Category Archives: my life

Last Post of 2010: My iPhone4

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Off to the sunny Caribbean next week thus THE LAST POST OF 2010.

Recapping the entire year would be too much work and—ultimately—kind of lame, in that smarmy look-at-all-that-I-did way.   So, to finish off the year, I’m writing about an early Xmas present I received:  an iPhone4.

People used to make fun of my Cingular LG flip-phone.   Sometime, over the past two years, everyone else seems to have upgraded to sleek, touch screen models or slides with tiny keyboards.   I didn’t care (for awhile).   I’d been behind the cell phone curve to start.   I only got one in 2003, bowing to the inevitable.   In the 80’s, I was also one of the last hold outs to switch from record albums to CD’s.

For years, I treated my cell phone with benign neglect, tucking it along with me sometimes, when I could remember; and telling people:  “If you really want to reach me, try my landline first.”  Missed call, missed call.   I didn’t really get it.   You couldn’t have much of a conversation on a cell phone anyway-—reception problems, “Are you still there?”, loud noises in the background.  I figured it was for emergencies and kind of handy for storing phone numbers.   But I resented the notion of being constantly available.  If anyone could reach me at any time, how was I ever supposed to relax?

Then the peer pressure crept in.   People started to text me.   Their effortless little touch screen messages mocked my clumsy 12-button phone.   Sending a three or four word reply could take me up to ten minutes with ‘hit 2 three times for c, hit 3 two times for e.’   It certainly couldn’t be done while walking; it could barely be done while standing.   And I was resistant to using abbreviations or slang for fear of sounding age-inappropriate.   I wouldn’t even let myself slack off with capitalization, and shifting between capitals and undercase with a 12-button phone is practically like operating an 18-wheeler.

My partner and I have a family cell phone plan, and when our contract was nearing expiration, I started dropping subtle hints that I might like an iPhone.    My thinking was if we were going to upgrade, we should upgrade big.   This past weekend, my wish came true.   We went to the Apple store on 59th Street—along with 50 percent of the tourists in NYC—and an hour and a half later, we were the proud owners of iPhone 4’s.

So far, I’ve had exactly two calls, both from my honey, both tests to see if the phone was working.   But I don’t think the iPhone is for phone calls actually.   It’s for checking messages, looking things up, and generally spending time doing all the things you never knew you really wanted to do.  In my case, that’s poring over the map app where you can flit around the globe and check out street plans in Bangladesh and the Falkland Islands.   Or obsessively checking Facebook—’Did anyone comment on my status?’  ‘What about the pics of my cat I uploaded from my phone?’    Or playing games like Cut The Rope and Angry Birds.

I don’t know if owning an iPhone is a landmark in my technological education or another sign of a midlife crisis.   Should 41 year olds be texting while waiting in line at Starbucks or using the cool reverse camera feature to take vanity pictures of themselves on the subway?    I have stepped off a ledge into the abyss of digital socializing…digital self-stimulation (not the dirty kind)…digital information overload.   This cannot be a good thing for my writing productivity though I rationalize:  there’s apps for that, it will help my research.   We’ll see how things go in 2011 and whether or not my iPhone is a catalyst for bolstering my creativity or my downfall.

Christmas Memories

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When I was little, my older brother and I had a strange tradition.   We’d put on my parents’ Andy Williams’ Christmas Show record album, get down on the living room’s hardwood floor—me wearing my Donald Duck pajamas—and spin around on our knees.   We were whirling dervishes, accelerating to the  music, and inevitably, hysterically wiping out into each other or the sofa (or both).

These kinds of behavior are hard to analyze.   Was it a protest of absurdity against what we regarded as the cornball musical tastes of our parents?    Was it a way of joining with the sentimentality of the season, on our own terms, in the least conventional way that we could fashion?

All I can say is that Christmas was a time of great excitement.  There were the toys, the candy, the cookies, the snow forts, and the crackling wood in the fireplace.  There was also the allure of miracles.  Not that I was raised with a particularly strong sense of reverence for the season.   When we  broke out the Christmas ornaments, my mother used to put up a creche, but it always seemed  as make believe as the stuffed animals and Matchbox cars I played with.   In fact, I sometimes incorporated the nativity scene figurines into my imaginary games, with the wisemen and angels leading cross-country races through the house.

Science was the greater influence growing up so the Christmas story interested me from an academic point of view rather than a spiritual one.   We lived in Buffalo, New York, and I assumed that the rest of the world was freezing cold and snowy in December.    I wanted to know how baby Jesus survived in that straw-laid crib, barely sheltered by an open stable?

Santa Claus intrigued me even more.   If he brought gifts to every single kid around the world, how long did that take?   My brother and I looked up population data and calculated how fast Santa would have to travel to do his job in one night.   Still, I believed.   If it could be done by superheroes like Flash, it could be done by Santa.

I believed up to the time that I walked in on my mom and brother talking about a world globe he had gotten as a gift.  My brother had questions about the Arctic Circle, and my mom was telling him it was all ice, no land, completely uninhabitable.   I asked:

“But how does Santa live there?”

My mom looked at me with a slight smile, no doubt touched by my innocence, but the truth was there in the awkward silence.  It had all been a deceit.

Even without Santa Claus or Jesus Christ, I always felt that there was something different going on this time of year—good will toward men, a little extra kindness, unexpected generosity.  I like gift giving (and receiving) and sometimes think that maybe that’s enough of a reason to celebrate.  Shouldn’t there be at least one time of the year where you go out of your way to give something to the people who are important in your life?

These days, Christmas morning is mimosa’s and hot cocoa while my partner and I unwrap our presents.  Sometimes we’ll watch an animated film by Disney or Hiyao Miyazaki.   Often, we’ll find ourselves back in bed for an afternoon nap.   There are a few tasks to do like phone calls, cleaning up the breakfast dishes, and taking out garbage bags full of wrapping paper.  But mostly it’s laying around in our pajamas and not caring for a day if we make it out of the house.   That’s something worth looking forward to and reason enough for me to celebrate this time of year.

Blog-a-rama: The Anniversary Edition

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I started this site about a year ago when I got my first fiction publication and was told—by many—I needed to promote myself on the Internet.

It quickly morphed from an author blurb and a press release to a place where I wrote about my life as a writer, my interests, my lifestyle, my reading habits, and even some earnest, if not always successful, poetry.

There have been highs and…really only highs.   Sure, there have been occasional challenges figuring out the site mechanics—disappearing fonts, images that won’t re-size—and coming up with fresh content each weeks has had me up late on many a night.   But it’s totally been a labor of love.   And the cool thing is I now have my thoughts, celebrations and writing landmarks all in one place, a sort of on-line diary.

A big reward has been connecting with people.   I recently received an e-mail from a guy who liked my review of John Rechy’s City of Night and wanted to talk more about the book.   My goal for the upcoming year is to amp up the interaction on this site.   Lately, the only comments I get are spam.   Hooray for Akismet!   I’m filtering out as many as 20 spams a day.

So if you’ve been lurking for awhile, feeling bashful about sharing your opinion—good or bad—or even just want to say hello, drop me a comment.   It’s really quick and easy to register, and I promise I won’t bite your head off.   If you’ve got your own blog or website going, as long as it’s not selling Cialis or an anti-virus product, I’ll gladly check it out and give it a plug.

Big thanks to everyone who supported me along the way!!

National Coming Out Day

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So I’m five days early, but I wanted to do a post about National Coming Out Day before rather than after the event.

National Coming Out Day was founded in 1988 by psychotherapist/activist Dr. Robert Eichberg and pioneer lesbian activist Jean O’Leary. The purpose is to raise awareness of the LGBT community and offer support and resources to those who are afraid to come out.  Though started in the U.S., National Coming Out Day is actually an international celebration. It’s celebrated on October 11th in most countries; NCOD is observed on November 12th in the United Kingdom.

A literary trivium: both Eichberg and O’Leary were authors. Eichberg wrote the self-help book Coming Out: An Act of Love, which was a sort of bible for me in my formative years. O’Leary was a former nun and contributed to a 1984 anthology entitled Lesbian Nuns: Breaking the Silence. The well-recognized coming out of the closet logo was designed by Keith Haring.

There are so many things to write about for NCOD 2010–the need for LGBT visibility in the aftermath of isolated, bullied teens killing themselves, the fight for marriage equality and the right to serve openly in the military, and the courageous story of Benjamin Carver who was jumped by bashers in the bathroom of NYC’s Stonewall Inn and fought off his assailants, just two days ago.

I’ve been planning for awhile to tell my own coming out story here, as is the tradition for NCOD. But there are so many other things going on, I have to take a brief detour.

So back to the bullying/suicides. There’s this amazing grassroots campaign happening in response to the recent tragedies of Tyler Clementi (New Jersey), Seth Walsh (California), Raymond Chase (Rhode Island), Billy Lucas (Indiana), and Justin Aaberg (Minnesota). It’s called It Gets Better and was created by one of my personal heroes: columnist and hottie Dan Savage. Savage’s project encourages young people and adults to videotape messages of hope to young people who may feel alone and hopeless. Youtube now hosts hundreds of inspirational videos including ones by Tim Gunn, Jake Shears and Perez Hilton.

You can watch one of the videos here:  It Gets Better Project

Allright. My coming out story. We each have so many stories – when we told a best friend, the “first time,” and the family dramas. I chose to focus on an internal event, the point when I acknowledged to myself that I was gay, because there was something indelible about that moment and it changed the trajectory of my life.

I was a 20-year-old college student. I was seeing a psychotherapist because I was having panic attacks–full on am-I-having-a-cardiac-arrest? kind of spells–that usually happened in class and a few times at social gatherings. I had no idea what was going on. Tucked deep inside my head was the knowledge that I was attracted to guys, but I didn’t connect that fact to my anxiety. It seemed to come and go without any specific provocation, those heart pounding, short of breath nervous spurts that felt like electrical surges, as though I had been wired by a faulty electrician.

I spent about six months talking to my therapist, trying to understand the triggers, exploring my insecurities and wondering what could possibly be happening to me.

One day, the therapist asked: “Do you remember telling me you were afraid that people think you’re gay?”

Had I said that? I had only a vague recollection. I nodded.

“Do you think it’s possible that you’re gay?”

Was she saying…? Did she think…? Oh my God. I think she’s right. My complexion went through shades of purple and red. I took a deep breath. “Maybe,” I ventured. My gaze wandered around all parts of the office, any place but her. When the hour was up, and I left the office and went out to the street.

The possibility stuck with me as I walked home, and I went through all fashions of emotion–childlike bashfulness, visceral relief–and most profoundly joy as I had never experienced before. Several things occurred to me at once. There was a reason for my anxiety. Now that I had found it, I was free, or at least the path for freedom was illuminated, no matter how difficult it might be.

I was gay. I said it in my head. The shame was no longer crippling. A broad grin spread across my face. I think I even laughed to myself. What had I been so afraid of? This was who I was, and I was going to be just fine. The day seemed brighter, the streets more vivid. An excited rush poured over me. I knew who I was, and I thought about the wonderful release of telling other people. I wouldn’t have to hide that part of me anymore. In being real with others, in being truly open to fall in love with someone else, I felt for the first time the possibility of happiness in my future.

Coming out to other people was a gradual process for me. Fears and doubts punctuated the next few years of my life. But that day of self-acknowledgement was a crucial turning point. I could have kept denying who I was, kept hiding. Instead I chose to face the truth and live my life as an openly gay man.

Happy National Coming Out Day!!

Fire Island, 4th of July

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This past weekend, my partner and I went to Cherry Grove with a group of friends including our two German house guests, a couple.  We packed up the essentials—towels, a blanket, beach umbrellas, a cooler with water bottles, and a change of clothes, and took the drive down the center of Long Island then south to the Sayville Ferry.

We arrived ahead of schedule, but the dock was packed.  July 4th.  The busiest beach day of the year.  This was not an inconvenience though.  It was the beginning of a very colorful day.  We lined up for the boat with a parade of men in drag, their female admirers like gals out on the town for a bachelorette party, and nearly as many teacup Yorkies, Maltese and Chihuahuas as people.

Across the Great South Bay on the ferry and through the boardwalk paths, we found a spot on the beach beside a group of young, short-haired Asian women set up in a screen tent eating picnic lunch with chopsticks.  The group laid out in front of us was harder to reconcile.  There was a handsome guy with silver hair and a British accent and his decades-younger daughter? girlfriend?  wife?  The young woman tended occasionally to a naked toddler tottering around, and there was a restless young man making frequent trips to the ocean in a diver’s body suit.  Then, there was an exceedingly well-behaved ink black French Bulldog.  Group inter-relationships were inscrutable except the man and the dog.  They spooned beneath a sun tent for most of the afternoon.

By the ocean, men squeal at the impact of frigid three foot waves.  Bare-chested women play Kadima and toss footballs with locker room banter.

Wondering how the scene looked through foreign eyes, I asked one German friend how he liked this beach.  He said:  “This is more hetero than I expected.”  I inferred his meaning.  He would’ve liked to see more naked men.

The beach is a patchwork of racial and gender affinities and those sewn together by style of dress—the bold bikini bearers, the naturalists, the boys who look forward all year to the season they can wear sarongs.

We are a quilt panel of middle class Gen X’ers, not quite men of a certain age but we talk the part.  We’re outraged by inflation.  We rant about celebrities.  We have back pains and a hundred hypochondrias.  We lapse into silence, gazing at our younger, fitter counterparts.  Youth is wasted on the young.

But we are coupled (some of us), with careers, and wise, or if not wise at least resilient.

We go on to dinner and then a few drinks at the club.  We’re back on an earlier ferry than we used to take, and there are no outrageous stories to talk about the next morning.  Instead, there is laundry, an early afternoon matinee and shopping at Century 21.

We have edged up closer to the Future.  If we choose to leave the party early, it’s because we’d rather forgo the hangovers.