MARK & DANIEL

Mark & Daniel decided to get married at City Hall the night before Election Day, as gads of early voters flocked to the polls in the basement. The irony of the situation was apparent; one of my favorite slogans was “When do I get to vote on YOUR marriage?” Luckily, we were in San Francisco, so many voters emerging from the basement cheered and clapped for the same-sex couples marrying in the rotunda. In fact, one of these supportive types snapped this pic after the short but sweet ceremony.

The grooms’ biological families down in LA are wholly supportive but couldn’t attend due to the last-minute nature of the ceremony, so Matt and I were conscripted to serve as witnesses and media coordinators. As with “the girls” in the entry below, this decision took some balls/ovaries, asking someone who is so blatantly single to participate in such a momentous event, but allí está la gracia de la situación and I didn’t hesitate for a moment. After all, Mark & Daniel are my role models for couplehood. If I ever decide to settle down, the relationship will have to be a lot like theirs.

Matt filmed the proceedings while my job was to hold cell phones nearby so the families could listen in. I also provided a little comic relief when I got confused during the ring handoff. Nevertheless, we all lost our composure as Mark & Daniel sputtered and cried their way through their original vows, which they had composed privately and were hearing for the first time. Even the DMC (Deputy Marriage Commissioner) had tears in her eyes, and I was struck by the fact that their vows moved her even though she had performed hundreds of these ceremonies previously. There was so much power behind those words, it was really quite remarkable, and I allowed myself to think that love has to win out in the end.

The sad reality is that misguided and/or hateful people on the wrong side of history voted to take civil rights away from us. Someday I hope future generations (including their own kids) will gape in disbelief at the way the religious wrong used democracy for nefarious purposes through Prop 8. (2-4-6-8, separation of Church and State!) The two ceremonies recounted here were different in many ways, but what they had in common was an expression of love and acceptance in the face of hatred and intolerance. In a way, these two dear couples decided to take the plunge and hedge their bets at the same time: our commitment will last even if the law supporting it does not.

You’ll notice that the term “cynical idealism” appears in my blog’s subtitle, so if you’re ever looking for me, that’s where I’ll be: waiting for the bus at the intersection of Love and Pragmatism.

DENISE & JULIANNE

As you all know, the passage of Prop 8 was a travesty. I haven’t been this angry at California voters since Schwarzenegger was elected. Several friends tied the knot “before the deadline” (which is an awful thing to write when you think about it), but my teaching schedule only allowed me to attend two ceremonies. The first was Denise & Julianne’s shindig in Folsom. Photos courtesy of Nick & Ken, with the relevant caption appearing below each one. As always, click on the pics for a better view.



Here you can see the moment where I ripped the microphone out of the officiant’s hand and launched into an a cappella rendition of “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” But seriously, folks, I was so honored when “the girls” asked me to give a reading at their ceremony, then so relieved that the text wasn’t some syrupy schmaltz I don’t really believe. I’ve posted the reading in the entry below titled CEREMONY TEXT. (By the way, the actual caption should read: “Don’t make me cry,” I whispered to Denise.)



Jackson joins his moms on the dance floor. The whole evening, I kept thinking, “This is my friggin’ MA thesis (on lesbian/gay parenthood) come alive!” I also realized that I hadn’t been to a wedding since 1995 (ciao, Luisa!) and that I’d forgotten what it was like to “feel the love in a room” in this (non-sexual) manner.



The number of well-wishing friends and relatives in attendance was overwhelming. Here Julianne dances to “In the Mood” with her 99-year-old grandmother. This photo represents the loving attitude that those religious bigots can’t seem to understand: “My granddaughter is in love, has a beautiful child, and wants to celebrate her union publicly and legally. What’s the big deal? Let’s dance!” This sentiment was also captured in my two favorite signs from the subsequent anti-Prop 8 protests:
I’m straight and I’m pissed.
OMG WTF SRSLY?



As the best man, Julianne’s brother gave a moving speech about the ongoing struggle for civil rights, made even more meaningful by the fact that his partner was seated next to him as a member of the wedding party. Who can be against such cuteness, really?

CEREMONY TEXT

I was honored to read the following text at Denise & Julianne's wedding:

From "Goodridge vs. Department of Health" by Massachusetts Supreme Court Chief Justice Margaret H. Marshall.

Marriage is a vital social institution. The exclusive commitment of two individuals to each other nurtures love and mutual support; it brings stability to our society. For those who choose to marry, and for their children, marriage provides an abundance of legal, financial, and social benefits. In return it imposes weighty legal, financial, and social obligations...

Without question, civil marriage enhances the "welfare of the community." It is a "social institution of the highest importance"...

Marriage also bestows enormous private and social advantages on those who choose to marry. Civil marriage is at once a deeply personal commitment to another human being and a highly public celebration of the ideals of mutuality, companionship, intimacy, fidelity, and family...

Because it fulfils yearnings for security, safe haven, and connection that express our common humanity, civil marriage is an esteemed institution, and the decision whether and whom to marry is among life's momentous acts of self-definition.

A GAY HERO FOR OUR TIME

Why is diving so gay?

I think that’s a rhetorical question, but I’m not sure. Is there something about displaying one’s nearly naked body in all sorts of uncomfortably sexy positions that attracts gay men disproportionately (as both participants and observers)? Is it just porn with gravity and chlorine?

Between the slo-mo, the stro-mo, the grunt mic, and the underwater camera (showing lots of adjustments and even a few cracks), the coverage of the Beijing diving events was almost too much to bear. I was riveted.

Do you remember when someone produced a video of Greg Louganis diving in slow motion, set to classical music? That was spooge-tastic, and not just in the obvious way.

If diving is gay, then synchronized diving is extremely gay, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. One straight male blogger was made uncomfortable by footage of the diving partners showering off and chatting after each dive. Hello?! Have you ever been in a locker room? Making small talk in the shower is a friggin art form. Could that writer be more stereotypically straight, projecting his own repressed fantasies and obvious homophobia?

The two divers didn’t just finish having sex. The glowing, sheepish, pissed, or pained looks they’re shooting at each other have to do with athletic performance, not sexual performance, as much as we might wish for the latter. I guess that’s the difference between straight men and gay men. We have the same thoughts but different reactions to those thoughts: one group pukes and the other group shoots.

I say, MAKE DIVING GAYER. Feature different looks for each dive, with scores given for hairstyles, bathing suits, soundtrack, splash designs, and thematic unity. How about a series of snaps or dance moves to celebrate poolside? Synchronized diving could take it a step further, with the incorporation of synchronized swimming moves to transport divers from the point of entry to the deck. In what kind of formation will they pop out of the water? Such suspense! Or just a simple make-out session would suffice. Hot!

Speaking of hot, I have two words for you: Alexandre Despatie. This Canadian silver medalist is just head-bangingly gorgeous. On the flip side, what’s up with American Troy Dumais and his teensy nipples? The commentators mentioned that he had trained himself down to 4% body fat. Does that mean his body is so starved for fat that it’s sucking his nipples in? As the extreme bears at Lone Star might yell, “Eat something, Calista!”

Now back to Matthew Mitcham and what he has achieved. I cannot overemphasize what a huge deal this is for gays everywhere. To be the only openly gay male athlete at the 2008 Summer Games, and then to beat out the favorite on his home turf…that is the very definition of FABOO.

It’s true that NBC didn’t mention anything about Mitcham’s sexual orientation or milestone achievement, but if you watch the closing slo-mo montage with Bob Costas’ insipid voiceover, there is a brief shot of Mitcham hugging his mother in the stands after the medal ceremony.

I’m extremely interested to know how Mitcham has been portrayed by the Australian press and received by the Australian public. The sad truth is that you can be an Olympic gold medalist, but to some people you’re still just a fag and nothing more. Nothing is ever enough to erase that fact.

I remember when Greg Louganis was the grand marshal of San Diego’s Gay Pride Parade one year, and the fanatical Christians in the protest zone held up signs like, “Die of AIDS and Burn in Hell, Diseased Faggot.” Seriously.

While reading a Yahoo blog about Mitcham’s victory, I noticed one Neanderthal’s comment on Mitcham’s unfair advantage. It went something like this: Since he’s a fag, he’s used to holding his breath thanks to all the cocksucking. Huh?

In spite of such idiocy, I went to bed with a big smile on my face, and as I drifted off, I had the thought, “Well, at least we prevented a Chinese sweep of the diving medals.” I sat right up, just like in the movies, and went WTF?!

What the hell was this “we”, and why the nationalistic bent? I’ve never even visited Australia and I have nothing against the Chinese (except for my former landlord). It’s because the “we” was the gay “we,” which crosses all sorts of borders. And I felt that somehow I was able to share in this victory. I hope that Mitcham keeps representin’ and inspires a new generation of gays, athletes, gay athletes, and their supporters…just as he inspired a husky, balding, American, bitter queen over 40 with Speedo envy.

PHELPS MANIA

I’m absolutely not trying to diminish the mind-blowing feats achieved by Michael Phelps in Beijing, but it was surreal to see the commentators analyze and dissect his body with the help state-of-the-art computer graphics in order to explain his success. Does the whole world need to know that his flat butt helps him move faster in the water? I wonder, would they say the same thing about a runner’s smallish, tight nutsac?

They went into great detail about his caloric intake, including a long list of breakfast items, and I thought to myself, “Oh boy, if they’re going down this road, the next logical topic is to discuss his ‘output’ (to put it delicately), and if this devolves into athletic scat talk (to put it indelicately), I’m so out of here.”

And why not mention his lisp, his candidacy for cosmetic dental work, and his penchant for saying “I’m at a loss of words” instead of “I’m at a loss FOR words”?

Anyway, I started pondering what was behind this odd line of thought, which led me to a sort of nightmarish semiotic flashback to the six-year sentence I served in UCSD’s Lit Crit Viper Pit. I then recalled clipping a short piece out of the New Yorker which epitomized academic folly for me in a very sharp manner. (June 9 & 16, 2008) In “Goombah 101,” Joan Acocella wrote that Fordham University recently hosted a conference about “The Sopranos.” Two paper titles she mentioned were:

“Blabbermouth Cunts”: “The Sopranos” and the Feminist Dilemma

A “Finook” in the Crew: Vito Spatafore and the Queering of the Mob Genre

I don't know whether to laugh or cry, really. Maybe academia really is mental masturbation at its core. These dickwads respond to some pop-culture product on a gut level, then try to justify this obsession with theoretical tracts about “what’s at stake,” in the immortal words of the UCSD queer theory specialist whose name must never be spoken. I know someone who wrote a paper on the Spice Girls. Enough said.

So in the spirit of academic hoo-ha, here are some possible titles for you to chew on:

Patriotic Bodies: Large Wingspans, Flexible Ankles, and Flat Butts

Beijing’s Gold-Medal 100 Free Relay: Do Americans Display the Best Ab Domi-Nation?

Michael Phelps Dissected: Dolphin Kicks, Lingering Lisps, and Big Ears

Bullying Michael Phelps: Tweaked Ears and the Revenge of the Nerd

The Most Important Meal of the Day: Michael Phelps, Wheaties, and Chocolate Chip Pancakes

I Will Be Your Father Figure: Michael Phelps, Mark Spitz, and Unmarried Coaches

OLYMPIAN DROOL

What do the Olympic Games mean to me? The thrill of victory? The agony of defeat? The brotherhood of man? The politics of athletics? The stickiness of patriotism? The stench of corporate sponsorship?

Get real…it’s all about beautiful bodies and men who weep during medal ceremonies.

What is this thing I have about crying men? Besides Heath Ledger pictured below in the previous entry, it could be Matt Damon losing it in “Good Will Hunting” or Noah Wyle weeping in a bathroom stall on “ER” or almost anybody on “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition”. Give me a strong jawline, quivering lips, watery eyes—and I’m all over the floor.

I call it a “non-sexual turn-on” but friends at a recent gathering poo-pooed the idea as hopelessly contradictory (hello, look who you’re dealing with) and said it was a fetish, pure and simple. Regardless of what we call it, it’s not about sex or humiliation or schadenfreude, but instead warm-n-fuzzy things like joy and pride and expansiveness of spirit. (Who remembers warm fuzzies and cold pricklies from Round Meadow Elementary School?! Maybe that’s where it all started…)


There were so many gorgeous bodies on parade, way too many to name here, but three notable American specimens somewhat overshadowed by others were David Lee (volleyball), Nick Symmonds (track), and Ryan Lochte (swimming, pictured above).

Speaking of Lochte, who thankfully went topless for his gold-medal backstroke performance, to hell with those state-of-the-art swimsuits! When I see men wearing them along with swim caps, I’m reminded of the East German female swimmers of yore. If American aquatics organizations really want swimming to become a more popular sport in the US, show some skin, damnit! Who doesn’t like to see four scantily clad studs hugging each other with heaving abs and perky nipples? Geez!

On that note, allow me to weigh in on the beach volleyball debate. Mr. All-or-Nothing says: “Either strip down the men or allow the women to cover up!” This goes beyond the T&A factor. I’m talking about health issues. The women have to expose more of themselves to skin cancer, but the men don’t? Hell, make the men wear Speedos and THEN we’ll have a beach party.

For all of the yummy muscles and raised arms on display, there was a severe lack of pit hair, especially in gymnastics. I understand the reasoning behind shaving for swimmers (a student once casually mentioned shaving parties and I about plotzed on the spot), but beyond that, I guess other athletes do it for aesthetic reasons? I mean, does pit hair really distract the judges during routines on the rings, even if tastefully groomed?

American gymnast Jonathan Horton, the scrappy little fratboy with the freakishly ginormous biceps, seems to have found a happy medium by trimming his pit hair nicely (as did a few of the divers). So thank you, Jonathan, even though you’re probably a huge prick/Republican I would absolutely detest in real life.

Was anyone else creaming over the volleyball players in general? All that height, sweat, arm-age, body art, and facial hair! One homophobic blogger questioned the fact that volleyball teams huddle and pat each other’s butts after each play, calling the players needy. I say, BRING IT ON!

As the volleyball tournament progressed, did you notice that the cameras started shooting the guys from the waist up during those huddles? Of course you did, because you’re as “perversant” as I am. (Combination of perverted and observant…or conversant with perversion?) WTF? It’s OK in football but not volleyball? Hypocrites!

A few names that struck my fancy:
Liam Tancock, swimming, Great Britain
Karen Burncock, trampoline, Canada
Michael Rimmer, track, Great Britain

Parting snarky comment in reference to the Chinese gymnast “scandal”: A government altering official documents? Duh! That NEVER happens, especially not in the USA.

Finally, as you may have noticed, I have written a separate entry on the latest gay hero, Matthew Mitcham, Australian gold medalist in men’s 10m platform diving. Oy! Well done, mate!

Farewell, Heath

In honor of Heath Ledger's passing, I thought I would post some excerpts from my review of BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, followed by some closing thoughts I left out of the original review for fear of spoiling the ending.

Sure, the media circus surrounding Ledger's death is appalling, but no one can deny the power of this film, and especially his performance in it, for current and future generations of queers.

"You all know that any movie about queer longing is my bread and butter, though too often I’m disappointed by poor acting, lousy writing, and abysmal production values, i.e., most of what passes for queer cinema at the annual film festival. I usually don’t respond well to hype but one look at the trailer online knocked me out. I didn’t know whether to spooge or cry, so I did both.

http://www.brokebackmountainmovie.com/splash.html

Heath Ledger deserves all of the accolades being lobbed his way. You may recall that I noted his tortured performance in MONSTER’S BALL as full of promise. I love being right. In character, he almost always guards his eyes with his cowboy hat or a lowered head, so when the camera finally finds him looking directly at someone or something, the effect of those puppydog brown eyes is striking and melting. For this reason, the diner scene between him and Linda Cardellini (of ER fame) is so moving to me. (“Oh, Ennis, girls don’t fall in love with fun.”) She is looking right at him with those big, watering eyes and he can’t bring himself to look back. How many women have gay men hurt on the road to coming out? Hello! [...]

Just the idea that this film is being called “controversial” makes me want to flip out and move to Canada or Europe. Gimme a friggin’ break! Maybe BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN will redefine the American cultural divide from blue states vs. red states to viewers vs. non-viewers. Most of my female friends, regardless of their orientation, get off on man-to-man action, so I guess I’m addressing the few heterosexual men on my email list in terms of the squeamishness reported in various media outlets: If you can’t handle the tame representations of gayness in this film, then there is simply no hope for you, period, and if you procreate, I feel sorry for your children if any of them turn out to be queer.

Miscreant hacks like Gene Shalit and Michael Medved have mischaracterized the film in terms of sexual predators and glorified adulterers. This is so typical of right-wing nonsense. Listen up, you ugly fucks: You can’t contribute to a homophobic culture and then criticize people (or characters) who are scared or pressured into disastrous heterosexual marriages due to that homophobic culture. To hell with circular logic!

One reviewer struggled with the behavior vs. identity conundrum by asking, 'Are they in love because they’re gay or are they gay because they’re in love?' I think that’s beside the point. My advice is to sit back, be patient, and let the heartbreaking beauty of the film wash over you. By the end, when Ennis visits Jack's childhood home, there’s so much going on emotionally that I could hardly catch my breath."

Much has been said, and rightly so, about the scene where Ennis discovers the intertwined shirts in Jack's old bedroom and takes a big, teary whiff. (Of course, THE SIMPSONS couldn't help but parody this moment. In one episode, Bart and Nelson Muntz wear matching denim vests during their brief friendship, and afterwards Bart takes the vest out of the closet for a nostalgic sniff.)

But the symbolism of the open window is what really got to me. When Ennis enters the room, he props the window open a little, and there is a small bench in front of it. One can imagine Jack sitting there for hours as a child, like so many of us did: dreaming of escape, wondering if there is a place where we could live more freely, and hoping to be welcomed back home by our loved ones, but as our true selves. Ennis leaves the house with the shirts in a paper bag (offered wordlessly and poignantly by Jack's mother), and if you look closely, you can see that the window is still open, as if Jack's true spirit had finally been released.

The Power of Scones

Another excerpt from "Leaving San Diego" (1997):

The turning point in my decision to leave San Diego occurred in November 1996, a period of time I lovingly refer to as my mini-nervous breakdown. For reasons that still remain unclear, I became totally obsessed with the wonderful British film, "Beautiful Thing." What is it about this film that made me see it seven times at the Guild? Why does this budding romance between two working-class teenage chaps taste so bittersweet in my mouth? Didn't I get past that gay-teenager loneliness years ago? Why am I reliving it now, over and over again, every time I see the movie, listen to the soundtrack, or read the original play?

In the midst of all this turmoil, it rained. I dusted off my Doc Martens, my crappy jeans, and my bent umbrella, then headed off to the heart of Hillcrest to buy the "Beautiful Thing" CD and a mocha espresso scone ($1.62 at The Study). All these idiotic people were smoking cigarettes on balconies or blabbing on cell phones in doorways: "Like, omigod, it's totally raining here!" (It's true what they say about rain in SoCal...people just can't deal.) After making my purchases, I slowly made my way home, trying not to step on snails.

For once, I had my eyes wide open instead of squinting behind sunglasses, and those boots kept right on walking, past my studio at The Provincial Apartments (aka White Trash Villas) and into the Bankers' Hill area. I felt like a robot suddenly breaking free from a looped, obsolete program. "WHAT THE HELL AM I STILL DOING IN THIS FUCKING TOWN?!" Right then and there, I decided that I had to leave San Diego after spring quarter, come hell or high water. It was quite a liberating moment, so I just walked and walked, revelling in it. I turned back only when I realized that my gum was stale and my flannel shirt was starting to smell funny.

Because I was a dripping mess, I marched right into the bathroom (like when Mom would yell, "March right into the basement!") and stripped down. Then I experienced the post-rain pleasure of putting on an old sweatshirt, flannel shorts, and wool socks. As the water boiled, I rekindled my eternal struggle with shrink wrap; one can never get to CDs and scones quickly enough. Then everything was ready, and the sensory overload was too much--the relief of the momentous decision, the rush of the sugar, the corny sentiment of the CD--so I just blubbered into my hot chocolate.

Three Epiphanies at Jimmy Carter's

Back in my San Diego days, I spent a lot of time at Jimmy Carter's Cafe, making my way through their eclectic menu. I haven't visited Bland Diego in several years, but Sandra tells me that the restaurant is still there, on the corner of Fifth & Spruce. Here is an excerpt from my 1997 opus, Leaving San Diego:

This is where Victor stumbled upon the core of my daily existence. I was having a ball with my sterling omelette, organizing each mouthful for the optimal combination of ingredients. Victor was atypically silent so I looked up and found him grinning with some incisive, evil comment on the tip of his forked (beso negro) tongue. I blurted, "Shut up, I know what you're going to say!" But it was too late. He asked the question anyway: "You REALLY enjoy your food, don't you?" Why yes, I do, as a matter of fact. This boy has very few vices but, gosh, are they doozies!

In the very same booth a few months later, I was enjoying an impromptu brunch with stewardess Ken, who had an unexpected layover in San Diego. I'd encouraged him to order the "plowboy," which always struck me as a rather pornographic name for a relatively innocuous dish, unless you're counting calories and grams of fat. Sure enough, there is a Falcon porn called The Plowboys. Can't you just picture the lusty, cornfed (cornholing) antics down on the farm?

In any case, a plowboy consists of browned potatoes, tomatoes, green onions, and bacon bits, all covered with cheddar cheese, one egg (any style), and sausage gravy. Ken was enthralled; it was a cheap, hearty meal that hit the spot. While swimming in Ken's praise, I quipped, "Peg, my dear OLDER sister who didn't get the brains OR the gams, would I ever steer you wrong?" He replied, "You really know how to take care of a guy, Irene. You'd make a great husband." Say it, sister! Just don't mention the fact that I know nothing about cars, plumbing, home repair, decorating, cooking, or wine.

In contrast, the least humorous front-booth revelation, which struck me as I listlessly paged through my New Yorker, inspired me to write the following:
--------------------
WHICH ONE (4/7/97)
I don't know if it was the Jewel song piping in
or the discombobulation of the first Monday of daylight savings
but there we were
all pretending to read something
betrayed by the extra hour of sunlight
sideswiped by our utter loneliness

widowed late 60's black cardigan grilled salmon slight Hepburn shake
divorced late 40's tan pantsuit pollo verde botched facelift
unmarried late 20's Laura Ashley floral print burger & fries bad posture

Which one am I?
--------------------

So, yes, I will definitely miss the cheap, eclectic food at Jimmy Carter's, where the busboy automatically knows to bring me iced tea with a straw before removing the second place setting.

The Year Was 1987, Part Three

Another reason for the dramatic re-invention of my persona was falling in love for the first time, right around the age of 20. I was working as a Service Assistant (busboy) at Chi-Chi's, a Mexican restaurant chain some of you may know. As this was my second summer there, I already knew several of my co-workers, especially Melody, but there was a new waiter named Tim who was creating quite a stir in the hearts and crotches of the waitstaff. He was dating Carol, the innocent Catholic-girl hostess, but my gaydar and I knew better.

This interstational busboy-waiter-hostess triangle was made even more complicated by the fact that Doreen, another veteran waitress, had a crush on me and was in charge of dividing the waitstaff among the four dining rooms. Thus, more often than not, Tim, Melody, Doreen, and I all worked together like clockwork in the terrace. This nifty arrangement afforded me much more hang-time with Tim than Carol got, since she only stayed in the room long enough to seat the guests, who had no inkling of the food-service melodrama they were witnessing.

Since I clocked out well before the servers, I had time to go home, scrape the grease off, and change clothes before our after-hours activities: eating, drinking, and leaving exorbitant tips. Then, after Tim dropped Carol off, he would come pick me up for our roadside makeout sessions. Yes, folks: 1987 was *my* Summer of Love or, as I prefer to call it, Sex in a Subaru. I've always wondered what my poor mother thought. She would see/hear me go to work, come back five hours later, primp for an hour, leave again, come back again two hours later, wait patiently on the living-room sofa for thirty minutes, leave again, and return just before dawn. Ah, the resiliency of youth...simply rinse and repeat.

While I was truly excited about returning to Wooster to begin my junior year, I also knew that this meant things would never be the same between Tim and me. The night before I left, one of those incredible summer thunderstorms barreled through the Delaware Valley. We drove around in the rain, parked, cried, and held each other. Those four things, over and over, all night long. Even now, every time I hear one of "our" songs from that summer--"With or Without You" (U2), "A Little Bit of Heart and Soul" (T-Pau), "Didn't We Almost Have It All" (Whitney Houston)--I still remember the sound of the storm and the dampness of it all.

The Year Was 1987, Part Two

However, my reputation wasn't the only thing endangered by these clandestine meetings with Leo. Since he literally lived on the other side of the tracks, I was also risking bodily harm. After every session, he would beg me to stay, but I refused because word would get around (from the dorm's "conserje" and my dorky Spanish roommate) that I spent the night elsewhere.

Wistfully, I would take my leave while Leo put on his white robe and stepped out to the balcony for a smoke. As I walked away, I would look back periodically to see if he was still there, watching over me, the shadowy figure in the white robe. Right before I turned the corner, I would stop and wave, and even though I couldn't see his shape anymore, his cigarette would signal back, like a single firefly blinking an orange farewell.

I can't believe I was never assaulted, the gay American bull's eye in jean jacket and loafers, haughtily clacking down the street. The crumbling, abandoned buildings reminded me of post-WWII London (or North Philly), and I barely breathed until I reached the main thoroughfare, where finding a taxi at 4am was yet another adventure.

I eventually stopped seeing Leo because it was getting more and more complicated. He only had a phone at work, and my Spanish wasn't good enough at the time to understand his doublespeak when co-workers were around. He started saying that he was going to miss me when I went back to the States, and I ran scared. Plus, the Americans were becoming suspicious of my unexplained disappearances.

For the next few months, I was one horny, closeted, post-adolescent American abroad in a sea of horny, closeted, post-Franco Spaniards. One day at the Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, I was gracefully descending the staircase after another bleary-eyed morning of classes when Kimberly appeared, blocking my passage, hands on hips. She was a no-nonsense Wellesley woman who flirted with me in a non-sexual way, sort of like Dámaris when I first arrived in San Diego, all double entendres and raised eyebrows. Kimberly said flatly, "OK. Just say it. Just say yes." Although momentarily stunned, I knew this moment had to come sooner or later, so I shrugged and said, "Yes?" She smiled and replied, "Good. Now that that's out of the way, we can cut the crap and talk about cute boys."

Kimberly's coolness encouraged me to come out to several other people in the program, who in turn inspired me to come out with a vengeance at Wooster. I don't have to tell you that there's no bigger bitch on this planet than a closeted gay man trying to deflect attention away from his own sex life (or lack thereof) by getting involved in everyone else's business. Several acquaintances at Wooster noticed the change in my general demeanor and went on to become good friends during junior and senior year, not having to keep their distance for fear of incurring my wrath and scrutiny.

The Year Was 1987, Part One

The year began with my semester abroad. Although this was an overwhelmingly positive experience, I found myself re-closeted at first. Granted, I'd only taken a few tentative steps out of the closet at Wooster. Only a select few of my friends had been officially informed, though many others suspected. I mean, hello!

Meeting Leo at a nightclub called Burbujas (Bubbles) during my second week in Spain exacerbated this closet crisis. Several times, I had to sneak out of the dorms to see him. On one occasion, there was to be a huge party in the clubhouse, and all of the Americans were anxious to make a good impression (i.e., get laid). After faking an illness and then getting all dolled up in private, I actually crawled past the clubhouse, under the windows, on my hands and knees to avoid detection. What can I say? Desperate measures for desperate times.

At the bottom of the hill, I paused to hail a taxi downtown. Imagine my panic attack when an occupied taxi pulled up and I saw Mary, the punkish platinum blonde already designated as the program slut, beckoning me to split the cabfare. I was certain that Mary would reveal my duplicitous actions to the other Americans, but to this day I believe that she kept her mouth shut. On some level, I think she knew we were kindred spirits.

Aunt Gene Tribute

It’s fitting that my family asked me to write something about Aunt Gene because I’ve been talking about her as long as I can remember. In fact, according to an autobiography I wrote in elementary school, the third and fourth words I ever spoke, after “mama” and “dada,” were “Aunt Gene.”

Like Uncle Hank, Aunt Gene was a fantastic storyteller. At family gatherings, from an early age, I recall fiddling with toys or pretending to be asleep in order to eavesdrop on some of the more grown-up conversations they led. How I kept from laughing and blowing my cover, I’ll never know.

Aunt Gene had a way with words, so that she was somehow always captivating, whether recounting an adventure from her travels, describing a meal at a restaurant, or simply explaining a recipe.

Even now, the effect she has had on my own storytelling is evident. My friends on the West Coast have heard me use certain “Aunt Gene expressions” so often that they have become part of our shared language.

Here are just a few examples. I’m sure you can think of more:

“Maybe that ain’t delicious.”

“I’m not goin’ all the way to Fifth and Japip for no cole slaw (or some other product).”

“I looked like a drowned rat.”

Undoubtedly, Aunt Gene was an important figure in all of our lives, with a lasting influence and a larger-than-life personality. As such, we will talk about her long after she has left us, in the stories we tell about her and the ways we tell stories about ourselves.

Outtakes from the Holiday Newsletter

Hello and welcome to my long-overdue blog. Here are some leftovers from my holiday newsletter.


The non-camera people waited for the camera people to set up the housemate shot. I can't remember if we posed this way on purpose or not, but the looks of impatience, annoyance, and boredom are priceless.



After the five-mile hike. Runner-up for holiday photo insert but taken at a low resolution.




We found this baby crustacean at Kings Beach, named him Pinchy in honor of THE SIMPSONS, and dubbed him the mascot of our Tahoe Weekend. After we released him back into nature with much fanfare, a seagull swooped in and gobbled him up. Poor Pinchy!



For those of you who never got the chance to meet Tony the Parrot. He looks more demonic than usual in this shot, taken on my phone in 2006. I think he was annoyed that I finally got a cell phone.