Monthly Archives: April 2010

Who is Richard Carroll?

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I thought I’d do something different this week and interview the main character from my work-in-progress WHEN THE FALLEN ANGELS FLY.  This is the first half of a two-part interview.

Some background:  Richard Carroll is a 21-year-old Hamilton College student who gained notoriety when his  body was found on a beach in Fire Island.  An investigation into his death uncovered frightening details of a night spun out of control by sex and drugs.  This interview marks the first time Richard has spoken to the media since his death.

ANDREW PETERS:  Richard, thanks so much for taking the time to let me interview you.

RICHARD CARROLL:  No problem.

AP:  A lot of readers will be interested in what happened to you, but I thought we’d start off with a little bit about your background.  You’re a Jersey Boy, right?

RC:  Yep.  I grew up in Teaneck.

AP:  Jersey Boys have a reputation for being nice guys.  Do you find that true?

RC:  Um…yeah.  I guess you could say that.  I mean, growing up in Jersey it’s pretty hard to be pretentious and all superior.  Maybe that’s where it comes from.  That and the clean living. [ironic smirk]

AP:  In your book, you touch on some of the tougher spots in your childhood and adolescence.  How do you feel those experiences shaped you?

RC:  Look:  I think everyone has had their share of hard knocks to deal with.  I don’t think my experiences were so character-defining or special.   Yeah – my parents got divorced when I was thirteen.  It was pretty horrible at the time.  Looking back, I recognize it was the best thing for the two of them, but sure, I still carry my resentments.  My dad was having an affair.  My mom can be a really difficult person.  The divorce was messy – fighting, using my sister and I as pawns, long stretches of time without hearing anything from my dad.  I think my dad ultimately gave up and disappeared.  It was lame on one hand, understandable on the other.

AP:  You also had to face the additional challenge of coming out as gay.

RC:  Y’know, I never thought of it as a challenge.  Actually, discovering I was gay was something that I think saved me in a way.  It gave me an out when things were batshit crazy at home.  I could get on the Internet, hook up with guys, just get out of the house and into my own space.

AP:  So you never had any doubts, mixed feelings?  You never got any rip for being gay?

RC:  In my high school, you got rip if you didn’t listen to the right music or have the right cell phone or if you participated in lame cliché’s like pep rallies and school dances.  Being gay didn’t figure in so much as maybe being overweight or having really bad skin.  Sure there were a few homophobic dicks but everyone pretty much hated them anyway.

AP:  Your dad is Irish Catholic, your mom Eastern European Jewish.  How did that affect the way you identify culturally.

RC:  Well, Jewishness is passed down from the mother, so I’m Jewish by default.  But neither one of my parents were very ethnic or religious.  My mom considers herself a “cultural Jew,” which means you don’t go to temple for any of the holidays but you eat all the appropriate food.  I guess I’m pretty much the same way.  Religion skivves me.

AP:  If your story got picked up by a major publishing house, you’d be one of very few gay heroes in mainstream literature.  Does that prospect put a burden on you?  Are you a role model?

RC:  If I’m a role model, there’s a lot of people headed for disaster.  [Laughs]  A role model.  For what?  How to turn your life into a fabulous tragedy?

AP:  You do party a lot and have a lot of sex and drink and do drugs.  Do you think that obviates the chance for readers to relate to you in a positive way?

RC:  I don’t know.  I guess I can’t really control how people relate to me.  I have trouble relating to myself at times.  If people want to judge me for the choices I’ve made, they have every right to do that.  I think I see where you’re going with the whole “gay role model” thing.  I understand it.  Gay people need more role models, for the kid who’s getting the shit beaten out of him at school or the young guys who’re being unsafe ’cause they think they’ll find love by having sex.  But being a role model was never on my mind while I was out partying.  And I wasn’t in some crazy spiral of depression over how horrible it is to be gay.  I was just trying to live my life.

AP:  Who were your role models?

RC:  [Long pause.  Smiles.] Probably not the right ones, I guess.  My cousin Matty.  He was always this sort of unattainable epitome of cool for me.  He looks like this model/surfer dude, and everyone he meets falls in love with him.  He’s just really good with people.  And talented too.  He’s like this amazing deejay.

And my Grandmom Rini.  She managed to keep me and my sister somewhat sane when my mom and dad were splitting up.  Just a really great person.  [wipes his eyes and scowls].  Man, you’re getting me all emotional!

AP:  Just call me Barbara Walters.  We’ll take a break and get back to some questions next week.

Two Plugs and a Whoop Whoop

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Busy time here with work-weeks extending into the weekend and house guests on the way.  So I just wanted to jot off a couple of plugs.

First, I encourage folks to check out Eric Mays’ Author Speaks series that got started earlier this month and will have interviews with Jordan Krall, Bill Fitzhugh, Anne Rice (yes, the Anne Rice) and yours truly (later this summer).

Next, Ganymede #7 is out with a fantastic assortment of poetry, new fiction and reprints of historical homoerotic literature.  I especially enjoyed the final installment of Scott Hess’ Bergdoff Boys, which is sort of a gay Sex in the City (if that’s not redundant) with interwoven themes of recovery, gay identity and gay marriage.  Short fiction by 20th century British author Denton Welch stood out as well.  His story “When I was Thirteen” is gay coming of age that goes from sweet and charming to horrific when a boy’s fascination with an older teen is discovered by his older brother.  Since this is National Poetry Month, I should mention some of the really amazing poets:  Saeed Jones, Ocean Vuong,  and Ivar Sild, among many fine contributors.

And now a “Whoop! Whoop!” (for no reason in particular).

A Love Poem?!?

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I had so much fun writing a poem last week that I tried it again.  It is National Poetry Month all month after all.

Before I get into it, I got some fantastic news this week.  I was asked to be interviewed for the “Author Speaks” series at Eric May’s ZomBicurious blog!!  More news on this to come.

And a writing update…my manuscript revision is poking along sort of in a breakthrough/breakdown rhythm.  Sadly, I’m currently feeling more on the breakdown beat, but, I remind myself, like the needlepoint wall-hanging in my former social work professor’s office:  “There’s Always Hope.”

As for this poem, I felt if I was going to express myself in poetry, which I do so rarely, I should do it on a subject that means a lot to me.  Our 9-year anniversary is coming up, and this one’s for you Honey-Bunny.

Nine

When We were younger, We, as in you and me, or Us,

You used to ask me to sing you a song,

Or tell you a bedtime story,

As we lay in bed,

Our bed,

Not a hand-me-down from an ex or a mattress and spring board bought on special delivery,

The bed we picked out together and were reminded of in monthly bills,

Like the slices of our wedding cake we ate each month on the day of our anniversary.

~

You made me wonder if men ever lose their innocence,

Was it a lie that we inevitably grow up?

Or does boyhood burrow like a pup in blankets,

Coaxed out at the sound of mischief,

Or the tone of a voice he likes.

~

So much of our life has been spent as boys,

Studying each others’ faces when the other one isn’t looking,

Sleep-ins, Mario Bros., late night cookies,

Repeated TV jingles that amuse and amuse us over and over again,

Alone, we are well-matched playmates,

Retreating from the complexities of life,

We invent a secret language,

Blushing when we lapse into our words in front of others,

Our words,

Which came to us as naturally as holding hands.

~

This is not to say we haven’t had our resentments,

Our cold silences,

As boys are apt to have from time to time,

Photo albums record thinning hair and tiny grooves on necks and foreheads,

How could it be when we have grown so young together?

With games and songs and bedtime stories,

And now this poem for you.

National Poetry Month

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In 1996, the Academy of American Poets designated April as National Poetry Month so while I’m most definitely not a poet, I thought I’d challenge myself to contribute something here.  This free-form verse was inspired by a memory from Amherst Junior High School, an ugly period of my adolescence.  Hope I did it justice.

Garbled Messages

We called her Garbled Messages,

Because, she spoke in fetal words,

Quivering, breathe-y, spitty words,

If you stood too close, you got sprayed in the face,

 

We never got that close or paid her much attention,

But the classroom silenced,

Shook up like a soda bottle ready to foam and cackle,

Whenever it was her turn to speak.

While we became sly masters of witticism,

The put-down:  Pass the ball, ass-face,

Quit being such a Gaylord,

Don’t stick out your tongue unless you’re gonna use it,

And the turns of phrase:  Twat did you say?

I cunt hear you.  I have an ear infuck-tion.  I need some penis-cillin.

We illuminated subtexts everywhere,

Since the subtext of everything was always sex.

I never looked at Garbled Messages,

Too much, though I wondered,

Was she retarded?  The greatest shame of Junior High,

She seemed the same as other girls,

Pretty even, though she wore a lot of make-up,

And dressed in ironed blouses and wool skirts,

Like her mom wanted her to bypass junior, senior high completely,

And go out into the world as a Secretary.

Still, we called her Tard and Dufus and Bocey,

At least behind her back,

Bocey, I later learned, derived from,

Board Of Cooperative Educational Services,

The place where all the Special Ed. kids went after lunch,

In the bus known popularly as the Retard Wagon,

I wish I could say that I never used those words,

But I did, so this is my confession.