Frolics and Alarums

A Farewell to Teeth - 3

2011-10-25T19:10:00.000-07:00

The pain - that was the thing . . .

The pain wasn’t bad the last time - that time Samra had “infiltrated.” It was gentle, slow, and the gums had been properly numbed prior. It wasn’t gas - but it wasn’t bad. He’d had worse - the root canal injections stabbing deep into deep root-nerves - almost metallic. “Infiltration” was a gentle breeze.

But the teeth were going, the gums receding like the snow in spring.

And the leopard was waiting - an elegant pattern of black on gold. Or white, to go with the snow. And the teeth.

Was there gold in that tooth? The back one. He wondered.. Would they allow him his own teeth?

For the salvage and recycling value?

He drank the good wine and thought again about the Jordan Almond. And that first root canal.

And the pain.

It would pass.

In the snow.

A Farewell to Teeth - 2

2011-10-24T09:10:00.001-07:00

The teeth had risen white once like Kilimanjaro. But they were past their time. They would pass, as a leopard does. On the white slopes. They would one by one go. Quickly.

And he would feel no pain. A dead leopard in snow. Under ether? He did not know.

He would eat M&Ms and the teeth would still gleam, white and dying.

Damned Philosophy - I

2011-10-23T23:01:00.000-07:00

Sartre was wall-eyed: being only seemed to precede essence; his vision was skewed.
Bausch and Lomb would've set him straight.

Nietzsche was, let's face it, a syphilitic raver toward the end, and not an essentially cheery person at best.
Today, he'd be tranked into submission with Zoloft.

A Farewell to Teeth

2011-10-23T22:35:00.000-07:00

“A Farewell to Teeth”

      They had been good, the teeth. They had, in their day, cracked the hulls of growing things. The black walnuts on the base cracked only in the hand, he found. Teeth would not do. He’d cracked the first tooth on one of those.

     The Jordan almond, though - that had been the one.

     At a late night showing of “From Dusk Till Dawn,” he’d had Jordan Almonds. Not the soft thing he’d expected. Not the light candy shell of M&Ms. Not the soft chocolate and/or peanuts.

     No. The tooth had cracked, the sugar coating baked hard. The pain instant. Something hot shot up into his eye. It passed. All things would pass.

     Like his teeth.

@)>==

2011-03-21T16:12:00.000-07:00

To understand something of the popularity of people like John Hagee, you have to understand how to work a big audience for big money.

He preaches the Word, and people love him, support him and his family, and give generously. He has a national following, and a mega-church replete with broadcast company tie-ins and promotional merchandise.
Rather a lot on his plate.

Such are the preachers of Mammon, even unto their real estate holdings and missions.

And they shall spread their gospel of prosperity and profit throughout the world, with the generous love donations and goodwill offering of those he's enlightened.

Because there is much to fear - and his preaching shall set them free.
If it doesn't kill some of them first.

Hagee cites "the Bible says" and his own views to exploit fear and condemnation of "the homosexuals." Queers aren't his cup of tea: to him, we're an abomination - and have abominably CHOSEN our sexual partners from sheer Satanic carnality.

The word "love" never enters the equation. Except with "love the sinner, hate the sin."

He doesn't GET the queer notion that "hating the sin" makes the sinner feeling "loved" almost impossible. Nor does he care that queer youth bullied by their Christian peers have killed themselves; unless to regret that they've gone to Hell for suicide when they could have been saved to the glory of God by making another choice of lifestyle and turning themselves over to Jesus.
Well, they killed themselves, and they're with Jesus now.

"Don't Ask, Don't, Tell" - Don't Get Me Started

2010-06-02T17:43:00.000-07:00

This is a commentary on the Universal Life Church's article: "DADT Repeal, Military Chaplaincies, and Religious Conscience."
It can be read at: http://blog.themonastery.org/2010/02/dadt-repeal-military-chaplaincies-and-religious-conscience/

It's really time for the US to join the rest of its NATO allies in letting gay and lesbian service members have the equality they've EARNED in every single war since the inception of the nation.

We're a decade behind 25 of our allies, and the same tired arguments against inclusion were used when Truman integregated the military in 1948. A cadre of retired generals rails with outrage against the notion of "those people" having to live, sleep, eat, and shower with the regulars. The communal shower element, especially, has been raised as a specious and speculative topic of concern.

Our allies already know what our own brass are only now pretending to discover: GLBT personnel are already serving (with honor) - and have been for decades. Why deny participation by a group that's the first to be "stop-lossed" in time of war? Replacing a skilled translator, interpreter, or special forces unit leader with an ill-equipped replacement certainly erodes the unit cohesion and morale.

The present situation is monstrous. We are fighting a war against extremist terror in Iraq and Afghanistan. Pakistani and Yemeni fanatics continue to export operatives targeting the American homeland. We need every qualified service member to continue fighting for our freedom at home. Continuing to discard some of our best military personnel under these conditions creates the kind of chaos that our enemies relish. They, too, exclude LGBT people from serving; they kill them. We're a shade more compassionate: we discharge them. Until recently, we gave them "dishonorable" discharges that created barrier to their civilian employment.

All this aside, our troops deserve the best. Disrupting their mission by removing key personnel does not help them. In fact, it's tantamount to giving aid and comfort to our enemies.

The military members we've discarded recently have spoken out. The majority would gladly re-enlist again for one reason: to serve their country.

We would do well to consult our closest allies, especially the United Kingdom, which eliminated its own ban in 2000. We can learn from their example how to deal with the many issues that are being raised by worried conservatives and concerned citizens alike.

A decade after opening its doors to LGBT members, British servicemen and women from all three services now march at Gay Pride in uniform. The head of the British Army, General Sir Richard Dannat, addressing a Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual and Transgender conference, stated, "Respect for others is not an optional extra."

January 2010's British Armed Forces 'Soldier' magazine had as its cover a decorated veteran, still serving with honor.

His name is James Wharton. Lance Corporal Wharton, a member of the Household Cavalry (an old and honorable regiment responsible for guarding the present Queen), lives openly as a gay man.

When Wharton, 23, married his same-sex life partner (Thom McCaffrey, 21), members of Wharton’s regiment were in attendance to show their support.

The 'Soldier' cover caption? 'Pride.'

Show some, America. This 'scared the queers will peek at me in the shower' pretence is unbecoming in any soldier. Scared straights, not lusting gay grunts, are the real detriment to unit cohesion and morale.

Man up!

Derrick Martin and Richard Goodman go to the prom

2010-04-20T10:09:00.000-07:00

Today's review of the news brought this item, from the Yahoo "A Smart Gay List" group, which I at first viewed as encouraging.

Reading it more closely, I'm saddened.

I find it ironic that Derrick Martin's parents kicked him out of the house after the news broke that he was taking a gay date to his prom.

I find it encouraging that Martin and his date, Richard Goodman (at left, below), were warmly welcomed.

And I find it sickening that Martin endured death threats and, it seems from this account, actual assaults with paint ball guns. Martin is an honor student who tutors at-risk elementary and middle school students after school. He also has a full scholarship to college.

Gay Georgia Teen Derrick Martin's Prom a Big Success

Derrick Martin and boyfriend Richard Goodman's high school prom took place on Saturday, and the world didn't end, the Macon Telegraph reports:

"When Martin, 18, and his boyfriend Richard Goodman, also 18, stepped onto a makeshift 'red carpet' and their names were announced, a few parents whispered but many in the crowd gave him a loud cheer. No one yelled out in protest. 'I wonder if they realize what they’ve done,' said Arturro Beeche, a San Francisco professor who flew into Georgia on Friday and drove Martin and Goodman to the prom. 'Once it happens in small-town America, it will inspire so many,' he said."

You may recall that Martin's parents kicked him out of the house after news broke that he was taking a gay date to his prom.

Beeche, a college professor from San Francisco, became interested in Martin's story after reading about it in the news and struck up a friendship with Martin on Facebook. Beeche (pictured below) is married to his husband Dave for nearly six years and has an adopted son who is 13.

Beeche sent us these photos and a personal account of the night:

"When first coming in contact with the story of Derrick Martin, I felt compelled to get involved. As someone who wishes his boyfriend had asked him to prom nearly three decades ago, Derrick’s decision hit a spot close to my heart. Through Facebook, Derrick and I became friends and I experienced with Derrick his many frustrations and fears leading up to the event, not small among these was the Martins throwing their son out of the family home because he persisted on his quest. It was then that I had a choice – be a bystander or rise to the occasion."

With Derrick's blessing, Beeche became Derrick and his boyfriend's chaperone to the prom. Beeche continues:

"I flew into the maelstrom from my placid suburban existence in the Berkeley Hills. We did not know what to expect, but Derrick figured that it would somehow all work out. The previous day we had driven to fetch Richard Goodman, Derrick’s quietly intense boyfriend. Together, we went to fetch their tuxedos in Macon... The next day we did some last minute shopping and in the later part of the afternoon, and as the boys were dressing, Richard’s parents (pictured) joined us. Once readied, and after taking some photos, we drove to a plantation house that now serves as a delicious Southern food restaurant. More photos were taken on the grounds, after which we drove back into Cochran and headed to Derrick’s high school. There was high law enforcement presence. The sheriff had told me a few days earlier that he was planning on having about 20 officers to prevent any silliness from marring the event. As we drove up to the school drop off point, anxiety and stress were rampant inside our car. Derrick had received some rather unsavory threats that ran the gamut from a gun loaded with a bullet that had his name on it, to being targeted with paint balls guns. Seconds before they exited the car, I told [them], “close your eyes, take a deep breath and raise your chin with pride. Ignore anyone who yells stupid things; you are here and victory is in your hands.” The boys closed their eyes, took a deep breath and Derrick got out first. With his left hand he pulled Richard out of the car and both turned to face the crowd. It was then, amid screams of support and sonorous clapping accompanied by people yelling Derrick’s name, that I knew it would all be OK!

Beeche's photos of Derrick and Richard can also be found on the Facebook page set up with the help of PFLAG. Beeche is presently helping set up a trust to contribute to Derrick and Richard's college expenses.

Goodman said he plans to take Martin to his prom on May 8.

Derrick Martin and Richard Goodman are wonderful young men.

Goodman's parents are the proud couple beaming on either side of him.

And Martin's parents are complete failures. They kicked him out of the house because news got out that he was gay.

They'd raised an outstanding, fine, decent citizen, and they cast him out.

"Jesus wept" . . . and no wonder. So much for "loving the sinner/hating the sin." Love is love, and hate is hate.

Merced - "Nexus of All that is Strange"

2010-04-09T16:24:00.000-07:00

This is a reply to a series of items that were prompted by my posting a piece about "Ben Weber - Matman and Joker" to the Yahoo Gay-Thinkers group.

Doug had asked a question. I went on for a bit, as I sometimes do.

When I'm not terse, I'm verbose.

Sit down and make yourself comfortable, as you will need knife, fork, and plate to get through the can of worms you've opened with the question: "Is the Central Valley one of those Republican parts of California?" As I am in a silly mood, I shall answer in good humor - and at length.

Unfortunately, Merced is an odd place indeed. I often describe it as "the nexus of all that is strange," and, indeed, it is.

Merced is a smallish city of 80,000, the county seat, set in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley. It's almost the very center point of the state, the "navel."

When I moved down to Orange County, I used to say that I was from "the Valley." People down there thought I meant the San Fernando or San Gabriel valley, and would twit me about ValSpeak: "Like, you know, gross me out, gag me with a spoon," and other phrases popularized by Moon Unit Zappa in the immortal song. I'd explain, "No, I mean, the San Joaquin. You know, the middle third of the state. The Big Valley - they made a TV series about it."

Merced is the "Gateway to Yosemite." I was born at Castle Air Force Base (six miles away, abutting Atwarer) and grew up literally next to a set of railroad tracks on "U" Street and later a block from John Muir school (with the other set of tracks a block or so away).

When we were transferred to South Dakota it was a shock to the system - as it was when we were shunted next to Missouri and then back to Merced.

My parents bought their first house (located between two sets of railroad tracks, at a place where the 99 and 140 highways met, underneath the Castle AFB flight path). I learned to sleep through anything.

However, all was not as I remembered it during those halcyon days of kindergarten.

I was suddenly, in mid-sixth grade, the "new kid," a target for bullies and a favorite when playing their homespun version of dodge ball: "smear the queer."

Like most California schools, Merced's were academically a year behind the rest of the U.S. Although I remarked on this, I was occupied avoiding my primary tormentors, so the school didn't take much notice of me until mandatory testing (which I'd been given in first and fourth grades in South Dakota and Missouri) was once more administered. I was discovered (yet again) to be a mentally gifted minor, and blessedly placed in MGM classes.

I moved away after high school, where I'd been thwarted in trying to take college classes while a junior in HS and labeled a plagiarist for having written an essay in an attempt to skip junior Comp/American Lit in which I'd used the word"save" in the sense of "except:"

Of all Shakespeare's villains, none (save perhaps Richard III) has been so unjustly maligned as Shylock, the tragic Jew in "The Merchant of Venice."

I'd thought it a clear opening sentence, and it set up a nice five paragraph essay (the standard form that Comp was meant to teach me). The head of the English Department was a "dread cow" (I'm quoting a friend who'd had her that year) who I wanted no part of, and who had now maligned me unjustly (without checking my records, to boot).

The situation was resolved when I wrote an impromptu five-paragraph essay for the senior Brit Lit/Brit Lit teacher, explained that I was a voracious reader currently plowing my way through the full version of "Oliver Twist" (again), had no desire to sit through a year reading the American Lit curriculum I'd already digested, and thought the Freudian analysis of "Turn of the Screw" (taught by the Comp/American Lit cow) was nonsensical (as James had written it prior to Freud's examination of phallic symbolism). The blessed Sharon Gray (Brit Lit) read over my essay and remarked, "Yes, I can see the Dickens and James influences. You have a predilection for the long, clunky, perfectly-punctuated sentence."

While I was away, Merced received the second-largest settlement of Hmong refugees, adding another flavor to its stew of Air Force Base and Bay Area retirees, farmers, ranchers, migrant labor, and Steinbeck-era immigrants. I moved back from Long Beach to discover that Merced had much the same demographic profile: not a melting-pot, but a mixed salad.

Merced's unique quality seems to arise from it having been founded after the charter of the original Merced Falls (now Snelling) was misappropriated by the town's founders for use in setting up a breakaway community next to the new rail tracks.

Some say that's why the place is odd - or even "cursed."

While it has some lovely Victorian homes, it also sits on a confluence of ley lines that form a pentagram. It's been the scene of the Steven and Carey Stayner cases, and is a mere sixteen miles from Chowchilla, site of the school bus kidnapping case.

It does have the tenth UC campus (whose first graduating class had Michelle Obama as its speaker, and is still paying off the million-dollar debt incurred by local police and other agencies), hopes to get a Wal-Mart distribution center to help alleviate its 22% unemployment rate, and is in the bidding to be a Google Ultra-High-Speed internet text site, as well as contending to be a transportation hub on the high-speed rail line, for which it was recently designated a definite stop.

It's an hour from Fresno, 45 minutes from Modesto, an hour from Mariposa and Yosemite up in the Sierra foothills, an hour-and-a-half from Stockton, San Jose, and Monterey via various passes, and two hours from San Francisco. You can get almost anywhere from here, but there's little "here" here. Perhaps that's why the locals call it "Mer-dead."

"There's nothing to do in Merced," has become a tired catchphrase, and an inaccurate one.

Our downtown is beginning to come alive after a decade of struggle. Our two-stage theater and cineplex bring crowds to restaurants and coffee houses; the Multi-Cultural Arts Center hosts plays, exhibitions, and provides space for every kind of arts instruction; the Merced Symphony plays in the old Merced Theater (being renovated to its 1930s glory); Merced ShakesspeareFest is now in its ninth year. The massive "Town and Gown" celebration for UC and Merced College graduates and community members brings people together in six downtown blocks that offer music, goods and produce of all varieties, and information from local government agencies, service organizations, schools, churches, and businesses.

The Christmas, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Veterans' Day parades throng with appreciative onlookers - and PFLAG members step along the route proudly with the rest.

Although we do have a PFLAG chapter, in which I'm active, queer night life is an hour away at best - and bar patrons are often targets for bashers and muggers.

Merced is not for the faint of heart.

Until last year, it led the area in meth lab busts. Most of the drugs coming down from Canada or flowing up from Mexico also come through Merced.

Our grey winters begin in late October, when the Valley's famed tule fogs (containing ice crystals) and clouds obscure the sun until late February, with winds and pelting rain, followed by a slow procession of leaden grey days again. Seasonal Affective Disorder abounds.

Currently, it's dropped from fourth to seventh in the national rankings of foreclosures (with or without associated bankruptcies), although its real estate values (inflated by developer greed and over-building prior to the bond market collapse) make it a prime target for out-of-town investors and other absentee landlords, who've contributed to its quaint blend of Old World elegance, redneck gentility, and utter squalor.

Worse yet, it stolidly votes Republican, although its congressional rep is a Democrat ("blue dog" variety).

It truly is the nexus of all that is strange, but I'm proud to call it "that little garden spot in Hell that I call my hometown."

I shall now go, for I am parched, and need to hydrate well before our storied 100+ degree summer begins to approach. Perhaps I'll sip a beverage in the open air, laden as it is with particulate matter on these still spring days, in between occasional downpours that bring the tang of freshly-fertilized fields to the lounging idlers in the soon-to-be-closed homeless camps.

Bienvenidos!

Ben Weber: Matman and Joker

2010-04-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

Shawn Jansen of the Merced Sun-Star wrote this profile of Ben Weber, a young man who wrestles for the Golden Valley High School team here in Merced. The piece stuck in my mind, among the other bric-a-brac. A friend's recent Facebook post about a group of extraordinary young people who took action against lunatic hater Fred Phelps's Westboro Baptist "Church" group, brought Ben back to the forefront of my consciousness.

Weber is an outstanding example of what's right with teenagers today. He is his own person, secure in his abilities as a athlete, and utterly refreshing in his attitude about any perceptions others may have as to his sexuality.

So here, pried free from that clutter over near the far corner of my mind, dusted off and neatly festooned with croutons, is "Ben Weber: Matman and Joker."

http://www.mercedsunstar.com/2010/02/19/1318523/shawn-jansen-matman-and-joker.html?storylink=addthis

I'll be launching an expedition to find the Fred Phelps resistance piece later. It's difficult to find stalwart Sherpas to navigate the rat's maze that is my memory, so the process of fund-raising bake sales, raffles, and judicious high-yield kidnappings usually takes longer than my gnat-like attention span can spend focusing on a task.

Meanwhile, I'm beginning to feel those pesky stirrings of hope about the next generation.

Note to self: must be careful about that, as it could lead to progress and change (or thinking about "hopey-changey things like that" ) - and a place on paranoid raver Glenn Beck's "social justice commie pinko totalitarian fascist queers" list.

However, having checked out the list thoroughly, I think I'd be honored to be included in such distinguished company.

"GLBT" - but what about the "IQ?"

2010-01-19T10:57:00.000-08:00

This is taken from one of my first posts to AARP's "Spectrum" GLBT online community group.

[Writer's note: AARP's 'automatic' censor had blacked out some words, most of which I comment on at the end. But "penis?" I fail to understand . . . what if this had been a post to a men's health group discussion? Would the word "penis" still have been censored, while "testes" was allowed?]

I had asked the serious question "GLBT (Gay Lesbian Bisexual and Transgendered), but what about the 'IQ?' " Someone commented that s/he didn't understand the term "Intersex" and asked if I was talking about hermaphrodites.

They also thought "Q" was for Queer.

I responded by explaining that "intersexed people are born with ambiguous genitals (and thank God surgeons aren't routinely and arbitrarily 'assigning sex' at birth by amputating **** and testes or sewing up a vaginal opening" as they used to)."

The spectrum of sexuality isn't just Kinsey's scale of 1-6 distinct types, as he would be the first to explain. There's a gradient line that cuts across all six sections . . . reflecting that each person is unique.

And the "Q?"

My reply, in full:

"Q" is for "questioning" -- those young (or later-life) people who are questioning their sexual identity in the process of discovering "who they really are."

I personally used to dislike the word "queer," even when it began being used by Queer Nation (and others) as an attempt to "take back the slur and use it ourselves, re-empowering the community."

That fell flat with me. However, the late Christoper Isherwood (who I still venerate) said, "I call myself 'musical,' or 'so,' or 'queer." He also once said "I like the word 'f****t.' It has a crisp karate-chop sound to it."

I adore Isherwood's writings, and once got to meet him. He graciously autographed all eleven of the books I brought to a signing of his "October," written with his other half, artist Don Bachardy. I'd called to ask permission to lug all the books with me -- he was listed in the phone book.

In my own experience, both "queer" and "f****t" have unpleasant associations - especially "f****t.". I've rarely heard it used by gay friends, but it was screamed at me both times I was gay-bashed as a young man.

Various names have evolved with the gay rights movement. The problem seems to be the same as with the evolution of terms evidenced in the Civil Rights movement: the NAACP ("colored people") through the United Negro College Fund, the Afro-Americans of the Black Power era (giving way to the People of Color, and the current African-Americans. The time taken up getting to know the "right" terminology could be better spent, some feel, but each term reflects an era and a mind-set.

I usually use the word "gay" because (just as the above examples show), I'm a product of my era.

And I use "GLBT" or "GLBTIQ" because, as with the various rainbow flags, it covers the spectrum -- and may include either "Questioning" or "Queer."

"Queer," however, is easier -- and it has a tinge of radical subversion about it that I enjoy. It savors of Queer Nation (and other queer notions).

Currently, most use "LGBT" (at least, in print). I have no idea how the Lesbians moved to the front of the line. I once asked, and was told "ladies first," which seems to me to be the kind of patronizing, sexist attitude that I'd thought the women's movement wanted to eradicate.

My own suspicion is that as gay men bore the brunt of the early AIDS crisis, dying in droves, the lesbians who supported the men's efforts simply co-opted their place in the chain (through having survived) and continued with outreach and education. They've earned their place, regardless of who gets top billing.

It was the Gay Rights movement first, Lesbians came into the battle a bit later (although "Dykes on Bikes" tends to be the first group in most Pride parades), and then the Bisexuals and Transgendered were acknowledged and welcomed into the fold.

"GLBTIQ," for me, sums up the history and evolution of the on-going struggle to attain equal rights for the "other/queer/odd."

Reed 13

P.S. In writing this, I had to re-edit, because I used the full word "faggot" which was censored, coming out merely as six asterisks.

The word "Dykes," however, was allowed.

Interesting double standard.

Outing Bayard Rustin - Part Two

2010-01-19T10:31:00.001-08:00

Theday dawned cold and grey, with yet more rain predicted. I donned hat,black leather car coat, gloves, and packed along a camera, pens, smalltablet, and a little expanding umbrella in the coat's many pockets. The local PFLAG president and her husband were unable to join us, as heis undergoing a second cataract surgery on Wednesday (didn't want tochance anything, marching in the cold and rain), but Mother and Ipicked up the banner and materials I'd already prepped from them.

Wearrived at ten minutes to 11 at the Merced Amtrak station - only tofind the block around it blocked by police (parade control).

Andwe we in back of a group of horse riders. So, Mother took a left, aright, went down two blocks to the next barricade, and I got out,toting banner, sections of poles, and bag with placards in neatplasticine envelopes.

Ilooked around, and there was Tania, watching as the gap between thelast group of marchers and grew wider. A friend, Al, was introduced aswe threaded the banner onto the poles and quick-marched double-time tocatch up to the crowd. The march had started - 10 minutes early.

Andwe marched - in the rain - keeping up a good pace, bringing up the rearof the groups, while the horse-riders behind us kept a sensibledistance.

I'd mapquested the route: 1.1 miles to the Merced County Fairgrounds (900 MLK Jr. Way).

Aswe marched, I entertained Tanya with my account of marching onSacramento 30-some years ago. She, Al and I also passed the time byswapping accounts of our Native American roots. Tanya has Aztecbloodlines, Al's Yacqui, and I'm one-eighth Cherokee, which I explainedalmost everyone seems to be.

Being "Cherokee" is a bit like having the name Smith.

Whenour soggy little contingent arrived with all the other groups, Ispotted Mother's car parked close to the exhibition hall where thespeakers and celebration group counters were located.

Wetook a moment to snap some photos of Al and Tanya, me and Al, and meand Tanya holding the banner - then disassembled and packed it all up.

Idon't know why PFLAG didn't have an informational counter inside. Ithink it was a lack of planning, though I fear that it may have beenapathy. I'd like to think that it wasn't fear.

I found Mother inside, chatting with a friend from AARP and her writing group. Tanya and I joined them.

Aftera nice large coffee with too much cream and sugar (prompting the merryAfrican-American woman at the counter to comment: "Oh, you're just likeme. You like a little coffee in with your cream and sugar."), we tookour seats and listened as the MC calmly and repeatedly said, "Pleasetake your seats" (about eight times) until the crowd noise muted down. Finally, he began by asking for a moment of silence in memory of HelenNixon, who died last month. As the hushed crowd (with only a cryingbaby or two) listened intently, he listed some of her many, manyaccomplishments over the last half-century and the first deacde of thisnew one. My Mother, hearing Mrs. Nixon's name, said, "Oh, good. I'mglad somebody remembered" She and Helen had been pals in one of herwriting classes.

Westood with the others for the Pledge of Allegiance. A woman in frontof me removed her hat for it, and a quick glance around showed me thatalmost everyone over the age of 10 was standing, hands over hearts,waiting as the Pledge began. I have a voice that can, literally, beheard a block-and-a-quarter away, over traffic (classical voicetraining is a wonderful thing). I'm afraid I may have alarmed a coupleof folks in the row ahead of us by punching the last words: "withliberty and justice for ALL!"

TheNational Anthem was sung by the grand-daughter of the woman who hadbeen listed as the soloist. Grandma handed the microphone over afterintroducing Grand-daughter, who did us all proud.

Oneof the problems with our National Anthem is that most singers start offtoo high. Unless one is a high tenor or soprano, the top notes haveone screeching on "rockets' red glare." Mother sings alto, and I'm abass. Fortunately, the young woman began nice and low - the perfectregister for all to be able to join in - which we did. The secondproblem I've found with the anthem lies not in its tune, but in itsperformers, who all too often "Whitney Houston-ize" it - wild riffs andobligattos that show the singer is more interested in his/her ownperformance than in conveying the message.' Our song leader once againproved to be top-flight. Her voice, strong and sure; her dictionimpeccable.

Forme, the greatest fun came as we remained standing (after an invocation)to sing "Lift Every Voice and Sing", sometimes called "the Blacknational anthem" (words by James Weldon Johnson). Mother and I hadsung it the day before in church, as it was one of that Sunday's hymnsat the "traditional" service.

Ilove the song, and cherish my memory of attending the Black PoliceOfficers and Employees meeting in Long Beach some years ago with myboss: one of the very few white AME (African Methodist Episcopal)ministers. When we stood up for the singing, some of the folks at thetables near us looked somewhat askance at this unlikely pair. And whenwe belted out the song, full-voice, strongly and vigorously, thequizzical looks turned to delighted smiles.

ThisMLK Day, I thought the soloist had made a mistake with "Lift EveryVoice." Her pace was strong, slow, and deliberate. I wondered howlong it would take to get through all three verses and choruses printedon the back of the programs. I discovered that, by taking it slow,singers have a chance to breathe so as to be able to make give everyword and note their full value. She sang only the first verse andchorus. It was "sufficient unto the day."

Once and Future Marches

2010-01-13T11:23:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I contacted the contact for information about our local Martin Luther King, Jr. Day march, inquiring about whether PFLAG would be welcome in it.
She promised to call me back.

I also posted the information to AARP's "AARP Prism Network Online" group.

My AARP mailbox alerted me that "Jane," a group member, had posted something related to my info.

Did she call back? and, good for you!

Bayard Rustin is one of our gay history heroes, for sure.

Jane

My reply:

She DID call back. We join the march at 11 a.m. at the Amtrak station and will march with the aforementioned items( see "Outing Bayard Rustin" ), AND the PFLAG group banner, to the fairgrounds.

I reported this to the PFLAG group at last night's meeting and our vice president was delighted. Monday's her birthday. She thought this was the "keenest" present she'd get.

Our current president, Jeane, and her husband Dave founded the group. Definitely "friends," and very active.

The guest speakers were the former head of Ally Alliance in the SF bay area and her co-worker there. Both had worked there years, and both had their positions eliminated (all positions were eliminated, in fact) by the economy tanking. So they're continuing on doing what they were doing as volunteers.

I had to leave early (rehearsal), and gave them both my card, with e-mail address. I want to see everything - especially their draft position papers and informational packets for schools. Recent legislation requiring anti-discrimination policies and fair treatment of all students are currently being skirted by an "opt-out" status to parents who don't want any mention of gender equality, same-sex equality, etc.

And before the meeting, I got to chat with Blaine and his lover of many years, and discovered he'd graduated from my high school two years ahead of me. His brother was one year behind me. And now, he's the Gay/Straight Alliance advisor for our high school.

I'm looking forward to possibly speaking to the GSA.

The most heartening news was that, in the opinion of the Ally speakers (both with 5-15 years of teaching experience), the climate in classrooms has changed dramatically. A large majority (about 3/4) of students know someone gay, accept and welcome their gay friends and relatives, and speak up on our behalf. Mind you, this is in ordinary small charter schools as well as larger non-charters. In classrooms, not just at GSA meetings.

I'm beginning to think that there may be a distant light at the end of the tunnel, and that it's NOT an on-coming train. "These kids these days" may be derided by some, but I think the new generation gives great reason for hope - and though it's been in short supply of late, hope is something we can all use.

This will be the first time I've marched since the 1978 "No on Prop 6" Sacramento demonstration.

I was one of an estimated 80,000 marchers who turned out in the pouring rain to urge Governer Jerry Brown to fight Prop. 6's ban on gay teachers. Gray Davis spoke in support. Pouring rain. My nice woolen pants and overcoat were completely sodden.

After a two-hour drive back to San Francisco, we sat around a fireplace in various states of undress, running dryers-full of clothes and towels, feverishly discussing strategy, and warming up with Irish coffees.

Not everyone was in the disco in the '70s.

Outing Bayard Rustin

2010-01-12T14:17:00.000-08:00

Merced, California is a former farm town/Air Force base bedroom community that's experienced a lot of changes in the 30 years since I last lived here.

We got the second-largest settlement of Hmong refugees placed here back in the late '70s, Castle Air Force Base (where I was born) was de-commissioned, and the tenth University of California campus opened here about five years ago. Michelle Obama was the commencement speaker, and did a fine job on a sweltering 100+ degree July day. That's summer in Merced.

I've become semi-active in our PFLAG chapter, and try to keep abreast of developments. The Prop 8 federal case will be the first to address whether or not marriage equality for same-sex couple is a right guaranteed under the California State and U.S. Constitutions

I think the case for overturning Prop 8, which mandates that marriage shall only be between a man and a woman, is strong. And I also think that we'll lose this time. So far, it's been the matter of equal treatment under the law that's been stressed. I think the real linch-pin will be that Prop 8 passed with only about 53% of the vote; the California State Constitution clearly states that a two-thirds majority is necessary to make any amendments to the Constitution.

If one does the math, 2/3 is 66.67% - far less than 53%.

This however, is not a point that's being addressed by the plaintiffs in this possibly-historic case.

The Merced Sun-Star had a small squib about this coming Monday's Martin Luther King, Jr. Day march and festival. This year's theme is "Unity."

We'll march from the Amtrak station to the fairgrounds, and then the various speakers will speak, and the booths and exhibits of various organizations will be available for perusal. PFLAG, however, didn't think to inquire about the event, so we won't have a booth there.

But, there's always the food.

And there's always next year.

I called the contact who's co-ordinating the event, gave her my name, and asked if PFLAG would be welcome to be a presence in the march. I also explained that PFLAG stands for "Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays," and said that, as Dr. King had said that "None of us is free until all of us are free," we'd like to participate. Bayard Rustin, I went on, the man who had organized the historic March on Washington, D.C., was gay, but was kept in the closet because it was felt (at the time) that the issue of civil rights should focus on oppression of the Negroes (I'm using the terminology of the time). Gently, I inquired whether, with this issue having been placed, in essence, on the back burner, whether it wasn't time to let gays and lesbians participate equally - moving to the front of the bus.

The contact thanked me for raising the question, and said my timing was good. There's to be an organizational meeting this afternoon, and she'll bring up the topic.

She took my name and number, and promised to call me back.

So, while waiting, I printed out a copy of my PFLAG Christmas card to President Obama, and got a mild brain storm.

If we're approved, we'll march. I prepared five small placards: the first (with PFLAG logo and rainbow letters in the title) says, "PFLAG - Unity for All."

The next is a portrait of Dr. King (Web search and graphics programs are a marvel). Dr. King's name is below the portrait (as if his image weren't familiar to all).

The next says: "None of us is free until all of us are free." - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

The next is a portrait of Bayard Rustin, with his name below. I think this one will puzzle on-lookers.

The final placard says "Bayard Rustin organized the March on Washington, D.C. Bayard Rustin was gay."

I'm looking forward to it.

Being the clever-boots artist I am, I'm also contemplating (for this coming summer's Pride Celebration in Modesto - the closest one to Merced) some t-shirts.

Picture this: A black and white image of Rustin with below it the name "BAYARD RUSTIN." The first and last names will be in large block letters, the first name on top of the last name . . . and how nice that there are six letters in each name to match the six colors of the gay pride flag.

I'm looking foward to that, too.

A Letter to the Bishop - May 2001

2010-01-10T14:45:00.001-08:00

Here is some Wikipedia information about Anita Hill - not the Anita Hill of the Clarence Thomas Supreme Court nomination controversy, but a Lutheran minister. As I've copied it direct from Wikipedia, it contains several links to other Wikipedia entries.

Rev. Anita Carol Hill is a pastor at Saint Paul-Reformation Lutheran Church in Saint Paul, Minnesota, (United States). The congregation is part of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA), however, her ordination is not recognized by the ELCA. Hill is a lesbian in a committed relationship, and ELCA guidelines require celibacy from "ministers who self-identify as homosexuals." Hill made national headlines when she was called and ordained by the congregation in defiance of ELCA regulations. She is one of a handful of openly gay and lesbian pastors serving congregations within the ELCA. This has caused much controversy within the church.

And indeed it did. At the time I was working as a secretary at a Long Beach, California ELCA church, Rev. Hill had been called by her congregation to serve as their pastor. I'm pleased to note that the ELCA finally changed its policies in 2009. Its current policy is set forth in Presiding Bishop Mark S. Hansons' Message to Rostered Leaders: ELCA Message on Sexuality

The Washington Post's account sums up the matter neatly: Washington Post "Monogamous Gays Can Serve as Clergy"

This letter was sent in May of 2001 to Paul Egertson, Bishop of the Southwest California Synod. He had ordained Anita C. Hill, and publicly disagreed with other prominent church officials over her ordination, as well as on the matter of equal treatment and respect for GLBT congregants and clergy. He paid more than lip service; he took a strong, principled stance on the matter, and resigned rather than give in to pressure from the higher-ups.

I think he was serving a God who was even higher up than his fellow bishops.

Dear Bishop Egertson:
Thank you for publicly doing the right thing in the matter of Anita Hill.

I know that you must have struggled with the decision to participate in her ordination. I am overjoyed that, for once, an American Lutheran bishop chose to publicly take a stand on this matter.

The ELCA has discussed this matter to death. Thank God someone has chosen to actually DO something.

An old joke asks: “How many Lutherans does it take to change a light-bulb?”

The punch-line is, of course, “Change? What do you mean, change? My grandmother gave that light-bulb to this church!”

While the national church hems and haws, urging continued “prayerful discernment,” “additional dialogue,” and “remaining engaged in discussion on this matter,” gay and lesbian children are born into Lutheran families and grow older. Some remain with the church, “sitting quietly in the back of the bus;” some leave to find other churches willing to declare the truth that “God doesn’t make second-class citizens;” some fall away from church altogether, abandoning their hope along the way; and some, as we know, fall so deep into despair that they kill themselves.

Meanwhile, the ELCA demonstrates that, “when all is said and done, the Lutherans will still be talking.”

I pray that all will be well with you, and that you will join with Bishop Olson in becoming publicly active in pursuing true full participation for God’s gay and lesbian children. I pray that our national church will once again learn to lead by example on this crucial matter of social justice. I pray that the ELCA will place Jesus Christ at its head, relegate the pieties of Paul to their secondary position, and recognize that its own slavish adherence to its present constitution and “Visions and Expectations” document thwarts Luther’s vision of a priesthood of all believers.

Thank you for taking action and “changing the light-bulb.” I hope you will continue to bring light to our lives for many years to come, and that your example will help move the ELCA to become more than merely a stale punch-line to a hoary joke.

If you do resign, I urge you to do so loudly and as publicly as possible. Let our nation know that churches have been removed from the ELCA’s roster for calling non-celibate gay and lesbian clergy who refuse to lie about their committed relationships – and that these congregations are well and thriving. Let America know that we enjoy full communion with the United Church of Christ, which ordains non-celibate GLBT persons. Spread the truth that Lutherans are the largest religious body in every country in the world that accords same-sex partnerships the same rights and responsibilities as heterosexual marriages.

Educate and enlighten: Lutherans need not be the reticent stuff of Garrison Keillor’s comic monologues – they are as passionate and deeply committed to the Great Commission as their more outspoken Episcopal brothers and sisters, and far more numerous. In short, even if you resign, as you do so, continue with your gift as a teacher, spreading truth and light.

Personally, I believe the national ELCA office has become so pre-occupied with bureaucratic niceties such as “correct rostership status” that Martin Luther would have included our American church as his 96th thesis. If Luther had kept the same quiet “wait and see” attitude as our present ELCA, we’d all still be Roman Catholics.

Thank you for DOING something.

May God continue to bless and keep you.

Your brother in Christ (whether Bishop Anderson likes it or not),

Reed Boyer

Copies were sent to Presiding Bishop H. George Anderson, Evangelical Lutheran Church in America; Bishop Murray Finck, Pacifica Synod; Lutherans Concerned North America; and the Lutherans Human Relations Association

A month after this letter of support was sent to him, Bishop Egertson resigned. His resignation letter, provided by Democracy Now! details his reasons for his "act of 'ecclesiastical disobedience'" in having ordained Rev. Hill: Egertson's resignation

Bishop Egertson's letter also stated in part: "Yesterday, Shirley and I celebrated our 45th Wedding Anniversary. Within our first year of marriage, God gave us our first son. He was and is a gift. He was and is gay. Over the next fifteen years God gave us five more sons. They were and are gifts. T hey are straight. You never know what is in God’s gifts until you open them. We have been blessed and we are grateful."

In my estimation, Bishop Egertson and Rev. Hill must be ranked with Martin Luther himself, who famously said, when asked to recant his "heretical views:" -- "Here I stand. I can do no other."

A link to a Fox11 news report is also attached. The viewer comments are very interesting, but not unexpected.

Last week I decided to become a member of the United Methodist Church where my mother worships and I sing in the choir. I've been in the choir for nearly three years, but always balked when invited to become a member.

Last month, the congregation voted 54-15 to become a Welcoming and Reconciling Congregation, welcoming all GLBT people home to a church that values them. I may slip off to Shepherd of the Valley ELCA Lutheran church during the choir's summer break, but in either place, I feel that I'm finally home.

"Confessions of a Church Secretary:" One From the Vault - March 2K

2010-01-09T10:21:00.000-08:00

Like many of us, I find myself going through old letters and papers at this time of year - especially as I'm STILL (after 3-1/2 years here) unpacking the half-garage-full of boxes. There are a lot of them, taking up nearly half of a smallish two-car garage. And I know, having counted them when I was moving, that there are more than 70 boxes full of books. I once counted them, and had over 800 volumes that I couldn't part with, mostly reference works, biographies, gay lit, English Lit, writing- and theater-related, American and World literature and letters, mysteries and horror (including a three-foot shelf of H. P. Lovecraft and other Arkham House works), and sundry art and occult/esoteric works. Thank God mother's friend June suggested using clothing as packing material, otherwise each box would have required two people to lift it. As it is, the boxes (stacked six high and four deep) are still quite heavy.

When I'd first met Robert, his family background in fundamentalist "Christianity" still influenced his views on my interests in witchcraft, Buddhism, Judaica, and other spiritual paths. He was so disturbed by my foot-long expanse of books on witchcraft, Wicca, and early pagan religious survivals that I finally just dumped them all into a box that I left out in the alley garbage dumpster. Ironically, a decade later he decided that Wicca was for him and started taking instruction in its history, tenets, and practices. Over the next few years, he acquired book after book, despite not being a reader of much else (except John Christopher's "White Mountains" trilogy). By the time he died and I moved, we had two half-sized bookshelves filled with witchcraft, Buddhism, Judaica, and other spiritual paths, etc. The foot-long shelf of esoterica had become three feet, and one box-worth finally filled three.

As I'm going through the boxes, I'm finding all kinds of things, including some computer diskettes with letters and other information from 1999 onward.

The following was written to my aunt in March of 2000, so this is "One From the Vault."

Sharon –

Had a busy and productive day yesterday (usually they’re just busy), so I can finally sit down and write something more than a blip. I’ve got so much to catch you up on that this may be quite lengthy . . .

You asked for a newsy note, but you should know by now that with me it’s either not enough, or too much. So . . . why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea, put your feet up, and settle in for a visit.

MANY REASONS I’D CHANGE JOBS, despite loving it and having a great boss:

FIRST, I have to commute 45 minutes to an hour by bus(es) in the morning.

It wouldn’t be so awful were it not for the fact that the number 90 series buses that I take pass by Jefferson Middle (Jr. High) school, Wilson High, and Cal State University Long Beach. The buses run every 15 minutes, but are still packed – especially during the AM and afternoon peak times. Even the Zap (express) buses get pretty full. The worst time so far we had two wheelchairs (loading and unloading of which throws off the schedule by about 5 minutes – not too bad), and 24 people standing for almost 30 city blocks!

Aside from the congestion, bear in mind that the buses are packed with children from the ages of 12 to 20 lugging backpacks and book bags – not enough lockers on campus. Lockers are becoming rarer, in some instances being eliminated since they might conceal weapons or drugs. Even when they’re available, there aren’t enough to go around, because the population has boomed while school construction has waned. Thanks to Howard Jarvis and Proposition 13, which rolled back property taxes and gutted public services, we’re still playing catch-up in our schools 20 years later.

The children don’t know how to sit in a seat and keep backpacks on their laps. Instead, they take up another seat with the bag.

In short, I’m getting old and cranky because THESE KIDS TODAY JUST AIN’T RIGHT! (why, in my day, I bicycled 2 miles to school . . . ) Oh, well, that’s life in the big city.

It really wouldn’t be so draining if the little darlings weren’t so foul-mouthed. I despair when I hear a conversation between young (16? 14? 12?) African-Americans (both sexes) that’s filled with examples like: “F***, niggah, his m*****-f***ing a** best not even f***ing f*** with me. Sh**, cuz, I f*** that niggah up good.” The repetitive use of obscenities gets on my nerves, but I can pretty much screen it out – after a while a word repeated often enough ceases to have any meaning. HOWEVER . . . the use of “The N Word” drives me up the wall. Don’t these brats have a clue that it’s just not acceptable in public?

Suffice it to say, my blood pressure could stand a change of commute, and I’ve developed a nostalgic longing for the good old days of high taxes and plentiful public school buses.

SECOND REASON: My successor at Trinity Lutheran has put in her two weeks resignation notice. She lasted exactly one year, before burning out just as I did.

The problem was (and is) that Trinity’s senior pastor (WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS) is autocratic, demanding, sneaky, dishonest, mean-spirited, gossipy, greedy, lazy, and runs the place as if it were a military base . . . follow orders, never presume to correct him or ask questions, etc. In his ten years there, he’s had six (seven? eight?) secretaries. I worked there a year and nine months, and was miserable for a year and a half of it.

A shame really, as the associate pastor is worth his weight in gold . . . really walks the walk (and does three-quarters of the work), while the other one merely talks the talk, takes the credit, and continues to erode the congregational attendance and financial base.

(Something about “practicing what one preaches” springs to mind)

Fortunately, the bad pastor may soon transfer to Florida, so that he can damage public perception of the ELCA in another state. The congregational council, after years of putting up with him, buying his load of goods, etc., has finally started putting their feet down and demanding accountability. Even his staunchest and oldest friend, after a year on the council, is ready to start agitating for a congregational meeting to oust him.

(It’s been a long time coming – almost like Darwinian evolution – but the council has started to develop a spine.)

Particularly galling for me is that Trinity is Long Beach’s only RIC (Reconciling in Christ) congregation – a designation that Lutherans Concerned (organization of gay and lesbian Lutherans working toward full inclusion in church life) uses to denote congregations which welcome and affirm gay men and lesbians as members of their congregations . . . including acknowledging their long-term committed relationships. “Acknowledging” DOESN’T mean holding “gay weddings,” “same-sex marriages,” or ceremonies of holy union. It means that a church bulletin, for instance, might note that Howard and John have been together for 28 years now, and offer congratulations.

So, Long Beach’s only RIC congregation has a senior pastor who takes it for granted that he’ll be supported by the gay and lesbian members because Trinity’s the only game in town. Meanwhile, he gives them a terrible impression of what it is to be Lutheran. Eventually, they become resentful and decide the RIC designation is less important than real spiritual values . . . and they go elsewhere, to the Episcopalians, to the Metropolitan Community Church, to the Unitarians, or they simply abandon the church altogether and continue to drift.

Do you wonder that I left the place, and that the new secretary is ready to jump ship?

(Office politics is always nasty, and more so when it’s a church office)

So, if I were to take another position, Selma (my successor) would be immediately available for hire here. I trained her at Trinity, where she was going to cover my vacation for 2 weeks, and have continued to help her by phone. I’ve made it clear to her and my boss (Pastor Mary, a.k.a. “PM”) that I’d show her the ropes here and continue to be available for questions that come up. Selma has my fullest recommendation, and I think she deserves to work for more money in a position with fewer demands. If nothing else, she deserves a loving and supportive boss after the year of hell she’s been through.

THIRD REASON: St. Luke’s Episcopal church needs a parish administrator “yesterday.” I know a half-dozen of the members already, and one of them (a member of their Vestry) brought my name up for consideration before I’d even learned that the job opening existed. So, I have a slight inside edge, especially since I’d be willing to step in at the busiest time of the year.

I faxed them my resume last Thursday. Knowing how church councils operate (way too often), I’m not expecting to hear anything for another week.

FOURTH REASON: Ironically, St. Luke’s Episcopal is located a block from Trinity – 5 minutes by bus (or a 20 minute walk . . . and I could always use the exercise).

FIFTH REASON: The new position would pay the same (or better), and be only four days a week instead of five.

The last reason is especially compelling because of Robert’s health.

LONG (AND DREARY) STORY MADE AS SHORT AS POSSIBLE:

Robert’s had been HIV positive for quite some time, but still working nine hours a day at Disneyland and commuting 1-1/2 to 2 hours each way by bus. (Much better than when they wouldn’t schedule him during the hours the bus ran, and for more than three years he bicycled 18-1/2 miles each way five days a week in all kinds of weather) After years of experience, we aren’t Disney fans. Great public image; lousy, hostile, working environment. Pretty debilitating.

Last May, Robert noticed a swollen lump under one arm and began having trouble swallowing because of throat pain. His primary physician did some blood work, found his viral levels through the roof and his CD-4 (T-cells) in the basement, found a fungal infection in the esophagus, and referred us to a splendid specialist. Diagnosis: all things taken in conjunction, Robert now “officially” has AIDS.

By June the swollen lymph nodes had kept him out of work until his sick leave had been exhausted while the new doctor began trying several combinations of anti-fungals, anti-virals, and running many tests (in and out of the office every two weeks like clockwork -- sometimes twice a week if there was a bad reaction to a medication).

In July, Robert was placed on state disability and I began hassling with the Human Resources people at Disneyland to try to find out what resources (if any) were available for an employee with AIDS. Job protection? Medical coverage continuance? Support groups? Viatical life insurance buy-out program? COBRA health coverage information?

They wouldn’t discuss it with anyone but “the employee.” I’m not the employee. I am, however, his registered domestic partner with the company (as well as in the City of Long Beach), share health insurance coverage, and am the beneficiary of his company life insurance policy. I was told that, nonetheless, they couldn’t discuss employee benefits with anyone but the employee.

So, while Robert’s semi-conscious, incoherent, and having fevers ranging from 102 to 104, I’m getting lots of exercise. I ran around to an attorney friend who drew up a Statutory Power of Attorney (giving me power to discuss any and all financial matters with any and all agencies and companies including his employer), Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care, and Directive to Physician. We then get to go (by bus, with Robert’s fevers diminished to 100-101) to the office to sign all the papers in mid-August.

Thank God Stephanie (the attorney) did it all for free – she won the L.A. County Bar Association’s “Pro Bono” award last year, and no wonder. Otherwise, we’d have had to have spent about $500.00 to get someone in Disneyland’s Human Resources to tell us what benefits and resources, if any, Robert (or any other employee with HIV or AIDS) would have available, or whether any kind of employee assistance program in place. (Mind you, this is a company that gets a lot of publicity mileage out of giving a couple million dollars a year to the Pediatric AIDS Foundation)

Meanwhile, I picked the brains of five other friends, and we signed up at St. Mary’s hospital’s CARE (Comprehensive AIDS Research and Education) Program. Within a week, Robert had been visited by a social worker familiar with available public and private resources, including daily meal deliveries if needed (so I wouldn’t have to come home in the middle of the day,); respite and/or regular housekeeping service once a week; various medical insurance continuance programs; rental assistance; transportation vouchers and/or public transit passes (including obtaining L.A. County Disabled pass). She also told us what to do when the disability payments run out, helped to guide us through applying for long-term disability (Social Security) application, and has continued to help with information and moral support. In addition, a nursing social worker visits him once or twice a month to monitor his status.

In mid-September, he developed anemia (family history?) and had to be hospitalized for 3 days while he was given blood transfusion (three units). Fungal infection eliminated, lymph nodes (an atypical form of TB called MAI) beginning to respond to treatment; no appetite to speak of.

In October, just before we visited Merced, he was again hospitalized overnight for a second transfusion (2 units). Turns out the anemia was a side-effect of one of his anti-virals, which destroys red blood cells.

Had a nice week’s visit with Mother and Bill, being very lazy and watching a lot of cable television.

When I got back, I contacted Disneyland to find out who I should deliver copies of all the Powers of Attorney to so that I could finally get some answers . . . and I was told that because I’m already on record with the company as Robert’s registered domestic partner, ANYONE should be able to discuss ANYTHING with me AT ANY TIME – directly contradicting everything we’d already been told.

In other words, we suffered the runaround for no reason at all. I held my tongue and my temper, and politely told the lovely Ms. Browne what we’d gone through so far. I further said that I hoped she or someone in Human Resources Management would see to it that the company’s domestic partnership policy was widely disseminated and clearly understood by all of Human Resources so that others would be spared this kind of frustration in the future. She thanked me, gave me a contact number for the Employee Assistance Program (separately administered through an outside contractor in Boston, Mass), and also gave me the number of the woman at Disney World in FLORIDA! who administers the domestic partnership program . . . ye gods!

In November, reactions developed again. Another round of tinkering with medications, adding this, subtracting that, substituting something else. Received information from Employee Assistance in Boston, which boiled down to: you should probably contact Social Security or a local AIDS information program about resources . . . doesn’t the Human Resources office at Disneyland have any information about local programs?”

I gave up. We’re listening to CARE Program. This is why I continue to boycott all Disney animated features. In my opinion, the Great Beast 666 is Mickey Mouse . . . we already knew that Michael Eisner is the Anti-Christ.

We had a nice, quiet Christmas. Robert’s viral load has continued to decline, but his CD-4 hasn’t increased (good news, overall). He weighed 172 last May, and weighs 145 now. His weight is seven pounds up from his all-time low in January. Various problems with side effects continue to crop up, but they’re mostly minor. He’s quite weak most of the time, but is steadily improving.

This past weekend, he came to the church spaghetti supper – his first big outing in months, other than doctor visits.

My boss has been great during all this, allowing me a completely flexible schedule to meet with doctors, lawyers, and social workers. She and the intern pastor both visited Robert when he was in hospital. (By the way, he’s the grandson of long-time members here).

HOW THIS TIES IN TO CHANGING JOBS: Working at the other job would allow me to have a full weekday always set aside for doctor appointments, etc., and as it’s so much closer, I’d be available if an emergency arises at home.

This is the first time I’ve set all of this down in order all in one place. Looking back, I realize I’ve had one of those rough years that’s so nice to have gotten to the other side of -- it’s been Job’s own year. Mother and Bill have been wonderful during all of it. Despite having had quite a tough row of their own to hoe, they’ve saved my sanity several times. It would take several more pages to go into any kind of detail, so we’ll leave it at that.

During this past year, I’ve turned 40, gained 25 pounds, gotten a lot of grey hairs, acted in two plays and a church worship/drama service, and done too little housework. I think I’ve gotten a few clues as to what things in life are important, and what aren’t, but I’m still not sure where housework falls in the grand scheme of things.

Feeling fat, unattractive, and stressed-out in November, I started smoking again after being off cigarettes for 19 months. Within a week, I was back up to nearly a pack a day of Camel Wide Lights; I’m now 2-1/2 weeks away from my projected quit date – thank God for Wellbutrin/Zyban. I’m down to six True Blues a day.

Robert and I celebrated our twelfth anniversary last July. (As one of the characters in Lanford Wilson’s “Love! Valour! Compassion!” says, “We’re role models. It’s very stressful.”) I’ll be 14 years clean and sober this coming May, and 41 next month. Robert will be 35 in May. We’ve been in the same apartment for eight years last month, and I’m ready to build the last two bookcases so we can “finish unpacking.” After that, I’ll spend until about August re-painting the apartment (our landlady has approved the colors), putting in new blinds and cornices, and finally getting the place to look like “home.” About time.

I’m helping Pastor John at Trinity (the good pastor) cast, organize, and do-direct this year’s Lenten worship/drama series, “The People vs. Judas Iscariot: The Punishment Phase.” Our first service is tomorrow night.

Unusual weather this winter (for southern California). Lots of rain (which we need), regular thunderstorms – even hail the other night. With all of this, Aunt Billie’s building project has doubtless been further delayed.

Your summer plans sound great. We may hit Merced, Philadelphia, and Fort Lauderdale in a three-week blitz in late May/early June – regardless of whether or not I change jobs.

Love to you and Gene, and Tom and Mary . . . hope he won’t agonize too much about whether to stay in the chicken business or not. On one hand, people will always need to eat, so it’s bound to be there for awhile. On the other, most people will now change careers six or seven times in their working lives – as Mary’s already discovering. As long as it’s honest work, not too horrible, and keeps a roof overhead, I hope they enjoy learning from the experience.

All right . . . there. I’m finished now. Now I can keep future letters down to a sane page or so . . .

Love,

REED

This was written ten years ago, and in that time I've turned 50. I'm smoking again, still weigh 168, and have more and more grey hairs. Most are in my beard and chest. I keep my face clean-shaven most of the time, and don't even want to contemplate dying my chest hair.

I'm older, much wiser about some things than I ever wanted to be, and relatively happy. Living in Merced, Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) usually crops up, as we're virtually deprived of any direct sunlight most of the time from November through late February.

I did one play last year, participated in mounting three others, and am rehearsing for "King Lear," which goes up next month. I'm playing the Fool - appropriate, as I did my senior British Lit secondary source paper on "The Wisdom of the Fool in 'King Lear.'" This will be my second time in a production of "Lear." Thirty-two years ago, I played Oswald, the scheming steward to Goneril.

Once again, it seems as though I've come full circle.

A Gay Widow is Not a Merry Widow

2010-01-07T22:57:00.000-08:00

I've cribbed this from a response to AARP's "Never Alone International" group, since I'm widowed, of the right age, and the group's for widows. Someone wrote about her difficulties with unexpected crying. So I wrote:

The crying thing is surprising.

It's been almost four years, and the other night, while talking with my mother about her late husband (my step-dad) Bill and about Robert, I suddenly choked up completely and started weeping.

Just from speaking his birth and death dates aloud . . . which I've done many times. But this time . . . out of the blue, WHAM!

That's Bill and my Mother, taken at Christmas, 1994

Life's like that, and so we go skipping merrily down the path, wondering what little emotional booby-trap we may spring on the way . . . but never stopping to wallow.

And out of all that, I'm grateful. It's better than the two years of numbness I went through, deeply depressed and clutching a pillow at night in a near-fetal position, crying quietly to myself a lot and unexpectedly -- which is bizarre, because the waitress who'd triggered it had only asked if I was ready to order.

THAT was another odd one.

Although I did eventually give away most of Robert's clothes, we were within a half-inch of each other as to sleeve and trouser lengths. The same at the waist. So his clothing has become mine, which is only right: we used to borrow from each other all the time.

But I no longer hold it to my face because it smells like him.

And I no longer rage that there's nobody in this podunk burg that I can talk to about it. I am a gay widow, but not a merry one.

Until I remember to go dancing down the path, toward the future.

That's me on the left, Robert on the right, and Cindy-Lou on Robert's lap.

Cindy-Lou died last year at the age of 21 - a great age for a kitty.

Robert died at the age of 40.

I wonder what that is in cat years.

And, as Linda Ellerbee says, "so it goes."

Joseph Amster's "Amsterama"

2010-01-07T11:41:00.000-08:00

I've known Joseph Amster for more than 30 years. Astonishing!

We met as Drama students and actors at Orange Coast College, and reconnected more than a decade later when he was the editor of the Orange County/Long Beach Blade - a GLBT monthly magazine. At the time I was the secretary of a Lutheran (ELCA) church that was making a commitment to reaching out the the GLBT community, and we were running an ad once a month.

I put two and two together, called Joe, met with the publisher, proofed three pages of sample copy, and soon was e-commuting: proofing and correcting submitted copy via e-mail and going down to the Laguna Beach office once a month (three buses each way for a four-hour round trip) to mark the final draft. The Blade's creator/publisher (the splendid Bill Lapointe) found out that I'd learned my proofing skills as Editorial/Opinion page editor of my high school's monthly newspaper, and asked to see a writing sample. He liked what he read, and asked if I'd draft a "Religion and Spirituality" column on spec. His current columnist was heavily, heavily Christocentric, with a Pauline bent for quoting verse after verse while giving spiritual advice to the GLBT readers.

Bill wanted something more inclusive.

And that, kids, is how Daddy became (with the click of a mouse) the Rev. J. R. Boyer.

I obtained a Universal Life Church (ULC) ordination with the click of a mouse. With that, I was instantly qualified to perform any religious ceremony or rite except circumcision. So the pen name was accurate. I planned to "out" the ease of ULC ordination in a piece titled "Believer, Beware! Wolves in Sheep's Clothing," which was printed after I'd been writing the column for a year.

It was one of the best periods of my life, although during it, Robert was having difficulty with his HIV meds and beginning the slow decline that led to his death.

Through all of this, Joe was flexible, supportive, and remarkably compassionate - a far cry from the stereotype of the cynical, hard-bitten Big City editor.

After Robert died and I moved back to my hometown, I managed to remember the word "Amsterama," Googled it, and lo and behold! JOE!

He is doing well, still writing, and the proprietor of "Amsterama" - a shop in the Oakland/Bay Area.

The Wonderful World of Amsterama, his blog, is one of the best on the Web, (in my admittedly biased opinion).

However, as a crack editor myself, I can assure you of one thing: there will be NO typos.

"Magical Waters" and AARP Wiccans

2010-01-07T11:19:00.000-08:00

For my Wiccan friends, a little info.

This is a good site. It's creator is fairly new to the craft, and would surely appreciate contributions about Wiccan/wiccan ways.

Also (who would've thought it?) there's a Wiccan AARP group. I'm fifty, grudgingly, and fighting it all the way, but I qualify for membership.

AARP Group: "WiccanReligion HarmNone

And much thanks to Todd for the Magical Waters site info.

Life on Mars

2009-12-26T15:12:00.000-08:00

May God bless Arash Karami, who had archived the following, which I thought I'd lost years ago.

We re-connected on Facebook (for we are, indeed, children, living in an age of miracles and wonders) and I recently asked him if he might (oh, please, please, please) have kept a copy of the five-page e-mail I'd sent about an hour before Robert died.

Lo and behold, he had:

"Sorry for the length of this letter. I didn't have time to write a short one."
     ~~ attributed to Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens), American writer

“When a rocket is launched into space,
     there is a point when it passes a zone of severe stress -- a time when all the forces
            acting upon the rocket are at their peak. This passage is called "Max Q."

Dear Friends:

To begin with, if you're receiving this, you fall into the category of friend . . . to a greater or lesser extent. We will have known each other intimately for years . . . or we will simply have done a show together and you are down on my list as "good people" . . . or our relationship is somewhere in between the two extremes. The common factor with all of you is that we somehow continue to remain informed of the various goings-on in our lives . . . either directly, or through the odd e-mail

grapevine that springs up when artists, writers, actors, directors, producers, and designers come together.

Welcome to my own "Max Q" passage (or, as I usually refer to it, "Life on Mars"). I've told some of you about the contents of this e-mail in person. Rather than go through that emotionally-exhausting process with everyone, I'm convinced that sending a mass e-mail is the best solution.

So . . . (Rod Serling voice) . . . "Submitted for your consideration . . . Mr. Reed Boyer . . . somewhere in . . . 'The Twilight Zone.'"

LIFE ON MARS ... or ... "Here, There be Dragons"

"Hello to all my friends on shore" (it's an old expression . . . the title of a vintage teleplay . . . I am NOT living on a boat . . . and this is NOT about life on our neighbor planet):
Most of you receiving this haven't heard from me in ages. Sometimes our lives can be so busy that, one day at a time, we take care of a multitude of tasks -- yet always think there will be time to do those one or two things that somehow slip from one day's "To Do" list onto the next day's . . . and so it goes. I have a dozen "Thank You" letters to write that have been ageing since early December, and here I am with Groundhog Day looming like an oncoming freight train.

What we need, of course, is a 27-hour day. Those extra three hours would allow all the tasks to be completed and still give us some extra time for rest, meditation, sleep, etc.
In my own case, I'd opt to sleep. The past few months have been filled with "Interesting Times" (to use the words of the Old Chinese Curse). Robert and I observed our 18th anniversary this past July 14. He is my other half (Registered Domestic Partner of more than eighteen years, longtime companion . . . or "roommate" or "PSSSLQ" or "lover" or "life partner" or whatever euphemism is current this season). I also call him the "spousal unit" (sometimes "my spousal equivalent."

It was an odd time. In May, after nearly two years of struggling to deal with the side effects of his various AIDS medications, he had had opted todiscontinue anti-viral treatment. He continued to take meds to prevent him from getting various opportunistic infections, but the change meant that he would be officially considered "terminally ill;" i.e., he would probably die within six months.
I supported his decision one hundred percent, much as I hated it personally. And so we blasted off for our trip to a brave new world as Robert entered hospice mode. He is not in a hospice facility: he is receiving hospice care at home.

He wishes to die "at home, in my own bed, with my kitty."
It is like living life on Mars . . . it's very close to what we remember back on Terra, but it is a fascinating new frontier where one is beset by challenges and dazzled by the unearthly beauty of the alien landscape. And I continue to stagger forward, sleep deprivation making me either viciously cranky or maudlin by turns; held together and propelled onward by a whim of iron.

The experience has contained some moments of sheer, black comedy that would delight the heart of any fan of absurdist thought; e.g., Wells House Hospice's eight-page handout of "Signs of Approaching Death" includes the suggestions that one should respond to the dying in a way that tells them that . . . "you accept whatever they say or 'see'" and . . . I am NOT making this up . . . "Follow up in a gentle way. Ask questions and offer sensitively probing insights that might encourage them to keep talking." I respect the sincerity of the notion, but this particular "suggestion" has had me giggling like an ether-fiend for a week now. I am a bad, wicked, insensitive, swine, for I will NOT comply.
Because they don't know Robert. For years, it has been a standing (and frustrating) household joke that Robert can be sleeping and answer a phone call, take a message, have a short and pleasant conversation, and be sound asleep the entire time. He doesn't remember a word of it later . . . nor, alas, what message he took. (And THAT, children, is how Daddy invented "voice-mail.")
Nope, nope, nope. I will not go along. I will not tell Robert that I accept any of the following (all of them blurted out as he woke, panicked, from a fitful sleep or muttered quietly and intensely to me as he drifted in and out of a doze): "the bad witches will put a curse on me if I eat any more;" "there's a monkey man over there on the wall;" "those people are downstairs outside" (he wanted to get his pants on so he could get out quick if "they" got in); and "the Nazis are coming for me."
After this last statement I "followed up in a gentle way" and learned that Robert believed it was 1942.
So, I did what any right-thinking person would do: I said, "I accept what you say."
No, of COURSE I didn't do that. Because the next step is to agree that it IS 1942, and the Nazis are coming, and "those people" are downstairs and we should prepare to flee, and the witches and the monkey men will be upon us any moment for the world is flat and let us cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war for all's dark and comfortless here upon this bank and shoal of time . . .
Instead, I flatly contradicted him . . . oh, I am a bad, wicked, insensitive swine I tell you (again) . . . for my "gentle follow-up" was to tell him, "Honey, you're dreaming. You just woke up from a bad
dream. It's okay. Everything is fine. It was just a bad dream. I love you."
And then, of course, his eyes stopped searching to and fro, and his face relaxed as he drifted back to sleep, murmuring, "Love you." And I gently assured him that I was just going to go wash my hands and would be right back, stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, turned on the water, and fell apart into about three dozen pieces of assorted sizes and dimensions.

And then I gathered up the pieces and re-assembled them as I scrubbed the toilet and changed the cat's litter box, muttering to myself, "Anybody tries to come near him or hurt him I'll rip them a new
one . . . get in my way and I'll flatten you . . . I can do anything . . . because I AM Superman, dammit." (Obviously, I've cleaned up my language to present myself in the best light . . . toilets aren't the only things that get sanitized for the consumer's protection . . . the full, unedited
version blistered the paint on the ceiling and caused dogs three blocks away to howl at the alien stars for an hour).

Other than moments like that, I don't clean things up with Robert. With Robert, you see, it is necessary to tell the truth. He was dreaming. There are no bad people . . . despite the ones that I personally loathe . . . so I continue to contradict him and then tell him the truth.

Well, no . . . not the entire truth. I don't tell him that "Signs of Approaching Death" seems to be accurate about his physical symptoms. I don't tell him that his time seems to be running out. I don't tell him that in a week or two, it's likely he'll be dead . . . or will have "passed on" or "gone home" or "joined the church triumphant" . . . or whatever euphemism we're using this season. I don't mention that.

Especially, I don't mention "the church triumphant." Robert's a pagan . . . something the hospice chaplain respects, bless her. She's especially interested in his personal pantheon of deities, which
includes dragons . . . especially dragons, which are his personal totemic motif. Robert will not be joining "the church triumphant" . . . he will go over to the summer land, where Titania, our late cat, is waiting for him patiently, underneath a particular tree.

Later on (after one of his sisters has scattered half his ashes in the Pocono mountains), I will work through the dazzling array of bequests that he has left to a huge circle of friends . . . and will dispose of the remaining ashes in backyards of my mother and three other friends, and the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, and Kensington Gardens, and St. Paul's Covent Garden, and Elfreth's Alley in Philadelphia (among others).

And later yet, Robert will be coming back as a panther.

With Robert, it is necessary to tell the truth because he tells the truth. He has known, since the day I met him, that he was going to die. He has known it in the marrow of his bones; not in a morbid way, but through a complete acceptance of the one fact of life that we all would like to deny: we are going to die.

We are all, in the world according to Garp, "terminal cases." We're all going to snuff it some day or other, so we'd best just get that idea into our heads, accept it, and get on with living this life.

For nearly 19 years, he has refused to be pompous about death, insisting on the truth of the matter. He has joked about the ridiculous truth of it and he has cried about the heart-breaking truth of it. He wept bitterly when his father died more than 10 years ago and grieved terribly when Titania died. She was an extraordinary cat, small and fine-boned, with velvety black fur and a distinct vocabulary whose vowel sounds corresponded to English words: her politely inquisitive "mew" for "food," her stately "miaow" for "out," and her "mRowR" for "Robert" were only three of some dozen variations. It is almost two years later, and he misses her and is looking forward to seeing her again.

Her successor, Oberon, is still a young cat, but he is large and rambunctious, showing little sign of developing anything but a loud and insistent chatter ... the cat equivalent of surfer-speak.

Nonetheless, he is a cat . . . and cats are psychopomps ("soul-conductors," from the Greek), as are sparrows and whippoorwills . . . and dragons.

And when Robert told me years ago that Titania would be waiting for him in the summer land, I knew he was telling me the truth. And I have agreed, all the time of his illness, to tell him the truth about things, but I did not tell him the entire truth, my own personal truth: when it is his time to go I will be listening closely . . . and I will not be surprised to hear the wing-beats of the dragon bearing a small, fine-boned black cat whose loving "mRowR" will welcome him as she escorts him to his summer land.
And that, children, is what Daddy has been up to lately . . .

I know that you'll be tempted to call, to offer support, to drop by, etc., but please . . . DON'T. I need to get some sleep ... and most of you know that rousing me from sleep only results in having to deal with the unpleasant after-effects of mass murder (the carnage, the body parts dangling from neighboring apartment balconies, the sight of me with freshly bed-tousled bad hair, etc. . . . the latter alone has been known to transform viewers into crumbling pillars of sandstone). I also know that you WILL call any way . . . and I'll be delighted to hear from you, but I'll probably want to keep things brief.

The other things this past year have been extraordinary and wonderful:

going to London for the first time,
being in the West Coast premiere of the Ken Ludwig re-scripted "20th Century" at Newport Theater Arts Center (so when Shashin Desai advertises his International City Theater production later this year as the "West Coast Premiere," you may all be assured that he is either ignorant of, or in denial of, the facts),
attending a rent party on our behalf in December (where I got to read some Dickens to a captive audience of friends who will allow that kind of shameless self-indulgence . . . it was the only chance to do "the Dickens thing" this year, things being what they are),
learning that my cousin Tom and his wife Mary had their second child (a healthy baby girl) last week,
and stage-managing the just-opened production of "And Then There Was Nun" at the Long Beach Playhouse's Studio Theater (with the wonderful Martie Ramm directing a delightful, wickedly-talented cast of truly nice actors).

And the nicest thing of all: realizing what I've known all along was true . . . actors and theater people are NOT the self-absorbed selfish people of the popular cliche; my greatest support outside my blood family has been my "larger family" of friends I've met doing one production or another over the years.
As I said at the beginning of this, I'm sending this to friends . . . and now you know what's been going on with me.
That said, there's nothing else to say except . . .
Love,

Reed

First Post (transferred from the AARP site blog)

2009-12-25T13:23:00.000-08:00

Hmmm . . . well, here I am, after 3-1/2 years, still living with Mom. When I took her up on her offer to move in after Robert died and subsequent events wiped me out financially and emotionally, I had no idea I'd be here this long. The unemployment rate here is four times what it was in Long Beach, and finding work has been an ongoing challenge.

Fortunately, we get along well: sing in the church choir, attend PFLAG meetings, watch television and share the newspaper, and every so often go out to eat or catch a movie. A couple of weeks ago she checked "Walking on Eggshells" out of the library. The book is about negotiating parent/child relationships between mature parents and adult children. I must have a read-through myself when she's done.

Apart from Mom, I lead an active life of my own. We're a brisk five-minute walk from a college, and I've participated as an actor in productions there, at our local community theater, and with our local Shakespeare festival. And I'm blessed to have re-connected with old friends here in my hometown, and to have met my new best friend of these past years.

I have various health problems, as well. I'm still sensitized to most of the Central Valley's wide array of air-borne allergens; from March through October, something's always blooming here. Merced's air is, if anything, worse than Southern California's fabled mix of smog - and there are no Santa Ana winds to blow things out to sea. So I sneeze and wheeze my way through half the year.

My migraines have re-surfaced again - usually triggered by sinus conditions when a storm front's high pressures move in and/or out. When we get a series of storms, one after the other, its like being repeatedly hit in the head with a large, dull mallet for a week, and I'm nauseated and weak for days on end, feeling like grim death and looking just as bad.

Of course, when people find out about Robert (and the gossip-mills of the town still spin with dazzling speed), they assume it's "something else." I don't spend time chasing down each rumor. One local gossip item (years ago) was about my late best friend and room-mate at college. Apparently, we'd been lovers. When I heard that little piece of news, shortly after he'd died, I could only hope that his widow would never hear it. It's the kind of lie that's especially cruel when it's spread so soon after a death - all the more vicious since they'd been married less than a year.

It took me a year to gently approach the source of the rumor and ask her, quietly and politely, if she'd heard that particular rumor. I never asked her whether she'd originated it. By then, she'd had her own deaths and aftermaths, and confronting her would have been pointless - and cruel.

I could have asked, "Are you making menudo? Because that's a load of tripe."

I think I was angrier for his widow and him than I was for myself. My reputation is what it is.

In Merced, gays were invisible until recently. The PFLAG group is less than five years old, and HIV seems to be "the virus that dare not speak its name." The local paper runs small items in the "Around Town" column, but HIV seems to be absent from its radar. World AIDS Day observances at the local University of California were publicized the day before the event.

Farm and agricultural news items, however, abound - as do regular reports of the disastrous local economy, foreclosure rates, boondoggles, scandals, and the roller-coaster of school testing results, arts and social services cutbacks, and sports (always, eternally, and inevitably)

I understand the focus, and the lack of concern about HIV/AIDS, but I find the silence enormously frustrating. We're past the Reagan era of keeping shut about it for seven of his eight YEARS in office. And the notion of "the truly deserving poor" makes me want to vomit - preferably on Mitch McConnel's suit.

Admittedly, I'm hyper-aware of AIDS. I'm living in its aftermath, personally - and I still follow every report of new developments or challenges.
Today, I clicked on a "manage your HIV" link on my Yahoo home page. What came up was an ad site for Bristol-Myers Squibb's "Reyataz" - an HIV-specific anti-viral medication that's about to lose its patent in four years. They also manufacture "Sustiva," whose patent runs out next year.

I was appalled by the deception, but not shocked nor surprised. Only sickened.

Not content with having made billions (yes, "Billions" with a capital B for "bloodsuckers") off of HIV and AIDS patients serving as their guinea pigs (you didn't think medical records were entirely private did you? check out that disclaimer that allows information to be shared for "reasons of health and/or research"), B-M Squibb is now attempting a last-minute "dash for the cash." They'd like to squeeze every penny out of their patent before they have to share. And for all of their much-ballyhooed "help," I am not grateful.

Those who truly do good keep their mouths shut and their publicists in the dark.

They don't fish for last-minute customers on the Web.