill that empty bed and how I ended up with a single room for the remainder of the semester without having to pay for it. Membership has its privileges.

The question remained, "What now?"

Andy suggested going to one of the GSA (Gay Student Organization) meetings on campus. After ignoring his suggestions and the adverts in the student paper for weeks, one chilly February night I decided to head over to the student union and check out this GSA.

Nervous doesn't even begin to describe what I was feeling. Would I be accepted? Would they like me? Would I get raped by a group of sex-crazed homosexuals?

It turned out two of of three were correct and I left the meeting with my virginity intact.

When I first entered I was greeted by a guy named Phil Oliver. His first question—something no one had ever outright asked before—was "Are you gay?"

I answered in the affirmative.

The meeting was actually a bit of a bore, but I met a group of people who almost immediately became my tribe and ultimately confirmed two famous quotes from Richard Bach's book Illusions:

All the people, all the events in your life are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.

and

The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.

Next time on Battlestar Galactica…

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Stories – The School Years

In the original incarnation of Voenix Rising—that I stupidly deleted in 2011 after realizing a link to it had been sent out in the signature line of emails I'd sent to recruiters—I'd written multiple posts documenting my coming out and first tentative steps into gay life. It was one of the few things I truly regret not having backed up.

More recently, I've been following Mike Balaban, a gay historian on Instagram who is doing much the same thing, this time with pictures.  From what I've seen we're about the same age, and considering how everything else in the world is fucking awful right now, it's inspired me to relate my stories again, to do something positive.

Grade School

Like a lot of gay men, I'd known I liked boys instead of girls from an early age. When I first discovered masturbation in fourth grade, it was sex between men and women that captured my imagination. But then my focus turned more and more to the imaginary men in these imaginary encounters, and finally coalesced with my Phys Ed coaches and the men—not the women—in the Sears catalogs exclusively fueling my fantasies. Oh, how I eagerly anticipated the arrival of the Summer Catalogs because it meant shirtless guys in swim trunks!

Growing up, my exposure to men-who-love-men had been less-than-ideal. I don't know if my mom already sensed my budding gayness or if she was just trying to—warn?—me, but I remember her coming into my room one evening in advance of a visit by my dad's brother. She turned on the television (or changed the channel) to show me an interview happening with Truman Capote. "That is a homosexual," she said, "And so is your Uncle Eddie. I don't want you to be alone with him." The old child molester trope…

My uncle was nothing like Truman Capote. He wasn't a butch queen, but neither was he anything like the mincing, lisping example my mom was so keen to show me. Anyhow, I took some solace in knowing I wasn't the only one in the world like that, and not the only one in the family. [Spoilers: If I only known the full extent!]

Uncle Edward (R) and his "friend" Lenny (L) in 1966. They were together until Edward's death in 2002.

I remember my uncle (especially after I became an adult) as loving, generous, and very, very funny. As a child I always thought him so cosmopolitan for living in New York City. I mailed him my coming out letter in the late 1980s (because somehow he hadn't gotten the news), telling him I was "living the life" in San Francisco and hoping we could connect over drinks sometime to share stories. After not hearing from him a couple years thereafter, one Christmas in the 90s a card arrived from him with a five hundred dollar check enclosed and a note that read, "I'm sure you'll be able to put this to good use in 'frisco."

High School

Your host, 1972-1976

My freshman year in high school was the first time I fell in love with another boy. His name was Tom Pleger.

It was odd how we initially met. I was crushing hard on his best friend, a guy named Jim Hurst, with whom we all shared a Freshman Communications class. Jim wouldn't give me the time of day, but Tom and I soon discovered shared interests and we started hanging out together.

Tom's family belonged to a neighborhood Lutheran church. I'd been raised Lutheran but my family was one of those Christmas and Easter churchgoing broods. That was, until I met Tom and convinced my mom that we needed to start attending—and more regularly than just twice a year. (Ulterior motives, of course.) She was initially reluctant since this church was Missouri synod and we were Wisconsin. (How that makes any difference is just one more reason when I came out I gave up on organized religion altogether. It's all bullshit.)

Anyhow, we started attending on a regular basis and I found Jesus and developed a typical teenage religious streak that no doubt absolutely drove my dad (who was very non-religious) to absolute distraction.

Sadly, my romantic overtures to Tom were not reciprocated, and my confession of true love ended our budding friendship about a year after we met. Nothing more was said of it, and surprisingly, when we crossed paths at church he and his family were still cordial.

It was during my sophomore year that—perhaps because of my newfound churchgoing habits—my mom decided that I was well overdue for my Confirmation; a right-of-passage that would allow me to start taking communion. This led to classes led by the new, young, cute, and very liberal pastor who had just come on board. I remember the subject of homosexuality coming up during one of our question and answer sessions and he pointed out that Jesus never said anything about the subject…

Anyhow, these classes threw yet another boy into my life, Mike Knigge.

Mike was a year younger than me and a few inches taller. His family had recently moved to Phoenix from Lake Zurich, Illinois, a small suburb north of Chicago. From his description (he was terribly homesick) it sounded like a wonderful little hamlet, and I often fantasized moving there with him after we finished college and building a beautiful English Tudor home (my preferred architectural style at the time) with a huge swimming pool and cabana out back. I don't remember much of our year or so together, but it must've been something special because I grew to love him as well.

Like Tom, it all fell apart after I confessed my feelings to him.

My junior year, after Mike, I took a break from romantic entanglements with boys, no doubt because no one had entered my life to pique such interest. I spent the year concentrating on existing friendships, including the one I shared with Jean Davis.

Jean and I were inseparable; partners-in-crime. People thought we were dating, and even though she was the first—and only—girl I've kissed and made out with (there was never any sex)—I only ever thought of her as my best bud. I think she viewed me as something more however, and when I ended up leaving Phoenix to go to the University of Arizona in Tucson, we both breathed a sigh of relief when she decided to stay behind. It was a breakup without any of the associated drama.

My senior year brought my unrequited love life new trouble in the form of Daniel Baxa.

Tom and Mike were just warm-up acts. I fell hard for Daniel. But sadly, like Tom and Mike, it was ultimately not meant to be.

His family had just moved to Phoenix from somewhere and I have no memory of how or where we met or why we even started hanging together. Why do teenage boys do anything?

Why did I keep falling in love with straight boys? Because at the time I knew of no other gay boys in high school—or at least none I was even remotely attracted to. The ones who were gay were so obviously gay that they were the subject or scorn and ridicule wherever they went. It was the mid 70s, after all. Despite Stonewall years earlier, was no gay marriage, no Love, Simon positivity swirling around gay relationships.

Daniel was a bad boy. He smoked. He drank. And yet he drove a pink 1968 Mustang and loved ABBA. He was…confusing. As our friendship grew, he wasn't above physical contact, and many evenings while laying on my bed watching television, a spontaneous wrestling match would erupt, with one or the other of us getting pinned with obvious erections involved. But that was as far as it ever went, much to my disappointment. I often fantasized about just kissing him while pinned, yet never garnered enough courage to actually do it.

I was obsessed with Daniel, going so far as to climb up on the roof of our house to watch him arrive home at night from his job at Sirloin Stockade, telling my parents I was up there to "look at the stars." I even got a job at the same Sirloin Stockade the final summer before I headed to college—ostensibly to earn money for college—and it showed me what an absolute jerk he could be when it wasn't just the two of us together. It didn't sour me to him, but I learned that great life lesson of people weren't always what they seemed 100% of the time.

When I finally confessed my love, there was no big scene. I told him I loved him and he responded, "Oh, you mean like a friend?" "No," I replied. The color kind of drained from his face as I recall and he said something to the effect, "Look Mark, I like you, but I'm not…"

Holding back tears, I left his house and went home. That fall I moved to Tucson.

I heard from a mutual friend sometime later (who, by that time, also knew I was gay) that our parting left Daniel hurt and confused. He hadn't been ending our friendship; he was simply straight and didn't want anything more.

After getting his address from the same mutual friend many years later, I wrote him a letter, apologizing for the misunderstanding and asking if he'd like to talk. I never heard back.

Next time on Battlestar Galactica…

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Dining Disaster

On our way back from Tucson a week ago (has it only been a week?), the four of us wanted to stop for dinner in Casa Grande. The initial decision was to go to Olive Garden, but upon arrival it was obvious we weren't going to be seated any time soon. That led to a discussion of where else to dine, and one, well actually two of our party suggested Cracker Barrel.

I have never set foot in one of their establishments, having long since decided to boycott the chain for its past misdeeds to the GBLT community. I didn't want to go that night either, but I was outvoted.

The fact that the place was nearly deserted at 6:30 pm on a Saturday should've set off red flags, but for some reason it didn't.

After getting past the gut-wrenching kitsch, we were seated and after being handed menus, I can honestly say there wasn't a single item listed that I wanted to consume. I finally settled on a cheeseburger, assuming that would be a safe choice. Ben went with biscuits and gravy, and one of our friends went with chicken fried steak. When our food finally arrived—easily 30 minutes later—our friend took one bite of his chicken fried steak and asked his roommate to have a taste.  "It's like it was fried in stale oil." Roommate agreed, and it was sent back to the kitchen and exchanged for something different.

Ben described his biscuits and gravy as "flavorless." My cheeseburger was wholly unremarkable. The bun—much like our friends steak—was stale and the French fries were mushy, like they'd been sitting under a heat lamp for hours.

Lesson learned. Don't compromise your morals, because in the end it will get you nothing.

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It's 9 pm on a Friday Night

And I'm home. Not at all unusual for the last twenty-five years. Ben is out at the moment doing his Lyft thing to pay some bills. I don't expect him back until around 3 am, by which time I will be deep asleep and probably won't even hear him come in. I'm listening to some classic jazz on the radio while Bobo is sleeping in his bed and Sammy is running around the living room like a maniac.

Forty years ago however, at 9 pm on a Friday night I'd be heading out the door to go dancing. (We didn't call it clubbing.) I'd most likely start out the evening by meeting my friend Kent at His Co. Disco because the cover charge between 9 and 10 was only a dollar. If the crowd got boring or if certain B-list DJs were spinning, we'd then head over to The Forum. But His Co. always seemed to play better music and have the new stuff sooner. It also had a slightly raised, lighted dance floor and a much better light show, so whatever else happened we'd always start out there. I can't say I ever reliably got laid on a regular basis via either place (it wasn't until many years later that I discovered The Connection and all that changed), but His Co. was where I met the great unrequited love of my life Steve Golden, and where I connected with Paul Bayfield and Ken Coyer, the two doormen—with whom I did have carnal relations on multiple occasions. Separately. (They couldn't stand each other and were each aghast when they learned that I had slept with the other.)

Oh, and there was the boy who'd driven all the way into town from Gilbert (which was to hell and gone in relation to the club's location back in the day and still is—just not out in the middle of nowhere like it was in 1978). My buddy Chas was up from Tucson that weekend and since I was still living at home he let me borrow his hotel room for a few hours to entertain Mr. Gilbert. "Don't get anything on the sheets! I have to sleep on those!"

And come to think of it, His Co. also served up Craig—and his lover—whom I'd encountered at work as customers in the housewares department at Broadway Southwest just that afternoon. "You really should wear underwear with those Angel Flights," Craig told me later that evening. "I could almost see veins!"

Good times.

Anyway, I bring this up because my previous post about Live and More triggered lots of memories of my wonderfully misspent youth.

And speaking of 3 am, forty years ago if neither none of us was busy getting laid, I'd probably be at breakfast with Kent and a drag queen or two before heading home…

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Update

I need to keep this in mind as I head into week four of unemployment, because yes…this has forced me to admit that I really was very unhappy where I was. It was beyond time to move on, and as I've said many times in the past, "If you know it's time to make a change in your life and you don't, the Universe tends to do it for you."

I had two good in-person interviews and one relatively decent phone interview last week. I haven't heard anything back on any of them. I know I won't hear anything about the phone interview until late this week at the earliest; the next step will be an interview in person, and the hiring manager is out of town at the moment. I should hear about the other two today or tomorrow.

Tomorrow I have to attend a mandatory "Employment Reorientation" meeting at AZDES in order to continue receiving my meager $240/week unemployment benefit. (Colorado paid more than twice that.) When the notice arrived the other day, Ben quipped, "'You've been selected…' Because you're OLD and don't know how to use the internet to find a job."

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Quote of the Day

Obviously, this show is a little out of step with its misanthropy. It's a little out of step with where we're at culturally where it's a time of great optimism and we're all just knocked out daily by the warm bath of humanity that we find ourselves in these days. [Pauses, and then reveals he was being sarcastic.] No, it's a fucking disaster. It's a fucking total disaster. And every time I turn on the news I'm provided with fodder for our discontent. I think our timing might have been exactly right on.

Listen, I'm surrounded by the wonders of the creations of human beings. I have children and [series co-creator] Lisa Joy and I are reminded daily of how much beauty there is in humanity. But yeah, you turn on the fucking news and it's a shit show. And I've been reading a lot of history this season, a little bit connected to the show, but also just following the train of things I'm interested in, and it's depressing to realize how familiar some of these problems are, right? It's like we just can't figure these fucking things out. We come back to them again and again. It's as if there's a flaw—and this is very much the premise in our second season—there's a flaw in our code and it follows us around. Wherever we go, there we are. And we just can't get out of our own fucking way. All the beauty and incredible things we brought, and we just consistently find a way to fuck it up.

Much of the dramatic storytelling across the ages has concerned itself with "how will we overcome?" and personal growth and change. At a certain point you gotta fucking call it. We're not going to fix this shit, we're not going to figure it out. But there's an opportunity for the things that replace us to do so. And that's the dream of every parent, right? That their child doesn't face the same things they do, that they make better choices? But there does seem to be a pattern of behavior that follows us, that history echoes from the past, the same mistakes, the same foibles. So you say: At what point does this fix itself? Or are we just stuck this way?" ~ Jonathan Nolan, co-creator of Westworld on HBO, speaking to Entertainment Weekly

Maybe this just mirrors my general mood these days, but it sounds right on.

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Waiting For The Other Shoe To Drop

That's the only way I can describe my core emotional state for the last eighteen months.

On edge. Anxious. Can count on one hand the number of times I've gotten a good night's sleep since election night. And yet, no matter what new horror or dismantling of a sacred American principle is brought about by the illegitimate occupier of the White House or his minions with each passing day, that feeling of dread never goes away. It's never that other shoe; there's still something more, something worse ahead. It's that gnawing feeling that we haven't sunk as low as we're going to before this nightmare ends and the cancer that is eating away at this democracy is eradicated. (At least I still have that hope.) What's even more depressing is the knowledge that the 15-20% of Americans who constitute Trump's core base will be cheering every step as we descend into that darkness, even if it consumes them in the process.

I'm convinced that if bombs start raining down on us, the cognitive dissonance instilled by Faux News and its ilk on his base will guarantee that they'll go to their graves secure in their belief that it all Obama's fault…or Hillary's…or the "damn Liberals," never once accepting that it was the Orange Russian Wig Stand in the Oval Office and his malignant, sociopathic narcissism that brought about their destruction.

Is this what PTSD feels like? Seriously, I'm asking. The anxiety, the difficulty sleeping, this general feeling of doom that some days just permeates everything. And it's not just me…from the few discussions I've had at work, I'm starting to think that 80-85% of the country must be going through this in varying degrees.

As I've written before, until November a year ago, I used to enjoy Twitter. Now I can't stand to be on the platform for more than a couple minutes before I want to either start smashing heads with a metal folding chair or just sink into deep depression at the absolute stupidity displayed by my fellow humans.

And yet I still manage to find joy and peace in things both large and small: my husband, our doggies, music and the machines I use to listen to it, photography, leaving work in the afternoon, WestWorld and a dozen or so other entertainments…

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Some Thoughts About Completing Another Revolution Around The Sun

I'm now officially OLD.

Turning sixty is not the same as turning fifty.

For one thing, I feel it. Fifty was sort of a milestone, but it didn't feel appreciably different than any other birthday. Sixty, however…let's just say many parts of this body that I was never even aware of now ache on a regular basis. Bending over to get anything off the floor is a chore, and if I have to get down on the floor to do something, getting back up again is always an interesting exercise.

My energy level—while back to "normal" from what it was a few months ago—is still shit. I think about going out to wander downtown and take photos like I used to do years ago and I immediately think, "Nah. Not gonna do that." At the same time I know I need to do that if I'm going to avoid having to start buying all my clothing at Destination XL. (My daily after-work bowl of chips-n-salsa is directly to blame; I readily admit that.) But I watch all these home improvement shows on television and think, "Okay, these folks are half my age, but still…where do they get the energy to do that?"

And time. Where has that gone? Thirty years ago how did I somehow manage to find several hours to do nothing but work on my tan every week and still have other interests and a life?

Getting a good night's sleep is a rarity. I don't know if that's directly attributable to age or just general anxiety. Almost every morning since January 2017 my first thought upon waking has been, "What has the asshole in the White House done now?" I'm starting to think that pretty much everyone who didn't vote for the Orange Russian Wig Stand is suffering some degree of PTSD these days, and the damage that he's continuing to do not only to our country's reputation around the world but also to our collective unconscious is going to take a long time to repair—even if he's removed from office tomorrow.

The no-longer-suffering-fools-gladly attitude that sprouted when I turned fifty is now in full bloom, but there is still only so much bullshit you can call out on a daily basis.

I'm now older than either of my grandfathers were when I was born.

I've also developed that "old man shuffle," although truth be told I may have always walked that way and it's only because I've only recently seen myself on video that it's now so obvious. (My parents were forever telling me to "pick up my feet" when I was a kid, and based on the wear patterns on the soles of my shoes I suspect it's always been this way.)

I'm really ready to retire. My sister—five years younger than me!—is retiring at the end of this school year. Lucky bitch. Three friends have also called it quits. I've had enough workplace bullshit; I don't care if your PowerPoint won't open. Despite what you believe, THE WORLD IS NOT GOING TO END BECAUSE OF IT. Unfortunately retirement is still at least five or six years away—more likely ten if I want to get the maximum Social Security benefit available. And that's assuming that Social Security is still a thing at that point…

And I guess that's it.

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Where is the Passion?

One of the things I've been struggling with in this Trumpian episode of The Twilight Zone we now find ourselves living in is a complete and utter lack of passion about pretty much anything (my relationships notwithstanding) that I used to throw myself into with abandon.

I still enjoy writing/blogging (such that it is) and there are television shows I get caught up in, but when it comes down to actually creating, the fire's gone out.

I have a friend (well, actually two friends) who gush over my painting and photography (one of whom has a fantasy of me opening my own gallery, bless her heart) and are constantly asking when I'm going to start putting brush to canvas or taking photos again. I tell them both that the Muses have (hopefully only temporarily, I tell even myself) forsaken me for whatever reason—but I worry sometimes that it goes deeper than that.

I've been in such a funk since the 2016 election I simply don't care about creating much of anything any more. I mean, why bother? The world has gone to hell and the Cheeto-faced Shitgibbon in the White House is well on the way to undoing an entire generation's worth of American progress and obliterating our country's standing in the world in less than two years —with no end to this destruction in sight.

PAINTING

I simply have no passion. There is no fire burning within me to create the way it used to. I now consider the amount of work required to produce a painting and immediately think, "Ain't nobody got time for that." I shouldn't be thinking of it as work, at all, for chrissake! It should be an expression of joy! (My last painting—Ben's portrait—was actually done nearly ten years ago, so it can't be based wholly on the illegitimate presidency of the Orange Russian Wig Stand, but this lack of desire to pick up a paint brush has certainly been exacerbated by it.) I've had other dry spells that have gone longer than ten years without producing a single painting, so I'm not worried that the Muses have abandoned me completely, but more and more I look at Ben's portrait and catch myself wondering if that actually is my last painting.

PHOTOGRAPHY

I also can't tell you the last time I went out with my camera—or even just my phone—for the express purpose of simply taking photos.

No, wait. That's a lie. It was about ayear ago when we drove down to Picacho Peak to photograph the poppies. Prior to that it was December 2016 when I went out out to see the architecturally interesting White Tank Library.

In those rare instances when the photo bug has bitten me, more often than not I go to grab my camera and discover the battery pack is dead and needs to be charged. By the time it's charged the urge has passed. (Granted, for 90% of the types of photography I do, my phone will suffice—and more and more it actually surpasses the results I get from my DSLR—so I can't really use the dead battery defense as much as I'd like to, but you get the drift.)

I used to make photo books for those same friends as holiday gifts; this last year I hadn't taken enough photos I considered worthy enough to even bother putting one together. I miss doing photography, but not yet enough to get me out and about and wanting to take photos simply for the sake of taking photos.

Don't get me wrong. I still take hundreds of photos every year—but none are done with any planning or purpose. And damn few are what I would personally consider high art (worthy of actually printing out and framing).

My friends respond to my current lack-of-creativity with, "Well you need to do something to get your mind off this horror show." Yes, I know. But right now I simply have absolutely no desire to make anything, and therein lies the rub.

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Of Stoplights And The Law Of Averages

Because I got nothin' else at the moment.

There are ten stoplights between my house and work. (I know, it's a short commute.)

Of those ten, I will always stop at three in particular—no matter when I leave, or how many of the others I have to stop—or don't stop—at.

Beyond that, it's a crap shoot. Some days I can breeze through with only four total stops, other days it's six. On rare occasions I hit only those three lights red, and on very rare occasions I end up stopping at 9 out of 10 (one intersection is always green).

But on average I stop at five lights on my morning commute.

Wasn't that exciting?

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Summer In The City

I am generally not a fan of summer.

Surprisingly, it isn't because of the 6-8 weeks of +110℉ temps we endure in Phoenix; that I can deal with. It's because of the early morning light.

As I've gotten older, my sleep patterns have become increasingly erratic. I'm almost always in deep sleep within moments of my head hitting the pillow and usually have no recollection of Ben coming to bed. Some (rare) nights I don't wake up until my alarm goes off. Other nights are a series of one hour blocks of sleep punctuated by half-to-full hour gaps of wakefulness—or a single incident of waking around 4 am and then tossing and turning until I finally fall back to sleep moments before the alarm goes off. Thankfully, most nights are usually just a single incident of getting up to use the bathroom (something I've done since I was a teenager, so no…it's not my aging plumbing) and then falling right back to sleep upon returning to bed.

I understand that sleep problems are a grossly underreported aspect of aging. I know my dad suffered as he got older, and when I was in my 30s I was incredulous when he told me he'd wake up at 3 in the morning and more often than not, struggle—or not be able at all—to get back to sleep.

I'm also beginning to understand why he had sheets of black plastic completely covering his bedroom windows.

We have dark grey curtains in the bedroom. Closing them—and the blinds behind—does an decent job of keeping the room dark at night. But at this time of year with the sun coming up so early, the room still starts getting light around 5 am. It also doesn't help that the dogs have reset their internal clocks to match the sun. They used to sleep until my alarm went off at 6; now they're crawling on top of me anywhere from 5-5:30, demanding to be let out.

I can't tell you the last time I woke up fully refreshed from a typical night's sleep. Lately it seems I'm as exhausted—or more so—than when I went to bed. The one recent time I do remember waking fully recharged and feeling good was either a Saturday or Sunday a couple months ago where I got up at the usual time, piddled around the house for an hour or so and then went back to bed, sleeping in until shortly after noon.

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Me, Today

No energy today. Slept in until 10 a.m. Got up and mowed the front yard before it got too warm. Started laundry. Vegged in front of the computer/television the rest of the day. Fighting the urge to take a late-afternoon nap right now…

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Something Something Arrow Backwards Something

There is a quote that is something along the lines of If it feels life is drawing you backwards it's only because the Archer is drawing back his arrow to let you fly. Or something. I know I either blogged the original quote or sent it to multiple people in an email, but I'll be damned if I can find a trace of it anywhere.

I kept that quote in mind as I was slogging through my employment at DISH, knowing that things couldn't get much worse and the only direction I could go was up.

The other day it dawned on me that this could also be an apt description of society and civilization as well. Sometimes it just needs to feel like everything is going backward in preparation for a truly monumental leap forward.

Maybe that's what is happening with the current situation in these United States. The longer 45 is in office, the more we're drawn backward, but once he's gone we'll spring forward and regain everything that was lost and more with an energy and intensity not seen since the end of World War II.

At least that's what I'd like to believe.

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On Getting Old

I am finally coming to grips that I am no longer a young man. I am no longer in a targeted demographic and not only have the leaves fallen from the trees in the seasons of my life, the first cold blush of winter is fast approaching.

Last week a dear friend whom I've known since we were both in our early 30s turned 60. I sent him a birthday greeting inscribed:

Turning 30: We couldn't wait. We were now adults.
Turning 40: We laughed it off by exchanging nose hair clippers as gifts.
Turning 50: We rationalized it. 50 is still middle age, right?
But damn Skippy, 60 is OLD!

And with us both being part of that generation that was decimated by AIDS in the 1990s, I hastened to add, "But all that really matters is that you're still here and I am so happy because of that!"

My dad always told me that the 30s were the best years of one's life and that I should live them to the fullest. Unfortunately I squandered the greater portion of that decade pining over a man who would never give me what I wanted and trying desperately to fill the void that left behind, but when I look back I'd have to say that yes, in spite of that I still worked those years for all they were worth. [oink]

But it wasn't until my 40s—and the cancer diagnosis halfway through that decade—that I finally became comfortable in my own skin. Instead of constantly beating myself up over not ever losing those 20 pounds so I would feel confident enough to wear a tank top to the Pride Parade, it was far easier (and more satisfying) to just accept who I was, love it, and move on.

And with apologies to my dad, I would have to say that my 50s—despite the career ups and downs—has been if not the best, then at least the most…satisfying so far.

Now I'm not even remotely close to having one foot in the grave yet, but if I am to be completely honest with myself—based solely on the lifespans of the men in my family—and barring anything unforeseen (accident, incurable terminal illness, being sent to a Nazi Death Camp or Nuclear annihilation stemming from an ill-timed Presidential tweet), I probably have about another 25-30 years ahead of me.

And I'm okay with that. Being this age affords me the luxury of no longer suffering fools gladly and allows me to speak my mind perhaps more often than I probably ought to and still get away with it. Of course it also has drawbacks, almost all of them physical. I can't go bounding up and down stairs the way I used to. Getting up off the floor has become a major proposition. And the knees. OMG, the knees. But considering the other myriad health issues I've dealt with over the course of my life, this stuff is small potatoes.

And I love small potatoes!